Dearest Series Boxed Set (3 page)

I
have
no idea for my book and no YA class. I keep waiting for more bad news because crappy things always seem to happen in threes.

I begged Professor Golding to let me take her class, but she merely handed me the waiting list, which was two pages long, so I swallowed my pride and apologized to Professor Marceaux for bolting from her lecture. I told her I had a sudden emergency and left out the fact that I nearly died when she said clitoris.

Which now has me thinking of euphemisms for the word clitoris. Like nubbin, bean, bud, button.

Oh my God.

An unwanted image comes to mind.
He reaches between her delicate thighs and strokes her throbbing nubbin.

Jesus. Someone shoot me if I ever write that in a book.

Accepting that I’ll be taking a freaking romance-writing class this fall means a trip to the bookstore. I duck in, hoping to make it out before I get harangued into working, but when I get to the counter, out of the corner of my eye, I see
him
. Fucker-from-hell.

A drum beats fast in my chest, echoing through my body. Barely able to catch my breath, I do the first thing that comes to mind and dive under the register.

I don’t think he saw me.
Please. Go. Away.

The girl manning the register returns from her break. Her shoes bounce in front of me two seconds before her big brown eyes are in my face. One of her eyebrows quirks up as she tries to understand why her boss is hiding under the counter. I hear Jason Wheeler, my freshman-year writing professor, talking on the other side of this counter.

I whisper, “Becca, if you call attention to me, I will crack your femur with my teeth.”

She stares a moment, her other eyebrow rising to meet the first, before she backs up and straightens so that I only see her feet again.

“Hi, Professor Wheeler. Is that all for today?” God, she’s chipper.

“Yes, thank you, love.” Hearing his voice, all smooth and velvety and full of shit, makes me want to vomit. Or kick him in the balls. Or kick him in the balls and then vomit.

The register beeps as Becca scans Wheeler’s items.

“Do I know you, dear?” he asks.
Here we go.

Becca giggles. “I had you for British Literature a few years ago. I’m surprised you remember.”

“You’re too lovely to forget.”
Hurl.
“Are you an English major?” She must nod because he says, “Excellent.”

“How was your summer?” she asks, shifting back and forth on her feet.

“I spent it in London. It was wonderful. I just got back a couple of days ago.”

Becca laughs in that innocuous way people do when there is nothing funny.

Wheeler mumbles something I can’t quite hear before he says, “Come see me if you ever need help with anything. I’d be more than happy to assist you.”
What a skeaze.

I’ve known he was returning to teach here this fall, but nothing has prepared me to see him. When I look down, I’m rubbing my wrist. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths to regain some composure, and when I open them, Becca is crouching in front of me again.

“He’s gone, although I don’t know why you’d want to avoid him. He’s gorgeous! I had the biggest crush on him freshman year.”

“Sorry I threatened to crush your femur.” Not that I actually intended to wrap my jaw around her thigh. “He and I have some bad history.”

Her mouth puckers. “Oh, he gave you a bad grade, huh?”

“Something like that.”
No, nothing like that.
Once my paralysis wears off, I shake my head. “Becca?”

She ducks down to look at me again.

“It wasn’t because of a bad grade.” I swallow, trying to ignore the lump in my throat. “He’s a bad guy. He’s… dangerous.” I want to tell her more—I want to tell her to stay away from him—but the words don’t come.

She looks at me as though I’m speaking a foreign language. A couple of girls approach the counter, their chatter breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Becca glances up at them quickly and then back down to me. “I don’t know what to do with that, but okay.”

Before I get a chance to explain why I’m acting like a lunatic, one of the customers asks her where to find a bedside TV remote caddy, and Becca saunters off to find the item.

I’m not sure how long I sit there trying to steady my breathing or my trembling hands. The recurring sound of an incoming text finally draws my attention:
Don’t forget the Saran Wrap!

Jenna’s message reminding me of the errand I need to make is the icing on my fucked-up day.

I wait ten more minutes to be sure Wheeler is gone before I take off, but with each step, a headache pounds behind my eyes. I should go to the gym, which will help with the tension, but first I have to fill the fishbowl.

No, not with aquatic animals.

“My doctor called in some gingivitis cream,” the elderly man in front of me says to the pharmacist as I wait in line at CVS.

How bad can it be to buy condoms? It’s a staple, like bread or milk. So it’s a little piece of plastic that covers a man’s ween. I shouldn’t be embarrassed, right?

Jenna realized our fishbowl of condoms was empty this morning and nearly went into cardiac arrest, and she was too slammed today to refill the stash, so I told her I’d buy them. It’s Friday after all. I can’t let the penis situation reach DEFCON One and leave my roommates in the lurch. No peen shall go unhelmeted on my watch.

I take a deep breath, ignoring the sweat collecting under my arms.

Ugh, it’s hot in here.

What’s worse than buying rubbers is I have to ask for the jumbo box behind the counter. Not the economy-sized box, but literally jumbo, so Ryan can wear them. Jenna and her boyfriend hump like sex-starved dogs in heat, and since we’ve heard how ginormous he is from her porno screams, I have to go the extra mile and request the Goliath of condoms.

When it’s my turn at the counter, I push my shoulders back.
I’m a modern girl. I can do this.

“I’d like the jumbo box of Trojan Magnum Extra Large.” I say quietly, the words foreign on my tongue.

The pharmacist’s eyebrows raise marginally as she reaches behind her for the big shiny box.
See, not so bad,
I tell myself. Until I hear the whistle behind me.

“Sweetheart, where have you been my whole life?”

I tense a second before I roll my eyes.

“Really? That’s the line you’re going to use?” I mumble. Barely glancing back at the two guys behind me, I reach into my bag to pull out my wallet.

“Aw, come on, sugar. Don’t give me the cold shoulder. I have a thing for girls who stay well stocked.” The creepy snicker behind me makes the hair on my arms stand up. “You know, if you want to check these things for quality control, I could do a fitting for you. I hear I’m an excellent specimen.”

I hand money over the counter and turn around. The dude is tall and built, like body-builder big. I widen my eyes and get closer to him, batting my eyelashes like the bimbo he clearly thinks I am. I bite my lip as I check him out, taking in his broad shoulders before my eyes travel down
there
. I let out a slutty giggle, turning my eyes back up to him with a small grin.

“That’s really nice of you to offer because you’re
so
built.”

He smiles broadly, like this is nothing new to him.

“You must lift weights every day, which must mean you have to be, um, compensating for
something
, so these babies,” I say, proudly shaking my box of ribbed, lubed rubbers, “are probably
way
out of your league.”

It isn’t until Douchebag’s friend starts cracking up that I realize the sidekick looks familiar, but he’s wearing a baseball cap pulled down tight, so I can’t get a good look at his face. Shit.
Where do I know him from?

After a second, I realize I don’t care and sigh at the nimrod hitting on me. He’s looking a little pale, and his smile has faded. Douchebag grumbles, “Bitch,” under his breath as I toss my bag over my shoulder and walk out.

I shake my head.
Someone should tell him that’s not an insult. Especially if it keeps jackasses like him away from me.

* * *

“
Y
ou’re
high off your ass if you think I’m wearing this.” I turn in front of the mirror. Jenna’s skin-tight silver dress leaves nothing to the imagination. With a low back and scooped neckline, the outfit leaves me bare. “No way.”

Even when I pull out my ponytail, hoping to use my long, thick hair as a shield, I’m still revealing too much.

“Aw, come on!” Jenna is in full pout mode. Her hazel eyes are wide and pleading. I immediately liked Jenna the first time we met when she told me I had broccoli stuck between my two front teeth. Girlfriends who are straight shooters are hard to come by, but I still have a hard time believing that the tissue paper delicately wrapped around my body is appropriate to wear in public.

Jenna pokes me in the shoulder. “You totally blew us off last Saturday. You said I had carte blanche this weekend. Carte. Blanche.”

“Is dressing me like a streetwalker one of your goals?” My hands trail over the thin fabric, and I squirm thinking that people will see me in this outfit.

“If it makes you feel any better, you look amazing,” Harper says as she flops on my bed. “Only you could pull that off. You have a killer bod. Plus, the color of the dress makes your eyes look more gray than blue.”

Jenna points to Harper. “See, she would never lie. Please keep it on! You said you didn’t have anything to wear. I can’t return it, and it doesn’t look quite right on me. I thought it looked great in the store, but when I got it home I realized that it makes my skin look green. You somehow look tan, though. I hate you. Whore.”

I can’t help but laugh. But she’s right—I don’t have anything to wear.

Propping my elbow on my hip, I scoff. “Shut up or I’ll cut you.” She giggles while I crane my head around, checking out my rear in the mirror. “Well, before I go out in public like this, I have to know what our plans are.”

“We’re going to Ryan’s for dinner, and Jax is joining us!”

Jax is my other half. We were born three minutes apart. That Jenna has managed to pry my twin away from his soccer team and his flavor-of-the-month is impressive. We haven’t been close in a while, but I still try to make it to his games.

Jenna bumps me with her hip. “Then we’re going dancing, and I might also have an activity planned.” She has her hands clasped, and she looks like she’s going to start clapping from the excitement.

“Girl, you’ve gone through too much trouble. I don’t even like celebrating my birthday. You know this.”

Her eyes bug. “You and Jax are turning twenty-one. This is huge! We’re doing this right, and that means you need to look hot because it’s your night.”

I turn to Harper. “Are you sure I’m not going to be arrested for solicitation?”

She laughs and shakes her head.

“Fine. Let’s do this.”

* * *

I
’m stunned
by the spread of food and the fact that the house is overflowing with a weird collection of people—a few I know from work, Ryan and some of his band, and several groupies. It gets stranger when my brother and half of the Boston College soccer team saunter in. I should have worn my “friends don’t let friends go to BC” t-shirt. Boston University kids take this shit seriously.

“Hey, geek,” Jax says as he shakes off his date and leans over to hug me.

“Hey, loser.” Hugging him back, I grin. “I haven’t seen you since the Fourth of July. I thought you’d been abducted by one of your Russian supermodels.”

“I wish. Been busy with soccer.”

Jax reaches out to hug Jenna and Harper. After catching up for a few minutes, Jenna pushes Jax and me to a table that’s set up with a dozen shots.

“We need to toast the birthday twins!” Jenna shouts, and everyone cheers.

Who are all of these people? Looking around,
I see Kade, Ryan’s drummer, talking to someone who looks familiar. The guy is tall, kind of rugged-looking. He’s wearing a dark flannel shirt over a fitted t-shirt, and he’s handsome, drop-dead gorgeous, actually. That admission has me suddenly very interested in the vodka to settle the surprising flutter in my stomach.