Midnight Scent (Amour Toxique Book 1) (2 page)

“We both know looks can be deceiving.”

“Let’s move on then. Goodbye, Jason. Any other famous guys?”

“Not really. There might have been, if I’d had more time for going out and dating.” As a homeschooled pageant child, and later as a top model, I didn’t have much time left over to be lived. Now’s my chance to hopefully recapture the time I lost running from one photoshoot to the next.

The corners of Chelsea’s mouth quirk up in a sad smile. Her warm eyes tell me she feels my loneliness. “Well, forget the past. You’re here to start again, to have fun.”  

“Damn right.” I rise from the couch and glance out the window at the blanket of night. “I better make up my bed. I’m exhausted.” I approach the corner with the rest of my unpacked belongings and lift up a see-through bag filled with my bedding—various shades of red, lavender, and blue butterflies scrambling for space on a snowy white background.

Chelsea stands as well. She’s a little unsteady on her feet. “You did more than me today.” With a deep sigh, she eyes her overflowing metal platform bed. She prefers it to the loft-style bed, which makes me feel on top of the world. “It’ll be a long night for me. And I still have to finish a presentation on human emotions for Friday. I haven’t even edited the pics yet.”

“You better get to it, then.” I toss my freed bedding onto my bed and climb up after it, only to throw it all down again. The individual pieces land on the couch. I proceed to flip over the old mattress, determined not to think about what the previous occupant did on it. As I lift one end, something catches my eye: a small package tucked under one corner of the mattress. Careful not to fall from the ladder, I stretch to reach it. It’s not actually a package, but a stack of letters held together by a thin ribbon the color of pink cotton candy. I turn the stack of letters over in my hand, lips pursed.

“What’s that?” Chelsea calls out. I glance at her. She’s holding one of her many pairs of jeans in her hands, about to fold them.

Before I can answer, curious Chelsea is up on a chair and next to me. “Love letters. What fun.” She snatches the letters from my hand.

“You don’t know that.” I finish flipping the mattress.

“They have to be love letters. No one hides innocent letters under a mattress.” Chelsea frees one of the folded pages. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

I can’t help myself. I lean in to see. Both our eyes scan the hand-written note.

I’m a complete failure at trying to forget the feel of your body in the circle of my arms. Your heart plays the most perfect song. One written just for me. My blood still hums to the rhythm of your tune. I miss the sound. I miss all the sounds of you. Your screams, your moans as you moved underneath me, fill my mind every night. Do you remember, Jen? Does your body still hold the memories of me pulsing inside you? Until we’re together again, I hope you also fail to forget the love we’ve made. Hold on to me. I’m yours forever.

J.D.

Chapter Two

“Holy crap.” This time it’s me who pulls out another letter. I try hard not to tear it while yanking it from the ribbon as my heart flutters inside my chest.

“Now these are the kinds of words that bring romance to life. You can smell the passion.” Chelsea is practically vibrating next to me.

I lean over to Chelsea so she can see. I hold my breath as I take in every word. Next to me, Chelsea’s breath is coming in quick, audible gasps.

My beloved Jennifer,

If you think your silence will stop me from loving you, you don’t know me at all. Nothing will ever make me give up on us. How can I, when you invade my mind, my senses? I’m drowning in you, but I’ll be damned if I come up for air. Each time I lick my lips, I taste you. You taste of summer rain and strawberries. I long to taste you in the flesh again, to slide my tongue between your lips. I hunger so much for the sweetness of your skin. I want to taste you in places you can’t reach, can’t even see. I dream of being able to trace a path across your body until I reach my favorite place, tucked away just for me. Babe, I ache for you every night. For now, the memories breathe life into me. They keep me whole until I can return to you.

J.D.

I swallow hard and pull the letter to my chest. Fire spreads across my cheeks. “This is wrong. We can’t read them. They’re personal.”

Chelsea grabs the letter from my hand. “So personal that Jen, whoever she is, didn’t think twice about leaving them behind?” She pouts as her eyes glint with mischief. “I say these babies are now public property.”

“You have a point.” I chew on the edge of my nail. “What should we do with them after? I can’t just put them back where I found them. I’ll never be able to sleep knowing I’m lying on top of them.”

Chelsea, deep in thought, twirls a lock of hair around her finger. “I wonder who this J.D. is. How about we read one or two more to find out?”

“And if we find out who he is? What then? You think we should return them to him instead? They can’t mean that much to Jen if she left them here.”

“Maybe she forgot where she put them.”

“I doubt that.” I pause. “I think we should find out who she is and give them back. Then she can decide what she wants to do with them.”

Chelsea stops unfolding one of the letters and glances at me. A finger is pressed to her lips. “Jen… Jennifer… hmmm... doesn’t ring a bell.” Her eyes come alive again. “I still want to know who this hottie is, though. He has a way with words. I’d dump Neil in a heartbeat for a guy like that.” She climbs off the chair and I join her on the couch.

“I find that hard to believe. You and Neil are made for each other.”

“You’re right. I wish he’d get over his guilt, though.”

Chelsea has been dating Neil Mead, a design student, for a year. After meeting and dating online for six months, Chelsea transferred from a university in Michigan—where she’d already completed two years of her four-year bachelor’s degree program—to Oaklow University to be near her guy. But despite her sacrifice for love, she often complains her relationship is far from perfect. Neil suffers constant Catholic guilt over their sex life, and it drives Chelsea insane.

“You’re still perfect together.” I shift closer to her. “Come on, let’s find out more.” My heart rate picks up pace. I can’t remember a time I was more excited about anything—except, of course for the day I stepped foot on campus. Nothing beats that.

The distance between us is nothing but air. You’re here with me even when you’re far away. Everything smells of you. Everything tastes of you. My crappy food tastes like caviar, seasoned with memories of you. You know the one thing I miss the most? Licking drops of champagne from your lips, from your belly button, from your pussy. Baby, even the most expensive champagne has nothing on you.

“Wow, this is getting pretty graphic.” After two more erotically charged letters, I let out a breath. “I don’t know if I can do this. I feel so guilty.”

“We’re reading for a reason. We have to find out who these people are. It’s too late to stop now.” Chelsea grins. “For God’s sake. You already know how her nether regions taste. How much more personal can it get?”

I slap Chelsea on the arm and we leaf through more letters. Some we read completely, and others we only glance over.

I shake my head and place my palms on my glowing cheeks. “We’ve read their deepest secrets and we’re still no closer to knowing who they are. We need something to start with… a last name.” So far, the letters we’ve read are all addressed to someone named Jennifer and signed with the initials J.D., but without the envelopes, we’re stuck.

“Lucky for us, I can’t resist a mystery.” Chelsea’s short, chipped nail taps one of the letters. “I think I found something to occupy me tomorrow.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you were up to your neck in lectures and presentations. How will you find time to hunt down the name of a stranger among ten thousand students? Who knows how many Jennifers there are?”

“Then I’ll find out who J.D. is.” Chelsea jumps to her feet. She glances at her watch and frowns. “If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s this: I always have time for a good mystery. It shouldn’t take me long to figure out who the lovebirds are. For now I need a good night’s rest. It’s way past midnight.” A yawn assails her as she shuffles to her bed. “I’ll finish unpacking tomorrow.”

“Good idea.” I return to my bed as well, and finish making it. Then I go to the bathroom to wash my face and change into my pajamas—if an oversized plain t-shirt can be called that.

Less than thirty minutes later, the lights are out. By the time my eyes drift shut, a faint tingle is still dancing on my spine.

Chapter Three

I wake to find Chelsea already gone. A white pushup bra is draped over one of her unpacked bags.

I pull back the sheer curtain to allow the sun’s glow to enter. On my way to the bathroom, I eye the letters. Some are still scattered on the couch the way we left them last night. Goosebumps scatter across my skin as I remember the erotic words shared between the two lovers.

I complete my morning routine of brushing my teeth, taking a cold shower to wake me up, and detangling my hair, then get dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. All the while I force myself not to think about the letters.

After unpacking the rest of my stuff and putting everything in its place, a mix of ’80s hits blaring in the background, I gather up the letters to tie them with their ribbon. Big mistake. The desire to read one more is stronger than my guilt over invading someone else’s privacy any further. I pull out one of the letters, but then my phone rings.

I know it’s my mother again, so I don’t pick up. I’ve even stopped reading her texts. After the way we left things when I moved away from Boston, there’s nothing left to say to each other. We always had a strained relationship, but the fight we had before we parted set a new record.

The moment I stepped out the door with my packed suitcases, she shouted at me, “You’re making a huge mistake! Your looks won’t last forever, you know. If you let them fade, you’ll be left with nothing.”

“See, Mom,” I’d retorted as I walked toward the waiting taxi. “That’s exactly why I’m choosing to do something else with my life. I don’t want to bank on my looks forever.” I left without saying anything more—without a goodbye. It hurts that it had to come to this, but some relationships are so damaged they don’t stand a chance at repair.

The biggest mistake would be changing my mind and modeling again. Dad died last year, but he would have been proud of me for choosing another path. When he was lying in bed, the cancer eating away at him, he asked me for a promise. With tears in his periwinkle eyes—the same shade of blue as mine—he begged me to get out from under my mother’s control and go live my own dreams.

My mother had once dreamed of growing up to become an international top model, but that dream died when she became a mom. She never said it outright, but I always felt she wanted me to repay her for what she had lost by having me. She wanted me to live her dreams.

Those last few words with my father prompted my application to design schools all over the country. Oaklow University offered me a full scholarship, and a way out. I didn’t hesitate to accept. The last thing I want is to end up like my mother, grieving for her youth. With her bottle-blonde hair, over-stretched face from too much plastic surgery, fake boobs, and a wardrobe more suited to a twenty-year-old, she’s definitely not my kind of role model. And I’m not her personal cash cow.

“Sorry, Mom,” I say to the now silent phone. “There’s no way in hell I’m going back to being just a pretty face.”

***

After almost two hours in an interior design studio lecture, I grab a mango smoothie from the cafeteria and take it with me to one of the study halls. My plan is to complete some sketches for a group project.

I choose an isolated corner at the far end of the hall, separated from the rest of the room by two royal blue plush chairs and a white bean-shaped acrylic table. I want to be as far as possible from the door. It’s not that I’m afraid the other students will disturb me; I just don’t want people staring at me every time they step into the hall.

Word about me and my modeling career has already spread through campus like wildfire, with students wondering, sometimes out loud, if I’m the girl who ran away from the limelight. Even worse, I don’t have many friends; most guys want to date me, and the girls feel intimidated. I can’t wait for the day everyone sees me as one of them. I ache for a normal life.

I groan when someone calls my name.
Not Milton, please
. But of course it is.

“Hey, Ivy.” He drops, uninvited, into an empty chair at my table. He reeks of hair gel and too much aftershave.

“I hope you don’t mind a little company.” His perpetual smirk rubs me the wrong way.

I pick up my smoothie. “Actually, I do. I’m kind of busy right now.”

Milton Weiss is nineteen, and one of the first people I saw when I arrived on campus. He gawked at me for ages before removing his faded navy cap and shoving it into his pocket. He proceeded to wrestle my luggage from me, insisting on carrying it to my room; he never gave me a chance to say no. Since then, he’s made it clear he’s interested. But I feel nothing for him, not even a flutter.