Someone to Love (21 page)

Kendall

The Big Surprise

It’s my birthday.

I arrive late to Professor Look-At-Me-Naked
Elton’s class and take a seat next to the thin-lipped girl who
greets me with her traditional snarl.

Figures. It’s going to be a crap day all
around, I can tell.

I came so close to telling Cruise that I have
feelings for him. That I don’t want to pretend to play this sick
little game I thought was cute a few short weeks ago. That I
actually want to engage in a monogamous relationship with him and
do everything with his body that he would ever want, but the words
wouldn’t formulate on my lips. Technically, it was his fault for
sidelining me by asking me to conduct a body-scan before breakfast.
Hell—who am I kidding? I would have inhaled his body
for
breakfast, but a part of me is holding back. If Cruise doesn’t want
just me, then I suppose I shouldn’t want him in that way—and,
frighteningly enough, I think I still do.

“The finality of love.” He belts it out like
a song, looking hotter than a bonfire in his dark corduroy jacket,
his inky jeans and cowboy boots—my heart lurches just laying eyes
on him.

To hell with it. I’m jumping in his bed
tonight and having myself a nice little birthday. He’s wearing
cowboy
boots
for God’s sake. The man doesn’t fight
fair.

“Today, I thought we would touch upon the
vulnerability we face once we’ve fallen in love.” Our eyes meet,
and he gives a quick wink. Obviously, he thinks love is a joke, and
only he and I are privy to the punch line. “Can anybody tell me why
a person becomes vulnerable when experiencing love—especially for
the very first time?”

Miss Thin Lips spikes her hand in the air
like she’s about to have an accident. Personally, I’m rooting for
the accident.

“Cheryl.” He nods with a prolonged blink.

Ha
! She is totally getting on his last
nerve.

She clears her throat and cuts me a look as
if she heard. “It’s because love embroils its participants in a
psychological power exchange that takes place once you trust
someone with your heart.” She wiggles proud in her seat after
dispensing the armchair psychiatry. “If I were to fall in love with
someone, and they broke that sacred trust, I would forever be
wounded and therefore protect my heart from ever being crushed in
such a violent manner again. Naturally, I would build defenses. I
might even resort to meaningless sexual exchanges as nothing more
than a device to satisfy myself—there wouldn’t be any real love
involved because I would probably stop believing in it.”

Cruise leans against his desk. His face
blanches out as he considers this. It’s as though he realizes she
diagnosed him so correctly he’s only now aware of the fact his
manwhore ways were nothing more than a ruse. In the end, that’s
probably all our affections will be reduced to, a meaningless
sexual exchange—nothing more than a device to satisfy ourselves—no
real love because we don’t believe in it—only now, I think I
do.

Cruise takes a breath. “So the power exchange
is what creates the vulnerability between sexual partners, and when
the balance is disrupted, it crushes the weaker of the two
units.”

“Not necessarily.” Cheryl straightens at the
prospect of conducting a lecture all on her own. “The power
exchange doesn’t need to have sexual underpinnings. It could take
place with a child and its parents. Plenty of girls are victims of
deadbeat fathers and statistics show that girls who grow up without
a paternal influence in their lives seek male attention in other
ways. Any stripper in the country can testify to this.”

Cruise cuts an involuntary look in my
direction.

I know what he’s thinking—that I’m rife with
daddy issues. He thinks he’s pegged the very reason I’ve decided to
descend into whoredom, no thanks to the malnourished wealth of
information next to me, espousing her not-so-sage wisdom. And,
sadly, both he and she would be right.

“Kenny,” he says it low, robotic, “you look
like you have something to say.”

I take in a sharp breath. “I guess it’s
true.” I look over at Cheryl and watch as her skeletal frame gloats
in my direction. “I, like any stripper in the country, can testify
to this. Funny thing is, it was one of my stepfathers who
enlightened me to this morsel when I was twelve.”

“That’s all right, Kenny,” he says it lower
than a whisper, as if I’ve shared enough already. Cruise is trying
to talk me out of carrying on with the verbal massacre of my
adolescence.

“He already packed his things and was hauling
his suitcase out the door.” I take in a ragged breath. “He and my
mother had a really big blowout. I remember…he shouted, loud as he
could, that I’d grow up to be a tramp just like my mother.” I hold
Cruise’s glassy-eyed stare for a very long time. The room, the
other students, they melt away like snow—it’s just Cruise and me
having an intimate conversation regarding the tumultuous state of
my inner child. I had lifted my skirt and bared my shame to
everyone in the vicinity. I don’t see the point in stopping now.
“That’s why I did it. I held onto my virginity like a very sharp
knife. I’d cut anyone who came close to me because I wanted to
prove the bastard wrong. I wanted to show the world I would never
end up like my mother. I ran from anything that even remotely
resembled love and made damn sure it never found me.” Until
now.

Cruise closes his eyes. A seam of liquid
seals over his lashes. He turns to the board and takes out his
aggression on a tiny piece of chalk as he scrawls out an
assignment.

“Give me a short essay on the vulnerability
of love.” He pulls me in with a volatile stare as everyone busies
themselves with the task at hand. “Kenny, can I see you in the hall
a minute?”

I take him in like this, the well-dressed
authoritarian with his glasses firmly in place, his hair slicked
back nice and neat. I think I like the sweaty version, the midnight
rendition who presses his stubble into my neck while his hard-on
pleads with my body to find it a home.

“No,” I say and get to the business of
writing an essay for my professor.

So far, I’ve had a pretty shitty
birthday.

I managed to avoid Cruise on at least two
occasions since my impromptu confessional. First, after class, when
he tried to tackle me like a defensive lineman in the hall and
again in the library where he tried to flag me down, but I simply
made a beeline for the stacks. Who knew that hidden among rows and
rows of dusty old textbooks you could find such an odd assortment
carnal perversion, ranging from blowjobs to hand jobs—covert coitus
with pants slightly sagging, the skirt perfectly adjusted. It was
practically a Karma Sutra performance piece in there. I think they
should seriously consider renaming it “The Raunchy Reference
Center.”

I begrudgingly make my way to the art
building where Professor Webber meets me near the door, with a
purple robe in hand.

“You’re late.” She bites the air as if I’ve
intentionally decided to show five minutes past the hour to stage
some grand entrance because God knows I want to bare my breasts in
style. Which reminds me, I meant to shave my area this morning, but
was waylaid by Cruise and his sudden need to flash me.

It’s probably not that bad. It’s not like I’m
out to impress the peanut gallery. In fact, the less appetizing I
look, the less likely I am to score unwanted phone numbers once the
hour is through.

Webber scuttles me off to a dressing room,
and I’m quick to strip to nothing. I glance down at the dark
triangle spraying out over my thighs and gasp at my unkempt
oversight.

Gah! I’m a
bush
. This is horrible.
This is far worse than I thought. Not only am I slightly out of
shape and my boobs have picked this day to sag like oversized water
balloons, but I have the Butchart Gardens sprouting from my
ass—quite literally.

Crap.

I’ll have to take the cash and catch the next
flight back to California after this debacle, or I’ll be risking
some horrific nickname that will haunt me the rest of my natural
days like,
Bushzilla
, or
Pubic
Enemy
Number
One
,
Magic
Carpet Ride
, or
Carnal
Curtains
. I suppose after this haired mess
I’ll owe everybody here one big “pubic” apology.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” Professor Webber spurs
me on with her ability to herd me from the makeshift closet.

I don my robe and file in behind a man in
purple, staring down at his feet as we conduct the walk of shame to
our respective seating areas. It didn’t occur to me until now that
the metal stool I’ll be displaying myself on will feel like someone
tucked a glacier under my bare bottom, at least for the first few
minutes.

From my peripheral vision, I see his robe
fall in a lavender puddle to the floor.

I take a deep breath. What in the hell have I
gotten myself into? Taking off my clothes in public? What’s next?
Strip clubs?

Okay. Relax. Nobody is going to care what I
look like. This is in the name of art. The entire class is probably
thrilled to have some youth to contrast the geezer standing next to
me.

It’s like ripping off a band-aid. I just need
to do it and not put too much thought into it.

A cool breeze hits me as I pull back the
robe. I feel the fabric release from my shoulders and trickle down
my body with a pronounced finality. I pretend to inspect the
chipped polish on my toes when really I’m trying my hardest to die
from mortification because right about now death seems the only
plausible way out of this mess.

“Kenny?”

I glance up at the familiar voice.

Standing before me is a very gorgeous, very
surprised, and very much naked Cruise Elton.

“Shit!” I cross my hands over my chest and
knock my knees together.

It’s him! Where the hell is the geezer?

I do a quick once-over and suck in a
breath.

Double shit! I just saw it! Right here in
front of at least forty-five different witnesses, I’ve just laid
eyes on Cruise Elton’s package for the very first time.

My stomach cinches. My eyes drift right back
to where he hangs long and lean down his thigh, and in no fucking
way did he ever get it chopped in half in some
motorcycle
accident.

“Take a seat.” Professor Webber barks out the
order and both Cruise and I are quick to comply.

Cruise settles into his chair, never taking
his eyes off mine. He gives the tiniest hint of a lewd smile, and I
can feel my entire body flood with heat.

I scowl over at him. Damn pervert. I wouldn’t
put it past him to shake this kind of delicate information out of
poor wire-haired Webber. Although, I suppose, he could be in the
market to turn a quick buck.

“God, she’s turning beat red!” Someone shouts
from the periphery.

Professor Webber lets out a few viral claps.
“Don’t be afraid to use color.”

Great. Not only will I be a hairy bush, but
I’ll look as if I’m about to catch fire, I’ll be the
burning
bush. And right about now, I’d do anything for a gallon of gas and
a couple of matches to put an end to this misery.

I glance back over at Cruise, and my eyes dip
down his chest. It’s smooth and wide as a building. Cruise takes
immaculate care of his body. He would never show up for “strip
beyond your skivvies day” and not be courteous enough to manscape
his scrotum. Speaking of which. My gaze dips a little lower, slow
and sweet like honey and I see a sparse line of dark brown curls
that lead down from his belly button like a neatly hedged treasure
trail, then an enormous fold of skin lying over his thigh and…Oh.
My. God. It’s
growing
. It’s rousing to life slow and
lethargic, like a giant, waking from a very long slumber.