Chapter 1
“I’m sorry.”
Ripped from my dream of Phoebe Cates getting out of the pool in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, my eyes fluttered open and my vision focused through a sleepy hangover haze. I was a sucker for classic comedies, by classics I mean pop culture from my 80s-spent youth: think the animated blockhead figures in the music video for I Want My MTV by Dire Straits, and I had followed in Judge Reinhold’s footsteps by beating off to that scene many times throughout my life. There I was, sitting poolside and sipping a piña colada while watching her insanely incredible tits, when that voice brought me back to reality.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “My penis made me do it.”
Your penis made you do what?
My heart told me nothing good could come from assessing the situation, but my brain said, “Why don’t you go ahead and check it out?”
From my side-sleeping position facing the wall, I turned my head to look over my shoulder and came face to face with it. I mean we were looking at each other eye-to-eye. His cock was an inch from my nose. At such close proximity to the thing, my eyes crossed, my vision blurred, and the dick multiplied. Now, I was up against three of them. Leaning back to distance myself, my vision re-focused and I saw there was a string encircling it, wrapped beneath the head and tied with a bow before leading up to my roommate’s hand. There, like some sick marionette, he made his cock dance, pulling on the string to make it hop up and down in front of my face, antagonizing me with his new puppet.
Before I could register what was happening, my roommate Paydirt bucked his hips and I turned my face just in time for it to smoosh up against my cheek.
“Motherfucker!” was all I could manage as my arms flailed and I fought to free myself from my blanket.
Wrapped too tightly in my comforter, I flipped out of bed and landed on the floor like a giant bean burrito. Paydirt’s big, football-lineman ass jumped back and his trademark, always-drunk sounding laugh filled the room.
“My penis made me do it!” he said again, cackling loudly. “Swear to God!”
He said it as if I had no reason to be angry and as if all blame should be put on the little guy at the end of his string. Unraveling myself, I swung a closed fist at his face but he darted right and disappeared out of the room, laughing all the way down the hall. I’d never meant to hit him anyway. It was one of the rules of our frat house. As part of the Delta Iota Kappa brotherhood, Gamma chapter, no anger or ill-will could ever be shown toward a brother.
Unfortunately, DIK has no rule about putting your cock on your sleeping roommate’s face!
Left scrubbing with soap and hot water at the sink, I prayed to God I didn’t get some kind of strange tapeworm from his overused member. Seriously, Paydirt slept with any woman willing. Having spent three years on campus already, he quite possibly might have slept with half of the women in Logan, South Carolina. Well, at least half of the ones between the ages of 18 and 50. Never mind, there was Professor Morris and she was in her sixties.
It’s a strange place to start a story, I know, but it turns out Paydirt’s cock was the catalyst of my tale, so a proper introduction seemed necessary. In fact, it all ended with that pesky prick of his too.
My name’s Nick Luciano, more commonly referred to as Lucky, but my brothers in the frat liked to call me Mob Boss, based on my family name’s long history in organized crime.
In truth, I’ve got nothing in common with my badass ancestors…unless you include my frequent whacking.
No, I was a calm, mild-mannered dude for the most part. I took my frustrations out by murdering all the shitty people I came across in novella form. Stab me in the back and I made sure you suffered a gruesome fictional death. Penning horrific tales full of graphic sex and violence was a hobby of mine. That was what led me to Natalia in the first place.
Logan University was my home away from home and on this particular day, I’d chosen to stay behind in one of my classes so I could punch out the ending of a story I was working on without the cacophony of bachelor chants, sexual groans, and loud music that accompanied daily life in a frat house. Some of the guys studied their asses off while some of the others seemed to be too busy getting ass to study at all.
To put me in the storytelling mood, I cranked up my Music to Move Lucky mix on my laptop.
I didn’t call it that, come on. You must think I’m an arrogant piece of shit.
A crazy ex-lover of mine, Dandy, short for Dandelion, whipped up an awesome playlist of the stuff one might hear at a coffee house.
Now, when I say she was insane, I’m talking I once picked up one of her psych text books and saw that she’d circled the letters from different sentences that spelled my name over and over again. Yeah…insane.
She may have been psychotic, but she sure knew great music. As Amos Lee belted out the lyrics to The Wind, I sank into the screen, scribbling out a scandalous scene of spousal betrayal and simmering hot sex.
Of course, true to my nature, both characters would die in the end.
During a James Morrison song, music perfect for my story scenario considering it was called The Pieces Don’t Fit Anymore, a third-party sound knocked my senses off balance. An extra stringed instrument jostled me mentally and I had to lower my volume in order to figure it out.
Somewhere nearby, a real-life orchestral instrument was blazing a trail through midair, sending a willowy wisp of an enchanting melody my way. With my laptop folded closed under my arm, I followed the tune the way a cartoon mouse follows the fresh aroma of a cheddar wedge. It practically pulled me along on my tippy toes.
The smell of cinnamon freshly spritzed by the timed mechanical air freshener in the hall brought a wave of nausea with it as I fought back the memory of too much Goldschlager at a party last week. Even Big Red gum turned my stomach now. I dodged the oncoming misty blast and ducked into the next room where I totally intruded on a beautiful woman pulling a bow across strings, her face stern and serious as her chin fought to keep control of the instrument.
How I’d never seen her before was a complete mystery. I thought I knew everyone, at least everyone who was anyone. Yet, she’d escaped me somehow, and now I found myself dumbfounded by instant desire and captivated by the power she possessed. The way her thick-rimmed black glasses clung to the edge of her nose and how her dirty blonde hair threatened to fall down from the tightly wound bun atop her head. Only a few strands rebelled and caressed her face as she angrily shoved music down invisible throats.
No, it wasn’t anger. It was revenge of some sort, as if the whole world would one day be made to witness the magnificent beast she’d become. It was as if life had slapped her around and this was her way of grabbing it by the hair and saying, “Listen here you piece of shit. I’ve got this.”
She was lost in the music, transported to a faraway world where no one and nothing existed besides her and her talent.
I’d never seen anything like it.
A friend of mine had been a break dancer growing up, and I’d watched him perform windmills at the highest of speeds, yet his goofiness and relaxed persona never faltered. He loved what he did and had fun doing it.
One of my frat brothers fancied himself a chef and when he hit the kitchen, he made magic happen, but he did it while cracking jokes, whistling tunes, and even chatting on his phone. His concentration was easily swept away.
An ex-military buddy of mine played guitar, and even though he was good at what he did, his fingers still yanked the strings ever so often, causing that high-pitched shrill, that pesky whine, and each time he did it, he winced.
This girl did none of that. She wasn’t laughing or playing around. Her concentration never faltered. No squeak emitted from her bow. She was perfection and I envied her tongue and the way it dipped out slightly, pursed hard between her lips as she focused, because I wanted to be in its place. In a matter of moments, she’d wrapped an invisible string around me and carefully wound it around her finger.
Have you ever felt a hunger pain when you’ve eaten recently, but it’s somewhere in your chest instead of in your stomach? That ache settled in and nagged at me. I missed her and I hadn’t even left the room.
My world was consistently filled with an endless revolving door of bleached blondes, feisty brunettes, and fiery redheads. Some were limber dancers excited to show off their musicality while riding cock to a beat. A few were sorority sisters who seemed to believe they belonged in frat brothers’ beds, like unofficial wifeys supporting their sexual charged spouses. A lot of them were cheerleaders ready to escape practice routines and lose themselves in drunken fornication. The most interesting were the genius types, the science gurus and math whizzes tired of trying to force experiments to make sense or digits to equal out and oh so willing to fuck away their frustrations and come away their stressors.
My life was full of drive-thru girlfriends and mistresses, or as an Italian Mob Boss would call them, goomahs.
This one was different. This girl was Mozart in modern times, Bach in a loose black blouse, Pachelbel in tight pants…she was Beethoven in a beautiful package. The list could go on and on as long as it described musical magnificence, but in her case, infused innocent sensuality.
She’d overwhelmed me and she hadn’t even noticed I’d walked in the door. Her piece ended with the downward pull of her bow. She yanked it off the instrument with a fury that I feared would send it flying across the room. Instead, she blew a wisp of hair from her face and took a deep breath.
I clapped loosely and slowly. Her head snapped in my direction so fast I thought she might hurt herself. I’d startled her and she didn’t seem pleased with my surprise appearance.
“That was…” I began, stumbling because I couldn’t quite come up with words that would make her understand how in awe I was. “It was…holy shit. I’m sorry. You are amazing.”
Her head tilted down and she peered up at me over the glasses threatening to fall off her face. She wasn’t buying my flirtatious advance. It dawned on me that even though I’d never seen her before, she might recognize me and if she did know me, she might know about my reputation. That would be a disadvantage. Much to my dismay, I’d become known as a “love ‘em and leave ‘em” kind of guy.
That’s a story for a different time. This one is all about her…and as I mentioned earlier, Paydirt’s cock, but I’ll get to that later.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Her voice. Her accent. I couldn’t quite place it. She needed to speak more. I wanted her to speak more.
“I didn’t mean to barge in like this,” I said. “I was next door…”
I mimicked typing on a computer the best I could while keeping my laptop clutched between my arm and my side. It nearly fell and I had to squat down to catch it. She huffed once, the closest thing I’d get to a laugh as she apparently thought my computer’s near collision with the floor amusing.
“You were next door…” she said with a teasing pause. “…juggling computer equipment?”
Russian. It was a Russian accent and it was the sexiest thing I’d ever heard.
Words failed me. With a deep breath, I found my vocabulary lodged somewhere between my esophagus and my lips. All that escaped my mouth was a deep breath I’d been holding in while trying to formulate a witty comeback.
“I’m really busy,” she said, quickly slapping down any attempt I had at getting to know her better.
“Well, so am I,” I lied.
In truth, I had nothing to do. My studies could wait and I was still slightly hungover so I couldn’t handle much else. My plans consisted of going home to torment some of the pledges with Icy Hot challenges. Nothing screams stupidity like underclassmen begging for a chance at smearing quick-cooling ointment all over their freshly shaved balls. Something about their wails is pathetically poetic. Yet, they will do it every time if it means getting one step closer to being a frat brother. I know because I did it myself…four times. The smell of the stuff is like comfort food now.
“Good,” she replied. “Then you should get to your important stuff and let me be alone here with mine.”
Damn she was fresh.
“What if I want to learn to play violin?” I asked.
“The school has classes for that,” she replied. “Besides, this is a viola.”
“A what”
“Google it,” she said.
With that, she picked up her bow, and put up an invisible wall between us that was founded on bricks full of confidence and fixed in place by a slathered-on paste of “don’t fuck with me.” She couldn’t care less about my visit, my flirting, or my existence in general. Yet, it did nothing to dwindle my desire. I craved her now and I didn’t know how to leave well enough alone.
It definitely wasn’t my best flirting. Hell, it wasn’t flirting at all. I’d barely said two words to her.
This one was a wildcat. I could tell. But she wasn’t going to let me in. She either came from money and needed much more to impress her or came from none and purely didn’t find me attractive or charming in the least. Or she was gay. I hoped to God it wasn’t the latter.
I could dine and dazzle the richest snobs and convert women who weren’t immediately struck by my charisma. All that took was some persistence. Turning a gay girl straight was an art I hadn’t yet mastered. Bi was one thing. I could curve the road my way for a few hours and then straighten it back out for them and let them go on their way trying to sort shit out, but if they made a full U-turn and simply didn’t appreciate cock, I was fucked. Or not fucked I should say.
Some guys might have given up on this woman altogether. Playing hard to get is one thing but being downright rude is something entirely different. In my experience, if a girl starts out as a bitch, she’s going to keep on that path and there’s no changing it. But I wasn’t buying this one’s attitude. It seemed contrived. Or maybe it seemed like she was simply having a bad day. Either way, I wasn’t ready to give up so easily.
Leaving crossed my mind, but I was intrigued, so instead of backing out of the room, I moved forward through it and found a chair in front of her, facing her. She played on despite the knowledge that I was staring at her, trying to unnerve her. I was entirely aware that I was close to crossing the border into stalking territory.
“I can’t leave until you tell me your name at least,” I said.
She ignored me and kept playing.
“You have to find me being here at least a little bit distracting,” I said.
She ignored me and kept playing.
“You look cute when you wrinkle up your nose like that,” I said.
This time she tried to ignore me, but I saw her straighten up her face. Her lips softened and her eyes closed. She played from her heart, knowing I couldn’t get in there. I couldn’t penetrate the hardened shell she’d formed around it. Only her passion lived there and that bothered me more than everything else. She was a serious person, probably a genuine one too, and if she let me in, I would soil her.
I knew nothing about her, but I wanted to learn it all. She wasn’t like the other girls at school. She was nothing like the ones who frequented the frat house. She was on a mission, probably on a scholarship, and here I was being a douchebag and trying to dissect her like some sort of science project. Letting me in would only end in hurt for her.
The rumors were true. Even with all my explanations and all the issues that contributed to the situation, I was the “love ‘em and leave ‘em” guy.