“What did you say this guy’s name was?”

“Jackson Pierce,” I say.

I’m lying face up on my bed, glaring at the ceiling in my dorm room. Lacey is on her bed at the other end of the room, playing on her phone.

“Wow,” she says, a few seconds later. “Have you seen him?”

“No,” I say. “Why?”

She gets up and comes to kneel by my bed, holding her phone out for me to see.

My throat goes dry when I see the picture. It’s a man in a suit walking down a staircase. It looks like a paparazzi shot. And he looks like a movie star. No. He looks better than a movie star. He has dark hair that’s cut short on the sides and longer on the top. But what captivates me are his eyes. There’s a deep darkness in them. A coldness. He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on and yet he looks so broken.

Prudish. Forgettable.

His words echo in my mind and I remember to hate him. “Yeah, he’s not bad,” I grumble.

Lacey looks at her phone again, quirking an eyebrow. “Uh. Not bad? This guy is like, Brad Pitt in “Fight Club” sexy. He’s like Thor-level sexy. You could spread him on a shoe and I’d eat it.”

“Spread him on a… what?” I ask, giving her a disgusted look.

Lacey sighs. “You know? That expression, like a sauce is so good you’d eat it off a shoe.”

“Okay, I just don’t think… forget it. The point is he’s an asshole. No matter how good he may look. It’s not like it matters anyway.”

Lacey purses her lips. “Hm. Well, I could cyber stalk him. Maybe you could find out where he gets his coffee or something and tell him off in person.”

I sit up on the edge of the bed, watching as she pulls up more search tabs. “Why would I want to do that?” I ask. “If anything, I just want to bury my head in the sand and pretend none of this ever happened.”

“You would want to do that because you’re a self-respecting woman who doesn’t let some guy determine her self-worth,” she says.

“Listen to Miss Feminist Poster Girl over here,” I say, smirking.

“Shut up. We’re going to find this guy--for science.”

“It’s we now?”

“Of course it’s we,” snaps Lacey. “The only thing you know how to do on the computer is type in Microsoft Word. Let me handle the detective work.”

“You mean the stalking,” I correct.

She sighs. “Judge not lest ye be the judge.”

“It’s judge not lest ye be judged,” I say.

Lacey glares up at me. “You know, this would be a lot easier if you agreed not to talk.”

I plop down on the bed, quietly watching as she digs through article after article about Jackson Pierce. I’m indifferent at first, but some of the articles start to catch my eye. It's weird that he would be a target for the paparazzi, even being as good looking as he is, a publishing executive is hardly their usual target. He also has a long history of secretive, strange relationships. There are even rumors that he’s into BDSM, with several sources claiming to have been ex-lovers.

The most interesting is an article about charges of murder that were briefly brought against him and later dropped. That was only a year ago, concerning a woman named Karen Kieland.

“Jesus,” whispers Lacey, as she reads the article. “Think he did it?”

“Probably,” I say. “He probably told her the sex was unoriginal and forgettable and then put two bullets in her head.”

Lacey giggles. “Now you’re thinking about how you’d impress him in the bed if you can’t do it on paper?”

“No,” I snap, face reddening.

We learn a lot of useless facts about him that have been compiled by female admirers. He owns a yacht, which seems a little excessive to me. He owns a few ridiculously big houses throughout the country. He’s not just involved in publishing, either. He’s apparently a self-taught investor and has turned his already impressive fortune into an absurd amount of wealth through his skill in the stock market. He also has a network of female fans on the internet who basically stalk his every move.

“Oh my God,” says Lacey. “I typed in his name and my phone autocorrected publishing to punishing, so I ended up typing Jackson Pierce punishing. Look what came up.”

It’s some kind of online profile, almost like a dating site. Except Jackson is wearing a mask. Most of his face is covered, but it’s definitely him. “Why would he put his name out there on something like this?”

“Looks like he didn’t. Another ex of his leaked this I guess. Apparently he didn’t care though. The profile is still active. It’s like some crazy BDSM site. Look,” she says.

There’s a picture of a woman strapped in a helpless position while three men in full leather masks loom over her, whips and paddles in hand. The image gives me a dark thrill that starts in my chest and trickles down past my belly.

I shift a little uncomfortably. Look at me. Miss Virgin getting turned on by hardcore, kinky sex. Of course I am. My body is so sexually starved I should probably even stay away from Animal Planet.

“This is way beyond creepy, Lacey. I’m not going to keep cyber stalking this guy with you. Yes, someone should throat punch him for how rude he was about my submission, but I mean… Maybe it really was forgettable. I’m just one of thousands and thousands of college kids who want to be writers. You know how few people actually make it as authors? Even thinking I have a chance probably means I’m delusional.”

Lacey grips my cheeks, smooshing them together until I probably look like a fish. “Bri, listen to me. All that writing stuff is important, sure, but right now, we need to focus. Do you see this man?” she asks, jabbing her finger at a picture of him wading into the ocean, broad back so muscular it could be chiseled from granite. “The universe has basically thrown this man in our laps. We have a unique opportunity to reach out to him, to--”

“Lacey, you have a boyfriend, Remember? Forget Jackson. He’s just a guy. Making a fool out of myself to set eyes on some guy I can see perfectly fine right here is not on the top of my priority list. I think I’ll just have a long, painful evening with my laptop, trying to figure out how to make my writing less forgettable if that’s okay with you.”

Lacey sighs dramatically, but I notice a mischievous glint in her eye as she watches me walk to my desk. I don’t like it. Not a bit. I’ve seen the look before, and it means she’s planning something. Probably something equal parts devious, bad idea, and definitely a hearty helping of recklessness.