CHAPTER ELEVEN

HARPER

Mindy and I are reclined on the sofa, our feet up on the coffee table. I’m wearing Tweety Bird slippers. She’s wearing monster feet. We’ve got a Gilmore Girls marathon going on and nothing short of the Second Coming itself is going to stop us enjoying it.

Because the first ‘coming’ wasn’t enough, was it?

Silence, Brain.

It’s bad enough I’ve got this voice in my head that provides a constant commentary on my life. It’s worse that all said head is filled up with lately is a big glossy of Colton and his magic fingers.

And mouth. Don’t. Forget. The. Mouth.

He. Is. A. Student, I remind myself in the same punctuated tone, though it does little to quell the swell of sensation between my legs at the mere mention of his name.

I dig my spoon into the rocky road like it’s a murder weapon. “How’s the Big D?” I ask Mindy.

She looks at me quizzically. “I’m going to go ahead and guess you’re talking about the Dean.”

“Why?” I mumble, mouth full of ice-cream. “You got another Big D I should know about?”

She shrugs, casual as can be. “Only the ten-inch dildo under my bed.”

“Ew.”

“Hey, don’t knock it until you try it, and what about you, with your own kinky toybox?”

“Those are medical aids—massagers, if you will.”

“Funny,” says Mindy, “because ‘Turbo Tongue’ sure as shit doesn’t sound like something you pick up at the pharmacy. But, to answer your question, the Dean’s great, the actual incarnation of Wonder Woman. But that boy toy of yours? He sounds like the real star.”

My spoon freezes an inch away from my mouth. “Say what?”

On the TV, poor Rory Gilmore looks just as confused.

“You didn’t hear about James, the bar...?”

I sit up straight. “No. Why? What happened?”

Mindy jumps back. “Whoa, easy there, partner.”

“Tell me, would you,” I press.

She exhales. “O-kay. You know the shitty town bar everyone frequents, present company included?”

I have an inkling it’s called ‘The Dive’—rather fitting. “I do.”

If there’s one thing Mindy loves, it’s spilling the good stuff. She knots her legs under herself, prepping for the reveal. “The story goes James was there hitting on some young thing, apparently muddying your good name in the process.”

I place my hand on my chest, a big splatter of ice-cream going with it. “My good name?”

“Apparently, to put it bluntly, he told this girl his ‘ex’ was no good in bed, couldn’t handle him or some bullshit like that.”

I’m aghast. “He did?”

“Uh-huh, but fear not, because someone stood up for you.” Mindy reaches for her Pepsi.

“Who?” My entire body is clenched tight.

“Like I said, a boy toy, some Branton student.”

“And how do you know this?”

Mindy’s finger flits in the air. “That econ chick, Glenda? Gladice? Whatever, she was there with friends, saw it all right up to the part where they almost had fisticuffs.”

God, it sounds like the most excitement Branton has seen since the gold rush. “And she didn’t know who this mystery guy was who stood up for me?”

Mindy shrugs. “She just said he was young, cute, looked about ready to kung-fu James’s big fat head clean off.”

I should be shocked, outraged at such violence, but part of me is pretty proud of Colton for coming to my defense, regardless of his motives. It’s a rare trait, even more so considering we’re not exactly serious… yet.

Don’t you dare.

“Oh, oh,” Mindy grunts, bouncing up and down, her attention back on the TV, “I love this part.”

It’s the scene in season two where good guy Luke pushes asshole Jess into the lake.

I smile, warm and cuddly inside with the knowledge perhaps I’ve finally found my own Luke—the diamond wrapped in the rough exterior, a real man.

And here I was thinking they didn’t make them anymore.

*

I wrap up class. “That’s all, folks. Please make sure you have your critical theory essay in on time. Bribery won’t help you… unless it involves either chocolate or copious amounts of sugar, and even then I’m pretty picky.” I find Colton. “Mr. Beckett,” I shout, “a word if you wouldn’t mind.”

We’ve been doing this dance a lot lately. I’ve looked at his file. There are only a few years between us, but given my position it may as well be the Pacific Ocean. Someone’s going overboard… and we’re all out of life jackets.

He arrives in front of me in a white tee that might actually be body paint. I can make out his pecs, his diamond-cut abs, the ink on his arms. A pair of Ray-Bans is hanging from his jeans pocket. He’s slouching, but god damn if he doesn’t make even bad posture look good.

“For your information, I don’t mind.” He smiles.

I swallow hard, checking to see we’re alone, or alone as you can be in a giant lecture hall. “I heard you bumped into my ex last night.”

“He’s a real fucking asshole. Does he have a giant cock or something? Because from the outside I was getting a serious ‘nothing special’ kind of vibe.”

James’s ‘cock’ was, well, average—not that I have much to compare it against. Sized against Colton’s lap rocket, though, his poor penis may as well be an ant.

“He…” I start, not quite sure how to phrase it, “was a mistake.”

Colton slow claps. “You got that right, but honestly, I didn’t do much. Any guy worth a damn would have done the same.”

He’s playing it down. “Well, thank you.”

“You can’t let assholes like that tear you down. You know that, right? You’ve got to stand up for yourself.”

It’s the story of my life. The slightest hint of danger, of confrontation and I’m hauling ass into the horizon. I’m moved by his concern, can feel the familiar pull of attraction turning the space between my legs into a veritable slip ’n’ slide, but I’ve got to watch myself. If I don’t I’m going to end up in another dangerous public space with my legs around my ears and my clit doing the conga against his tongue.

I clear my throat, trying to keep my eyes from wandering down to his chest and crotch. “How’s the study going?”

He’s less subtle. His eyes drop to my cleavage, dropping further to rest on my legs. I can almost feel the way he’s mentally undressing me, the sly smile forming on his lips in sinful knowledge. “I’ve finished the critical theory essay.”

“You have?” I splutter, a touch too shocked.

“I focused on Stuart Hall and Richard Hoggart mainly, the process by which power relations organize cultural artifacts.”

The shock turns into full-blown tachycardia. “Well… good. Great,” I choke out. “I look forward to reading it.”

He shifts his weight, the ocean of his eyes spilling over with all the sultry seduction they can muster. “Don’t be too hard on me.”

“I, I, uh, won’t.”

That schoolgirl’s back fresh from sex ed, giggling with her friends because someone wants to play suck face behind the bleachers.

The shock refuses to dissipate. I can’t shake the idea that Colton isn’t the idiot I expected, the cliché alpha oaf. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to sound sexy mentioning ‘cultural artifacts’, but I was wrong. Heaven help me when we hit Representations of Race and Gender.

“I don’t get it,” I tell him, finally speaking my mind. “I don’t get you.”

“You’ve got questions?”

“Many.”

“So meet me later and I’ll give you all the answers you need.”

It’s like Satan himself asking Eve to jog on down to the apple tree. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

He leans in, breath hot on my ear. “The best things never are.”

He turns smiling, and leaves, that bad boy swagger in full, glorious motion, an ass you could frame and stare at all day shifting from side to side.

I’m not this person. I’m not superficial. I don’t care about looks and shallow crap like that, or I thought I didn’t. Who the hell knows anymore?

But the fact Colton Beckett might actually have a functioning brain… Well, that’s a game-changer.

No, I tell myself, you will not go over there.

The other little voice in my head steps up to the podium. Then why was he smiling just now like he knows you will?

Boom.

Mic drop.