I can’t help but sing while getting ready for class the next morning. Part of me feels like an asshole for kicking Cliff out, but Esther really was coming home, and I didn’t want to deal with her questions. Neither of us have ever brought a guy home before—usually I go to their places. I’ve also never slept with the same guy twice.

Cliff has me breaking all kinds of rules.

I throw on sweats and my high top Nikes, then toss my hair into a frizzy bun. With such wild curly hair, I’ll never have one of those cute messy buns that straight-haired girls rock. But I’ve managed to make it my own.

I’m supposed to work tonight, but I’ll come home and shower first. Still, just in case, I wing my eyeliner and dab on mascara. Looking at my reflection, I shake my head at myself. The odds of me running into Cliff today are pretty low. This is totally absurd. After another moment, I shrug and add lip gloss.

My hand is on my bedroom door knob when I hear a door slam. Frenzied shrieks and Spanish gush from my roommate’s mouth. I throw my door open and Esther barrels into my room.

Between high school and my roommate, my Spanish is pretty good, but she’s talking way too fast. Tears streak her cheeks, and she clutches her phone in her hand. I lead her to my bed and sit her down. After bringing her an ice cold glass of water, I calm her enough to talk.

"My car," she gasps, her hands shaking. "Someone slit my tires."

I bolt up straight. Eyes narrowing, I stomp toward the front door as if I can still catch the motherfucker. Right outside our front door, Esther’s car slumps pathetically. All four tires have long gashes in them. My jaw hangs open even as fury rips through me. Esther is a nice person—someone so quiet, she wouldn’t disturb a librarian. Cutting tires is never random, always personal. This doesn’t make sense.

I light a cigarette and Esther joins me outside. Red rims her eyes and blots her nose.

"Who would do this?" she whispers, hugging herself.

I shake my head. "No one followed you home?"

"Not that I saw." She holds her hand out for my cigarette. I give it to her and light another for myself. Taking a drag, she grimaces. "I haven’t smoked since high school." Still, she visibly relaxes. Once a smoker, always a smoker.

"Anyone you might have . . . annoyed?" I can’t imagine Esther ever pissing anyone off enough to make them want to slit her tires, but I have to cover all the bases.

Her head swivels from side to side. "No. Last night was actually a really good tips night." Dainty eyebrows knit together. "Donny even asked me out."

My eyes narrow. "Who’s Donny?"

Lips softening into a smile, Esther practically swoons. "This guy at work. He’s one of the chefs. I’ve been waiting for him to make a move forever." She sucks on the cigarette, still smiling.

"He’s nice to you?" I’m losing hope. Walking around the car, I examine it again.

"Very," Esther says. "He’s one of the ones who hold doors open and all that. He’s even brought me gifts—little things like chocolate. He brought me a rose last night."

I blink at her.

Rolling her eyes, she puts her hands on her hips. "Valentine’s Day?"

I halt in my tracks, groaning. "Fuck," I mutter.

Esther rushes to my side. "Did you think of something?"

"No." I sigh, lighting another cigarette. "I kind of did something last night, without realizing what day it was." Wrinkling my nose, I hope Cliff didn’t think it was all supposed to be some romantic bullshit. Or, even worse, that I was so desperate for a Valentine, I begged him to come home with me. I rub my temples. God, I’m pathetic.

"Jesus," Esther says in a strange, breathy voice.

My eyes snap to her, then follow her gaze. Carved into the trunk of the car are the words HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY CUNT. Rushing to her side, I wrap an arm around her and guide her to the curb.

I guess Donny isn’t so nice after all.

As soon as I finish smoking, I run inside for an extra can of mace. I explain to Esther how to deploy it during the Uber ride to school, and also give her an extra knife. "He’s probably pissed off that you didn’t bang him in the supply closet or something," I tell her. "So you might not ever need this stuff." Part of me wonders whether we should have called the police and filed a report, but it’s useless. Naugy cops are assholes, and they’ll probably only say something racist to Esther, like “I’m surprised you speak English.”

Naugatuck is like that.

The driver drops us off at the student center, and we have to walk to our classes in separate buildings.

"Are you sure you’re all right?" I hand her four cigarettes and a spare lighter.

Lifting her chin, she nods. "I wish I could be tough like you," she says. "My mother’s from the Bronx."

"Don’t beat yourself up." I touch her arm. "You’re sweet, which is refreshing in this dirty ass world. I’m 'hood enough for both of us."

She laughs. "Thanks, Livvie."

I walk to class, hoping I did the right thing by not getting the cops involved.

* * *

There isn’t much of a chance for me to think about Cliff until I finally stop for lunch. I head to the student center, not bothering with Conn Hall. Sometimes the food there is good, but the mall-style cafeteria in the student center has pizza, soup, and subs—exactly the kind of comfort food I need. It wasn’t my car that was attacked, but my nerves are still shot.

Mostly because last night might’ve been a huge mistake.

Not the sex. I’m learning quickly that sex with Cliff is better than dropping Molly. It’s the emotional side of things that has me conflicted. Even though I had to kick him out, I didn’t want him to leave. Mostly I wanted to snuggle up in his arms and fall asleep like that, which is completely preposterous. Even if Lucy said she doesn’t want to know, the rest of our family is going to be ultra weird about it.

If, that is, we actually dated.

Because we’re not.

This is all purely hypothetical.

I don’t date.

I buy three slices of pepperoni pizza, load them up with grated cheese and red pepper flakes, and carry them to an empty booth. Then I wall myself off from the crowd and would-be booth crashers, spreading out open books and notebooks across the table in front of me. It’s an aesthetic that says, "I’m binge studying while I stuff my face between classes, so fuck off."

Really I’m just thinking about Cliff.

I’m thinking ridiculous things, like strapping a picnic basket to that motorcycle of his in the spring, or taking him to the swimming quarry when it finally gets hot enough. These are girlfriend/boyfriend thoughts, and completely against my rules. I have to be realistic and honest.

I’m graduating in just a few months. After I walk across that stage, I have to get my shit together and find a job, but that doesn’t require the same amount of focus that getting through college does. Maybe there’s room in my life for a boyfriend.

For Cliff.

Of course, there’s no way it’s going to happen. Even if he wasn’t my non-cousin, he’s got that whole lone wolf vibe going. Then there’s the club to think about.

The little I know about M/Cs comes from TV, trashy novels, and rumors flying around town and the rest of the Valley. We have several clubs around here, most of which are ninety-nine-percenters. But they don’t bother you as long as you don’t mess with them. Hell, when I took the job at The Wet Mermaid, I had no clue that it was run by the River Reapers. I was just looking for something in town that allowed me to go to class during the day. The tips were a huge pro, and Mark hired me on the spot.

All of the guys have been good to me, but I’ve always just been an outsider. Everything would change if Cliff and I became a thing. I’m not really sure I want to get involved, especially since part of my job is going to be taking kids from criminals’ homes. Not that the River Reapers are really into much crime. Practically everyone in this area is a drug dealer or knows one. The cops basically ignore the strip club because it’s not like we’re selling heroin. But it won’t look good on my resume if I’m a former employee of a strip club and someone’s ol’ lady.

I put down my half-finished third slice and sigh. For the first time, I notice Eli sitting across from me. I point a glare at him. “Can’t you see I’m studying?”

"Sorry," Eli says. "You looked so deep in thought, I didn’t want to disturb you." He nods to the books on the table. "Exam?"

Getting up, I toss my garbage into a nearby bin and put my tray in the return receptacle. "No," I reply, sinking back into the booth. The irony of the whole thing doesn’t escape me. I rub my cheeks, and decide not to mention Cliff, considering how he deliberately rubbed last night in Eli’s face. "Just trying to catch up."

He watches me with hooded eyes. "Late night?"

I study him too. Eli is handsome, and sweet enough to trust me with one of his cameras, I muse, noticing the zipped bag on the table. Plus, he isn’t involved in a fucking motorcycle club. My mother always told Lucy and me to make smart choices. Eli is potential boyfriend material—if I were the type of person who did that sort of thing. I smile, shaking my head. "I’ve just been busy with work and roommate shit." I nod to the bag. "Is that for me?"

His whole face lights up. He slides it toward me. "It’s not the best, but it’ll get you through the class."

"You’re totally saving my ass here," I tell him. "I should’ve had one of my own weeks ago." Patting the case, I assure him that I’ll take good care of it. "I owe you one, Eli."

He rubs his lower lip as if considering something. The T-shirt he’s wearing hugs his biceps, and I trace the tattoos curling around the muscles with appreciation. He’s not as big as Cliff, but he’s built, and looks fun enough for a night. Maybe even more.

"Can I ask you for a favor?" His hazel eyes glint.

"Please," I tell him. "Like I said, I owe you one."

"This is so awkward." He looks away, a sandy strand of hair falling into those eyes. "I’m really stuck here, though, Olivia." His eyes meet mine.

"Okay." I shrug. "What do you need?"

"Well, I’m actually a photographer." Thick fingers pass me a business card over the table: Elijah Moretti Photography. "I’m supposed to be doing a shoot for So Lit Couture magazine."

My eyes widen. "Eli, that’s huge!" So Lit Couture is another one of those online magazines that popped up in the early 2010s and took off almost overnight. It’s aimed at women my age, and their fashion predictions and advice is always dead on. They don’t have a print edition but I read it religiously on my laptop. Every college girl with a pulse does.

He nods, but his shoulders slump. "It is. Unfortunately my model has the flu, so she can’t do it. My deadline is in two days." Eli shakes his head. "I can’t find anyone else. I know it’s a lot to ask, especially in exchange for a damn camera, but I was wondering—"

"Of course I’ll do it," I interrupt. "A chance to be in So Lit Couture? Eli, you’re talking about giving me eternal bragging rights."

"Well," he says slowly, "it’s a bit more interesting than that."

I wait for him to elaborate, but the longer the silence stretches, the more shades of red he turns. "It’s a nude shoot, isn’t it?”

The strawberry color of his cheeks and forehead is all the answer I need.

I bite my lower lip to keep from laughing. "Eli, you dirty boy!"

The flat look he gives me reminds me that he’s a professional.

I clear my throat. "Right. Sorry."

"It’s for an article about the recent boudoir trend." He lifts a hand. "And I’d compensate you, of course."

"I’m in," I tell him. "I’m so in." Grinning, I glance down at my figure. "I guess I’m done with pizza for the next couple days."

"There is one little catch," he adds, his voice strangely flat.

I tilt my head at him.

Leaning forward, he places both elbows on the table. "I wanted to do something different." As he talks, his hands fly around. His excitement is contagious. "Boudoir is almost always indoors, and it just has that intimate feel to it. Whenever you see outdoor boudoir photography, it’s still pretty, but it’s lost that intimacy." His gaze is so intense, his eyes practically penetrate into mine, making me more than a little uncomfortable.

Suddenly I understand why Cliff doesn’t like him. Eli is a little too fervid, almost unsettlingly so. When he first mentioned the shoot, I assumed it’d be in a studio or something, but the calculating wheels turning in his eyes are like warning bells.

My gut twists. Those empty eyes bore into me as if he’s etching a target onto my forehead. Shifting in my seat, I zero in on the feeling in my stomach. It’s as real as the building I’m standing in. If nothing else, I’ve learned to trust my instincts, because they’re almost always right.

He wants me, and he’s totally playing me.

Modeling for him in the woods will not end well.

I sigh. He seemed so normal, someone I might be friends with. Even though I can handle myself, there’s no sense in putting myself in that position.

"You know what, Eli," I say, gathering my books, "I just remembered I took an extra shift at work. So unfortunately, I can’t fill in for your model." I give him my most apologetic smile. "But check with Professor Biello. I’m sure he knows lots of models who would kill for this chance."

The blank, burning stare that Eli gives me is confirmation that my gut is right.

"Eli?" I ask, zipping my books into my bag. I move my hand to the pouch that carries the mace. I doubt that he’d try anything right in the middle of the student center, but a girl just never knows.

But his face brightens and he nods. "Yeah, you’re right. Thanks." He stands. "I’ve got class. I’ll see you later."

I hold up a hand in parting, watching him go. Only when I’m sure he’s gone do I stand.

* * *

I’ve dealt with men like Eli before. It’s sort of been a theme in my life. Somewhere inside of me is a creeper magnet. Ever since first grade, men have been trying to dominate or scare me. And they almost always get away with it.

First there was Alex, my class partner. Everyone’s desks were paired in twos and, while the rest of our class worked on addition, Alex pulled his pants down and kept trying to get me to touch him. He’d grab my hand and I’d yank my arm away, hissing for him to leave me alone.

But I never told, because I wasn’t entirely sure I wouldn’t get into trouble, too.

Eventually our teacher broke us up. I think she sensed that he was bothering me, but since I wouldn’t say either way, she took it upon herself.

That was the last time another person ever intervened.

There was Chad in third grade, who liked to slam into me during recess. I’d sit on the stone benches outside, daydreaming or reading, and Chad would tackle me. The palms of my hands were often raw from scraping against that bench.

Chad disappeared not long after. Rumors flew around saying he raped his sister in the girls’ bathroom, but this was out of the mouths of seven- and eight-year-olds, so who knows.

In seventh grade there was Jonathan feeling me up in the halls between classes, and Richard making fun of my nose and calling me a lesbian during classes. He punched me in the arm once, right in front of our Italian teacher. But because I swore in pain, I’m the one who got detention.

On and on it goes. I’m a serial victim, so Eli is no surprise. The only difference is, since graduating high school, I’ve learned how to deal with assholes like him. I’m more worried about paying Esther's tires.

I could be wrong, but I think the mysterious visitor and the tire slasher were Eli.

During my next class, I sit in the back crunching numbers. I’ve been putting the majority of my strip club money into repaying my student debt, with the rest going into paying bills. Some of it goes into a savings account. If I cut down on groceries and go without Netflix for a few months, I can buy Esther new tires immediately. I don’t know what to do about her keyed trunk, though.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Glancing around to make sure I’m not disturbing anyone, I peer at the screen.

It’s Cliff, who’s apparently learned how to text. I can’t hide the goofy grin that spreads across my face. My little alien has learned how to use an iPhone just for me.

<< Cliff: Is it cool if I pick you up from school? >>

Every word is in perfect English—either he hasn’t learned any of the abbreviations or slang yet, or he’s too cool to use any of it. I mentally swoon a little harder.

Still, the weather bursts my bubble. It’s cold again, and the roads were slick with melting snow, which froze over. Fucking Connecticut. I text back, matching his precise grammar.

<< Olivia: Are you going to fly? >>

The phone vibrates in my hand—an incoming call.

He’s actually calling me.

Too thrilled to notice whether anyone is annoyed with me, I practically skip out of class and into the hall.

I take a deep breath before answering, so that I don’t sound as pleased as I feel. "Hey," I say, my voice casual. Only my heart jackhammering in my chest betrays the emotions swirling through me. He called, he called, he called, my heart drums out.

"Hey," Cliff replies, his voice sounding as cool and smoky as usual. "Am I interrupting you?"

Just my field practice seminar lecture, which is fancy college slang for internship. I wasn’t paying attention, anyway. I bite back a giggle. "I was just doing some math."

"Ooh," he says, that husky voice making his grimace sound even sexier. "Fun."

"Like having your fingernails ripped out," I agree, leaning against a wall. "So what’s up?"

"I wanted to see you." No bullshit. Just exactly what’s on his mind. It’s refreshing, and arousing as hell.

Suddenly I don’t care about the icy roads or the rest of my classes for the day. I know I should, since I’ve already missed so much and I need to finish up my field work hours so that I can graduate. But every cell in me wants to jump on that bike with him and escape.

Still, that would be the opposite of playing hard to get. If I’m going to pursue this boyfriend/girlfriend thing—or at least entertain the idea—I can’t just jump every time he asks me out.

I blink. He’s asking me out, and I’m about to turn him down.

"Olivia?" That low, gravelly voice sends warm shivers all the way down to my toes.

I sag against the wall. "You’re killing me," I breathe.

"The suspense is killing me." He laughs. "So are we on?"

Sighing, I straighten. "I can’t. I have to adult," I say, thinking of the mountain of phone calls I need to make. Tires, field work placement, oh my. Then I really do have a shift at The Wet Mermaid.

"Hmn." Even that tiny syllable sends vibrations of lust rippling through me. "Well, I’m working tonight. Can we do something after?"

What I like most about Cliff, I realize, is how he’s just dominating enough to be protective and sexy, without being overbearing and disgusting. He respects my boundaries and needs. Even if I’m uncertain about pursuing, there’s one thing about Cliff that I am sure about: he’ll never force himself on me. If I tell him to, he’ll walk away without looking back.

"Yes," I say, even though I have class early in the morning. And speaking of class, I’m probably missing something important. It’s time to put my adult hat back on. "I’ve got to go."

"Hold on. Do you need a ride into work?"

"I do," I reply, drawing out the word, "but it’s kind of icy out."

He chuffs. "We can take Lucy’s car, you know."

My mind flashes to the station wagon, and my cheeks burn. "Right." It would be so wrong to mess around with Cliff in my sister’s car. It’d also be incredibly cramped, considering how small her car is and how big he is. Heat shoots through me to my lower abdomen, every muscle inside of me clenching. There’s just something incredibly hot about a guy who’s three or four times my size but likes to cuddle after sex. Regret burrows into me from kicking him out the other night.

"I’ll pick you up at your place for 6:30. Cool?"

"Cool," I breathe.

It takes me several minutes to de-Jello my legs and get both my heart rate and libido under control. In just three weeks, I’ve gone from hit and run to seriously considering pursuing whatever it is that Cliff and I have. The prospect is both terrifying and thrilling—mostly because I have no idea whether we’re both interested in the same things.

There’s only one way to find out, though.