Marley James nee Jackson is perky, pretty, petite, and I’m sure a half dozen other things that start with P like the word perfect. We’ve been locked at the hip in Hallowed Grounds for what feels like ten solid hours while she helps me nail down the basics of the “Sex and the Coed” article that I’ll be working on alongside her. Correction—we’ve decided that since I only meet the coed requirement of said article, I’ll actually have my own byline. The only problem is, I need to come up with a catchy name. “Virginity and the Coed” doesn’t quite have the perky punch as Marley’s byline does. Anyhoo, after the first three cups of coffee, I learned everything there was to know about Marley other than the obvious, wavy blonde hair, button nose, and apple cheeks any supermodel would risk breaking an ankle to capture. I learned that she had a crappy ex and then met wonderful Wyatt, who happens to be her husband now. I learned that he’s a little older than her, and she found that hot and exciting at the time, and still does. I also learned he was the springboard for all the kooky experimentation that she underwent in the bedroom in the name of Whitney Briggs. Talk about committing to your work. Marley has gone into an obscene amount of detail letting me know they had sex and sex and sex. It almost made me want to scream and not out of pleasure.

But while Marley sifts through the hundreds of questions sent to her inbox over the summer, pulling out the ones she thinks are a better fit for my article—I sit here and dream about kiss number two.

Hot hell in a handbasket.

Rushford Knight has a mouth, and he knows how to use it. Honest to God, that boy doesn’t even know how to fight fair. After we warmed one another with the heat of a thousand hell fires by way of our tonsils, we didn’t even say goodnight as we parted ways.

“You know, this never used to be an answer column.” She sniffs into her keyboard. “Once upon a time, it was just me and my musings. But after Wyatt and I tied the knot, it got a little weird sharing our bedroom antics with the masses.” She wrinkles her nose and looks like a caricature of herself. “So I pretty much welcomed the questions, and in doing so I opened the floodgates. I’ll admit, I’m not even remotely qualified to answer half of these. But that’s never stopped me!” She harps out a laugh.

I like Marley. She’s fun and easygoing and doesn’t seem to care too much what others think. She reminds me a lot of myself in that respect. Although there is a niggling doubt in the back of my mind about what Sunday and my brothers would think about those things Rush and I have done in secret.

It’s been almost a week since that last savory peck, and each time we’ve seen one another we’ve pretty much pretended as if nothing ever happened. NOTHING?

Suffice it to say, I’m still caustic toward him and he’s still his unpleasant obnoxious self in return. It’s as if what happened between us wasn’t even real—like maybe I dreamed the whole thing. It boils my blood to think he might be ashamed of the fact, but, in all honesty, I’m a bit ashamed, too. I came into this whole college experience eschewing playboys and manwhores alike, and Rush is the embodiment of both. Wait. They’re the same thing, right? Oh, who the hell cares.

That boy is not the one for me, and I know it. There. I need to put my foot down the next time I’m in a dark corner with him. Sure, the first time I was to blame, but that second round—Rush clearly took the wheel, and boy does he ever know how to navigate those mouthwatering curves.

A surge of heat rips through me, and I quiver at the thought of him taking the proverbial wheel again. My bones go weak. My stomach sizzles. My brain feels as if it’s turning into a fuzzy pile of mush just thinking about Rush hauling me into a secluded spot and having his way with my mouth. I hate that I’m so irrationally turned on by the thought. I really hate that I’m wondering if he’s just as preoccupied with the event as I am.

A thought comes to me. Hey? Maybe he was just getting back at me for that first kiss? You know, tit for tat. He needed to one-up me because he’s some big macho guy who can’t handle letting a girl have the sexual ball in her court. Of course. It totally makes sense now. Someone as egotistical as Rush probably gets his ego bruised if a girl comes onto him. That last kiss was just a war of the sexes thing. Retaliation at its best. He evened the score, and now we can each move on. He taught me a lesson—schooled me on who the boss really was. Touché.

What an idiot.

I gulp down the rest of my iced coffee and get a slight caffeinated buzz from the effort.

Marley begins to hum along with the song blaring over the speakers, some annoying ultra-cheery pop number that sounds like it was actually manufactured in a gumball machine. I pull my laptop close, trying to focus on my work, on anything, but I keep envisioning Rush coming at me with those full lips. It’s like I’m having withdrawals or something.

I glance around at the student population, the theoretical people I’ll be helping with my esteemed albeit non-sexual in nature advice. A boy with a surgical mask sits adjacent to me, tapping over his phone as if his life depended on it. A girl wearing red pants and a T-shirt that reads, Nobody is Perfect! My Name is Nobody hums into her own phone. And just this small sampling of the student population has me feeling a bit unsettled. If one out of two are virgins, then my money is on the guy in the mask. Clearly, the girl in the bright red pants has no problem with self-expression. But, hey, neither do I, and I’m pretty good about being a loudmouth when I want to be. So I guess the takeaway is pretend like everyone you see is your general target market. Hey—maybe we’re all a bunch of virgins running around—sans Rush and his pussy patrol (yes, the offensive moniker is real, and he’s all but copyrighted it)—maybe Marley is the only quasi-slut in this entire establishment. Although, technically, she nixed that nickname in the bud once she said I do. Face it. Nobody really cares how much you bang your husband.

A devious thought comes to mind, and I’m quick to run with it.

“Ha!” I slap my hand over the table while pretending to be reading one of the thousands of questions Rush sent us. “Check this one out.” I clear my throat as if readying to read the question out loud. “What would you think if a boy and a girl who pretty much couldn’t stand one another, every now and again shared a deep, passionate kiss out of the blue? There’s this boy on campus, and well, it’s sort of become our thing.”

Marley looks up at the ceiling as if that’s where she drew all of her responses. “Sounds disturbing.” She turns her attention back to her laptop. “Besides, it’s too unbelievable.” She waves it off. “Delete, delete, delete. Half of the questions we get are totally bogus, and my bullshit meter just hit sky-high on that one. That was a load of bullcrap. But don’t worry. After you read a couple hundred of these, you’ll be able to spot a fake in the crowd a mile away.” She looks my way as she reaches for her coffee. “I mean, come on, what girl in her right mind is going to let some guy she openly detests make out with her whenever he wants? That’s ridiculous. I’d have to question her sanity.”

“Her sanity?” Crap. I’ve sensed there was something deliberately wrong with me for a very long time now. And this is how I find out about it? Sitting in a coffee shop with Germaphobe Boy? Having Little Ms. Perfect in the red pants shoot me daggers every now and again? Now that’s a load of bull.

I mean, I know I have that thing—that can’t sit in a nail salon, can’t get too deep into a crowd, can’t stand in a line bullshit thing—but still. In fact, it’s a small miracle I’m here in Hallowed Grounds. I don’t generally do coffee shops. I loathe the long lines they inspire, and if there are more than three people standing in it, I’m forced to do the five-minute math—each person in line equals five minutes. There’s no way you could pay me to stand in a forty-minute line. There is not enough caffeine in the world to make that happen. Just thinking about it makes me twitchy. There were six people in line when we arrived, and Marley graciously offered to buy our coffee, so I gave her my order and sat down near a nice spacious window. So what if I don’t like feeling enclosed and trapped? Who the heck does? That certainly does not qualify me as criminally insane. My God, does it?

“Like how insane?” I press on. “I mean, it’s just a kiss, right? Kisses aren’t really that big a deal, are they?”

Marley sits up and sprays her coffee out in Ms. Perfect’s direction, causing her to take those red-hot pants of hers and trot right on out of the establishment. “Are you kidding me?”

Marley’s eyes bug out as if I just questioned if the world was round. My old neighbor in Bel Terra once confided in me that he thought the Earth was just a flat piece of matter floating in space and that boats held the very real danger of disappearing off the side and into the nethersphere. That pretty much solidified the fact he was a nut job, and I never spoke to him again. I have a very low tolerance for idiots, and thus the startling surprise that my mouth keeps gravitating toward Rush.

“Trixie.” Marley grips the edge of the table as if girding herself for what comes next. “Kisses between a boy and girl are usually not your run-of-the-mill peck on the cheek like you’d give your grandpa. We’re talking heated lust, burning passion, the memorizing of one another’s souls as you extricate an excitement that cannot be manufactured in any other way.” She shakes her head, disbelieving that she actually had to expound on this issue for me—odd explanation as it were. But my God, every word of it is true. “If that girl is letting this guy kiss her, over and over again, then she’s into him, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.”

“No way, no how.” I pick my cup up and thump it over the table as if to prove my point.

Her left eye comes shy of closing. “You seem rather adamant. Do you know her?”

My mouth falls open, and before I can come up with thirteen different lies, a shadow darkens our table. We glance up, only to be greeted with the Cheshire cat grin of a glowing lemon-eyed, stubbled cheeked, still dewy from a shower, Rush Knight. He’s so unabashedly handsome it’s shocking on every level. My stomach squeezes tight at Mach 5 at the sight of him.

“Afternoon, ladies.” His grin widens as if that were possible as if he’s gloating.

Marley is quick to pull out a seat. “Well, if it isn’t the big boss man himself.” She does her best to flirt while busting out a country accent from out of nowhere. “Please, take a seat. Join us. Maybe you can tell us if we’re headed in the right direction?”

The sting of heat bites under my arms, pushing my deodorant to its upper limits. And I’m pretty sure in less than five minutes no one is going to want to sit next to this body. Not even me.

Rush swills the ice in his drink while searching my face as if looking for an answer. “Sure, but I’ve got practice. B-ball. So it’ll have to be quick.” He winks down at me, and my stomach seizes again as if he sucker punched me.

My God, what’s with all the visceral reactions? I’m beginning to think I might actually be allergic to the guy.

“That’s too bad. It would have been great to come through these acres of questions with you,” Marley whines as if this were a real travesty. But my stomach and I are begging for a little relief, so we don’t mind one bit. “So let’s get down to brass tacks. Trixie just read this completely ridiculous letter, and we’ve been debating whether or not it’s the real deal. You know we get a lot of crap.”

“Oh!” I buck as if she just shot me. “No debating. It’s all good!” I sit straight as a pin while nodding up at Rush like a sea lion. Holy hell! I will personally key her perky little body once he leaves and then proceed to eviscerate Marley with my bare hands. What the hell is she thinking? Never mind. I know what she’s thinking. That I’m a big fat fake and she’s about to call me out. Okay, not really, but it sure as hell feels like it. “Marley and I were simply having a healthy argument.”

“There’s no such thing as a healthy argument.” His lips twitch in response, and I can tell he’s suppressing that obnoxious grin of his. Newsflash: it’s not working.

“Read it.” She smacks me over the arm before looking back up at Rush. “It’s hysterical really.”

Rush locks eyes with mine, hot and searing. “Read it, Trix. You’ve got me curious now.”

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry as the Sahara. Ironic since I’m the Mississippi River in more carnal places when it comes to Rush.

“Sure.” I shudder as I pull my laptop close and glare at the monkey juggling kittens grinning at me. Stupid screensaver. I open my email, a random one at that, regarding twenty percent off plus free shipping if you spend fifty dollars, and I seriously consider treating myself to a complete buyout of the cyber store in question later on tonight. My father’s new business might just be getting off the ground once again, but I’ve got Daddy’s credit card, and by God, I’m going to dive into some serious retail therapy once I get back to my dorm.

I clear my throat again. “There’s this boy and girl who can’t even stand the sight of one another.” I glance up, stealing the opportunity to glare at Rush before continuing. “And every now and again they share a nothing kiss. It’s kind of a thing, and I want to know how to get away from him.” There. A much-improved version than the giddy starry-eyed girl one I relayed to Marley earlier. She’s read so many questions just like this one there’s no way she’ll remember verbatim. Her mind is probably numb to it all at this point. Speaking of which, I’ll have to get my hands on a bottle of vodka once I can figure out how to get out of this boiling cauldron Marley dunked me in.

Rush winces slightly as I say it, and my body does that invisible roller coaster thing in response. Wee! So not fucking fun.

“What’s that?” Marley struggles to see my screen, and I snap my laptop shut, nearly severing three of her fingers. “That’s not how it went. You’re watering it down for him because you know I’m right.” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be embarrassed. Everyone falls for a BS question now and again.” She looks up at Rush. “It went like this. Some girl says there’s this guy, and they pretty much can’t stand one another.” She spikes a finger in the air. “But get this. She claims they make out every now and again for kicks. She says it’s sort of become ‘their thing.’” Marley says their thing in air quotes.

Well, slap me sideways. It takes all of my strength to look up at Rush. Holy crap. Kill me now.

His glowing gold eyes are pinned on mine, and he’s doing that lopsided grin thing that brings the girls to the proverbial yard by the dozens. But there’s something he’s telling me with that soulful gaze. He’s digging in deep, penetrating me with a message I can’t quite comprehend.

Marley scoffs. “Is that the biggest load of bullshit you’ve ever heard?”

Boy—she is relentless in her pursuit to erase my reality, isn’t she?

Rush shifts from side to side, that gloating grin all but dissipates. “I don’t know. Maybe you’d better answer it.” He nods to Marley. “Maybe you can give the girl some good advice.”

Marley all but gags as she struggles to comprehend the fact he’s actually entertaining this nonsense. “What would you tell her?”

My insides do their best to digest themselves. It feels as if a boa constrictor has wrapped itself around my chest, and suddenly taking another deep breath is no longer a viable option. I’d run into the restroom, but I can’t remember the damn code. God, I hate the fact they’ve made a simple task such as using the bathroom into a ten-minute heated panic situation. I always wait until I’m just about to have an accident, and then it’s like trying to defuse a bomb getting all those digits straight. 92786—five of them in the event you’re counting. And why is there a coded lock on a university-based restroom? Is there really an issue with vagrants wandering in looking to bathe and shoot up crack in the uni coffee house bathroom? I think not.

Rush folds his arms over his chest, stares out the window for a second, looking as if he’s about to beat someone up. Then just like that, his affect softens as he looks from me to Marley. “What was her actual question?”

“No question really.” Marley looks to me, and I just stare wide-eyed like a bona fide idiot. “I think she just wanted to know what I thought.”

Rush looks to me, and that crooked smile is back to creeping up the side of his face. “Tell her to keep doing it. Sounds like she wants to. Who knows? She might be having a damn good time.” He gives a quick knock over the table, and I come to out of my trance as he jets out the door.

Marley leans over and swats me with the edge of her scarf. “Would you breathe?”

“What?” I gasp for air as if I were submerged, held under a chaotic sea in the middle of the storm.

“You changed the story.” She lifts a suspicious brow my way, and suddenly I want the hardwood floors to open up and seal me deep beneath the earth. Marley collects her things and shoves her laptop into her bag before standing. “I’ll forward you any questions I think you might like.” She takes a step away then stops abruptly. “And, Trixie? You can keep kissing that boy if you want to. But I don’t think you need to pretend you don’t like him anymore. It’s pretty clear you do.” She gives a little wink and heads out the door.

Crap. I sink in my seat, glaring out the window at that dark, brooding storm building outside.

I’ve never felt so naked in all my life.

---

The Black Bear Saloon, aka Booze Central, isn’t exactly where I thought I’d spend all my free nights, but as it turns out, the food is decent and the live music sure beats the awkward dead silence of the school cafeteria. Don’t get me wrong, WB has really upped its culinary game from the time I visited with Rex a million years ago. The caf is now comprised of six specialty restaurants, all of them top-rated fast food chains, and by the time I log out of this place in the next four or five years, I plan on getting my fill of each of them. But there’s something oddly homey, yet amusing and boisterous about the Black Bear. It feels more like a party and less like a study sesh the night before finals.

I’m not entirely sure why, but everywhere you go on campus—the cafeteria, the bookstore, Hallowed Grounds, and, of course, the library, every single person is staring with a tormented expression into their laptop. Not to mention having an entire array of books spread before them. I get that this is an institute of higher learning, and that being studious is sort of expected at this stage of the game, but if you ask me it all feels like a farce, like we’re actors in some play, and every scene at Briggs consists of crunch time.

However, the Black Bear is indeed perfectly boozy tonight with a crowd only rivaled by Mustang football games. The girls have all turned out in number, all of them looking their best. I swear, every last eyelash is in place, and here I am in my jeans, WB sweatshirt, and my hair in an uncombed ponytail. I spot Baya at the bar and give a little wave. It feels nice to see a friendly face in the place, and I’ll admit it gives me just a touch of pride to be in the know with the owner. Tomorrow night, we’ll both be live on WB radio. Baya and her husband Bryson will be calling into the show. So far all I’ve done is regal the masses with the King’s late great offerings, and I’ll admit it’s been more than therapeutic for me. If there’s such a thing as comfort music, then Elvis Presley is to me what mac and cheese is to the rest of society.

Knox waves to me from a booth, and I head on over. We’re meeting Rex here as well, but by the looks of it I’ve beaten him, and the idea of beating my brothers at something puts a spring in my step. I invited Sunday to join us, but she said she screwed up her podcast and had to take her face off and start all over again—whatever that means.

“What’s up?” Knox offers me a fist bump, and I do my best to smash his hand to pieces before taking a seat across from him. “Watch the merch.” He pretends to shake the pain out of his hand. It’s a silly game we’ve played since we were kids. Who knows, it might even be a throwback to those in-utero days, although technically, we were in separate sacks—each our own special delivery, as my father likes to say.

“You know, I was just thinking how much I miss Dad.” I pick up the menu, forlorn. It’s been a few weeks since we’ve seen him, but he’s in town again and we plan on catching dinner soon.

“Do you miss Mom?”

His question throws me off, and I’m quick to lower my menu. Both Knox and I suffered the same fate when my mother took off.

“Not really. Do you?” My stomach pinches and not in the I’m-melting-for-you way that it does for Rush. This is more of a wrecking ball punch I’m faced with every time that woman is around. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother, but that hollow feeling she left me with when she slashed my heart has never quite gone away.

Knox leans in, his dark brows furrowed into a hard V. “Trix.” His voice is soft and determined, and I hate it when he says it that way. It inevitably leads to one of those I’m-older-than-you-by-five-seconds-so-I-know-best-talks, and the worst part is, Knox is dead serious when he does it. “She’s trying really hard.” His Adam’s apple rises and falls as he glances to the exit. “Rex is bringing her by for a quick bite.”

“What?” I bounce in my seat, suddenly moved to bounce right out of my skin. “Here, at the Black Bear? What is this, some kind of an ambush or something?”

Knox takes a breath, that exasperated look already in his eyes, and just as he’s about to dump a bunch of meaningless words over the top of my head, words painful as scalding water, Harper shows up and plants a big fat wet one on my brother’s lips before sliding in beside him. A small part of me still hates the idea of Knox having a plus one. It hurts knowing that I have to share him with another girl, and so intimately at that. The thought of what Knox and Harper might be doing behind closed doors makes me want to vomit on cue. Ideally, brothers should always remain asexual beings. But that’s not reality. And neither is the fact that I’ll be chaste for the rest of my life. If I ever do get serious with someone, I’m sure my brothers will want to commit a felony with all the rage they’ll have at the thought of someone touching me. A small smile flirts with my lips at the thought of Rush getting his ass handed to him on my behalf. There is a certain poetic justice about it.

“Hey, girl.” She gives a cheery smile, and yet I can’t find it in me to return the favor. Suddenly, it feels as if there are far too many bodies in here, too little air, and my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth for no good reason.

Just as I’m about to muster up a cheery hello myself, Rex and Scarlett show up right along with—my mother.

My body slaps with shock at the sight of her, and I’m the last to rise to my feet to greet her. Scarlett scoots in next to Harper, across from me, while Rex pulls a chair up to the head of the table and my mother slides right into the booth with me. Just freaking great.

Bloody hell. First off, I loathe being squished in a booth with an entire body blocking my exit, so already I’m starting to feel angsty. Second of all, my mother is here. Need I say more?

Mom leans back to inspect me. Her dark hair dusts her shoulders, she’s donned a pair of silver rimmed glasses that give a cat’s eye effect, and her makeup is impeccable. I’m sure Sunday would be impressed. She’s wearing her signature wool trousers and a pink speckled chiffon blouse that knots into a bit fluffy bow at the base of her neck.

“Look at you all grown up!” She runs her fingers through my ponytail, and I can feel it rising and falling in one big clump. And this sweatshirt I’m wearing? Well, it’s safe to surmise the fact her expression is quickly souring as her gaze drifts down my body that she’s not too impressed with my brand of school spirit.

“We’ll have to take you shopping.” She gives a quick wink, leaving me to guess who this nebulous we is. She softens into me, her pale pink lips curving into a smile. “I do miss my Trix Trix.”

“Wow, I don’t think you’ve called me that since I was six,” I muse. “But, then again, that is the last time you spent any time with me.”

“Trixie,” Rex barks. My older brother is always the first to come to her defense, and I’m sick of it.

“You’re forever her white knight and shining armor, aren’t you?” I force a tight smile. I hate that I’m knowingly being childish. I hate that Scarlett and Harper will think I’m a spoiled brat by the time this entire fiasco is over, but my blood pressure is skyrocketing, and at the moment I don’t care who sees it. “I bet you rode right out of her uterus on a big white steed.”

Knox kicks me hard under the table for that last dig.

“Oh, stop.” Mom waves me off as she picks up a menu. “Scarlett and Harper, please excuse my daughter. She’s made a game of needling me with her punch lines over the last few years, and I’ve had about enough of it.”

Baya shows up before the mother-daughter show can segue into the next act—a far more volatile rendition of the last—and takes our orders.

She leans in toward me. “Bryson and I are just so excited to do the show. If there’s one person listening, it’ll still feel like a million to me. You’ve got my number. Feel free to text some tips. I’m nervous city!” Baya trots off, and all eyes are on me.

Knox clears his throat. “Trixie’s hosting her own radio show on campus.”

Mom’s mouth falls open. “I’ve always said you can do anything you set your mind to. And you will succeed. Give me the hour and I’ll give it a listen. My satellite picks up all the local college stations.”

I frown at no one in particular. It’s hard knowing that whatever you do, whatever you’re about to do, either way you’re basically a disappointment to your parents. “One to two in the morning, Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s in the Student Union, which isn’t that far from my dorm.”

“My word.” Mom’s forehead struggles to wrinkle. Must be fresh from her latest Botox treatment. My mother is going to nail that whole forever young thing or get botulism trying.

“It’s all Elvis all the time.” I lift a brow and watch as her eyes widen a notch, because let’s face it—she knows exactly where my obsession with the King came from, directly from the man whom I revere as my own king, my dear old dad.

Mom looks dead ahead a moment with that look in her eyes that suggests she could strangle someone. “Well, you’ve always been a daddy’s girl, haven’t you?”

The air grows stale with resentment, and Rex immediately comes to our rescue carrying on a dull conversation of WB football. Soon it’s The Rex and Knox Show, and once again I’ve been relegated to second-class status. Although, admittedly, I’m most comfortable here. I can’t believe I let my anger get the best of me. I’m so embarrassed, I can’t even bring myself to look at Scarlett or Harper. My brothers are used to my childish antics, but the fact I just smeared our fecal family history in their faces makes me sick to my stomach. Dinner goes off with more of the same—Mom touting how proud she is of her boys, how she never misses a game! Now that’s news. She’s been to the games and not once bothered to text me to let me know she was there. My dad was out of town for the first two, but he swears he’s not missing another. My dad texts me each and every day, even if it is just a bitmoji of himself saying good morning, have a great day, love you buddy, and goodnight. I’m pretty sure my phone doesn’t have a history of my mother texting me. By the time we’re through with our last bite, my mother takes the liberty to order a round of chocolate cake for everyone.

“It’s the boys’ favorite!” Mom sings to Scarlett and Harper.

Scarlett shoots me a look. Her gaze lingers over mine a moment too long. “How about you, Trix?” Her voice is soft, as if I were suddenly fragile and needed to be treated so. “What’s your favorite dessert?”

Knox huffs a quiet laugh. “Pie. It’s actually my favorite, too, but chocolate cake is a close second for the both of us.” He winks over at Mom, and it fills me with a flood of relief. I can always count on Knox to have my back.

Rex clears his throat just as Baya christens the table with the cocoa confections. “It’s my favorite.” His voice dips down in shame as if he were confessing to a crime.

A slow country song strums from the band, and both Harper and Scarlett lose their minds as if Luke Bryan himself just stepped into the place. And just like that, they drag my brothers out to the dance floor for just one dance! And a stunted silence crops up between my mother and me.

She twists to get a better look at my features. Her hand clamps over mine, and the heat of her palm makes me feel disjointed. “Trixie, look at me.”

It takes all of my strength to meet with my mother’s eyes, and for the first time it looks as if there’s a level of desperation in them.

“I know you may not believe a word I say, but I need you to know that I love you.” She blinks back tears that suddenly sparkle like shards of broken glass, and my insides turn to stone. I don’t know what to do with this version of my typically cold-hearted mother. I can’t remember the last time she touched me, let alone held my hand, and the tears in her eyes are a new addition, too. Maybe she’s in trouble with the law again and she’s looking to me for help? Fat chance she’ll get any. I tried to fight a speeding ticket once in court and was all but laughed at by the judge. “You’re old enough now to know the truth.”

A flare of panic rips through me. My dinner does a quick revolution in my stomach, and suddenly the smell of beer and French fries is the last thing I want tickling my nostrils.

She leans toward me, and the tunnel vision sets in, that percolating heat that makes me feel both dizzy and toxically submerged bubbles through my veins. “Trixie”—she picks up my hand, and her fingers are cold as ice—“your father has brainwashed you against me.”

“What?” My voice pitches like the squawk of a parrot.

“It’s true.” Her voice softens, her eyes desperately pleading with me. “But you’re out of his home now. You’re over eighteen, and you can make decisions for yourself.” She nods into this lunacy, and suddenly she feels like a stranger, one that’s stopped me in the street to tell me some erratic story and in the process scare the hell out of me. “For years I’ve belonged to the Tuesday’s Child Society. It’s a program for parents who have become disenfranchised from their children. The name of the program is the Excised Parent.” She glances to the dance floor in the direction of my brothers. “Knox and I have been slowly repairing what was lost, but, Trixie, I need and want you, too.”

“You need to get a grip is what you need.” I push past her and fly out of the booth, filling my lungs with air as fast as I can take it.

“Wait, don’t go.” She plucks a card from her purse and shoves it in my hand. “We meet Tuesday nights, seven to nine. Please, come to that address any time you wish.” She shakes her head as if it exasperated her to think I wouldn’t show. “They have refreshments and dessert. We can share pie if you’d like.”

I back away as if my mother suddenly morphed into something slithering and dangerous. “I don’t even know who you are.” I bolt for the exit, and my mother’s voice rises above the noise and music.

“That’s the problem, Trixie! And if you keep running, you’ll never find out!”

Hollow Brook slaps me with its icy breath once I land out in the open, in what feels like another universe from my mother. My God, it’s as if she’s in another universe. What the hell was that all about? I stare down at the card in my hand. Tuesday’s Child Society. A safe haven for the disenfranchised.

“Trixie!” I turn to find Rex speeding toward me. “Please, stay.” He comes up on me, breathless, and takes ahold of my hand. “I promise, she just wants to talk. She wants to get to know you again. That’s not too much for a mother to ask, is it?” Now it’s Rex with the desperation in his voice, the pleading eyes.

“You were in on this, weren’t you?” I pull myself free from his grasp. “You orchestrated this entire bizarre intervention, didn’t you? You’re a part of this.”

His left eye comes shy of blinking, the remorse flooding his features. “It’s not what you think. She wanted to ask you to dinner alone and didn’t think you’d go for it.”

My stomach squeezes tight. “Damn right, I wouldn’t go for it, and you can tell I won’t be so gung-ho on the group option either.” I scuff backward on my heels, nearly bumping into a group of sorority girls in the process. “You tell her to stay away from me. And you stay away from me, too!” I turn and sprint across the street, the faint call of my brother’s voice following closely behind. Every muscle in my body burns with fire as I haul my way to Cutler Tower. I don’t bother with the elevator. I simply fly up three flights to my dorm, and Sunday is quick to greet me with alarm on her face.

I tell her all about the bizarre experience. Then I give her the card and tell her to flush it down the toilet.

A perfect analogy of what my mother did to Knox and me all those years ago.

---

The campus radio at Whitney Briggs is apparently a bigger deal than one might believe. Shockingly, the night owl slot fraught with insomniacs and party animals alike is actually a well-appreciated hour. Seth has been kind enough to extend his stay in the studio once his show is over and has steadily been teaching me the ropes during my time in the hot seat. Since I get out so late and there’s no programming after me until six a.m., I’m also responsible for turning the loop mix on to ensure the WB student body doesn’t lack any beats until we go live again.

Seth hands me my headphones and dons his own. “Rumor has it, tonight Elvis actually takes a back seat. You ready to rock all of Hollow Brook with the sound of your sultry voice?”

“Did you have to remind me that I might reach more than a dozen zombified frat boys?” My body seizes and the urge to run to the restroom hits like a ton of bricks, but I do my best to ignore it. Not only did I just relieve myself, but I happen to know that impulsive trips to the potty are something that goes hand in hand with this anxiety-riddled body of mine. And then it hits me. I’m going to be live on air. Sure, Elvis will be there, one or two songs peppered before and after my interview with Baya and her husband, but I actually have to employ my vocal cords, and words that should probably make sense have to string their way out. All without too much hemming and hawing.

Dear God, why did I sign up for this again? Oh, that’s right. Apparently, I hate myself.

“What if I can’t do this?” I stammer out the words. “What if I have a brain freeze, and I’m not talking the kind you enjoy while pounding ice cream. What if my words come out all jumbled and I vomit and retch and all of Whitney Briggs runs me off campus because I’ve humiliated everyone ever associated with the school?”

“Wow,” a deep voice strums from behind, and both Seth and I turn around to find Rush plugging in a set of headphones, that lazy grin of his taking over his face as he nods for Seth to get up. “I’m in. You can head out. I’ll make sure the kid learns the ropes.”

Kid? I don’t know whether to laugh or throw something at him. “I don’t need a babysitter. You can both leave for all I care.”

Rush and Seth exchange a quick smile before Rush leans in with a tired look. “I meant new kid. I promise, it was not a put-down.”

“Sounded like one. But then, most things you say do.” I log in and wait for the last song to die out. Usually this is where I start right in with the King, who might as well have been my savior up until this point, but tonight my voice is on order, and hopefully my brain will cooperate, too.

“Have fun, Trix.” Rush offers a simple nod my way. “Remember the golden rule of live radio—no dead air.”

“Zero.” Seth tosses his backpack over his shoulder and offers a peace sign my way before heading out the door. “You’re gonna kill it.”

The overhead light turns green as I switch on the mic. An intense heat spreads over my body like a wildfire, my heart drums quickly as if trying to find the nearest escape route out of my chest, and the world pulsates in my line of vision. Rush flicks his finger my way as if to say you’re on, and I freeze. The world goes black momentarily as the sound of the blood rushing through my veins fills my ears and deafens me.

“Trix,” Rush whispers, waving his hand as if to bring me to. He clears his throat and pulls up a mic. “Hey, Brigsters. Welcome to an hour solely focused on your love life or lack thereof. It’s late. You should be counting sheep, but you’re counting on us to put you to sleep instead.” His brows dip hard like the wings of an angry bird as he nods to me to proceed. “This is Rush Knight, along with Trixie Toberman, and I believe we’ve got a call-in scheduled with—” He flicks his fingers, beckoning me to hand over the information sheet set before me, and as much as I want, I can’t seem to hand it over to him. It’s as if every last inch of me is locked in paralysis.

Then clear as a bell, I hear my mother’s voice back at the Black Bear. You can do anything you set your mind to. And you will succeed.

I take in a sharp breath. “B-Baya and her husband Bryson will be calling in shortly”—I swallow hard, all of the moisture gone from my throat—“rumor has it, they have a love story for the ages—murder, mystery, attempted kidnapping, and an ending that will make you thank your lucky stars the most exciting thing that ever happened in your life was a size upgrade at Hallowed Grounds. They’re calling in right after this song.” I hit Play on “Suspicious Minds” and roll my seat back to the wall before burying my face in my hands.

“Hey—you did great.” He reaches across the table and gives my arm a quick tap.

It takes all of my strength to look over at him, fully expecting to find that crooked grin mocking me, but I don’t. Rush is softer, eyes rounded out as if he were afraid of me, and I watch as his Adam’s apple rises and falls as if unsure what his next move should be. “You can do this, Trixie.” He gives a slight wink. “You’re a natural. Trust me, I’ve seen some serious crash and burn action, and that’s not what’s happening here. No chance of it happening at all. You got this.”

The song hits its midway point, and my stomach seizes in knots. The urge to attack the nearest bathroom grips me as the countdown officially begins. The phone rings, and I just stare at it like an idiot.

Crap. It’s them. And why did I think this was a good idea again? Who the hell did I think I was practically begging for the university hot seat when I’ve spent my entire life avoiding the hot seat? If I’ve had one unofficial occupation in the last nineteen plus years of my life, it’s been that of hot seat dodger. I’m an idiot is what I am, and now the entire university is going to be let in on this insignificant detail. I’ve unleashed a Costco-sized sack of stupid in my life, and now the entire world is going to know about it.

The ringing saws into my eardrums with its high-pitched shrill, and both Rush and I stare at it as if a cobra just danced between us.

“I’ll patch them in.” Rush gives the phone itself a dirty look for invading our private party before speaking quickly to Baya and Bryson. Soon their cheery voices light up the studio, and just like that, the song comes to an end.

Oh God, oh God, oh God! I officially hate myself for being so ridiculously stupid. I’ve lost the ability to stand in line at the grocery store. How in the hell did I think I was going to handle speaking in coherent sentences to the masses at WB? And my mother? My God, is she really going to lend a prying ear to this verbal massacre? Since it involves me alone, probably not. That odd conversation I had with her tries to wiggle into my subconscious, but I’m quick to douse it like a grease fire. Ironic since dousing a grease fire with anything but powder could prove explosive, and that about sums up my relationship with my mother in a nutshell.

Rush points his finger at me hard, and I lean into the mic, my heart in my throat begging for me to vomit it out live on the air. “Welcome back, WB.” My voice comes out breathless as if I just ran a marathon. I close my eyes a moment, and the first person I see is my roommate, Sunday. She’s so cool and collected, she could run through campus naked and it wouldn’t shake her. She talks to thousands of devoted beauty followers on that vlog of hers twice a week—face in camera, still cool, calm, and collected.

Rush clears his throat, and I blink right back to life, doing my best impersonation of his sister because God knows my own personality is too big of a mess to pull me through this nightmare.

“Hey, Whitney Briggs!” I tick my head when I say it the way she does when she’s feeling cheeky. “I’d say goodnight, but that would be a lie—” I take a moment to glance over at Rush—night being a play on his last name, and believe me, there isn’t a stitch of good about him. Rush is a bad boy through and through. Had my mother actually been around and attentive and not convinced herself that my father had me brainwashed, then I’d bet my soul she would have warned me to steer clear of him. He’s the personification of a bad boy. In fact, if gonorrhea had a poster boy, it would be Rush. “It’s a good start to the morning—you and I both know it.” I take a moment to catch my breath, and Rush shoots me a thumbs-up. That slight dimpled grin of his shines like a beacon of hope from across the table, and my stomach flip flops like a dying fish for him. Bleh. I hate myself for pining over someone as prolifically sexual as the Prince of Pussy. As obnoxious as it is, that crass self-proclaimed title of his is befitting. I overheard him bragging about it to Rex one day.

I open my mouth again, my mind in full throttle Sunday impersonation mode, and nothing but a dull croak makes it past my lips. Shit! I blink to Rush, completely debilitated from uttering a single cry for help, and he gives a quick nod as if he understood completely.

“What’s up, Whitney Briggs?” He pulls his headphones on tighter. “This is Rushford Knight joining Trixie Trouble-Is-My-Middle-Name Toberman as we pull you along with us on the night shift.” He gives a sly wink my way, and everything in me releases. My body trades its searing heat for a clammy coolness. And I actually feel a chill ride through me. It’s such a relief to have him here with me, to have him save me. And I hate that he had to do it. I’ve never been good playing the role of damsel in distress. I hate the idea of being rescued. Honestly, I was never like this before. I can’t quite put my finger on where my mixed-up mind went wrong, but I’ve never accepted this anxiety-riddled version of myself. Nope. I’m denying her tooth and chewed up fingernail. This is not my lot in life. This is not who I am.

“This Love in the Night hour is strictly devoted to that slippery L word, and tonight we’re welcoming Baya and Bryson Edwards to tell us how they fell in that L-shaped honeypot.”

His strong voice rides through me, deep and rich, and I appreciate Rush in a way I never thought possible. Not that I’d ever tell him that. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s a one-off. Rush is no superhero. I’m not running out and buying him a cape tomorrow. He’s a sperm slinger. I cringe at my own crude analogy. At any rate, he’s not for me. I need to stomp out all thoughts of him being my savior, and I need to stomp out all urges to lip-lock with him in private. In the name of all things holy and right, that for certain needs to stop. My God, he’s probably using me. Just the thought makes me red with rage. There. That’s much better. Anger is the only ripe emotion I should ever feel for him. He’s a one-man attack on my rights as a woman. Trying to tame me with his tongue is simply a ploy. I’m just another stop on his one-man penis party. No, thank you. These girl parts aren’t open for business, and my mouth is now a restricted territory as well.

I clear my throat. “Baya and Bryson met right here at WB and have kept the love light burning after all these years, but I’ll let them fill you in on all the dirty deets. Good morning, you two!” I sing and stun even myself that things are actually moving verbally along without vomit interrupting the party. A flood of heat slaps over my face as I look to Rush, and he nods approvingly.

Rush leans into the mic. “Baya, why don’t you fill us in on your side of the story, and then we’ll get Bryson’s take on how it went down.”

“Sounds good!” Baya gives a cheery cry from the other end of the line. “I was the new girl, and, of course, anyone who knows WB understands the hazards of walking around campus with an armful of books—especially with this hilly terrain, and especially while wearing a tube top.” She giggles, and it sounds like the melody of a song. I’ve always admired girls like Baya who pull off that whole ultra-feminine vibe without coming across like a pile of cotton candy. “Anyway, let’s just say my top did a disappearing act, and I had a little more to greet Bryson with than just a smile.”

Bryson laughs into the line. “That’s right. But don’t for a minute think she didn’t catch my eye before the inadvertent peep show. Baya and I were destined to be together from hello—even if it was a topless greeting. And I have to say—sorry to Cole if you’re listening. That’s Baya’s brother. He was my roommate and best friend before Baya and I met.”

Baya giggles into the line. “They’re still best friends. I’m sort of the roommate now.”

“Wife,” Bryson corrects. “And yes, Cole and I are still on speaking terms.”

“Best friend’s brother, huh?” I can hardly bring my eyes to look in Rush’s direction. My face floods with heat, and all I want to do is drop in a hole. I detest the fact my body can’t stop lusting after him. And in effect he might as well be Knox’s best friend—he’s Rex’s friend for sure, and I know he’s tight with Lawson, too. He’s basically a big brother triple threat in that way. That’s three brother strikes. He’s out. My hormones should probably find someone who my brothers have no knowledge of, not to mention someone disease-free. I’m lucky my teeth haven’t fallen out yet after that orthodontic exam he offered up by way of his tongue. Who knows how many orifices that glibbery member of his has crawled inside of? Gah! The thought alone makes me crave Listerine as if it were chocolate.

Rush grunts into the mic, “So how does that work? Did Cole approve of you dating his sister?”

“Are you kidding?” Bryson hoots with a dark laugh. “Let’s just say Cole found out the hard way.”

Baya groans, “Now that’s a memory I’d love to erase forever. Fists were flying and, well, I honestly never thought my brother would speak to me again after what he witnessed. It’s safe to say we don’t talk about it.”

“Ooh.” Rush shakes his head wistfully, and I note the curls at the base of his neck. Rush has soft, thick hair, the kind my fingers rather enjoy running through. Stupid, stupid fingers. “So, tell me, man. Did you try to resist the urge?” He glances up at me for a moment and fire sparks between us. Holy crap. Is Rush trying to resist the urge? Ha! Doubtful. If I lie down for Rush, he wouldn’t turn me away. It goes against his nature. Besides, he’s practically majoring in female conquests. Blazing a trail for younger protégées who will take over the mass campus assault as he leaves Briggs and levels up to post-graduate debauchery. Essentially, it’s preparing him for life in the real world where he’ll carry on his sexual shenanigans on a corporate level. The skanks he’s bagging now are simply priming him for the big vagina leagues. I glower over at him for even putting such an indelicate thought in my mind.

“You bet,” Bryson continues. “I tried my hardest to think of her as a little sister, took her to the fair, movies, stuff like that. But, dude, when it’s real, you can’t deny it. I’m just sorry I ever tried.”

Baya chortles into the line. “And you might say I tried the opposite. I really did want his attention. And in the end, I got it in a big way. He was worth the wait.”

“Aw!” I coo into the mic. “It sounds like deep down the two of you knew all along you were meant to be.”

“No doubt,” Bryson affirms.

They talk for another twenty minutes about the day they shared at the fairgrounds, something about a stuffed giraffe he won for her named Lucy, about how the Black Bear Saloon fit into their story, and how those closing hour—three a.m. kisses factored into their building desire.

Those post-midnight kisses Rush and I have engaged in cross my mind, and as hard as I try to blink them away, they keep coming at me, hard and fast.

The hour wraps up, and both Rush and I thank them for the interview.

Rush gives me a few additional tips on how to leave on the all-night music, and we lock up and head out into the Student Union. Most of the lights are off, with the exception of the under counter lights in the back, and the entire cavernous room is lit up with a cobalt blue glow. The couches, which are usually filled with bodies, sit eerily unoccupied, and the tables lining the walls all have their chairs on top. Giant yellow cones are strewn about, letting us know the janitor has already swept through the place.

“So, thanks for helping out,” I say to fill the awkward silence that’s eating up the room.

“Thank you,” he says, pausing as he takes off his backpack and zips it. He sets it down on the sofa, and I unleash mine and do the same as if we had just trekked twenty miles and needed relief from all the pressure building on our shoulders. In truth, I just want to catch my breath after that trauma-fest that went on in there. I’m not sure if I can host that show on my own—not if I need to carry it myself anyhow. Regardless, it’s not something I want to get into at the moment. Maybe I’ll just casually bring it up at the next Media Club meeting. Or better yet, I can slough my show off on Seth.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Rush picks up my backpack and sets it neatly next to his as if his hands were looking for any busy work the vicinity had to offer.

“Seth Baker.” I give a sly smile because Rush is exactly the type of macho stereotypical guy to get amped up over the fact a person of the opposite sex is thinking of someone other than him.

He folds his arms across his chest like a reflex and scowls down at me. His brows dip into that sexy V I’m a sucker for, and my hormones are right back to pining for this bad boy I have no business being in a room alone with.

“Seth Baker, huh?” he grunts with disapproval, and I’m secretly giddy inside for crawling under his skin. I love how easily I can take down his ego and hold it under the sole of my shoe just to watch it writhe. “That dude is—” He glances past me at nothing in particular. “All right. So Seth’s a cool guy, but he’s Seth.” He shrugs as if I should know what he means. “He’s just—I don’t know.”

“Too wholesome for someone as prickly as me? That’s about as close as I’ll ever come to calling myself a bitch.” I wince at the expletive.

“I’d never call you that.” He grimaces. “And I’d never call Seth wholesome. If you think he’s clean-cut, you have a rude and crude surprise waiting for you. He’s not exactly shy with the girls. I hear enough to know that apartment of his has had its fair share of mileage.”

“Mileage, huh?” I take a step in and feel the heat emanating from his rock-hard chest. My fingers twitch to graze over that familiar terrain, and my face flushes with heat just knowing that my hands have had the pleasure to flatten themselves over that forbidden flesh. “You should know. You’ve put on quite the frequent flyer miles yourself. You’re quite the perv.”

He frowns at the idea, and something about that boyish act makes my stomach bisect with heat. “Yeah, well, I’m not keeping up with the Joneses anymore in that respect. Seth can take the crown. I’ve abdicated the throne, remember?” His body inches closer to mine, and a fire rips through my veins at what this might mean.

God, I should run. Heck, I should run right through that plate glass window in fact, not even taking the time to open the door. This is fight-or-flight at its most volatile. My body starts in on a series of shakes and shivers, and that darn sweet spot at the base of my thighs twitches with excitement. Ugh. I could strangle myself for being so ridiculous.

“Abdicating the throne, huh?” I toss a shoulder and accidently graze his chest. That spot on my arm radiates with heat as if I accidently seared it, and the thought alone enrages me against the fact my body refuses to go along with my mind. Rush is nothing but a playboy that should come with a warning label. “I doubt you’re abdicating anything,” I snap as if we were in the middle of a heated argument, and he blinks back as if I slapped him. “You’re just the kind of guy that would say anything to get laid. In fact, I bet that whole abdicating the throne thing is nothing more than some tried and true pickup line.” The words come out in huffs as I struggle to catch my breath. “You may have your sister fooled, but you’ll have to try harder with me.”

A faint hint of a smile plays on his lips, but then his features turn on a dime and he looks solidly perplexed. Most likely he’s not used to one of his noncompliant subjects barking the truth up at him. I bet Rush is far more used to the roll over and spread ’em reaction than the all-out fury I seem to be spouting.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he whispers so low for a second I think he’s talking to himself.

“What’s the matter?” A smidge of satisfaction rises in me. “The midnight cowboy stunned to have a potential cowgirl shoot him with a reality filled dart? Don’t worry, your horny highness. I’m sure if you trot your hot self in front of Kappa Kappa Hussy, you’ll have an entire trail of harlots migrating toward the holy land, aka your boxers,” I snarl at him as if he had pulled his pants down and flashed his unholy goods at me.

That signature crooked grin climbs up one cheek, and it just stokes the fire of rage in me ten times hotter. Holy heck, I am going to decapitate Rush with the key to my car if he keeps smiling when I want him to combust with his own level of rage. Under no circumstances should Rush and I ever get along.

“So you think I’m hot?” He closes the distance between us. His fingers dig into the back of my hair, and he gives a firm tug as he pulls me in. His chest rises and falls. My mouth opens to say something, to demand he detangles his claws from my tresses, but my heart is pounding out a primal rhythm, and my breathing is too far out of whack for me to ever catch my breath, let alone speak.

Rush inches in, those hazel eyes of his linger over mine, thick and sweet as molasses. I can’t look away. He’s dangling his lips in front of me like some sexed-up carrot, and I’m so damn hungry for carrots.

Come to me, I beckon with my eyes, but that crack of a smile he’s wearing only seems to widen. And then, just like that, he sobers up, that smug grin gliding off his face as he inches ever so closer, our lips just a breath away, but he refuses to pull the trigger.

Pull the damn trigger, Rush, I practically scream at him telepathically but no such luck. The greed-o-meter in me tilts, and I can’t handle not having his mouth over mine. I want him. I need him.

My mouth edges closer to his in the event he’s not picking up on the hint, but Rush doesn’t move, that steely gaze of his still pinned strong to mine.

“By the way, I don’t think you’re hot.” My eyes seal shut because I could never actually look at him and say those words, and just like that, my lips latch to his and an explosion of wanting unleashes inside me. Rush and I explode onto one another as if he just came back from war, and if he were a POW for one long decade, and we craved nothing more than to do exactly this. His tongue bursts into my mouth and does a powerful sweep as if teaching me a lesson. Rush lashes me, over and over again, hard and demanding like a punishment, and it thrills me right down to my curled toes.

My God, Rushford Knight is a drug that holds females of all ages and stages in life hostage. My breathing picks up as our hungry kisses increase with fury. His arms ride up and down my back. It feels exhilarating, like the best massage I’ve ever felt in my life. My hands run down his arms as I trace his granite-like biceps. I can feel him flexing for me, and a tiny laugh gets caught in my throat. But hell, judging by the floodgates in my panties, I’m very much appreciative of the gun show. My fingers work their way to his hair—my God, his hair. I’ve never felt anything so thick and soft in all my life. I can’t help but tug at it as if trying to extricate it from his scalp. This is more than some simple goodnight kiss. This is pure magic, lightning in a bottle going off in our mouths.

Rush eases up on his onslaught and delivers a series of sweet pecking kisses before diving back in, far more deliberately this time, achingly slow, and a groan rips from my throat as I silently beg him to increase his pace once again. A pang of wanting slices throughout my body—and then, like a ton of orgasmic bricks, it hits me.

Maybe I do want Rush after all.