While my college experience living off-campus has been less than typical, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I love living with Aunt Bette. She’s my spirit animal.
And she’s been better to me than anyone ever has—better than I probably deserve if I’m being honest.
I flip the lid of my laptop open and tap in my password. The screen flashes to life and I double-click on the PVU email icon on my desktop.
Five new emails.
I go through them, starting from the bottom. Most of them are campus-wide emails, reminders about deadlines and policies or upcoming events.
Delete, delete, delete …
But it’s the last one that catches me by surprise.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Hey lucky ;)
MESSAGE: Just touching base … if you ever need to get a hold of me, my number is 555-8851.
Unimpressed yet indubitably amused, I shut the lid, fling my covers aside, and return the computer to the charger.
Does he actually believe that knighting me with some stupid nickname and using a wink is the way to my heart? And my God, he must be so proud of himself for finally finding a way to get his number in my hands after all these years.
I roll my eyes when I return to my bed, the image of Talon high-fiving his football player buddies filling my mind. But that image is quickly replaced with other images—actual ones—of Talon over the years.
Talon at parties, surrounded by girls.
Talon’s picture plastered on the front page of the PVU Daily during football season.
Talon on bus signs, the face of the PVU Tigers.
Talon eye-fucking me in passing by the campanile last fall … it was so penetrating and intense I lost my train of thought as I was mid-conversation with a friend and almost tripped over a crack in the sidewalk.
Sliding under my covers, I close my eyes tight and remember the cinnamon scent of his breath against my ear, the undeniable heaviness of his stare. I imagine what his hands—calloused and rough—might feel like in my hair, his thumb tracing my jaw as he claims my mouth like a man who’s been starving for that very kiss his entire life, a man about to make a meal of me.
My stomach reels and my heart hitches and my skin is hot to the touch.
Every part of me comes alive when I think of Talon Gold.
The man is pure sex, power and dominance, and he could give me one hell of a night, I’m sure of it. But my guilty-pleasure reveries are as close as I’ll ever get to letting him have his way with me.
Just as he has his reasons for wanting me, I have my reasons for not wanting him …
… and my reasons are rooted deeper than he could possibly begin to understand.
Chapter 4
Talon
“Irie, hey.” I rise from my seat in the back of the auditorium Wednesday morning, making a show of waving her down and getting her attention though we’ve yet to make eye contact.
Everyone around us stares—at me and at her. Some cruel. Some curious.
The heat is on. She can’t keep acting like she doesn’t see my little production.
“Irie, over here,” I say, hands cupped around my mouth.
She finally glances up, gives the smallest of nods to acknowledge me, and then heads my way.
“Saved you a seat,” I say when she gets closer. “Figured we should sit together again. You know, since we’re partners or whatever.”
I offer her a wink, like we have some kind of inside joke now, but I get crickets.
Irie lets her messenger bag slide off her shoulder before taking the chair to my left. She smells cotton candy sweet with a touch of vanilla and her nails are painted a different color today—the palest of pink. The gold studs in her ears from the other day have also been replaced, this time with oversized tortoiseshell hoops.
I don’t know why I notice these things about her. If it were any other girl, I couldn’t care less. But with Irie, it’s like I’m always trying to see what I can glean from all her little quirks and details.
Over the years, I’ve watched her style morph from semester to semester. I’ve watched her hair change from platinum to brunette to her natural caramel blonde and back. I’ve watched as she’s drifted from one circle of friends to another—spending her time with economics nerds and English majors one year to the artsy-fartsy designer wannabes the next.
Sometimes I think she knows exactly who she is.
Other times I think she hasn’t got a clue.
She might be surprised to know she isn’t alone in that.
Some of us are just better at hiding it.
“You get my email?” I ask, referring to the one I sent on a whim Monday night. It was a desperate move and I fully own that, but after seeing her that morning, I couldn’t get her out of my head the rest of the day. I couldn’t stop thinking about what she smelled like and how her eyes almost smiled every time she looked at me even if her lips were not. I couldn’t stop obsessing over seeing her again … and I let my impatience get the best of me.