“Earth to Devon!”
My head snapped up and I saw Geoff sitting in the low, leather chair, tuning his guitar. Busted. Shit. I hoped he wouldn’t start grilling me about my apparent lack of focus. Because I couldn’t tell him the reason why. I was laser focused. Just not on the appropriate thing.
“Hey, Geoff. How are you? Sorry I’m a few minutes late. I got sidetracked at the commons. Some feminist Nazi preaching to the masses about cutting men’s dicks off.”
Geoff shivered and a disgusted frown creased his chiseled features. He stuck his tongue out in the general vicinity of the window. “Jesus. Won’t they ever stop? Is it some female collegiate rite of passage? I hope you never go over to the dark side, Devon. In the words of my idol, Mr. Joel. I love you just the way you are. Just like I love my own dick.”
“Never, Geoffie-poo. I’d rather emasculate you through the time-honored tradition of song. Just like women have been doing since the dark ages.” I executed a perfect twirl in time with my words and shoved my full breasts toward the sky. “I am a goddess and my pussy is divine. Don’t cross me or I will put a curse on you so deep and dark, your cock will shrivel up and fall off. After that, I’ll chant to the scaly remains.”
Geoff laughed full-on and I delighted in his charming smile. Complete with dimples. My favorite. Too damn bad his door didn’t swing my way. But then again, with my shyness and my propensity to adore another man, even if Geoff were available, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself around him. I’d clam up, dim my light, and he’d never even notice my existence.
Kind of like someone else you know. Someone who couldn’t even be bothered to attend your graduation. As valedictorian of a 300-member senior class.
I shook my head to ground myself back in the present. I loved writing with Geoff, and we tended to come up with better music and lyrics when we put our heads together. And since our professor had advised we could work in pairs for this first mid-term project, we’d both jumped at the chance to be each other’s beacon of musical light. The only thing holding us back was constant shit given by some jock asshat named Seth Arthur, who seemed to delight in tormenting anyone in the music department. But on the way to the music room, he and his usual crew had been blissfully absent.
Geoff pulled out some staffed pages to write his notes, and I did the same with my journal of lyrics. I wrote poetry, and I just made observations about everyday life and the people living it. I had a full journal with all the lyrics I’d ever written about Judge. But that one stayed locked up tight. Even though it contained some of the most beautiful, profound, and deep words I’d ever written, I just couldn’t go there.
Paging through the journal whenever I had time to myself and I knew I wouldn’t be disturbed was one of my guilty pleasures outside of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I wanted to be the next Erica Jayne. That woman was so badass she made Lady Gaga seem tame. I loved her, and I wanted to bypass becoming a singer/songwriter and shoot myself straight into the stratosphere of performance art, complete with glam squad and killer wardrobe.
But at the same time, I vowed never to let the glitz of the performance alter the integrity of the music.
Each time I’d run my fingertips over the vellum parchment of my high-end journal, I’d imagine the man as if my fingers were caressing his textured skin. The last time he’d been next to me I’d caught a whiff of his Gucci cologne. He smelled of pine trees, experience, and intelligence. I imagined his fingers trailing down my body to touch me where I craved it most of all.
Judge Copeland would know just what to do to coax me into womanhood. No way would he disappoint me like Jared Alexander had let down Annie the night of the senior prom. Annie had cried for three days straight when Jared had taken her virginity, pumped and dumped, and left her broken and unfulfilled. A child didn’t know anything about a woman’s body. Or her heart.
Or her soul.
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Copyright
Chopped by Colleen Charles ©2019 All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Colleen Charles loves reading and writing stories that entertain and sweep the reader away from their everyday life.
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