“I’m batting a thousand, my friend. You point. I’ll shoot and score. I’ll pair up the least likely of suspects and have them panting with lust before six weeks are through.”
“Okay, I’ll do you one better.” Rowen lifts a brow to my brother before reverting to me. “Pick a girl, any girl, and make her fall in love with you. If it happens, I’ll bow to the master. If not, I’ll guarantee you, Soph and I were happening with or without your head games.”
“Deal,” I say without putting another thought to it. Rowen didn’t say that I needed to fall in love. And good thing because that would never happen. He can save his heart-shaped desire to humiliate me in that way—it’s not happening.
A couple of sorority girls strut by and give a wave of their fingers.
“Take the cute redhead.” Dan nudges me with his elbows. “Dude, she’s already hot for you. You’ll win this hands down tonight.”
“Too easy. I need a challenge.”
Lane points hard at a cluster of blondes. “Taylor Greyson, given more rides than Greyhound and has been known to bark like one, too. If you want a challenge, see if you can get her to cool her sheets. Vi tells me that girl has turned her bed into a clown car. You’ll be doing her a favor. Once she obsesses over your GQ looks, she’ll give her poor roommate a break from the debauchery.”
Rowen groans, “Ember’s roommate.” He shakes his head wistfully. “Sophie’s told me all about her.”
“Ember?” My ears peak at her name. “Ember Sparks?”
“That’s right.” Rowen nods south, and I look back to find the blonde firecracker herself looking dressed to kill in a tight red dress, vixen painted lips to match, and my boys beg to invert at the sight.
“I’ll take her.” A vindictive smile curls at my lips. “I’ll have her following me around like a smitten kitten until the end of the semester. She’ll fall hard and fast—and believe me, she won’t know what hit her.”
“What?” Rowen shakes his head as if it’s a no-go.
“No way,” Lane is the first to protest. “She’s Violet’s good friend. I couldn’t do that to her.”
“Relax. It’ll be one-sided. I’m not gifting my beating heart to anyone to stomp under their stiletto.” And with Ember on my payroll, she’ll naturally be following me around campus. I’ll convince the boys she’s in love, and I’ll collect. Speaking of which. “What do I get other than a drooling coed?”
Rowen shakes his head. “There will be no drooling. That’s one nut you’re not going to crack. Trust me, I’ve met her. I don’t even think she’s here with an open mind. She’s Fort Knox as far as dating goes, let alone falling for anyone.”
Lane nods. “Vi says she’s here to shut down the show. I’m pretty sure you should let her go and cut your losses.”
“Not happening.” Shut down the show? All the more reason to make her fall to her knees. “She’s the one. So what’s the door prize for a stolen heart these days?”
Rowen shifts on his feet. “I’ll buy a round at the Underground. You fall in love right back and I’ll buy her a drink, too.”
Dan huffs, “She’ll need it.”
“Not good enough.” I consider my prospects a minute. “It’s too much work for a shot of whiskey. I’d need the whole barrel. Make it a Porterhouse and I’m in.”
Rowen belts out a dark laugh. “All right. Dinner at the Pinewood Steakhouse on me.” He slaps me over the back. “If Ember turns into a puddle within the next six weeks, we’ll be eating like kings.”
Lane glares at me a moment. “You’d better not gut the poor girl. We’ll all have hell to pay because of it.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll let her down easy.” I can’t hide the gleam in my eyes, the fire in my belly to make this happen. I’ll admit, there will be more than a modicum of satisfaction watching her slam into the brick wall of love—over me, of all people.
The night goes on, and I mix with the crowd, personally greeting each and every member of the upcoming group of victims. I come upon Ember just as the friends she’s surrounded herself with like a shield leave her side for a moment.
“Welcome to Group C, Miss Sparks.” I hold out my hand as if our caustic exchanges never happened and flash my brightest smile of the night.
The light in her eyes dims a notch when she sees me, and she eyes my hand as if it were a piranha before shaking it.
I lean in and tuck my lips to her ear, much the way I did after I pulled her to safety yesterday afternoon, and much like yesterday afternoon, I’m about to offer up another assurance, this time to shoot down her defenses.
“Don’t worry, Em. I’m just like you. I don’t believe in love either.”
She pulls back with a laugh caught in her mouth, the sparkle right back in her eyes where it should be. Looks as if I’m on her good side already.
“Oh, Dexter.” She closes her eyes a moment in disbelief. “You are a bigger joke than I ever imagined.” And after shoving that velvet dagger right through my chest, she buries herself in the crowd once again.
Joke?
Landing Ember Sparks at my feet might just be tougher than I think.
My eyes remain fixed in the direction she flew in.
Little does she know, I have never gone down without a fight.
Ember is right. She’ll be The Social Experiment’s first failure—because she won’t fall in love with her assigned suitor.
She’ll fall in love with me.
Chemical Reaction
Ember
The ballroom, as this underground dungeon beneath the psych building is loosely called, is filled to the brim with new and old social misfits. It’s decorated like a thirteen-year-old’s birthday party with balloons and streamers, and holds the scent of the obnoxious perfume section of a shopping mall. Since the alumni were invited to the mixer, both Sophie and Violet showed up, and I’ve clung to them all night, save for my one indiscretion with the emcee of the bombastic ball himself.
Sophie leans in with those serious eyes pegged on mine. “Whatever you do, don’t get flustered.”
Violet swats her over the arm. “Have you met her? She’s the one who flusters people, not the other way around.” Vi smirks over at me. “You give them hell, girl. This is your heart on the line, too. If you don’t like whomever that super computer spits out as a match, you simply stamp a big fat rejection right over their forehead. You hear me? Take no prisoners. This is war.”
Sophie chokes on a laugh. “Love is not a battlefield. Hey, isn’t that an eighties song or something?”
The microphone on stage gives off a deafening amount of feedback, inspiring the bubbling conversations to quickly die out, and all eyes feast themselves in that general direction. The room is festooned with red and gold balloons, showing off just the right amount of school spirit, along with dozens of chalkboards strewn around the room welcoming Group C and past alumni alike.
Violet is right. I’m not one to get flustered, but for whatever reason, the fact I’ll be under the microscope for the next six weeks has my insides filled with what feels like rabid bats and my palms sweating out an entire ocean of anxiety.
Dexter Houston takes the stage looking immaculate in his dark suit, gold—Cougar-inspired tie. His hair is slicked back, looking darker than the dirty blond I saw yesterday while he dangled me from my ponytail as I flirted with a certain death. My God, if I splattered over the ground, it would have been my brother Arlo who’d have to show up with a shovel to scrape me into the back of a hearse. And even though the tragedy was averted, I can’t help but glower at the scoundrel taking the stage to a riotous applause.
Sophie and Rowen wanted to lynch him not all that long ago. Same with Violet and Lane. And here I haven’t even left the gate and I’m already feeling the urge to get a rope. Chelle bounces through my mind with that sweet round face, those glowing eyes, those deeply embedded dimples. She is the definition of adorable. How did a rascal like Dexter produce such an amazing little girl? She held a conversation for an hour
I scowl at Dexter. What I’m not looking forward to is dealing with the turkey in front of me any more than I have to. What was up with that little impromptu confessional? Telling me he doesn’t believe in love?
I nudge both Sophie and Vi. “Can you believe this guy? He’s a total fake.”
Sophie groans, “He’s not so bad. Rowen really likes him.”
Vi nods. “Lane says he’s a good guy deep down inside.”
“How deep? I bet you need an icepick just to see the frozen tundra housing his heart.”
Dexter starts in on a spiel, a canned message thanking those present and past participants. Blah, blah, blah. I promptly tune him out.
“How come he’s not throwing his hat in the ring?” It feels rhetorical at this point, but curious minds want to know. “I mean, why go through all the trouble of securing other people’s happily ever afters and not chasing your own?” I’m not sure I buy that whole I-don’t-believe-in-love crap. Not from him anyway. Although it happens to be true as gospel on my end.
Sophie leans in. “It’s probably illegal or something. I mean, he’s quasi-faculty, right?”
Vi shakes her head. “He’s a step down from a professor. He’s a researcher, but still—he’s attached to the university. I’m pretty sure feeling up a coed is considered a breach of contract.”
“Ha!” I bleat it out without meaning to. “He’s felt up a coed or two. I know this firsthand.” And first boob. Left one to be exact. “Anyway, I guess it’d be crossing a boundary or two for him to enter into the experiment, seeing that he’s the puppet master.”
“Yup.” Sophie bounces on her heels. “Besides, he really gives off that player vibe. You know the type, untamable, rogue to the bone. He’s essentially a bad boy in a well-cut suit.”
“More like bad seed,” I mutter under my breath. “And you’re right. He needs a real hellion. Someone who will bring him to his knees and teach him a lesson or two. A dominatrix with a whip and a chair, a ball gag and a chain, and maybe a pistol. I bet if the right girl slapped him a time or two with her pink little panties, he’d sit up and bark like the dog he is. I would love a front row seat to that show.”
Vi’s jaw goes slack. “No offense, but it sounds like you just described yourself.”
“Who me?” My cheeks burn with heat at the thought of immersing myself in his life any more than I have to. “Never. I wouldn’t be caught dead entertaining that hell’s angel in or out of the bedroom.”
Sophie’s lips curl with wicked intent. “Oh, come on. You know you’re not into this six-week setup. Have a little of your own fun. Flip the script. Make the bad boy beg. Vi and I will laugh on the sidelines right along with you. Rowen and Lane might be buddying up to him. But I’m still a little miffed Dex ignored my incessant pleas to edit me out of the show.”
Vi averts her gaze. “I’m still pissed, too. That man thinks he’s God and God’s gift to women. Untouchable, my ass. It would serve him right to have a little comeuppance delivered his way.”
“Comeuppance.” I nod as if I had my own personal vendetta against him. That entire ponytail, spinning scenario floods back to me. All those disparaging sexist remarks, that sharp tongue of his delivering verbal blow after blow as if I were his personal lackey. “Maybe a little ball twisting is exactly what a guy like Mr. Houston needs in his megalomaniac life. And who better to give it to him than me?”
Sophie sucks in a quick breath. That look of glee on her face lets me know she wholeheartedly approves. “And you’re watching his kid, right? That means you have prime access.”
Vi leans in close. “How about we set the same unholy parameters he’s outlined for the masses? Two strangers, six weeks. Dexter Houston says the odds aren’t in his favor”—she laughs as she turns his own verbiage against him.
“But I say they are.” I look up at him, regaling the room as he turns on the charm. At least a dozen girls in the front row look ready to pledge their love and their panties to him. It’s sickening, really.
Dexter looks my way and our eyes latch a moment, causing him to pause, and apparently lose his train of thought.
Soph warms my ear with her mouth. “Looks like you’ve got his attention already. If you bring this home in six weeks, Vi and I will buy your coffee for the next year straight.”
“Deal,” I say without hesitating. “I’ll bring Dexter’s heart home in a body bag. He’ll be professing his love to me by spring break, and I’ll have a hickey or two to prove it.”
The three of us share a cackling laugh as he comes to.
“At this time, I’d like to ask the cast from Group A and B to step over to the foyer and continue to feel free to mingle. Group C”—he hooks me with those dark knowing eyes, and a spear of heat spikes right down my chest, straight through to my toes—“welcome to date one. Your sensory guides will find you shortly.”
A gasp of delight fills the vicinity as the music starts up again and Dexter leaves the stage.
“Oh my God!” Sophie offers me a firm embrace. “Be nice. The poor guy they’ll pair you up with is certain to fall hard by night’s end.”
“Forget nice.” Vi offers a hug of her own as they start to migrate out with the rest of the alumni. “Just be you!” Her laugh reverberates right down to my bones because we both know I’m dangerous at heart.
Seth Bradshaw heads my way. He’s tall, a bit geeky, shaved head, and a superstitious smile. I know for a fact he’s my sensory guide because both Sophie and Vi told me they begged him to take me on.
Take me on. Pfft. I almost want to laugh. Any boy in this room who thinks he’s got a chance taking me anywhere has another thing coming. My eyes flit toward Dexter as if there were a magnetic pull.
“Hello, Ember. I’m Seth.” He offers my hand a warm, secure shake, paired with an affable smile, and already I like him. “I’ll be your sensory guide, and since my girlfriend Petra and I work as a team, she’s headed over now with your prospects.”
“Prospects? As in plural?” I’m more than amused at this randy little plot twist.
He sheds a quick laugh. “That’s right. We’ll narrow it down by the end of the night. Or more to the point, you will. Tonight, it’s ladies’ choice, but if your date opts out of the next round, we’ll ask among the men to see who’d like to take you out for date two.”
“Huh.” I ponder this nefarious point a moment. “I’m used to doing the dumping, so that sounds a little harsh. I’ll be sure to turn up the charm. Bring on as many suitors as you like. I’m ready for ’em.” I think I can hide my fangs long enough to make the entire lot of them fall like dominos just the way that Dexter will.
“Great.” He pulls out a tin of breath mints, and I quickly decline. I distinctly remember Sophie telling me about those hellish mints she was forced to suck down before she and Rowen went after one another’s tonsils. There will be no tonsil hockey going on here tonight—I can assure him of that. Not for all the breath mints in the world. “We’ve curated three top prospects for you based on the questionnaire you filled out.”
A dull groan works its way up my throat. If I remember correctly, it was Vi who did most of the paperwork they sent our way as an I’m sorry to Soph and me for landing us in dating hell to begin with.
A petite brunette with glasses comes over, grinning ear to ear with three tall frat boys in tow. Great. I’ll bet they scoured Alpha Nu high and low to find those keg hungry, can crushing, condom slingers.
“Hello there!” The petite thing sets her hand my way. “Petra Mitchel. It’s my pleasure to introduce you to your three dates this evening. Lenard Brickman”—she holds out her hand as if she were presenting a prize—a booby prize—“he’s a starter for the Cougar basketball team and has maintained his position on the Dean’s List for the last three semesters. He touts himself as an official Trekkie, and he happens to be a junior.”
Lenard is scary tall, at least eight feet. Okay, so that’s a mild exaggeration, but sort of spot-on. He wears a thick blanket of black hair, curly around the edges, is heavily lidded, and wears one of those perennial greasy grins I’m not exactly a fan of.
“Call me Lenny.” He pulls my hand up and kisses the back.
Petra chortles as if the quasi-bodily assault was adorable as hell. “This is Fish”—she points to a square-jawed boy who looks oddly barrel-chested—“he’s on the wrestling team and enjoys long walks along the lake.”
Good Lord, I’ve never felt so embroiled in a cheesy situation in all my life. I’ll have to remember to kick Dexter the next time we’re alone.
“Nice to meet you.” I nod, denying him the chance to slobber on my sleeve.
“Likewise, sweet cheeks.” He clicks his tongue. “I’ve got a few moves I can show you later.”
A choking sound emits from me. The audacity is astounding. “I’ve got a few ball busting moves myself. Watch yourself, buddy, or I’ll find you a new lake to swim in by the end of the night.”
Someone laughs from my left, and it’s only then I notice the cameraman with the one-eyed monster hoisted dutifully on his shoulder. A part of me demands to freeze, to fix my hair, to tug down my dress, but another far more poignant part of me says screw it. I’m about to put the reality in reality TV.
Petra gives a nervous glance to Seth before lifting a finger toward the third, far beefier prospect. Messy blond curls, T-shirt and shorts exposing hairy limbs everywhere you look, and flip-flops. And, my God, is that sand crusting up his feet? “This is Richard. He’s a graduate student studying sports medicine, and he loves a good laugh.” Petra forces one out herself, and the four of us gawk at her as if she sprouted another head.
“Hello, Richard.” I’m slow to tear my eyes from the tittering miniature Scholastic Barbie.
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