Complicated

by Ashley Love

  COMPLICATED

  Copyright © 2016 by Ashley Love

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  INTRO

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  INTRO

  "What?!" I shriek, my mouth agape, my mind spinning as I look up at my Art History professor. "But...but I thought...I thought you said that I was—"

  "Miss Wilson, I'm sorry, I overestimated the amount of space we had on the dig. We really don't need four graduate students on this assignment."

  My face has to be one of shock and confusion. He hasn't called me Miss Wilson since my freshman year. He looks down at me, a glint of satisfaction in his eye and I know this has nothing to do with available space, and everything to do with me not sucking his dick in his office last week.

  "There'll be other trips," he continues, placing a hand on my shoulder, and I want to slap it away.

  "But, sir..." I respond, trying to keep my voice calm. "These are the Grecian ruins. You of all people know how seldom the government lets you—"

  "Yes Scarlett, I know," he replies impatiently, running a hand through his graying comb-over. "But it cannot be helped. You're young still, well over a year ahead of other graduates your age."

  I scowl, glaring at the ground. Never once did I think my ambition and drive would hinder me in college. Then again, I never thought I'd have to fight off my professor's advances either.

  "But Greek art is my concentration. You know this. Why not one of the other graduate students?" I ask, a little less than pleadingly, but I already know the answer. I just want to hear him say it, or at least watch him uncomfortably skate around it.

  "As I said, you are young and there will be other trips," he says with a finality that suggests our discussion is over. He has a voice that sinks in and wraps you up, vibrating with power and command. "However, I know how important it was to you to get your internship out of the way this summer, so I took the liberty of securing you a position as a tutor."

  "A tutor?" I scoff, my voice nearly echoing in the empty classroom. "Sir, you know tutoring isn't—"

  "I've been asked by a former student of mine," he says over me and I stop speaking with a loud sigh, "to teach a young musician who's touring this summer. Obviously I can't go because I have this assignment."

  I scoff again.

  "But I promised her I would send my best graduate student. Scarlett..." he says, and I glance up at him. His eyes are so dark I feel like I'm looking into a endless stretch of midnight sky. "You are my best graduate student."

  I purse my lips. Damn right I'm his best graduate student. I grade his papers. I draw up some of his undergrad quizzes. Of course I'm the best graduate student, which is the reason I should be going on this fucking trip.

  "Sir," I whine a little and look away from his dark gaze. He knows that I hate tutoring so this is obviously some form of corporal punishment.

  "It's good money, more than you'd make on the dig and you'll be traveling the country. It will also give you ample time to work on your thesis."

  "How old is this kid?" I finally ask, and he smiles.

  "Seventeen."

  I can't help but roll my eyes. Great, a fucking teenager.

  "You'd be doing me a huge favor here, Scarlett."

  Sure, now we're back to first names. I curse inwardly and I know I'm going to give in. Even after the stunt he pulled last week, I still somehow seek his approval.

  "It will be good for you," he continues and I look at him again. "You'll have time to work on that thesis."

  I sigh. "Fine...I'll do it."

  1

  Upon entering the Bridgestone Arena in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, I'm immediately taken aback by the grandeur of it all. The hustle and bustle of various carts being zoomed back and forth across the large empty floor of the stadium, the booming sounds of instruments being checked. It's all so big.

  I scowl. It's still not Greece. It's not Mycenaean ruins. It's not history at my fingertips. What it is, is a boy band. A boy band on tour. It's me teaching some whiny, pampered brat the bare minimum about sculpture and painting. It's condensing roughly twenty-six thousand years of architecture and six years of my college education into three trivial months. It's fucking torture.

  A large, dark man approaches me and gives me lip about not being allowed to be here. I show him my backstage pass and miserably explain to him that I'm here to teach Harry Styles art history. He lightens up considerably and offers to show me back to the dressing rooms.

  I follow him, looking around, a little stunned by it all but still ultimately unimpressed. I should be digging in the dirt right now; I should be uncovering the mysteries of ancient civilizations.

  I'm jarred out of my thoughts by the large man stopping abruptly in front of a door appropriately marked One Direction. The door opens and an explosion of laughter and chatter greets me, the room obscured by the large form of the bodyguard.

  "Harry, your tutor is here," he announces and then steps out of the way, allowing me entrance to the room.

  I step inside and all conversation stops. Five teenage boys are lying across couches, a television blaring MTV in the background. I've seen them before, each of their faces plastered on the front of the magazines I surveyed while waiting in line at the gas station or desperately searching for the latest issue of the American Journal of Archaeology. They just stare at me and I give them a tight lipped smile. Nice welcome.

  A dark haired woman emerges from the side of the room, reaching out to shake my hand. "Hello, I'm Anne Styles, Harry's mother," she says with the slightest hint of a Southern drawl, smiling warmly.

  "Pleasure to meet you," I reply. "Scarlett Wilson."

  "The pleasure is all mine," she says, and turns her head to the guys on the couches. "Harry, come over here and introduce yourself."

  The boy on the end of the couch closest to me sighs and pulls himself up, trudging over. He's tall, taller than me with a boyish face and golden brown curls. He really is kind of adorable in a sullen, bratty way. He gives me a tight lipped smile, standing obediently next to his mother, looking very bored. Oh, this is going to be just fucking great.

  "I'm sorry Scarlett, this is my son Harry," she introduces, pinching his arm as she says his name and he scowls at her before turning to me.

  "Hi," he replies curtly, before turning away to go back to his seat.

  "Harry Edward Styles, get your butt back over here!" the woman exclaims and I watch him cringe as the boys still on the couches snicker quietly. "I'm so sorry," she apologizes to me again and I shake my head, smiling tightly. Harry is standing next to her again, looking weary and forlorn. She grips his ear and he winces. "You are going into the
other room and you are going to listen to this nice young woman and you are going to pass this, do you understand me?"

  "Yes, ma'am," he grits, leaning down to relieve the pressure on his ear. I try not to laugh. This is priceless.

  "Good," Anna says, releasing him. "Now gimme a kiss," she adds, turning her cheek to him and he gives her a light peck before looking at me, scowling.

  "Let's go into the dressing room," he mutters, and we both move to walk through the door at the same time. I pause and he rolls his eyes, walking ahead of me. Oh yeah, this is gonna be a real pleasure.

  He takes me a few doors down and falls into a swivel chair next to a large rack of clothing. He glances in the mirror next to him, and then does a double take, squinting his eyes at his reflection as he picks at his hair, moving a curl over a little before turning to look at me.

  This cannot be happening to me.

  I sigh, slipping my book bag from my shoulder, unzipping the main compartment. Might as well get down to business. "Okay, so I figured we'd start with—"

  "Look, let's get something straight," he interrupts and I stop all movement, my hands buried deep in my bag. "The only reason you're here is because my mother is pissed that I was more interested in the European club scene than all the museums and architecture and bullshit." He gives a wave of his hand and my jaw drops. Did he just call the Lourve, the Pantheon, the Zwinger Palace bullshit? "I already have a 4.0 with my other tutor that's teaching me the important stuff, so if you could just—"

  "Just what?" I say, and he looks at me astonished, like he's never been interrupted before. "Just float you by? I'm sorry but I can't do that. Well, I guess I could, but I'm not."

  His thick brow furrows and he swivels a little in his chair, his long legs jittering slightly against the floor. Then a slow smile creeps over his face. He pulls his bottom lip between his white teeth and tilts his head to the side. Jesus Christ, he's trying to charm me.

  "I think we got off on the wrong foot," he says smoothly and I roll my eyes, laughing a little as I pull a textbook out of my bag.

  "Yes, I think we did," I say, dropping the heavy manual on the table next to him. He eyes it.

  "That's my textbook?" he asks, raising an eyebrow at me. "That? It's fucking huge."

  "It's not that bad. It's a lot of images," I tell him, pulling out a folder.

  "Jesus, it's heavy," he comments, picking it up and flipping through. "And it has tiny print. Great."

  I roll my eyes, fighting the scathing comment that is bubbling in my throat. I pull out a syllabus and hold it out to him. He takes it, surveying it and pursing his lips.

  "You're to have the first reading done by tomorrow and we'll discuss these works and terms," I order, giving him a handout with a list of art pieces and vocabulary words. "It's pretty straight forward."

  "You want me to have the first chapter read by tomorrow?" he asks, his eyebrows raised, and I grit my teeth, nodding. "That's like thirty pages!" he exclaims, flipping through. "Look, I don't know if you realize, but this tour is kicking off in two days and—"

  "You'll read it and you'll know it," I tell him with a sigh and he scowls at me again. "You'll make time for it."

  "You've obviously never been on tour before," he grumbles, looking down at the book in his lap and I just can't take it anymore.

  "Look!" I say harshly and his head snaps up. I take a deep breath, calming myself. "Let's just try and get through this as painlessly as possible, okay? You don't have to have anything memorized, just read the damn chapter."

  "Wait, I'm going to have to memorize stuff?" he questions suspiciously and it takes all of my will power not to slap the shit out of this kid.

  "Yes, the sheet that I gave you for chapter one, on Prehistoric and Neolithic Art and Architecture, you'll need to be able to identify all of the images and give their location and date range for your test."

  "I have to remember dates!" he whines, falling back in his chair and scowling and I want to slap him even harder.

  "Yes, Harry," I say, gritting my teeth. "This is Art History. You need to know when stuff happened. It won't be so bad, though. Most of the dates are circa in this chapter so if you're close you'll still get credit."

  "This is so bogus," he mutters after a moment, tucking his papers inside before closing the book. "Can I go now?"

  "Yes," I respond, rubbing my temples, "Please."

  He makes his way out of the room and I sigh, falling into the chair he'd just occupied. Ugh. It's going to be a long three months.

  2

  I'm running late. I never run late but for some reason, I just couldn't muster up the stamina to drag myself from my fluffy hotel room this morning, misery and frustration willing me to hide away under the covers.

  I had gotten a very brief call on my cell last night from my friend Marta, fellow graduate student and one of the lucky three to make it to the trip in Greece. She had quickly described the landscape and the living quarters and the expansive plains just waiting to be dug into. I had gone to bed dreaming of Grecian temples and bronze statues and instead woke up to my alarm clock glaring 8:45.

  Great.

  I breeze past security, flashing my nifty little lanyard and stagger my way into the arena. Fuck, I need some coffee. It's pretty dark and I stumble a little over cords, squinting at the five figures on the stage.

  "So now we're sitting on the steps for the acapella section of What Makes You Beautiful?" one of them asks a man on the floor, his voice booming loudly through his microphone.

  "Yes," the man responds and all five figures plop onto the large steps leading up to the section of the stage where the band is set up. "Okay guys, let's try this again."

  I yawn, bringing myself forward, the darkness of the room not helping my sleepiness at all. My foot catches on a thick cable and suddenly I'm going down. I close my eyes, waiting for my body to hit the concrete but instead I feel strong arms under my ribs, holding me up. I open one eye and look up, finding myself in the arms of a very handsome guy, looking down at me amusedly from under long thick lashes.

  "Whoa there," he says, his voice slightly raised because the group has started singing. I snap out of it, pulling my feet under myself and gaining some composure.

  "I'm so sorry," I stammer, situating my book bag more firmly on my shoulders and he just grins at me. Shit, he's good looking.

  "No worries," he says and grabs a Styrofoam cup from the ledge of the sound booth we're standing next to. "Looks like you need this more than me."

  He hands me the steaming cup of coffee and I smile appreciatively, holding out my free hand. "Scarlett," I say, taking a sip, but keeping my eyes on him as he reaches out to grip my hand firmly. I love a man with a good handshake.

  "Khefren," he responds and my eyes widen a little, bringing the cup down from my lips.

  "Khefren?" I ask, smiling at him. "As in the Egyptian pharaoh?"

  His eyes widen and he laughs a little, nodding. "Yes," he says, his smile expanding, crinkling the corners around his eyes. "Not many people know that. They just think I have a weird name."

  "Well, they went back to the original Egyptian name for him several years back," I inform, sipping my coffee again.

  "You're the Art History tutor, aren't you?" he asks.

  I laugh. "That obvious, huh?"

  He says something but I can't quite hear him as the band kicks in behind the vocals and I have to lean forward as he repeats what he said into my ear.

  "A little," he shouts and then leans back, smiling at me and I smile back, noticing a slight dimple in his cheek.

  "So what do you do?" I ask and he quirks an eyebrow, leaning in again and I repeat my question.

  "Oh, I'm a front of house engineer," he says, turning to say the words into my ear, his cheek brushing mine slightly. I have to fight my giddy smile. "I'm responsible for what the audience hears, and my buddy Dale back there..." He points to a man standing behind the soundboards, who waves when he sees us looking, "is the monitor engineer
. He deals with all the mics and in-ear monitors."

  I nod my head enthusiastically, smiling widely, trying to convey interest and he laughs. God, he has a great laugh. It really just lights up his face.

  "You don't care about any of this, do you?"

  "No, it's good to know what's going on!" I exclaim and he gives me a smile that says he doesn't believe me. Shit, I don't care if he believes me or not, he's smiling at me again.

  "So would you maybe wanna go get some lunch later?!" he yells, but the music cuts off as soon as he starts speaking so his words echo into the arena.

  All eyes are on us and I laugh a little, turning towards the back of the arena in embarrassment. He chuckles discomfited and whispers "Smooth, Khefren" and I literally laugh out loud, smiling at him. Maybe this summer isn't going to be a complete drag after all.

  "Okay guys, let's take a break. Meet again in an hour," the man on the floor is saying and I watch the five bandmates make their way off the stage.

  "Time for me to go to work," I announce and smile back at him. "Nice meeting you, Khefren."

  He gives me a bashful, closed lipped smile, waving goodbye to me as he turns to Dale. I turn away, grinning softly to myself. Yes, this could be a very nice reprieve from the hell of babysitting that boy band brat.

  Speaking of which, I'm walking down the hallway, finding my way back to the room that I had met Harry in the day before, loud laughter guiding me. I stand in front of the familiar closed door marked One Direction and knock gently. A muffled "Come in!" bids me enter and I open the door on a scene very similar to yesterday.

  "Well, well, well," one of the boys says, pulling himself from the couch. He's taller than me with spiky dark hair and a warm smile. "You're Harry's teacher?"

  "Yes, I am," I respond, smiling slowly as he smoothly takes my hand in his, stepping close to me.

  "I'm Zayn, Single, Capricorn," he introduces, grinning cheekily at me and I can't help but giggle at his charm. "What's your sign, darlin'?" he asks and I hear the guys behind him snicker.

  I smile sweetly at him and reply, "No entry."