by Lauren Rowe
He spreads my legs slightly with his thigh, making me shudder, and shifts his body into position to enter into me. “Who cares if they want me?” He grabs my ass with both hands and lifts me up, pinning me against the bookshelf. “Tell me why it turned you on and I’ll fuck you.”
He wedges himself between my legs, his tip rubbing deliciously against my clit.
I throw my head back against the bookshelf, bracing myself for him. I want him inside me. I’m shaking. I’m panting.
“Why do you care if anyone else wants me? All that matters is you want me.”
He’s teasing me wickedly. I’m throbbing, licking my lips, aching. My pelvis is thrusting involuntarily in anticipation of him. “Fuck me right now. Oh my God, Jonas.”
“Tell me first.”
I groan. “They all wanted you, but they couldn’t have you. I liked showing them you’re mine. You’re all mine, Jonas.” I whimper. “Mine.”
He suddenly withdraws from me and straightens up.
“What the fuck?” he whispers. He stuffs himself quickly back into his jeans.
My cheeks instantly flush with shame.
Oh my God. I thought he’d like hearing me say he’s all mine. I open my mouth, a confused apology on the tip of my tongue, but then I quickly see that, no, that’s not it, he’s not reacting to what I said—he’s peering through the spaces between the books opposite him, his eyes narrowed to menacing slits. I peek behind me and stare in the direction of his sightline, but I don’t see anything.
He whips his head and glares at me, suddenly full of intensity. He grabs my shoulders forcefully. “Stay right here. Don’t move from this spot.” Without another word, he races down the aisle, fastening his jeans as he goes. At the end of the bookshelf, he makes a sharp right turn and vanishes into the stacks of books.
My mouth hangs open—along with my legs, my bra, my panties, my shirt, and my ego. Not to mention my vajayjay. What just happened? I quickly put myself back together. I’m trembling. What the hell? I wait for him to come back for a good two minutes—okay, maybe for a minute and a half. Okay, fine, for a solid minute. Or so. Maybe less. I’ve got to figure out what’s going on.
I walk slowly toward the end of the aisle, to the spot where Jonas turned the corner and disappeared, my heart pounding in my ears. When I get to the end of the bookshelf, I peek around it, afraid of what I might find. But there’s only a couple of students chatting quietly in another aisle. No Jonas. I creep slowly in the same direction Jonas went, my chest tight and breathing shaky.
His eyes were wild when he told me to stay put. He didn’t even look like himself for a minute there. He looked like a man possessed. Like a lunatic.
Still no Jonas.
I creep to the perimeter of the maze, goose bumps covering my entire body. Where is he? I keep walking until I reach a small window overlooking the parking lot. I peek out. I can make out his BMW in a distant corner of the lot. That’s a good sign—at least I know he’s still here somewhere.
A hand grabs my shoulder.
I gasp.
“I told you not to move, Sarah.” He’s angry. His eyes have that wild look in them again.
“I... What happened?”
“I need to get you out of here. I’m taking you home.”
“What happened? What did you see?”
“If I tell you not to move, then don’t fucking move, you understand? From now on, you listen to me. This isn’t a game.”
“What’s going on?”
His eyes blaze with sudden intensity. “When we were in the lecture hall, when I was sitting up front, this palooka-looking guy came in the back door and stood there for a couple minutes. He looked like fucking John Travolta in Pulp Fiction or something, like he was wearing a two-bit-hoodlum costume for Halloween. Total cliché.”
I shrug. I don’t understand what that has to do with anything.
He exhales. “He didn’t look like a law student.”
I still don’t understand. I’m sure there are plenty of two-bit-thuggy-looking people milling around any college campus anywhere in the United States at any given time—students, boyfriends of students, fathers of students, janitors, vending machine repairmen, stalkers, rapists, murderers, creepers. I mean, aren’t there weirdos and freaks and criminals and people who look like weirdos and freaks and criminals at any given place at any given time—especially on college campuses—none of them affiliated in any way with The Club?
“Jonas . . .” I begin.
“I thought he was staring at you in the classroom, but I couldn’t be sure—I thought maybe I was imagining things.” His eyes are fierce.
I wait.
“But I just saw that same fucker again—right over there—” He motions into the stacks. “And this time I’m absolutely positive he was watching us—one hundred percent sure.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“When I spotted him, he took off running.” He clenches his fists. “Fuck.”
“Maybe he was just a student? Or a voyeur?”
He runs his hand through his hair. “Is there a student in your contracts class—or in the entire law school—who looks like a hitman from a Quentin Tarantino movie?”
I shake my head. “Not that I’ve seen. Bill Gates and Ashton Kutcher doppelgangers, yes. Dancing heroin addicts with ponytails, not so much.” I’m trying to make him smile, but it’s not working at all.
His jaw muscle pulses. His eyes are steel. “This isn’t a joke, Sarah.” He’s pissed at me.
“I know.”
His eyes flicker with something animalistic—he’s kinda scary right now, actually.
I sigh.
I can’t decide if my sweet Jonas is being overly protective of me (or, worse, maybe even a touch paranoid), or if the bad guys truly are gunning for me as vigorously as he thinks they are. That’d be pretty ballsy, wouldn’t it, for the bad guys to waltz right into my classroom in broad daylight?
“You’re sure it was the same guy in both places?”
He exhales with exasperation. “I’m absolutely fucking positive. Why the fuck are you doubting me on this?” His jaw is clenched.
“I . . .” I can’t finish the sentence. He’s right—I’m doubting him. Why? Are my lifelong trust issues rearing their ugly head again? I don’t think so. Am I in deep denial about the situation, ignoring real danger as a means of emotional self-preservation? Highly doubtful. Or could it be that I secretly think my gorgeous hunk of a boyfriend is just a wee bit crazy (not that there’s anything wrong with that)—that his judgment might be a teensy bit impaired in situations such this (understandably), due to the horrific trauma of his past? I bite my lip. Yup. I’m pretty sure it’s Door Number Three. Damn.
I look into his eyes. Oh God, he’s got beautiful eyes. And he’s looking at me like I’m a rare treasure—the Mona Lisa—and he’s just recovered me from the clutches of a master art thief. He pulls me into him and squeezes me tight.
“If I tell you to stay put, then stay put.”
I return his embrace. “Okay.”
Suddenly, a non sequitur of a thought slams me upside the head and punches me in the gut: What was your Club-issued iPhone doing out on the kitchen table this morning, Jonas? Why that seemingly random thought crashes into my brain at this particular moment, I have no idea, but, clearly, my subconscious brain sees some connection between that goddamned iPhone and my reticence to unconditionally adopt his belief in my imminent demise.
He buries his face in my hair and breathes in my scent.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again, Sarah.” He leans down and kisses me gently. “Come on. I’m getting you the fuck out of here.”
Chapter 12
Jonas
I look at my watch. Quarter to seven. Stacy the Faker should be here in fifteen minutes.
“A Heineken,” I tell the bartender. He nods his acknowledgment.
I look around the bar.
I hope Stacy doesn’t call me out for n
ot wearing that stupid purple bracelet. I know I’m technically required to wear it at all times during Club check-ins, but I threw it into the trash the minute Stacy left my house after our horrible fuck. And, anyway, even if I still had it, there’s no way I’d put that thing on my wrist. Now that every part of me, including my wrist, belongs to Sarah, that piece-of-shit purple bracelet would probably sear my flesh like a hot iron brand.
I touch the multi-colored yarn bracelet on my wrist, one-half of the pair I got in Belize for Sarah and me. My mind drifts to the moment I tied Sarah’s matching bracelet onto her wrist. The look on her face was so beautiful at that moment, so honest and vulnerable—so pure. I think that’s when I knew I loved her for sure—when I tied that bracelet on her and told her she’s my perfect match and she looked like she was going to cry.
No, wait, it was before then that I knew I loved her—what am I thinking? Of course. It was when she leaped off that waterfall into the dark abyss below. She was scared shitless, but she did it anyway, because she knew I was down there waiting for her in the dark water, waiting to catch her, and that I’d never let any harm come to her. She did it because she was finally ready to take a leap of faith with me—well, that and I’d left her no other way down. I smile at that last part. She wasn’t even mad at me for luring her up there with no other option—she understood my intentions. She always understands. And so she rose to the occasion, like she always does—and just let go and trusted me and trusted herself and jumped into the void.
Yeah, definitely, that’s the moment I knew—when she plunged into the cold, dark water and threw her arms around my neck, shivering and shaking with fear and adrenaline and elation, and wouldn’t let go of me. She clutched me like her very life depended on me, like I was her life raft. And that’s when I knew I couldn’t live without her because I clutched her right back, just has tightly, just as desperately, if not more so. And every moment since then, I’ve been clutching her more and more fiercely, becoming more and more sure of my feelings for her—more and more certain she’s my life raft, too. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my entire life, in fact.
The bartender puts my beer in front of me.
I throw down a ten and take a big gulp.
Thank God I didn’t throw my Club iPhone away along with that stupid purple bracelet. I was this close to tossing it, actually, but then it hit me I might be able to wipe the damned thing completely clean and give it to Trey—it’s a perfectly good iPhone, after all. So I threw it into a drawer in my kitchen, intending to deal with it later, and promptly forgot all about it—until this morning, that is, when I was brainstorming for my “How I’m Going to Fuck The Club Up the Ass” spreadsheet.
As it turned out, it was a huge stroke of luck I’d kept that phone, or else right now I’d have no fucking idea how to begin connecting the dots within The Club to a power player. Josh’s hacker already called right before I left for the bar, saying the emails Josh and I forwarded to him are all dead ends, every single one of them, completely untraceable. Josh wasn’t surprised at all and took it in stride, but I was deflated. It meant I had to go through with meeting Stacy here tonight. What other option do I have? She’s my only lead. I’ve got to do whatever I can to track these fuckers down and keep Sarah safe.
I take another swig of my beer and look around.
There are some really good-looking people here tonight. But, then again, there are always good-looking people at The Pine Box. That’s why this used to be one of my favorite hunting grounds—well, that, and it’s within walking distance of my place. That sure used to make things easy. No worrying about whose car we’d take back to my place—we only ever had hers, which also conveniently meant she could easily leave my place in the morning without a messy hassle. Shit, those days of fucking a different woman virtually every night seem like a lifetime ago. I don’t even feel like the same guy. Sarah’s changed everything in such a short amount of time, just like I knew she would. Just like I hoped she would.
Another long swig of my beer. Fuck it. I chug the rest. I flag down the bartender and hold up my empty bottle. He nods. My knee jiggles wildly. I force it to stop.
A brunette with a pixie cut and large hoop earrings smiles at me from the corner. I look away. The old me would have gone over to her. She’s hot. Pretty face. And her whole look screams confidence, a trait that always attracts me. But I don’t give a shit. All I can think about is Sarah. She’s all I want. I can’t wait to get out of here and go back home to her.
Sarah didn’t bat an eyelash when I told her I had to slip away for a bit, that I had something I had to do.
“No problem, baby,” she said. “I’ve got a ton of studying to do.”
She’s so diligent about her studies, so determined to get that scholarship at the end of the year. I love that about her. She sees what she wants and goes after it, relentlessly.
“I won’t be gone long,” I assured her. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
“Take your time. God knows you can’t sit here babysitting me for the rest of your life. I’ll be here,” she said. “I’ve got so much to do.”
I’ve never met a woman with such a slender jealous streak. She just trusts me. My stomach suddenly churns at the thought—yeah, Sarah trusts me, and I’m here, waiting for Stacy.
“I won’t be gone long,” I said again. “And Josh will be here the whole time to look after you.”
“Okeedoke.” She already had her nose buried in a book.
“Promise me you’ll stay here and not go anywhere.”
She rolled her eyes and looked up from her book. “Jonas, don’t act like a weirdo. I’ve got to study, I told you. I’m so effing behind it’s ridiculous. Trust me, I’m not going anywhere.”
“But promise me, Sarah. Say, ‘I promise, Jonas.’”
“Jeez,” she said, scrunching up her nose. “That’s not creepy or anything.” At my insistent expression, she rolled her eyes again. “Okay, Lord-God-Master, I promise.” She flashed me a smart-ass smirk. “You always say I’m bossy, but I think that’s the pot calling the kettle bossy.”
When my expression remained anxious, she laughed.
“I’ll be right here, Jonas. Just go do whatever you’ve got to do, Mr. Mogul. Thanks to you and your red hot lovin’ day and night, I’m woefully behind in my reading for criminal law and torts. I’m gonna study all night long without a single break.”
“Well, hang on a second,” I replied, forcing her book closed and pulling her into me. “I don’t want you studying all night long. You’re gonna have to take a break at some point for more of my red hot lovin’.”
“Well, hmm,” she said. “If you insist.” She laughed and kissed me. “Duh, Jonas. Making love to you every single night is a given. It’s a physical necessity—right up there with breathing and eating and peeing.”
I smile to myself. My Magnificent Sarah.
I check my watch. Seven o’clock on the button. Any minute now. The hairs on my arms stand at attention at the thought of seeing Stacy again. My knee jiggles again. I can’t make it stop. My stomach flip-flops. I banged Stacy so sloppily—and she acted like she was in the throes of pure ecstasy the whole time. The whole thing was just revolting. And then to think she cornered Sarah in the bathroom at that sports bar and threatened her? Okay, I have to stop thinking about all the ways Stacy disgusts me—I’ve got to put myself in the right frame of mind to charm her.
And there she is. Right on cue, strutting into the bar in a little black dress and sky-high heels. I raise my arm and flag her down. She nods and smiles broadly at me, and even from this distance, I can plainly see the purple bracelet on her wrist. The sight of it makes me recoil, but I force myself to smile.
“Well, hello again,” she says, approaching the bar. “Jonas.”
“Hi, Stacy.” I put my hand out to shake just as she leans in for a hug. It’s momentarily awkward. I play it off like I’m just a shy dork and quickly lean in to give her a brief hug. Yeah, I guess it�
�s kind of weird to shake hands with someone you’ve already fucked, huh? I need to get my head in the game and act like I’m happy to see her.
“Chardonnay?”
“You remember. Yes, I’d love it. Thanks.”
I order her drink.
Sarah.
This is totally fucked up what I’m doing right now. It feels wrong. I just have to remember why I’m doing it. I’ll have a quick drink with Stacy, that’s all—with this woman who happens to be a prostitute—a prostitute I’ve fucked—and get the information I need. And then I’ll race home and lick my baby’s sweet pussy with extra zeal and make her come, maybe even over and over, if I’m lucky.
“Let’s sit at a table,” I suggest.
“How about that one over there?”
Stacy points to a booth in the corner—the one where Sarah and Kat spied on me when I first met Stacy. I can see the ghost of Menu Girl sitting there right now, her forearms and hands taunting me with their olive-toned smoothness, her long dark hair cascading around her shoulders from behind her menu. I hadn’t even laid eyes on Sarah yet, hadn’t even seen a photo of her, but my soul already knew she owned me, even then.
Stacy’s eyes are bullets.
Is she trying to communicate something to me by suggesting that particular booth? Is this some kind of a test?
“No, not that one,” I say. My eyes are steely. I know they are. I’ve got to grab ahold of myself and try to channel Charming Jonas right now. Supreme Dick Extraordinaire Jonas isn’t going to get the job done. “Over here.” I lead her to another booth at the opposite end of the bar and we sit.
Stacy takes a sip of her wine and eyeballs me. “So nice to hear from you again, Jonas. I’m glad you requested me. I was hoping you would.”
I nod. “The pleasure’s all mine. Thank you for agreeing to see me again.”
“Of course. I had a great time with you that first time. I was hoping you’d want an encore.”
There’s a beat.
I sigh. “Let’s talk turkey, shall we?”
