by Penny Reid
“Only if you promise to get Martin’s number tonight.”
I shook my head, shifted on my feet. “I will not. I don’t want to drunk dial Martin Sandeke a few months from now. He won’t give me pity, he’s vicious. He’ll laugh in my face and make me cry.”
Sam tsked, rolled her eyes, and started walking again. “Fine. Whatever. Go through life repressing your sexuality because one boy—one stupid boy who was confused—used you to hide his own inner turmoil.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re not welcome.”
I let her snarky comment slide because we were on the same block as the fraternity house.
It was what one would expect from a fraternity house at an Ivy League school. Large, several stories, classically painted, manicured lawn littered with red solo cups and drunk partygoers. The mass of bodies—standing, sitting, leaning—spilled out the front door, down the sweeping staircase, and onto the grass.
At the entrance to the house stood two very large men. Actually, I got the distinct impression they were bouncer dudes. Both were dressed in fraternity polo shirts and their necks were as thick as my waist. They were chatting up a group of five, tall, sylphlike girls. Their eyes scanned both Sam and me when we mounted the ginormous wraparound porch.
In front of us, two girls in jeans and a guy—also in jeans—began crossing the threshold of the house.
“What do you think you’re doing?” One of the big dudes held his hand out and halted their progress.
The shorter of the two jean-clad girls shrugged and faced the big dude. “Goin’ to the party.”
“Nah-uh, this is a skirts-only party.”
The second big dude tipped his chin toward Sam and me. “You can go in, girls.”
Sam pushed me gently on my shoulder and we moved around the group stalled at the entrance. Once inside, Sam and I wove through bodies; I had no idea where we were going or how I was going to find Martin.
Looking around, I started to feel a bit better about my dress. It was black cotton, sleeveless, and shorter than I thought appropriate, but it was modest in comparison to some of the dresses and miniskirts we saw as we entered the gigantic entryway.
I did not, however, feel better about the crowd. People, people everywhere; dancing, making out, arguing, drinking, laughing. Even given the mammoth size of the foyer, the crush felt suffocating.
“Excuse me.”
I stepped to the side to allow three tall and handsome guys brush past. They looked almost interchangeable—intentionally long brown hair cut in the hipster style, tanned skin; two of them had brown eyes, the other one had blue. They were wearing fraternity polo shirts and all three slowed, their eyes moving over Sam and me with plain interest.
The last of the guys stopped; he grabbed my hips, then issued me a very cute and flirty grin. “Hey, who are you?”
I opened my mouth to respond that I was nobody and that he shouldn’t go around touching people without their permission, but Sam tugged on my hand and inserted herself into the conversation. She had to semi-yell in order to be heard over the surrounding music and voices. “We’re looking for Martin Sandeke. Is he here?”
The blue-eyed one of the trio huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Get in line, sweetheart.”
Sam tipped her head to the side, narrowed her eyes at him. “Listen, we’re not staying. This is his lab partner, she needs to speak with him about the class. Do you know where he is?”
The three boys exchanged confused looks; the one with his hands on my hips leaned forward to my ear. “You’re Sandeke’s lab partner?”
I nodded, finally finding my voice. “Yes. Both semesters. It’s really important that I speak to him about, um…a project we’re supposed to be doing over the break. Also, I’d really appreciate it if you would remove your hands.”
He blinked at me, frowned, then removed his hands and took a step back—or as much of a step back as he could manage in the crush. “You really are his lab partner?”
His eyes seemed to search my face with interest. In fact, all three of them seemed to be looking at me a little funny. I smoothed my hand down my skirt again and was thankful for the dim lights. Under their triple-handsome-perusal, I knew I was blushing uncontrollably.
“She is, she’s the astronaut’s daughter,” the one with blue eyes finally said, as though he’d just realized and therefore, recognized me. He said it as though I were a celebrity.
This was aggravating.
I pressed my lips together before muttering, “He’s my grandfather.”
“I’m in Professor Gentry’s class too.” Blue-eyes extended his hand, captured mine; his expression was probing and tinged with respect as it moved over my face. “You look really different outside of class. Did you do something different to…your face?”
I thought about responding that I’d be happy to do something different to his face, like punch it, but Sam spoke first.
“So, can you three amigos take us to Martin?” Sam seemed to dislike this last question about my face just as much as I did, because her tone held moderate aggravation. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
This was a true statement. It was already 10:10 p.m. and I knew, based on my eavesdropping, that the “drugging” would occur sometime around 10:30 p.m.
Mr. Blue-eyes nodded, still holding my hand. “Sure, sure. Follow me.” He tugged me forward.
Mr. Brown-eyes, the one who felt comfortable putting his hands on my body, winked at me as I passed. “Find me later, we’ll have some fun.”
His companion hit him on the back of the head and I heard him say as we left, “Not likely, dumbass.”
“I’m Eric,” Blue-eyes tossed at us over his shoulder. “Stroke is this way.”
“Stroke?”
“Martin is Stroke.” Eric turned briefly to explain. We made a chain, the three of us, as we wove through bodies of scantily dressed females and grabby frat boys. “He’s eight seat in the boat. It’s called the stroke seat because it sets the stroke rhythm for the rest of the boat. So we call him Stroke.”
I gritted my teeth through the jostling, ignored the body parts that pressed against me—or outright palmed my anatomy.
Martin was called Stroke. Somehow that nickname fit.
Eric led us to a staircase where another bouncer dude stood. He nodded once to Eric and smirked at Sam and me. I deduced he thought we were on our way to engage in a throupling (a threesome coupling). This, of course, caused my blush to intensify.
Jerk conscience.
I struggled to climb the stairs in the heels, almost asked Eric to stop so I could remove them. I was so busy debating whether or not to take off my shoes that I almost collided with Eric’s back when he stopped in front of a pair of overly large double doors.
“He’s in here.” Eric turned, tilted his head, then let go of my hand to push open the door.
“Thanks.” I nodded once and gripped Sam’s hand tighter as I moved to enter.
“No. No. She stays out here.” Eric shook his head and motioned to Sam.
“What? Why?”
“Only one girl at a time, unless both are invited.”
I glanced at Sam and imagined I wore a similarly stunned expression.
“Excuse me?” Sam asked. “What is he? A sultan? Does he have a harem?”
Eric smirked, his eyes moved over Sam with simmering appraisal. “I’ll keep you company, cupcake.”
“No thanks, dildo,” she responded.
This only made his grin widen, though he said, “You’re safe with me. I promise the only thing I’ll do to you is stare at you.”
She glowered. He narrowed his eyes mockingly, though his amusement and enjoyment at the exchange was obvious.
“I’m not worried about me,” Sam explained. “I don’t trust your boy around my girl, not in this house.”
Eric’s gaze moved over my dress; his grin waned, softened, like he knew a secret about me.
“Kaitlyn will be safe. But if she’s not out in fifteen minute
s we’ll go rescue her together.”
I didn’t like what his words inferred or what they implied. I wasn’t a damsel. I wasn’t going to need rescuing. If anyone was a damsel in this situation it was Martin Sandeke. I was rescuing him, he just didn’t know that yet…
I addressed Sam, my voice lowered. “I’ll be fine. Martin’s not going to do anything. I’ll just tell him about the, um, the assignment and then I’ll leave.”
Sam was teetering, still undecided. After a prolonged moment she blurted, “Oh, all right.” Then she shifted her gaze to Eric. “But I’m timing this. I have a watch.” She held up her wrist so he could see the evidence of her timepiece.
“Noted,” he said with a large smile, then held his hands up as though he surrendered.
Before I lost my nerve, I turned the handle to the door and opened it—only glancing back once at Sam before I stepped in and shut it behind me.
CHAPTER 3
The Periodic Table
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t a pool table.
I hovered at the entrance to the room, just inside the small alcove, and watched as Martin and three other guys good-naturedly knocked the cue ball around with their pool sticks.
No one noticed me at first and this allowed me time to chant my synonyms silently.
Unsteady, uncertain, nervous, anxious, worried, panic…
Then the thought popped in my mind, Even though you don’t feel calm doesn’t mean you can’t be calm. This was something my mother had said often when I struggled with childhood angst, frustration, and disappointment. These words were an excellent mantra now.
I wasn’t concerned for my safety, but I was concerned. I’d gone through life hiding in cabinets; I was perfectly happy to continue this practice once this task was over. I just had to get it over with first.
Propelled by this determination—to cross this task off my conscience’s list and go find a nice, safe cabinet to hide in—I gained a step forward and cleared my throat.
One of the guys was mid-laugh and I wondered at first if they’d heard me. But, eventually, four sets of eyes swung to my position, though I tried to focus only on Martin.
“Uh, hi. Hello.” I gave the room a little wave.
Martin, like the rest, looked at me like I was a stranger. However, I felt all pairs of eyes sweep up and down in a way that made me feel like I was a car, or a horse—one they were thinking about riding.
Heated anxiety seized my chest, tightness spread into my stomach. I balled my hands into fists and took another step into the room, further into the light.
“I’m looking for Martin.” I kept my eyes on him; at six feet away, he was the closest to my position.
Recognition had not yet registered when he replied sounding both bored and irritated, “What do you want?”
“It’s me. Um, it’s Parker. Kaitlyn Parker. I was hoping I could speak with you for…a…minute…about chemistry?” I bit my lip, waited for his reaction.
Martin visibly stiffened, blinked, and flinched when I said my name. His eyes—now focused and narrowed—moved over me once more, this time with obvious and renewed interest.
“Parker?” He took a step forward and laid his cue stick on the table; he sounded and looked baffled.
I nodded and hazarded a glance at the others. They were alternately watching me then turning their heads to watch Martin’s reaction.
“Yep. I promise I’ll just be a minute, it won’t take—”
“Everyone out,” Martin interrupted, his voice a bit too loud for the space. It was a command.
To my surprise, his three companions set down their pool cues on the table and shuffled out as instructed, and without delay.
One or two of them caught my eye as they left, their expressions plainly curious but none of them spoke. Martin’s gaze never left my face; he seemed to recover quickly from the surprise of my arrival. The line of his jaw grew hard, and the muscle at his temple ticked.
I didn’t know what to make of the gathering storm in his eyes so I ignored it and attempted to think of a word to use in my synonym game. I also tried not to look at his lips.
I tried and I failed.
I couldn’t help it; the memory of his kiss—our kiss—arrived like a tsunami, flooding my body with something heated and tight. I felt overwhelmed by it, surrounded on all sides. I knew what he tasted like, how he sounded when he growled, what his hands felt like on my bare skin.
I tried not to shiver and failed at that too.
The door clicked behind me, but, to me, it sounded like a gunshot—because it signaled that we were alone. I gathered a breath and tucked my hair behind my ears. I needed to focus on reciting the speech I’d practiced in my head for the last five hours.
Then I could leave, my conscience could piss off, and this would all be over.
Ignoring the goosebumps he’d ignited with his scorching glare, I did my best impression of calm and said, “So, the reason I’m here—”
“Let me guess.” He crossed his broad arms over his broad chest, his broad shoulders stiff and straight, and leaned his hips, which were narrow and not broad, against the pool table. “Your level of interested has…changed.”
I squinted at him. “What?”
“You’ve changed your mind about me.” The way he said the words, deadpan and caustic, led me to the conclusion that he thought I was there to beg for more kisses, entrap him with my feminine wiles.
Little did he know, I possessed no feminine wiles. Only the willies and the heebie jeebies.
I squinted more. I was feeling flustered. He wasn’t supposed to talk. He was supposed to listen.
“No. It’s not that at all. It’s about the cabinet.”
He scoffed, like he didn’t believe me. “Nice dress.”
I glanced down at myself, my hand automatically lifting to my abdomen. “Uh, thanks. It’s borrowed.”
“Really?” He said really like he didn’t really believe me.
“Yes. It’s also a little too short, I think.” I tugged at the hem, wishing it longer. “I was told I wouldn’t be allowed in without a skirt.”
His attention moved to where my hands were now fiddling with the edge of the dress and lingered there. Martin straightened from the pool table and crossed to where I stood—his steps unhurried, his gaze leisurely skating up my body. Again, I felt like a horse being perused for a ride.
“You could always take it off, the dress, if it makes you feel uncomfortable.”
A full-on, fire-alarm embarrassed flush rose to my cheeks. He stopped just in front of me. His eyes were shamelessly resting on the swell of my breasts with a suggestiveness that completely crossed the appropriate line.
It was so beyond appropriate it was…
It was…
It was inappropriate.
I gathered a slow breath, hoping to steady myself, and stomped down the rising wave of indescribable sensations plaguing my sensibilities—some pleasant, some not so pleasant.
“Listen,” I said through a jaw mostly clenched. “I overheard something when I was in the cabinet, before you arrived, and I thought you should know. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
His eyes flickered to mine, still hard, disbelieving. He was standing just a foot or so away and I’d tilted my chin upward to meet his glare.
After a pause, during which he studied my face, Martin said, “Go ahead, gorgeous. Enlighten me.”
“I heard two people walk into the room. So, I panicked and, yes, I hid in the cabinet. But, in my defense, I was already in there pulling out the reticulation equipment. Anyway, two voices—one female, one male—and they came into the lab together. Whoever the guy was when you walked into the lab, that was the same guy I overheard. The girl wanted the guy to drug you.”
Martin’s eyebrows bounced upward then pulled low when I said the word drug. I didn’t want him to interrupt me again so I spoke faster.
“She said she wanted him to drug you. They scheduled it for ten thir
ty tonight and he is supposed to make sure you stick around at the party. She said she would arrive at eleven then take you, drugged, up to your room and video tape the two of you. Then she said something truly disturbing—not that the rest of it isn’t already disturbing—but what she said next kind of blew me away because I didn’t know people could be that cold and calculating with no regard for basic decency.”
“What did she say?” he asked, his tone impatient. His eyes were still hard, angry, but the severity wasn’t focused on me. I didn’t appear to be the target—praise Bunsen and his burner!
“She said that if she got pregnant then it would be ‘a bonus.’”
Martin’s mouth opened then closed and his glare moved from me to the floor. He was visibly stunned. I watched his beautiful face as he processed the information, took the opportunity to examine him in a way I’d never allowed myself to do before.
He was painfully handsome. I kind of knew that before, but I really saw it now.
My chest hurt a little as I studied his features: square jaw, strong nose, perfect shape and size for his face, high cheekbones, like he had Cherokee or Navaho ancestry. Paired with his blue eyes, he was striking. I understood my previous reluctance to gaze at him directly. It was called self-preservation.
I tore my eyes from him and his exceptional form. I tried not to notice his decidedly swoony body—the way his jeans hung on his hips, the way his thighs filled out the jeans—and glanced over his shoulder.
“Well. That was what I needed to tell you. So, I guess I’ll be—”
“Why should I trust you?”
My eyes moved back to his and I blinked at this question, because the answer was obvious. “Uh, what?”
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”
“Why would I lie?”
“What do you expect in exchange?”
“Exchange for what?”
He shifted on his feet just a fraction of an inch closer. However, that fraction brought with it a menacing cloud of suspicion and unpleasantness.
For someone so beautiful, his expression was surprisingly ugly.
“What is it that you want? What are you hoping to gain? Is it money?”
