His gaze makes me feel bare. I can’t break his influence. It’s like he’s got some sort of spell over me, giving my brain subliminal messages, willing my eyes to stay locked on his. I can’t look away.
My body feels a slight pull, and I can’t explain it. The longer I stare at him, the more I want to move closer to him.
I take a tiny step forward, and like magnets, he does too.
“Oliver!” Lark shouts, and both of us snap out of our haze.
I mutter a curse word under my breath and take a tentative step back.
What was I thinking?
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me?
Oliver moves back to the door, giving a wink.
A wink, really? Winking pisses me off. Oliver’s stupid wink does something to my stomach that I don’t really feel like dissecting.
“Hey cousin.” Lark claps his hand on Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver doesn’t flinch in the slightest, and I instantaneously know what Lark’s doing. He’s establishing Alpha.
Oliver takes a solid stance and clasps Lark’s arm.
Oh, maybe he won’t take Lark’s shit.
Good for him.
Still—I’m not in the mood to watch them dominate each other.
I resist the urge to shove both men out of the room. They can have their pissing contest elsewhere.
“So, I see you’ve met my girl,” Lark yells, already sloshed.
Great…
“Not really,” Oliver quips, giving me a level look.
I raise my eyebrows quickly, my mouth thinning. “He just stopped by. We hadn’t made any introductions.”
Oliver scoffs.
Lark drunkenly shuffles to my side. He nuzzles my neck, and my eyes dart to Oliver.
He quickly looks away into the hall, annoyed.
“This is my Whitty,” Lark announces, making my stomach churn.
His Whitty?
Hardly.
Oliver turns back toward us, and gives a silent chuckle.
“Whitty?” he mouths.
Lark is about passed out on my shoulder, and I shrug my other one.
I’ve never liked the nickname. It makes me sound like a preschooler, if you ask me, but when Lark gets something in his head, it’s better to let him have his way. It’s never really bothered me until now.
I move Lark to the bed, and he falls face down, not waking up.
Jesus, how long was I up here wasting time? Lark had enough time to get drunk, apparently.
He could be a lightweight, for all I know. Maybe I never noticed because I was in my own little drunk bubble. Now that I think of it, this is the first party we’ve been together where I haven’t slung drinks back with him. We got drunk together. That’s always been our thing.
Yikes. That’s an awful thought.
I dust myself off, and glance back to Oliver. He’s got that sly grin on his face again, and I don’t appreciate it. Not in the slightest.
“You don’t like him,” he states. “I can tell.”
My eyes quickly dart to Lark, making sure he didn’t hear him. “Oliver!” I whisper. “Jesus.”
I put my hands on my hips, preparing to give him a tongue-lashing. No pun intended.
At least, not at this very moment.
Both guys have thoroughly pissed me off.
Who does he think he is?
Although, the more I time I spend with Lark, the more I find myself looking for an out. Lark might be a little too much for me to handle.
Nevertheless, that doesn’t give Oliver the right to make assumptions.
“Listen here, bucko.” I walk with purpose to stand in front of him, pointing my finger into his chest. “You don’t know anything about me or my relationship with Lark.”
He moves closer into my space, his eyes shining with playfulness.
He likes that he’s ruffling my feathers.
“Maybe not. But you can’t hide your feelings, they play out on your face for me to see.”
Mouth agape, I stay silent.
What the hell do I say to that?
“Right, well then. I’ll see you around, Cupcake.” He slips out of the room, and I’m left alone with the man-child in bed.
Pulling my hand through my hair, I sit in the lounge chair, and shake my head.
I’m moody, confused and intrigued.
This so isn’t good.
NOPE. YOU KNOW WHAT?
Fuck it.
You all know I’m Jennings. So, let’s try this again…
I was born with the name Oliver Jennings Adams to my mother, Rene Cohen and father Malcolm Adams on October twenty-third. I was a fucking medical marvel, or so my parents say.
The docs had assured Mom she couldn’t have children due to the car crash that punctured her uterus, or something like that, but at the age of thirty-two, Mom got pregnant with me.
I was a glitch in the system, essentially. No one could believe that a woman with Mom’s medical condition could have regular woman problems, let alone have the organs to function enough to produce a baby. It was unheard of for the baby to survive, at the very least not have health issues, but here I am, twenty-five, strong, and healthy.
Since the day I understood that I was something special to the people around me, I wanted to prove them right.
Going back to college was just another check to mark off of my list in order to prove that I was worthy of their undying affection.
I know it doesn’t matter what I do, as long as I have a life that I love, they’ll be happy, but I want to make them proud in ways they didn’t think they needed.
I’m going to try my damndest to get this degree, and make sure they know that I appreciate the sacrifices they’ve had to make in order for me to make my dreams come true.
The moment I moved to L.A., Mom and Dad followed me, leaving my younger, adopted brother, Finn in college. He’d moved out years ago to live with a relative, so he didn’t really care that we up and left. I miss him, but his life went in a different direction. I couldn’t force him to stay, and he wanted to go.
Anyway, with Mom’s retirement check in hand, they bought us a house and supported my acting career.
Like almost every other actor you’ve ever seen, I had a hard time breaking into the business. It took me years to get anything notable. My first real gig was a commercial for SaKs Fifth Ave. The ad ran during the Super Bowl, and earned me commercial upon commercial opportunities.
Now, not to seem ungrateful, but I don’t know anyone who actually wants to act in commercials for a living. It pays shit and it’s a few days worth of money. It helped pay my family back, but it didn’t fulfill that acting ache that I constantly needed to get rid of.
Even after all of the appearances on sitcoms, my few sought-after roles in movies and my Oscar, that ache still hasn’t gone away.
There’s so much left in my career to do. Directors to work with, actors to act alongside, and films to direct myself, I’m still so new to the industry.
Going to school isn’t going to stop me from doing what I love. It’s simply going to enhance my life’s experience.
College wasn’t an option for a star-eyed kid, like me. The thought of going to a big college was daunting. I may love being on stage, but failing at school was a scary fucking thought to my eighteen-year-old self.
I don’t like failing. I needed confidence that I didn’t have as a teenager. Living a bit in my world has helped a lot with that.
This brings me full circle to Lark. No one really knows why my family and I up and left Alabama. As far as my extended family knew, Dad got a new job, and we moved with him.
The story was half true, at least.
Dad eventually did find a job. He was a real estate agent back home, so it wasn’t the craziest idea that he’d been offered a better job here in California. We went with the exaggerated lie, and ran with it.
My mom, dad, and Finn are the only ones who know my true identity.
Once I dyed my hair, legally changed my
name, and gained twenty pounds of muscle, I was a new man and had the opportunity to start fresh.
So, here I am. In Lark’s frat house sitting in my room, debating going to the raging party downstairs. I’ve been here for a day, and I’ve only met one person.
I’m scared shitless.
What if someone recognizes me?
Sure, there are only twelve guys here besides Lark, and most of them are more worried about the next chick they are going to bang than to see though my façade, but now, the house is packed with at least a hundred and fifty people.
It’s ridiculous to worry. I know this. A day from now, I’ll be in a hall filled with college students who have more than likely seen some, if not all of my films.
I decided to color my hair back to its original shade of dirty blonde, trade my signature tight clothes for slightly baggy ones. When the skinny jeans trend hit the runways, I thought it was a damn joke. Tight jeans were made for women, but the more I was forced to wear them, the more I decided I liked them. My junk didn’t flip-flop anymore, and that was fine with me. Going commando is a lot easier.
Insert my signature eyebrow raise here.
So currently, I’m back to my slightly baggy clothes to hide my body, and wear green contacts.
But now, the more I look at myself in the mirror, the more I realize that even the contacts can’t hide my eyes.
I have to be very careful here.
I have to play my role, do everything in my script, and make it out of this experience unscathed.
Whitley was not in my script. I’ve had to re-write that part. The moment I decided I was going to go back to school, I made the promise to myself that I’d have the college experience. That included booze, babes and books.
The three B’s as I like to call it, but now there’s a W in there, and I’m not okay with me needing to re-write the script because she’s all of the sudden in my life again.
Almost a month ago, after I dropped her off, I tried to find ways to see her. I walked up and down the beach near her house, hoping to run into her. I called Holli, kind of asking about Whitley, and I thought maybe I’d get information on her by inviting Holli and Blaine out. I wanted something—anything.
That didn’t happen. I chickened out, and I gave up. My mind was made. Whitley was a glitch. She appeared, messed with my head, and left. It was so quick; I don’t even think I really believed it happened.
Dammit, what’s wrong with me? No woman has ever wiggled her way into my brain like Whitley has.
And then come to find out she’s with Lark? What the fuck?
Then, on the other side of this, she has no idea who I am. To her, I’m just Oliver. She doesn’t know that she knows me. You know what I mean, the fucked up perception that the world has of me.
She doesn’t know the real me.
The question is: what role do I play with her? Am I the bad frat guy? Or the kind never-break-your-heart guy?
My real person is somewhere in the middle. I’ve never been one to settle down, or fall in love. I’ve never really had the time, to be honest. And even when I did think a relationship was getting serious, I act like a dick. I always try to fuck things up, either consciously or unconsciously. I don’t know which.
When a girl does have my attention, she’s my world. She’s the only one I see. I do my best to treat her how she deserves. It just doesn’t last long, and things end.
I’m a fucker. I know that.
As I move down the stairs, the party is in full swing. I waited upstairs for most of the night, avoiding meeting new people, but I figure most of these drunken college kids will be gone by the end of the week.
Hoping to keep my identity a secret for as long as possible, I figured it was best to start with summer classes. Smaller class size, and less people around campus. It’s like baby steps to prepare me for what’s to come when school starts back in August.
Since moving to L.A., I began having anxiety in uncontrolled circumstances. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it’s nerve-racking. I hate not being in control.
My first red carpet was a complete disaster. The moment I stepped onto that carpet and the bulbs started flashing, I lost my bearings and hyperventilated. I turned right around and went back into the limo. It took two anti-anxiety pills and twenty minutes of meditation to get my ass back out there and get shit done.
Since then, I’ve figured out how to control it. And on that rare occasion it does happen, it’s because I have absolutely no idea of the madness I’m about to step into. My brain goes into complete overload and I can’t seem to catch myself from falling into the abyss of the darkness in my mind.
It’s been two years since my last attack, and I don’t want another one to occur any time soon.
So, as I step into the kitchen, I prepare myself for the shoulder bumping, elbow slamming, high-fiving that I’m sure will commence.
“Hey, O,” Zane, the twenty something guy, who lives in the frat house shouts to me as I move toward the fridge. His nickname might bug me on any other occasion, but in the two days I’ve been here, he seems to be the most genuine of all of the guys, so I don’t let it bother me.
“Hey, Zane,” I reply over my shoulder as I open the creaky door. Pulling out a bottle of cheap beer, I pop the top on the edge of the counter and take a swig. It tastes like shit, but I’m not going to complain. I make a mental reminder to buy beer for the next party.
Sliding between a couple making out, and a girl doing a body shot off of one of the guys from the house, I give Zane a fist bump.
“So, how are you liking the house?” Zane asks, moving close to my ear. The music is thumping loudly, and I can barely hear him.
He moves away, and the couple making out next to me, shuffles closer to me. I give them a stern look, but to no avail. In a passionate, yet messy embrace, they couldn’t give a flying fuck-cake about me.
Wish I could say the same.
“It’s good, man. The parties are stellar,” I note, locking eyes with a little redhead making eyes at me on the other side of the kitchen. I clamp my lips together. A smile spreads across her face, and she looks down, acting shy.
Nuh-uh, little one. I know girls like you, you don’t fool me one bit.
Zane follows my gaze and clinks his beer bottle to mine. “Cheers, mate.” I hear a slight British accent, and I wonder where he’s from.
The redhead walks by, making her way to the ice chest, and Zane mutters under his breath. I didn’t catch it, though.
“What was that?” I ask, stepping closer to Zane. The couple sucking each other’s tonsils practically gropes me, and I swat behind me. I hit a leg, but they don’t move away.
Huh? Interesting. That’s gotta be one tongue-infested bubble.
Zane’s eyes sparkle a bit watching the redhead, and I wave my hand in front of his face.
“Dude,” I say. “What the hell?”
His googly eyes make it seem like he has something going on with the redhead, and my interest piques.
The redhead bends down, ever so slowly, making a show of getting a drink, and I take another gulp of beer. I’m not sure whom the show is for, but I’m pretty sure she’s fishing.
“That.” He points to her. “Is Alex. She is a heap of issues. Don’t touch her with a ten-foot pole. I’m telling ya.”
I shake my head, and smile into my beer. “Uh-huh, sure.” She may be five piles of crazy, but I can’t deny the fact that she has a bite-able ass. CHOMP CHOMP.
My beer is gone, and I move toward the fridge, again. Tossing the bottle into the trash next to the make-out twins, a hand snakes out and grabs my ass.
What the fuck?
I turn around, and eye the ass-ogler. It’s none other than the kissing chick. Unbelievable.
With her eyes open, she tongue-fucks her make out buddy, and winks.
Whoa, now.
I quickly move my eyes away from her gaze, and keep on walking. My eyes feel dirty, like I need to wash them.
I
s this how college girls are? Mouth raping someone one minute, then finding another candidate the next?
I mean—I could be okay with that, I guess.
The three B’s, dammit! Go with the flow.
Alex approaches me. “You’ve got killer eyes, handsome.” She offers her dainty hand. I figure, what the hell, and bring it to my lips.
Bat-shit crazy or not, she’s smokin’.
“Thanks,” I say, giving her body a good once over. She’s thin. Almost too thin, like she’s brittle, and I bite back walking away. I’m not one of those guys who’d openly admit to wanting a fuller woman, but I do.
Don’t get me wrong, all women are attractive, it’s just—I want a little something more to a woman’s body. If I can feel your bones underneath my fingers, it makes my little soldier sad. He wants something to hold on to.
“So, uh, you wanna get out of here?” she asks in a seductive voice. I’m sure it works on men, but I need three or ten more beers in me before I go spit swappin’ with this girl.
“Actually.” I bring my face close to her ear, blowing. “I was thinking about doing some body shots. You in?”
She shivers, bites her lip, eyes dancing.
Bingo!
Pulling her arm, leading her toward the countertop, I give a smirk in Zane’s direction. Beer spews from his mouth, and he laughs out loud.
I shake my head at him, trying my damndest not to smile.
I give him another look. With his hands cupped around his eyes, he moves them side-to-side, looking crazy, mouthing, ‘coo-koo.’
I stifle a laugh, pulling Alex forward.
“Hey handsome.” Alex taps my shoulder, causing me to stop and turn.
I bite my bottom lip, giving my sultriest look. “Yeah?”
She laces our fingers together, bringing me near to her body. “What’s your name?”
I chuckle and look down at our hands. “My name is Jen—Oliver.”
Holy fucking mother of dammit. Seriously, Jennings? What the fuck? I start to sweat, and try to look away from her penetrating gaze. Her eyes seek me out, and I’m forced to stare.
Her eyes narrow, but she simply smiles. “Oliver, I’m Alex.”
Anyone but Him Page 6
