by Lex Martin
Hitting on the resident assistant, the upperclassman paid to keep an eye on all of the kids in the dorms, was never my thing. My RA freshman year, Tao, was five two and into Jesus. Not my scene.
I can’t imagine who would want to be an RA. Tao was always rushing some poor slob to the hospital with random broken bits. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he found my friend Sarah passed out, piss-drunk, with a broken ankle. How she managed to vomit on all four walls of her dorm room before she went down is beyond me.
Tapping my pen, I shift in my seat.
I’ve spent the last three months trying to get in the zone, grappling with ideas, but I only ended up with a journal full of manic-looking drawings.
This has to fucking work.
I breathe deeply, the smell of stale Cheetos assaulting my nose.
If I can get into a writing routine again, I can do this. I’ve done it before.
I keep telling myself the same crap, hoping something clicks. All summer, I’ve tried to be positive, and trust me, that’s no easy feat.
My knee starts to jiggle, and just as I’m about to go into full-out crisis mode, a voice startles me.
“Darlin’, now you don’t look like a freshman.”
Turning slightly, I see him in my peripheral vision, leaning in the doorway. The RA.
“That’s because I’m not,” I say flatly.
“So what are you doing in Warren Towers? I mean, why would you willingly hang out here? I get paid to be here. What’s your excuse?”
He’s joking. I get it. But I’m not in the mood.
“Just looking for some white noise,” I say, returning to my journal. I feel his eyes on me, and my face starts to heat. “Look, I’m not some creeper if that’s what you’re getting at. I just need a little inspiration.”
I jot down random words, hoping something can pull me out of my writing coma: suitcases, hot RAs, condoms, diet Coke, donuts.
Trying to ignore the intensity of his stare, I gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I’ve always loved this view. Boston is alive with color, rich with the burnt sienna of brownstones that bake in the August sun. Walls of ivy ripple in the breeze off the Charles River, making me wish I could go for a run.
Nostalgia tugs at me as I think about how much has happened since I lived here freshman year. I got the idea for my book in this very seat three years ago. And I’m hoping like hell I can do it again.
A quick glance at the clock feels like a punch to the gut. At this rate, I’m never going to figure out my next book if I can’t get in the zone. And I have to get in the zone. No one will pay my bills if I don’t, and Boston University doesn’t exactly have a soft spot for poor little rich girls. Because on paper, I’m silver-spoon-up-my-bum wealthy, the daughter of two Fortune 500 assholes. Unfortunately, my parents never got the memo they’re supposed to give a shit about my life.
Who knows what I did to piss them off? It’s immaterial at this point. The bottom line is I need money. Pronto.
I have one thing on my side. On a good day, if the stars align and the fates agree, I can write my ass off. Which helped at the end of my freshman year when I received the letter from the bursar’s office noting that I owed a cool twenty grand.
It’s ironic that my novel, which highlighted one of the most humiliating moments of my life, helped pay that bill.
I haven’t been able to write anything on par with Say It Isn’t So, my one and only book, the lucky ticket that bailed me out of debt. But I guess I haven’t had to. What started off as maudlin ramblings in my diary that I shaped into a narrative somehow jumped up the charts and became an indie bestseller.
The RA clears his throat, pulling me from my thoughts. “And you thought you’d find inspiration here, a freshman dorm?”
I don’t have to look up to know he’s grinning.
How the hell do you hear someone smile? my inner voice quips.
He chuckles. “Are you having any luck? Finding inspiration?”
Finally, my eyes sweep up, and my stomach instantly lurches. He’s tall with dark, shaggy hair that flops in his face. Intense green eyes stare back. The girls were right. He is good-looking. He smiles a dazzling, megawatt grin, and my chest clenches at the thought that he probably has lickable abs.
Oh, for the love of God, Clem, get a grip.
I bite my lower lip until it stings, and my eyes dart back to my journal.
“No,” I say, wishing I had more time to write. “No luck with inspiration.”
My jaw clenches as my pen returns to drawing circles. Ignoring the hammering of my heart that I hope has everything to do with my looming tuition bill and nothing to do with Henry Cavill’s doppelgänger, I flip through the pages in front of me, desperate to find something that will help me get my shit together.
He shifts in the doorway.
“I’m Gavin, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say half-heartedly. My body, on autopilot, starts to pack my stuff even though it’s too early.
Shit. Fuck-it-all-to-hell shit! You can’t go. You don’t have anything figured out yet!
“And… you… would… be?”
“Leaving.” My inner voice sighs at me. Always such a bitch, Clem.
“Yeah, that’s not what I meant.” He sounds amused.
I swing my messenger bag over my shoulder.
“I know what you meant,” I say, glancing up as he blocks my exit.
He’s taller than I thought… and built…
The fact that my heart beats even faster the second I smell his citrusy cologne pisses me off. I pride myself on being a modern girl, one who doesn’t need a man, especially if all he’ll do is break my heart. So the idea that this guy and his little smirk give me kamikaze butterflies aggravates me more.
I let out an exasperated sigh as I wait for him to move out of the way, my eyes traveling along his bulging bicep, which strains against his t-shirt.
Stop. Checking. Him. Out.
I shake my head at myself as I scoot around him and head for the elevator. I press the button and wait all of three seconds before I punch it again.
“You know, you’re on the eighteenth floor. This could take a while,” he says behind me. “I’m guessing you probably have more than enough time to tell me your name.” He chuckles again, apparently undeterred by my fuck-off vibe.
This doesn’t mean anything. Just because you didn’t get an idea today doesn’t mean anything.
Nerves jumble my stomach, and I half consider taking the stairs when the elevator doors slide open and relief floods my chest. I don’t know why I have to get away from here right now, but I do.
I get in and turn around. Obnoxiously sexy RA guy is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me. Our eyes meet, and he raises his eyebrows.
As the doors start to close, I feel a twinge of guilt.
Ugh. Fine.
“Clem. My name is Clementine.”
The doors close, but not before I catch him grin.
Purchase on AMAZON.
FINDING DANDELION
Have you read Jax's story yet? It's available now on Amazon if you haven't.
When soccer all-star Jax Avery collides with Dani Hart on his twenty-first birthday, their connection is instantaneous and explosive. For the first time in years, Jax isn’t interested in his usual hit-it and quit-it approach.
But Dani knows better. Allowing herself a night to be carefree and feel the intensity of their attraction won’t change anything when it comes to dealing with a player. So when Jax doesn’t recognize Dani the next time he sees her, it shouldn’t be a total shock. The fact that he’s her new roommate's brother? That’s a shock.
Dani doesn’t regret that night with Jax, just the need to lie about it. Since her roommate has made it clear what she thinks about her brother’s “type” of girl, the last thing Dani wants is to admit what happened.
Jax knows he’s walking a fine line on the soccer tea
m. One more misstep and he’s off the roster, his plans to go pro be damned. Except he can’t seem to care. About anything… except for the one girl who keeps invading his dreams.
Despite Jax’s fuzzy memory of his hot hookup with his sister’s friend, he can’t stay away from her, even if that means breaking his own rules. But there are bigger forces at work–realities that can end Dani’s college career and lies that can tear them apart.
Jax realizes what he’s losing if Dani walks away, but will he sacrifice his future to be with her? And will she let him if he does?
Finding Dandelion, the second book in the Dearest series, is a standalone novel. This new adult romance is recommended for readers 18+ due to mature content.
* * *
Purchase Finding Dandelion on AMAZON.
Excerpt of Finding Dandelion
PROLOGUE
- DANI -
Goosebumps line my skin as Travis threads his fingers through mine. Closing my eyes, I brace myself.
“You sure you want to do this, Dani?” He sounds nervous even though he’s the one who sold me on the idea in the first place. “It’s going to hurt. A lot.”
Brady laughs. “Man, don’t scare her.”
Brady is hot, all ridges and taut muscles and menacing tattoos, and I know he’s staring down at my naked back right now. He’s so out of my league.
Of course this is the only way I’d get a guy like that to touch me.
Swallowing, I nod and clutch my shirt to my chest. “Let’s do this. I’m not chickening out.”
I’ve done my homework, researched optimal positioning, pain, methods, everything. Now I just have to take the plunge. This is going to be my year of firsts.
“That a girl. I promise I’ll be gentle.” Brady moves away from me, and the buzzing starts and stops.
Travis’s grip tightens as he leans down and whispers, “If your mother knew you were doing this, she’d kill me.”
I yank my hand from his and swat my best friend. “What’s the matter with you? Now is not the time to talk about my mother.”
A black gloved hand runs across my shoulder as Brady lowers the strap on my lacy, black bra. Hell, yes, I wore my sexy underwear.
He lowers his voice. “This is going to be cold.”
All of my muscles tense, and he chuckles.
“Honey, relax. This isn’t my first time.” Brady’s voice is sultry and deep, sending chills across me. He rubs my skin slowly, the smell of alcohol thick in the air. “I’ll take good care of you. What’s in your head is worse than the reality. Trust me. It’ll hurt at first, but you’ll get used to it, and you’ll only be sore for a couple of days.”
Shit. I’m really going through with this.
I glance over my shoulder and look him in the eye.
Brady smiles, and butterflies swirl in my stomach. He presses a finger into my trapezius muscle. “Right here?”
Nodding, I close my eyes and rest my chin on the back of the chair.
“This is beautiful, by the way.” He taps on the translucent piece of paper.
“It’s the North Star. To help me find my way.” I say this more for myself.
Brady presses the paper against me and rubs. Then the buzzing starts again, and the needle cuts into my skin.
CHAPTER ONE
(Three weeks later)
- DANI -
My fingertip traces the lines on my shoulder where my tattoo sits, muscle memory taking my hand to the axis where North and South intersect and where I hope to find balance. A mooring. Some stability.
I can feel it in my bones. Hope. A smile tilts my lips as I start to buy into my pep talk.
My smile grows… until my new co-worker drops a stack of work in front of me.
Laura gives me an empty smile. “I already have plans this weekend, so I’m leaving this for you. As the marketing major, this should be right up your alley, right?”
Our junior year of college hasn’t started yet, and she’s already bailing on me. Biting my cheek, I reach around to re-stack the documents.
Laura and I are Professor Zinzer’s new assistants. We’ll be coordinating all of the other work-study students in the art lab this fall while we prep materials for his classes. He always takes on one art student and one business student to manage his office. Because my best friend Travis had Zinzer last semester, I got the inside track on this gig and beat out dozens of other business applicants.
I tuck the pile of work into my messenger bag, not bothering to smile.
“Zin needs it by Monday,” she chirps.
In other words, he needs it the Monday of Labor Day weekend. My jaw tightens.
Laura doesn’t look even remotely guilty for dumping this on me. As she tosses her hair over her shoulder, she says, “Thanks, Dani.” Her not-so-subtle appraisal of me makes me squirm. “You’re so… nice.”
If I were a cartoon, steam would be pouring from my ears. I’ve never hated a word so much in my life. If one more person tells me I’m nice, I’m going to lose it.
Nice gets me dumped on. Pushed around. Ignored.
When I was a kid, I thought I merely had manners. What the hell is wrong with being polite? But now I see this characteristic doesn’t cut it in Boston where everyone is so much edgier. The Midwest is just a friendlier place. In Chicago, when someone runs into you, the person says, “Excuse me.” Here, I get cursed at or shoved. I’ve gotten used to this faster pace of life, but it doesn’t diminish the fact that I can be such a goddamn pushover.
My mother would tell me to “fuck nice.” I chuckle to myself. She has a mouth that’s worse than half the frat boys at this school.
I guess that’s what happens when you almost die of angiosarcoma.
The laughter withers on my lips, and I blink back the sudden onslaught of emotion that comes whenever I think of my mom. She fought like hell to survive, even after she lost all of her hair and both breasts. And she beat it. For now at least.
By the time I get to my dorm suite, I’m still wrestling with what I wish I had told Laura. Why can’t I find the words when I’m in the moment? As I stare at the pile of work that sits near the edge of my desk, a tight ball of frustration coils in my stomach. I’m going to be holed up all weekend preparing my professor’s brochures instead of unpacking.
My eyes drift to the wall of boxes in the small room I’m sharing with a girl I met last semester. Jenna is a riot. We took a sociology class together. It was such a snooze that to entertain ourselves, we’d write pervy notes to each other to see who could make the other laugh. She always won. And, yeah, my professor hated me. But, come on—when Jenna wrote, “I wanna choke on your thick man-slinky,” I couldn’t help but bust out laughing.
Her Southern drawl and perfect blonde hair throws you off. First you think she might be a really uptight biatch, but then she slings an arm around you and acts like she’s known you for ages. I’m not totally sure how she’s BFFs with our other roommate, though. I’ve only met Clem once, but the girl is a glacier. Hello, she rolled her eyes at me when I asked if she liked The Vampire Diaries.
On my way out the door to run a few errands, I pause in front of a mirror to smooth back my long hair. My reflection reminds me of my mother. Everyone tells me I look exactly like her when she was young. I have big green eyes, pale skin, and dark brown hair except for the swaths of pink I dyed last month, and thanks to Victoria’s Secret, I have a few well-placed curves.
Opting to skip any makeup, I grab my jacket and head out.
The train ride is quick, and when I step out into the bright afternoon sun, I have to shield my eyes. As I wait for the light to change so I can cross the street, I find myself staring at a guy trying to get what must be ten pizza boxes through the door of a restaurant a few feet away. I walk over and grab the handle to hold it open. Out of the corner of my eye, I see blonde hair streak across the restaurant a second before I hear the girl giggle.
“Hope you and your friends can handle all this pizza,” she says, all breath
y. I don’t know if she’s trying to be sexy or if she’s out of breath from doing the fifty-yard dash to talk to him.
I roll my eyes while I stand there, still opening the door. The guy’s shoulder presses up against the pane of glass, and he laughs.
“I’m sure we can handle it. Thanks, uh—”
“Tamara.”
“Thanks, Tamara.”
Through the glass, I see her wave a piece of paper. “Here, call me if you decide you need an extra mouth for all that… food.” The way she says “mouth” tells me she is not talking about the pizza. Gross.
Her silhouette disappears briefly on the other side of him. His hands are on the tower of pizzas, and I don’t see him reach for the paper, but then his back arches like he’s surprised.
When she steps back, her hands are empty. Okay, I think she just shoved her number into the pocket of this guy’s jeans.
All righty.
He clears his throat. “Yeah, thanks, doll,” he says to the blonde.
When he steps back onto the sidewalk, I get my first good look at him. He’s wearing aviators, so I can’t see his eyes, but the rest of him is all kinds of sexy. Tall and lean. Skin the color of light caramel like he’s been out in the sun. Brownish-blond hair tousled in a devil-may-care kind of way. His biceps, which are corded in muscle, pull at his t-shirt, and I can’t help but stare.
An SUV pulls up behind me, and a guy shouts, “Hurry the hell up, Jax. I’m not going to circle the block again.”
Jax laughs and turns slightly. He finally sees me and tilts his head. He clears his throat again.
“Sorry. I’m being an ass, blocking the doorway.”
I blink.
He smiles down at me, and I think the heavens part because he’s so damn beautiful it hurts to look at him, but before I can get the courage to say something, anything, his friend honks. Jax looks to the SUV and then back to me, smiles again, and walks away.
