Contemporary Nights Volume One

by C. J. Ellisson

  “Why are you so mad about this?”

  “Because it pisses me off that you don’t see it.”

  “See what?”

  “Exactly.” She thrusts her fingers through her hair and I’m temporarily paralyzed at the way she pulls it off her face. How do girls do that, render us guys completely helpless with nothing more than a hair flip? “Okay, because I’m your friend, I’m just going to come out with it. They don’t want you, Ryan. The truth hurts, babe.”

  She says it like I don’t already know that. What kind of idiot does she take me for? I’m not blind. Or deaf. But I’m a Ryan and my family would flat out disown me if I didn’t at least try to fit in. Hell, they may disown me anyway.

  I don’t want to think about that right now and focus on why Emma is sitting inside my mod. “How exactly are you going to turn all of this into something girls want?”

  “First, don’t call us girls. Call us ladies. Or women. We stopped being girls when we got our period.”

  I cringe and shudder.

  “What is it with guys and periods?”

  “We don’t have them.”

  “Well, duh. But you don’t have to act like I just described something out of a Final Destination movie.” She touches her hair again and I want to touch it, too. “Moving on.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Oh, stop being such a baby. Okay, we’ve already got the name out of the way.”

  “Wait,” I speak up. “Why do I have to go by my last name? What’s wrong with Harry? The popular kid from that British boy band One Direction’s name is Harry.”

  “If you looked like him, you could get away with it. What’s your middle name?”

  “Bartholomew.”

  “Harold Bartholomew? Did your parents want you to get beat up a lot? It’s like they picked the two worst names to call you. Why not give you a girl’s name to really make your life hell. What’s your full name?”

  I hesitate, knowing what’s coming when I tell her. “Harold Bartholomew Francis Ryan.” I’m devastated and drop my shoulders when she laughs, which immediately shuts her up. “And yes, it got me beat up. A lot.”

  “Then we stick with Ryan.”

  “Ryan it is.” At least then people wouldn’t give me that look when they hear my last name, not if they think it’s my first name. We have Hawks Stadium, courtesy of the Ryan Foundation. And several grants for football equipment, as well as funding for the next several years for some of the top disease research scientists in the world.

  And my dad is the head of the board that runs it all.

  Could I get girls by dropping that little bomb? Sure. Are they girls I want? Hell, no. Why would I want someone only interested in my status? Or the amount of money in my bank account? Now that I’m going to be a true Delta, I’ll have to pretend to be shallow, so maybe it’s time to let the news out. My brother has been using it to get laid for years, so it obviously works.

  “Earth to Ryan.”

  I snap out of my thoughts. “What?”

  “How blind are you without your glasses?”

  I join her at the counter and make sure I’m stationary before I take off my glasses. “Hold up some fingers.” When I see a blur of what I think may be a piece sign, I blurt out, “Two.”

  “Try again.”

  Nothing changes from what I can see, so I wait.

  “Well?”

  “Did you change them?”

  “Yes. Can’t you see my fingers?”

  “No. And,” I say and slip my thick specs back on. “I couldn’t even see your hand, let alone which fingers you had up.”

  “Wow, you really are blind. Do you have contacts?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t like wearing them. I have this thing against sticking stuff in my eye.”

  She gives me a knowing smile and damn if it doesn’t make me smile in return. “If you want to stick anything else into, well, anything else, lose the glasses.”

  I can’t breathe. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  She rolls her eyes and sighs. “Do I have to explain everything? I’m trying to get you laid, Ryan.”

  “Right. I knew that.” I didn’t really know that. Well, I sort of knew that. Why do girls—ladies—insist in talking in code? Why not just come out and say it?

  “Sure you did. Now, do you have a pair of scissors?”

  “Why?” I lean away from her, not trusting that look glimmering in her eyes.

  “Because I want to run with them.”

  “In that case.” I jump up and grab a pair out of the drawer in the kitchen, and slide them across the counter toward her. “Knock yourself out.”

  Without warning, she yawns and it pops her jaw. “Come here. I’m going to cut your hair.”

  “Not after you’ve been drinking cherry syrup.”

  She lifts her beer. “I’ve moved on. Now get over here.”

  “No way. Not until you sober up.”

  “It’s not like I’m falling down drunk.” She yawns again and blinks wide. Damn, she’s fading fast.

  “You’re barely keeping your eyes open.”

  “Fine.” She sets the scissors on the counter. “Let me pierce your ear then.”

  I cover my ears and I literally feel the blood drain from my face.

  She laughs. “Oh, my God. You look like you’re five right now.”

  I love her laugh. It’s husky, like she pulled the sound from the depths of her soul. “No piercings, not even when you’re sober. I draw the lines at needles.”

  “I suppose tattoos are out of the question, too?” She wiggles her flirty brow.

  I’ll pass out at the sight of the first needle, but decide to keep that to myself. “Listen…uh… Hey, I don’t even know your name.” I really want her to tell it to me.

  She winks and I’m ready to come undone. “See? You really are more like a Delta than you realize. You’re taking a woman home when you don’t even know her name.”

  Chapter Four

  Emma

  The color comes back in his cheeks as he narrows his eyes. “You really don’t like Deltas, do you?”

  “No. I think they are all arrogant asshats with egos the size of Bainbridge Island.”

  “And yet you want to turn me into one.”

  “No,” I correct. “You want me to turn you into one. I’m simply showing you how.”

  That shuts him up.

  “Fine,” he admits after several seconds of studying me. “Do me.”

  I cough on my beer and not only spit it all over my shirt, I go to set the bottle on the counter, miss, and drop the bottle in my lap. The remainder of the cold liquid saturates my jeans. I jump up, but the damage is done. I’m soaked and now smell like I’ve just spent the night in the dumpster behind the bar. “Jesus Christ, Ryan. You can’t say shit like that. Now look at me.”

  “Here, let me help.” He unbuttons his shirt, pulls it off, and tries to wipe me down. I smack him away. When he cops a feel, I grab his hand and twist it so far around he drops to his knees.

  “In your dreams, lo—” I stop as I choke on the last of my word. Holy sweet Mother of all things good. He didn’t just have a six-pack. Oh, no. His six-pack had a six-pack. And those biceps were a thing of sculpted perfection. Nerds definitely didn’t have bodies that made women want to lick them from head-to-toe. “Are you shitting me?”

  He follows my gaze to his holy shit tight abs and stands when I let his hand go. “What?”

  “Have any of the Deltas seen you naked?”

  “It’s not that kind of house.”

  “Ryan, look at you. You’re like a romance cover model. Jesus. Why in the hell are you covering that under this?” I hold up his ugly plaid shirt.

  When he doesn’t answer, I take the shirt and rip it at the sleeve.

  “Hey! That was from my mom!”

  I rip off the other sleeve and then hand it back to him. “Now you may wear it, but only when you’re working on something. And you can’t button it.
Ever.”

  He looks at me, clearly unsure whether to put it back on or not.

  The beer is starting to dry and stick to me. I feel gross and know I’m going to have to change out of my clothes before the mixture of maraschino martinis and beer—both in me and on me—causes me to throw up.

  “Do you have something I can change into?”

  He hands me his shirt and I just look at him.

  With a ridiculously cute grin, he gives me a nod before disappearing into what I assume is his bedroom. He returns with a t-shirt and pair of shorts, both about ten sizes too big for me. I take them and thin my lips. It is what it is. I go into the bathroom to change.

  The minute I walk into the bathroom, I turn around and walk back out, shock plunging through my body. Guys are supposed to be slobs. His bathroom is cleaner than a five-star hotel’s.

  He snaps his brow into a frown. “What is it?”

  “Do Deltas have cleaning services or something?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Do you have a girlfriend and / or a personal maid of any kind?”

  “No.”

  “And you are seriously not screwing with me right now?”

  He takes his time eyeing my body and my nipples harden, both from the beer and my reaction to him mentally fucking me. I have to admit, I like the way he’s looking at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your bathroom is so clean you can eat off that floor.”

  “And that’s a problem?”

  “Guys aren’t that clean, Ryan. You’re going to have to learn to be more of a slob if you want to get the girl.”

  He narrows his gaze. “That makes absolutely no sense. Change in my room if it makes you feel better. I promise you. That’s much messier.”

  I don’t trust him and march into his room to prove him wrong. But he’s right. It’s not that much messier, but it is more lived in. A couple pairs of pants on the floor. Some shirts in the corner. Oh, and look at that. He wears boxers. Good to know it’s one less thing I’ll have to groom about him.

  After changing out of my clothes and realizing my bra is soaked as well, I toss it aside and throw the shirt on over my head. At least my panties are still dry. What a crime. I giggle at my thought.

  No matter how I try, I can’t get the shorts to stay up. The shirt hangs down low enough that it doesn’t matter anyway, so I leave them on the floor. Yawning, I then glance at the bed. Why I have the sudden urge to smell his pillow I can’t even begin to justify, but I do so I climb onto the bed and steal a glance at the door before leaning over and taking in a big sniff.

  Holy Jesus on skates. How in the hell did he get his pillow to smell like that? It makes no sense why I have such an overwhelming reaction to a scent. A jolt of something awakens inside me and pulses hard. My once dry panties aren’t so much now. I squeeze my bare thighs together to alleviate the sudden throb attacking my clit. Jesus, even with the couple of times with Ted from the lacrosse team, quite possibly the best lover in the fucking world—literally—I never had that kind of reaction. What the hell?

  I take in another breath, just to make sure my body’s reaction isn’t a fluke.

  “What are you doing?”

  I jump off the bed as guilt pounds in my cheeks. “I’m just, uh… Nothing.”

  “Were you sniffing my pillow?” He has a crazy spark in his eye and I don’t like it. It’s like he already knows what I was doing and just wants me to admit it.

  “No,” I tell him in the most accusatory tone I have.

  “Then what were you doing on my bed?”

  “Changing.” I even motion to the stylish gray t-shirt I now have on.

  “On my bed?”

  “Jesus, Ryan. Let it go. Demanding answers from a woman is not the way to get into her pants.” I storm past him and back into the living room to grab my beer off the counter. It’s empty and I set it back down.

  “Point taken. What’s next?”

  I’m still trying to make sense over the reaction I’m having from smelling the scent on his pillow. I can’t think about next moves when I want to make a few of my own. “Is it really after midnight? No wonder I’m so tired.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Everything. “Look, I have a class at nine.”

  “Your lab. I know.”

  Okay, now he’s creeping me out. “Are you stalking me? How do you know that?”

  “I work in the computer lab.” He sounds annoyed. Dare I say, even offended. “I’ll sleep on the couch. Take the bed since you like the smell of it so much.”

  “Aha! You knew what I was doing all along.”

  He doesn’t even bother to look at me as he passes to go back into his bedroom. Once he has a pillow and comforter, he walks by again and tosses them on the couch. I stand there as he kicks off his shoes and practically throws himself down.

  “Ryan?”

  “What?”

  I’m so not good at this. “Are you pissed?”

  He sits up and looks at me over the top of the couch. “Of course I’m pissed. I’ve sat in classes with you for almost two years now and you still have no idea who I am. I finally get enough balls to talk to you and you not only shoot me down, you almost get me beat up by the head of my own house. On top of all of that, you think I’m a zero.”

  “Okay,” I snap, pissed he won’t let that go. “Finish your rant, for fuck’s sake. Scream. Punch something. Get over it. If you can’t grow a bigger set, we’re going to have a problem. I can’t pretend to be the girlfriend of a complete pussy.”

  He stands and takes his time approaching me. I try not to stare at his abs but fail. Damn, they make me want to touch them. The closer her gets, the harder it is to resist reaching out.

  “My balls are just fine the size they are.”

  We stare each other down. When my lips twitch, so do his. And then he chuckles. I giggle in return. Next thing I know, we are both laughing so hard I’m crying.

  “I can’t believe you said that,” I say and wipe at the tears in my eyes.

  “I can’t believe you insulted the size of my balls.”

  That sends us into another fit of ridiculous laughter. I blame the alcohol. “Okay, fine. How about we finish this fight tomorrow? I’m exhausted.” When I pad down the hallway toward his room, I notice him following me and my heart flips out. “What are you doing?”

  “Changing into my pajamas.”

  “Pajamas?” I snort. “You call them pajamas?”

  “That’s what they are.”

  “PJs,” I correct. “And even then, what guy wears PJs?”

  “This guy.” He pushes past me and enters his room. I follow to see whether or not I approve of these PJs or if they will end up at Goodwill with the rest of his wardrobe.

  He has his pants down around his knees by the time I walk in. “Whoa there, cowboy.”

  “Do you mind?”

  I stare at his ass for several seconds and even turn my head to study it from a different direction. How did I miss that ass? The way it curves. The way my hands itch to touch it. “No, I don’t mind.”

  “Quit looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?” I’m still staring at his backside.

  He grabs a pair of flannel PJ bottoms and covers up my view. I frown and dart my gaze to his, then drop it altogether when he glares at me. I shrug and pretend interest in my nails.

  “Like that.”

  “What?” I don’t bother trying to hide it. He already caught me. “You have a nice ass, Ryan. Don’t be afraid to show it off.”

  Color splashes his cheek and he hurries out of the room. I follow him yet again. By the time I get into the living room, he’s already on the couch with the comforter up over his head.

  “Why are you so embarrassed?”

  “Go away.”

  I groan and grab the comforter to yank it off. He resists at first but eventually he lets me win and I throw it down to his feet. “What is your problem?”

  “Right now?
You.”

  “Me?” I’m pissed. I’m shocked. I want to say something to piss him off in return. “I’m trying to help you. Screw you if you’re too blind to see that.”

  “Go to bed.”

  Not knowing what else to do, I grab the comforter and storm into the bedroom. Once I straighten out his sheets, I climb into bed and pull the comforter around me. Within a minute that felt like an eternity, he walks into the room.

  “What do you want?” I snap.

  His voice is low, even, as he speaks. “You took my blanket.”

  “You pissed me off.”

  “Can I have it back?”

  “No.” To demonstrate how serious I am, I tighten it around me.

  He walks out, only to return an instant later with a pillow in his hand. Instead of him ripping the comforter off me like I did him, he stretches out on the other side of the bed.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper, my voice not strong enough for anything else.

  “I’m going to sleep.”

  My heart jumps to my throat. Is he about to try something? “You said you were sleeping on the couch.”

  “I changed my mind.” He grabs the comforter and pulls some of it over him. And does nothing else.

  I roll to face him and prop my head up on my hand. “Are you playing me right now?”

  He folds the pillow in half and rests his head on it as he curls his arm under. I can’t help but notice how much more defined his bicep is when he does that. “I don’t understand what that means.”

  And I can tell by that confusion and curiosity swirling in his gaze he really doesn’t understand. Either that or he’s one hell of an actor. How else can someone get to be in his twenties and be so clueless? “Tell me something. Why does a guy with a body like yours cover it with plaid and polyester?”

  He looks at me for several seconds. “There’s more to a person than image.”

  Spoken like a true nerd. “Not with first impressions.”

  “Then maybe I’m looking for someone interested in the second impression.” He removes his glasses and places them on the nightstand before clicking off the lamp. The light from the street bleeds in so I can still see everything, especially him. “Now, go to sleep. You’ve got an early class and I have to work.”