Lust

by Dukey, Ker

  A cold-sweat breaks over my skin, and my chest begins to pound, roaring in my own ears.

  There are people rushing past me, their lives put together, their paths laid out and set, and here I am, a fucking mess.

  The grounds appear to expand in size before me showing me just how little I matter.

  My father’s words echo in my thoughts.

  “I give him six months before he fucks up and gets kicked out. He’s a jock, Caroline, not college potential.”

  Unlike every other father in history, mine hated that I played football. He didn’t want me wasting my brains by getting them knocked out of me on a field. It embarrassed him that I was into sports and not the family businesses.

  “Football is for people who have no other choices.” He used to scoff at me as he spent my mother’s money and worked for a firm her father created and passed down to her.

  Just as my lungs begin squeezing the life from them, a soft thud hits my back, and a female topples to the concrete beside me.

  Paper rains down around her like confetti, and an “oomph” sounds from her lungs as a book lands on top of her chest with a thump.

  Pride and Prejudice.

  Jane Eyre.

  “Christ,” she squeaks out, looking up at me with wide, clear eyes, a perfectly formed O on her full, thick lips.

  “I’m so sorry,” she quickly says, rubbing her palms together before removing the book and picking up the paper, shoving it inside the pages.

  Dropping to my haunches, I help collect her papers, my eyes roaming briefly over one.

  It’s a flyer for a book club. Meetings on a Saturday. Who the fuck goes to book club on a Saturday?

  “I honestly should look where I’m going. I’m clumsy, and was so engrossed in my book—then bang, whoosh. And now I’m sitting on the ground mumbling to the most prettiest guy I’ve ever seen.”

  She laughs awkwardly, blushing a wild red and then covering her mouth to try to shove the words back inside.

  I raise a brow, and her eyes expand behind red-framed glasses. “Did I say that out loud?”

  A chuckle rumbles from my chest, and it’s then I realize she knocked my panic attack right out of me.

  Blonde messy curls cascade down her shoulders, stopping at her tits hidden inside a blouse covered by a pink fluffy sweater. Creamy legs spill from underneath a black skirt that’s ridden up her thighs. Flat ballerina pumps finish her outfit. It’s cute, bookish, but with a hidden sultry vibe that comes from her peaches and cream skin, just enough on show to entice, but not enough to make her look slutty.

  I move back up her body and catch her eyes watching me.

  Large, oval blue eyes take up her heart-shaped face. They’re almost violet and dancing with curiosity. Her petite nose wrinkles, tugging up her full top lip.

  “Hey,” she finally says, offering me her hand.

  “Rhett Masters.” I take her small hand in mine and shake it.

  A crease forms on her forehead. “From Garden Grove High School?” She poses it as a question, but recognition sparks in her blue eyes.

  “I guess I’m not as unknown here as I thought.” I wink down at her, and she doesn’t do what every other female in my life has done.

  She doesn’t melt.

  Well, fuck me.

  Getting to her feet, she dusts down her skirt, then hugs the book to her chest like a Rhett-proof vest.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, sweetness.” I lay on the charm, swiping my tongue out to wet my lips. She watches the movement, and the rosy tint to her flesh spreads down her neck.

  If I were to open her blouse, I bet it would be all the way down to her tits, making her nipples tingle.

  “You played our football team last summer. It was a charity sports thing, otherwise I would have never attended.”

  She wrinkles her nose again, but this time, in disgust, like she’s smelled something that offended her nostrils.

  There’s something that changed her attitude from apologetic, almost flirty, to grievance. Maybe it’s Football, or rather a football player—me. Did we beat her team? We beat every team.

  “And?” I coax. I played a lot of games and need her to elaborate on this one.

  Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she pushes her glasses up her nose and looks at her toes.

  “You hooked up with my best friend, then never called her.” She frowns gathering her pieces of paper from my hand and stuffing them with the rest.

  I rub a hand through my hair, a soft shrug lifting my shoulder. It makes her flinch. It’s slight, but she’s uncomfortable, or even pissed, at my response.

  “Not going to lie, sweetheart. I don’t do the whole calling thing, and I would have made that clear to your friend before I fucked her.”

  A gasp whooshes from her, and she shakes her head, her petite, little nose wrinkling once more. It’s cute as fuck.

  She’s like some sexy, innocent librarian type. It’s not what I’d usually go for, but there is no denying her beauty.

  “I said hooked up, not…what you said.”

  “Fucked,” I offer, just to see the flush of her skin.

  She doesn’t let me down. Perfect.

  I bet that’s the same color she turns after she comes. My thoughts turn to picturing her naked, and I wonder if the blonde curls are a theme for every part of her.

  “She didn’t do that with you,” she snaps, demanding my focus.

  I hold my hands up in surrender. Damn, this girl needs to chill out. Since when did hook-up not mean fucking? And since when was saying fuck offensive?

  “Well, great to meet you…?”

  “Chastity,” she almost whispers.

  Of course that’s her name. A grin lifts my lips as I walk backwards a few steps so I can commit all those curves to my memory. It’s been a while since lustful thoughts have taken root in my mind, and it almost makes me feel like the old me.

  By the time I get inside, the halls are quiet, with only a few people milling around. I check my watch, and then the map I was given by some high-on-life dude at the entrance.

  My hands are loaded with a hundred other flyers shoved at me by students recruiting for frat houses, roommates, and party invitations. Unlike high school, no one appears to be excluded from the parties. Every person who walked by had the papers pushed into their hands.

  I navigate the corridor and come to the counselor’s office. Best to get this over with.

  Rapping my knuckles on the door, I ignore the pounding of my heart in my chest. I didn’t want to do this—didn’t want to talk about things. About him.

  “Come in,” a feminine voice calls out, and as I push open the door the idea of being able to seduce a female so I don’t have to share crosses my mind.

  A slim, petite woman stands to greet me, and I’m taken back by how youthful she appears. In truth, I was expecting some old dude, but this woman has to be in her thirties at most—and she’s hot.

  Black hair the color of spilled ink is sleeked back into a high ponytail, cat like eyes look over me with intrigue, and thin, red-painted lips offer a hint of a smile as she introduces herself.

  “I’m Mrs. Griffin, but I allow students to call me Lillian.”

  Griffin…wasn’t the dean’s name Griffin?

  “Yes,” she answers my unasked question.

  “I’m the dean’s wife, but I assure you that doesn’t affect my job. Anything you say to me doesn’t get spoken of outside this room, unless I believe you’re a danger to yourself or others.”

  She’s sitting behind her desk, her hands placed in her lap.

  “Okay,” is all I say. This feels awkward as hell.

  She gestures to the chair on the opposite side of her desk. “Please, take a seat.”

  Dropping my bag to the floor, I sit my ass in the chair and take in the scenery.

  The room is filled with natural light from the tall ass window.

  A filing cabinet dominates the back wall, but other than that, it’s mini
mal décor and spacious. Her desk is positioned in the center of the room, and her chair is stupidly large. She looks like a child perched on a throne.

  “So, Mr. Masters, Rhett, do you prefer to be called by your forename or is there another name you go by?”

  Most chicks call me Romeo.

  “Rhett’s fine.” I nod.

  “Okay. Is there anything you’d like to talk about today, Rhett?”

  “No, I’m good,” I tell her, and an uncomfortable silence ensues.

  She definitely got this job because of her husband. She seems out of her depth.

  Shifting in her chair, she reads over a piece of paper on her desk, then looks up at me.

  “How are you feeling about your classes? You attended summer school to get your grades up? Do you want to tell me why they slipped in the first place?”

  No. Why the fuck do they ask questions they already know the answers to?

  “I’m sure if that information is on that piece of paper, then so are the reasons why.”

  She narrows her eyes briefly, then smiles and nods her head.

  “Yes, it does, but I want to hear the answer from you.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can understand you better.”

  Sharp pains stab at my heart as flashes of that night race to the forefront of my mind.

  “I got my brother killed and it fucked me up,” I state, irritated.

  She looks like she’s trying to frown, but her forehead doesn’t move.

  Folding her arms on the desk, she asks, “You feel like you’re to blame?”

  “It was my fault.” I shrug. Emotions wash through me, leaving an angry buzz behind.

  “Do we have to talk about this shit? It’s the first day, and I don’t want to miss my first class.”

  Looking at her watch, she smiles over at me.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. We can discuss this another time. I wanted you to come in and see me because I know how daunting it can be when your life choices change, especially in such a dramatic way.”

  She points to something on the sheet of paper. “You were a ball player, but got an injury and decided to go into law?”

  “I want to help people get justice when the system robs them of it.”

  “So, it’s personal.” She smiles.

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, that’s another discussion for another day. I’ve recruited a mentor of sorts to help you settle in and help show you around your first week here. If for any reason you want to talk, my door is always open. You’re on my calendar for bi-weekly appointments that are mandatory, I’m afraid. If I don’t see you before our next appointment, I hope you have a good start to the school year.”

  With that, a soft knock sounds at the door and she gets to her feet.

  “Right on time.”

  Walking around her desk, she goes to the door, and I follow suit.

  Blonde curls enter the room, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from grinning.

  Chastity’s eyes enlarge before narrowing on me.

  “This is Chastity. Chastity, Rhett Masters,” she introduces.

  I hold my hand out, but she doesn’t take it. “We’ve met,” she informs Lillian.

  “Oh…well, that’s a great start. I have an appointment, so enjoy your day.” Lillian’s eyes cut to a tall, dark haired guy who looks a little out of place in his surroundings. His appearance and style harder, more rogue than rich like the rest of the students on campus. His eyes clash with mine briefly before, without a word or instruction, he gets up and disappears into Lillian’s office.

  Following Chastity into the corridor, I hold my hands up once more in surrender.

  “I’ve clearly made the wrong impression, and I think it’s unfair of you to judge me on something I did in the past with someone I don’t even remember.”

  Her face screws into a hateful scowl, and she shocks me into silence when she raises her hand and flicks the tip of my nose. “You’re a jerk.”

  I’m still standing there seconds later watching her ass sashay up the corridor without me.

  Some mentor she is.

  God’s casual remark about no one attending class freshman week doesn’t appear to be the case.

  My first class is packed. The door slams behind me as I enter, bringing all eyes to me. The professor stops talking and watches me as I make a spectacle of myself, trying to dodge legs and bags to get one of the only available seats right in the center of the room.

  Perfect.

  When I finally do plant my ass in the seat, the professor folds his arms and paces the front of the room.

  “First thing I want you to know, you’re not in high school anymore. No tardy slips or toilet passes. I expect you to be independent, responsible, and punctual.”

  His eyes seek me out, and he glares right at me when he says, “Nothing makes a bad impression like strolling in late.”

  He then looks around at the other students and smiles. “It also makes finding a seat a nightmare.”

  Laughs ring out, mocking me, and I offer him a tight smile as I get out my laptop and nod.

  Understood. First lesson learned. Check.

  A light flicks on a white board, then a list appears with titles of books we’re going to need to read for this semester.

  He must like the sound of his own voice because he spends the next hour talking about how he ended up a professor here. By the time we’re leaving the classroom, I’ve already made a pact with myself to arrive early to every class I have from here on out.

  The day passes without any run-ins with the lovely Chastity or any whispers about The Elite. Not that I expected them to be advertising themselves.

  Checking my cell and ignoring all the texts apart from God’s, I dial his number. He answers on the third ring, and by the sound of the bad line, I know he’s driving.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “The gym. I’m leaving, though. Meet me at Dad’s.”

  He ends the call, giving me no fucking choice.

  When I pull up to God’s, the entrance gate is open, which usually means one thing: God’s parents are out of town and he’s planning to throw a party. He lives in town, but likes to throw parties at his parents’ house since it’s so fucking huge. Plus, when it’s all over, he makes the staff clean up.

  The long, winding driveway bordered by large, towering oak trees takes at least ten seconds to drive up before the house even comes into view. My parents are wealthy, but God’s are stupid rich—own their own plane rich—and God is their only child. Raised by a money hungry power couple, and because of that, God loved everything in excess.

  He has a garage full of cars most people couldn’t even dream of owning in their lifetime, and he’s only eighteen and has yet to even make his mark in the business world.

  Their house is a plantation home built in the 1700s, with balconies for each of the sixteen bedrooms, multiple garages, pool houses, and acres of land.

  Pulling my car up next to his Ferrari, I jump out and bound up the stairs to his front door, which is open. I call out his name, and my voice echoes, bouncing off the oak wood floors and down the corridor. A few beats later, a shuffling of feet come toward me in the shape of Wendy, the Goddard’s wonderful, loyal, housekeeper.

  Many times, this woman has kept food in my belly and clean clothes on my back when I’d push my luck at home and needed to crash here throughout the years.

  “Rhett, my darling boy, it’s so good to see you. You’re looking too skinny, let me feed you,” she says in a comforting tone that reminds me of my late grandmother.

  “How are you, Wendy? I haven’t seen you at any parties lately,” I tease, and she rewards me with a tap to my arms and an amused smile.

  Guiding me through the house and into the kitchen, she gestures for me to take a seat at the breakfast bar.

  “Where’s God?” I ask, accepting the glass of fresh lemonade.

  “He’s taking a shower. He came back
all covered in this dirt that will never come out of his clothes.” She rolls her eyes, waving a frustrated hand between unloading the fridge with the makings of a sandwich.

  I don’t even want to know why he was covered in dirt. God is the craziest son of a bitch I know, and sometimes it’s best not knowing. If I don’t know, no one can ask me about it. That was a best friend pact we made way back when.

  And it worked for us. We tell each other shit that’s important, but other than that, need to know is best.

  “Here, eat.” Wendy pushes a sandwich in my direction.

  I offer her a grateful smile and take my sandwich up to Gods’ room with me.

  The shower hums from his en suite, steam creeping around the open door.

  I take a bite of the sandwich, and my stomach growls. This is the first time I’ve eaten since a candy bar at lunch.

  Dumping my bag on his computer desk, I slump down on his bed, ignoring the pull of the mattress beckoning me to take a nap.

  A pile of rumpled up clothes dumped in his trashcan grabs my attention, and I put down the plate with my half-eaten sandwich and pick up the sweater God left wearing this morning.

  Stains paint the white material, but it’s not dirt, it’s blood.

  My cell buzzes with a notification from one of the party apps I added today, and I snort.

  The address is God’s house. I fucking knew he was going to throw a party. How the fuck did he get this out there? He wasn’t even on campus today.

  Hearing the shower turn off and his feet pad across the floor, I hold up his sweater.

  Pausing briefly when he enters the room and sees me, he places his hands on his hips, waiting for the questions he knows is coming.

  “Wendy said you had dirt stains on your clothes. This isn’t dirt.”

  Raising a brow, he walks over to me, wearing only a small towel wrapped around his waist, flashing his junk at me.

  “Wendy’s blind as a bat.”

  “Dude, I wish I was.” I fake offense. Turning my head, I throw the sweater at him to cover his junk. I’d seen God’s junk as much as my own over the years, but I want to lighten the mood.