Sweet Ache

by K. Bromberg

  “Sexy? Dude, that’s the understatement of the year. She’s smokin’ hot. Her curves were banging, her—”

  “Banging is definitely something I’d like to do to her,” I mutter under my breath, her face immediately flashing in my mind even though it’s been only a matter of moments since she’s left. I turn to retrieve my bag where it lies.

  “Since when is hostile your type?”

  “You know me, Vince, the only type I have is willing,” I say over my shoulder although right now I’m thinking hostile looks pretty damn attractive.

  “Truth.” He falls silent for a moment, which leaves me alone with my thoughts of how the lecture I was anxious to give turned out more interesting than I’d expected because of her presence. How focusing on her allowed me to calm my nerves on what to lecture about when I never get nerves on a stage. “And she was so far from willing she just might be the one woman on this campus whose hand job would be a fist in your face rather than wrapped around your dick.”

  “What?” I ask around the Skittles I just tossed into my mouth, annoyed that he’s questioning my prowess. “You think I couldn’t get her to go out with me?”

  He laughs and scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Even your charm has limitations Hawke … and that woman is most definitely one of them.”

  “Bullshit.” I snort in response as I glance down at my phone for messages. I can’t remember the last time I was turned down.

  “Dude, there’s no way in hell she’d go on a date with you.”

  “Bet me.” I snap the words out in reflex, my damn ego stomping its feet in protest, and then cringe when I realize what I just said. How I just carried over the go-to response within our band to prove a point about this, over her. Fuck.

  “Nah, that bet’s not worth it because she’d say yes just to get easier access to knee you in the nuts.” He purses his lips and then his smile spreads wide to match his eyes lighting up. “But sleeping with her? Now, that’s a bet I could sure as hell win.”

  “You think I couldn’t get her in bed? Are you kidding me?”

  He pats me on the back roughly. “Nope. Even the ladies’ man Hawkin Play can’t have a perfect record, and she’s most definitely the chick who will ruin it for you.”

  I jerk my shoulder to get his hand off me. “No way in hell. I’ll have her eating out of my hand by the end of this seminar. Watch me.”

  “That’ll be funny as fuck, man. Watching you get shot down repeatedly. Hell, this might even be a record or something.”

  “Put your money where your mouth is then, huh, Vinny?” I taunt as we begin to make our way up the steps. I make only bets I can win and I know I can win this one.

  “In a heartbeat but man, last bet, what was her name?” I shrug in response because there have been so many women involved in our band bets over the years they all kind of run together after enough time. “It doesn’t matter but shit you swore you won, sealed the deal with her, and there was no way for me to prove otherwise.”

  Her face flickers before my eyes, the beautiful redhead from our blow job bet: who could get sucked off first from the gaggle of groupies at an after party. “Damn she was good,” I reminisce, thinking about that little tongue technique she used. “You’re just jealous the chick you picked—”

  “Don’t remind me,” he groans.

  “It’s your fault you didn’t outline the terms of your bet better. Besides, we didn’t make you get the tattoo dude. No harm, no foul,” I say, referring to the stakes of all of our band’s bets: If the challenger loses, he must get a heart tattooed on the inside of his wrist. Each bet lost results in the heart being outlined and made bigger.

  Thank fuck I’ve never lost. The few tats I have are for a reason, a reminder of my life’s lessons in some abstract way or another—not because I lost some dumb-ass bet like they all have.

  He glares at me, still cross over it. “All I’m saying is that if we’re betting, then I want proof this time that you sleep with her.”

  “Sure thing. Hop on in with us if you’re that desperate for proof,” I offer without any conviction.

  “Perfect.”

  I snap my head over at him as we stop for a beat in the auditorium’s foyer to finish our conversation. “Fuck no. I was joking!”

  And it’s not that we haven’t done something like that before—two of us with one or a few more girls. A tour bus is only so big and there’s only so much time you can kill playing Halo or Guitar Hero.

  “I know you were but my bet, my rules. I want proof. And it has to be done by the last day of the seminar.” He raises his eyebrows before slipping his own sunglasses on, smarmy smile in place.

  “Piece of cake,” I say as I glance out the windows to where a small crowd is gathered past where Axe and his guys stand, waiting for autographs and pictures.

  “I want in on the action with the little hellcat. I’m there or there’s no proof and you, my boy, finally get a goddamn pansy-ass heart on your pretty-boy skin.”

  And therein lies his motive. He thinks I’ll back down, afraid to lose and finally get inked with the stupid image we all decided was our band tradition over ten years ago … when we were young and dumb.

  I sigh and just shake my head. Maybe it’s the need to prove I can get the girl and avoid an idiotic, meaningless tattoo. Or maybe it’s because I really want to figure her out, understand why those golden eyes and long legs of hers are still on my mind. Why I keep wondering if she’s really as feisty in bed as she is out of it.

  Regardless, the die is cast. And I’ll just have to hope I’m not revisiting the young and dumb phase with this decision.

  “You’re on, Vinny boy!” I say as I push open the doors with gusto. Immediately excited screams, the soundtrack of my life this past year, fill the air around us.

  Chapter 4

  QUINLAN

  The seminar has been over for thirty minutes. So why am I still sitting in my car, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, and mind going a million miles an hour as I try to process the riot of emotions coursing through me? I’m always even keeled. I may have a hot temper, definitely have a smart mouth, but I’m always able to process my thoughts and respond intelligently.

  So why in the hell do I feel like a flustered mess who knows I definitely made an ass out of myself in that stupid lecture with Hawkin?

  And why do I even care?

  I groan out in frustration knowing full well the mistake I made.

  How I told Hawkin I was his TA when I have no desire to see him again. My plans were to hoof it across campus back to Carla’s office and tell her no way in hell I was going back—so why am I sitting in my car instead?

  And why did I give the upper hand I battled for away so easily with that stupid parting statement? I basically implied I’ll be sitting here next week with bells on waiting to assist him in any way possible.

  Now I’m just being dramatic.

  I groan in frustration because I damn well know that I made a mental slip with my comment, but I’m pretty damn sure parts of me secretly wanted the chance to assist him in all sorts of ways.

  I’m so frustrated with myself, especially since my mind won’t stop envisioning him, smirk on his lips, challenge in his eyes, or the rough edge to his pretty-boy looks. I swore off men. Told myself I needed a break, that I needed to focus on my thesis rather than getting hurt again, so why am I sitting here thinking about him? I stare at the ceiling for a moment in an attempt to convince myself that there’s no shame in being attracted to him, in wondering about the sound of his voice and if he talks dirty in bed. None of that matters because he’s an asshole and I may be drawn to the bad boys but they are not mutually exclusive.

  Acknowledging that he gets me hot and bothered doesn’t mean that I still can’t drop the class.

  Time to pull on my big-girl panties and go tell Carla I can’t do this. Save yourself from yourself.

  Pep talk in place I put my hand on the handle of the car door and look up before I open it to
see Hawkin and his friend whose seat I took walking about twenty feet in front of me down the row of cars. My breath hitches and I tell myself it’s just because I’m surprised at seeing him there.

  And of course I sit and stare, observe without him knowing. Take in the faded jeans worn in all the right places, the black T-shirt tight on his biceps with a Rolling Stones emblem on the front, and the black combat boots. I watch him push the brown hair off his forehead and smile that lopsided smirk that makes parts within me clench that shouldn’t be clenching.

  He throws his head back and laughs, obviously at ease with the guy who accompanied him to the lecture. I take a closer look at his friend, as Hawke’s physical presence is far enough removed that I can pay attention to something other than him. Then my thoughts snap into line and I recall vague tabloid images of the band to realize that it’s Vincent Jennings, Bent’s bassist.

  I watch them a few more minutes as they laugh. Hawkin pulls out a bag of Skittles and pours them straight into his mouth, and I just grin at the little-boy gesture in a grown man. They bump fists a couple of times before I notice the bodyguards not far behind. Just as I’m sinking into the idea that he might not be too much of an asshole, that I was overreacting to being called out, I watch two female students wearing their sorority letters approach them.

  I’m immediately conflicted because a part of me wants to watch the exchange while another larger part doesn’t want to because I already know deep down that I’m going to be jealous.

  And the notion that I even care pisses me off, but in true female form, I can’t bring myself to look away.

  The girls giggle and flirt as they introduce themselves. Hair is twirled, eyelashes are batted, and backs are suddenly arched so that tits are front and center between them and the men. I roll my eyes at the sight, then narrow my gaze when that lopsided grin tugs up Hawkin’s mouth in a way that makes him the perfect combination of sheepish and wolfish. As he signs something for the sample-size brunette with boobs proportionate to a Barbie doll’s, I watch her make her move.

  She reaches out to touch the cuff of his shirt on his bicep. He hands her back her pen and then laughs as he pulls up the sleeve of his shirt so she can see the tattoo she’s obviously asked about. I cringe when her hands immediately reach out to trace the ink that I can’t see because she’s now blocking my line of sight. I shift my gaze to Hawkin’s face, watch him watch her coo over his tat.

  “It’s just ink, honey. Got a pen in your backpack with some don’t you? Get over it already,” I mumble, knowing damn well I want to know what the tattoo design is. And before I finish saying the words, she’s lifting up his shirt to see if there is another tattoo there. “Brazen little hussy.”

  I grit my teeth at the sight of her hands touching as much of his bare skin as she can while he just grins at her—and Vince is equally occupied with the other way too perky Delta Sig girl. Seconds turn to minutes and before much time passes, Hawkin’s arm is around Barbie’s shoulder and the four of them are walking somewhere off campus.

  By the time they disappear, his hand has conveniently slid down her back and is resting comfortably on the curve of her ass.

  Shaking my head, I start telling myself I shouldn’t be surprised, can’t be angry at what I’d already pegged him for. Once a player always a player.

  Time to go visit Carla.

  “Ugly Heart” plays through the speakers as I flop back on my couch, research notes scattered all around the table in front of me and the cushions beside me. I hum along, trying to decipher my scribble that made perfect sense when I took the notes but now seems like a jumble of incomprehensible mishmash.

  It doesn’t help that my talk with my adviser was fruitless. Every attempt to explain the exact reason why I couldn’t assist Hawkin’s seminar fell on deaf ears until the conversation ended with the one word everyone dreads hearing: Don’t disappoint me, Quinlan.

  And then of course my mind shifts toward him. “Go away!” I mutter and begin to sing the lyrics to drown out the unwelcome thoughts.

  “Maybe I’m just crazy; maybe I’m a fool….”

  I sing the words on autopilot, my thoughts scattered and loneliness setting in. It’s been six months since Rick and I called it quits. Six months since I walked in on him in bed with another woman naked and moaning after being with him for a year. The player who swore he’d changed just for me obviously hadn’t. So I took his key off my ring, then walked away from his apartment with a promise to never be that girl again.

  After working so hard at my relationship with him and it ending the same way that my previous two relationships had, I vowed to revisit my undergrad days of casual dating where it’s fun and uncomplicated. Sex without strings, without happily-ever-afters. To never date a player again.

  So now I ask myself: Why have I been fine for the past six months, not a day spent moping since my ego was bruised yet again and I swore off men, but now I’m sitting here wanting a guy to keep me company? And a complete player nonetheless.

  The song switches and of course it’s a Bent song. The irony. The person behind the voice on the radio is the reason I’m feeling this way when I don’t want to be. He’s irritated me enough to get under my skin and that takes a lot to do.

  Rylee’s words sift through my mind. I need to have some wild, reckless sex. The funny thing is I have been, so why do I feel so unsatisfied? Just as quickly the answer hits me—because it’s sex without emotion. It’s akin to having the ice cream to make a sundae and then realizing you don’t have any toppings, cherries, or hot fudge. You eat the ice cream nonetheless, but you aren’t fully satisfied.

  My phone rings and I welcome the distraction from my pathetic thoughts that compare sex to sundaes. Yes, I’m in desperate need of help. Or an intervention.

  “Hey, Layla!” I greet my oldest and dearest friend.

  “I need to get drunk,” she groans.

  “And I need to get laid,” I confess. Then I toss my pen on my open book next to me, thinking that maybe the physicality will clear my head from thoughts of a particular rock star.

  “Well shit, that sounds like the perfect combination to me.” She sighs, my ever-ready partner in crime.

  “True.”

  “But I’ll stick to the drunk part…. Last time I wasn’t too successful at the getting laid thing. I’m no good at it. I was with Sean way too long to remember how to play this game.”

  “Lay, you played the game just fine … but I think you scared the shit out of the guy you determined was your fun for the night.” I laugh as I recall the look on the poor guy’s face.

  “You think it was too much?”

  “Telling the guy your vagina needed a hug and could his penis provide it? Yeah. Just a tad much.” She starts laughing with me because the deadpan expression she had when she asked the question was so damn hilarious.

  “I was drunk. And horny. Can’t fault a girl for trying.” I love her and her take no prisoners attitude.

  “It was one for the record books,” I confess.

  “So let’s try again tonight. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior this time around. Let’s go find some hot guys and have a fun-night-stand.”

  “I’m just, ugh …” I laugh. “It sounds so easy, but it’s always more complicated than that.”

  “Like what? The hangover or the walk of shame the morning after?” she asks.

  “Both. Remembering names, that awkward moment when you randomly see each other on campus … Shit, I’ll take the hangover and get myself off to avoid all of that. After Rick the Prick,” I say with a sigh, “I’m done for a while.”

  “Yeah that’s funny. I think I heard that before him and the guy before him,” she teases with nothing but the truth. “Besides, never date a guy with a name that rhymes with prick or dick. There’s just something wrong with that…. It’s like you’re just asking for him to be one or something.”

  “It makes dirty talk easy though in case you forget his name in the heat of the moment,”
I explain, knowing from experience.

  Her contagious laugh fills the line—the one that gets me every time. “So you in? Wanna go drink away our sorrows?”

  “Sorrows? Since you can’t say happiness without saying penis, I’m assuming it has to do with a man…. What’s going on with you?” I ask, immediately concerned although I think she’s handling her breakup rather well considering the length of time she and Sean dated.

  “Ugh! I had my first help session today, and I already want to stab my eyes out from giving the same explanation over and over,” she says, referring to her question-and-answer session for students who need help grasping the concepts in the main lecture. But then again, I don’t understand what a TA session has to do with a man.

  “We were probably just as bad when that was us.”

  “I know! But add to that Sean stopped by to make sure that I was okay—like he really cares—and all I really wanted to do was knee him in the nuts.”

  “Well,” I muse, finally getting to the heart of her trouble. “At least you’re progressing from wanting to cry over him to wanting to inflict the pain he deserves for dumping you.”

  “I know,” she says, then the line falls silent for a moment. I know she’s trying to sound strong, like their breakup hasn’t hurt her deeply, so I give her the silence to regain the fraudulent resolve in her voice. She sighs, her sadness palpable. “So see, we need to go out and have a drink. Celebrate us not being whiny first years and maybe have another three or four to make us forget the fact that we both need to get good and laid.”

  My smile spreads wide until I look down at the papers littering my lap. “Layla,” I groan, “I wish I could, but I’ve gotta get moving on my first draft….”

  “You’re seriously going to leave me high and dry?”

  My mind flashes to how I’d rather be wet and low with Hawkin, and I hit the heel of my hand to my forehead to stop the insanity. “It’s so tempting because it’s been a fucked-up day for me too…. I just really need to make some headway here before I seriously screw myself with procrastination.”