Sweet Ache

by K. Bromberg

  “I know … but it’s still a helluva good idea. Well, I’m going to—oh my God! I totally forgot! Did you hear who was on campus today?” She says in a rush and from the excitement in her voice I’m really hoping she says Brad Pitt or something but I have a feeling I know exactly who she’s talking about.

  “Who?”

  “Hawkin—come-to-momma—Play. What I wouldn’t give to play him,” she murmurs as if she’s fantasizing doing just that. “I guess he’s doing some kind of seminar that I’m going to have to crash just so that I can—oh shit! A cop’s behind me, call you right back!” She ends the call abruptly, not willing to risk another ticket for talking on her cell phone and driving without a Bluetooth device. Guaranteed she’s most likely lost the last one she bought like she did the five before that.

  I lean back and exhale, thankful for the momentary break in conversation so that I can figure out how exactly to tell Layla about my run-in with Hawkin. And then I wonder why my immediate reaction is that I don’t want to confide in her. Don’t want to knock him off the pedestal she’s set him on even though it’s not warranted. Just because he has a voice begging for sin doesn’t mean he’s the stellar guy she thinks he is.

  Besides, it’s not like I’m going to see him again anyway so why am I even stressing over it?

  My phone rings in my hand and startles me so much I answer it without looking. “That was quick, Lay!”

  A masculine chuckle fills the line. “I’m anything but quick, but the lay part I can make sure of.”

  What is it with men and everything being turned into sexual innuendo today? And of course as much as I want to roll my eyes, my lips form an involuntary smile.

  “Luke? How—”

  “You told me I was focused on the wrong numbers … so I found the right ones,” he says and I can’t help the little flutter in my stomach from the thought that he went the extra distance—like he always seems to do—to try yet again.

  I emit a nervous laugh, unsure how to really feel about his continued pursuit. I fall back to my standard use of sarcasm whenever I’m uncomfortable. “Oh, how sweet of you! Were things going so well for you that you needed some rejection so you searched me out?”

  “Charming as always,” he replies, humor in his voice so at least I know he took my comment how it was intended.

  Unlike a different asshole from earlier today who couldn’t take a hint to save his life.

  “You know you can’t resist me.”

  “The answer’s still no, Luke.” I know he can hear the fondness in my voice.

  “Don’t believe I asked but thanks for shooting me down … again,” he teases.

  “And again and again.” I laugh. “How’d you get my number?”

  “I have my ways,” he responds, and I have a gut feeling that Rylee is meddling here, handing him my phone number on the sly.

  “Are those ways going to end up with my brother’s fist in your face?”

  “If it did, would you come kiss it and make me feel better?”

  I sigh into the line in response to his relentless pursuit. “Hm. Probably not. I’m not very gentle.”

  His laugh is deep and rich and full of suggestion. “You’re such a goddamn tease, you know that? Maybe I like it a little rough.”

  “Walked right into that one didn’t I?” I chuckle, feeling a sincere smile on my face for the first time since meeting Hawkin earlier today.

  “Sure did.”

  It dawns on me that he might be calling for a real purpose, and that I’ve made an incorrect assumption. “So … what can I do for you?”

  “You sure you want me to answer that?”

  “Give me the PG version,” I state.

  “Ah, now that wouldn’t be any fun now would it?” The line falls silent for a beat. “How about we go out sometime?”

  One of these days the man is going to wear me down to nothing until I relent. We’ve been following the steps of this dance for so long.

  “You sure are tenacious…. I think you need to find a hobby or something to occupy your time besides racing.” It’s so fun to tease him, and in fact it makes me miss Colton and our constant banter.

  “Tell me about it. We’ve got a three-week lag until the next race. I need something to chase now since there’s not a spoiler in front of me, so once again I’ve set my sights on chasing you.”

  “Well there’s your problem, Mason.”

  “Problem?”

  “Why you’re having a little dry spell on the track.”

  “A dry spell?” He coughs the words out.

  “Yep. You can’t cross the finish line in first place if you’re always chasing. You need to figure out how to lead, cowboy, then you just might have a chance at taking the checkered flag.” I hear his laugh and know that I’ve had enough of cocky, overbearing men today. “Maybe next time, I’ll say yes. Good-bye, Luke.”

  “I’ll take that as a maybe,” I hear as I end the call.

  I immediately dial Layla. “Did you get a ticket?” I ask when she answers.

  “Thank God, no.” Relief floods her voice.

  “Good because I’ve reconsidered. Ready to go get liquored and laid?”

  “Well, at least one of them,” she laughs out.

  “I’m aiming for both.”

  Chapter 5

  QUINLAN

  Campus is buzzing from the combination of a break in the relentless heat and students finally settling in for the long haul of the school year. It’s comforting to me and hell do I need the feeling because once again I’m heading to the department offices, but this time I’ve been summoned.

  And somehow it has to do with Hawkin’s seminar.

  After biting the bullet and accepting the fact that I was going to let her down, I was finally able to talk Carla into getting someone else to cover the rest of the series, starting with today’s lecture, so now I’m worried why all of a sudden she needs to talk to me about something we decided upon five days ago. Did another student—or Hawkin himself—report my insubordination in the last lecture and it’s just now trickling down through administration?

  I don’t know what to expect but I can’t deny that my nerves are humming and I’m mentally chastising myself for my inability to just shut my mouth.

  When I head toward Carla’s office at the end of the hallway, laughter sounds from within and she waves me in upon seeing me approach.

  “Professor Stevens, you wanted to see me?” I hate that my voice sounds unsteady as I stand in the doorway, partially obscured by the half-opened door¸ but there’s no way that I can mask it.

  “C’mon in Quinlan,” she says as I push the door open, my eyes meeting hers.

  “Quinlan?” Hawkin’s voice hits my ears before I see him sitting very comfortably in a chair opposite her desk. He says my name in a tone that’s both a question and a statement at the same time.

  Shit.

  My body jolts with awareness from being back in his proximity. I’m sure it doesn’t help that even though I’d dropped the lecture, I’ve spent a shameful amount of time on the Internet checking him out, watching his interviews, and the band’s music videos. Learning about the band’s history and antics before researching him personally. I scanned his dating history, which can only be described as an ever-revolving door of women who are more than willing to brag about him and his abilities even after splitting up. I admit I allowed myself to be hypnotized by his voice.

  Purely out of curiosity.

  But hell if the sight of him in the flesh—the lazy smirk and bedroom eyes laden with secrets—doesn’t cause all my research to rush back and clog the space between us with the hint of desire and possibility.

  And that’s before he even utters a word beyond my name. In silence he still exudes arrogance and sex appeal—I don’t think that’s something he can help—with his nonchalant posture and the easy expression on the sculpted lines of his face. But he also looks dead serious, which ratchets up my discomfort with the situation when all he d
oes is nod his head and then glance over to Carla and raise an eyebrow.

  Yes, it’s her office but clearly he’s running the show, and I’ve just been told not so subtly that my opinion in whatever matter is being discussed is of no importance.

  How come they were laughing moments before and now they are both so somber? I glance back and forth between the two of them, his eyebrows asking the questions his voice doesn’t. Quinlan, not Trixie? Really?

  So I focus on Carla. Hawkin’s too distracting, and if I answer his questions honestly I might just have to face a few truths I’m not ready to. That he irritates me, unnerves me, turns me on, and turns me off all at the same damn time. He makes me want when I don’t want to. Tempts me to go back on my decree of never dating anyone like my brother again.

  Because there is just something inherently sexy and clichéd about a man who can play a guitar, and, damn it to hell … it’s making me want to go back on those same promises to myself.

  It’s not worth it. Think of your brother, think of how you’ve observed too many things during his single, playboy days that have made you shudder when it came to the women he dated. At least Hawkin’s not a race car driver—he’s got that going for him.

  Carla’s cheeks flush under my stare, and she quickly averts her eyes from mine. Apparently he’s worked his effortless charm on her for some reason, and the question I fear is for what purpose?

  And if he’s won her over, why am I the only one he’s treated differently with his flippant comments and unwarranted attention?

  “I called you in early because Mr. Play asked if you could spare some time to show him the PA system and overhead setup before today’s lecture.”

  My head must snap up because she looks at me strangely. Does she not remember our conversation several days ago when she agreed that I was off his service? “I’m sorry?” I ask, confusion laced with disbelief in my voice.

  “Well, I know we discussed that you needed to drop assisting Mr. Play’s seminar here because of your course load, but …” And the way her voice fades off tells me that he has definitely worked his magic charm on her.

  “I told her I couldn’t do it without you or the cool tricks you had to make class more interesting.” I don’t even want to turn my head to look at him because if I do, I’ll risk either sarcastically commenting that he’s full of shit or falling momentarily comatose to his good looks.

  I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of either of those reactions.

  Plus, I know he’s bluffing but I’m not exactly sure why. We were hostile toward each other, not flirtatious, combative not friendly…. So why would he request me when he could most likely have all of those things I’m not with another TA?

  Sure he’s attractive and could probably serenade a pair of panties to fall off without a person even knowing it, but if our first meeting was any indication, he knows I’m sure as hell not going to let that happen.

  In disbelief I keep staring at Carla, my mind buzzing all the while trying to shove my libido back into hiding. And the crappy thing is that I’m more mad at myself than anything else because I’m standing here like a doormat not arguing my case when normally I’m like a battering ram knocking the door down.

  “Quin, there’s no one else available and there’s really not a lot of assisting required beyond class time,” Carla says with a sheepish smile when she finally tears her gaze from his to meet mine. The look in her eyes acknowledging she’s throwing me into the fire.

  “But …”

  What can I say to that when she’s perfectly right? Sorry Carla but he was a prick and I don’t think it’s safe for the two of us to be in close proximity because one of us is bound to get physical with the other—in some form or another. Yeah, fist or fuck, because that screams professionalism.

  When my only response is to nod my head in silent resignation, she shifts her focus back to Hawkin. “See? I told you she’d reconsider. Now, you guys need to get going so you have time for Quin to give you the complete rundown.”

  Of course she has no idea the double entendre she’s just given him about me giving him a complete rundown, but I know Hawke catches it. I manage to resist the urge to stomp my feet in frustration and storm out of her office like a toddler. Instead I give her a tight smile before turning and walking out of the office and then the department.

  I stand there in the sunshine, waiting for him to get his ass in gear and quit wasting my time. When I finally hear the door open I just start walking and the sound of his boots is the only indication that he’s following.

  “I’ve got longer legs than you Trixie,” he chides from a few feet back. “But feel free to keep swinging your hips like that, and I’ll stay right here behind you and enjoy the show.”

  I bristle at the comment. At the moment there’s no authority to be respectful of, no damage that can’t be undone.

  “A show?” The pitch of my voice escalates as I whirl around to face him—sunglasses on, hair disheveled, and I wish I hadn’t turned around because damn, he’s just that devastatingly fine. I’m quiet for a beat as we both appraise each other from behind darkened lenses. His dark hair, tanned skin, and cocky smirk pull at those parts of me I don’t want to be pulled. “You want to talk about a show.” I grit the words out, trying to push my physical attraction to him from my mind. “Let’s talk about your little performance for Dr. Stevens.”

  “I know. I’m good, huh? Sorry, but a man’s got to do what he’s got to do…. Besides, I wasn’t done with you yet.”

  My mouth falls lax and I’m momentarily flabbergasted. “Done with me yet?” I sputter the words when I’ve recovered my wits at his arrogance run amok … but I can’t deny the little flutter in my belly at his comment. There’s just something about him aside from the whole I’m a rock star thing that makes me desire him in a way I can’t put into words.

  “Yep,” he says casually as he unwraps a Starburst and pops it into his mouth. And I hate that I’m fascinated with watching his mouth suck on the sweet candy. Luckily he speaks so I can distract myself from the captivating sight. “I’m pretty sure you have a usefulness…. I’m just trying to figure out what that is.” He licks his lips. “Well, besides the obvious, that is …” Smirk is handily in place and I hate that ache starting to simmer in my core.

  “Why don’t you go suck a—”

  “Relax,” he says, angling his head to the side and emitting a laugh as he steps closer to me. “I’m just teasing you. You’re so damn easy to rile up and so hard to resist. Plus you’re even hotter when you’re pissed. I like it.” He shrugs an apology, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans with a sheepish grin that softens all those hard edges and makes me sigh with the contrast of characteristics. He holds a red Starburst out to me as a peace offering. “C’mon, you know you want to be the star to my burst.”

  We’ve stopped, my hands are on my hips, and the sun falls around us as he waits for me to react to his innocent little comment. Deep down I know I’m screwed. I feel an urge to smile but immediately realign my defenses. The contradiction he presents, the smooth with the rough, is the one thing that I always fall for when it comes to men.

  And I’m not going to fall for Hawkin Play.

  “More like the fruit to your loop,” I say with a roll of my eyes before I shift my gaze elsewhere. I have to because he’s one of those guys who when you look into his eyes you can see the ending before you even decide to begin. And hell, I’m all for fun and sex but something tells me the heartache he causes isn’t worth the pain. Then again, he is damn fine.

  Lock it down Westin. I shake my head in frustration—at me, at him, over this attraction—and turn on my heel, putting all my effort into getting to the lecture hall so that I can push that image of him standing like that out of my head. Because that look makes me want to walk up to him, fist a hand in his shirt, and kiss him senseless.

  I have no shame about admitting it, or even in the idea of doing it because hell, being confident in wanting
a guy is a good thing. I never shy away from a man when I want him … but something tells me that this one just might knock me off my feet. And while I’m all for having my world rocked, I’d rather it was not by someone used to playing women like a guitar and then disposing of them once the song’s over.

  His mocking laugh behind me breaks through my thoughts. But I keep walking, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten to me, that I can’t take a frickin’ step without him invading my thoughts.

  “Quinlan! Stop,” he says. “You’re not going to leave me poor and defenseless against that fucked-up PA system, are you?”

  “You’re a big boy; I’m sure you can fend for yourself just fine.”

  I hear him snicker beside me and I roll my eyes, realizing the big boy comment I just handed him without thought. “You’re right, on both counts,” he chuckles, and the sound, smooth silk with a hint of strain, hits my ears and my libido in ways I don’t want it to. “But a man likes to have some help every now and again.”

  “I’m sure you have plenty of willing candidates.” I’m thinking of the sigher who sat next to me at the last lecture as I keep walking, trying to focus on anything but the man beside me.

  “Well, I guess I’ll just have to go back and tell Carla, then….”

  I slow my pace a clip but keep moving forward, knowing he has my number. “You handle complicated stage equipment regularly and yet you can’t work a simple audio system?” I snort out a laugh of disbelief. “Sounds to me you’re so busy being pretty that you don’t like to get your hands dirty. Forget where you came from that quick, huh?”

  His hand is on my arm and I’m spun around before the last word is out of my mouth. I guess that dig hit a little too close to home.

  “Where and what I came from is none of your goddamn business.” Our bodies are close, my eyes behind my sunglasses flickering back and forth from his lips to his eyes as he snaps the words out. He presses his fingers a little tighter on my bicep. “Who are you to judge anyway …? Right, Trixie?”