by Iris Blaire
“And that’s bad because…”
I can’t believe he isn’t getting it. “Because I’m not Rylan, Dallas. I pull my phone from the pocket of my jeans and glance at it. “I’m going to be late.” I turn from him again and make my way down the stairs.
He continues to follow me.
“Okay, whoever you are, I get it. I’ll leave you alone. If I see you in the halls, I will ignore you like I’ve never seen you before in my life. Tomorrow. Let’s break the rules tonight.”
This boy is ridiculous. “And why would I want to do that?”
“Because I don’t want to sit alone at the symposium. Come on.”
I pick up my pace. “Well, I won’t publicly cause a scene if you sit next to me, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
I bite back the smile on my face and hurry into the auditorium, Dallas right on my heels. Like I guessed, there is hardly an empty chair in the sea full of hundreds of seats. There are several solo seats scattered here and there. I could technically just take one of those and Dallas would have to find a seat somewhere else, but then I spot two vacant chairs next to each other, and head for them.
Why am I doing this to myself? Because he’s pathetic and doesn’t want to be alone?
That isn’t the real answer, but I really don’t feel like thinking on it further.
Dallas sits next to me. He’s about to open his mouth again, but the professor introducing the speaker walks on stage and everyone begins to clap. Thank God for being late.
I pull out my note book and flip to a blank page. As I breathe in, I smell him next to me. His cologne is like a spicy sea breeze, and instantly I’m back in that lounge chair, Dallas’s tongue running over my hip bone.
I cross my legs and clear my throat.
“You’re taking notes?” he says.
I glance over at him. He looks impressed. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at these things?”
He shrugs. “I never.”
“Well, I always do.” The professor mentions one of the speaker’s books, and I pull it from my stack, opening up the first page.
Dallas leans closer to me. “Evan Cosette.”
Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck
Brilliant me, thinking it was a good idea to write my name and phone number on the front flap of all my books. Not the brightest move for a girl trying to hide her true identity half the time. Not at all.
I keep my composure. “That’s right. Evan.”
One corner of his mouth curves up in a crooked smile. “Huh. Yeah, I can see you being an Evan. One of those cute masculine girl names. Suits your personality.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You calling me masculine?”
“Bold is more like it.”
“No, I think you’re calling me masculine.” I turn back to the speaker, and he doesn’t say anything else. But every time I glance at him through the hour-long lecture, he’s still wearing that smug grin that I badly want to wipe off his face.
The question is, how?
When the lecture is over, Dallas still won’t let me get away from him. In the parking lot, I’m almost to my car when he says, “Hold it, hold it. I barely got to learn anything about you, Evan.”
I reach my Saturn and pop the trunk, throwing my books inside. “Can’t we do that at work?”
“Why can’t we do it now?”
I slam down the trunk lid and lean against it. “Gee, you’re a lot less annoying when you’re either licking my neck or stumbling through a bad Power Point presentation.”
He takes a step back. “Excuse me?”
I cross my arms. It’s my turn to be smug.
His expression falls. “You’re in Bio 114?”
“I am. And you know I’m just giving you shit. You’re not half bad, but mostly because you’re distracting eye candy.”
A glimmer of a smile arises on his face. “You flirting with me?”
“And why would I be doing that? You have a girlfriend, don’t you?”
He sighs and pushes back his hair.
I continue. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have some biology homework to get to. Pretty sure you assigned it.”
As I walk toward the front of my car, he continues to stand there without saying goodbye. I open the door and look back at him. “So… see you tomorrow?”
“Was the shoot today weird?”
I shake my head. “What do you mean, weird?”
“Like every conversation we have is going to be as awkward as this one.”
I bite my lip. His shoulder are all hunched over, hands in his pockets. Like this, in a t-shirt and jeans, he just looks like another student. An undergrad maybe—a gorgeous one. He must have girls coming up to him every day on campus.
“I guess we’ll find out.”
^^^^
The girls are home and in their pajamas, crowded around the living room computer. Delilah is gushing about how sexy Adam is.
“I don’t ever want to go back to solo shooting,” she says dreamily.
I throw my bag on the couch. “You can have my boy too,” I tell her with a wink. “Double the action.”
“Jesus, Evan,” cries Britain, her attention remaining glued to the photos she’s editing. “You’d think I’d make you pose with some ugly ogre.”
I dig in the fridge until I find all the makings for a tofu scramble, and pull the frying pan out of the cupboard. “It’s not that I don’t find Dallas attractive.”
“Yeah, I can tell that by your o-face in all of these shots.” Delilah leans over Britain’s shoulder. They must be going through my shoot from this afternoon. “Oh my, did you let him eat you out?”
“Did not!” I yell. “Britain was just playing her angles. Jesus.”
“I do get what you mean,” Delilah says as she studies my photos, playing with the end of her auburn braid. “I still want my platform. Trust me, I love shooting with Adam. I just hope that he doesn’t outshine me.”
“Well, hopefully the boy shoots flop,” I say. “That would make the most sense, right? Our magazine is aimed toward men.”
“Not for long.” Britain spins around in her chair and crosses her arms. “Just hired a whole bunch of women writers.” She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Sex, health, socializing—EPE isn’t just aimed toward men any more. We’re going all out, baby. And you know what that means.” She takes a paperback book from the desk and chucks it at me. It flies over the island and I duck just in time. When it smacks against the cupboards and falls to the floor, I glance at it and realize that it’s a newer paperback romance novel. The smutty kind.
“You are being given the job of finding out what turns women on.”
I pick up the novel and stand. “So, what? I’m supposed to read this?” I return to my sizzling skillet.
“That and the fifteen other ones I have up in my room. It’s what you’re going to be basing yours and Dallas’s shoots off of.”
I drop my spatula, and it clatters beside my feet. “Wait… what?”
Delilah’s eyes are wide and excited, darting between me and Britain.
Britain smirks. “That’s right. Little Rylan is going to give it all up to Dallas for the ladies.”
^^^^
I stare at my ceiling, my bedmate the stack of trashy romance novels Britain gave me and my binder full of bio homework.
When I close my eyes, I think of my shoot with Dallas this afternoon. I’ve been making guys jizz themselves for almost two years now without so much as holding hands with a guy. Maybe that’s why his hands all over me felt better than any sex I’ve ever had. Especially the way he moved his hand up my thigh, inches away from my panties.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve inched my fingers past the hem of my shorts, hand sliding lower.
…his mouth on my neck…
My phone buzzes, and I groan.
I pull my hand out of my shorts and roll over, checking my phone on the nightstand.
New Message From Mom: Finally moved in. You should come see the place.
I sigh and rub my eyes. As much as I want to see Mom, I don’t want to see her apartment. It will only break my heart.
I was the outcome of an affair my mom had with one of her professors twenty-three years ago. Ever since then, it’s just been me and her and the occasional boyfriend of hers that I’d have to put up with. I always had food and second-hand clothing and a roof over my head; Mom did clerical work at a law office.
Luckily for her, when the office went out of business, I was already out of the house. Now, she only has to worry about herself. She’s downgraded to a crappy apartment, so unemployment will cover her for now.
I wish I had enough money saved up to help her out, but Mom claims I’ve helped out enough. You’re getting good grades and staying out of debt, she told me last week when she informed me that she was moving. That is your payment to me, and giving me any money that would prevent you from doing so would be disgracing both of us.
She doesn’t know that the money I get comes from erotic modeling. She thinks that I work a desk job.
Just like she did.
///
I wake up at nine and trudge to the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I re-enter my bedroom, brushing my hair, I freeze as I gaze out of the window.
“Un-fucking-believable,” I mutter.
My window looks over the cul-de-sac. Dallas stands on the sidewalk, hunched over with his hands on his knees. He’s shirtless, his rock-hard body glistening with sweat.
He straightens and feels his pulse with his fingers, looking at his watch.
The boy is running shirtless—around my neighborhood?
I slip into flip-flops and race downstairs. This side of the house is empty—everyone’s in the studio this morning. Wednesday is our mass photography day, where we get most of our shooting for the issue done. The part time models start arriving by eight.
I pull a mason jar full of oatmeal-apple smoothie from the fridge and open the door to the studio. The air buzzes with activity.
Usually I’m halfway made up by the time anyone gets here, but today, I’m the late one to the party. The living room is a makeshift dressing and makeup room for the part-time models. Several hair and makeup artists have lined up girls and are working on getting them ready to shoot.
Britain walks up to me. “You’re late. Get into makeup.”
“Alright, alright, hard ass.”
She grins. This is how mine and Britain’s relationship has been since we started in the magazine. Brazen and slightly sarcastic. I think it’s our coping mechanism for being able to work together and not ruin our friendship. It’s worked so far.
“Question before I go: why is Dallas going on a jog by our house?”
She holds up two fingers in succession. “One, because he got here early and doesn’t need to go into a lot of makeup because he’s a dude, and two…” She glances around and says quietly, “He was getting shit tons of attention from the girls and, honestly, I think he’s an introvert. He’s trying to find something to busy himself with until his shoot.”
Warm butterflies burst to life in my stomach. Why I’m getting gushy at the thought of Dallas being an introvert beats me.
Because If he really is an introvert, then he’s just like you.
I take a large gulp of smoothie, shuffling through all of the models. Many of them give me a double take, and I’m wondering if it’s because they don’t recognize me, or do recognize me and don’t know how I’ve managed to look so homely.
Jessica, the tall blond freshman who posed last issue as a sexy cheerleader, stops me before I can make it to the dressing room. “Christ, Rylan. What happened to your face?” Her nose is crinkled like she just got a whiff of cow shit.
“Fuck off, Jessica,” I say, shoving past her.
Dallas
An hour-long run later and Britain is nowhere near ready for me. I shouldn’t have even gone in and checked to see if she was, because now I can’t get to the front door again.
“So I heard you were a grad student,” a red-head says, twirling her hair around her finger.
She and her friends have me cornered. Literally. My back is pressed against the wall. Not only that, but I’m moping the sweat off me with my balled up t-shirt. I’m sure I reek.
“I… uhh… yeah.”
She flashes her perfectly white teeth while her friends ooh and ahh. “That’s so hot. What’s your major? I’m business administration.”
“I’m… bio. Biology. I do research.”
Her eyes light up. “So you’re going to be a doctor?”
Fuck me. I hate having this conversation with ugly people, let alone ten gorgeous women.
“No, no. Not a doctor.”
“Dallas!” Britain barks. “Get your ass over here.”
Thank God.
“Excuse me,” I say. The girls’ faces fall as I push past them, and I hurry over to my photographer.
“Jesus, it’s like you’re a puppy at a kindergarten birthday party.”
I relax my shoulders. “Can you hide me?”
“Yeah, but bro, you smell terrible.” She looks toward the bathroom. The door is open and girls are literally pouring out of it as they attempt to do their makeup. “I never do this, but I like you, and, like all these bitches here, think you’re kind of cute.” From the pocket of her jeans she pulls out a key and dangles it in front of her. I take it. “This is to the actual house portion of this place. Use the bathroom upstairs—there are towels above the toilet. Lock it up when you’re done, and don’t fuck around with anything else. Got it?”
I grin. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“And don’t ever call me that again.”
“So by fucking around, you mean I can’t stay over there, right?”
“Am I not speaking English?”
“I just have a lot of homework to get done.” I glance at the herd of models in the corner. The red-head winks at me while the two behind her whisper back and forth to each other. “It’s kind of impossible to work in here.”
“Oh, God. Kid, just ignore them. You’re not that cute.” Then she laughs and says, “Okay, you do look terrified. There’s a private makeup and dressing room for Delilah and Rylan. I think Rylan’s the only one using it right now. You can probably camp out behind the clothing racks and do some algebra.”
“Biology. You can’t get a master’s in Algebra.”
“Whatever.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
“I’m only nice to you because you take good photos, you know,” she says. But then she smiles back.
Britain is kid of a badass to work under.
I unlock the door to the living quarters part of the house and slip inside.
The lock clicks behind me and I’m wondering if I stepped through the right door.
The living room isn’t like one belonging to four college girls. The shit in here is nice. The kitchen countertops are marble and the appliances are brand new. The couches in the living room are leather, and the desktop computer is easily worth a couple grand. Instead of half-naked posters of the EPE girls covering the walls, the space is decorated with framed photographs—urban pictures of L.A. and Boston and Chicago, from whole cityscapes to exchanges on the streets. New York’s skyline and Detroit’s downtown coffee shop.
If I were to walk in here without knowing, I’d think that a rich middle-aged man lived here alone.
Don’t fuck around, said Britain. Right.
I follow her instructions, heading up the stairs. She said the second door on the left was the bathroom. I walk past the first door on the right, and stop.
The room is decorated in purple and black. A few framed photos scatter the walls, along with a poster of a band I’ve never heard of. The bed is unmade. Biology textbooks and nonfiction are stacked on the computer desk and plywood bookshelf.
This is Rylan’s… this is Evan’s room.
Something comes over me… a
n urge to crawl into her bed and wait for her to find me there.
Snap out of it, Dallas.
I told Tricia last night when I got home—when she finally had the time to listen to me—about the shoot, and the amount of time I was going to have spend touching, licking, kissing these models. She seemed totally unfazed. If it helps you concentrate better, just pretend that you’re single when you walk into the studio. Pretend you have no obligation to stay loyal to me.
I’m sure that, if any guy heard my girlfriend tell me this, they’d think I was the luckiest man in the world. So why don’t I feel lucky? The fact that she’s cool with me acting single in the midst of all these gorgeous, naked women makes me sick to my stomach.
But it’s not real. It’s just for show… just for money. I have to remember that.
I leave Evan’s room and shower in a bathroom decorated like the ocean. I pull on my shorts and head back to the studio. Some models have created a makeup station by the door and look at me funny when I pull out Britain’s key and lock it.
“Is he fucking one of the full-timers?” I hear one of them whisper as I walk past. Great. This is how rumors start.
Not wanting to be subject to model stares any longer than I have to, I find my bag that’s been buried under a pile of clothes next to the front door and head to the VIP changing room. The door’s closed. I knock.
“Come in,” Evan says.
I push open the door and pause. She probably wasn’t expecting me. I should leave. But before I can, she glances at me in the mirror and says, “Hurry up, you’re letting all of the heat out.”
Like she has no shame at all that she’s almost naked.
I close the door, letting my bag fall to the floor.
Her curls rolls down her back, wild and perfect to drag my fingers through. Her cleavage spills from the top of her baby blue, frilly bra. And her panties expose just enough of her firm ass that I have a hard-on in seconds.
Goddamnit. Not now.
The worst thing in the world is having a boner while trying to finish biology homework.
