by Jay McLean
Ilsa’s debut romance novel Very Bad Things (Briarcrest Academy Series) released in 2013 and went to #8 in the Amazon Kindle Store and was #1 in New Adult/College Age Romances.
One of the *Top Five Romance Books of 2013* --A is for Alpha B is for Book Blog
Description:
Born into a life of privilege and secrets, Nora Blakely has everything any nineteen-year-old girl could desire. She's an accomplished pianist, a Texas beauty queen, and on her way to Princeton after high school. She's perfect. Or is she?
Leaving behind her million-dollar mansion and Jimmy Choos, she changes the course of her life, becoming a girl hell-bent on pushing the limits with alcohol, drugs, and meaningless sex.
Then through a chance encounter, she meets her soulmate. But he doesn't want her.
When it comes to girls, twenty-five-year-old Leo Tate has one rule: never fall in love. His gym and his brother are all he cares about...until he meets Nora. He resists the pull of their attraction, hung up on their six year age difference.
As they struggle to stay away from each other, secrets will be revealed, tempers will flare, and hearts will be broken.
Welcome to Briarcrest Academy...where sometimes, the best things in life are Very Bad Things.
Very Bad Things is a complete standalone novel without a cliffhanger.
**Buy it at Amazon: http://tiny.cc/e3ldcx
PENNY REID
Bunsen Burner Bingo
PART 1: Eavesdropping in a chemistry lab cabinet
Quiet, silent, muted, hushed, stilled, reticent… I moved my mouth, breathed the words—soundlessly—from my hiding place.This game comforted me, calmed me, settled my nerves. Yes, recalling synonyms while anxious was a bizarre coping strategy, but it worked. And very little usually worked.
The voices from beyond the cabinet grew louder and were accompanied by the click of heals and the dull echo of tennis shoes. I held my breath and strained to decipher how many sets of shoes were represented by the approaching footsteps. I guessed two, because only two voices were audible.
“… think that he’s going to want to fuck you? After what happened last Friday?” The words were a hiss emanating from an unknown male voice; I tensed at the use of vulgarity.
“I’ll get there late. If you do your job then he won’t even remember it,” came a feminine reply. The female was closest to my hiding spot in the chemistry lab cabinet; her words, therefore, were much clearer.
“Shit,” he said. I tried not to huff in disgust at his foul language as he continued. “I don’t even know how much to use. I’ve only used it on bitches. ”
“I don’t know either. Just… double it. Martin is, what? Like, twice the size of the girls you usually dope out?”
I tensed again, my eyes narrowing. The name Martin, in particular, made my heart beat faster. I knew only one Martin.
Martin Sandeke.
Martin Sandeke, the heir to Sandeke Systems in Palo Alto, California, and smartypants in his own right. I also came from a notable family—my mother is a senator, and my grandfather was an astronaut. However, unlike Martin’s family, we weren’t billionaires. We were scientists, scholars, and politicians.
Martin Sandeke, the six foot three, modern-day physical manifestation of Hercules, and the captain of the University’s rowing team.
Martin Sandeke, the unrepentant man-whore extraordinaire, and kind of a jerk-faced bully.
Martin Sandeke, my two-semester-long chemistry lab partner, and all around most unobtainable person in the universe; who I never spoke to except to ask for beakers, relay findings, and request modifications to the heat level of my Bunsen burner.
And by Bunsen burner I meant, literally, my Bunsen burner. Not the figurative Bunsen burner in my pants. Because I hoped Martin Sandeke had no idea that he affected the heat levels of my figurative Bunsen burner.
He did affect them. But, obviously, as he was cosmically unobtainable, and kind of a bully, I didn’t want him to know that.
“He’s about two twenty, so… yeah. I guess.” The male responded, his tennis shoes making scuffing sounds on the linoleum as he neared my hiding spot.
I rolled my lips between my teeth and stared at the crack in the cabinet doors. I couldn’t see his face, but I could discern that he was now standing directly in front of the cabinet, next to the unknown girl, maybe facing her.
“But what’s in it for me?” The cuss monster asked, his voice dropping lower than it had been, more intimate.
I heard some rustling, then the sloppy sounds of kissing. Instinctively I stuck my tongue out and mocked gagging. Listening to public displays of affection was unpleasant, especially when lip smacking and groaning was involved, and most especially while trapped in a chemistry lab cabinet that smelled heavily of sulfur.
The next words spoken came from the girl, and were a bit whiny. “Money, dummy. Martin’s loaded—well, his family is loaded—and they’ll buy me off. All you have to do is give him the stuff tonight in his drink. Then I’ll take him upstairs, record the whole thing. Bonus if I get pregnant.”
My mouth dropped open, my eyes wide, unable to believe what I’d just heard. The awfulness, rustling, and lip smacking continued.
“You dope him and I’ll rope him.” The girl’s pleasure gasps were audible and rather ridiculous sounding.
“Oh, yeah baby—touch me there.” These breathy words were accompanied by the sound of a beaker crashing to ground and a zipper being undone.
I winced, scowled. Really, people had no manners or sense of decorum.
“No-no- we can’t. He’ll be here any minute. I need to leave.” The girl’s voice pleaded. I noted that she sounded the perfect mixture of regretful and hurried. “You need to make sure he stays at the house for the party. I’ll be there at eleven, so give him the stuff around ten-thirty, okay?”
The zipper came back up, the man backed into the cabinet. I jerked at the resultant bang of the doors. “How do you know where he’ll be all the time?”
“We dated, remember?”
“No. He fucked you. You never dated. Martin Sandeke doesn’t date.”
“Yeah, well, I know his schedule. He comes here on Fridays and does—hell if I know— with his ugly little lab partner.”
Ugly?
I twisted my lips to the side, my heart seized in my chest.
I hated the word ugly. It was an ugly word.
Ugly, unsightly, gross, misshapen, repellent… I mentally recited. For some reason, the synonym game didn’t help me this time.
“His lab partner? Wait, I’ve heard about her. Isn’t her dad an astronaut or something?”
“Who cares? She’s nobody. Kathy or Kelly or something, whatever.” The girl huffed, the heels of her shoes carrying her farther away. “Forget about her, she’s nothing. The point is you need to stay here and make sure he comes tonight, okay? I got to go before he gets here.”
“Bitch, you better not be playing me.”
The girl responded but I didn’t catch the words. My back itched, and while tucked in the cabinet I couldn’t reach the spot. In fact, it would be a difficult spot to reach even if I were standing in an open field. Also, my mind was still reciting synonyms for ugly.
I didn’t think I was ugly.
I knew my hair was unremarkable. It was long, straight, and black. I always wore it in a ponytail, bun, or clip. This was because hair, other than warming my head, served no purpose. Mostly, I ignored it.
I rather liked my eyes. They were grey. An unusual color, I’d been told on more than one occasion. Granted, no one ever said they were pretty, but no one ever said they were ugly, either. That had to count for something.
I was no supermodel in height or weight, at five foot seven and a size ten. But I wasn’t Jabba the Hutt, either.
My teeth were reasonably straight, though I had a noticeable gap between the front top two. I was also pale—the color of paper, my best friend, Sam, had once said. My eyebrows were too thick, I knew this. Sam—short for Sam
antha—often remarked that I should get them plucked, thinned out.
I ignored this advice. I didn’t care about thick eyebrows so long as they never became a unibrow like my aunt Viki.
I glanced down at my comfortable clothes—men’s wide leg, navy cargo pants with the cuff torn off, worn Converse sneakers, and an oversized Weezer t-shirt. I might be plain, unremarkable, or even mousy. But it’s not like I was horrible beast who turned people into stone with a single gaze. I was just… low maintenance.
That was okay with me. I didn’t need attention, didn’t want it. People, especially people my age, and especially other girls, made very little sense to me. I didn’t see the value in spending hours in front of a mirror when I could be playing video games or playing the guitar or reading a book instead.
But sometimes, when I was with Martin and we were calculating particulate levels, I wanted to be beautiful. Really, it was the only time I wished I looked different. Then I remembered he was a jerk-face and everything went back to normal.
I gave myself a mental shake and gritted my teeth. Straining to listen, I pressed my ear against the cabinet door and waited for signs that the unknown male was still present.
The itch in the center of my back was spreading and I didn’t know how much longer I could stand it. On the itch scale, it was quickly moving from aggravating to brain-exploding torturous.
The sound of shuffling footsteps approaching from the hall snagged my attention. They slowed, then stopped.
“Hey man. Whatsup?” said the mystery cussing fiend.
“What are you doing here?” I heard Martin ask. I guessed he was standing at the entrance to the lab because his voice was somewhat muffled. Regardless, it made my stomach erupt in rabid butterflies. I often had a physical response to the sound of Martin speaking.
“Wanted to make sure you’re coming to the house party tonight.”
I heard more shuffling footsteps. They were Martin’s. I’d know that nonchalant gait anywhere—because I was pathetic and maybe a little obsessed with all things Martin Sandeke. The difference between my obsession with Martin and the other girls’ obsession with Martin was that I had absolutely no problem admiring his finer features from afar.
Because Martin really was kind of a jerk.
He’d never been a jerk to me, likely because I was an excellent lab partner. We spoke only about chemistry, and he liked acing assignments; but I’d seen him in action. He’d lose his temper and then BOOM! He’d go off on whatever poor soul he happened to believe was responsible.
If it was a girl, she’d leave crying after coming in contact with his razor wit (and, by razor, I mean cutting and wound inducing). He never called them names. He didn’t have to. He’d just tell them the truth.
If it was a guy, he might use only words. But sometimes he used fists, too. I’d been a witness to this once—Martin beating the crap out of a slightly shorter, but also slightly broader, jilted boyfriend of one of his one-night-stands. At least, that was the rumor that went around after both of them were escorted out of the dining hall by campus police.
Martin was an equal opportunity jerk-face, and therefore best avoided outside of the chemistry lab.
No one spoke for a moment. I stiffened when I heard Martin ask, “Where’s Parker?”
That was me. I’m Parker.
To be more precise, I’m Kaitlyn Parker, Katy for short; but I doubt Martin knows my first name.
“Parker? Who’s Parker?”
“My lab partner.”
“I thought your lab partner was that girl—the one-”
“She is a girl.”
“Her name is Parker?”
I knew Martin was close now, because I heard him sigh. “What did you want again?”
“The party tonight—you’re still coming, right?”
“I already told you I’d be there.” Martin sounded ambivalent, bored, and maybe a little distracted.
“Good. Because I’m counting on you to be my wingman.” The mystery speaker’s voice started to fade. I guessed he was leaving, having secured what he came for.
“Yeah, whatever,” was Martin’s offhanded response.
“I’ll see you tonight, bro. You better come, I’m serious!”
Martin didn’t respond. I guessed the unknown male finally exited because, after a silent pause, I heard him release a very audible huff. It was heavy, exaggerated, and flavored with exasperation.
Meanwhile, I was still in the chemistry cabinet and the itch of the century had spread to my shoulders and stomach. I was likely going to go crazy if I didn’t scratch it within the next ten seconds. It felt like I was being repeatedly stung by a legion of fire ants.
During those ten seconds I debated my options.
I could stay in the cabinet, wait for Martin to leave, go quietly insane, then send him an anonymous note about the conversation I’d overheard.
Or, I could burst forth from my hiding place, scratch my itch, look like the doofus I was, then hope he’d forget as I regaled him with the details of the conversation I’d overheard.
In the end it didn’t matter, because the cabinet doors were abruptly opened. A whoosh of fresh air followed and I found myself face-to-face with Martin Sandeke.
His eyes were blue and exceptionally beautiful. They reminded me of blue flame. Well, usually they were lovely, at present they were narrowed and sharp and focused squarely on me. Beginning with my eyes, they moved down then up, ending where they started.
He was truly a magnificent specimen; all broad shoulders and narrow hips, with the thick muscular thighs of a rower. His brown hair was streaked with blond—likely due to all his time on the water and in the sun.
I wasn’t used to this—him looking at me, standing so close—thus, combined with my normal female palpitations, I couldn’t quite draw breath for several seconds.
At length, he said, “Parker… what are you doing?”
“Uh…” I released the breath I’d been holding and unthinkingly arched my back, reached behind me to scratch my itch.
Maybe it was the effect of his eyes and unavoidable handsomeness, or maybe it was because I’d seen him rip girls to shreds and was therefore a little afraid a potential non-chemistry related conversation, or maybe it was the itch between my shoulder blades—but, without thinking, I blurted the truth. “I was hiding in the cabinet.”
His brow furrowed; but his gaze relaxed slightly, his confusion plain. “Why were you hiding in the cabinet?”
I reached over my shoulder, stretching my arm, and tried to reach the itch with my left hand instead of my right. This didn’t work.
“Why does anyone hide in a chemistry cabinet?” I shrugged, mostly because I hoped the movement would help me get to the itch.
He lifted a single eyebrow and grabbed me by my upper arms, pulling and lifting me like I weighed next to nothing. He swung me around, his back now to the cabinet, and set me safely on the ground,
Martin’s hands on my arms sent a bolt of girly awareness to the pit of my stomach. It was paired with belated embarrassment at being found as a burst of heat spread from my chest to my neck.
He still gripped my arms when he asked, “Do you hide in the cabinet often?”
“Sometimes.” I said distractedly, my jaw clenched, willing the mortifying blush to recede.
“Is this an everyday thing?”
“No. Only on special occasions, like when strange people arrive to plot your demise.” I twisted out of his grip, reached for and failed to find the spot needed to secure relief.
“Plot my demise?” His eyes darted over me again, I could tell he was studying my movements. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to reach an itch between my shoulder blades.” My elbow was in the air now, my hand down the neck of my shirt.
Martin’s eyes widened then blinked. Without a word he stepped forward and into my personal space. Before I could comprehend what was happening, he’d backed me into the lab table, and I was trapped. Martin was ag
ainst me, his arms wrapped around me, his hands slipped under my t-shirt to the center of my back, and his fingers itched the unreachable space between my shoulder blades.
At first I tensed because… MARTIN SANDEKE’S ARMS ARE AROUND ME, HIS HAND IS UNDER MY SHIRT, HIS BODY IS PRESSED AGAINST MINE!
OMG. WTF? BBQ!
My brain’s very understandable stunted fan-girl reaction to his movements was quickly eclipsed by the blissful relief of an inch scratched.
I melted in his arms, my forehead resting against his chest, and I moaned my satisfaction.
“Oh, yes, god. That’s the spot… Please, don’t stop.” I murmured, obviously out of my mind. But it felt so good. So very, very good. Like sinking into a hot bubble bath after walking a mile through a nor’easter.
Martin didn’t stop.
Well… not precisely.
Rather, over the course of a full minute, he ceased using his nails, and instead began caressing and massaging my back with his fingers and hands. I realized too late that his head had dipped to my neck and his lips were against my ear, his hot breath tickling me and sending delightfully dangerous shivers racing down my spine, back of my legs, to my toes.
“Did I make it all better?” He whispered then bit—yes, bit!—my neck, like he was tasting me.
Then he bit me again.
I sucked in a breath and my eyes opened—even as my body instinctively arched toward him. Reality burst through the delightful fog of his ministrations like one of those disturbing and jarring windup jack-in-the-box clowns.
After two semesters of nothing but mundane academic interactions, I was in the chemistry lab with Martin Sandeke and his hands were roaming, liberal and greedy. His face was tucked in my neck. I was trapped against a lab table. Our bodies were intimately connected.
And I’d just moaned.
What the hiccup was going on?
I raised my palms to his chest and made to push him away. This only caused his hands to still, now on the curve of my waist, and his grip to tighten. He plastered our fronts together more completely.
