The College Obsession Complete Series (Includes BONUS Sequel Novella)

by Daryl Banner

  she’ll run off the second she gets close.

  Brant nods. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “she will run off because you gave up.”

  I glare at him. I start typing again, but Brant’s hand covers mine. He says something else.

  Then, I get so fed up that I do something I almost never do: “It won’t work out,” I tell him.

  The sound of my voice takes him aback.

  My face flushes, angry. I can’t stand talking. I can’t stand not knowing what I sound like. I feel so fucking insecure about it. I remember hearing and making fun of the slurred S’s and the weird vowel sounds that other deaf people made when I was a kid, and here I am, having become the butt of my own childhood jokes. I was such a little shit when I was a kid … when I could hear …

  Sometimes, I wonder if this is my punishment.

  Brant flicks me in the chin, nabbing my attention. He tells me: “You’ll never know unless you …”

  He thinks for a moment, brow wrinkled. Then, he creates fists with the thumbs poking out between his fingers and twists them in the air.

  It’s the sign for “try”.

  Chapter 9

  Dessie

  “I want you to fuck me. Fuck the doubt out of me. Fuck the ex-boyfriend out of my head. Fuck me until there’s nothing in my mouth but your name, over and over again, in screams.”

  Her name is Ariel. Yes, like the stupid mermaid. And she’s beautiful. And all the guys stare at her and she bats her stupid eyelashes and she’s the perfect actress. And even when she says a word like “fuck”, she makes it sound like poetry. Her hair is a golden, wavy waterfall of wonder and her face is oh-so angelic.

  And apparently she and Clayton had a thing a year ago or so. Yeah. That mermaid up there is his type, and that’s a type I will never be.

  “Great,” says Nina, the acting professor who never calls anything great or good or lovely, ever. She sits in the audience seats among us, observing Ariel who stands proudly in the acting area awaiting critique. Miss Nina Parisi adds, “You gave just the right amount of care, and just the right amount of nothing to each ‘fuck’. Great.”

  If there’s one thing I don’t regret about college acting compared to high school, it’s the sudden permission to read and act from scripts that have an overabundance of the word “fuck” in them. Hell, it’s encouraged. Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck me and you.

  And Fuck Ariel. I’ll never look like that. She has the same pretentious glassy-eyed face as my sister Cece, the one who never seems to change when she steps off the stage. Whether standing before an audience or all by herself, the actress acts, the face lights up, and every word that vomits out of those lips is seasoned with pretense and packaged with the pristine care of three weeks’ meticulous rehearsal.

  And Clayton wants that? I roll my eyes and chew grindingly on my thoughts—which may or may not be my teeth—embarrassed that I ever gave that man the time of day. That beautiful, striking, incredible man. That heart-stopping, slab-of-beef, gorgeous-eyed solid demigod of a man.

  That beautiful man I signed my name to.

  I’m fooling myself, aren’t I?

  Nina rises from the seats and crosses half the length of the black box theater we have our acting class in, the heels she wears stabbing the stage floor and echoing off the rafters and the four plain walls. Quietly, she says, “I want you to do that piece again. Bravo.” She faces us, her eyes alight. “Pay attention to the little things she does in this monologue. What she does with her hands. Her eyes, just the story in her eyes alone. The focus she gives to an acting partner who doesn’t even exist. Take notes, people.”

  Ariel lifts her tiny chin, stares up at an imaginary beam of heaven-light, then recites her line: “I want you to fuck me.”

  Go fuck yourself, Ariel.

  When class is dismissed, I gather up my bag as fast as I can and hurry across the black box, only to find Ariel’s tiny figure stopping me at the exit doors. “Desdemona, right?”

  My heart races. I blink. What does this bitch want? “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Oh, awesome.” Her eyes sparkle. She extends a tiny hand. “Ariel Robbins. I’m the T.A., as you know, and I just wanted to say that I am really enjoying your work in this class. You’re going to blossom with your role in Our Town when rehearsals start next week. You give such remarkable attention to nuance!”

  Oh, this is just lovely. The bitch turns out to be all nice and crap after I spent the class despising her. “Thanks.”

  “No, really. I don’t say this about many freshmen,” she insists, batting her eyelashes, “but you’ve got a special something, Desdemona. I know real talent when I see it.”

  “It’s Dessie, and I’m not a freshman,” I murmur quietly, unable to process her annoying compliments. Really, it’s Chloe’s fault I feel like this; she’s the one who spilled all about the mermaid here. It was Chloe and I in the lobby surrounded by cafeteria snacks and scripts while discussing Clayton’s supposedly long history of girlfriends and flings. I believed about ten percent of what she said, tossing the rest into the rumors-and-embellishment bin.

  “Oh! Yes, of course,” says Ariel with a feathery chuckle. “I was told that. I’m so silly. Transfer, yes?”

  “Right.”

  She smiles warmly. That smile lasts for about four seconds before it turns to ice. “So I heard about the song, Dessie. At the piano bar.”

  I swallow, steeling myself for whatever it is she wants to say. “Song?” I prompt her innocently, but knowing exactly what she’s talking about.

  “You sang a song to Clayton. Clayton Watts,” she clarifies, tilting her head so all that angelic, blonde hair drifts to the side like a curtain of snow. “I don’t mean to step on any toes, or to come off any certain way, but … just friend to friend, woman to woman … you need to be warned,” she tells me, her eyes soft and glassy. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but—”

  “I’m usually of the mindset that it doesn’t matter what I hear,” I retort as politely as I can, despite the sharp edge to each of my words. “I judge a person based on how I think of them, not others.”

  Ariel’s sweet smile hasn’t left her face, though it tightens considerably at my words. I’m not fooled. Of course the ex would want to scare everyone else away from Clayton; this bitch just doesn’t want to picture his sexy lips anywhere near mine. Possessive, much?

  “You are a very sweet person,” she tells me, and despite how I’m feeling, I can’t tell whether she means it or is just being snarky. “I wish everyone had as open and caring a mind as you. Well.” She tightens her smile yet some more. “It was certainly a pleasure. I have to be off now to help grade Phonetics papers for the voice prof. Have a nice day, Dessie! And … do take care,” she adds. “A rose always looks lovely from a distance, but their thorns will prick you just the same. It’s in their nature.”

  With that, she dives back into her little river, her legs turning into half a fish, then flitters away.

  I spend the afternoon alone, bitterly eating Ariel’s words and spitting them out of my mind. She’d totally do well to have a sea hag rip her tongue out. No, I didn’t get a text from Victoria, nor did she answer when I knocked on the door to her dorm four separate times. Sam wasn’t there either, presumably at the library or something, so I enjoy a dinner alone in the University Center food court. My meal is a half-wilted salad with nine-thousand calorie dressing. Boy, have my standards plummeted. If my mom and sister could see me now …

  My dad would probably cheer me on and laugh. He was always the cool one in the family who encouraged me, even when I had my five-year-long tomboy phase in junior high, which completely humiliated my sister. You wouldn’t be able to tell from looking at me, but I’m actually quite handy with a switchblade. I also know how to tie eleven different knots and am not afraid of mud—which I always made fun of my sister for, considering stage makeup basically is mud that you put on your face.

  When I’m back at the School of Theatre for my Wednesda
y evening lighting crew shift, my heart rate is so high, I seriously feel like I might faint before I reach the door. I don’t know why my confidence is so finicky; it’s blazing one minute, dead-cold the next.

  I push through the door of the auditorium.

  Clayton is seated on the edge of the stage.

  Alone.

  He doesn’t look up. He seems intent on staring at the seats. Surely he isn’t avoiding looking at me.

  I force myself down the aisle to the stage. When he still doesn’t look up at me or acknowledge my existence—even with me clearly being in his peripheral view now—I give up, sitting on the edge of the stage too, but keeping quite some distance between us.

  I fight an urge to fruitlessly say hello, then roll my eyes at how dumb I am. I shouldn’t have signed to him. I had no idea what I was doing.

  I still don’t.

  “This is just lovely,” I mumble under my breath, picking my nails despondently.

  “What’s lovely?” comes a voice from behind.

  I jump, turning around to find Dick standing there.

  “Hello, D… Dick.”

  “What’d you call me? Just kidding.” He sits down between us, legs dangling off the stage. I wonder if he was saving up that joke; I can picture him practicing it into mirrors. “Some guys switched around, since I had openings for more people Monday and Tuesday. So, it looks like our Wednesday crew is now … just you two. Which really means it’s just you, Dessie.”

  “Just me,” I echo.

  “And you’ve been cast in Our Town as Emily,” he reminds me unnecessarily, “and they will be starting rehearsals next week.”

  “Yes, right.”

  “So, it seems that we have a bit of a sudden scheduling conflict.”

  I frown. Clayton seems to be in his own world, his hands braced on the edge of the stage in a way that tightens and accentuates his big, muscular arms. He stares down at the floor. I wonder if he was somehow told of this conflict already. Despite knowing he’s deaf, I can’t help but feel like he’s overhearing this whole exchange. It’s weird to me to think that he’s there, yet not a part of this conversation at all.

  “What are we going to do, then?” I ask.

  “We have a number of options. You can work today. Clayton can show you the grid one-on-one. I trust him, just have your phone handy so you both can back-and-forth that way. I presume you know he’s deaf,” he adds quietly, as if it’s necessary to whisper. “I have a serious stack of paperwork to catch up on in my office, otherwise I’d take you around myself. Also, the Monday and Tuesday crew kinda finished all the work I had planned for you guys this week, so …” Dick runs a hand over his oily head, as if there were still hair there. “Work tonight, and next week we’ll discuss whether rehearsals can be worked out to exclude Emily’s scenes on Wednesdays. That, or we’ll have to find you another shift.”

  Heaviness sets in my chest. I hadn’t realized how much I was looking forward to being near Clayton every Wednesday night. And alone, at that. Now, it sounds like I won’t be anywhere near him after today.

  “I liked this shift. It fits into my schedule,” I tell him, pushing the words out despite knowing full well that I’m completely free for most of the rest of the times available.

  Dick nods. “I’ll talk with Nina and we’ll figure something out.” And with that, he gives Clayton a big slap on the back, the sound of which is meaty and firm, like he just slapped a mountainside. Clayton slowly turns his head to meet Dick’s eyes with his dark, half-lidded ones. “I’ll leave it to you, Clayton! Show Dessie the grid,” he says, overpronouncing his words. He even points up for emphasis. Then, he turns back to me. “He’ll introduce you to Bertha, the cherry-picker. If you guys tip over, just scream; the Wednesday night set crew is working beyond the double doors and should hear you,” he says with a nod toward the backstage. “Just teasing about the falling over. Really, you’ll be alright if Bertha’s legs cooperate and lock today.”

  “Bertha’s legs?”

  “My extension is 330,” he whispers, then hops off the stage and departs the auditorium.

  The silent vacuum of the enormous room crushes in on me. Then, through that silence, I hear Clayton breathing. I turn my face. He seems to be scowling at the floor like it did something wrong to him. So, what’s the plan now? Are we just going to sit here?

  Tentatively, I give a small wave of my hand. Either it does not get his attention, or he’s ignoring me. “Hey,” I say, then feel dumb the moment the word comes out. Would it be rude to get his attention by slapping the stage? Screw it. I tap the flat of my palm against the stage three times, inspiring three small vibrations, and accompany the gesture with another thoughtless, “Hey, Clayton?” Nothing.

  I clench shut my eyes. I shouldn’t have signed to him. I ruined everything. What a dumb idea. Even now, I’m reliving that moment in the UC food court with a tinge of humiliation, reimagining the annoyed look on his face. He was annoyed, right? Or am I projecting my own doubts onto a perfectly innocent memory?

  I’m here for three damn hours. I’m not going to spend them sitting on the edge of the stage playing ignore-me games with Clayton hot-as-fuck Watts.

  Fighting a blush that’s quickly spreading over my face like a firestorm, I climb to my feet and search around for something to do. A pile of cables, already neatly coiled up. I check to ensure that they’re sorted by length and color. They are. Lovely. I approach the lighting rack where all the lights dangle by C-clamps. They’re organized by type. One of the Fresnel lanterns is crooked, so I do the important and necessary work of pushing a finger into its side, righting it.

  All in a hard day’s work.

  Footsteps approach from behind. When I turn, Clayton stands there, dark and foreboding. His shirt is especially clingy today, giving me an impressive display of his gorgeous pecs. His thick, unforgiving shoulders torment each sleeve of his poor black shirt, which stretches to embrace the mass of his arms.

  I sigh just at the sight of him.

  “Up here,” he murmurs, nearly inaudible.

  I blink, then meet his eyes. Did he just …? Did I just hear him …? Or did I imagine that?

  “You can talk?” I ask inanely.

  “My eyes … are up here,” he repeats just as quietly.

  I thought I was blushing before. Nope. My face is burning like a fraternity beach bonfire now.

  And his voice … The sound of his voice is electric to me. I don’t know what I was expecting, but his every word is like silk against my skin. Isn’t that exactly how it sounded in my fantasies of him? I wonder if he realizes how softly he speaks, how sensitive he is to the vibrations of his own voice. Regardless, I could listen to that man all day long. The gentle cadence of his speech is sex to my ears.

  I clear my throat, then enunciate each of my words with great care. “I take it … you can understand me?”

  His heavy-lidded eyes regard me with a mountain of patience as he looks down on me. With the tiniest of smirks playing on his sexy lips, he nods once.

  “Okay.” I offer him a tiny, smug smile of my own. “So,” I say, punching each word, “do you … want to introduce me … to Bertha?”

  “Talk normal.”

  I study his eyes defensively. “I am,” I argue back.

  The tiny smirk becomes an amused one. “Don’t have to shout,” he says. “Doesn’t help me hear your pretty voice any better.”

  With that, he turns away, heading for backstage. I watch his muscular back as he goes, gawping after him. I was shouting?? How the hell can he tell, anyway? My eyes drop down to his perfect ass. He’s wearing a loose pair of tattered jeans that hang low on his hips, yet somehow are capable of hugging his hot, sculpted buns in a way that is annoyingly distracting. My urge to tackle him and hear the meaty sound of his body crashing into the wall as I have my way with him has not diminished at all over the past week.

  Stop staring at his ass, I chide myself, then follow.

  His biceps flex gloriously
as he grips and pulls the handle of an enormous blue lift machine that has the name “BERTHA” written across the base of the cage in thick black marker. The monster rolls slowly on four squeaky wheels, Clayton grunting slightly as he tugs it to the center of the stage. I wonder if he knows he’s grunting. Miss Bertha has got to weigh a ton.

  Once it’s placed, he pulls out four long metal legs from some compartment in the base, then sticks each one into their matching slots, locking them in place with a twisting, rotary handle-thing. The legs stretch out about five feet or so in each direction, giving the machine balance. He runs its cord along the stage to an outlet. A moment later, he’s in front of Bertha and pulling open the little door of the two-person metal basket thing that we’ll be going up in.

  He pats the scary apparatus, which rattles horribly in response. “Giddy-up.”

  The last thing I want to look like is some scared girl who can’t handle a little bit of height. Throwing my chin proudly in the air, I saunter over to the machine, determined to—as the lovely Dick put it—become intimate with Bertha. I’d really rather become intimate with the man who plugged her in.

  Stepping into the basket, my shoe slips and I catch myself on the door. Clayton’s hands shoot out instinctively, grabbing a hold of my hips, and for a moment, we’re locked in place, staring at each other’s eyes. He lets go quickly, seeing that I’ve clearly caught myself from falling, and I feel my face flush again as I climb into the basket, gripping its railing so tightly, my knuckles bleed white.

  Clayton steps into the basket with me. This is not the biggest machine I’ve ever been in, and I suspect its elevating platform we’re standing on was meant for only one person, or two small people at best. His body is nearly on top of mine when he shuts the gate and locks it.

  I inhale his scent. My body shivers, consumed by the way Clayton smells—it’s like sawdust, sweat, and a hint of spice. The heat he exudes touches me as potently as his aroma, and I fight an urge to lean into him and just rake it all in.

  This is madness. This is torture.

  He turns to me. His face is so fucking close to mine, I feel his every breath on my forehead. “Ready?”