Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) (25 page)

Brant reaches for my hand. Fear charges loudly from one end of my brain to the other, leaving no room to focus on anything but the sight of his gently outstretched palm in the cool, unsettling semidarkness of the parking lot. How can just a kind, well-meaning hand affect me so horribly?

“Ready?” he prompts me.

Stuffing my hesitation at once, I take his hand. The world is pulled back together in an instant. The parking lot, sinister only a second ago, suddenly feels downright friendly.

I meet his eyes. “Lead the way.”

The
Throng & Song
is already packed from one corner to the other with people from campus. I imagine 99% of their clientele is comprised of Klangburg students, though none of them look familiar to me.
Must be mostly Theatre and Dance peeps
, I figure. The air is thick with cigarette smoke, booze, and body heat. Music from the band thrums through my body, which reminds me almost too much of my dad’s music as it would pummel throughout the house from the garage where he did most of his meticulous model-painting work. This place also reminds me of a favorite bar that Minnie and I used to frequent downtown every weekend my freshman year. Overall, I’d say I could easily get pretty comfortable in a place like this. Considering how many student housing units are nearby within walking distance, I don’t imagine this place worries too much about intoxicating its customers and draining their wallets dry—wallets filled with Mommy and Daddy’s hard-earned money, no doubt.

“YO!” cries Brant, cutting through the crowd in pursuit of a person I cannot yet see. Our hands still joined, I follow him, nearly taking someone’s elbow in my face on the way.

When we emerge from the other end of the crowd, we’ve arrived at the bar. Brant lets go of my hand to give a hug to a guy I’ve seen before. He’s the shorter dude I saw Brant walking with that one day when they took a pic of a girl’s ass. It was the same day I unintentionally left my
Pussy
on that grassy knoll for the benefit of—I presume—a bunch of greedy-ass birds perched in the trees above me.

“Nell. This is Dmitri, one of my roommates.”

I offer my hand to Dmitri, who looks at me through a pair of thick-rimmed black glasses and spikes of jagged jet black hair that rests atop them. His complexion is pale and his black brows are thick, giving him a very intense demeanor.

He takes my hand. His own is shockingly smooth and cool to the touch. “Nice to finally meet you, Nell,” he murmurs, his soft voice nearly lost in the noise.

“Likewise.”

Brant leans into me. “You want a drink?”

“I’ll take a Dos Equis.”

He eyes me curiously, then presses himself to the counter to catch the attention of a bartender, all of whom are busy at the other end.

“What’s your specialization?” Dmitri asks me, kicking back his Blue Moon for a gulp or two.

“Drawing,” I answer. “I also paint and sculpt, but I’m best with charcoal.”

“Wow. You do it all, huh?”

Brant’s still calling for the bartender with his back to us, fruitlessly trying to catch one as they rush around helping other customers and seeming to outright ignore him.

“So you’re a creative writing major?” I ask.

Dmitri smiles appreciatively. “I am.”

“Working on anything new lately?”

“Yes!” His eyes light up, the excitement and joy of writing evident even in his beady, black, and otherwise untelling eyes. “I just finished this thing about an undeadish organ donor, and now I’m on a death-themed kick, so I thought I might write something about this guy who masturbates too much, and—”

“Whoa, whoa,” interjects a guy who rushes Dmitri from the side, throwing an arm over his back. He’s kind of plain-faced, but handsome and tanned, with a long gangly build and tightly parted sandy-brown hair. “No one wants to hear about that.”

“It’s a
story
I’m working on,” Dmitri retorts. “You didn’t even—”

“No one cares, sweetie. Hi. I’m Eric.” The new guy nods at me. “Are you—?”

“Nell,” Dmitri answers on my behalf, annoyed at him for cutting him off. “The girl from the art school who Brant’s been seeing.”

“Oh! Her!” Eric straightens up, flashing all his teeth with a bright smile. “I’m so rude! Please do tell her about your masturbation story, then. Anything to scare her as far away from Brant as possible.”

Dmitri groans. “Eric …”

“I’m teasing, I’m teasing. But really, Brant’s horrible. He almost let me give him head.”

“Eric!”

“He’s
awful
, Nell. He’s such a gay cocktease and that’s, like, the worst kind. I love him, but run while you can.”

Brant, oblivious to all of this, arrives with two Dos Equis, one of which he extends to me. “Here you go. Oh, hey there, Eric. I see you’ve all met …?”

Eric makes a twisted face at him, not unlike one he might make if he’d stubbed his toe, and I can’t help but burst into laughter. Dmitri joins in, snorting and hiding his face with his own bottle.

“The fuck’s going on?” Brant asks, lifting his eyebrows quizzically at us.

I recover enough to take the bottle from him and say, “Eric is just giving me the rundown, that’s it.”

“Ah, crap. What’s he saying? Eric, dude, what’d you say?”

“Only nice lies and evil truths.” Eric’s face has turned a few shades of pink as he swallows his laughter. “You know, I need to tell Dessie about Kirk the violinist. She wanted all the details, she’s gonna get them, including the ones she probably doesn’t need to know. Hey, we’ve got a table up by the stage. Come join us when you’re ready!”

And with that, Eric slips away into the quicksand of the crowd, gone in an instant.

Brant leans into Dmitri, who seems to be pouting irritably. “Dude, don’t let it get to you. I bet Kirk’s got a tiny wiener.”

“It’s not
getting
to me. I don’t
care
,” Dmitri spits back, lifting the bottle to his lips and glaring.

“Just tell Eric you want him. Tell him and get it over with, dude, he’s basically waiting for you.”

“No he’s not, and I
don’t
want him. I want
Riley
.”

“Oh yeah! Where is she? I thought you were bringing her.”

Dmitri shakes his head. “Went back home for the weekend. Family time and some cousin’s birthday and blah, blah, blah …”

“Oh, yeah. She’s a daddy’s girl, I remember you saying.”

Dmitri takes another swig of his beer, then huffs impatiently and takes off in the same direction as Eric, pushing his way through the noisy crowd.

Brant shrugs, leans into the counter and lifts his eyes to me. “My friends are all so damn complicated.”

“And you’re so simple?” I tease him, lifting the bottle to my lips. He watches my mouth pointedly as I kick back the drink, letting its bitter taste wash over my tongue. I love having Brant’s complete and utter attention.

I’d bet six beers he’s already growing stiff in his pants by watching my lips and tongue make easy work of the mouth of this bottle.

“Nah,” I murmur after finishing my sip. “Not that simple.”

“I’ve never been so jealous of a bottle before.”

“Thanks for the beer.”

He nods resolutely. “My pleasure. I thought you said in the parking lot that you wanted liquor.”

“I’m of a mind to make smarter decisions tonight,” I inform him.

His brow wrinkles. “Uh, does that mean no bathroom blowjobs?”

I snort. “Definitely none of those.”

“A bar-side handy’s out of the question?”

“Completely.”

He makes a mock show of disappointment, hissing through his teeth before kicking his own Dos Equis back. “I can be a good boy,” he decides after his swig. “Hey, I saw this flyer outside of my class about an End Of Year Showcase or something …”

The lights in the whole bar dim, and then a roar of excitement thunders over the room and steals away whatever Brant was about to say regarding the showcase. I don’t know if he saw the flyer and intends to submit any of his photos or not, but he’d better be prepared for some serious scrutiny. The heads of the Art department don’t mess around when it comes to their precious End Of Year Showcase. I had my work turned down the first two times I submitted. Both times I was denied with a callous, harsh note of what I dare call “constructive criticism” and a gently-worded reason for why my piece was not selected. It would be some kind of hilarious, life-upturning irony if any of Brant’s submissions were to get in his first try.

Then I hear my own thoughts and suddenly wonder if I’m being unfair.
He has depth
, I remind myself.
You’ve seen it. You even encouraged it.
Hell, there’s probably more to Brant than I’ll ever realize.

And maybe that’s a good thing; it helps keep my interest in him.

“It’s about to start,” he whispers into my ear.

Just that whisper sends a hundred tiny bolts of electricity lightly dancing down my neck. I shiver pleasurably at the memory of the kiss we shared on top of that building the other night, and the kiss we shared in that tiny room at the art gallery …

And the one now.

I bring my lips to his quickly, catching him off-guard. Then I let go just as fast, smirking victoriously to myself as Brant stares after me in a surprised stupor. I love being in control.

The room hushes when a girl takes the stage. She’s curvy and sweet like a porcelain doll on the top shelf. She has long straight hair which she tosses the moment she’s in view of everyone, as if it was rehearsed. Maybe it was. She smiles and the whole world explodes into glitter and bright yellow sunshine.

I haven’t even heard her sing and I already can’t stand her.

“Hey there,” she murmurs into the microphone, acting all shy. “We have quite a turnout tonight! For those who don’t know me, I’m Desdemona Lebeau, but you can call me Dessie.”

She’s like Renée Brigand in cute, singer songwriter form.
Gag me.

“I have a new song for you. The boys and I have been working really hard on it. Now let me try to sing it and let’s hope I don’t fuck it all up,” she adds with a quirk of her eyebrows, earning her an endearing wave of laughs throughout the room—and a rolling of eyes from me. “This song,” she says softly, “is called
Can’t See Your Face.
”

She brings her lips to the microphone. Then the band starts to play and, after a dramatic intake of breath, Dessie sings.

I hate you

when you’re away

Because I

can’t see your face

That face I

have come to love

That face I

can’t get enough of.

She’s signing all her words to the crowd with her hands. Are there deaf people among us, or is this just part of her performance? I kick back my bottle, listening as her song crescendos into the first chorus.

Everything I have, someone else gave me

But this thing between you and I, it’s mine

And if you look closely, you’ll see what I see in you

in time.

And even if every note of this song is silent

The music rings perfectly true

That I’m meant for you, and you’re meant for me

too.

Take them off