K. Bromberg: Sweet Ache

“Of course she didn’t say yes. My little sister is not going out with that asshole,” Colton says, toggling his head back and forth between us.

I’ve never understood what the big deal is. Luke and Colton went after the same woman. Colton won, big deal. Well, and then Luke threw a few punches because of it … and maybe, perhaps he let a bit of the hostility transfer over to the track a time or two.

“Cool it, Ace,” she says with a raise of her brows, beating me to the punch. “She can go out with anyone she wants. You’re not her keeper.”

I can see the muscle pulse in my brother’s clenched jaw as Rylee stands her ground with him—she’s the only person besides his best friend, Becks, and our dad who can.

“He’s an arrogant ass!” he spouts off, mouth agape like we’re both crazy.

“I seem to know someone else who was just as arrogant and just as good-looking,” she teases, holding her ground.

I can’t fight my smirk from spreading into a full-blown grin from Rylee’s comment that is right on target. Becks summons Colton to come over toward the car. He looks at me with the stern big-brother, don’t fuck with me look. It’s kind of cute.

And annoying.

“Relax! I told him no.” The pronouncement earns me a flash of a grin before he pecks a kiss on Rylee’s cheek.

He starts to walk away and then stops and turns back. “Keep it that way,” he warns before continuing over to Becks.

Rylee tsks out a sound as she follows something over my shoulder, and I turn to see Luke walking farther down the pits. He flashes me a grin before continuing into a building.

“You can’t deny that he is definite eye candy.” My neck hurts from the sudden whiplash at her words. “Oh come on, Quin, I may be married but I’m not dead.” She shrugs. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t see how many licks it takes to get to the center of his Tootsie Pop.”

And she says the comment so matter-of-factly I just burst out laughing. I swear to God all of the hormones she’s been taking to try to get pregnant have affected her usually demure manner.

“He wishes,” I say, still laughing.

“Well, he is persistent. You’ve got to give him that.”

“That’s all I’m giving him.”

Chapter 2

QUINLAN

The Southern California heat mixed with the second week of school has really done a number on me. I’m ready to melt into the cool air-conditioning of the Fine Arts offices as I pull open the door, tired from a late night hanging out with Layla—my fault but still aggravating nonetheless—and having had to deal with some dipshit undergrads in the teaching assistant session I just came from didn’t help matters.

Generally I don’t mind if a student doesn’t get a concept. I have no problem helping them so that they understand. But when the students are too busy chasing skirts and worrying about who the Trojans take on this weekend to listen, it’s not my problem they received bad marks on their first pop quiz.

And it’s not helping my mood that I need to get laid something fierce. And not by my own hand. There’s nothing worse than a woman in need of a good orgasm.

Or two.

Or three.

I drop my backpack on the counter with a sudden resolve to rectify the situation with the first willing candidate who meets my discriminating standards. Then again I’m on the verge of being desperate enough that I might throw them out of the window for the right mistake.

I start rifling through the bazillion pieces of paper stuffed in my mailbox—such is the life of a graduate student in the Cinematic Arts. Shit, save a tree people, use e-mail. I automatically toss the ones about elective seminars into the recycle bin without even reading them because at the beginning of a semester the last thing I have time for is something that does nothing to further help me write my dissertation.

“Quinlan! Just the person I wanted to see!”

As I turn around to face my graduate adviser, the smile comes naturally to my face since I’m one of the select few fortunate enough to be under her tutelage. “Hi, Dr. Stevens.” She gives me a stern look that causes me to laugh at the formality of my greeting, so I cave to her oft-repeated request and correct myself. “Hi, Carla.”

“Better.” She laughs the word out. “Now, I’m not looking for my husband when you say that,” she says, referring to her spouse, who is a cardiologist.

I nod my head in agreement. “Why do I have the feeling that I’m not going to like the fact that you wanted to see me?”

Please God don’t let her ask me to add something else to my already overflowing plate full of obligations, deadlines, and drafts I need to write .

“I’m kind of in a jam and I need your help.” She scrunches up her nose like she knows I’m not going to be too happy with what she’s going to say next. “Like I’ll give you a three-week extension on your first draft due date kind of help.”

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth and know that no matter what she asks, I’ll say yes. She’s my mentor for God’s sake. Anything not to disappoint her. “Okay?” I draw the word out into a question, fearful and curious all at the same time.

“Well, Dr. Elliot has brought in someone for a seminar that is starting”—she looks down at her watch and winces—“well, it started about five minutes ago actually. Anyway, he’s asked if I can help him. His TA, Callie, was supposed to do it, but she had a last-minute schedule change to accommodate one of her professors … and all of his other teaching assistants have classes right now….”

I bite back the urge to make a smart-ass comment about how Callie’s conflict is the need to flirt ridiculously with the professor she has the hots for, university protocol be damned. Instead I look at Carla and blow out an audible breath, certain that my expression reflects my displeasure.

I’m usually on top of all of the department’s goings-on but my last-minute trip to the Sonoma race to watch Colton mixed with playing bestie to nurse Layla through her unexpected breakup and the usual first month of school discord has left me in the dark about course specifics. It had better be a damn good class if I’m going to have to be stuck sitting through it.

“You know I’m agreeing to this because I’m already behind on my draft and need those weeks, right?”

“Exactly!” She smirks. “I don’t have that PhD behind my name for nothing.”

“That’s low.” I just shake my head as I reach over to grab my bag. “So give me the details.”

“You’re a lifesaver!” She reaches out and pats my shoulder. “So the seminar is on sex, drugs, and rock and roll in a manner of speaking.” She quirks her eyebrows up, asking if I’m okay with that.

Like I have a choice. I can just imagine some stiff professor giving a seminar about something so completely foreign to him. Now I’m going to have to waste my time mollycoddling someone when I have so many other things that would be a better use of my time. Sounds like a real barn burner .

“Who’s teaching it?” I ask, my tone reflecting the cynicism I feel over the contradiction between teacher and subject.

“A guest lecturer. I forget his name but he’s a member of some popular band.” She rolls her eyes. Her musical taste includes only classical music and jazz. “Oh and he’s cute,” she says with a smile and then cuts me off before I can ask her any more details. “Now shoo—he’s probably mangling the sound system as we speak. Microphone on upside down or something. Class is in the GFA building, room sixty-nine.”

Mentally I roll my eyes at the room number, thinking how something else that number represents would be a much better way to occupy my time than listening to a monotone oration. And I wonder how big of a name he can really be if Carla’s worried the he has his mic on upside down.