Adrian Lessons Read online

  I pick out two of the white pills—she didn’t say how many to take, but my nose is running like Niagara falls—and dry-swallow them. That girl is going to get nailed by Campus Security if she keeps insisting on sticking her pills in baggies to save space.

  I slip inside, rounding a hallway papered with ads for the Psychology Club’s latest potluck dinner and dodge two grad students mumbling about this year’s tuition increase. The reminder makes me wince. As much as I love—or used to love—writing about sex for the hell of it, adulthood has brought a whole new round of motivations. HarperCollins has deep pockets. And Marie, whose parents have deep pockets of their own, has given me a third of her advance just to write her sex scenes. A third that paid for last spring semester at Statham.

  But Marie won’t be getting her next payment unless she turns in a manuscript by the end of October.

  And I won’t be getting my third unless I write some seriously scintillating sex scenes.

  I slip into the girl’s bathroom to smooth any flyaways, look myself in the eye, and take a deep breath. The start to a new semester always has me rattled. “De-rattle,” I tell myself firmly. “You are going to get through classes, survive Statham’s pasta station for dinner, and write the filthiest porn that’s ever graced a keyboard.”

  A girl whom I did not know was in the stall behind me starts choking on her own saliva, judging by the coughing.

  Can it, sister. This ain’t a preschool bathroom.

  By the time I reach my hall, my nose is still spewing snot like it’s being paid for it, but I’m starting to feel distinctly…happy. It can’t be the pills. If they were working, my nose would have calmed down by now. But suddenly, I am in a very good mood.

  My thoughts wander. To my sex-writer’s-block. I need inspiration, damn it! Clearly great sex is not in the cards for me, so I need something else. A bolt from above. An epiphany. A—

  I open the door to Room 34B and my inspiration is sitting in the back of the room, sliding a notebook from his bag.

  My jaw doesn’t just drop. It plummets. It hits the floor and rolls into oblivion.

  I’m not one for clichés, but I now understand why all those girls in romance novels flip the hell out when they first see The Boy. This Boy is like an amalgam of the sexiest possible part of every male that has ever lived.

  You wouldn’t call me overdramatic if you could see him.

  A strong jaw, lightly dusted with dark stubble. Cheekbones someone sculpted from marble. Tanned California skin. Dark Greek hair with just enough wave. Twenty-three, twenty-four years old, maybe. Tall, with a body about to enact a prison break from his jeans and fitted shirt, the lines of his six-pack visible through the fabric.

  He looks at me. Directly at me. His mouth curves in a slight smile.

  I realize I should probably put my jaw back in and take a seat, but his eyes are green as all hell, twin emeralds—I’m sorry, they really are emerald green—pinning me in place.

  “Miss Reynolds, I assume?”

  The dreamboat gets up, comes to me, and gets down again on one knee. He lifts my hand and lightly brushes my skin with the barest of kisses. “I’ve been waiting for you, Miss Reynolds.”

  “You have?” I squeak.

  “Yes, I would like to start class with all my students present. Please try to be on time from now on.”

  I blink. I may have just experienced a minor hallucination. Dreamboat is in his chair—he never said a word. Professor Newbury, a bald guy with a pocket protector straight from the eighties and eyes about as far from emeralds as it’s possible to get, is staring me down from the front of the classroom.

  I slink into the last available seat, which just happens to be right behind Dreamboat.

  Okay, there are other seats available. So sue me.

  While Newbury’s TA passes out the syllabus and the professor himself drones on about class goals or whatever, I stare at the back of Dreamboat’s head. His hair is thick and a little messy, begging to have hands buried in it. It sweeps to a point at the base of his neck. My fingers twitch. In my head, I’m writing Marie a new description for her love interest. She thought he was blonde and blue-eyed. Screw that.

  The guy in my next sex scene is going to have the vividest green eyes.

  “—So please partner up,” Professor Newbury is saying. I only tune in at the word ‘partner.’

  There’s a rustle as everyone in class turns to their nearest friend. I’m a senior—this class is mostly freshman, apart from Dreamboat. He seems to come to the same conclusion, because he turns to face me, hooking his arm over the back of his chair and highlighting one perfect bicep. “Care to examine my tongue?”

  What?

  “What?” I manage.

  Is he asking me to make out?

  Is that the weirdest way of asking someone to make out that I’ve ever heard?

  Do I care?

  More on this at five.

  “The experiment,” he clarifies, although that doesn’t really clarify anything for me. Then the TA slips a sheet of paper onto my desk and I look down to see the heading Taste Bud Experiment. Oh. I glance up, and Dreamboat’s green eyes are glittering with amusement.

  Christ Almighty.

  “Yes,” I say smoothly. “Tongue. Examine. You. Tongue. Yes.”

  “Cool.” His smile widens, just barely. It’s adorable. And sexy. “I’m Adrian.”

  “Yes. Yes you are.” I nod in totally suave agreement. “Oh. And I’m Cleo.”

  “Cleo,” he repeats. My name is damnably sweet on that tongue I’ll apparently be examining. His eyes are still dancing, like he’s laughing at some private joke he thinks I’m in on. It’s almost…familiar.

  “Do I know you?” I ask, scanning the recesses of my brain to see if I’d had a class with him at some point—there’s no way I wouldn’t remember.

  His eyes widen a fraction and I swear, he chuckles. “I wouldn’t say so.”

  I’m about to ask, but Professor Newbury captures our attention and demands we begin our tongue experiments, the nature of which I’m still totally in the dark on. He counts off our groups by number. “Good. We have enough supplies. Sarah will pass out the dye and papers and you’ll be doing the experiment at your desks…”

  I tone him out and realize I’m staring at Adrian with the approximate expression of a bulldog that just scented a lamb sausage.

  I write myself a mental letter. If you don’t get it together right this second, Cleo Reynolds, and stop acting like a total dumbass in front of the sexiest man you’ve ever seen, there will be no Loco Tacos for a week.

  The threat of losing out on my favorite Mexican Monday dinner stop scares the awkward right out of me. I clear my throat. And blurt, “What are you, Greek?”

  He nods, impressed. “My grandmother’s from Athens.”

  Disgustingly attractive and European roots. I make a note to sacrifice at least three baby goats to the gods of sex. I’m already imagining a fictionalized Adrian leaning over Marie’s blushing protagonist, fingertips caressing her cheek as he delivers a hot kiss to her ready—

  “Open your mouth,” he tells me.

  My jaw hits the floor for the second time that day, but he’s holding up a small blue bottle of food coloring and a cotton swab. He winks. “I can’t count your tastebuds if you don’t give me access.”

  Something is wrong with my brain. I’m high on his presence. Or maybe I’m just high. Did I walk through a pot smoke cloud on my way to class?

  His voice is deliciously low. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to hear it rumble close to me, pouring dirty words into my ear. No, Cleo. Get it together. Think of the tacos.

  Obediently, I open my mouth. He leans in close. I can smell him—a hint of spicy aftershave and that warm undertone of clean boy. I pray to the gods of dignity that I won’t drool.

  He squeezes a couple drops of the food coloring onto the cotton ball, reaches out, and dabs my tongue. Then he places a tiny O-shaped paper circle in the center.
He’s close enough that his breath sweeps gently over my chin. His eyes angle down toward my mouth, providing me with ample opportunity to stare at his strong, dark brows, his eyelashes.

  Then he looks up and his eyes lock on mine. Shit.

  “You’re a supertaster,” he says.

  Yes, he probably would taste super.

  The sexiest line appears at the edge of his lips as the slight smile returns. “The experiment, remember? If you have more than twenty-five tastebuds in the circle, you’re a supertaster.”

  He hasn’t moved back at all. There’s only three inches of cursed space between his face and mine. I never thought anyone could look good under the psych lab’s fluorescent lighting. We live to be proved wrong, I guess.

  “I’ve always hated bitter foods,” I mumble, as my entry for this year’s Annual Idiot Competition.

  “You look like you like things sweet,” he says in his low voice.

  What the hell is happening? Five minutes ago I was in Intro to Psych at Statham College, Massachusetts. Now where am I? The moon?

  The first judge at the Annual Idiot Competition nods, whispers to the other judges, and holds up an eight. I try to recover my faculties. “It’s my turn to do you.”

  “Is it, now?” he smirks. Goodbye, faculties. Enjoy your all-expense-paid trip to Hawaii, along with my sanity and this pair of panties.

  I must be ovulating. Damn you, uterus.

  Who is this guy?

  “Maybe I should just do a taste test to find out if I’m a supertaster.” His grin is positively wicked. “I wonder if anyone wants to volunteer to be tasted.”

  “I volunteer as tribute,” I say in one breath.

  The second judge of the AIC holds up a nine to raucous applause.

  He blinks, and for a second I think he’s going to take me up on it. Then he laughs. “I was kidding. It’s how I figure out if I’ll get along with new people—I see if they can handle my sense of humor. Trial by fire.”

  I rest my chin on my hands and nod solemnly like I’m not contemplating the nearest and easiest object with which to kill myself. “Right. I feel you.”

  Damn it. I accidentally said ‘I feel you’ completely unironically. What the hell was in those pills?

  “Feel free,” he says, offering his arm.

  I feel his bicep, giving it a little squeeze. It’s like a rock encased in human skin. Warm boy skin, specifically. “Feels…nice.”

  His smile is so freakishly cute. “You’re a funny girl, Cleo.”

  Funny! He thinks I’m funny. I am funny. I giggle a little bit.

  He continues, “You’re pretty brave to come to Professor Newbury’s class high.”

  My smile freezes. It takes me a good five seconds to track down what he’s said. “High? Me? No. No. I’m not…”

  “Hey, it’s fine.” His voice is so nice. He’s genuinely trying to make me feel comfortable. “It’s college.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “Yes, it is. Wait. I’m not high.”

  “Okay,” he says gently. Great. Now he thinks I’m mentally handicapped instead.

  Professor Newbury’s voice cuts into the babble of students playing with each other’s tongues. “Wrap it up, everyone, and we’ll discuss our results.”

  Adrian the Green-Eyed Greek begins gathering our supplies.

  Suddenly, I’m struck with the memory of what Marie told me. Faced with Dreamboat, it doesn’t seem like such a bad plan after all. In fact, I could put it into action right now.

  “Wait,” I tell him sexily, stealing the food coloring. I squeeze some onto a Q-tip, take his hand, and write my number on tanned boy skin in blue AmeriColor.

  I hear him chuckle and utter a soft, “Damn.”

  That’s right, boy. Damn is the appropriate impressed response to a girl who can write legible numbers with a food-colored Q-tip, possibly the worst writing tool in the world.

  And now that I’m leaned in close to him, it seems a shame to pull away. His mouth is right there. It’s like a gravitational pull. I lose all sense of myself. Our eyes are locked together and it’s as if we’re exchanging a promise.

  “It wouldn’t be a real experiment if I didn’t taste something,” I whisper.

  I kiss him.

  It’s not a hallucination. I’m actually doing this. His lips are warm and cinnamony and perfect, and the feel of them sets off several volcanic eruptions in my abdomen. Evacuate the civilians. Beware of falling ash…

  “Ms. Reynolds!” someone barks. “Please save it for after class!”

  Yes, I would love to keep doing this after class, thank you…

  “Ms. Reynolds!”

  I break away, slowly realizing what I’ve done. Adrian is staring at me, is expression unreadable. My eyes drop, to the arm where I just wrote my number. There’s a little scar just above his wrist. A V-shaped scar. Where have I seen that before—

  It hits me.

  “No,” I moan, as all the blood empties from my face and pools at the bottom of my feet. “You…walked in…Friday night?”

  “I walked in. Friday night,” he confirms, not unkindly.

  But I don’t give a flying fudge about his tone, because I myself am flying through the door, whizzing past my turtle-headed professor and leaving behind half-truths about sickness and the nurse’s office in my wake.

  The final judge of the Annual Idiot Contest holds up a perfect ten, and the crowd goes wild. I can almost see Marie in the audience, face-palming.

  I’d like to thank the Academy.

  ~3~

  “You…gave…me…what?”

  “Xanax,” says Marie, her guilty expression perfectly mirroring my mom’s dog’s when we catch him crapping in the kitchen. “I’m so sorry, Cleo. I was in a rush…”

  I will not murder my roommate! I will not murder my roommate, however much she deserves it.

  “I’m sorry! I’m taking you out for tacos, aren’t I?” she says, glancing at my face again. At least once person on the sidewalk has crossed to the other side of the street at the sight of my face. Marie, though, is holding up well. “How many did you even take?”

  “Two,” I grouse.

  She winces.

  “On my way to lunch I stopped Clarissa Williams just to start an argument about taxes, based on a comment she made in econ class. Our freshman year. She had no idea what was going on.” I sigh and rub my forehead. I am in desperate need of another long night with Mr. Flix. “And that’s nothing compared to what I did in Psych lab. I wrote my number on a guy’s hand. In food coloring. And then made out with him in front of everyone.”

  “Was he cute?” Marie asks.

  “That’s missing the point by about eight hundred miles. Food coloring, Marie. And I remember him being cute, but I also remember being asked what time it was by a giant owl, so he probably has three heads and is covered in barnacles.”

  I elect to keep the little fact that he was the one who walked in on me on Friday to myself. Sharing is caring, but there’s only so much more embarrassment I can stand.

  “There was a basketball home game today—they had someone wear an Ollie the Owl suit to try and get people to go to the game. You know, our school mascot?” Marie is smirking now. I resist the temptation to kick her into the street. “Besides, barnacles could be hot, if you’re into the pirate theme. Has he called you yet?”

  I push my phone deeper into my pocket. I have definitely not checked my phone fourteen times in the past hour. Not me. “No. Considering my mental state at the time, I probably wrote down Netflix’s customer service hotline instead.”

  “Considering your mental state at the time, I’d be amazed if you could remember that,” she muses.

  Only fools doubt my commitment to Netflix.

  We reach Loco Tacos, complete with a roof that looks like a sombrero and a front door decorated with red-and-green Christmas lights, just as a phone buzzes. I go for mine at the same time Marie does, but it’s hers.

  She answers. “Hey…oh…no, damn, I tot
ally forgot…yeah, I’m on my way! Sorry!”

  Which are never words you want to hear from someone about to treat you to tacos.

  She hangs up and turns full-blown puppy eyes on me. “I’m gonna have to bail, Cleo. Totally forgot I have a meeting for my Austen Seminar group project tonight. I’d skip it, but it’s the first time our schedules have aligned all semester, and the proposal is due—”

  I wave off her paltry excuses. “Don’t worry about. I’ll just go cry in bed and finish season four of Parks and Rec.”

  “No, you will not,” she says firmly, shoving a fistful of cash at me. “I really do feel bad about the Xanax. And you’re still stuffed up—you need something spicy to clear your sinuses. Buy yourself some tacos. On me.”

  “Solo Loco Tacos. An interesting proposition.” Although after my horrible day, the idea of sitting along and stuffing myself with beef and cheese sounds perfect. “I accept. The cash, as well as your apology.”

  She kisses my cheek, standing on tiptoe to do it. “And when you get back, you can work on finishing that scene.”

  I almost huff at her, but before I can, she’s halfway across the street. Smart girl. I turn and go through the door.

  “Just me and my shame,” I tell the boy in a beaded sombrero who asks how many people will be joining me. He seats me by the window, where I have a perfect view of the inglorious main street of Westby, Massachusetts—its only claim to fame the delectable foreign cuisine and, I guess, Statham.

  I’m far from the typical Statham student, who is Jewish, rich, a little neurotic but still willing to party. Though I am willing to party on occasion, I’m definitely not rich. Or Jewish. The jury’s still out on neurotic.

  While I’m waiting for my triple order of heaven, a.k.a beef and cheese tacos with a margarita to wash it down, I slide out my phone. No calls from Dreamboat, although it’s very possible that he could be sweet-talking a Netflix service representative at this very moment. I do, however, have a new email.

  And that email contains some very bad news.

  Dear Ms. Reynolds,

  I hope you enjoyed a refreshing summer break. We are emailing concerning the Cosmann Grant, of which you have been a previous recipient. Unfortunately, budget cuts to the school this year have required that we reevaluate our financial aid distributions to some of our students. We thought it best to notify you that the Cosmann Grant has been removed from your aid package for the upcoming spring semester, as part of certain unavoidable changes to our budget. We hope you are not inconvenienced.