James: A College Girl Romance (8 page)

For years, I had kept that ring on a chain around my neck. Of course, I had told Bennett and anyone else that bothered asking that it was a tactic for getting women into bed—me playing the poor, jilted fiancé. Seeing as I had been fucked over by my very own TA, maybe that was another facet to my overall dickishness about Bennett’s little conquest a few years back—I had felt some sympathy for his little freshman co-ed.

Oddly enough, Cass Flynn and Alex Reed were roughly the same age now. The difference was that Bennett had met Alex when she had been an eighteen-year-old freshman. Cass was twenty-three, almost twenty-four. She was an adult, not a girl still in her teens. There was a world of difference.

Unlike Bennett, I had learned my lesson freshman year of college—no emotional attachments. Being emotionally invested was an unnecessary complication to a simple, pleasurable transaction. That wasn’t to say I frequented prostitutes. I merely stripped away the artifice that came with sex, and I didn’t ask for anything I couldn’t reciprocate.

It was funny. Back in the day, I had gotten a call from Gretchen Mueller, Bennett’s ex, not long after he had hooked up with his little freshman. She had told me that she
had feelings
for me. Unfortunately for her, I had always known the truth—that bitch didn’t have feelings for anyone but herself.

She was the classic gold-digging harpy. I was more than willing to be generous with a fortune I had come to, admittedly by luck of the draw. But I had retained said fortune by not being a fool. Anyone who thought I was going to be screwed over by a pretty face or a shoddy deal was sorely mistaken.

When I woke in the morning, my hand slid over soft skin, causing my dick to stiffen against round ass cheeks. Now
this
was the right way to wake up. I reached around and grabbed a firm breast as the fingers of my other hand trailed down to lace panties. One soft moan from her lips and reality came rushing back.

Fuck
. I had taken home the little cocktail waitress from the club off I-80.

What the fuck had I been thinking? Oh right—I had been letting my dick do my thinking for me. I pulled my hands away from the warm, soft skin and rolled away.

I focused my thoughts on anything but her as I changed into basketball shorts and dragged a shirt over my head. By the time I made it out the front door, I had slightly better control over the driving urge to walk back into the bedroom and make Cass Flynn come until she begged me to fuck her.

I ran toward the campus, enjoying the empty streets and cool temperature of early morning. The trees lining the fraternity row were just starting to show the slightest change in color. Soon enough all the students would be back, stumbling their way home from frat parties, and it would be time for me to get the fuck out. For now, though, I was enjoying my little vacation out in the sticks.

By the time I got back to my comfortable little country cottage, I found my redheaded version of Sleeping Beauty still asleep, with her long hair spilling around her like flames. Her small pink lips were parted, and there was a slight furrow between her brows. Again, my dick sprang to life—like I was some hard-up teenager.

It was the image of pushing into that tight, wet heat that got me off in the shower. As soon as I finished, I got out and dressed as quickly as possible, trying to fool myself into thinking I wasn’t going to go out of my mind.

In the kitchen, I started the coffee, since there wasn’t a place that had decent coffee within seventy miles of this town. College kids—and maybe some of the professors—could survive on shit coffee, but I wasn’t about to.

I started taking out ingredients for breakfast. This scenario had a very morning-after feeling about it—and I didn’t do the morning after. However, I didn’t see myself as a cliché; I saw myself as a pragmatist. I had simply never wanted any one woman enough to invest in the before or after sex. Unfortunately, the girl in my bed right now happened to be the perfect storm.

I wanted to fuck her.

I liked her.

She needed something I could give her.

The thought of her working in that club bothered me more than I wanted to admit to myself.

And most importantly, I wanted to see her coming in my arms. Fuck, I craved it.

There were too many dickheads out there who wouldn’t give a shit if she came or not. They wouldn’t give a shit if they became the reason she hated sex. Me? When I fucked her, I would make sure she was addicted to sex. Not because I was a magician, but because I would take the time to know exactly what made her come undone.

I had known douchebags back in undergrad who had specifically targeted virgins because, “
They didn’t know the difference
.” My thought had always been, “
Really? You want to be the guy who can’t make a woman come?
” I could almost guarantee that there was a segment of the female population—definitely from a certain Ivy League university—that had spent years following college thinking that sex was some sort of cruel punishment from the universe.

To this day, I couldn’t understand guys who didn’t give a shit if their partners got off. It had nothing to do with love, just basic respect. Besides, more than half the fun—for me at least—was hearing a woman scream, “
Yes, God, YES!
” as her pussy tightened around my dick.

My buddy Ryan Bennett, no doubt, had always assumed I was one of those pricks who didn’t give a flying fuck about his sexual partners’ gratification, and I felt no obligation to set him straight. I just hoped he was doing right by Alex Reed, seeing as once upon a time ago, he had called me to a luxury hotel on the California coast in the middle of the night to pick her up—shortly after he had deflowered her.

Granted, he had just found out that the Bennett family patriarch had gone into the hospital with lung cancer. At the time, I had been a grade A asshole and had fucked with her head. Admittedly not one of my better moments.

I poured a cup of coffee stronger than most humans could stand—or black blood of the earth, as I liked to call it. I took out eggs, some fresh chives, and crème fraîche. Then I began slicing the mushrooms—shitake—before grating some Irish cheddar.

“
You
?
You
can cook?”

I turned around and saw Cass standing in the doorway with a shocked and mildly amused expression. She was wearing one of my dress shirts, which came halfway down to her knees. With her hair wound up in a messy bun, all she needed to complete the schoolteacher-porno was an apple, a pair of glasses, and the platform heels she’d been wearing the night before.

“Don’t look so surprised,” I chided her. “Coffee?”

“Definitely.”

I reached into the cabinet, took out a mug, and poured a cup. When she walked over and took it, I realized that without her Mary Janes, she didn’t even come up to my shoulder. She took a sip and made a face. I pointed to the refrigerator.

“Cream?” I asked wryly.

“Hell yes.”

She walked over to the refrigerator, took out the cream, and poured a generous portion.

“How did you sleep?” I asked.

She blushed and raised an eyebrow.

“Considering I fell asleep in your guest room and woke up in your bed? Your bed is amazing, by the way. … Not that you spend much time in it. I woke up at six and you were gone.”

“I make it a policy not to stay in bed too long when all I want is to fuck the girl sleeping next to me. Remember—I’m not into necrophilia or anything less than enthusiastic partners.”

What I failed to mention was the fact that I very much expected Ms. Flynn to be extremely willing given the proper preview to sexual relations. I took out a basket of strawberries.

“Do you want me to slice those?” she asked.

I set the basket on the counter and took out a paring knife and a cutting board. While she set to work rinsing and slicing the strawberries, I whisked the eggs and let butter sizzle in the sauté pan. As soon as the strawberries were neatly sliced in small glass bowls, Cass found the flatware and table linens, which she set on the counter with our coffees.

As soon as the omelet was done, I split it onto two plates, spooned out the crème fraiche, and sprinkled chives over each before placing a plate in front of Cass. I took the seat next to her just as she took a bite of omelet and moaned. Fuck. Here I was at thirty-two years old—a walking erection.

“Oh, wow. You really
can
cook.”

“Fancy scrambled eggs.”

She turned and stared at me.

“Modesty? Humility? Self-deprecation?” she gasped dramatically.

“I wouldn’t get used to it, lovely. A momentary lapse. I really am quite the bastard.”

She grinned and took another bite of omelet.

“A bastard who can cook.”

When we finished eating, Cass began taking the dishes to the kitchen.

“I can’t believe you use real china,” she laughed. “I mean, I’ve got some chipped bowls and plates and a set of silverware from Target.”

I watched as she filled the sink a quarter of the way with soapy water. Not wanting her to get the wrong idea—that I was some kind of benevolent fool or a monk—I walked over behind her, stopping less than an inch from her. When I brought my hand around to the front of the shirt she was wearing, she stiffened, her breathing hitching as my fingers undid the first button. I dropped my mouth to her ear.

“You knew I was watching you at the club, didn’t you, Cass?”

She nodded slightly as my hand slipped under the shirt, my thumb slowly circling her breast, teasing closer and closer to the taut nipple. Her head fell back against my chest, and she shivered. I reached around with my other arm and pulled her against me until she could feel the full length of me pressed against her. As I imagined bending her over the counter and slipping slowly inside her, a small whimper escaped her lips.

When I released her, she turned and looked up at me, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Goddamn. I wanted to push together those creamy little tits of hers and bury my face in them. Instead, I stepped away from her.

How this girl made asceticism seem worthwhile was beyond my understanding, because I was
not
someone who practiced self-denial. Yet here I was.

“Shower,” I said. “Get dressed. We leave in an hour.”

She frowned.

“To go where? I don’t have any clothes, remember?”

I smiled.

“It’s a surprise, and you can borrow one of my shirts. There are more panties in the bag I gave you last night, and I’m afraid you’re stuck with that alluring little skirt until we get where we’re going.”

I took out my phone and texted Irving so that he could arrange her final paycheck from the club. That, and move her belongings to storage.

“Oh, and lovely, come here.”

I walked over to the laptop and opened the digital transaction management software.

“I need your signature.”

“For what?” she asked from behind me. “Our contract?”

I looked over my shoulder at her as she began buttoning the shirt.

“Power of attorney.”

She frowned.

“That would be a big hell no. I’m not giving you or anyone else written authorization to represent me. How the hell do I know you’re not just going to sell me off to some Mexican cartel if I don’t
please you
?”

I laughed.

“I’ll add a clause that says you can rescind it at any time. This allows Irving to quit the club in your behalf, collect your final paycheck, and get into your apartment to move your belongings.”

“I can rescind it at any time?”

“You have my word as a bastard.”

She smirked.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered.

I showed her how to create a digital signature and waited while she reviewed the terms.

“Who is Irving?”

“Matt Irving is my IT and logistics expert.”

“You have your own IT department?” she asked.

“Irving would argue that he’s better than any IT department, and he should be for what I pay him not to hack me and drain my assets.”

She paused before clicking on the final signature field.

“Do we have time to stop at the club so I can quit in person?” she asked hesitantly.

I laughed.

“I don’t think you want to do that.”

“Or maybe I do.”

Stubborn girl
.

“As you wish,” I said.

Ignoring my sarcasm, she smiled and turned back to click on the last signature.

“You now control my entire life, Mr. McDevitt. Are you satisfied?”

I walked over to her and hooked my index and middle fingers into the shirt she was wearing and pulled her toward me.

“Not even close.”

I
exhaled and watched the rolling golden hills and farmland that prompted people to call this a cow town, Podunk, middle of nowhere, or Bumfuck. The scenery blurred by the window the same way the past forty-eight hours had. Tonight, I was supposed to be starting my shift at
Fantasy Land
, but now some guy named Matt Irving was apparently collecting my paycheck and moving all of my belongings from my apartment.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d had at least the illusion of autonomy, even if my financial situation had left me with few options. Now, I was trapped in some sort of warped version of
Cinderella
, where Prince Charming would make all my problems disappear—for a price.

It was a bet on both our parts. I was betting that I could make it through the remainder of the summer with my self-respect and virginity intact. James McDevitt was apparently very confident that I would be willing to let him bend me over the nearest piece of furniture for a victory fuck.

Anyone would say it was a fool’s bet. All I had to do was not sleep with him—simple as that. Besides, some small part of me still clung to the idea of surviving this whole
Alice in Wonderland
-esque situation and meeting some nice, normal guy.

It wasn’t like I was obsessed with my virginity. What I had told James last night was true—I wasn’t waiting for marriage. But that didn’t mean I wanted to start things off by having sex with someone who didn’t give a fuck about me. Maybe I was being sentimental and uptight, but it was still
my choice
.

I looked over at him as he drove. I did have to admit that James McDevitt was beyond hot. Up until last night, I had sort of been hoping that he was hiding an epic beer gut under his clothes; although, that would have been quite a trick—or a damn good pair of Spanx for men.

Unfortunately, he was head-to-toe perfection. Broad shoulders and a cut physique that repeatedly conjured an image of him lifting me onto a counter and doing naughty things to me, which was so not a good place for me to go mentally. He was well-built in all the right places.

He was—what had he called me last night?
Highly fuckable
? That description definitely applied to him, but that wasn’t what I was looking for. I was twenty-three. I wanted certain things that didn’t seem beyond the realm of possibility. I wanted a healthy reciprocated relationship with a somewhat normal guy.

Sure, I knew that everyone had fucked up baggage—but not every guy offered money for sex. Besides, I knew that James McDevitt was
way
more fucked up than the average guy. Because what he had told me was true—he wasn’t paying me for sex. He was playing a game. I had agreed to the terms, but I was starting to regret signing on for some deranged arrangement that was purely for the entertainment of an eccentric rich guy.

I looked over at him again. What if I just slept with him? Got it over with—now? Like if we just pulled off the freeway and I got it over with? Maybe he wouldn’t pay for graduate school, but at least I would be done with undergrad without the additional tens of thousands of dollars of debt tacked onto my mounting credit card debt.

“James?”

My skin prickled as I said his name. As silly as it sounded, it felt like I was invoking an evil spirit or speaking the given name of a fifteenth century vampire. When he looked over at me, my cheeks burned and I bit my lip. This whole thing was fucking surreal.

“What if—”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” I fumed.

“I know exactly what you were going to say, and the answer is no.”

“Okay. Seeing as you have mind-reading powers, what the hell was I going to say?”

“You were going to ask, ‘
If I just sleep with you now, are you going to be satisfied?
’ The answer is no. What didn’t you understand about me not being a proponent of necrophilia or coercive sex?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re not
coercing
me?”

“Have I compelled you by force, intimidation, or authority, while disregarding your individual desire or will?”

My eyes narrowed.

“You sound like a lawyer.”

“Juris doctorate? Yes. Did I bother taking the archaic bar exam? No.”

“
You
have a law degree,” I stated disbelievingly.

“Surprised?”

I thought about it for a second. Then I sighed.

“No.”

“Then answer my original question.”

“No, you’re not coercing me,” I muttered. “Do you always have to be right?”

“No, it just happens to occur that I am right more often than I’m not.”

I smirked.

“Got it.”

As we approached the exit to
Fantasy Land
, I regretted telling James I wanted to quit in person. I had my reasons, even if they mostly revolved around a guilt trip my mom had laid on me the summer after junior year of high school when a friend of hers had gotten me this nightmare job.

When I had quit and taken another job, my mom had railed for weeks about how I had
burned my bridges
. Now, any time I quit anything, she said the same thing—that I was
burning my bridges
. While I didn’t think I would ever work for the manager of
Fantasy Land
again, I did feel a twinge of mother-induced guilt for giving no notice.

By the time we reached the parking lot of the club, I was having serious second thoughts about letting something my mom had said while I was in high school continue to screw with my head. If I backed down now, though, James would think he was the one who had gotten me to change my mind. Taking a deep breath, I opened the car door and stepped out. When James got out, I stared incredulously at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Do you really think I’m letting you go in there alone after last night?”

“I’ll just be five minutes. I’ll tell Bob, and then I’ll leave.”

He leaned against the driver’s-side door.

“Two minutes, and then I’m coming in and getting you.”

I nodded and then turned and started walking toward the club, which somehow looked even creepier in the daytime. What building—apart from a strip club or a CIA black site—didn’t have windows? Quitting
Fantasy Land
was definitely not something I would regret about my deal with James McDevitt. Even though I had never been mostly naked in the club like the dancers, I had always felt raw and exposed.

As soon as I opened the door and walked into the stuffy darkness, a bouncer I had never liked—not Big Mike—grabbed me by the arm.

“Boss wants to talk to you,” he said as he dragged me toward the office.

I glanced around. Just a few really sketchy-looking guys drinking before noon and staring up at the stage as an older woman I had never seen before gyrated to
American Woman
. Jerry wasn’t behind the bar; it was some other guy I had never seen before. Apparently daytime was the B-team.

When we reached the back office, the bouncer swung open the door, giving me a view of Bob sitting at his cluttered desk, where my purse was sitting—not in my locker, where I had left it. Bob looked up and his red-rimmed, beady eyes narrowed even further when he saw me.

“What the fuck is this? I get a call from some Irving prick saying he’s handling your fucking
affairs
and to send your last check. Oh, and a fucking courier would be by to pick up your
belongings
.”

The bouncer shoved me from behind into the office and slammed the door behind me.
Asshole!
I thought, even though I was too afraid to say it to his face.

“Look, Bob. I’m sorry. I meant to—”

“Shut the fuck up, you stupid little college girl.”

I rocked back on my heels for a second. Bob was a perv and an asshole, but I had not been expecting this level of bullshit. I shook my head.

“Whatever. I’ll just take my purse and—”

“You know, sugar. I’ve been getting a lot of requests to put you up on stage. I coulda made you a lot of money—tax-free on the side, too. But not you. You think you’re too good for this place. Now here you go fucking me over—and nobody fucks Bob over. You
owe
me, you little bitch.”

Now I was
pissed
.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“Oh, you’re wrong about that.”

When I made a move toward my purse, he stood up from his desk, and my palms began to sweat. He was an out-of-shape slob, but he was at least three times my weight. I stepped backwards and groped for the door handle, which didn’t budge. My breathing was shallow as I stepped to the side and tried to think if I could make it to the emergency exit behind him without being grabbed. Before I could move, the office door swung open, and I watched apprehensively as the bouncer from earlier stepped inside.

“What the fuck is it?” Bob barked. “I told you not to—”

My jaw dropped when the bouncer took another step forward, revealing the gun pressed to the back of his head.

“Cass?” James said. “Take your bag, tell your former employer to go fuck himself, and let’s be off.”

“Who the fuck is this asshole?” Bob snapped.

“Someone you don’t want to fuck with,” James said evenly. “Now, I suggest you forget all about this girl and this little moment in time, or you’ll find your bank accounts emptied and your club raided for drugs and prostitution.”

I walked around Bob to the desk and snatched my purse. When Bob took a step toward me, I heard James make a clucking noise.

“Unwise.”

I looked back at Bob, who had frozen in place, and then back at James, who was pointing the gun at him. The bouncer suddenly turned and tried grabbing the gun. I screamed, and in a lightning-fast movement, James knocked him upside the head before kicking him behind the knee, sending him crashing to the ground.

Without a second thought, I ran toward James. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me from the office into the club.
Crazy Bitch
was blaring in the background as we made our way toward the door. When another bouncer I had never seen stepped in front of us, James leveled the gun at him and shook his head.

A few seconds later, we were outside in the sweltering heat. I squinted and shook my head in the blinding sunlight. The last ten minutes felt like a figment of my imagination. As soon as we reached the car, James opened my door and lowered me into the seat. Seconds later, he was behind the wheel and we were silently speeding out of the parking lot. I shook my head again.

“I have no problem saying it: you were right. Oh my god. I thought he was going to kill me.”

James looked over at me.

“
Now
can you see why I didn’t want you working there?”

I nodded ruefully as he got on the freeway headed west.

“Yeah, but wow. I did not see Bob turning into that much of a psycho.”

“You never really know people until you’ve made them angry.”

I shivered at his statement and opened my purse. My phone was still there—but it was dead, of course. My school ID and driver’s license were untouched, but the twenty-dollar bill I had kept for emergencies—gone.
Asshole
. I glanced at James.

“Thank you … again.” I paused before continuing. “So, if we’re going to be driving for a while—you wanna tell me why you carry a gun?”

“The short version is: because my father is a psychopath and megalomaniacal asshole. To him, the more money and power he has, the more of a man he is.”

“Oh. Well, that explains everything.”

“Let me put it another way. As the CEO of an enormous health insurance empire, he has spent his entire life accumulating money and connections to people in government and on the other side of the law to expand his reach. He’s a dangerous man to cross, and there are plenty of people who would like to see him dead.”

When James raised his left hand, I stared, transfixed, at his little finger. The tip was missing. I bit my lip. How had I missed that?

“Typically those who want to see the father dead wouldn’t mind seeing the son dead as well.”

“What happened?” I asked softly.

“Spring break. I was nineteen, stumbling my way back to my hotel, very proud of myself for evading my father’s hired bodyguards. Someone hit me over the head, and the next thing I knew, I was in the trunk of a car … then strapped to a chair for three days while my father negotiated ransom. I was lucky. I could have been dumped on the side of the road dead or missing an arm and left to bleed out. Instead, all I lost was the tip of my finger.”

My eyes pricked with tears.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Another of life’s lessons.”

I tried to imagine what it would have been like to go through something so terrifying. I glanced out the window. Thinking of the tattoos I had seen all over his torso and arms, I wondered if they had anything to do with what had happened to him when he was just a few years younger than I was now.