Chemical Attraction, Page 3

  “Thanks for coming out, Heather, but the position is already taken.” I give a curt nod as her features drop with disappointment.

  “Oh shit.” She stomps her left foot into the floor three times fast. Yet another habit I’m thrilled Chelle won’t have the opportunity to pick up on.

  “Shit indeed,” I say it low as Chelle scoots over to the pick-up counter. “But good luck with the TSE. I hear they’re looking to fill up quite a few spaces. I think the odds are in your favor.”

  “So cool!” She jumps up and wraps her arms around me before jetting back out the door.

  And I do mean what I said. I wish her luck. Even the lip-infected deserve a shot at what seems to be eluding most people. Hell, I’m not all that convinced that the kids who say they’re head over heels at the end of the experiments we’ve run are the real deal. They sure seem like they are, but the true test, the test of time, is the one that will speak volumes.

  Another coed runs in—short, a dark pixie cut, and a loose smile, spouting more expletives than a sailor on leave, and that’s just to the barista. Same drill. I offer up a contentious smile as she bolts my way.

  Her lips start moving, and words go off like an explosion in a fireworks factory. I think I catch the name Melba somewhere in there, but I can’t be sure, and she refuses to come up for air for me to ask the question. She bounces on the balls of her feet as I rise to greet her, but I can’t get a word in edgewise. Faster and faster she goes until half the people in here, including Chelle, look my way with deep concern.

  I make the time-out sign with my hands and shake my head. “Position’s filled. Thanks for your time, though.”

  “Aw, shit.” She takes off out the door, cursing up a storm, and I can’t help but growl. Surely there’s one girl on campus who doesn’t pepper every other word with expletives. I sit back down, dejected, as Chelle lands a steaming cup of coffee in front of me.

  “No luck, Father?” She gives a little wink. She called me Father once last week after hearing her friend do the same with her own dad, and I’ve been relegated to the fancy moniker ever since.

  “It’s Daddy to you.”

  My phone goes off. A text from Cecilia. I flash the phone Chelle’s way. “Another one bites the dust. This one can’t make it. That’s exclusion by proxy.”

  “I saw those girls.” Chelle wrinkles her nose as she glances to the door. “You sent two packing already.” She holds up four fingers and pushes two down. “Then the girl on the phone.” She flicks another tiny finger until she’s inadvertently giving me the bird. “That just leaves one! And if you hate her, I’ll be stuck in the after-school program.” She curls up her lip with disdain and looks cute as hell. “I think we’d better get back to the drawing board. Why can’t Bart just pick me up like he does when Mommy has me?”

  “No,” I bark it out so fast there wasn’t a lot of time to process it. Not that I needed to. It’s always a no when it comes to Bart. Trish does graphic design for an advertising firm in Denver and doesn’t get home until well after six, so Bart it is. “Bart is a part of the Mommy package. He’s not working for me.”

  “He’s not working for Mommy, either.” She licks the rim of her hot cocoa. “They’re married.” She pulls the word married out in a playful whine and shakes her head back-and-forth, mocking the institution, and I can’t help but share a laugh with her.

  A warm vanilla breeze lights up my senses as someone steps in next to me and clears their throat. I glance up, and that newfound smile quickly glides off my face. She’s beautiful. Damn beautiful. Caramel-colored waves falling over her shoulders, light blue eyes with bright green rims, unusual, and yet there’s something hauntingly familiar about her. I take her in quickly—Leland sweatshirt, fresh scrubbed face, looks every bit like the girl next door. I rise to greet her and note the long red scrape over her right cheek, and I can’t seem to take my next breath, can’t get a proper hello out.

  “Shit,” I mutter under my breath.

  Her mouth rounds out in a perfect O and a thousand X-rated thoughts run through me at the speed of light concerning what she can do with that pretty pink mouth, what I would gladly put in it.

  “It’s you!” she grunts.

  “It’s you.” I can’t help but share the same level of disappointment. It’s her. “The terror from the Wild Rose Trail.”

  A choking sound emits from her.

  The two of us enter into a standoff, our shock quickly turning into a mutual strong dislike.

  “Excuse me?” Chelle does her best to push me out of the way. Her tiny face is turned up to the girl with a look of wonder. “Why don’t you have a seat?” She gestures for the vanilla-scented menace to take a seat beside her.

  “I—” The girl looks to me and frowns. A million bucks says she’s wavering on whether or not she should screen the insults just waiting to bubble from her throat on account of the cute kid in the booth. She should if she knows what’s good for her.

  “Oh, please!” Chelle draws out that last word, her jack-o-lantern smile on full display. “Don’t be afraid of my father. He’s really nice once you get to know him. He has two dogs and two cats, and all of our pets love him so much!”

  I cinch a tight smile. “That’s because I buy premium pet food.”

  The girl rolls her eyes.

  “He has a teddy bear on his bed, and I have a picture on my phone to prove it!” Chelle’s mouth falls open with the tattletale revelation. The only reason she has a phone at eight is so that she can communicate with Trish and me. But her obsession with taking pictures is a seemingly innocent hobby, for now.

  “A teddy bear, huh?” The girl bites down on a smile, and something warms deep inside of me. Probably just relief that she didn’t laugh in my face. The stuffed bear isn’t mine, or at least it didn’t start off that way. It belonged to my sister who we lost when she was six. And the relief I felt once Chelle crested that haunted age was beyond measure.

  “Well”—the girl scowls at me before looking back at Chelle—“if he’s got a teddy bear, I don’t see how I can resist.” She plants herself in the booth, and I fall in across from them. “Plus, he cleans up well in a suit.” She frowns as if my Italian tailored suit somehow offended her. I can’t help it, though. I’ve always had a thing for suiting up for the occasion. Any occasion really. Without it, there would be no difference between me and the frat boys running around campus, even if I do have ten years on them.

  The girl holds out a hand to Chelle. “September Sparks, but you can call me Ember.”

  “Michelle Houston, but you can call me Chelle.”

  I watch as they indulge in a quick shake, and Chelle nods to me.

  “That’s my dad, Dexter Houston. He and my mother are splits-ville.”

  That specific terminology was gifted from me ages ago, and I’ve lived to regret it ever since.

  “Divorced,” I offer while bringing the coffee to my lips and promptly burning my tongue. “Her mother and I share custody, but unfortunately the position is—”

  “Still available.” Chelle spikes a pudgy little finger in the air, and my natural inclination is to kiss it. “Father, you have to give Ember a chance! She’s pretty and nice, and she smells like cinnamon rolls. She’s the only one who can get me out of after-school playground—and the boys like to trap me and tease me when you leave me there. You don’t want that, do you, Daddy?”

  Geez. It’s clear Chelle is pulling out the heavy ammo with me, and God knows she’s hit every single target. I can’t deny her a thing.

  “How’s this.” I pull another twenty out of my wallet. “You grab Ember here a cup of coffee or a hot pink tornado Frappuccino in the event that’s more her speed, and buy yourself a cookie or two. You’re going to sit right over at that table while I get to know this young lady. Fair enough?”

  Chelle nods spastically while bouncing her way out of the booth.

  “What’s a hot pink tornado Frap-a-thingo?” She looks to Ember while gleefully taking my
money, something I’m sure will be an ongoing occurrence for the foreseeable future.

  Ember wrinkles her nose. A smattering of light freckles dots her cheeks, and something about it humanizes her for the very first time. Maybe she’s not such a she-devil after all.

  “It’s something your daddy says in hopes to disparage young women. Don’t worry, Chelle. It’s not working. I’m not easily intimidated.”

  Nope. Still a she-devil.

  Chelle giggles herself silly while heading back to the counter.

  “Tornado Frap?” She steals my coffee and cradles it in her hand as if it were her own. Her eyes narrow in on mine as she openly glowers my way. “Come on, Dexter. You can do better than that. Now that little ears are out of range, go ahead and really let me have it. Hit me with your best shot. Make it hurt, sweetheart.” She gives a little wink while taking a sip and inching back with a hiss. “Burnt my tongue.”

  “That’s what you get,” I say, taking back my cup. “And I do know you.” I do. I’m familiar with everyone in Group C, and I know for a fact September Sparks will be there tomorrow looking for love like the rest of them. “You’re up at bat with the TSE.” I hike my brows. “Now that I’ve gotten a peek at your dark side, maybe I should vet the pool of prospects for you. Someone jaded and full of venom might be more your speed.”

  She sucks in a quick breath and bounces in her seat. Her cleavage engages in a severe ripple under her top, and the pervert in me wholeheartedly approves.

  “Listen, buddy”—her tone drops to lethal levels, assuring me this chitchat will be wrapping up quickly—“I’m a lot of things, but I’m not jaded. And venom? Something tells me that’s a requirement for the women who have the misfortune of landing in your bed. Ex-wife?” She smirks. “Not a shocker. And don’t think I’m not up on that Scarlett Stafford fiasco. How did that little ditty she penned in your honor go again?” She cocks her head to the side, eyes to the ceiling, as she gets ready to stick it to me. “You weren’t worth a horse’s ass. Next time I see you—I think I’ll pass,” she warbles the words out loud enough to garner the attention of the next two tables, and I lift my cup to the lookie-loos.

  “All right, honey. Turn down the vocal cords. You’re scaring the customers. Singing isn’t exactly your forte.”

  “And holding onto a woman isn’t yours.” She folds her arms over the table, her cleavage deepening as she leans in hard. “Look, I am not entirely shocked by your boorish behavior. So back to what we came for. I like your daughter. She’s sweet—which only goes to show the fruit can indeed roll very far from the rotten tree. I say she can use a good influence while she’s under your charge.” She cinches her purse over her shoulder. “And I wish you the best of luck with that.” She starts to rise, and I quickly tap her hand, ready to catch her by the wrist if need be.

  “Don’t go.” I strain to nod toward Chelle who’s happily stocking up on cake pops. “Chelle likes you. That’s all that matters to me. Please.” I glance down at the seat, and she reluctantly slinks into the booth. “I’ll pay you double what you were told over the phone, and I’ll cover mileage and throw in spending money so you can pick up coffee and dinner for the two of you if need be.” I press out a dry smile as my balls shrivel up from all the groveling.

  “Okay.” She tips her head and gives me the side-eye, her apprehension still on high alert. “So, what’s the catch?” Her hair falls to the side like a river washed in gold, and her eyes light up the room without even trying. She’s beautiful. Hell, she’s hot. But other than that acid tongue of hers, I don’t notice any overt red flags that would put Chelle in peril. And as far as I can tell, she’s reserved the acrid comments just for me. “Let me guess. You need me to rub your feet and tickle your toes once I get the little one to bed? Not happening. First sign of anything freaky, I walk.”

  I’ll give you something to tickle.

  “Sounds like a plan.” I hold out my hand, and she shakes it, firm, warm, and soft as I’m betting the rest of her is.

  “So, you’re really interested in taking our act to the next level?” Her apprehension is slow to lift.

  “So long as neither one of us is dangling from a cliff, I am. Now tell me everything I need to know about you. Start at the beginning.”

  She averts her gaze a moment. “I was born in Pine Ridge—poor, eager to please my mother, and far too curious about idiotic boys like you.” And with that sparkling intro, she segues into the rest of her life—her shy spell in high school, her firefighter brother who helped get her into Leland, a full ride no less, her interest in cooking, fine art, and country music. She sheds a devilish grin with that last revelation. Ember leans in, those marble blue-green eyes spinning like planets, each in its own orbit. “There’s one more thing you should know about me, and it directly relates to your pet project in which you choose to humiliate the student body freely.” She bares her teeth in a smile that suggests she’s not opposed to biting the boys, and not in a good way. “As far as your little social experiment goes, you’re looking at your very first misfire. I don’t believe in love.” She jumps up and heads over to Chelle’s table, and the two of them go at it like lifelong friends.

  September Sparks doesn’t believe in love. I can’t help but twist a smile on my lips.

  It looks as if we have something in common after all.

  * * *

  The basement in the psychology building has doubled for ground zero as far as any major events The Social Experiment needs to host, and we’ve been hosting them quite often. The cameras are running, sixteen men and women running around with equipment on their shoulders as if they were hoisting AK-47s. We’re not going live tonight. After the bitter exes challenge, we thought twice about not vetting the footage beforehand. Instead, we have a two-week buffer before it hits the air. The Social Experiment is running on national television now, and the broadcast company was less than thrilled to hear the rainbow of expletives that kept their finger on the button.

  “Group C.” Dan nods to the crowd while nursing his water bottle. It’s an on-campus event, and we’ve learned the hard way the university didn’t appreciate us liquoring up the contestants. “That’s quite an achievement. And here we didn’t think it’d get off the ground.” He knocks back his drink.

  My brother is the less refined, jeans and a T-shirt type, which explains why he is often mistaken for a frat boy.

  “It’s off the ground and soaring. Don’t underestimate anything I put my head to. I can make just about anyone fall in love.” I say the L word in air quotes before nodding hello to Petra Mitchel and Seth Bradshaw, my trusted sensory guides who act as a liaison between the contestants and me. “They’re a couple now,” I lament to my brother. “I’m sorry for them.”

  Dan lets out one of his country-inspired whoops. He’s about as country as a Manhattan socialite, but he happens to be the lead singer of Leather and Chaps, a successful country trio that’s killing the charts no matter how bad the singles may be. He’s the reason I met Scarlett. He’s to blame for most of my misadventures, namely this one.

  “Listen, little bro”—Dan slaps his meat hook over my arm—“this little social mixer of yours can make even the most hardened souls think they’re seeing stars. You’ve effectively cast a pox over the entire student body. One day they’re all going to snap out of it, and you will have about a couple hundred pissed-off coeds on your doorstep to tend to.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Rowen Garret and Lane Cooper head this way, and I welcome them with open arms. “Here come two of my favorite love-struck fools now.” I pat Rowen on the back. He’s the quarterback for the Leland Cougars, beloved by all, especially Sophie Meyer, his significant other, no thanks to me. And then there’s Lane. Poor guy had his balls roasted for six long weeks with his ex. I feel the most for him. But as fate and that aforementioned pox I seemingly put them under would have it, both are still riding high on the wings of love.

  “What’s up?” Rowen slaps me five
. “Looks like we interrupted something serious.” He nods to my brother. “How they hanging, Dan?”

  “The boys are good, man. The boys are good.” My brother knows just about everyone in and out of the TSE, and these two knuckleheads are no different. Dan has always wanted front row seats to my major screw-ups, and now he’s got them. Only I’m not screwing this one up.

  Dan side-eyes me as if he heard. “Pretty boy here thinks he can make anyone in this room fall in love.”

  “That’s right,” I don’t hesitate agreeing with him. “And with just about anyone I want.”

  Rowen ticks his head back and laughs. “You wish. Sophie and I were destined to find one another. We didn’t need you or your experiment.” The smile glides off his face a moment as if rethinking his stance on the situation.

  “Me either, dude.” Lane shakes his head, emphatic. “All right,” he’s quick to concede. “You may have played a tiny part.” He winces because he knows I’m the only reason he’s bedding down his ex at the moment.

  “Give me a little more credit than that. I had to pry the nails out of that coffin myself. Your relationship was no easy resurrection.”

  The three of them belt out a laugh.

  “Dude.” Rowen squeezes his eyes shut. “You have one serious God complex.”

  Lane grunts as if agreeing with him, and the room begins to swell with stunning coeds in various stages of undress. The girls at Leland have always been a step above the rest. It’s not a wonder I chose to set roots down here.

  “So, where’s yours?” Lane butts his shoulder into mine and nods into the crowd. “How come you don’t have them beating down your door?”

  Dan offers up a shit-eating grin. “He’s holding out for love. Ain't that right, baby boy?” He gives a little wink and takes a swig of his water as if it were a beer, and I’m betting right about now he wishes it were.

  Rowen cranes his neck into the tangle of bodies before us as the music pumps out of the speakers a notch louder, giving the place a nightclub feel. “So you really think you can make anyone fall in love with anyone you choose, huh?”