Adrian Lessons (4 page)

He retorts with:

Tomorrow night at Bernie’s sounds infinitely more appealing. 7?

Is he seriously asking me out when he has no idea what I look like?

Is this how you pick up girls? Piss them off enough with your responses on your little column that they email you, and then ask them out? Please. I know your type. You sniff out girls with recent breakups hoping that you’ll be the rebound, because otherwise you have no chance of getting any. Nice try.

I’ve set sail from the Island of Harsh and charted a course to the Coast of Straight Up Mean. I should stop emailing this guy before he gets another faceful of my financial-aid stress.

My phone buzzes with a new email.

I just figured it might be fun to hang out with a girl who writes erotica for a living. I do like creative spirits.

I laugh, in spite of myself.

And I can guarantee that I’d provide you with fresh material.

Damn it, Marie. This was probably what she was planning all along. Have the campus sex advisor help me come up with writing ideas.

Not gonna happen
, I write back.
Sorry.

One taco later, the response comes.
Ah, well. Good luck with your writer’s block, then.

I smile and close the email without replying. Normally, the fact that I write smut is the only thing about me that most people
don’t
know. It’s interesting to talk to someone when that’s all they know about me.

And that little fact was enough to make him ask me out. A total stranger. I guess people make assumptions about girls who write erotica—that we’re all experienced nymphomaniacs.

But the truth is…

My phone rings, and I jump, nearly dropping a precious taco. For a split second, I’m convinced it’s the Sex King. But there’s no way he has my number. The number lighting up onscreen is, in fact, unfamiliar. Fundraisers, probably.

I answer. “I do love the whales, but I’m a poor-ass college student who can’t spare the ten bucks to help save them. Sorry.”

“Somewhere, Shamu just shed a tear.”

The voice doesn’t sound much like an over-eager fundraiser volunteer. It’s a deep, amused, familiar voice. Uh-oh.

“This is Cleo, right?” the way way too familiar voice says again. “I wasn’t totally sure if that last digit was a two or a six.”

“You got it right. It was a six.” I swallow, my stomach vacillating between overjoyed and overwhelmed. Considering this is the guy I volunteered to taste this morning. And then proceeded to taste. As well as the guy who saw my boobs on Friday. “Hi, Adrian.”

“I’m surprised you remembered my name.” His voice is so rich. Like honey and mahogany. And some sunset thrown in. “You seemed pretty out of it this morning.”

“Oh, I was—” I could explain that my friend accidentally drugged me, and I could be relegated to the category of weirdo forever. “Really sick. I had a bad fever. Sorry if I acted at all insane.”

“It’s okay. I’m used to insane.” He chuckles. “I’m sorry you’re ill.”

“Actually, I’m feeling a lot better. It’s just a cold, and my friend gave me her allergy meds, so now I feel fine.”

“Actually, Professor Newbury asked me to check up on you. He figured I knew you, since we were partners. And I just so happened to have your phone number on my hand.”

“Sorry about that,” I mutter, imagining increasingly creative ways to decapitate myself. Why can’t this inventive side kick in when I write sex?

“It’s okay. It’s probably the least inappropriate part of my body a girl’s written her number on.”

I’m immediately picturing the most inappropriate part. Holy moly.

“And I was walking back from Spring Café and I was bored, so I figured I’d do Newbury a solid and call you up.”

“Glad to hear boredom trumps actual concern,” I laugh, and then I stop. “Wait. Spring Café? How far are…”

I crane my head to look through the window. Spring Café is just down the road, but no way do I have enough good karma built up that Adrian would be walking by just now.

I blink as Adrian walks by just now.

He’s holding a phone to his ear, which he promptly hangs up as he spots me gaping at him through the Christmas-light-covered window. For a half second, I wonder if he’s going to make a run for it, as any sane man would upon encountering a Cleo he’s only spoken to on Xanax, but instead he grins, waves, and reaches for the doorknob.

My karma must be through the roof. Clearly I’ve been saving orphans from burning buildings in my sleep.

Thirty seconds later, there’s a green-eyed sex god in the chair across from me. Not a barnacle in sight. Incredibly, he is one hundred percent as hot as he appeared through a drug-addled haze. Maybe even a hundred and ten percent.

“What a pleasure to see you again, sir,” I say, cool as a goddamn cucumber.

What hallowed syllables might fall from those flawless lips in response? What gentle utterances might grace my willing ears?

“That’s a lot of tacos,” he remarks, glancing down at my plate. Which could more accurately be described as a platter. Or a trough.

For half a second, I contemplate describing the twenty truckers I was eating with before they had to leave early due to a freak seesaw accident.

“Didn’t you know? Tacos are the cure for any illness.” I’m cooler than a cucumber now. I’m iceberg lettuce leaves of cool.

“I guess that explains why you seem a lot better,” he remarks sexily. Though I think the sexy part is unintentional. It’s just that it fits.

“It was also the, you know, actual medicine. But the bottle did say to take with tacos.”

“That so?” He raises one perfect, Adonis-esque eyebrow. Seriously, it looks like a team of architects spent weeks hunched over that eyebrow with measuring tapes just to figure out just how to best frame those warm, interesting eyes.

“Well, tacos and margaritas.” I hail the waiter, who looks duly impressed at my new company. “I’ll take another margarita. Maybe two?” I add, glancing questioningly at Adonis—I mean, Adrian.

He nods. Score!

The starstruck waiter scurries away, and Adrian notes my empty glass. “It’s that kind of Monday?”

“You have no idea,” I sigh, pushing one of my remaining tacos over to him. His eyes light up. It’s pretty cute.

“Damn. A gorgeous girl who shares her tacos. David’s a lucky man,” he sighs, but if I’m not mistaken, there’s an apprehensive tilt to his eyebrows.

A smile has just enough time to grow on my face at the word
gorgeous
to be killed by the word
David.
“I, uh, don’t actually know him that well. Or—at all.”

“Ah,” he says. The margaritas arrive, and he takes a long sip. “I’m sorry I interrupted. To be honest, though, it’s hard to be sorry when the view was that spectacular.”

His gaze brushes my chest, and my face heats up so much that the electricity could go out and the kitchen staff could come roast the Loco Hot Dogs on my cheeks, but when I look at his face, I return to normal temperature. His smile has this ease to it, like we’ve known each other for weeks and not a day.

Then I turn into a skillet again as I realized what conclusions he must have drawn from Friday night and the food coloring phone number, not to mention the kiss. “I don’t usually do that type of thing, just so you know. The kiss was, er, an accident, and the thing with David was my first hookup, or attempted hookup, really—”

“Hey.” He holds up a hand, and for a second he looks almost angry. “I’m not one of those hypocritical assholes who thinks a woman shouldn’t have her own sex life even as I try to get with her.”

My brain zeroes in on one portion of this. Is he trying to get with me?

He couldn’t be more different from Eric. Eric was tapioca pudding, and Adrian…Adrian is medium-rare steak. He has a tattoo of something in Greek on his arm, and the glint in his eye is more than a little dangerous.

He finishes saying something that I totally missed.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said—I did have you pegged wrong, though.” He takes a bite of my taco—quit your giggling, are you five years old? If so, you shouldn’t be reading this—and closes his eyes in brief bliss. Bliss is a good look on him. “And that explains the David thing. You’re way too hot for him.”

“Hnngh,” I say intelligently.

He flashes a wicked grin. “You got the wrong roommate for your first hookup.”

He
is
trying to get with me.

“Bathroom,” I tell him in the sultry tones of someone being strangled before I get up from my chair.

In the aggressively festive single stall of Loco Tacos, I splash myself in the face with water like they do on TV. Instead of restoring my sanity, it just makes me look like a drowned rat. I searched frantically for something to tame my now sopping bangs, but—wonder of wonders—the restaurant bathroom does not have a hair dryer.

An ordinary girl would go out and say, “So, pick me up tomorrow at seven?” because that’s the normal response to being hit on by a crazy hot, completely charming boy.

Ordinary girls don’t have my secret.

I know you’re rolling your eyes. Don’t worry, it’s nothing melodramatic—I haven’t been abused and I’m not waiting for the one man who can heal my broken soul, or whatever. And I’m not pregnant, unless it was immaculate conception. You see—

My phone buzzes, and I almost drop it in the freaking sink. New email.

I was thinking, and I really wouldn’t be doing my duty as the Sex King if you didn’t have at least some new inspiration for your work after consulting me. Why don’t you give me a call next time you’re bored? 889-772-1923

So much arrogance is dripping from my phone that I could probably squeeze it out over a bucket and have enough for self-satisfied asshole soup. This creep probably commutes to school from his mom’s basement, leaving a trail of slug slime when he goes to class.

Someone knocks twice on the bathroom door and a little kid whines, “Mommy, I have to goooo.”

I have little cousins. That whine predicts poop explosions. I leave the bathroom to the relieved sigh of Mommy, while opening a new text to a certain number.

For the last time, I am NOT going out with you. You’re probably an eighty year old man in disguise. An eighty year old man with SYPHALIS. Go find your next date at bingo night. Here is a hint to her identity: she won’t be me.

Somewhat satisfied that I have turned off the advances of the illustrious Sex King, I hit
send
just as I sit back down in front of Adrian.

“Sorry. Just texting some jerk,” I say cheerily. Some jerk who’s probably as far in appearance and personality from Adrian as it’s possible to get.

He must have been messing with his phone while I was in the bathroom, because it’s now sitting face-up beside his margarita. At the exact moment I look at it, it lights up.

I see the words
eighty
and
SYPHALIS
and
bingo night
…

Marie must have slipped me Xanax again. That’s the only way this is possible.

But as I look at him, his eyes drift to the Pancho Villa statue behind me and widen in an obvious “oh” moment.

I push up out of my chair.

“
You—”

~4~

ADRIAN

As Cleo Reynolds narrows her perfect eyes at me and jumps upright, as I realize who, exactly, I’ve been emailing, I press pause on the scene.

Click. Everything slows to a halt. Cleo’s finger is frozen in midair, leveled at me. Two tables over, an arc of water flitters in midair as some dumbass waiter is stuck in the middle of dumping a pitcher of water into the lap of the world’s hairiest Mexican guy. Everything stills.

Then I press rewind.

The world churns into a blender of the past that snaps back together around a pair of flawless pink tits.

Breasts. Ta-tas. Bazookas. You know what I mean.

Boobs.

I have seen a boob or two in my time. And I want you to hear that in the wry tone of a French chef who admits to having tasted
one or two
cheeses. Point is, I know boobs. Small ones, big ones, pointy ones, perky ones, ones so droopy they could be used to tie a boat to a dock, although those were my Aunt Barbara’s and the reason I never again entered a bathroom without knocking fifty times at the age of nine—

Anyway.

These boobs are significant for two reasons.

One—they are, without a doubt, the best boobs in the known world. Maybe there’s lady in an undiscovered indigenous tribe in Zimbabwe with better knockers, but I doubt it. These are full and lush, each as round as God’s green earth, peaked dead-center with soft pink nipples that I can almost hear begging, in tiny cartoon voices, to be sucked on by any mouth that doesn’t belong to my incompetent apartment-mate David.

Two—they are part of Cleo Reynolds.

This, my friend, is far from the world’s smallest miracle.

I opened the door and spent the next minute pillared in absolute shock as I tried to process the following:

Cleo Reynolds was no longer in Springfield, Massachusetts.

Cleo Reynolds was now in Westby, Massachusetts. More specifically, she was topless in Westby, Massachusetts. More specifically than that, she was topless in my apartment in Westby, Massachusetts, although the universe clearly miscalculated by a few feet and placed her in the bedroom of my incompetent apartment-mate David instead of mine.

The aforementioned apartmentmate was reclassified from ‘incompetent, dumb as a post but essentially good-natured’ to ‘spawn of Satan, fundamentally evil and possibly the Antichrist.’

While all of this was running through my mind, Cleo Reynolds grabbed her clothes and zipped past me without so much as glancing at my face.

I blinked. Then I pointed at David.

“Was there or was there not just a topless girl in here who goes or has gone by the name of Cleo Reynolds?”

“Uh, yes.” David was wearing the expression of someone who just got mugged on the way to the pet cemetery after his puppy died.