Inferno Anthology (96 page)

I clear my throat. “That sounds great, but I was thinking about busting out of my shell a little this year. You know, maybe joining a sorority?” Not really, but, now that the whole roommate thing isn’t quite panning out how I hoped, it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

“Rush is in a couple weeks.” Bryson lifts his apple as if he were toasting my efforts.

“No.” Cole shakes his head emphatically. “No rushing.” He glares over at Bryson for commending the idea. “Baya this is Bryson my bonehead of a roommate. Don’t listen to a word he says. Bry—this is my baby sister, keep your hands, and stupid ideas, the hell away from her.” He turns back to me. “Besides she’s not into guys.”

“
What
?” This is news to me. “I am, too.” I’m quick to rectify my sexual standing to the nipple ogler in the next room.

“No, you’re not.” Cole flips the channel until it lands on some football game. “You’re like thirteen.” He gives a sideways grin. “Besides, you’re just a baby. You’re not allowed to like guys. You can like guys in books. How’s that? I hear book boyfriends are all the rage.”

Thirteen?
Book
boyfriends? I glance over to Bryson, and my face heats up like a Texas sidewalk. The only thing in a rage around here is me.

“Sounds perfectly boring,” I say it mostly to myself.

“That’s my goal.” Cole flips the channels again before settling on a cage fight. “I’m here to make sure your stay at Whitney Briggs is perfectly boring—and more than slightly educational.”

The small harem from his bedroom saunters across the living room, holding their maxi-dresses at the knees and waving like pageant queens as they take off.

“See you tonight at Delta.” The blonde blows a quick kiss to Bryson, but he still has those ice-colored eyes locked over mine.

Looks like Cole has a different set of standards for me than he does for himself.

“Perfectly boring,” I whisper.

I glance up at Bryson, and my thighs quiver. He’s branding himself over my skin, my heart, and not one bit of me wants to stop him.

I have a feeling my stay at Whitney Briggs is going to be anything but boring.

Bryson

The night sky above Delta house glows a deep purple. For a second I think this is a night where magic can happen, where people catch a lust driven fever and want to fall in love for the hell of it because they’re miles from home, so why the hell not?

Sometimes I think that could be me, then I remember who I am, and what I’ve done, and the darkness seeps back in, filling in the void where hope once stood. I remember who I am and how much hurt I’ve caused—then the rose-colored glasses fall right off. I don’t deserve to hold anyone’s heart again, not now, not ever.

Delta house is teeming with girls sporting fresh tans, long, golden limbs and tits displayed with the cutting edge technology in boulder holders to exalt them to the point of perfection.

“Dude.” Cole swats me in the stomach. “I’m headed for the hot tub. I might bring a crew home tonight if I’m lucky. I’ll send you a bed warmer.” He snatches a beer off the table before heading out.

It’s hard to believe Cole and his sister Baya come from the same state, let alone gene pool. Cole has had a perpetual hard-on since the day I met him three years ago, and Baya seems like a lost duck in a hyper-sexualized pond.

“Look who’s here?” A pair of arms circle around my waist, followed by the scent of cloying perfume. I peel her off before turning around.

“Aubree.” Just who I didn’t want to see.

Aubree Vincent is the exact kind of trouble I’m not interested in tonight or any other night of the year. I’d like to think I have standards. Aubree was Steph’s best friend, and just about anything to do with Steph is sacred. I shake her out of my mind. I can’t go there tonight. There aren’t enough girls or beer to self-medicate from that pain.

Aubree’s brassy blonde hair is spun in tight ringlets. Her roots are coming in strong. She has a knack for wearing too much makeup and not enough of anything else. Aubree has made a pass at me every day of the week and twice on Sundays for as far back as I can remember. High school blinks through my mind, and I swat it away like a fly.

Aubree and I happen to share an internship. I witnessed her going off on some poor girl in our group for not getting her coffee right, and that sort of killed any future boners I might have pointed in her direction. Since I’ve been at Briggs, I haven’t been too picky about who I land in bed with. Both my heart and my dick have turned hard as steel since I’ve entered these hallowed halls.

“You feel like stripping down and getting wet?” She licks her bright pink lips.

I crane my neck toward the back window where I spot Cole with a bevy of lonely beauties and shake my head.

“Hot tub looks filled to capacity. And, you know me”—I shrug—“I’m a stickler for that damn fire code.” She came down on me last week for having more than ten executives in a cubicle while I showed them an ad our competitor launched that happened to go viral. She actually busted my balls over the fire code of all things, which I hope sounded just as ridiculous now that I’ve handed the bizarre malfeasance back to her.

“Who said anything about the hot tub?” She lowers her false lashes and pulls me in by the belt loop.

“Aren’t you the little vixen tonight?” I step in and press my hand to the small of her back. Maybe I should nail her and get it over with. God knows she’s all but fallen on her knees trying to land me horizontal these past few years. But a part of me doesn’t want to cave. A part of me wants to believe I’ve got standards somewhere in this depraved mind of mine, and I draw the line at girls who give more blow jobs than a leaf blower.

“
Vixen
?” She bites over her bottom lip so hard I expect to see blood. “Oh, sugar, for you? I can be anything you want,” she purrs low in my ear, and my stomach turns as if I just downed a bad burrito.

“I’ll have that Snap Track file done before next week.” Maybe if I talk shop, she’ll run in the other direction.

“Oh, hon”—her eyes expand showing off a network of bulging red lines—“the last thing I want to do is talk business.” Aubree is the internship coordinator over at Capwell Inc., the ad agency that’s my ticket into the corporate world once I graduate. Her uncle owns it, so she gets special privileges like busting my balls whenever the hell she feels like it. “As your boss, I forbid you to mix business with pleasure.” She tracks her hand over my shirt, and a trail of chills explode up my spine.

A gorgeous brunette with long, sleek locks darkens the doorway—Baya. She’s got on a pair of sky-high heels that tie to her knees and shorts that amount to not much more than a glorified zipper. She’s traded her friendly tube top for a sequin tank, and I most certainly approve of her sparkling bosom, but something in me says Cole won’t.

“Look, I better go.” I pluck Aubree’s nine-inch nails out of my back, and she pops them right back in.

“I’m not letting you off the hook so easy, honey.” She leans in and takes a bite out of my ear. “I’m a little hungry, and I’m liking the menu a whole damn lot.”

“Lucky for you there’s an entire buffet of beefcake right out that door.” I spin her toward the back and ditch into the crowd before she can render me lobeless.

My heart picks up pace as I scan the doorway, but Baya’s nowhere to be found. I was sort of looking forward to showing her around, not that there’s much to see here other than the requisite amount of liquor and sorority girls. The truth is, a part of me wanted to take up the big brother torch and protect her from the douches running rampant in this place. Not that I’m feeling brotherly toward her, quite the opposite. Baya has a sweetness about her that I hadn’t seen since—

My mind starts to drift to the dark cave of the past, and I cinch it before I get too sucked in. I know what today would have been. I hadn’t thought about Steph in so long—and yet something in Baya’s eyes this afternoon reminded me of her. There’s something downhome and innocent about Baya, and it’s a far cry from what I’m used to around here. I would have bet every shiny dime I own that the last person she was related to was Cole screw-them-by-the-dozen Brighton.

A group of girls hanging out on the fringe of the room catch my attention, and I spot Baya standing by the keg, looking every bit the wallflower. Her dark hair falls seductively over one eye, and I swear a dimple just lit up in her cheek at the sight of me, at least that’s the story I’m feeding my ego right about now.

I head over and swoop a cold one off the counter for her.

“For you princess.” I hold back a smile that’s begging to let loose. My dick twitches at the sight of her, hopeful to get laid because we both know it’s been weeks. After years of bedding my way around campus, the local girls have lost their luster—not that I plan on bedding Baya. Cole would have my balls on a spit if I entertained the idea.

“No thanks.” She makes a face at the amber bottle. It’s only then I notice I’m holding it out in front of my jeans like some phallic extension. “I don’t really drink.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re thirteen.” I cinch a smile at my adolescent dig. I like teasing Baya. Nipplegate broke the ice, so we can only go up from there.

“I’m nineteen,” she corrects. “And I don’t drink because it’s a personal preference. Trust me, if I wanted the beer, I’d take it. I just so happen to hate the taste of alcohol.” She shudders. “I hate everything about it.”

“I suppose this is a lousy time to tell you I work at a bar.” That my family owns a whole string of them, but I leave that part out.

Her lime green eyes float up to mine. Her lips curve a naughty smile as if she’s having her way with me mentally, and my dick starts knocking for attention again. I broaden my chest, trying to deflect my hard-on from launching into an all out crisis with no relief in sight.

“I couldn’t care less where you work, Tyson.” She smirks while peering around me into the crowd.

Damn she’s hot when she’s annoyed.

My brows knit. “It’s
Bryson
.” I glance down at her hot pink toenails and can’t help but think they look like candy. Those shoes definitely have my attention, but it’s her smooth creamy thighs that are making my mouth water. “I actually own the bars.” I don’t technically own jack, except maybe by way of inheritance, and judging by the way my dad keeps hitting the gym, that day is a long way off. Not that I wouldn’t want it to be. “My family owns them,” I fess up. Something about her has a way of dragging the truth out of me faster than expected. I’m not sure I’ve ever showed a girl the scoreboard, let alone filled them in on what it means. Sure it’s out there in the open, but no one’s ever questioned its relevance, or accused it of being remotely related to weight training or wrestling.

Baya continues to watch the crowd behind me. I glance back. She’s eyeing about twenty different people, and at least half of them are jersey-wearing jocks. “I’m headed over to one in about twenty minutes if you want to join me. You could make some quick cash if you want.”

“One what?” She takes a step to the right and gives a little wink at some dude in a Whitney Briggs sweatshirt.

“A bar—we’ve got a full menu, so it’s more of a restaurant.” Why does this conversation suddenly feel one-sided? “You could waitress if you want. It’s a good way to line your pockets.”

Her eyes narrow in on mine. Her lips purse, and it’s becoming obvious she’s visibly pissed.

“Look. I appreciate the offer, I really do.” She floats her glowing eyes to mine, and her lips curl in a gutting, sexy way that make my balls ache for her touch. “I’m sure deep down under that mass of muscles you’re a nice guy, but I prefer my first time to be with someone who doesn’t swim in the hooker pool.”

First time?

I run my gaze over her in this new light. Baya is gorgeous and sweet. She brings new meaning to the word beautiful. Of course she’s a virgin—hell at nineteen she’s barely legal.

She whisks by me and heads over to a group of helmet heads that have their biceps permanently flexed as a testament to their roid addiction. The one in the sweatshirt wastes no time in cupping her ass and makes her jump three feet in the process. His buddy pulls her in, and a dark smile stretches across his face at the prospect of fresh meat.

I head over and wrap my arm around her shoulder.

“Here you are,” I say, leading her right out the exit and into the fresh night air. “So, have you reconsidered the offer? Up for some impromptu waitressing?”

She glances back at the frat house with its wild catcalls and army of panty-hungry jocks.

Baya swallows hard. “I don’t see why not.”

“The Black Bear Saloon,” I tell her as we drive down the highway. “That’s the closest one to campus, but we’ve got two other places about a half hour away in either direction—the Sky Lab, and the Ice Bar. The Ice Bar is literally lined with ice, so you’ll want to bundle up for that one.” It’s my father’s crowning glory. Sometimes I think he appreciates the bars more than his own family.