Sweet Ache

Chapter 2

QUINLAN

The Southern California heat mixed with the second week of school has really done a number on me. I’m ready to melt into the cool air-conditioning of the Fine Arts offices as I pull open the door, tired from a late night hanging out with Layla—my fault but still aggravating nonetheless—and having had to deal with some dipshit undergrads in the teaching assistant session I just came from didn’t help matters.

Generally I don’t mind if a student doesn’t get a concept. I have no problem helping them so that they understand. But when the students are too busy chasing skirts and worrying about who the Trojans take on this weekend to listen, it’s not my problem they received bad marks on their first pop quiz.

And it’s not helping my mood that I need to get laid something fierce. And not by my own hand. There’s nothing worse than a woman in need of a good orgasm.

Or two.

Or three.

I drop my backpack on the counter with a sudden resolve to rectify the situation with the first willing candidate who meets my discriminating standards. Then again I’m on the verge of being desperate enough that I might throw them out of the window for the right mistake.

I start rifling through the bazillion pieces of paper stuffed in my mailbox—such is the life of a graduate student in the Cinematic Arts. Shit, save a tree people, use e-mail. I automatically toss the ones about elective seminars into the recycle bin without even reading them because at the beginning of a semester the last thing I have time for is something that does nothing to further help me write my dissertation.

“Quinlan! Just the person I wanted to see!”

As I turn around to face my graduate adviser, the smile comes naturally to my face since I’m one of the select few fortunate enough to be under her tutelage. “Hi, Dr. Stevens.” She gives me a stern look that causes me to laugh at the formality of my greeting, so I cave to her oft-repeated request and correct myself. “Hi, Carla.”

“Better.” She laughs the word out. “Now, I’m not looking for my husband when you say that,” she says, referring to her spouse, who is a cardiologist.

I nod my head in agreement. “Why do I have the feeling that I’m not going to like the fact that you wanted to see me?”

Please God don’t let her ask me to add something else to my already overflowing plate full of obligations, deadlines, and drafts I need to write.

“I’m kind of in a jam and I need your help.” She scrunches up her nose like she knows I’m not going to be too happy with what she’s going to say next. “Like I’ll give you a three-week extension on your first draft due date kind of help.”

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth and know that no matter what she asks, I’ll say yes. She’s my mentor for God’s sake. Anything not to disappoint her. “Okay?” I draw the word out into a question, fearful and curious all at the same time.

“Well, Dr. Elliot has brought in someone for a seminar that is starting”—she looks down at her watch and winces—“well, it started about five minutes ago actually. Anyway, he’s asked if I can help him. His TA, Callie, was supposed to do it, but she had a last-minute schedule change to accommodate one of her professors … and all of his other teaching assistants have classes right now….”

I bite back the urge to make a smart-ass comment about how Callie’s conflict is the need to flirt ridiculously with the professor she has the hots for, university protocol be damned. Instead I look at Carla and blow out an audible breath, certain that my expression reflects my displeasure.

I’m usually on top of all of the department’s goings-on but my last-minute trip to the Sonoma race to watch Colton mixed with playing bestie to nurse Layla through her unexpected breakup and the usual first month of school discord has left me in the dark about course specifics. It had better be a damn good class if I’m going to have to be stuck sitting through it.

“You know I’m agreeing to this because I’m already behind on my draft and need those weeks, right?”

“Exactly!” She smirks. “I don’t have that PhD behind my name for nothing.”

“That’s low.” I just shake my head as I reach over to grab my bag. “So give me the details.”

“You’re a lifesaver!” She reaches out and pats my shoulder. “So the seminar is on sex, drugs, and rock and roll in a manner of speaking.” She quirks her eyebrows up, asking if I’m okay with that.

Like I have a choice. I can just imagine some stiff professor giving a seminar about something so completely foreign to him. Now I’m going to have to waste my time mollycoddling someone when I have so many other things that would be a better use of my time. Sounds like a real barn burner.

“Who’s teaching it?” I ask, my tone reflecting the cynicism I feel over the contradiction between teacher and subject.

“A guest lecturer. I forget his name but he’s a member of some popular band.” She rolls her eyes. Her musical taste includes only classical music and jazz. “Oh and he’s cute,” she says with a smile and then cuts me off before I can ask her any more details. “Now shoo—he’s probably mangling the sound system as we speak. Microphone on upside down or something. Class is in the GFA building, room sixty-nine.”

Mentally I roll my eyes at the room number, thinking how something else that number represents would be a much better way to occupy my time than listening to a monotone oration. And I wonder how big of a name he can really be if Carla’s worried the he has his mic on upside down.

I shake my head one more time and sling my bag over my shoulder. “Thank you Quinlan,” she says in a saccharine sweet tone that makes me laugh.

“Just so you know, I’m cursing you right now,” I say over my shoulder as I open the door and begin the journey across campus.

I’m winded, hotter than hell, and cussing out Carla even more by the time I reach the closed door of the lecture hall. When I pull it open and step into the lobby, I can hear laughter from the students beyond the open theater doors.

Two coeds exit the bathroom across the foyer from me, both way overdressed for students attending a lecture, and one is applying lipstick while the other giggles uncontrollably. They walk past me and I hear hushed comments about how they “just had to see for themselves” if he’s as hot in person and “damn security for kicking them out” before they push through the doors I’ve just entered

My curiosity is now definitely piqued. Who the hell is the guest lecturer if there is security here?

Maybe it’s one of Dad’s friends. Stranger things have happened.

“So you see, it was the Grammys—it’s not like you can say no to him when he just won album of the year and asks you to hang out. Little did I know,” the male voice says in a low tenor that’s almost a contradiction: smooth like velvet but with a rasp that pulls at my libido and makes me think of bedroom murmurs and hot sex, “that I’d go with him and walk into a private club where everything is laid out like candy—drugs, women, record producers. He turned to me and said, ‘Welcome to Hollywood, son.’ Shit, I looked at Vince here and thought is this what I have to do to make it here? Play this game? Or can I do this the old-fashioned way? And I don’t mean sleep my way to the top either.”

The room erupts into laughter with a few whistles as I clear the doorway. I recognize him immediately. He may be on the stage at a distance but his face, his presence, is unmistakable. I’ve seen it gracing tabloids. TMZ, Rolling Stone—you name it, he’s been on their cover.

He’s Hawkin Play, front man and lead singer of the highly popular rock band Bent.

And according to his most recent press coverage, a man on the path to a drug-fueled destruction. So that exaggeration most likely means he was caught in possession of some drugs.

Why in the hell is he here?

I walk farther into the auditorium and falter at the top of the steps because just as my ears are attuned to his voice, my body reacts immediately to the overpowering sight of him.

And I sure as hell don’t want it to.

I tell myself it’s just because I need some action. That my battery-operated boyfriend is getting old and the visceral reaction of my racing pulse or the catch in my breath is just from my dry spell. Well, not really a complete dry spell per se, but rather a lack of toe-curling, mind-numbing, knock-you-on-your-ass sex that I haven’t been able to find lately. It’s the good lays that are hard to come by.

Don’t even think about it. He may be hot, but shit, I grew up with Colton, the ultimate player, so this girl knows what a player sounds and acts like. And from everything I’ve seen splashed across headlines and social media, Hawkin plays the part to perfection.

But the notion that just like the drug rumors blasted across the magazines, his reputation as a player could be manufactured just as easily lingers in my subconscious. I stare at him again as the class laughs, his ease in front of a large crowd more than apparent, and I immediately wonder if I had a chance with him if I’d take it.

What is wrong with me? My head says to stop thinking thoughts like that, things that are never going to happen, while my body is telling my legs to open wide.

I force myself away from thinking such ludicrous thoughts and focus instead on finding a seat in the room packed full of coeds. I begin walking slowly down the aisles, glancing back and forth to try to find an open spot but there’s not a single one available.

I glance forward to see a beefy guy walking toward me with an irritated expression on his face. It immediately hits me that I have nothing to prove I should be in this class, no paper, nothing to show to the security that appears to be bearing down on me that I’m not a fangirl and have a legitimate reason for attending the lecture. Well, maybe they’ll kick me out and then he won’t have a TA for the day.

Just one less class I’ll have to sit through. And one less asshole I’ll have to deal with.

He approaches me and reaches out a very muscular arm toward me. “Course paperwork?” He asks in a hushed whisper, trying to not disrupt whatever Mr. Rock Star at the front of the class is babbling on and on about.

I take in a deep breath, trying to figure how I’m going to play this. What I really want to do and what I know is right are two different things so I suck it up and take the higher road.

Reluctantly.

“I don’t have anything,” I whisper back. “But I’m the TA for the course.”

“Sure you are.” He chuckles with a roll of his eyes. “TA doesn’t stand for tits and ass, honey.”

I clench my jaw, reining in my frustration as we begin to draw the attention of those around us. “I just came from the department offices; I don’t have—”

“Is there a problem, Axe?” His liquid sex of a voice booms across the room, causing all of the heads in the room to whip over toward us on the stairway.

Axe, I presume, turns his body to look back at Hawkin, which opens up his line of sight to see me.

“No problem,” Axe says and before he can say anything else, Hawke speaks again.

“So nice of you to show up on time.” Sarcasm drips from his voice, and my eyes snap up to meet his despite the distance between us.

And I swear I hate everything about myself right now because I feel a jolt to my system and quick bang of lust between my thighs as our eyes connect and that slow, I’m-a-god-you-can-bow-before-me smile curls up one side of his mouth.

And damn it to hell if that doesn’t make him look even sexier.

But good looks sure as hell don’t make him any less of an asshole.

My own lips pull into a tight, scowling grimace, thoughts firing but the damn words don’t come because I’m still momentarily frozen by whatever just ricocheted between us.

“Well at least you’re quiet, huh? Not one to disrupt unless you count arguing with Axe on the stairs.”

How did I know he was going to be a prick? “I wasn’t arguing. I’m not a—”

“Look,” he says, cutting me off. “There’s one seat left and it’s right here.” He points to a space right in front of the lectern when a man hurriedly stands and vacates it. I watch the occupant stroll to the side of the room and turn to lean his back against the wall, arms crossed, grin wide, as all the while he shakes his head at Hawkin like they have a private joke between them.

He seems vaguely familiar but I don’t get a chance to figure it out because Hawkin speaks to me again. “C’mon now. I don’t bite—right guys?” He says to the rest of the lecture hall and the audience erupts in a cacophony of hoots and hollers egging me on to go take the seat.

I also hear a few offers from the females that they’ll take the seat if I don’t.

I’m sure they would. Particularly a seat that’s astride his hips if my hunch is right.

“Please, take your time. We like waiting.” His voice floats through the room but grates on my nerves.

I grit my teeth as I move reluctantly, my anger escalating with each step I descend toward the front of the room. As much as I don’t want to be here, dealing with the likes of a cocky asshole like him, my graduate career does have requirements, and I really don’t think pissing off who I have a feeling will be one of the most popular lecturers of the year is the brightest idea.

But hell if I don’t want to tell him to kiss my ass with that smart mouth of his while I stride up the steps toward the exit and flip him the bird instead.

But my degree is more important so I swallow my pride along with my anger, even though I’d much rather verbalize it as I reach the front row. Keeping my eyes fastened to his, I refuse to let him think he’s gotten the upper hand despite me following his directive and taking the seat he so graciously offered.

I reach the seat and stop before I sit down and stand my ground, my eyebrows arched and eyes telling him everything my lips can’t. He meets them challenge for challenge while all the while those lips of his smirk and taunt me.

I force my eyes to remain forward, not to wander and take in the whole of him because I don’t want to see how sexy-hot he is face-to-face, don’t want to notice his cologne that makes me think of fresh air with a subtle hint of musk, don’t want to feel my cheeks flush because I know my nipples just hardened and I’m quite sure they’re more than obvious through the thin layer of my bra’s lace and my cotton T-shirt.

After a moment, when I know I have no point I can really make in front of several hundred students, I lower my eyes and take my seat. But instead of continuing on right away, he stands in front of me a few seconds more, making sure I know who won this ridiculous little show of control between us.

And of course as he stands in front of me with his hips right at my eye level, I can’t help the two thoughts colliding: the one of him being in control with the one of just how well his worn denim jeans are filled out behind that button fly of his.

I immediately chastise myself. Tell myself that it’s my sex-deprived brain—well, more like other deprived body parts—that is directing my thoughts like a nympho. And that alone fuels my dislike of Hawkin even more because I should be focused on being pissed off at him rather than wondering about how he performs in other ways … off the stage.

I’m pulled from my thoughts when laughter erupts in the room and I realize he’s continued on with his spiel and is no longer in front of me.

“Isn’t that right?” he asks and the classroom falls quiet causing me to glance his way.

His eyes are locked on mine and I know I’ve been caught not paying attention. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip as he waits for my response and I swear to all things holy when the girl next to me actually sighs. It takes everything I have not to roll my eyes. I have no clue what he’s asking me and make that split-second decision between faking it or playing it off.

“What’s that?” I reply, lips pursed, telling him if he wants to keep this game up, I’ll play it right back.

He flashes me a bright smile and angles his head to the side for a moment, eyes narrowing momentarily before he delivers, “That being late for an event is a surefire way to make a bad first impression.”

Bastard. I walked right into that one and I silently fume over it but hell if I’m going to let him know it. “True,” I say with a measured nod of my head, his eyes dancing with mirthful victory when I continue. “It is better to stay silent and be thought a fool, than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt.” I recite the proverb to him, expecting his brow to furrow and irritation to flicker across his face, but instead of anger in his eyes I see amusement, challenge.

The crowd falls silent, probably a tad shocked that I’m not bowing down to the rock god who I’m sure is used to getting anything he wants. But I grew up in a room next door to my brother and with the famed director Andy Westin as my father so I more than anyone know that I will not be getting anywhere near my knees to bow for Hawkin Play.

Or do anything else on them for that matter when it comes to him.

He just shakes his head, a curious look on his face before a student calls out a question across the oppressive silence we’ve created. He turns to face the fellow student and luckily leaves our unspoken sparring match unresolved.

I’m furious at him for calling me out again, and at the same time amused by his arrogance that he thinks I care. Risking a glance his way now that his focus is elsewhere, I take the chance to stare at and scrutinize him. I have to pay attention and figure him out if I’m going to try to get the upper hand here. I mean, it’s purely out of curiosity. Good-looking guys are a dime a dozen in California.

But not all of them are rock stars that cause that tingly ache I have from simply imagining what he’d be like in bed.

His physique is lean, medium build with broad shoulders, but I can tell the muscles beneath are toned. Of course he takes the moment I’m watching him to raise his arm and point to someone, gifting me a flex of his biceps and the hint of a tattoo on the upper part of his arm hidden by his shirt. And I’m a girl that has a thing for firm biceps, especially when they are framing my body on the mattress beneath me.

I trail him as he walks back toward the podium, taking in his profile, strong jaw, straight nose, and hair a little on the long side but somehow styled into a messy disarray that says I didn’t try to do this. He fiddles with the overhead projector, the school’s setup for it much more complicated than necessary. He continues on, speaking of something in regard to media expectations—a part of me curious what he’s talking about because I’ve been so focused on not liking him and at the same time studying him I haven’t followed a single word of his lecture.

The man leaning against the wall whose seat I took chuckles loud enough that the first few rows can hear him and it takes me a second to realize that Hawkin can’t get the projector to turn on.

Serves him right. I sit in my chair and tuck my tongue in my cheek, refusing to help and enjoying watching him fumble. If he’s going to call me out like he did, then I guess I’ll act like a student and feign technological ignorance.

“And this folks is why I sing and play an instrument for a living,” he says with a half laugh, brushing his hair off his forehead, his charismatic charm coming across even when he’s frustrated. “Guess my reputation proceeds me and I’m too much to handle since the TA I was promised has yet to show and help me set everything up.”

“I’ll handle you!” a girl in the back yells, garnering a chuckle from him.

I’m sure you will, sweetie.

I watch him a few more moments until he gives up and says something I can’t hear to his friend before turning to the class. “Well, I guess I’ll have to rely on my many other hidden talents,” he says rubbing his hands together and causing me to sigh like the girl next to me while the rest of the students chuckle, “but it seems they’ll have to wait until next time…. Time’s up for today.” The sigher next to me makes a sound of protest, and I swear she’s going to be stuck to the seat she’s so desperate for all things Hawkin.

“Until next time,” he says and students begin to shuffle their papers. I lean forward to pick up my bag when his voice stops me. “Ms. I’m-Too-Special-to-Be-on-Time? Please stay a minute.”

I freeze more from disbelief than because I care. Seems to me by his arrogance that this whole I’m-a-professor kick has gone to his head. Then again, this is probably his norm, considering he’s used to performing on stage in front of thousands.

I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle the smart-ass remark that is begging for escape, and lean back in the chair, arms and legs crossed, and raise my eyebrows at him. Come at me rocker boy. I’m ready for you.

Hawkin holds my taunting gaze, and I feel like we’re on a playground having a staring contest. Guess things don’t change much when you get older.

He leans his hips back on the table behind him and mirrors my posture. “Hey, blondie, what’s your name?”

“Trixie,” I tell him off the cuff. My mind immediately went to the name Layla and I use in a club when we’re being hit on by someone we have no interest in.

“Trixie, huh?”

“Says so on my birth certificate. Is there something you needed?”

“Yeah,” he says pushing his way off the table and walking toward me. My god, even his swagger across the short distance is sexy. He stops right in front of me and just stares. Chemistry I don’t want to feel ignites between us.

You keep telling yourself that you don’t want to feel that, Quinlan.

I look away, breaking whatever draw he continues to have over me. The one I don’t want to feel. I just need to get out of here before those eyes of his and that cocky grin wear me down until I’m lying on my back with him above me. And thankfully he speaks because his words help all of those thoughts from finding purchase inside my mind.

“So was the lecture bad or something?” He angles his head and for some reason his body language does not reflect the simple question he asks. I won’t walk right into his verbal trap of sarcasm again so I look back to him, eyebrows arched, fingers drumming on my bicep, waiting for him to continue. “Are you too cool to take notes?”

“Lecture about something noteworthy, and I’d be glad to take some,” I fire back. And yes it’s an unfair response because I barely listened to his lecture at all, more focused on ignoring him than anything, but he deserves it for his comment.

“Ooh,” he says, bringing his hand to his heart like I’ve wounded him before flashing a lightning-fast grin. “I’ve got a soft spot for a woman who’s beautiful and quick with her tongue.”

I snort in exasperation. “Well, I’m sure you have the soft part down pat but I thought a guy like you’d prefer a woman without a brain or better yet, no teeth.”

Hawkin’s friend whistles to the side of us, but I ignore him, not needing any more of a distraction than what is in front of me. I rise from my seat and start throwing my stuff in my bag knowing that me and my smart mouth need to get up and leave before they get me in more trouble than normal.

“You think you have me pegged, huh?” His voice murmurs too close for comfort behind me. My body reacts instantly: goose-bumped skin, hitched breath, and my every nerve attuned to the proximity of his body.

Then again, trouble can be so much fun.

I can tell he’s used to women begging to be played and hell if that’s an option here. Chemistry or no chemistry, I’m smart enough to know he’s one of those guys I need to steer clear of.

And I plan on doing just that. Marching up these steps and back to the department office to tell Carla that assisting this seminar is just too much for my class load. That even with the extension of time she’ll give me on my thesis, it’s still not enough. I’m sure she’ll see right through the lie, know something is up, but will never question me on it.

But before I go …

“I know I have you pegged,” I say with a small laugh as I throw my bag over my shoulder carelessly, silently hoping he is close enough to me that he gets hit by it. “And you sure as hell are proving me right.”

“Oh, I can be all kinds of right, Trixie,” he says as I turn around to find him still way too close. It’s just a moment really but with our bodies so close and our eyes burning into each other’s the pang of desire between my thighs turns into a full-blown ache.

I sidestep away from him immediately, hating the jump in my pulse and the lust coursing through me. I need to get out of here, away from him and his arrogant smirk and his come fuck me eyes.

“You were late,” he states matter-of-factly as I begin to walk toward the stairs. “Don’t let it happen again.”

His taunting dare causes my foot to falter on the first step, my quick temper getting the best of me. I turn around and stride back toward him, stopping only when I’m well within his personal space. “No worries there. Must be nice, though…. Stroll in here, act like a wannabe teacher for a few lectures, and that power trip you seem to be needing gets an unwarranted boost for that ginormous ego of yours.”

I see the surprise flicker through his eyes with temerity following closely behind it. He takes a step closer, our bodies a whisper away from each other, and I have to tilt my head up to hold his gaze.

“Since you were late, did you miss who I am? Wannabe is something I surpassed a long time ago.” He grates the words out, that velvet voice packed with grit and coated in an unhealthy dose of conceit.

“Well, excuse me Professor Play,” I say, voice laced with saccharine, as his breath feathers over my lips from our less than professional proximity. “So what? You’re just an asshole on a power trip then?”

A sliver of a laugh falls from his lips but there is anything but humor in it. I know I’ve hit a nerve and hell if I care because he needs to get knocked down a peg.

“So much hostility from such a pretty girl.”

Girl? Guess he’s not noticing my tits or curves. And why does that bug me?

“I’ve got a lot more where that came from,” I reply, taking a step back from his cologne that’s clouding my thoughts and the dark gray flecks in his eyes that mine keep focusing on.

“Thanks for the warning,” he says with a nod of his head, “but I’m not quite sure what I’ve done to deserve it.”

“Nothing.” I snort. “Your type just rubs me the wrong way.”

“I’ll rub you any way you like if you want.” His smile widens and eyes wander down my body and slowly back up in obvious appraisal.

And as much as I’m glad he’s finally taking notice, I hope he likes what he sees because it will be the last time he gets a good look at it. “Like I said, you’re an asshole.”

“I can think of worse things to be.” He shrugs, smarmy look in place that tells me he’s enjoying this. “I hate to break it to you but uh, I’m not going anywhere.” He lifts his chin toward the podium. “I happen to be a wannabe professor.” He licks his bottom lip and steps closer to me. “So we can play this two ways.”

“Two ways?” I don’t think I like where this conversation is going considering that fuck-all smirk of his just widened so big that tiny little dimples appeared. I hear his friend shift and sigh but don’t look.

“Yeah. You know your hostility is obviously masking your true feelings.”

“True feelings?” And there I go again, repeating what he says. How has he reduced me—a woman always confident and quick with my wit—to two-word sentences? I don’t have much time to think about it because he steps closer, causing me to retreat so that the backs of my legs hit the seat behind me. I have nowhere to go now.

“Mm-hm. That you’re hot for teacher.”

I cough out a laugh, choking on my own words with the knowledge of hierarchy of student to professor. I tone down my response before I respond. “I’m sure you’d love to think that, except not everyone is mesmerized by your dazzling charm. Besides, there’s a school policy against fraternization between students and wannabe professors.” I purse my lips and wait for his response.

He glances over to his friend and gives him a look I can’t quite see before running a hand through his hair and focusing back on me. “For some reason I don’t think you care if you follow any rules or not.”

Well, at least he’s got that right because I’m probably breaking several right now with the way I’m speaking to him and I couldn’t care in the least. “You said we could play it two ways,” I say, suddenly remembering the comment from moments before that his cocksure comeback distracted me from. “What’s the second?”

“Drop the class,” he deadpans, eyes daring me to, body telling me not to.

“I can’t.”

“Hm,” he murmurs. “You most definitely aren’t doing it right Trix, if you can’t.”

“Does everything with you have to be sexual?” I ask even though I know damn well the reason I’m hearing the innuendo is because of the supercharged sexual tension I suddenly realize is zinging between us.

“Yes.” He nods but it’s not the matter-of-fact way he says it that causes my libido to stand at attention but rather the predatory way his eyes own mine. “Like I said, if it bugs you that much, be my guest, transfer out.”

“I’m sure you’re not used to being told the word but I’ll gladly say it to you.” I step even closer, our eyes locked, our bodies reacting to the lack of space between us. I swallow down the lust I don’t want to feel that’s lodged in my throat and whisper the word to him. “No.”

He shakes his head and stares with those storm cloud–colored eyes of his, trying to figure out how to take me. “Why not?”

“Because I’m your TA.”