Getting Dirty Read online

  GETTING DIRTY

  A Jail Bait Novel

  MIA STORM

  Getting Dirty

  Copyright © 2015 by Mia Storm.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Cover Design: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  To Katy,

  for making me brave.

  Chapter 1

  Blaire

  My nipples are hard, and the heat radiating off his body, only inches behind me, makes them harder.

  My palms are slick, and no matter how often I wipe them on my baggy jeans, they don’t dry.

  My diaphragm is tight with anticipation, and I know he must be able to hear my shaky breath.

  I am burning alive, even though I know they keep the library cool so exhausted students don’t fall asleep and drool on their books.

  When Professor Duncan sent me to the resource desk at the university library and told me to ask for his graduate assistant, Caiden Brenner, I had no idea. I’ve dated a few boys at school, and I’ve even had sex once, but I can’t remember my body ever reacting this way to being near a guy—seizing up and refusing to participate in any semblance of normal behavior. Maybe that’s because, no matter how hot they are, teenage boys smell rank.

  “Is this it?” Caiden asks.

  His firm chest presses against my shoulder as he leans over me to reach for a book on the second shelf, well above my head, and he most certainly does not smell rank. His cologne (or maybe it’s just his deodorant) combined with some warm, earthy scent spins me in a cocoon of heady sensations I don’t even have names for.

  He brings the book down and backs away a step as he opens it. “Don Juan by Byron, right? This the one you were looking for?”

  His tongue slips out for a moment as he scans the page, drawing my attention to full, firm lips that aren’t quite symmetrical. Both upper and lower are just a little fuller on the left. But they’re wet now, and the fluorescents overhead shine off creases and curves the exact color of the coral sheets on the double bed I left unmade this morning.

  The thought conjures the image of Caiden twisted into those sheets and not only do my nipples tighten more, but a hot ache starts low in my belly.

  As his eyes scan the first few pages, I take the opportunity to burn his image into my retinas for later. There’s a faint star-shaped scar on the right side of a nose that’s on the small side and flares out at the bottom. My gaze trails along his thick, curved, golden eyebrows, across a broad, smooth forehead with a flat, dark mole near the hairline on the left, and down the curl of longish honey brown hair that hangs over his right eye—an eye that is blue, but just barely. Under the blue of his irises is something darker, like steel gray storm clouds gathering behind a twilight sky.

  They lift to mine and I look away quickly. Then I realize it’s a little too obvious that I’m trying to not look at him, so I lift my gaze from his black Vans to the book in his hands.

  His hands.

  They’re long, with smooth, bronze skin and clean, trimmed fingernails. I don’t know why I’m noticing his fingernails, except every little thing about him fascinates me.

  I tear my eyes away from his hands, and when I can’t think of a single normal thing to do with them except look at his face again, I find him staring at me with an amused expression—just a slight uptick of the fuller side of his mouth and a glint in his gaze.

  With a jolt, I remember he asked me something. He’s waiting for an answer. My cheeks warm as I wrack my brain, replaying the last few seconds.

  The book. He asked if it was the right book.

  “Yeah, thanks,” is all I can manage through the haze of lust hanging over me like the clouds in his eyes.

  He looks back down at the book and flips a page. “I used to be a fan of Lord Byron’s work, but lately I’ve discovered just how tedious he can be. He’s incredibly self-indulgent.” He lifts the book slightly. “You realize this one poem is sixteen hundred lines? That’s six thousand more than Milton’s Paradise Lost, and that one’s epic. This one’s just ridiculous.” He snaps the book shut. “If I had to pick which nineteenth century poet to hang out with, it would be William Blake, hands down. People called him warped, or worse, but nothing he wrote is boring, that’s for damn sure.”

  I barely hear what he’s saying, because watching his lips move is absorbing all of my attention.

  I’m not usually a dribbling idiot. I can’t even define the reason this man has suddenly turned me into one. But I can’t deny he has.

  Honestly, I’m really interested in the Romantic movement and how poetry evolved from that into what we’re writing now. I was seriously excited when I got instructor permission to register for an upper level poetry class just for that reason. This is the kind of conversation I’m starving for and could never find in high school, even with my English teachers. The things he’s saying should be captivating me, but I find what’s captivating me instead is his slightly lopsided mouth and his storming eyes and his expressive hands that move as he talks.

  This is my second semester taking evening classes at Sierra State University. Mrs. Erikson, my Junior Honors English teacher at Oak Crest High suggested it because our little school, tucked into the foothills, is too small to offer many AP classes. I’m enrolled in AP calculus and history, but we don’t have AP English.

  “Most students applying to Stanford and UC Berkeley will have well over a 4.0 GPA, with the AP bump they’ll get from courses at their high schools,” she’d said when she called me before the start of my senior year to express her concern. “It will help that you’re valedictorian, but if you truly hope to be admitted as a literature major, you’ll need to show them you’ve excelled in college level English via some other avenue.”

  Last semester I took written composition, or basic freshman English, and Professor Duncan’s assignments didn’t stray from the class reading too much, so I never set foot in the library. I aced it, and when he found out I write poetry, he suggested his upper level Early Nineteenth Century Poetry class for this semester. He assured me I could handle it and signed off on the prerequisite waiver.

  So here I am, researching Byron for a presentation at the end of the semester.

  “All right, then…” Caiden says, and I realize, once again, he’s been waiting for some kind of reply from me. He hands me the book. “Good luck with your project.”

  “I’m supposed to analyze Don Juan’s sexual conflict,” I blurt, taking the book from him. My face goes instantly hot and I hate the blood that betrays me by rising to my cheeks.

  The amusement is back in his eyes. “Byron definitely takes a different approach to the classic Don Juan legend.” He starts toward the resource desk and I follow at his side. “Most interpretations, including Molina, Espronceda, and even Mozart, portray him as a womanizing libertine without any moral compass. Byron flips that stereotype on its head, presenting him as a young, conflicted casualty of nonexistent self-restraint when it comes to feminine temptations—more the victim than the aggressor.”

  Caiden’s profile is perfect. This is what I’m thinking when it occurs to me I should say something. “So it’s the girls’ faults he sleeps around?”

  The hint of a smile ticks the left side of his mouth as he ducks his head slightly. A rush prickles at the base of my spine then spreads when I realize I’ve embarrassed him. And now my nipples are even harder.

  His eyes flick to me as we reach the desk and he moves behind it. “According to Byron, yes.”

  I lay the book on the counter, shifting a hip up to join it. “Which version do
you like better?”

  He reaches for the book, and I catch the sweep of his eyes over my body before they lower back to the scanner and he scans the barcode. With the action, I’m mentally kicking myself for wearing my frumpiest sweater. I just never thought…

  “It’s said that Mozart based his Don Juan on Casanova, who was in attendance at the first performance of Mozart’s opera. If you believe the stories, there are men like Casanova out there.” He lifts his eyes but not his head, looking at me out from under long golden lashes. “But I think most men are more like Byron’s version—sort of helpless when it comes to resisting a beautiful woman.”

  The rush to my groin is sudden and intense.

  I’ve felt this rush before. At the beginning of the school year, when I saw the guys in my class notice that I finally filled out over the summer, there was an undeniable tingle in my groin. I liked the feeling of being checked out. There was something empowering about knowing, just for that second, I had a boy’s complete attention. But when the tingling passed a second later, that was it. I’d never felt the hot pulsing ache between my legs that I feel right now—swollen and wet and wanting.

  He holds the book out to me. “This is due back on January twenty ninth; two weeks. If you need it after that, I should be able to renew it unless one of your classmates has requested it.”

  I make sure my fingers brush his as I take it. “Thanks.”

  I feel his eyes on me as I walk toward the stairs and sway my hips just a little more than usual. Though, in my loose jeans, the effect is probably lost. I turn back at the landing and see him watching after me. I lift a hand before turning the corner.

  He’s Professor Duncan’s graduate assistant. How old would that make him? He’s no boy, that’s for damn sure. The stubble on his chin was very short and even, as if he’d gone maybe a day without shaving. Two at the most. Very few of the boys in my class could pull that off. When they decide not to shave during football season or whatever, their beards are mangy-looking with bald patches.

  If he’s a graduate student, he has to be at least twenty-two. Probably older. I’m sure I was just imagining that he seemed into me. Wishful thinking. What would he want with a high school girl?

  But then it occurs to me he wouldn’t know.

  And I plan to keep it that way.

  ∞

  “How was class, honey?” Mom asks when I come through the door. She doesn’t look up from her crossword.

  And Dad doesn’t wake from where he’s snoring in the recliner.

  I toss my messenger bag to the floor near the stairs and slip the empty highball glass out of his hand, where it’s precariously balanced on the arm of the chair, wedged into the webbed space between his thumb and index finger. He snorts and his foot jerks on the leg rest, but he doesn’t wake.

  He’s a harmless drunk. He buries himself in his job all day, and I guess he’s really good at it, but as soon as he’s home, he’s got a drink in his hand. I think it’s his escape. Work is easy for him, calculations and formulas and very little human interaction. Dealing with his family is an entirely different story. We’re messy, unpredictable, and human, and don’t fit into any algorithm or formula. I’ve never had an actual conversation with my father. He’s more like an acquaintance from the neighborhood—the guy you have an awkward exchange about the weather with when you cross paths putting the garbage out or picking up the mail from the box.

  “This one’s going to be a lot more work than last semester,” I say, crossing to the kitchen and putting Dad’s glass on the counter. I tug open the fridge and grab a can of Diet Coke, making a mental note of what we need. I can stop at the store on my way home from school tomorrow, since I only have night class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

  She erases something on her puzzle. “You need to update your Stanford application and be sure they know you’re taking a five hundred level literature class.”

  “And Berkeley,” I add.

  “And Berkeley,” she repeats absently, adjusting her glasses and scowling at her puzzle. She went to Stanford, so I think she forgets there are other options.

  I only seriously applied to Stanford and UC Berkeley. UC Davis is my fallback, but my high school guidance counselor is pretty sure it won’t come to that. Berkeley’s Literature program is more rooted in the classics, so it’s my first choice.

  Mom jots something down, then immediately erases it. “Marcus is heading back to school Sunday morning. You should plan to be here for dinner tomorrow night to say goodbye.”

  “Surprised he didn’t have to be back sooner for training,” I say, popping the tab on my Coke.

  “Guess his coach decided they’ve earned winter break off after winning that tournament last month.”

  My brother and I could be the same person…if I was two years older and a six foot four guy. We look just alike, with Dad’s wavy espresso hair, Mom’s amber eyes, and skin that doesn’t tan no matter how much time we spend in the sun—which is a lot, considering we both play water polo. Marcus graduated valedictorian of his class last year, but his focus was always more on athletics. He’s on a full-ride water polo scholarship at UCLA, which he chose because they consistently rank at the top of their conference. “That tournament” they won last month was the NCAA Championship. It was a huge deal, televised and everything. But I don’t think Mom really gets it.

  The brains, Marcus and I can’t really take too much credit for. Mom is a biochemical engineer and Dad is a nuclear physicist. They both have multiple degrees, Mom’s from Brown and Stanford, and Dad’s from Harvard and Cornell. They met at Platinum Biomedical, where they both work. Which makes sense, because in addition to the fact they’re both cripplingly socially awkward, work is all either of them ever do. They’re out the door at the crack of dawn, before I’m even up for school, and never home before eight or nine at night. From the time we were six weeks old, Marcus and I were raised by the nice ladies at Marie’s House of Discovery and Day Care Center.

  Marie had been a kindergarten teacher for nine years before she became unbearably frustrated with the “one size fits all” approach to teaching in public schools. She quit so she could open a learning center and do her own thing. And because she was a total ‘60s hippy throwback, her own thing involved a lot of self-discovery. (Thus, the House of Discovery.) From the time we were old enough to talk, we sat in circles and discussed our feelings every morning. Where public schools suspended kids for touching each other, at Marie’s it was encouraged. (I’m pretty sure Marcus got his first hand job from Uma Newman before we aged out of the after school program at the end of fifth grade.) But where Marie’s true gift lay was in discovering each kid’s strengths and playing to them. Where Marcus’s and my IQs might have been a gift from our parents, Marie is the one who nurtured those synapses to form and multiply. She made learning exciting.

  After fifth grade, Marcus and I took care of each other. I don’t think either of us were ever really aware of what triggered our drive to overachieve, but we fed off each other. Pushed each other. When we were little, it might have been our parents’ attention we craved, but as we got older, we found out each other’s was enough.

  “Where is he?” I ask, just now realizing Marcus’s car was gone from the curb when I came in.

  “Out with Nathan. I think he’s staying over there.” Her brow creases. “Or maybe Nate’s staying here. Don’t remember what he said.”

  My stomach does a somersault. I’ve managed to avoid Nate the entire winter break. He and Marcus have been out partying for most of it, but I’m still surprised I’ve made it this far without stumbling into him in the bathroom or whatever. But there’s no way I can avoid him for the rest of my life. Since Marcus and Nate were in elementary school, Nate’s spent more time here than at his own house. The three of us have always been tight. I don’t want to screw that up because he’s weird about fucking me. If he’s here tonight, I’ll talk to him. We need to clear the air, or else things will only get weirder.
>
  “I’m heading up,” I say, grabbing my Coke and slinging my bag over my shoulder. “I’ve got a ton of homework.”

  “’Night, honey,” she says without looking up from her puzzle.

  This is how it’s always been in my house. Just going through the motions. Mom’s obligated to love me and Marcus. Dad’s just calling it in.

  When I get to my room, I spend a few hours working through my calculus and history homework, then read the recently published part four of Jonathan Livingston Seagull for senior English. My teacher, Mr. Bates is an existentialist and the head of our local Transcendental Meditation Society chapter. I wasn’t too sure about his reading list at first, but now I’m interested in checking out more of Richard Bach’s work. After a quick Google search, I decide to ask Mr. Bates about The Bridge Across Forever tomorrow, then pull Don Juan from my bag and crack it open.

  At the stroke of midnight, same as every other night, the TV clicks off downstairs and Mom wakes Dad and shuffles him across the family room to their bedroom next to the kitchen. It’s an hour later when my eyelids get heavy and the words on the page stop making sense. I pull myself up and head to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I’m just padding back to my room when I hear Marcus and Nate slam through the front door, laughing and wrestling, based on the sound of things crashing downstairs.

  Heavy bodies start smashing and banging up the stairs, a slurry of insults like “suck my fat cock” and “bite me” coming from the melee. My brother and his best friend slam into the wall on the landing with a loud thud that shakes the floor under my feet. Nate has Marcus in a headlock, but Marcus has Nate’s knee cinched over his shoulder. I can’t believe they’re making any progress up the stairs at all. What progress they are making is slow, so I have plenty of time to duck into my room before they see me. But I don’t. I wait near my door as they fight their way to the top.

  “There she is!” my brother yells, letting go of Nate and lowering his shoulder as he charges toward me. I don’t even have time to get out of the way before he takes my feet right out from under me and has me hiked over his shoulder with my ass in the air. I can smell the stale cigarettes on his T-shirt as I hang over his back. I’m sure he wasn’t smoking, but Nate probably was. As were a lot of other people at whatever party they were at.