One Hot Fall Term (Yardley College Chronicles Book1) (12 page)

On top of this I have a major project due for my first year Architectural Studio program, along with a minor project, and one for Structures in Architecture, a course given by an older prof who actually uses a pocket protector. Mid-terms are coming up in all my non-architecture courses.

I’ve discovered some of profs in other departments resent the architecture students since we tend to cut their classes to do our studio work. They feel we don’t take them seriously. They are out to prove they are just as important, which means they don’t care if their test is the day after—or before—our major projects are due.

I’ve spent far more time than I expected having coffee—or lunch—with Jonathon, especially after I told him about my potential stalker. Jonathon wants to meet several times a week and we just talk. He is surprisingly attentive. I expected he would be the kind of guy for whom everything is all about him. But over these weeks, I’ve found myself expressing my deepest fears to him…well, the school-related ones.

My biggest fear is the shops.

Students in the Architecture program are expected to use the wood-working shop and the metal shop to build their models.

I took programs in middle school that involved tools and machinery. I loved the scroll saw and the sander—tools that didn’t intimidate. But I’ve never touched a table saw in my life, and on my first day in the wood shop, the shop technician explained every possible accident that could be had with a table saw. Including the story about a student who lost his thumb the very first time he used the saw.

So I am officially freaked out by the shop. Handling tools was never my thing, and I know that one moment of inattention, one mistake, and I could lose a finger to the table saw or the band saw or the radial arm saw.

I redid the project for Anton Brut. I created a new, more complex form. I did a computer presentation, though I didn’t make a computer model. Instead I produced a model where I showed the form using slices. It was constructed from strips of white cardboard and hot glue. I got a C minus, but it’s a pass.

My physics midterm is on a Friday afternoon. After I write it, I stumble to
Beans
to meet Jonathon. I’m literally swaying on my feet as I walk in and when I slump into the chair, I lay my head on the table. My eyes shut by themselves. God, I’m tired. So tired I want to burst into tears. I think I did okay on the physics test, except I couldn’t even remember my name just before I walked into the classroom. Once I started writing it, knowledge seemed to flow to me, but maybe my sense of accomplishment is just delirium.

Jonathon sets a white mug that smells like chocolate in front of me. I lift my head.

“I’m failing. Failing at everything. I thought I could be an A student. I used to be an A student. If I’m not one, doesn’t that mean I don’t belong here? Oh God, I think they’re right. I can’t do this—”

“Stop, Mia,” Jonathon says. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Being honest?”

“No. You’re hitting yourself with words before anyone else can do it to you. You’re thinking that if you pound yourself with the worst of them, it will insulate you from the shock if someone else says them to you.”

I stare at his green eyes, his chiseled jaw, his gorgeous mouth, filtering in what he just said. I think I get what he means.

“You do belong,” he says.

But I can’t let go of negativity so easily. “Come on,” I say angrily, “I’ve got no style, no talent, no eye for design. I wear jeans and t-shirts, my hair is one color and I don’t want to pierce anything. To succeed, do I try to be something I’m not? Or do I work hard, and hope to God that the person I am is going to be good enough to get through?”

Before he can say anything, I sweep on. “I’m not good enough. I got a C minus on my first minor project. I haven’t had a C minus since ninth grade, when my past was at its most screwed up.” 

At that I stop talking. My chest heaves up and down. That C minus back in ninth grade was a wakeup call. I didn’t want to flunk. The C minus showed me how quickly I could downward spiral. I know it doesn’t sound that bad. But I was afraid that if I let my life come apart, I’d never put it back together.

So I buried the stuff that was eating away at my soul, and I fought my way through school. I need to do that now.

But back then, even though I was emotionally effed up, I knew I had brains. Now, I don’t think my brains are wired the way they need to be for me to get through the architecture program.

Jonathon puts his hand close to mine but he doesn’t touch me. “You need a break. You need to be part of a world that makes you feel confident.”

“I don’t think anywhere can do that right now.”

“I believe there is a place that can.” His voice is soft, sexy, coaxing.

“Okay,” I say. I need to forget about school for a while.

“Mia, let me give you both.”

And that explains how I end in Jonathon’s convertible, being whisked to his BDSM club near the college.

***

My hair dances around my face, tossed by the wind. While driving, Jonathon flicks worried glances at me. “Don’t believe those words. Don’t say them to yourself,” he says. “Believe in your abilities and talents. You are beautiful and smart, Mia.”

I’m almost melting against the soft leather of the passenger on seat—it feels good to have him say that I’m worthy, I’m worthwhile. But I’m also tired and beaten down. “You are right. I like to say them to myself before someone else does. I’ve always done that. I’ve always liked to hurt myself.”

There’s something about Jonathon that makes me want to be honest.

Jonathon has green eyes. Not just any green, but eyes that vividly change color. Sometimes they are blue-green. In places where the light is golden, they become emerald. Under fluorescents—and universities are filled with stark fluorescent light—they can be as light as grapes. Now they are dark and mysterious. He looks at me briefly then puts his attention back on the road.

He doesn’t respond. I worry—did I go too far and say too much? I’m in love with Ryan, but I really rely on my friendship with Jonathon. I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want him to abandon me because he realizes I am screwed up inside.

Jonathon turns into a parking lot. Several cars are there. He puts the car in park. “Let me try something,” he says. Then he grips my wrists lightly, pins my hands at my sides, and looks deeply at me. My breasts rise and fall as I suck in fast breaths. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not going to hurt you. I want you to trust me.”

“Okay.” But can I? Why does he have my hands pinned? This close to him, I notice Jonathon smells delicious. Different than Ryan, who also smells like heaven—who smells like country and meadows and male. Jonathon smells like uptown bars, art galleries, and leather.

Suddenly Jonathon throws all my mean words about myself back at me.

He just repeats everything I said about myself, but his voice is cold and cruel.

I flinch as the words hit me. God, they really do sound bad. They hurt. I’ve been whipping myself with words like that for years. What’s wrong with me?

Deep inside, that had to have hurt me. For years, I’ve been hurting myself.

And I was wrong. I thought hearing someone else say those words would make them sound more real. I thought that would make me believe them. Jonathon was right—my doubts have been for self-defence. But hearing him say those mean things doesn’t make them sound right or true. It makes me angry.

“None of that is true,” I say, because suddenly I want to defend myself and the words explode out of me. “They have no idea what I have survived, what I’ve done, how good I am. They have no idea how hard I fought to get here. Who says they are the only ones who can dictate style and good design? I am good enough. And I know it.”

Hearing those putdowns doesn’t make me want to give up. It makes me determined to prove myself.

“I am talented. I had a damned good portfolio. I’m working hard. I can damn well be creative.” I’m spitting out the words.

Jonathon grins and he releases my hands. “Then believe in yourself. You are special, Mia. You deserve the best.” He moves closer to me, his mouth an inch from mine.

My eyes focus on his mouth. He possesses fuller, plumper lips than Ryan. Ryan has a man’s mouth. This mouth belongs on a boyish model, the kind of sexy young males who pout in designer suits and skin-tight briefs.

Would his lips be really soft since they are so full?

God, what am I thinking? I almost want to kiss him, because he’s done what Ryan used to do. He’s made me see the good in myself. He’s made me believe in myself. And I’m floating in a euphoric haze and I…like him so much for what he’s done for me.

But I can’t
kiss
him. I’m with Ryan. If I kiss Jonathon, I’ll never forgive myself.

His lips move closer and my heart decides it’s a good time to skip a bunch of beats. Is a kiss really wrong? Just one kiss, and then I’ll tell him no more?

Yes, it is wrong! I’m not going to make some stupid mistake and ruin the best thing I’ve ever had.

I move back from Jonathon, pressing close to the door. He retreats also.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” he says. “You’re tired, upset, and you belong to someone else. But you like beating yourself up with words and I want you to stop doing it, Mia. I want you to learn to appreciate your talents, your beauty, and your strength.” Jonathon opens his door and gets out of the car. He walks around to my side. But when he opens my door, I hesitate.

“I am going to appreciate myself. I shouldn’t have come here. How am I going to learn about confidence and self-appreciation in a BDSM club?”

“By taking control,” Jonathon answers.

“Taking control how?” I look over to the building. It looks like a warehouse or industrial building, built with stucco panels and dark, reflective glass. A neon sign is over the door. It reads,
Tied
.

“Does taking control mean to agree to be whipped, spanked, and tied up, or whatever it is you like to do?”

“It can if you want it to. Or you can pick up a whip yourself or a paddle and take on the role of dominatrix.”

He says these things so casually.

“I don’t know. Make myself feel better by whipping some submissive guy’s butt?”

“It’s not about making you feel better at the expense of someone else. The scenes satisfy all participants.”

I lift a brow. “You sound like a prof. Satisfying all participants? Is that in the brochure?” For some reason, I feel very defensive. I don’t know why. I agreed to this; it’s not like Jonathon is dragging me here.

“Actually, it’s in the introduction letter that comes with a membership.”

I have to giggle.

“We’ll go in, allow you to become acclimatized, get a drink,” Jonathon says.

“There’s a bar?”

“Of course. It’s my club. It has a very well-stocked bar.”

“I can’t drink. You would lose your licence. Anyway, if I did drink, I could end up doing something really stupid. I’m too tired to drink, so I’m not going to have anything tonight.”

“That sounds good, Mia.”

“I’m not going to do
anything
in there. Even spanking someone is a sexual situation. That makes it a betrayal of my relationship with Ryan. I won’t do it.” I bite my thumbnail. “I really shouldn’t be here.”

“Just observe, Mia. I know you’re curious.”

“All right. I guess I am curious.”

“College is a time for exploration.” Jonathon grins wickedly, his eyes a deep green under the parking lot lights. “You can explore safely tonight. Welcome to
Tied
.”

***

Jonathon raps on the bronze door of the dark building. It’s opened by a man in a suit who gives a small bow and says, “Good evening, Mr. Powell. And madam.”

The man is young and slender, with bronze skin, a shaved head, and one gold earring.

“Good evening, Charles,” Jonathon says smoothly as the man comes up behind me and holds out his hands for my coat.

I suddenly realize I didn’t dress for this kind of a night. I was dressed for working in the wood shop in the morning and writing a physics midterm in the afternoon. I’m wearing old jeans with ragged knees and a grey t-shirt. But I can’t walk around a bondage club wearing my outdoor coat. For a start, this foyer is too well heated. Sighing, I give it up.

“Would madam care for a costume?” Charles asks, but he directs the question at Jonathon.

I guess they provide clothing so women don’t have to show up in thigh high boots and corsets. Maybe this way they can come straight from work.

“No, madam is fine,” I say. I feel out of place, but I think I would feel weirder to be in a submissive’s costume in front of Jonathon.

“Madam is a guest of mine tonight. An observer, not a participant.”

Charles bows again and retreats.

“You are supposed to be better behaved as my companion,” Jonathon says.

“If I was your submissive, yes. But I’m here as your friend. And I don’t take well to being given orders.” Something snaps in me and makes me really defensive. “I’ve taken enough crap in my life while being a complete docile wimp. I have no intention of doing it anymore.”

My comment doesn’t bother Jonathon in the least. He just says, “Good.”

He leads me to the bar, where I rest my elbow on a sinuous curve of black granite. Red lights reflect endlessly on the surface. The bartenders are all male, though the servers who glide through the bar area with its array of comfortable couches and silver tables are young women—women who balance perfectly on six-inch stripper heels and who wear skin-tight black leather dresses.

“Remember, I can’t have anything to drink,” I tell Jonathon. “I’m so tired I’m on the tipping point of dangerous.”

His green eyes reflect the red light, making them look dark and devilish. Red suits him, caressing his face, making his jet black hair look like it is on fire. “I have no interest in taking your control away. But you should have something. A diet Coke?”