Vulnerable (Barons of Sodom) (20 page)

A gasp escapes
my lips as his eyes flick up to meet mine. The rest of the wild party fades
away at once as our gazes lock. His bottomless eyes see right through me,
stripping me down until I’m utterly naked beneath his gaze. A slow smile
spreads across his smooth lips as he watches me melt before him. But entranced
as I am by his singular brutish beauty, I won’t let him get to me that easy.
From deep down, I gather my restraint, my composure, my cool. Straightening my
spine, I plant a hand on my hip and smile right back at him.

Two can play at
this game, I think to myself.

For the briefest
of moments, I could swear that he’s taken aback. Clearly, this is not a man
who’s accustomed to making the first move. My heart takes a running start and
slams against my rib cage as he pockets his flask and takes a step toward me,
circling the roaring bonfire. He approaches like a wild animal, circling his
prey. I turn to face him as he steps up before me, craning my neck to take in
his full, staggering form.

“You look like
you could use a drink,” he growls, his voice rich and husky.

I swallow hard,
steeling myself in the face of such an incredible, intimidating presence as
his. With a miraculously steady hand, I reach into the pocket of his black
leather cut and close my fingers around the cool steel flask. He raises a
perfect eyebrow at me as I bring the flask to my scarlet lips—trying hard not
to think about the fact that his mouth just rested where mine does now. I can
tell that he’s intrigued, unused to being approached so brazenly. The smoky
whiskey sears my throat as I gulp down a huge swig and hand the flask back to
him with a mischievous grin.

“Thanks,” I say,
flicking a tress of black hair over my bare shoulder.

“My pleasure,”
he smirks, placing his firm hands on the points of my hips.

His pleasure is
the first and only thing on his brain, I can tell that for certain. But I’ve
made up my mind not to fold so easily. I step back from him, knocking his hands
away.

“Sorry. I don’t
think I happened to catch your name,” I say, fighting hard to keep the quiver
from my voice.

“Huh,” he
laughs, eyeing me up and down, “This isn’t usually a place where names are
traded, babe.”

“Humor me,” I
insist, all too aware of the fiery sensation his gaze leaves in its wake as it
rakes along my body.

“I’m Devlin,” he
tells me, his voice full and sure, “Devlin Vile.”

Jackpot.

“Hi Devlin,” I
purr, letting down my guard just an inch, “I’m Logan. Logan Farrah.”

“Well Logan,”
Devlin goes on, closing the careful space I’ve put between us, “Welcome to The
Club. I’m glad you stumbled on our little island paradise for the night. You’re
gonna love it here. I’ll personally make sure of that.”

“Oh, I bet you
will,” I return.

Little does he
know, of course, that my presence here is the furthest thing from a stumble.
I’m a woman on a mission. A mission that has everything to do with him, as it
turns out. But as I breathe in his intoxicating presence—the towering form, the
searing gaze, the smoky, spicy scent of him—I decide that as long as I’m here,
I may as well have a little bit of fun. All work and no play has never done
anyone any good, right?

Is it possible
that this Devlin Vile could be good for me? Or is that just the most dangerous
kind of wishful thinking? Only one way to find out, I muse to myself, and take
a step toward him.

Chapter One

Boston, Massachusetts

One month earlier...

The sound of a
sarcastic catcall tears my attention away from the full length mirror. I turn
to see my roommate Emma leaning against the doorframe, grinning at my current
getup.

“Hey, sexy mama,”
she teases, “Can I get some of that?”

I frown at my
reflection, all decked out in its unflattering cap and gown. I’ve been trying
to convince myself that the whole costume isn’t really that terrible...but to
no avail. I look like a giant green Easter Peep that someone’s run through the
microwave.

“You’re so lucky
you don’t have to sit through graduation,” I sigh, flicking my cap’s tattered
tassel away from my face, “Maybe I can hire a body double to go for me or
something? Surely there’s a section on Craigslist for that.”

“Or you could
just skip the whole thing like a sensible human being,” Emma shrugs, tucking
her short blonde hair behind her ears.

“I wish,” I
grumble, sinking onto my narrow bed in the starchy, sweaty robe. “My parents
would never speak to me again if I didn’t show up.”

“Last time I
checked,” Emma says, raising a fair eyebrow, “They forfeited their right to
this graduation nonsense when they refused to pay for your education.”

She does have a
point. By all rights, I should have no qualms about ditching graduation despite
my parents’ desires. I’m the one who financed my degree through a half dozen
scholarships (and about 50K in student loan debt, of course). My mom and dad
always told me when I was growing up that they’d be more than happy to pay for
my college education, provided that I studied something “practical” like
medicine or law. But when I decided to major in marketing and communications
instead, their offer of financial assistance was snatched away right quick.

“Why would we pay
for a degree that’s just going to leave you jobless and living in our
basement?” my mother had scoffed at the time.

And much to my
chagrin, she seems to have had a valid argument. I’m graduating from college at
the end of the week, and I’ve spent the better part of the past year sending
out resume after resume to every media and publishing outlet in the country. In
that time, I’ve had exactly four lackluster interviews and zero job offers. I’m
about to step into the real world with a boatload of debt, no job, and a rather
fatalistic attitude about my prospects. Just like my mother predicted way back
when.

“Sorry, I
shouldn’t have brought it up,” Emma sighs, sitting down next to me on the bed.
I watch as she tucks her slender legs beneath her, nimble as a kitten. I’ve
always been slightly covetous of my best friend’s tiny frame. I’m a relatively
tall young woman, 5’ 9” to be exact, and was an early bloomer, as far as curves
as concerned. I’ve come to love my fuller, voluptuous figure, but I never heard
the end of it from my mom when I was growing up. She was born in Japan, and
always boasted a super-slender figure. My older sister, Juliet, inherited her
body type, but I took after my English-born father. You can’t pick your
parents, and you certainly can’t pick what you get from them out of the genetic
grab bag.

“At least you’re
graduating at the top of your program,” Emma points out, “I don’t even think
they bother to rank us in the Fine Arts department, but if they did I certainly
wouldn’t want to know about it.”

“That’s true,” I
allow, “I did kind of kick this degree’s ass, huh?”

“I’ll say!” Emma
smiles, “You even managed to snag a minor in psych like some kind of academic
super hero.”

“To be fair,” I
point out, “My psych classes were mostly introductory. And all we did for the
most part was fill out weird personality quizzes and try to psychoanalyze our
parents.”

“No wonder you
had such an easy time of it. Think about all the material you have there,” Emma
smirks.

“Ha, ha,” I say,
shrugging out of my ridiculous green gown, “You’re a regular laugh riot, Emma
Sanders.”

“I’m here all
week,” she mugs, laying out across my bed. “Aren’t you glad you’re going to be
stuck with me for the foreseeable future?”

“I really am
though,” I tell her sincerely.

Emma and I have
been living together since sophomore year of undergrad, when we were randomly
assigned to the same dorm room. You’d think there wouldn’t be much for us to
talk about—she’s an abstract painter, I’m an aspiring media type. But in a
school overrun with Greek life and hard core athletics, we were lucky to find
each other. We stuck together for the rest of our undergraduate careers, and
just found a tiny two-bedroom apartment to share after graduation. Emma’s
already snagged a job as an artist’s assistant here in Boston, and while I
haven’t been so lucky job-wise, I’m determined not to move back home with my
parents. I don’t care if I have to sling coffee, or walk dogs, or babysit some
horrible rich kids. I’m going to make it work.

“Come on,” Emma
says, rolling onto her feet, “It’s already three minutes past five. I need a
drink.”

“Yeah, OK,” I
agree, gathering my long black hair into a bun and securing it with my
signature hair sticks—the only thing passed down to me from my mother, besides
raging social anxiety. “I could really use one, after today.”

Emma skirts off
to find her purse as I drop into my desk chair, absentmindedly checking my
social media pages and favorite blogs. Not much to see on Facebook and whatnot,
but that follows. I don’t exactly have a large group of friends. Or any group
of friends, for that matter. There’s Emma, sure, and some people from my study
groups and classes, but not many people that I’d consider honest-to-god
friends, despite what Facebook might call them. But to be honest, my lack of
close friends makes perfect sense.

It’s sometimes
said that sisters are built-in best friends. And for me and my sister Juliet,
this was absolutely true. At least, it was when we were little. She’s two years
older than me, and I absolutely idolized her when we were growing up. Juliet
was always leading me off on epic adventures and insanely fun antics. Whether
we were staging full-scale Spice Girls musicals in our shared bedroom, teaching
each other how to do cartwheels in the backyard, or breaking into my mom’s
makeup case for surreptitious (and poorly executed) makeovers, there was never
a dull moment with Juliet around.

But as we grew
older, that adventurous spirit turned rebellious. My mother was a strict
taskmaster, and my father let her rule over the household, and us girls, with
an iron fist. She and Juliet butted heads ceaselessly from the time my sister
hit her teenage years. And the harder my mom tried to hold on, the most
desperate Juliet grew to fly away. By the time she was seventeen, Juliet was
totally out of control. Partying every night, drinking and smoking, sleeping
around—engaging in every bit of destructive behavior imaginable. I begged her
to be careful, to take care of herself. I loved her more than anyone on Earth,
but my love wasn’t enough to make her stay.

The day she
turned eighteen, Juliet ran off. She’d fallen in with a local biker gang, a
really hardcore group of guys. She left us a note saying that she’d decided to
join up with them as some sort of groupie, and that we shouldn’t come looking
for her. She was a legal adult, and too damn stubborn to reconsider, so my
parents had no choice but to let her go.

I was devastated
by her abandonment, and resolved to never be anything like her. I dove
headfirst into my studies, my writing, and did my best to put her out of mind.
But no matter how well I did in school, how many prizes I won, how many
colleges I got into, no accomplishment was good enough to dispel the ghost of
my departed sister from my parents’ hearts. It wasn’t until I went away to
school that I finally felt free of her lingering, stifling presence.

But as much as I
hate to admit it, I’m still feeling the impact of what Juliet did. Because of
her betrayal, I keep my heart safely locked away. I’m immediately suspicious of
anyone who wants to be my friend, and insanely selective about the guys I’ll
even consider dating. I can’t stand the thought of coming to love someone, the
way I loved Juliet, and having them leave me behind. I’ve sworn never to let
myself get hurt like that again, and so far I’ve managed just fine. I may not
be the most popular girl in school, or have the most notches in my bedpost, but
at least I’m not vulnerable to heartbreak.

Of course, being
safe from heartbreak means being safe from love, too...but that’s a conundrum
to tackle another day.

I’m just about
to close my laptop when a new email pops into my inbox with a ding. I glance at
the message, expecting some junky advertisement for penis enlargement or the
like. But the email’s subject line makes my heart skip a beat.

Interview
Request from Advance Media, Re: Logan Farrah

“Holy shit,” I
whisper, hastily opening the message. I sent my resume to the media giant
Advance on a wishful whim a few months ago. Could they seriously be reaching
out to little ol’ me about an interview? I read the email with bated breath.

Dear Ms.
Farrah,

We have
received your resume and are very impressed with your scholastic record and
achievements. If you are available, we would like to schedule an interview with
you in the coming days. One of our popular media outlets is currently seeking
editorial contributors. We think you would be a wonderful fit for the online
publication, FootSolider. If you are interested, please let us know so that we
can forward your information to FootSoldier’s managing editor. We look forward
to hearing from you—

I can’t even
read the last few lines of text—my vision is swimming with excited glee. I let
out a squeal of joy, leaping out of my chair and dancing ecstatically around my
dorm room. In a flash, Emma is right back in my doorway, staring perplexedly at
me and I jump and jive all over the place.

“What the hell
is going on?” she asks, befuddled by my outburst.

“I just got an
email from Advance Media!” I cry, clasping Emma by the soldiers.

“Okay...?” she
replies. Emma is not exactly the most plugged-in person on the planet.

“They own, like,
every blog and online publication on the East Coast. At least the ones that are
worth reading,” I babble on. “There’s an opening at one site,
FootSolider
,
and they want me to come in for an interview!”

Emma may not
have any interest in blogs, but even she recognizes the word “interview”.

“Logan, that’s
wonderful!” she cries, throwing her arms around me, “I knew something was going
to come through for you. You’re too brilliant not to get snatched up.”

“Well, I haven’t
been snatched up yet,” I laugh, “But I’ve been reading
FootSoldier
for
years. I really dig their aesthetic, and I think my writing style is right up
their alley.”

“In other words,
they’d be crazy not to hire you,” Emma grins.

“I’m definitely
a good fit for the job,” I allow.

“Ugh. That
modesty thing is going to be the death of you,” Emma laughs, releasing me from
her bear hug. “This calls for a celebratory drink!”

“Weren’t we already
going out for a drink?” I ask.

“Well yeah,” she
shrugs, “But isn’t it nicer to be justified in it?!”

“I’ll say,” I
laugh, grabbing my purse and trailing Emma out the door.

We step out into
the warm May evening, arms linked. My body feels weightless as we make our way
through the streets of Boston. It’s like I can breathe freely for the first
time in months. Finally, I’ve got a lead on a job that might actually pan out,
a job I’d kill to have. Maybe I won’t have to crash land into post-graduate life
after all.