Down to the Bone

  www.beautifultroublepublishing.com

  Copyright © 2011 by Thirteen

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including but not limited to: printing, photocopying, faxing, recording, electronic transmission, or by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission from the authors or holders of the copyright.

  This book is a work of fiction. References may be made to locations and historical events; however, names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and/or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, events or locales is either used fictitiously or coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

  Published by

  Beautiful Trouble Publishing, LLC

  PO Box 61

  Colfax, NC 27235

  www.beautifultroublepublishing.com

  Cover Art: Marteeka Karland

  Editor: Legacy Editing http://legacyediting.com/

  Proofreader: Cindy Davis

  Formatter: Jim & Zetta, http://www.jimandzetta.com/

  E-book Conversion: Jim & Zetta, http://www.jimandzetta.com/

  ISBN: (ebook) 978-1-61788-255-5; (print) 978-1-61788-256-2

  NOTE ABOUT EBOOKS

  eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving away eBooks is a copyright infringement. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author or Beautiful Trouble Publishing.

  CAVEAT

  This work of erotica contains adult language and sexually explicit scenes. This book is intended only for adults, as it is defined by the laws of the country in which the purchase is made. Keep this book out of the hands of under-aged readers.

  SEPTEMBER

  The Neanderthal was searching for a book, which Liddy, flipping through her own text, found amusing. He looked as if he’d never ventured into the college library, let alone up into the rarified, fourth-floor towers that housed the reserved volumes. His confusion was explained, in part, by his football jersey.

  Liddy removed her glasses and finessed a lock of dark hair behind her ear before taking another glance at the jock. It was really unfair to call him a Neanderthal. He didn’t look that far up the evolutionary ladder. Not that he wasn’t a fine specimen, all shoulders and muscled limbs. Good bone structure, too. He had hair the warm yellow of a campfire and a charming dimple in his chin. Not Neanderthal then. Homo habilis, perhaps? The handyman of genus homo, a crude tool maker, one step above Australopithecus.

  “Jarr-ett!” The exasperated voice belonged to a tanned female, long hair dyed honey bronze. She appeared out of the stacks like Eve from the garden and leaned herself on the edge of Liddy’s table. She took no notice of the occupant.

  How sweet, Liddy snorted to herself. The caveman has his own one-million-year B.C. babe.

  “You left me,” the girl pouted, canting forward until her skirted ass was high, like a puppy asking to play. Her pert breasts nearly popped out of her cropped top.

  “I have to find this book,” her still-evolving boyfriend said.

  “Why can’t you get the information off the internet?” the girl whined.

  “Because it’s not on the internet. The fucking thing’s not even in print anymore.” Was that exasperation? Liddy wondered. Trouble in paradise? Poor Homo habilis.

  “There’s nothing to do up here,” the girl complained, stretching back her legs to show off their incredible length.

  Now that wasn’t at all true, Liddy thought. With all these books a bored young lady could surely find some occupation. Build a house maybe, or make paper dolls.

  “Let’s go to the Coffee Bar for an iced mocha,” she coaxed.

  “You can go if you want,” the jock told her.

  B.C. Babe didn’t like that. “There’s a dance at Club Savage tonight, a pizza-and-movie party at Sigma House, oh, and the basketball team is having a kegger at the lake. Which do you prefer?”

  Liddy barely stopped herself from shaking her head, and on a school night, too.

  “You decide,” her guy said.

  “Maybe I should go out, make a few phone calls, see who’s going to be where,” B.C. Babe wondered aloud. Without waiting for his response, she pulled out her cell from a cute little, suede purse and made for the stairs.

  “Suit yourself.” The jock didn’t even glance back. Liddy covertly watched him search both sides of the stacks again. He pulled out and checked his own phone, doubtless for the book’s number, and sighed with frustration. Liddy went back to her biological anthropology texts. Time to study the real Homo habilis.

  Jarrett Evans couldn’t stop glancing at the geeky girl. He didn’t usually visit the libraries on campus, this one least of all. It was a brick monstrosity filled with narrow staircases and tall stacks that were barely wide enough for his broad shoulders. The situation was especially bad up here, in the “Ivory Towers” as they were not-so-imaginatively called. Geek Retreats was their other name. The hanging lamps were harsh and tended to flicker and the air smelled of must and moldy leather. What few tables there were seemed to be hidden away in shadow so that patrons bumped into them.

  Which was why he hadn’t noticed the girl at first. She’d been as shadowed as the table. It was only when Crissy leaned provocatively across it that Jarrett caught sight of her. She had dark hair and a plain, almost elfin face made a little more interesting by square, Clark Kent specs. She never looked up once, even though Crissy was practically sprawled across her books and Jarrett was right there, not a foot away. He thought at first that she might be averting her eyes like an embarrassed nerd, but it soon became apparent that she was ignoring them.

  That didn’t happen to Jarrett, not since his first growth spurt at age thirteen. Feminine eyes followed him wherever he went, flickered side-wise, glanced longingly before demurely falling. Especially the desperate eyes of girls like this one.

  Crissy left to call her girlfriends and Jarrett stepped around to get a better look at the geek. She was seated, so it was hard to see her figure, but the V-neck of her inky camisole top revealed adequate breasts. Her upper arms looked plump and soft, not unattractively so, but Jarrett was used to the toned limbs of cheerleaders. Marking her left shoulder was a strangely compelling tattoo of a skull with a heavy brow ridge. No jawbone, just the jutting upper half of the face. It wasn’t done up to be scary or iconic, rather it looked like some textbook sketch of a piecemeal relic. Not the sort of tat to turn a guy on, Jarrett thought. A butterfly or floral tramp stamp that was sexy, or something delicate and pretty around the ankle or accenting the nape of the neck. Something to kiss and lick seductively.

  But a fucked-up skull?

  Why wasn’t she looking at him? He was willing to bet that back in high school this girl had suffered from acne, that instead of the fairly cool glasses she had on now, there had been a pair of broken, wire-rims. She’d eaten alone, her nose in a book. And she had gawked in awe at guys like him. So why wasn’t she interested now?

  Screw it. He didn’t have time for this. He checked the catalog number he’d jotted down in the notes section of his phone. The professor had assigned a particular book to each student and put all the texts on reserve. This one had to be here.

  Jarrett frowned. Wait. He stepped around the stack, edging closer to the girl’s table. Books were spread and piled all over. One of them was the one he wanted.

  “Excuse me,” he said petulantly. Damn geeks! She was flipping through photos of skulls. Old skulls. So, not just a geek, but a weird geek.

  “Exc
use me,” he said louder, and leaned his weight on the desk. It shifted a little and his shadow cut off her light. She finally looked up. The magnified eyes behind the glasses were dark as flint and totally disinterested. They blinked at him as if they couldn’t be bothered to really see him.

  “Excuse me, but I need that book there,” Jarrett said. “It’s on reserve.”

  Unlike the nerdy girls he’d known in high school, she did not shrink or wince or apologize or grab the book to offer it to him meekly, as a supplicant to a great warrior.

  “Oh?” she said mildly, and glanced over at the text. “Oh, that one. You must be in Sorrenson’s Dinotopia course. Figures.”

  Jarrett felt his cheeks go hot. The class title was Prehistoric Biology but her amused disdain made it clear she knew the truth: that it was a biology-made-easy class to help jocks meet their requirements and maintain their GPA’s.

  She pushed the book his way. “Enjoy,” she wished him, and went back to flipping through pictures of skeletons and skulls.

  Liddy listened to the jock’s heavy footsteps as he stomped away. Had she hurt the poor caveman’s feelings? She snorted. Impossible. But for a moment she couldn’t quite turn the page or concentrate on Australopithecus bones. All she could do was flash back to the moment when he’d leaned over her. She’d smelled him, a hint of sweat and musk, and she’d seen his hands, broad and strong. Looking up to meet those gray eyes, there’d been no denying that sudden feeling of pure, sexual attraction.

  She was a female and he was a male of her species. Which was all well and good, but Mr. Caveman would have never noticed her if she hadn’t had one of his books. Likely he’d already forgotten all about her. Likely, he’d never give her another thought. Best to forget about him as well.

  It was the skull, Jarrett thought as he drove to his father’s house for the annual Labor Day barbecue. He’d spent the last four days thinking about that damn tattoo on the girl’s arm. He ought to have asked her about it, but he’d been so pissed by her dismissive attitude that he’d just stomped away.

  The skull had stuck with him, however, haunting him. Why a worn, broken down skull? What did it signify? Even during practice it had occupied his thoughts, making it difficult for him to concentrate on taking down the quarterback.

  “God-damn it, Evans! Pay attention!” the defensive coordinator had barked. But in his head Jarrett kept seeing that skull, and the girl’s eyes. He’d never seen eyes that color, dark brown, almost black, and clear, like obsidian. Magnified behind Clark Kent glasses.

  “What’s wrong?” Crissy had demanded the other night. She’d been working away at his cock, giving it loving attention with her wet, pouty lips. Up one side and gliding down the other. That had always made him stiff as an arrow, especially when she wiggled her ripe-peach ass while doing it. His eyes had been following the crack of that ass, his breath coming short as she lapped up a trickle of pre-cum; then he’d suddenly fixed on her tramp stamp: a pair of frilly pink birds forming a heart shape.

  Dinosaurs had evolved into birds he’d found himself thinking. He’d already known that but he’d just re-read it in the library book, which reminded him of the girl with the skull on her shoulder. Suddenly, to his acute embarrassment, his boner had flagged. Crissy had redoubled her efforts, slurping and sucking, but it was as if someone had doused the fire. The embers in his groin still smoldered, but he couldn’t bring them back to life.

  “What’s wrong?” Crissy had finally demanded, as if he’d just insulted her. Which, he supposed, he had.

  “I got hurt during practice,” he’d lied to her. “I thought I could get past it but I guess I’m too bruised.”

  That had appeased Crissy, and he’d gone down on her to help her forget about it. But the whole episode was branded on his mind. A few months ago he’d have thought nothing could cool his lust for Crissy, but the way she’d acted in the library had shifted his perception. She no longer seemed sexy, just obnoxious.

  He parked his used Toyota in his father’s driveway and got out of the car still thinking about it. What had that geek girl thought of Crissy, leaning suggestively across the table, talking of parties and keggers? And, by proxy, what had she thought of Jarrett for being with such a tease?

  “There’s the Great Defender!” His father threw open the front door.

  “Hey, Dad.” Jarrett exchanged a bear hug and some back-slaps. He topped his father by a few inches, both in height and width, but the old man still had an iron grip. Over his father’s shoulder, he saw his gawky, fifteen-year old brother. Frankie was skinny and had reddish-brown hair like their mother. The kid had shot up another few inches over the summer, but nothing else had changed in his beanstalk physique. He still looked emaciated, as if their father didn’t feed him, which, Jarrett knew wasn’t true. If anything, Mr. Evans always overfed his sons, never skimping on prime cuts of meat no matter how lean the budget.

  “Gotta be big and strong to make it in this world,” his father always quipped before forking thick grilled steaks onto their plates.

  “Hey, bro.” Jarrett broke from his dad to hug his sibling and ruffle the kid’s hair.

  “Hey, Jet.”

  “How’s school?”

  A shrug of hunched shoulders. “Doin’ okay.”

  “He’s a friggin’ wash-out at sports,” his father complained. “As always. Can’t shoot hoops or throw pigskin, can’t wrestle, can’t even golf.”

  Jarrett felt his muscles tensing at the tone. “Lay off dad.”

  “Getting A’s in all his other classes,” his father added as if this meant Frankie couldn’t be trusted. “Says he wants to study ancient history. Mummies and pyramids and things. What the hell use is that?”

  Frankie’s shoulders were up and hunched even more. Jarrett put his muscled arm about the kid’s scrawny neck only belatedly realizing how that might feel to his little brother, all that strength Frankie lacked.

  “If it’s what he’s good at, then let him,” Jarrett said pointedly as he crossed through the house. He couldn’t help noticing, however, that his high school athletic trophies were still on the mantle like precious artifacts. None of Frankie’s more scholarly awards were up there. In fact, like pictures of their long-gone mother, nothing of Frankie was to be seen.

  Jarrett frowned and stepped out into the backyard. A few of the neighbors were there, seated on lawn chairs, enjoying the Indian summer. They rose as he appeared, reaching to shake hands and remark on his team’s first win of the season. He snagged himself an orange soda and hung out under the apple tree chatting while his father cooked burgers and Frankie kept back.

  Later on, to Jarrett’s growing discomfort, his father herded everyone inside and played a digital recording of highlights from last season’s games. Jarrett watched himself in one play crashing through the offensive line to sack the quarterback. In another play, he’d recovered a fumble and taken the ball a good ten yards. The neighbors cheered and praised his bravado, but all Jarrett could see were his mistakes. Like that stunt with the fumble; it had worked, but he’d still gotten chewed out for running and risking the ball, rather than falling on it and making it indisputably theirs.

  “You’ll do even better this year,” his father predicted, and paused the recording to get their guests more beers. Jarrett glanced back then to see Frankie, head bowed, slipping out.

  “Dad,” Jarrett said later, as his father walked him to the car. “About Frankie. Lay off him. I mean it. He gets enough crap for being smart at school. He doesn’t need it from you.”

  “Come on, that’s what dads do,” his father brushed it off. “Bust their sons’ balls. I busted yours, didn’t I?”

  It was as if a shadow had just covered the sun. Jarrett remembered every tryout for every childhood team, remembered the stomach churning anxiety he’d felt. He’d spent his life competing for his father’s praise and that had included being an average student. He could still recall the times his father had yanked books out of his hands, ordering him outsi
de to run, practice or just sit and watch others playing sports. The only time his father had ever cared about his grades was when his low average had threatened his chances for a football scholarship.

  “Thing is,” his father went on, “Frankie’s a geek and geeks don’t get anywhere. Never mind all those stories of rich computer guys. Most nerds live at home with their folks, never have sex, never have any money. Sports are the golden ticket.” It was his father’s all-too-familiar mantra. “Frankie needs to know that.”

  “Frankie knows it,” Jarrett sighed, pulling open his car door. “He just doesn’t want it and there’s no forcing it on him. So stop trying, okay?”

  His father got that stubborn look. “Too much like his mother.”

  As Jarrett drove away, he saw his father in the rear view mirror, waving. He also saw Frankie peering through the curtains of the picture window, shoulders hunched as if beaten.

  MID-SEPTEMBER

  “Mind if I sit here?” a male voice, politely phrased. It still startled Liddy. Her corner of the library hadn’t been invaded since that day two weeks ago when the jock and his girlfriend had come hunting. She glanced up, expecting to see another geek.

  Homo habilis! She almost shouted. There was the jock, a pile of books in his muscled arms, dimpled chin on the top volume. Damn. She’d forgotten how good he looked. No. That was a lie. She hadn’t forgotten. In fact, she’d been drifting to sleep imagining that body stripped and lying beside her. She’d daydreamed about those large hands fondling her ass while she got to explore that hard, handsome chest.

  “May I sit?” he asked again. His expression wasn’t nearly so confrontational this time around. In fact, he almost seemed nervous.

  Liddy adjusted her glasses. “Sure.” She forced her gaze back down to the pages of her book as he sunk into a chair.