She never married, never had kids. I’m the closest thing she’s ever had to a daughter. In fact, not long after I moved in, she told me one night over bourbon-spiked coffee that she wished she would’ve known all those years ago what I was going through—both before living with Uncle Michael and Aunt Elizabeth … and after.
She said she would have moved me out here sooner, would’ve taken me under her wing and given me a real home.
But it’s okay.
She didn’t know. She couldn’t have known.
And at least we have now.
I finish the rest of my half of Aunt Bette’s sandwich. “I should head back, going to check my email and head to bed early.”
She snorts. “Well, don’t go to bed too early.”
“As long as you don’t stay up too late,” I tease her back before disappearing down the hall.
As soon as I get to my room, I pull my laptop from my bag and connect it to the charger on my desk. I wait for the light to turn green before gathering my hair into a messy ponytail and heading to the bathroom to wash up for bed. When I come back, I change into a faded t-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms.
The shuffling of Aunt Bette’s feet down the hall is followed by the sound of her laughter. She says something else, though I can’t make out the words. She must be on the phone with one of her girlfriends. They always call each other around this time of night, and tomorrow is Bunko day at Sheila Carlisle’s house.
I carry my laptop to the bed and climb under the covers, opting to check my email before calling it an early night.
Most students my age are living in campus town apartments, sitting around their kitchen islands shooting the shit with their bestie roommates over takeout pizza, putting their homework aside to catch up on the latest episode of The Bachelorette, helping each other decide whether to swipe left or right on the newest dating app.
While my college experience living off-campus has been less than typical, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I love living with Aunt Bette. She’s my spirit animal.
And she’s been better to me than anyone ever has—better than I probably deserve if I’m being honest.
I flip the lid of my laptop open and tap in my password. The screen flashes to life and I double-click on the PVU email icon on my desktop.
Five new emails.
I go through them, starting from the bottom. Most of them are campus-wide emails, reminders about deadlines and policies or upcoming events.
Delete, delete, delete …
But it’s the last one that catches me by surprise.
TO: davenport.iriepvucampusmail.edu
FROM: gold.talonpvucampusmail.edu
SUBJECT: Hey lucky ;)
MESSAGE: Just touching base … if you ever need to get a hold of me, my number is 555-8851.
Unimpressed yet indubitably amused, I shut the lid, fling my covers aside, and return the computer to the charger.
Does he actually believe that knighting me with some stupid nickname and using a wink is the way to my heart? And my God, he must be so proud of himself for finally finding a way to get his number in my hands after all these years.
I roll my eyes when I return to my bed, the image of Talon high-fiving his football player buddies filling my mind. But that image is quickly replaced with other images—actual ones—of Talon over the years.
Talon at parties, surrounded by girls.
Talon’s picture plastered on the front page of the PVU Daily during football season.
Talon on bus signs, the face of the PVU Tigers.
Talon eye-fucking me in passing by the campanile last fall … it was so penetrating and intense I lost my train of thought as I was mid-conversation with a friend and almost tripped over a crack in the sidewalk.
Sliding under my covers, I close my eyes tight and remember the cinnamon scent of his breath against my ear, the undeniable heaviness of his stare. I imagine what his hands—calloused and rough—might feel like in my hair, his thumb tracing my jaw as he claims my mouth like a man who’s been starving for that very kiss his entire life, a man about to make a meal of me.
My stomach reels and my heart hitches and my skin is hot to the touch.
Every part of me comes alive when I think of Talon Gold.
The man is pure sex, power and dominance, and he could give me one hell of a night, I’m sure of it. But my guilty-pleasure reveries are