Bitter Exes: The Social Experiment 2 Read online

  “So sorry!” I cry above the music and the noise of the crowd only to gasp once my gaze meets up with those haunted pale green eyes. Swear to God, Lane Cooper’s eyes have always had a slight possessed look to them and, to be honest, it was those lucent eyes that I noticed first about him—the rock-solid girth of his chest being the second, and the aforementioned bulge in his jeans being the most crucial third.

  Here he is, live and in person, just a breath away with his black coffee-colored hair, that straight nose, those high-cut cheeks. His comma-like dimples aren’t coming out to say hello, and why would they? He only employs their weaponry when he dares to smile, and Lane Cooper is clearly not in a smiling mood.

  “Shit,” I mutter before pivoting on my heels. It all happens in slow motion, the way so many nightmares do, as I ditch into the crowd, heart racing, adrenaline coursing through me as if I were trying to escape a deranged killer with a hatchet. I can feel the bull’s-eye over my back, searing hot as if anticipating the plunge of a blade. In this case, the blade is Lane Cooper’s eyes.

  “I should get out of here,” I pant under my breath, talking to myself like a freaking loon. “No, wait,” I mutter as I glance left then right, both directions thick with bodies. “If I run, he’ll know it was because of him.” I press my lips together, forbidding one more stitch of internal dialogue to escape them. It’s bad enough I’m about to have my dirty laundry aired for all to see tomorrow night—and I’m not talking day old jeans—I’m talking crusty, three day worn and pissed on, dirty, heck, there might even be a skid mark in the mix undergarments. But the last thing I need is someone spotting me having a raging conversation with myself in the middle of a kegger.

  A smiling face comes my way—tall, dark, and handsome by most standards. I recognize that cheesy grin from all the football games Sophie dragged me off to. It’s Tim Locke, a senior. He has a twin, Dan, and everyone knows them as the Locke brothers. They’re both infamous players, and judging by the fact his lids grow heavy with every step in my direction, I can tell he’s gunning for a hookup. I give a slight glance over my shoulder and find Lane staring us down like a predator in waiting.

  “What’s up, beautiful?” Tim slurs his words just enough to let me know he’s toasted. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “You’re right. We haven’t met.” This is usually the part where I would insert a zinger like and we’re not going to, asshole, so keep walking, douchebag. There’s no way in hell your balls are going to score a touchdown between my goalposts. But I don’t employ my vast arsenal of wit and razor-sharp charm. Instead, I loop my arm through his, still feeling Lane’s gaze burrowing a hole through the back of my head, and I lead Tim right through the frat house and out into the frozen night air. And just as I’m about to ask Mr. Blood Alcohol Content .19 if he’s got a bike I can borrow to pedal myself the hell out of here, I switch suggestive gears. If Lane saw me riding out of here like a bat on wheels, I’m sure his overblown ego would feel a smidge of satisfaction. Nope. I need to maintain the illusion of having a good time, and Tim here just volunteered as tribute.

  “How about you walk me to my dorm, big boy?” I pet his forearm as if it were a puppy. “I can use a strong body to lean against. These skyscrapers strapped to my feet are killing me.” I’m so wearing the fucking Sorels next time. There’s not a boy at Leland worth a spiked heel in my opinion. Hell, I might start meandering around campus in my robe with my retainer and reading glasses. I don’t know who the heck I’m trying to impress around here anyway. It’s clear Cupid’s stupid arrow won’t be flying in my direction anytime soon.

  “Oh, baby,” he moans, and I shudder at the sound of his gurgling voice, ripe with lewd intention. “Honey, I’ll take you to the Tower if that’s what you want.”

  I shoot him a look that says fat chance, Raunchy Romeo. Everyone knows the Tower is the most notorious hookup hot spot on campus. It’s social media famous for its #towerFTW hashtag. Everyone who is anyone has made it a point to knock boots at Leland University’s premier coital locale.

  I can’t help but scowl at him a little. “How about we save the Tower for our next date? I think we should start with the constitutional first and see where things go from there,” I say, racing him to the sidewalk and down the street. He’s so tall and sturdy I’m practically ice skating down the road by his side. Honest to God, if he wasn’t here, I’d have to army crawl back to my dorm just to avoid snapping my ankles. And believe you me, if that’s what it took to escape Lane Cooper for the evening, it would be well worth the road rash and potential staph infection that would mercifully claim my life. I frown at the thought of my ex inviting the Grim Reaper into my brain twice in one evening. I forbid myself from having another single morbid thought unless the Grim Reaper’s tools of affection are pointed toward my ex.

  Tim does his best to hang onto me and mumbles incoherently for the majority of our unexpected sojourn. We enter campus and get as far as Coffeeology before I decide this is as good a place as any for thanking him for the proverbial ride.

  “Thanks for helping me out.” I pull my arm free and take a few steps away to create that three-foot boundary I love to keep in play at all times. Had I kept it in play with Lane last year I wouldn’t be here shivering, short on both breath and sanity. When all is said and done, I’ve become the poster child for celibacy and why it should be considered a viable option.

  Tim does his best impression of a zombie, staggering forward, eyes closed, mouth agape. “Come here, baby.” He swats at the air, and I’m quick to duck from his grasp. “I’m a kiss it and make it better.” His arms leash around me with an anaconda tight grip, and I can’t breathe or move, or feel my limbs anymore for that matter.

  “No, really, it’s okay!” I try my best to wiggle out of his death grip, but it’s becoming quickly apparent I’m the one who’s holding him up at this point. Dear God, I’ve run from a wolf only to meet up with a drunken frat bear. “Please, let go. I think you should take a seat.” Just as I’m about to land him on a snow-covered bench, a pair of arms snatches him off me from behind.

  Lane Cooper grunts as he hoists Tim into a field to our left like a Frisbee. “She said let go, dude!” he riots into the night, and everything in me freezes. My heart thumps once, unsure if it should try to shatter its way out of my chest or stop beating altogether in honor of the white knight act he’s pulling.

  But my body wisely chooses red-hot rage as a response.

  “Oh my God! Are you stalking me?” My voice shrills into the night, straight up to that silver platter moon sitting above us, washing Lane with the powder blue glow of its affection. Lane has always been the center of affection, especially with those oozing with estrogen.

  Lane doesn’t so much as twitch a smile. Not one dimple comes out to greet me, and how dare they think they can turn their backs on me when I’ve bathed them with my kisses.

  “You just freaked the hell out of me!” I shout as I widen the distance between us. But Lane just stands there, head tilted forward, his entire body stiff as a statue. “That Michael Myers’ impersonation you’re doing isn’t exactly helping. And don’t you dare say a word to me,” I warn with a shaky voice filled with far too much emotion to ever be safe. “Back away slowly. You’ll get what’s coming to you tomorrow night. You’ll pay for what you’ve done to me, Lane.”

  I spin and run all the way to Canterbury, slipping and sliding and not caring one bit. But I can still feel him there watching me, those eyes of his lighting up my backside, bursting my skin into flames like a dry hillside in July. Lane Cooper has always had the ability to set me on fire.

  * * *

  Wednesday, I can’t even focus on my classes. In fact, I leave the last class of the day early, just walk out in the middle of it and head straight to my dorm. Em and Sophie do their best to try to shove food down my throat, but I’m not having it. The last thing I want to happen is for my digestive system to regurgitate its offerings in front of the faculty, the student body, and
the potential millions of viewers who will be eagerly watching on the edge of their seats. The first broadcast will be live. LIVE! A horrible situation in and of itself.

  Six o’clock comes fast like a member of the chess club visiting a hooker for the very first time. Dexter instructed those participating in tonight’s massacre to be at Finley Hall no later than six. Girls were told to assemble at the east, so that’s where I meander. Ember wishes me luck as I stare at the peachy glow coming from Finley that will inevitably lead to my doom. I give Em a brief hug and watch sullen as she sashays her cute self to the front with the rest of tonight’s audience.

  “Don’t worry”—Sophie maneuvers me toward the entry—“they’ll have to demand I leave.”

  We follow the sign that reads Welcome Group B! and find a room swarming with bodies.

  “Seth!” Sophie jumps and waves at an older looking bald guy with a warm smile, dressed in a black sweatshirt that reads STAFF in bright orange letters. Come to think of it, half the people here have donned the self-ascribing accoutrement.

  “Sophie Meyer.” He pulls her into a brief hug. “Glad to see you here tonight. You’re not a part of group B, are you?” he chides playfully. Great. Sophie and Seth are busy cooing away while my armpits are busy staining my tight little black dress with copious amounts of sweat. Crap. How in the hell did I get myself into this mess again? Oh, that’s right. My lust for scarves at the bookstore led me to a fifty percent off coupon if I signed on the dotted line. Note to self: find out what apartment Lane is holed up in and flush said scarf down his toilet. I wouldn’t dare injure the delicate sewer system of Canterbury Hall. You flush a tampon, and you’d better say a prayer.

  “Isn’t that great news?” Sophie bleats while shaking me silly.

  “What?” I come to, only to realize I’m still actually embedded firmly in my worst nightmare. I would trade this nails on a chalkboard experience for any other nightmare of mine, say the one where I’m walking around campus sans any pants? Or the one in which I can’t find any of my classes and thus don’t graduate on time? Hell, if my heart rate skyrockets any more than it already has, I won’t have to worry about graduating at all. I’ll be attending Casket University from here until eternity.

  Sophie giggles like a schoolgirl as she looks to Seth, who has the power to squash this nonsense like a cockroach, and God, I wish he would. “She’s been zoning out all day. You could say she’s just a tad bit nervous.”

  “You could say I’m just a tad bit homicidal.” And that’s only because I promised I’d stop with all the morbid thoughts of self-harm. And I’m improving leaps and bounds. Case in point, I did not fashion my scarf into a noose—I utilized it as a weapon of toilet-based destruction.

  Seth nods knowingly as if he just read my every thought. “I’ve double-checked, and you’ve signed all the appropriate paperwork. Congratulations, Violet. I’ll be your sensory guide for the next six weeks.” His perma-smile melts right off his face. “I’ll be honest with you. Once I heard group B’s focus was bitter exes, I had my misgivings.”

  “Oh cool!” Sophie trills as if Seth just pulled a bunny from his ear. “Each group gets a focus. What was mine?”

  A dull laugh dies in my chest as I take a stab at it. “Fantasy football?” It’s true—

  almost the entire team was featured. “And why aren’t I getting my own quarterback to make out with in the dark?” At this point, I’d take a male yell leader.

  Seth’s shoulders sag as he looks to me, despondent. “You get a basketball star. You do realize your ex is the team captain.”

  “And the very reason I haven’t been to a basketball game yet.” True as God. I haven’t even gone near the Cougar Dome.

  “Good to note.” He jots something down on his phone, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. I know for a fact they pick our brains to dictate where our dates and outings should be directed. If it weren’t for Sophie telling them she had a fear of heights—although she strongly denies it—I’m betting she would never have had to rappel off the side of Windy Peak. “You might want to jot down that my biggest fear is being locked in a shopping mall and having to scrounge all of the luxury items I can within a twenty-four period, and for the record, I’m deathly afraid of Chinese food, too.” There. I’ve already outsmarted the system.

  He looks to Sophie. “She’s funny.” That warm smile bounces back on his lips. “All right, Violet, we’ve got you and Lane lined up first. We’ve got two hours to kill and eight couples to kill it with, so about fifteen minutes each. We’ve got two spare in the wings in the event a few of you run short. There is a moderator. He will be offstage. You won’t see him, but you will hear his voice. He’s only there to move things along. I can’t stress enough that I need you to participate. Whatever he asks you, we want the long answer. Look directly to Lane and respond to him as if he asked the question. The less you say, the more aloof you’ll come across, and you don’t want anyone to think you’re aloof, do you?”

  “Aloof.” Sophie slyly looks it up on her phone, and I’m glad because for one my brain feels rather aloof at the moment.

  She wrinkles her nose my way. “Oh, hon, they’re going to think you’re a bitch.”

  “Shit. I am aloof,” I’m quick to inform Seth. “I’m practically her best friend at this point, and her sarcasm and nervous energy have been absorbed into my cellular structure by way of osmosis. You can’t expect to put me on a stage with my ex and have me act rational, let alone cute and bubbly. In the event you haven’t noticed, I don’t really give a rip about Facebook likes. I’m not even on Facebook!” Only a partial lie. I have an account, and yet I make it a practice not to visit it.

  Seth tips his face up a notch. “You’re on in twenty minutes. We need you in hair and makeup and miked up. Don’t worry”—he offers an irritatingly friendly grin—“something tells me you’re going to be the star of the night. Studies show that people in general are likely to sympathize with women when it comes to a heterosexual breakup. You and your ovaries have got this in the bag.” He gives a sly wink and takes off.

  “Did he just say that?” I marvel with my jaw rooted to the floor.

  “I believe he did.”

  Sophie helps me navigate my way to hair and makeup just before a couple of beefy dudes from stage crew get ahold of me and shove a wire down my cleavage. Hey? Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. I get to tell off Lane, and I get felt up by a couple of cute frat boys working as crew? I haven’t had this much action in months.

  And before I know it, Sophie is replaced with Seth, and he’s marching me through the dark bowels behind Finley Hall until we come upon a pinhole of light. He marches me straight to the edge of the stage, and I glance down at my peep toe heels as my heart thunders inside me like a rushing stampede. My God, what have I done? Who the hell has taken over my body? The real me would never have let things get this far. The real me would have left Colorado by now.

  The emcee strums along with his monologue, and I can’t keep up with the words. The world in general seems to be spinning a bit too fast.

  “And you’re on. Take a seat at the table.” Seth gives me a shove onto the stage, and the wash of a powerfully bright light pours over me with its warmth igniting my body to bathe itself in sweat. I glance to the crowd, and a sea of darkness takes over, causing me to squint.

  “Let’s give Violet Hathaway a warm welcome as she takes a seat,” the invisible emcee bleats it out, deep and knowing, as if it were the very voice of God. “Thank you for joining us this evening, Violet.” The room erupts into polite applause as I force my feet to wobble their way to the tiny table sitting at the front of the stage. There are seats situated on either side of it. Lane and I will face one another and not the crowd. I don’t know which I would prefer at this point—staring at the white haze of blurred faces or the crisp, sharp, unfairly handsome face of my ex. I take a seat on the cold metal chair and give a nervous glance to the audience, wincing as I struggle to see past the blinding
lights pointed in my direction. That old seventies song, “I Got You Babe,” cues up over the speakers, and my mouth falls open as I’m caught momentarily off guard.

  That’s right. They asked if we had a song.

  My stomach churns with anger. I feel so dirty and used I could flip a table—this one would be nice. The song was a joke, sort of. We said we couldn’t be official without a song and, sure enough, this came on over the radio. It was sarcastic, but it was our song and I’ve cried a million tears while listening to it ever since. I sniff back unexpected tears and gird myself for the oncoming onslaught of emotions. I will thoroughly punish myself for this misadventure by running up every credit card my father gave me once we’re through. A little retail therapy is the only thing I can think of to ward off the real kind that I’ll need sooner than later administered by a team of psychiatric professionals.

  “And let’s welcome Lane Cooper to the stage as well.” An equally dull round of applause goes off. Only this time it’s punctuated by the woo-hoo of an enthused group of girls. I can’t blame them. He is a looker.

  Lane shocks me with his presence. He’s donned a suit, along with that somber, brooding look on his face he’s famous for as he strides this way. He takes a seat across from me, and his knee bumps against mine a moment, sending a powerful electrical jolt straight to my heart. His dark hair is neatly slicked back, those pale eyes are set on mine, while his mouth is set in a scowl. Lane looks positively, vexingly gorgeous, and that silly part of me that still reacts viscerally at the sight of him melts like candle wax. It’s only then I notice the box of tissues sitting on the edge of the table, insinuating there will be tears, or bloodshed—both if I have my way.

  “Hello, Vi.” His warm voice transcends our spatial boundary and floats through this enormous hall like a ghost from yesteryear, and my heart tries its best to riot from my chest. I can’t help it. Lane has always made my heart go pitter-patter.