Psyched (Taboo 101 #2)
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Havana Scott. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher.
ALIENHEAD PRESS, LLC
Miami, FL 33196
Havana Scott Books is an imprint of Alienhead Press, LLC.
Visit our website at www.HavanaScottBooks.com.
Edited by Gaby Triana
Proofed by Bette Bourgeois
Cover design by Curtis Sponsler
ASIN B01F1GDAKE
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition June 2017
1 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Alienhead Press
PSYCHED
A Taboo 101 Novel
By Havana Scott
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Copyright
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Author Links
Coming Soon
More by Havana Scott
by Gaby Triana
1
ALICE
“Who’s your favorite Doctor?” Jilly knows there’s only one correct answer, yet every time she gets tipsy, she asks the same question all over again.
Gunther slams back half his beer. “Everybody knows it’s Tom Baker.” He rings his meaty arm around my best friend’s skinny shoulders, all proud of his purist answer.
Jilly giggles but knocks Gunther’s arm off. “I’m talking about the new seasons, the cool era of Doctor Who, not the sixties’ show. That’s a whole separate category.”
“You can’t do separate categories. The franchise is one entity. And cool?” Gunther surveys the bar-scape for more drunk girls he’ll never hit on. “There are no cool Doctors. By definition, all Doctor Whos are two-hearted, dorkily-dressed time lords. Everything about the show is nerdy.” He scoffs, and I get a whiff of his beer breath.
I’m so glad I ended things with him when I did.
After one night. No need to disillusion the man.
“Says the nerd who knows all about it?” Jilly looks to me for support, but I’m distracted. After the argument in class today with Aaron, my lab partner, Professor Eckler gave me a B, and I’ve been in a shit mood all day because of it.
I can’t get a B—I just can’t.
Quietly, I sip my fake-ID-acquired beer.
“Honestly, most Doctors suck. Tom Baker was the only good one.” Gunther side-eyes me.
I know he’s trying to get my attention by slamming my favorite BBC show. Gunther’s been hoping I’ll give him another go, but sex between us will never happen again. Once was enough. Sure, we’re still friends but only because female engineering students need all the support we can get, especially from our male counterparts.
Jilly won’t let it go. “You only say that because he’s the old school choice,” she says.
“You mean the intelligent choice?” Gunther smiles smugly behind the lip of his glass.
Normally, I’d jump into this conversation, but my B in robotics lab this morning has put my GPA in jeopardy. How Aaron and I even got into the argument over why there aren’t more women engineers in the field, I have no fucking clue. I said it was a choice, because most women don’t want to deal with the pressure in a male-dominated field, whereas Aaron just had to insist it was because they couldn’t cut it.
I need a stress reliever like I need a do-over of today’s events.
“Let me guess…” Gunther polishes off the rest of his beer. “You think David Tennant was the best, because he was the most human and romantic. Am I right?”
“Mayyybe,” Jilly says. “But I’ll reveal after Alice does. Ask Alice her favorite.”
“Who’s your favorite time lord, Alice?” Gunther asks.
Jilly smiles from behind him, waiting. She knows my choice is the least popular.
But Alice is not available to pick up her call. Because Alice’s eyes have just landed on the sexiest thing Alice’s eyeballs have ever seen, and Alice’s heart suddenly pounds with the fury of a Doctor Who episode opener—speeding wormhole, sci-fi music, swirling colors, and all.
There—walking into the crowded bar alone, scanning the sea of drunk undergrads at Taco Paco, nabbing the attention of every female in the joint is…a man. Not a boy-child, not a nerdy engineering classmate, not a fraternity bro-mate-dude taking advantage of tonight’s $2 pitchers.
No.
A real man.
Thirty-something, wearing a pressed black shirt opened at the top revealing a strong, wide chest. Sleeves rolled up. Dark, short hair on the sides, long on top. An expensive watch. Thick forearms. Thighs that regularly see the gym in pants that fit just right. A man. He knows things. He’s seen things. He orders his drink—an amber elixir over ice—and I half-expect him to break into a Magic Mike routine.
Stubbled cheeks, check.
Dangerously full lips, check.
Hot glasses I want to rip off and throw aside, as I splay my hands across his bare chest and ride him hard…check.
“Alice?”
“Hmm?”
“Your favorite Doctor?” Jilly’s eyebrows prompt me.
Is it hot in here?
Gunther smirks. He’s spotted the same man I’m staring at.
“You guys know my favorite.” I tip back my bottle, eyes still riveted on my obsession.
What is a man like that doing in a place like this? Did he get lost looking for the artisan steak and craft beer place across the street?
“Matt Smith?” Gunther guesses. “You like the whole bowtie thing. No, wait, I got it—Capaldi. Yeah, Capaldi. You’ve always had a thing for older men.” He couldn’t be more correct, though I have no idea how he knew that.
What amazes me the most about this moment is how no women are approaching Mystery Man. Maybe they’re too stunned to, or they assume he’s with someone, or they’re all half-expecting the same Magic Mike moves I am, because he’s too good to be true.
Then…his eyes rake across me in slow motion before glancing into his glass, and something takes control of me at that very moment. It could be the effects of the beer. Or my stress. Most likely, it’s sheer stupidity. But I stalk off through the crowd before Jilly or Gunther can ask where I’m off to.
“What’s wrong with her?” Jilly mumbles.
What’s wrong with me is that I’m over this day. I’m over my engineering peers discussing the same TV shows, movies, and media all the time. I’m over the pressure. I’m over my male peers who’ve never had sex, who are always hitting on the same four women—me included. I’m over being the daughter of Robert B. Verano, Supervisor of Operations at Tesla, who expects me to land an internship after graduation and join him in ranks of world-dominating robotics engineers.
I need to go home with a perfect stranger.
Weaving through the crowd, I try not to think about what I’m doing or why. I’m not in the habit of hunting down
men I find attractive. I’m glad I scheduled a therapy session for Monday morning with the college’s on-site therapist, because I can’t go another day without unloading my brain.
I hang a left then a right, pretending I’m headed toward the ladies’ room, thinking about what I’m going to say when I actually arrive in front of him. But then, disaster strikes—a tall, gorgeous gazelle blocks my path, and my courage fizzles like flat soda. I have no choice but to stumble into a stocky frat guy to my left.
“You look familiar,” I hear the girl say to Mystery Man.
“Do I? I’m waiting for a buddy, but I guess he couldn’t make it.” Mystery Man’s voice is smooth, sweet, and sinful, like caramel sex. I could eat many, many cartons of caramel sex. He notices me standing nearby awkwardly and tries to get a good look around the slinky gazelle.
Like a klutz, I stumble over the frat guy’s feet, and suddenly, two arms shoot out to prevent me from falling—one belonging to the stocky guy on my left, and one belonging to Mystery Man. Frat guy’s beer wobbles, spilling onto the hot girl’s shoulder, and she shrieks. “Oh, my God! Seriously?”
“I am so sorry.” He throws drink napkins onto her shoulder, but she swats his napkins away and runs off in the direction of the restroom.
Mystery Man’s sexy, thick hand is still on my arm, searing a hole through it. “Oh, hey. You okay?”
“I’m good.” I turn to the frat guy. “Thank you. Wow, I really ought to look where I’m going.” I breathe through a smile and turn back to Mystery Man, taking in his unreal features. Green eyes penetrate my soul. Caramel voice penetrates my panties. Holy shit.
“No worries. I like your shirt.” His gaze drops to my chest then back up again. “I’ve always wanted my own TARDIS.”
I look down at what I wore. Yep, my Doctor Who shirt from ThinkGeek. If I didn’t feel self-consciously nerdy before, well, I do now. “Ah, thanks. I was moping alone at home when my friends forced me out for a beer.”
Why am I explaining this to a total stranger?
“Why were you moping?” He swivels in his stool to give me his full attention, and holy balls of hotness, can this man make me feel buck naked, unworthy of his presence, and swoony all at the same time.
I hug myself and glance away. “No reason. Just life…things…stuff.”
“I see. Do you want to sit?” He stands, offering me his seat, seeing as there are no others open.
“Oh, uh…” Yes, Alice. Take the fucking seat. The gods have given you a reprieve. “Thanks, that’s sweet of you.”
“So, life…things…stuff?” He stands feet apart, facing me, sipping his amber drink.
“Yeah, it’s just…it’s too complicated,” I say. “My whole life is, actually.”
“I get it. Trust me.”
Suddenly, I’m grateful to have a beer bottle in my hand, something to hold onto while this sexy man analyzes me from head to toe. He seems to get the point that I don’t want to talk about it. Not with him anyway. I’m ashamed to admit this, because I can count the number of guys I’ve had sex with on three fingers, but tonight, I only want him for one thing.
And it’s not conversation.
Just do it, Alice. Be bold. Lean in and ask him if wants to go home with you before the gazelle comes back. My mouth opens slightly, as my heart pounds, but then…
“So, who’s your favorite Doctor?” He glances down at my shirt again. “Wait, let me guess—”
“The ninth,” we both say at the same time.
What? My mouth drops open, as his crystal clear eyes widen. Then, the smile comes. Not the polite one you use when you first meet someone, but the one that shows you what a person’s soul is like.
I wait for air to reenter my lungs. “Are you serious? I’ve never met a single person who agrees with me on this! Not even my best friend who watches the show with me.” Jilly’s favorite is actually David Tennant, the tenth Doctor, like Gunther guessed.
“There’s no question,” he says. “Christopher Eccleston revived the entire franchise.”
“Single-handedly!” I agree, falling into his gold-green eyes and that dimpled smile. “He was given the task of convincing a new generation that Doctor Who was still worth watching, and he did it.”
“While wearing jeans and a leather jacket.” He nods whole-heartedly.
A stupid grin spreads across my face. “A man after my own heart.” I don’t know if it’s me, the beer, the stress, or because I can almost hear his heartbeat and mine in perfect synch, but my hand touches down on his knee.
A moment later, his warm hand covers mine.
We look down at the two hands, one—mine—slightly paler than the other.
“Roman,” he says.
“Blondie.”
I love his name—Roman—though I don’t want him knowing mine. The truth only muddles, confuses, makes things harder to figure out. There’s nothing logical about words, so open to interpretation as they are. But his touch, his stare on me, his pulse beating in his neck, all clear physical signs that he feels this connection, too, are all I need to know.
I don’t care who he is or why he’s here like a fish out of water.
I don’t want to get to know him more.
I don’t want his phone number.
I only know that he’ll do. Perfectly.
“Hey. I hope you don’t mind me asking this… I’ve never done this before, but uh… Do you want to get out of here?” I hear my shaky voice. My words sound like they’re coming from someone else. It’s the boldest thing I’ve ever said.
Roman stares at me, considering, like I’ve thrown a quandary into his lap.
Like it’s going to self-destruct in three seconds and he’s going to live or die.
What is he thinking? Is he going to say no? That would be so mortifying! To make things worse, here comes the long-legged gazelle back from the bathroom, pausing in disbelief when she sees who he’s talking to.
That’s right—not you.
Behold the power of the TARDIS T-shirt, girly.
Slowly, Roman cleans his glasses on his shirt while I bite my lip, anxiously awaiting his reply. Sliding them back onto his face, he finishes the rest of his drink. Hand on hip, cuffed sleeve, angled jaw. Pheromones blast off of me like the fucking Bat-Signal. Because I need saving tonight, and he’s my hero.
“Absolutely.”
2
ROMAN
Fuck. I should’ve said no.
Six years ago, before I met my ex-wife, I “fraternized” with a female undergrad. A little inappropriate flirting, but nothing physical. Still, it was hard to shake her. She thought she was in love with me, told her dean that I turned her down, and I promptly got a warning from the college. I’ve managed to stay away from undergrads since, but it’s been hard to live my reputation down. The damn thing is bigger than me.
So, what is it about this girl? Why did I just agree to leaving with her? Besides the fact that she’s gorgeous in that clueless way and because she gave me a code name—Blondie. It means, “I have a real name but don’t want you to know it.” It also means she’s not going to get attached. That makes her perfect.
I don’t know her real name or why she’s so desperate to get out of here, but I could use a fun night after working my ass off these last weeks. Besides, she loves Doctor Who. The Ninth Doctor, to be precise. How many of the Dr. Lee fangirls who sit in my office claiming to need therapy from me can say the same? That makes her cool as hell in my book.
In my car, I take the curves slowly, same way I want to take hers. I only have one question. “How old are you?” I glance at her in the darkness.
“Twenty-one next month.”
“And yet, you were drinking at a bar.” I smile.
A grin escapes her. She shakes her head. “No comment.”
Working at the university, things get tricky with making sure the women I go home with aren’t my clients, my students, or too young. Twenty is on the young side. But I loved how Blondie orchestrated the t
akedown of the hot brunette who first started talking to me. Besides, she’s clearly fighting something today, and I have to admit, I want to know what it is.
Since she has a roommate at her campus apartment, we opt for my place.
“Are you okay? Do you want me to turn the radio off or the A/C higher?” These aren’t the kinds of questions I want to ask her, but she doesn’t seem to want to talk much.
“I’m good. It’s all good.” She smiles nervously then begins texting.
“Hey, listen, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want,” I say to her. “Maybe the beer made you do it and now you’re regretting it.” I laugh softly to show her it’s okay. She really doesn’t have to follow through.
“Oh, I’m just…I’m letting my friends know I left with you, and I’m okay. Please don’t be a murderer.” She snorts once then takes a deep breath. “I’ve never done this.”
“Blondie, I’m nowhere near. I actually wasn’t looking to go with anyone tonight. I only went in to meet a buddy of mine, except he never showed up, and—”
She holds up a hand. “That’s…I don’t want personal details. Sorry, not trying to be cold. I’ve just…I’ve got a lot on my mind.” Biting her lip, she glances away.
“Perfectly fine.”
Wow. She really is a perfect candidate. With that piled-on stress and determination on her part, her explosions are sure to be felt for miles around. We can still turn this weird night into something amazing. She’s got great lips and blue eyes that seem too big for her heart-shaped face. And those full tits in that thin TARDIS T-shirt…damn. I’m going to have a great time sucking on them.
The darkness of the road ahead feels blacker than usual, like I’m driving down unknown territory when nothing could be further from the truth. I did this plenty of times before I met Bridget, my ex-wife, and I’ve done it plenty of times since we split. Never while with her, though I think, toward the end, she never believed me. Still, the less I know about my hookups, the better. And Blondie is a psychologist’s dream come true. After spending all my work hours getting to know too much about people, sometimes it’s best to have a great night, thank each other, and be out of each other’s way.