by Cora Carmack
And I get caught.
Not just once.
Like four times! I should have learned my lesson after the first, maybe the second, but now I have officially crossed over into creepy territory.
It takes talent to be a gawking hot mess, and I am a gawking hot mess to the third power. I jerk my eyes away again, a billion years too late to retain my dignity. He’s sitting right next to the keg, though, so I have to look back his way a few seconds later or risk adding frat-boy face-plant to my list of special skills.
This time his lips join the smile in his eyes, and my heart picks up its tempo.
He did have to keep looking at me in order to catch me. So maybe he doesn’t mind that I’m staring.
And maybe Stella was right about this particular stamp.
While she fills up a cup, I try to look casual. I never know exactly how to hold my arms or how far to cock my hip. The dancer in me doesn’t feel comfortable unless my posture is perfect, but that makes me stick out like a sore thumb in a sea of slouchy college kids.
My hands are floppy, dead fish. Or that’s what they feel like anyway as I try to arrange them in a way that doesn’t make me look like a mental patient. While I’m still trying to figure it out, a red cup enters my vision.
I follow a muscular arm up to that pair of smiling eyes.
“Pretty girls shouldn’t have to wait in line.”
I eye the half-full cup, then manage a casual shrug.
“I’ll wait. Thanks.”
Nothing about Stella’s stamp says I have to do something as stupid as take a drink from a stranger, no matter how good looking he is.
Stella moves aside, but not before waggling her perfectly sculpted eyebrows at me. Gawk-worthy guy slides down off the counter as I step up to the keg.
“You don’t trust me?” he asks.
This time I catch him staring at my legs, and how not covered they are by the outrageously short skirt Stella picked out for me.
“I don’t know you,” I reply, trying to sound at least a little stern and failing.
He smiles unabashedly and glances one more time at my legs. I only agreed to the stupid skirt because it has pockets, and I cannot resist a skirt with pockets.
Now I wish I had tried a little harder.
“So get to know me,” he replies.
God, do they make WD-40 for flirting? Because I am rusty. Not enough practice thanks to four years of high school with an overbearing dad as the football coach. Then again, this guy is scary gorgeous, so he would make me nervous no matter how much practice I had.
I hold out my hand and say, “I’m Dallas.”
He eyes my proffered hand, and I know I’ve made a mistake. Laughing, he takes my hand and bends to kiss it in a princely bow, and I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me or not.
“Dallas and Silas,” he murmurs, his lips still close enough to my hand that I feel his breath skate across my skin. “Sounds like fate to me.”
No one has ever been so audaciously flirtatious with me in my entire life, and it muddles my brain.
“Nice to meet you, Silas.”
I am thinking about how it will be impossible for us to have a couple nickname if we get together because every combination ends up just being one of our names when he laughs.
He moves closer to me, and instinctively I take a tiny step back.
“You’re never going to get to know me like that. Come on.”
He lays an arm across my shoulder, hooking me closer to his side, and starts leading me out of the kitchen.
“Wait. My friend.”
“She’ll be fine.”
I’m not worried about her.
“He’s right!” Stella calls behind me. “I am fine,” she announces to a group of three guys that she’s already managed to ensnare. Good God, it’s like she’s found her natural habitat. I envy her confidence.
I envy a lot of things about Stella.
He pulls me toward the living room, and I automatically fall into step with the rhythm of the music. But when I see the room packed full of grinding bodies and decorated with wandering hands, I panic. It’s not that I’m incapable of dancing like that. My tastes run more toward ballet, lyrical, and jazz, but I’ve taken a few years of hip-hop.
It’s not the movement that intimidates me. I can roll my hips with the best of them. It’s the intimacy I can’t handle. There are no secrets when your body is that close to another. Hell, it took me close to a year before I could comfortably press up against Levi that way.
Fat lot of good all that caution did me.
As much as I get annoyed with the way my father affects my love life, a really small part of me is glad to have him as an excuse to not get too close. As an excuse not to get hurt again.
“Bathroom,” I blurt out, grasping for another excuse. “I, uh, need to use the ladies’ room.” I thought ladies’ room might sound less embarrassing.
Wrong on all counts.
He gives me that look again like I’m behaving like the grandma who I apparently stole my personality from.
I cough and add, “Bathroom,” once more, like that somehow might clear the air of all the terrible, but yeah . . . this place is officially polluted. He raises an eyebrow, and I wait for him to ditch me because I am clearly the least cool person in this house, counting the dude asleep underneath the table in the foyer currently sucking his thumb.
But my weird doesn’t phase him. It’s a miracle. “Sure, there’s one upstairs, I think. Maybe we can find a quiet place up there to talk, too.”
Oh my Jesus. Make that miraculously scary.
His finger draws little circles on my shoulder, and I concentrate on swallowing down all the irrational excuses that I want to make to run away.
Claiming flesh-eating bacteria to get out of a private conversation might be overkill. Malaria might work, though.
As we climb the stairs together, my heart climbs higher and higher into my throat until it throbs on the back of my tongue. The two girls who’d been all over Levi earlier are still on the stairs, and when they see us coming, they sit up straighter. One fluffs her hair, her gaze darting between Silas and me, and I can see her confusion in her glossy-lipped frown. She stands as we near, petite to the point that she would look twelve years old were it not for the giant rack that has to completely throw off her balance.
“Hey, Silas,” she breathes.
He only nods back, but he smiles while he does it, and she looks grateful for even that little bit of attention.
Dear God, please tell me I don’t look that pathetic. Because I will not be that girl, begging for scraps, no matter how gorgeous the guy is.
Upstairs is surprisingly deserted. Or at least it appears to be. The long hallway of closed doors is probably hiding plenty of things I don’t want to be party to. Discomfort sweeps through me, and I’m grateful when he stops outside a closed door that I hope (oh please, please) is the bathroom.
He gives me another mock bow and says, “All yours, pretty girl.”
I cannot escape into that bathroom fast enough. And maybe (okay, definitely) it’s overkill, but I lock the door as soon as it’s closed.
Get a grip, Dallas.
I suck at the whole meeting new people thing. I’ve had plenty of practice, what with Dad’s propensity to up and move us every few years, but it never gets any easier.
All in all, I just really blow at being a normal human being.
But I am going to start now, damn it.
Note to self: do not use the world blow in front of Silas . . . in any context. It won’t turn out well.
No matter what I have to do, I will not let my dad limit my life here, too.
I don’t look in the mirror as I work to gather my composure. If I do, I know I’ll obsess over my hair—how the deep red color clashes horribly against my no doubt pink cheeks. I can feel the light perspiration above my brow, so my bangs are probably a clumpy, oily mess, too.
Nope. Better to avoid the mirror altogethe
r. Silas didn’t seem to take issue with whatever he saw, so neither should I. Instead, I take a few seconds just to lean against the door and breathe.
By-product of having a coach for a father? A natural gift for mental pep talks.
But now . . . I wasn’t sure which pep talk to give. The familiar be cautious and careful routine? Or take a cue from Stella and treat myself to a live it up talk to get my ass in gear? In the end, I decide on something carefully in the middle. I’ll see what happens with Silas, but I am not staying upstairs with him, and I am not leaving the party with him either.
There. That seems reasonable.
Fun. I need to have some. Stat.
Decided, I open the door quietly, smile situated on my lips, expecting to find Silas waiting, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
Walking back toward the stairs, I see him, hands braced on the railing and talking with someone a few steps down.
“Come on. Give me one hint,” Silas says.
The answering voice is familiar, and immediately I feel sick.
“Dude, it took me years to get in her pants.” Levi. Freaking Levi. “No way I’m giving you an easy in. And no way you’re managing it in one night. She’s an icebox, man.”
I shiver. Like I really have been coated in ice.
Silas chuckles before replying, “Oh ye of little faith.”
“Oh ye of little chance.”
“Whatever,” Silas says. “If she gave it up to high school you, all farm fresh with zero game, she can’t be that tough.”
They talk about me like I am some play to master, a team to beat. I probably matter less to them than their helmets and pads. And, oh yes, I have no doubt now that Silas is on the football team. Levi wouldn’t be hanging out with him if he weren’t.
My heart drums in my ears, and my mouth waters in that way that usually means I’m about to be sick. I don’t scream, even though it would be satisfying. Nor do I pick up the vase on the hallway table and test out how my Angry Birds skills translate to real-life target practice.
Instead, I calmly walk the length of the hallway and escape into an empty bedroom. I breeze past a few twin beds and head straight for the French doors that open up to a balcony on the far side of the room.
Emerging into the surprisingly cool evening air, I close the door behind me, sucking in a lungful of refreshing air.
Then I scream.
Not the shrieky, ear-shattering kind. Lower, more guttural. Like a battle cry.
Gripping the balcony railing, I stand up straighter, like I would if I were standing at the barre in my dance studio, and I let it all out.
Already I feel better.
A few seconds of precious silence passes, filled only by the faint echo of my scream. Then below me a voice calls out, “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you’ve decided against going Greek.”
Down in the yard, highlighted by one of the floodlights affixed to the outside of the house, is another gorgeous guy wearing dark, worn jeans, scuffed boots, and a smirk that oscillates between infuriating and adorable. He’s got dark hair and a delectable touch of scruff along his jaw, and he looks entirely entertained by my mental breakdown.
And all I can think is . . . Dear God, not another one.
Chapter 3
Carson
It’s like she took the scream right out of my throat. I’ve been out here alone, alternating between convincing myself to leave and convincing myself to stay. And here comes this gorgeous girl with a lion’s roar.
She leans over the ledge, her eyes searching until she finds me sprawled at the base of one of the wide oak trees in the yard. I sit up a little straighter under her gaze.
Her pale skin shines a creamy white in the moonlight, and dark red hair frames a heart-shaped face with full, pouty lips. Her eyes narrow on me, or maybe she just squints. After a few seconds of studying me, she offers an unenthusiastic, “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. That was the best thing I’ve seen all night.”
“You can’t have had a very exciting night, then.”
No. No, I hadn’t. I’d tagged along with some other teammates, thinking I needed to make an effort to get to know them off the field. I’d gotten to know them all right. And I was already tired of them. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to walk on to a team like this, it never was. People were nice enough, but none of them took me seriously.
Just a walk-on.
Most people see us as just players for the real athletes to practice against with no real chance of getting any substantial playing time for ourselves. A few are more accepting.
But fitting in isn’t worth spending an hour with those assholes. They aren’t even drunk yet, so I can only imagine how much worse it will get.
I shrug off that frustration and tell the girl, “At least things are looking up now.”
She stiffens, shaking out her hair like a mane. The deep red shines, catching glints from the lights as she moves.
“Listen,” she says, “tonight is not the night to flirt with me.”
I should probably be annoyed by her brusque tone, but I find myself smiling instead.
“Who said I was flirting?”
She scoffs, her fingers curling tighter around the balcony banister.
“You were.”
I grin because, yeah . . . I was. She’s not cocky when she says it either, just matter-of-fact. I find it . . . fascinating.
“It’s not like I stood below the balcony reciting Romeo and Juliet.” Not like I could either. I never managed to finish that when we read it in high school English, and the movie version I watched with guns and gangs got me a big fat F on the exam. She makes a noise, and I can’t tell whether she’s scoffing at me again or laughing.
“Romeo was a tool.”
“Really?” I thought girls lived for that shit.
She crosses her arms over her chest and huffs, “He’s head-over-heels, mopey in love with Rosaline, and then in one night, he flip-flops and decides now he’s in love with Juliet. If he would have just thrown his whiny tool self at another girl, Juliet wouldn’t have died.”
“Well, I can promise I’m not going to suddenly declare my love for you. Satisfied?”
She shrugs, and I assume that’s the only answer I’ll get.
“So was it a Romeo who inspired that scream?”
“Nope. Just the regular kind of asshole.”
She stumbles over the last word, her cheeks pinking prettily, and I get the feeling her blunt honesty doesn’t usually include swear words.
“Well, fuck that guy.” My suspicions are confirmed when her blush deepens, and she pulls that full bottom lip between her teeth. I try to connect this shy piece of her puzzle with the brazen girl who called me on my flirting without blinking.
“Uh . . . yeah,” she replies hesitantly.
I make a mental note to cuss as much as possible to keep that sweet flush on her face. “Don’t let that dick ruin your night.”
I should probably learn to take my own advice. I’m the one hiding in the backyard of a frat house.
“They will not ruin my night.”
They? There’s more than one? Damn.
I start to ask her name, but then someone inside the house shouts out, “Dallas?” and her head whips around in response.
“That him?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes and nods.
“Well then, Dallas. As I see it, you have two options. You can turn around and unleash another of those screams on him, which would be entertaining. Or . . .”
I trail off, debating whether or not to try again considering my crappy flirting record with this girl so far.
“Or what?”
“Or forget about the prick, and hang out with me. I’ll make my best effort not to be an asshole.” She hesitates and I add, “Or a Romeo. Or a tool. Or whatever it is you’re sick of.”
There’s a third option that I don’t add, as appealing as it is. She could introduce me to the dick, and I could introduce him to my fist
and work off some frustration. But that could get me in trouble with Coach, so while effective, it’s off the table.
I am fully prepared for her to say no and lump me in with whatever other guys have pissed her off tonight. Instead, she considers me. Her lips twist, somewhere between pursed and pouty.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” she says.
Surprised, I bark out a laugh and feel the last of the night’s frustration ebb away. She says exactly what she’s thinking, and I love it. I’m shocked by how much I want to keep prodding until I’ve unraveled every little thought that crosses her mind.
“Again with the assumptions,” I say.
“Like you weren’t thinking about it.”
I hadn’t actually gotten that far, but now I’m thinking about it, about how it would be an even better way to work off my frustration than fighting. I bet that flush is just as pretty across her chest as it is across her cheeks. It’s hard to tell from down below her, but she’s tall, maybe just a few inches shorter than me, and her legs go on and on. I imagine them going around and around my hips.
I clear my throat before I can wander too long down that trail of thought. “Thinking about and expecting it are two different things. One makes me a douche-bag, the other just makes me a dude.”
Tempting or not, I don’t have time for that kind of thinking. It was one thing to hook up with girls at Westfield. It didn’t take nearly as much effort to secure my spot on the team or keep up my grades there, but I am on an entirely different playing field here. Literally.
“Dallas!” The guy calls out again, and a light a few rooms down switches on. There’s a shrill scream before the light switches off and a door slams shut, the guy clearly having interrupted something.
Dallas’s face screws up in a laugh, but no sound comes out.
When another room lights up down the hall, she sobers quickly.
