by Lia Riley
“California!” Jazza appears beside me. I turn at the exact moment he leans in for a cheek peck and give him a mouthful of nose. That’s how I roll. Not at all uncomfortable.
“A table’s free in the back.” He recovers nicely and nods to a shadowy corner. I resist stiffening when his gaze rakes my too-short dress. This is what I want, right?
We’ve just taken our seats when a familiar shaggy body saunters through the throng. I clutch the edge of the table. Intense heat flares in the pit of my stomach even as my shoulder blades slam together. What’s he doing here?
It’s the jujitsu koala.
Chapter Three
Talia
The koala has his mask tucked under one arm; dark hair half cloaks a clenched jaw. My thoughts scatter like fresh-shot marbles. Never expected a grown man in an animal suit would be quite so easy on the eyes.
“No bloody way.” Jazza tips back his chair and throws up an arm. His barrel-like biceps flex. “Bran, over here, ya dirty dog.”
“Wait, this guy’s a friend of yours?” I hiss as the koala saunters in our direction, radiating arrogance despite his ridiculous suit.
“Yeah.” Jazza’s sideways glance is curious. “We go way back.”
“Hey, pisshead.” The koala stops before us, giving Jazza a curt nod. The guy’s cat-eyed gaze arcs from my date’s cheerful face to me.
An invisible blow strikes me bone deep. The ache radiates from between my pressed kneecaps, through my femurs, settling inside my pelvis with an intense throb. It’s like I’ve been clipped by a city bus, but in a good way. He’s not as generically handsome as Jazza, but his unflinching features are more interesting. My optic nerves register the slashing brows, bold nose, and a paradoxical mouth that wavers between ironic and vulnerable, but that’s not what has my breath quickening like I’m at the end of a mile-long sprint. Who’d have imagined such soulful eyes lurked beneath the disturbing koala leer? He frowns and his next blink seems to last a fraction longer than necessary.
“Grab a seat, bro. Check that getup. You’re sweating like a pregnant nun in confession.” Jazza drags his chair close to mine and drapes an arm casually behind my shoulders. “Talia, meet Bran Lockhart. Bran, this is…uh, Talia. She’s from California. Cool, hey?”
I want to shake Jazza off, deny the Cro-Magnon possessive gesture, but that would create a scene. I hate scenes.
“You’re an American.” Bran’s tone implies this fact amuses him for some reason. Despite his flushed features, he doesn’t appear to have sustained serious injury. He lounges back, one leg bent casually at the knee. While the two guys exchange quick banter, I count in my head, fast as I can, until my breathing slows.
He keeps staring at me, giving nothing away. The ambiguity is unsettling.
“How was your nap?” I’m flustered, so the words come out snarkier than intended. Still, we didn’t exactly part on excellent terms.
“Plagued by dreams about Good Samaritans.” Bran’s lips crook in the corners.
I narrow my eyes, and his cocky smile intensifies in response.
“Hold up, so you two know each other?” Jazza’s befuddled gaze bounces between us like a Ping-Pong ball.
“Not exactly.” I trace a star in my pint glass’s condensation. “We—”
“Met each other once, briefly.” Bran props the koala head beside the table and wipes his brow. I swear he purposely angles the face toward me so that I’m right in its creepy sights.
Discussing the universe’s most ridiculous fight is off-limits? O-kay. I arch one of my brows at him, a talent at which I’m exceedingly proud.
And am totally ignored.
“Yo, bro,” Jazza breaks the long silence. “Still going hard for the greenies?”
“What’s a greenie?” I’m out with a guy who says “Yo, bro.” The idea hurts my heart.
Jazza clasps my bared thigh, higher than appropriate for a not-a-date. “My man Bran here works for the Wilderness League. Gonna save the world, hey?”
“Just doing my bit.” Bran’s gaze drops to Jazza’s handsy move with a heavy-lidded watchfulness that makes my stomach leap. “Today we’re holding a city-wide collection drive, raising money for a new campaign.”
I cross and recross my legs, casually deflecting Jazza’s sweaty palm. “So, the koala suit’s like a uniform?”
“Like, yeah.” Bran’s Valley girl accent is everything mocking.
I take a deep breath and force a sweet smile. He seems the type to kill with kindness. “And here I thought you were a furry.”
He chokes on his drink and this time my grin’s 100 percent natural. All the points to me.
“Hold up.” Jazza is confuzzled. “A furry? What’s that?”
Bran and I exchange glances. “So,” I say, “you want to enlighten him?”
“No, no, be my guest.” He makes an exaggerated courteous hand gesture.
“A furry is a person who dresses in an animal suit, like mascots or whatever, and you know, gets off in them.”
“Wait…” The dawning look of realization on Jazza’s face is priceless. “People root each other in animal suits?”
“Technically more like dry humping,” I deadpan. “It’s called yiffing; think it refers to the sound foxes make when mating.”
Bran’s laughter is deep, rowdy, and surprisingly infectious.
Whoa—hello. Dimples? That’s my weakness. My mouth dries, makes it hard to swallow. For a second he looks like a naughty boy, and my fingers twitch with the urge to muss his hair.
“How do you know about these freaks?” Jazza eyeballs me like I’m a sexual deviant, and he can’t decide if that’s a good thing.
“Google.” I smother a grin. This evening has turned out nothing like I expected, and yet, somehow so much better. Hanging out, tossing around sass is fun. I can almost recognize my old self.
“That’s some strange shit.” Jazza stands and cracks his neck. “I’m gonna grab another round.”
Bran regards me for a long moment. His irises are dark green, devoid of any mottling browns or hazel, like a jungle’s underbrush, intriguing, but likely dangerous. At last, he speaks. “You enjoy scandalizing innocent minds?”
“I seriously doubt your friend’s a pure little snowflake.”
His infuriating grunt could be interpreted a hundred different ways. “He’s a bit slow on the uptake.” He bangs out a staccato rhythm on the scratched table. “So, you two? How long’s that been going on?”
I shake my head harder than needed. “There’s no me and Jazza.”
“He clearly digs you.” A small groove appears between his brows.
“He’s a total hornball. It’s not me, specifically, but me, in a general sense. I mean, look, when we first met, he hit on my friend Marti. She’s way cuter, but bats for my team, if you get my meaning.”
Stop babbling.
“I doubt that.”
I tilt my head, confused by the pushback. “Trust me. I’ve endured salacious tales about her and this one coffee shop girl, so—”
“No. I mean…I doubt she’s cuter than you.” His voice lowers in pitch and when he briefly worries his lower lip, the flash of his teeth, his tongue, gives me an odd jolt of intimacy.
“I…wait, are you getting flirty?” The unfiltered words zoom from my mouth before I can slam the brakes.
“No! Jesus, of course not.” He stares at me like I’m a total idiot. Which I am. “But I’m not blind either.” He takes a slow sip of beer. “Jazza’s a good guy.” That tone isn’t going to win any enthusiasm awards.
“Yeah, he’s great,” I mutter.
Bran’s hands fiddle with a coaster and are oddly fascinating. Must be some primal instincts at work here. Just a couple of minutes ago, he face-punched a man on the street. My DNA is logically programmed to be attracted to a guy who could defend me from saber-toothed tigers. That’s all that’s happening here. “Why didn’t you want me to mention the fight outside?”
“Don’t need to alert my mate
s to the fact that I got my ass kicked by a fat forty-plus titan of industry.”
“You hung in there,” I answered. “The guy fought dirty.”
“Suits always fight dirty,” he states, too quickly. “I was collecting donations outside his office, an international mining company. They’re lobbying to put an open cut iron-ore mine square in the middle of pristine cool-temperate rain forest. The dude told me to shove off. We exchanged words. End of story.”
“You swapped a lot more than words.”
Jazza reappears, balancing a tray with three fresh beers and a steaming bowl of thick wedge-cut fries. “Who’s keen for chips?”
We all dig in and munch for a minute.
Bran’s gaze locks on me, his expression speculative.
I tense, press my knees together. “Can I help you?”
“What’s with the twos?”
I freeze. “The huh?”
“Twos.” He points at the bowl. “You pick up two each time.”
“That’s crazy.” My molars set on edge. Is he for real? He can’t have seen that. It’s impossible. No one has ever noticed. It’s like I’m suddenly naked.
Jazza chuckles to himself, engrossed in a marathon texting session.
“Go on, then.” Bran slowly pops a fry in his mouth and chews, fingers steepled like a comic book villain. “Prove me wrong. Take one.”
“I refuse to humor you.” My voice struggles to stay light. I can’t take one, or three. Only two. Otherwise something bad might happen. Yes, it’s irrational. No, I can’t stop. I’ve tried so hard to hide these compulsions, but maybe it’s obvious to everyone. The thought makes my mouth taste sour.
“Consider it a dare.”
I suck in my cheeks. “What are you, like five years old?”
“Twenty-three.” He shoots me a lazy smile that would be totally hot if I didn’t want to strangle him for shining a spotlight on my rituals.
“Knock it off,” I whisper.
“Huh?” Jazza looks up.
Bran pushes the bowl in my direction. “Nothing.”
“Not hungry.” I smooth my eyebrow, a gesture that helps calm me down. “Hey, who wants to get their ass kicked at pool?” My mom’s not the only conversational ninja in our family.
I teach the guys Cutthroat, where we are each assigned a set of numbered balls. “So,” I conclude the brief tutorial, “the mission is to be the last player with at least one ball remaining on the table.”
Bran leans back, one foot propped against the wall. “A player’s turn continues so long as he can knock a ball in with each shot?”
“Yep.”
“I can knock a ball in.” Jazza guffaws.
“Ladies first,” I say, neatly sending one straight into the pocket. I can’t walk and chew gum, but I can play pool. Go figure.
“Ripper,” Jazza says with an admiring wink.
Five minutes later they’re frowning as I own the table.
“Nice superpowers, Captain America.” Bran bends to adjust his belt. He shed his koala suit right after the game heated up. He wears a pair of well-worn jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt with a picture of a unicorn and the words I BELIEVE. I’d have teased his hipster garb but the lean cords of muscle running up his forearms distract me.
Bran isn’t crazy muscular like Jazza, but his wiry body holds its own appeal. Too bad he’s determined to be a self-righteous ass.
There are only two pool sticks. When I finally scratch during the second game and pass mine to Bran, our fingers slide against each other. He smells like nothing special and yet everything amazing, a combination of plain soap and an indistinct but manly musk, unforced and natural. Our sudden proximity sends blood racing around my heart in a confused eddy. This guy has me on high alert, and that’s dangerous for someone with OCD. Not good to be amped up. Makes the crazy flair.
My not-a-date is a far safer choice, although it’s hard to pretend Jazza’s charming while he ogles my boobs. Caught out, he flashes what is obviously intended to be a winning grin. “So, you’re liking Australia?”
I know the guy’s trying hard, but enduring his conversation is the equivalent to receiving a paper cut to the eyeball. I suffer from smalltalkaphobia.
“Yeah, Melbourne’s great. I needed to get away for a while. So far so good. Can’t stop playing with the light switches. They work opposite to the ones back home. Pretty neat.”
Neat? Jazza’s going to know I’m humoring him.
“Yeah, neat.” He reveals a mouthful of perfect teeth.
Or not.
“What did you want to get away from?” Bran asks.
I must be getting drunk because his focused attention is enthralling. I fiddle with my hair and freeze when I realize he’s doing the same. Oh God, am I unconsciously mimicking his actions?
My smile wavers. “It’s a sad story.”
“Captain America has a sad story?” Two lines bracket his mouth as he snorts. “What’s the tragedy, your parents never took you to Disneyland?”
Who’s he to pass judgment? My fists involuntarily clench. Bran is obnoxious. I should let it go. Feign calm. Not give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his well-timed jackassery jars me.
“Aw, poor California.” Jazza’s all up in my personal space and heavy on the beer breath. “I’ll be your shoulder to lean on. Who wants another round?”
“Me,” Bran and I say at the same time.
“I’m on it.” Jazza pushes back his chair and struts to the bar.
In the quiet second that follows, Bran and I lock eyes. There are five thousand acceptable comments to make, a wry aside about the music or a jokey comment acknowledging the bartender’s spectacular mullet. Instead, his gaze disorients me and I blurt, “I’m not graduating when I get home.”
Damn, it’s like he compelled me. It’s not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. Still, it’s a whole lot more than I’m used to sharing.
Bran frowns. His eyes hood, and even though his posture grows deceptively lazy, I sense it’s an act. A trick to make me drop my guard. “That’s it. Nothing else?”
I grab my beer and drink deep. Best way to shut myself up before I start sharing how my sister never woke up from a coma or that I slept with her grief-stricken boyfriend. Don’t forget Mom leaving. Or when I started to believe I was dying, like all the time.
Bran’s not interested in my jugular; he goes straight for the soul. Tonight was shaping up to be fun, carefree, and easy. But I forgot. Nothing is ever easy for me.
“My transcript’s screwed,” I say at last. “That’s a big deal. Huge. My dad will commit late-term infanticide when he finds out and I can kiss any decent grad school, or shot at the Peace Corps, good-bye.”
Bran’s expression turns strangely tight. “Yeah, well, shit happens, Captain.” He lifts his glass in salute. “To the grisly past.”
“Are you making fun of me?” I can’t believe this guy. He’s got all the delicacy of a thorn to a blister.
Bran raises his brows in exaggerated innocence. “Of course not.”
“You are. You’re doing it now.”
“You doubt my sincerity?” He rests a mocking hand against his chest.
“With all my heart.”
He shrugs and mutters something under his breath.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” His lips compress. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Go on.” I lean into my words.
“Drama.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Drama?”
“Dra-ma.” Bran draws the two syllables out. “Girls say they hate it, but really they can’t get enough.”
“Hardly,” I mutter under my breath. Bran’s like an itchy rash—contact dermatitis. My chin trembles as I stand. I don’t want to be here anymore. This guy sees too much, sniffs out my weaknesses like a bloodhound, and I can’t take it another second. Thoughts of Pippa, my mom, that fucked-up night under the pier crowd my mind. So much for Australia being an escape.
What a joke. There’s no escaping the truth or my defective brain.
Jazza returns with another round. “Going to the ladies?”
My smile is tight, the carefree, relaxed feeling from earlier nothing but a distant memory. “Sorry, I just got super tired. I’m going to head out.”
Jazza glances at another girl walking past. “Need me to take you back to uni?”
“That’s okay.” I hug my chest. He’s ready to move on, and so am I. This night is a bust. “The streets are busy. I’ll be fine.”
“All right, girl, catch you later.” His phone rings and he answers, laughing loudly.
I ignore Bran and plow through the drunk-ass crowd. When I get outside, I take a deep breath and reach for a positive affirmation.
Everything is absolutely okay.
Fuck, it’s so not. Instead of playing cool, I totally lost my shit. I’ve alternated between sleepwalking and counterfeit smiles for so long that lying is my new normal. Nothing prepared me for my reaction to Bran. Why does it take a rude jackass to flick an honesty switch inside me?
Because he noticed more about me in an hour than my closest friends have in two years.
Stupid, needy, traitor brain.
Someone grabs my elbow and I whirl around. “What the—”
“I was a dick, okay?”
Air whooshes from the atmosphere. Bran’s penetrating eyes have me on lockdown. I’m five foot six and he’s got maybe another three inches on me—barely. Normally I like my guys taller, but no one’s ever knocked me out with such weird magnetic voodoo. For a split second I swear he sees through all my lies and cuts straight to my demolished heart.
“It’s fine.” My accompanying sniffle tells a different story. “Really.”
Bran’s fingers burn my already warm skin and even after he lets go my arm tingles from the memory of his touch.
“Right.” His wide mouth jerks into a bitter smile. “You’re fine. I’m fine. We’re both fan-bloody-tastic.” He forks a hand through his hair. “’Night, Captain. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Wait a second.” I break free of my own head and peer into his face. Intensity and desperation etch his features. He shifts his gaze to a crumbled candy bar wrapper on the concrete.
