by Sara Ney
She looks at me, eyes darting from me to Aaron and Mason, who are suddenly standing at attention. If possible, the brunette’s mega-watt smile widens. “Well, hello there. Can I help you?”
Head tipped to the side, I regard her critically as she studies the three of us back with open interest, and I can see her trying to place us in her mind. Trying to figure out if she’s seen us before or met us around campus. Or at a party.
No such luck, sweetheart. Today is not your lucky day.
In black yoga pants and a large, baby-blue State sweatshirt, her dark brown hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail. Basically, she looks like the girl next door: fresh faced, normal, and nice.
And did I mention normal? As in not harboring a known stalker.
But as we all know, looks can be deceiving, and those keen brown eyes glowing towards my idiot roommates are no exception. Peeved, I want to shake the shit out of them both for being captivated by this pretty, attractive girl. Captivated by her deceptively innocent face—as if she couldn’t possibly be a mental person. As if there were a scarcity of pretty girls on our own college campus for them to ogle. There is not.
I angrily snap my fingers in their direction. “Guys, focus. You don’t get to drool over this one.”
They both have the decency to look embarrassed, and when I catch Mason ascending the stoop, I shove him back down onto the sidewalk. I roll my eyes, turning towards the door.
“Is your boyfriend home?” I cut to the chase.
“My what?” Her nose curls up. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” She presses forward, closer to the screen, and looks out into the yard—at freaking Mason, who’s blushing.
Jesus. What a clusterfuck.
“I’m looking for a guy that lives here.”
She tips her head at me, confused. “Erm, maybe you have the wrong house?”
I look down at the address on the screen of my smartphone. “No. This is the address I was given.”
“Given by… whom?”
I thumb my hand in Mason’s direction. “His cousin Jemma.”
The brunette’s eyes narrow. “Jemma? Oh really.”
At that moment, I know exactly what she’s thinking: the moment this blue door closes, this Jemma chick is going to get her ass chewed. I have a sister, and I’ve seen this look a million times
The brunette looks me over from head to toe, then top to bottom, memorizing the color of my eyes, measuring my height, the color of my hair, and any distinguishing scars or birthmarks. Probably so she can profile me to the police.
Great.
CSI Barbie crosses her arms. “Who was it you said you were looking for?”
“I didn’t.”
“Are you serious?” The brunette snorts sarcastically, going from pleasant to defensive. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are or who it is you’re looking for, but there are no guys living here—”
“—I’m looking for Greyson Keller. Is he here?”
Her expression is priceless: eyes wide as saucers, eyebrows shot up into her dark hairline, and mouth agape. A dimple threatens to press into her right cheek.
Busted. I’ve found my guy.
“Greyson Keller?” The girl laughs, tipping her head back. “Oh, this is gonna be good.” She looks me up and down, a weird expression on her face that I can’t quite put my finger on: amusement. Curiosity. Glee?
Self-consciously, I fold my arms across my broad chest. “Oh, Greyson is here all right. Let me go get, uh… him. Give me one minute?”
She starts to close the door behind her but peeks her head around it, adding, “Stay there; do not go anywhere.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever, make it quick.” My fists clench and unclench at my sides, warming up and impatient to get the show on the road.
The door slams shut, but I clearly hear a muted, “Grey! Someone’s at the door for you!” This announcement is followed by, “You’re what? Oh, okay.” Then a muffled, “Make it snappy, chica. You are so not going to want to miss this.”
Chica?
Then I hear, “Grey, hurry up. Huh? Well, hurry. Yeah, yeah, you already said that.”
Soon, from somewhere inside the house, one feminine voice is joined by another—this one pleasant and sweet—responding with a sing-songy, “Give me a second! Be right there!”
Mason appears beside me. “Do my ears deceive me, or was that another chick’s voice?” He slips his cell into the pocket of his low-rise jeans.
“That was definitely another chick’s voice,” Aaron agrees, stepping closer to the house.
The door unlatches from within, the knob turns, and the blue front door is pulled open once again on its rusty hinges. Natural sunlight hits the girl who appears in the doorway like a spotlight, her long blonde hair shining around her head like a halo.
Momentarily shocked, I take a step back, and she steps closer. Like an idiot, I stare. “I’m looking for Greyson Keller.”
“Yes?”
I roll my eyes. “Not you, sweetie, your boyfriend. Go grab him for me so I can bash his face in.”
The blonde bites her lower lip and laughs. “I’m Greyson. As much as I hate asking, can I… help you?”
“No you’re not.” Confused, my brows drop into a deep V, and I turn back towards my roommates. They shrug uselessly. “Uh, I’m here for Greyson. Greyson Keller?”
“Found her. That’s me.” Her pouty pink mouth gives me a lopsided grin, full of straight white teeth. “You can keep saying my name as long as you want, but no one else is walking out that front door.”
“You’re a girl,” Aaron blurts out.
“Aren’t you observant?” The blonde’s expressive hazel eyes shine with amusement as she spreads her hands wide at her waist with a light laugh. “Mmmhmm. Last time I checked, I still had all my girly parts.”
And what girly parts they were: hands sweeping airily around the flouncy skirt of a tight, feminine sundress, long tan legs accentuated by the short hemline flaring out around her hips.
Around her tan legs. Shit, did I already say that?
“Tighthead, if that’s Greyson Keller, you are so screwed,” Mason mutters into my ear from behind, poking me in the back with his bony elbow. “Walk away, man, before you look like an even bigger douche.”
I scowl and elbow him in the gut and am satisfied when he grunts. “Shut the fuck up, Mase. You’re not helping.”
Not to mention, this is all his goddamn fault. He couldn’t have done a little more thorough recon work before raising a red flag?
Fuck.
Running a hand through my hair, I give Greyson a once-over from under hooded eyes.
Long, light blond hair falls over her bare shoulders in one of those sexy, messy French braid things, and freckles lightly dance across the bridge of her straight, pert nose. Her chest rises up and down breathlessly, her cheeks taking on a rosy hue as she lets me study her.
God, she’s… she’s gorgeous. Not the ordinary, pretty kind of gorgeous. No. She’s make you want to weep into your beer breathtakingly beautiful.
Or, at least, she is to me.
Fuckity fuck fuck.
“Is… there something I can help you with?” She’s biting down on a pink, pouty lower lip. “Are you fraternity pledges?”
I glance at her friend hovering from behind in the living room, hanging on our every word. She looks amused, entertained, and entirely too pleased with herself. Like a gleeful toddler who didn’t get caught stealing a piece of candy.
Bitch.
CSI Barbie’s laughing gaze shifts to the nitwits standing behind me with unconcealed interest, and I groan. Suddenly, I’m not too thrilled with the idea of confronting this version of Greyson Keller in public. In front of our friends.
I clear my throat. “Is there somewhere we can talk? Privately?”
Greyson nods slowly as her roommate shrugs in acquiescence. The brunette stares me down. “I’m blowing my rape whistle if you’re not back on this porch in ten minutes, asshole.”
>
She shoots me a cheeky grin.
“Maybe we’ll take a quick walk?” Beautiful, blonde, and female Greyson Keller puts her arm around her friend’s waist. “I’ll stay within shooting distance,” she teases with a glance at me. “Okay?”
I give a jerky nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Let me grab my shoes.”
She releases her friend’s waist and disappears, returning several moments later and a few inches taller, pushing through the screen door and stepping out onto the porch.
Her hot-pink painted toes peek out from a pair of cork wedge sandals, legs going on for miles. Her sundress is everything it should be: tight bodice dipping into a V, giving me the perfect view of her respectable cleavage. The dress is tied in the back with a bow around her small waist, and as she smiles up at me, I swallow back a groan.
Why is she wearing a dress cut like that? Why does she look so goddamn cute? Was she about to go somewhere? Shit, why does she have to look so damn good? Why couldn’t she have been fugly? Why couldn’t she have been a guy?
Why the fuck, why?
Then at least I wouldn’t feel so guilty for wanting to pummel her ass.
I am hating myself right now.
Greyson leads me to the sidewalk and takes a right once we hit the pavement. “Let’s head this way. It leads to a dead end.”
I cram my large hands deep into the pocket of my jeans.
“So…” Her voice hitches in a silent question.
We walk for a few yards before I grow a pair of balls big enough to speak. “Here’s the deal. I came here to beat the shit out of you,” I blurt out. “I thought you were some dude stalking me on Twitter and Facebook. A guy.”
Gasping, she stops in her tracks, shocked. “Why? What! Why?” she sputters. “I don’t understand. Help me understand.”
“On Twitter, are you Grey underscore Keller, Theta Rho?”
She hesitates, turning to face me, biting down on her lower lip. “Yes.”
God, I wish she hadn’t just given me that look.
“I’m Cal Thompson.”
“What?” she shouts. Understanding shines in her eyes, and she takes a stumbling step back onto the grassy curbside. “You can’t be!”
“Oh, I assure you, sweetheart—I am.”
“B-but,” she sputters, a blush making her chest, neck, and face red. “I made you up!” A hand clamps over her mouth as she moans. “Oh my God, this cannot be happening to me right now.”
“Yet here I am.”
I pull out my wallet and produce both my driver’s license and student ID, tossing them at her. Because she wasn’t expecting the onslaught, she misses, and the identification cards flutter to the concrete sidewalk. “There. Take a gander.”
I know it’s rude, but frankly, I don’t give a shit.
With trembling hands, she bends at the knee demurely, sliding a hand along the folds of her skirt to preserve her modesty, and reaching for the ID’s, her long fingers plucking them off the ground.
She studies them both as she stands, her expression crestfallen.
“How? Oh my god, C-Cal. I’m so, so sorry. And embarrassed.” Her hand flies to her mouth. “So embarrassed,” she repeats with a whisper. Grey’s full bottom lip quivers, and she glances back towards her house nervously. “My friends don’t know I made you up. My friends are the reason I made you up.”
Aaron, Mason, and her roommate—all within shooting distance— watch us from the porch fifty yards away, not even bothering to hide their interest.
Shit. I don’t want her to cry—even if what she did was fifty shades of fucked up.
“Explain it to me, then.”
She nods slowly.
Greyson
I cannot believe this is happening.
The guy standing in front of me is so freaking angry, a shocking myriad of expressions dancing across his face: Perturbed. Confused. Stunned. Pissed off.
He looks like he came to beat the crap out of someone and is disappointed he isn’t going to have the opportunity.
I study the planes of his hard face as he walks beside me, a fresh bruise discoloring the rise of his high cheekbone just beneath his left eye, but oddly made less severe by his deep tan. I conclude that he must spend an excessive amount of time outdoors if the sun-kissed tips of the sandy blonde hair curling up from under the lid of his ball cap are any indication.
I take in his eyes: dark pools of cobalt blue made harsh and unforgiving by the severe slashes of dense eyebrows above them. Square jaw with a day’s growth of beard surrounding a full, downturned mouth.
Black stitches mend the gash marring his busted-up lower lip.
Tall—maybe six foot one—with lean hips, I can’t resist letting my eyes wander down the length of him. They take in the broad, sculpted chest, straining against a tight gray Ivy League t-shirt—a shirt that leaves nothing to the imagination, as evidenced by the defined pec muscles outlined by the sheer threadbare fabric.
If Cal’s shoulders are a thing of beauty, then his arms are a thing of art, dense and firm and ripped. A large, intricate tattoo snakes up the tendons of his tricep, twisting up his bicep and disappearing under the sleeve of his shirt. Tan, powerful biceps any girl would want to curl her fingers around with a contented, dreamy sigh.
They’re arms a girl would blissfully want wrapped around her in a crowded bar. Out in public. Or, let’s be honest, a tangle of sheets.
I can’t decide if he’s handsome or good-looking or not—not by today’s definition of classically handsome, anyway. He’s too severe. His nose has been broken too many times, his skin has too many scars, but there is something about him that I find ruggedly appealing. I just can’t put my finger on what that something could be.
However, decision made: I like what I see.
A lot.
“Hmmm.” I must have muttered this out loud, because he looks over at me and catches me horn dogging him. I open my mouth to say something then clamp it shut. Take a deep breath, Greyson. Just take a deep breath and spit it out.
He deserves an explanation.
“Alright. When I tell you how I ended up faking a boyfriend, I hope you don’t…” I wave a hand through the air, listlessly. Nervously. “Judge me too harshly. Please.”
We continue walking, reaching the dead end. Cal nods towards the opposite side of the deserted road, and together, we step off the curb and cross to the other side, continuing our meander back in the direction from which we came.
I take a deep breath and exhale.
“To start with, I’m the philanthropy chair of my sorority.” He snorts, and I roll my eyes, quite used to non-Greek students mocking my sorority membership. “A philanthropy is a charitable organization we support through fundraising and donations.”
I take another deep, shallow breath. “Anyway, this year we’re throwing a big gala. The largest one we’ve put on, with the most number of attendees. It’s been… really stressful. I have a committee, but you know how it is. Not everyone is committed. Not everyone pulls their weight. And with everything else we have to juggle…”
Cal listens silently as I continue, my explanation rapidly becoming a vent session.
“…school, grades, jobs, athletics. I don’t expect you to care, but… you get the picture. Anyway, with all that being said, a few of them are, for lack of better words, boy crazy.” I give him a sidelong glance, but he stoically faces forward. “All they want to talk about during the meetings are their dates for the gala, and they won’t stop hounding me about who I’m bringing. So, yada, yada, yada, Cal Thompson.”
As if that explained everything.
“Wait. Did you just use yada, yada, yada as your justification? Who does that?” Cal sputters a little, and stops short on the sidewalk, trying not to laugh but failing, emitting a short, deep bark.
“You don’t like yada, yada, yada?” I shoot him a coy smile. “What’s wrong with it?”
“You sound kind of crazy,” he teases, his eyes crinkling at the
corners with amusement. “I guess the bigger picture is, how the hell did you end up using my name? How did you hear about me? We’re not even in the same stratosphere.”
“Whoa, buddy, it’s not like you’re famous. Let’s not get too full of ourselves.” I hand him back the driver’s license and student ID I’ve been holding and give a little shiver when our fingers touch.
“Trust me, I had no idea who you were. I pulled your name out of thin air. In fact, you could say I was inspired. There’s a sign hanging in the dining hall for Farm Fresh California milk. California—Cal. See? So then my friends want a last name, and I’m scouring the room, I see this girl from my econ class, Brianna—”
“Thompson,” we both say at the same time.
“Yes. Brianna Thompson.” I laugh. “So, there you have it, the day Cal Thompson was born. Or in this case, invented.”
“What about the tweets?”
“Well, my friend Jemma is a public relations major and is all about social media. She’s Theta’s PR and Marketing Chairwoman and the one who insisted on the live tweeting. Thinks it’s more ‘relevant.’” Yes, I use air quotes. “Jemma literally makes us Tweet during our meeting to get people excited, which is great! Good for her. I mean, I love her to death, but now it’s getting obnoxious.”
“Jemma is my roommate Mason’s cousin—he follows her on Twitter.”
“Ah. All the puzzle pieces come together.” I keep walking and notice Cal checking out my legs. I pretend not to notice; my steps become jaunty. “What does Mason think of all this?"
He peels his eyes away and looks up, down the street towards my yard. “Mason and Aaron are dipshits and get a rise out of seeing me pissed off. They came today expecting a fight.”
I ball my fists up and put up my dukes, bouncing on the heels of my four-inch wedges. “It’s not too late!”
His dark blue eyes rake me up and down again appraisingly, but not in a creepy, pervy way. “Okay, Mayweather, cool it with your bad self.” Cal considers me then, scratching his five o’clock shadow. “You know, I never thought I’d have my own personal stalker.”
I laugh, relieved that he’s making light of the situation. “Oh, please. If I were stalking you, you would know it. I’d have done a much better job creeping you out than a few measly tweets.” I nudge him with my elbow conspiratorially, startled to realize I’m enjoying our banter and warming to the topic. “Maybe driven past your house… found a few of your classes… crafted myself a tiny Cal doll to cuddle at night…” I cross my arms and hug myself, pretending to squeeze a stuffed animal. “Um, yeah. That part might have sounded crazy.”
