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by May, McKinley

  We're finishing up the last portion of the dissection when I nudge my head towards the instrument in her hand.

  "You're weirdly skilled with that thing. Planning on going into surgery?"

  Her nose scrunches up. "Ah, definitely not! Surgeons deal with an insane amount of pressure. One wrong cut and things can go south very quickly."

  "True," I agree. "I wouldn't want to deal with that. Someone's fucking life in your hands? Shit."

  "Some people thrive under that kind of responsibility, though. Like my older sister, Elizabeth? She's a plastic surgery resident right now and she seems to enjoy it. She actually led on her first surgery a few months ago."

  "Yeah? She did a good job," I remark with a grin.

  Lexie gives me a perplexed frown. "What?"

  My eyes bounce to her tits and I nod in approval. "They look real."

  "You are so full of it." She smacks my arm and raises her scalpel in the air. "Do you want me to dissect you?!"

  "What the..?"

  The lab tech from earlier is at the head of our station, his jaw dropped in horror.

  I crack up at the bad timing as Lexie quickly attempts to salvage the situation.

  "I'm joking. He knows I'm messing with him. I mean, duh!!"

  She jerks her arms up for emphasis, forgetting the razored tool is still in her hand. The lab tech ducks out of the way, barely escaping the edge of the sharp object.

  He curses under his breath and quickly grabs the rat to dispose of it, eyes studying Lexie suspiciously the entire time. As he walks away, I hear him muttering something that sounds a lot like "deranged Bio students".

  "You're really not helping your case from earlier." I jut my chin towards the scalpel-sharpener. "You've now been placed in the same category as that dude."

  She twists her head to catch Jeffrey Dahmer Jr.'s gaze. He's gawking at her with the same wide eyes the lab tech was, except his aren't enlarged in fear.

  The opposite, actually.

  He looks enthralled.

  We both watch as he aims an unpleasant smile and a demented wink in her direction. She immediately turns to me.

  "Look what you did," she whispers angrily.

  "What I did?" I point to my chest in confusion. "Am I the one waving scalpels around like a maniac, turning on all the psych ward escapees? I don't think so."

  "Well, if you weren't such a damn sleazeball, I wouldn't have to threaten you with lab tools in the first place!" She angles her body towards mine and lowers her voice. "Is he still staring?"

  I take a quick peek out of my peripheral. As expected, his creepy as shit leer is still going strong.

  "Yup. Oh fuck, Lex. I think he's in love with you."

  I laugh as her face warps with disgust.

  "Or he wants to turn me into a lamp shade," she adds with a shudder. "Look for me on the next season of Forensic Files. I'll be the one on the end table, basking the room in a dim glow."

  "Here," I say, beckoning her towards me. "I know how to fix this."

  She's hesitant at first, but one more encouraging curl of my finger and she takes a cautionary step closer. I wrap an arm around her shoulder, pulling her flush against my side to create a couple-like illusion.

  Apparently, she wasn't expecting this 'cause she goes stiff as a board.

  Feels like I'm holding a damn wooden plank.

  "Relax," I whisper, swiveling my head so my lips hover just above her ear. "Act like you like me or this isn't going to work."

  She expels a deep breath, the air warming my neck as the tension in her body dissipates. Her hand wraps around my middle, her breasts pressing firmly against my bicep.

  Yeah, no doubt about it.

  Those glorious tits are the real deal.

  When her cheek nuzzles against my shoulder, it's my turn to get a little stiff.

  'Cause shit.

  This feels fucking nice.

  "Is he getting the picture?" Her soft words interrupt my wandering mind.

  Oh.

  Right.

  There was a point to this.

  I blink a few times, clearing my head before I catch the now-confused gaze of our target.

  "Sorry, dude," I mouth as I give him a 'what-can-you-do' shrug. "She's taken."

  His face falls as the words sink in. He turns around, slumping in his seat.

  Problem solved.

  "Nicely done." Lexie pulls away, giving me a little hip bump in the process. "Now help me clean up!"

  It takes ten more minutes to dispose of everything in the correct waste buckets and wash up. We're walking out of the room when Lexie looks at me.

  "That lab wasn't as nasty as you imagined, was it?"

  I raise one shoulder. "Not so bad."

  Was it the worst thing in the world?

  No.

  Would I do it again?

  Also no.

  She seems satisfied with my response and grins. "I think you'll be totally fine with the cadavers we work on later in the semester."

  "Hold up." I skid to a stop on the linoleum, the resounding squeak so loud a few students plug their ears. "Did you say cadavers? Human bodies?"

  She gives a nonchalant nod and my transition into fuck-that mode is instantaneous.

  "Nope. Forget about it, Lex."

  "You'll manage."

  "I'm not doing that crap, for real," I insist with a frown. "And why the fuck are we doing this bullshit in undergrad? Isn't that for graduate studies? I mean, Christ, what the hell is wrong with this sch—"

  "Weston. I'm just kidding." Laughter erupts from her mouth.

  "What?"

  Her hair bounces, her shoulders shaking with uncontrollable chuckles at my expense. "Chill out. Of course we're not messing with cadavers. It was a joke. Man, you're too easy."

  "That's cold, Barbie." I shake my head at the amused blonde beside me, a smile spreading across my face.

  She really had me going for a second there.

  "If you read your syllabus, you'd know exactly what experiments we're doing in this class." She rolls up her lab analysis and softly swats the back of my head. "So read the freaking thing, and maybe I'll stop fucking with you."

  She tries to hit me again, but I snatch the paper out of her grip. I hold it up in the air, just out of her reach.

  "Maybe?"

  She jumps and I hold it higher, the tips of her fingers grazing the bottom.

  "Eh, no," she admits with a grin. "It's too much fun."

  "Damn." I laugh at her honest response. "You are stone fucking cold."

  11

  There are a multitude of ways college students deal with stress.

  Some people eat to cope with the emotions, others grab an extra bottle or two of wine at the grocery store, and the lucky ones chase those exercise endorphins I'm still not convinced actually exist.

  How do I relieve my anxiety?

  Well, my preferred method would be to blow a bunch of cash on a spa treatment and a Swedish massage. However, seeing that I'm a broke university student with the bank account to prove it, that's not exactly a realistic option.

  So I found something else that gets the job done—I stress-walk through craft stores.

  I amble down the aisles, the tubes of glitter, variety of sticker packets, and shelves of affordable home decor washing away the tension in an instant.

  It's gotten me so chilled out that I completely missed all the "Closing in 10 Minutes" warnings and found myself locked inside a store once. A cleaning lady discovered me in the potted plants section, hypnotized by the concrete vases and gorgeous greenery. She quickly ushered me out the employee exit, but I sort of wish she hadn't found me. I'd have been content staying there all night.

  The browsing process is that therapeutic.

  It's Friday afternoon, and to say the past five days have been stress-inducing would be an understatement. Once Rayne and I finished our classes for today, we decided our hectic weeks warranted a much-deserved pick-me-up.

  We hopped in her car
and drove to a cute ice cream shoppe just out of town. I got a cup of mint chip while Rayne decided on the double-chocolate fudge waffle cone with extra sprinkles.

  I think it's pretty obvious what stress-relief category she belongs to.

  After finishing up the sweet treats, I convinced her to make a pit stop at my favorite arts and decor store on the way home.

  Time for me to chill out.

  We're currently lost in the maze that is the fabric section where I'm browsing for Baby Banks' nursery. Chelsea and I decided on a purple and gold color scheme for the room, and I'm itching to discover the perfect hues for some hand-sewn pillow covers.

  I find two swatches of violet fabric, one cool-toned and one warm.

  "Which color do you like better?" I question, dangling them in front of Rayne's face.

  She squints, eyes bouncing from one to the other before a frown settles on her lips.

  "Ummm...there's a difference?"

  "Are you kidding?" I whack her with the textiles one by one. "You are seriously no help at all!"

  "It's not my fault," she protests. "I have the eyesight of a dog."

  "A dog?"

  "Yep." She nods. "You know how they can only see a limited array of colors? Same here. I'm practically a human-canine hybrid."

  "Alright, Fido," I say with a giggle. "You're beyond weird. Remind me why we're best friends again?"

  "Because." She grabs a roll of ruby red fabric off the shelf and smacks me with it. "You're just as weird as me."

  She tries to jab the material into my stomach, but I grab my own roll—this one covered in pictures of cats with their tongues out—and block her attack.

  I hold the fabric like a sword and put on an admittedly awful Spanish accent. "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

  "But I don't have six fingers," Rayne argues as she wiggles the digits of her left hand. She shrugs and lifts her roll up to mine. "I'll fight you anyway!"

  In a matter of seconds, our cinematic role-play escalates into a dramatic fencing match in the middle of the store. A few people glance in our direction, some entertained, some no doubt wondering why we have the maturity of unsupervised ten-year-old boys.

  Anddd the consensus is officially in.

  We're both a bit on the strange side.

  "Hey, girls?"

  The voice of a woman nearby has us quickly lowering our weapons. I'm expecting a scolding for our behavior, but instead she gives us a desperate smile.

  "Are you ladies in college?"

  We nod as she approaches.

  "Fantastic. My daughter's birthday is coming up, and she wants a few more decorations for her dorm room. I really need a second opinion. Could you two lend me your expertise real quick?"

  Rayne takes a step back and pushes me forward. "She can help you. Only one of us has fully-functioning color perception, and it's not me."

  The woman lets out a confused chuckle before I accept her request. "I'd love to help!"

  After a quick introduction, we follow Janice towards the home decor section of the store. As we walk, she shows me a few grainy pictures of her daughter's room. It's super cute—sleek, white, and adorned with delicate knick-knacks. It's also an extremely spacious room, and I'm curious where the hell she goes to school. Mine and Rayne's freshman dorm was matchbox-sized in comparison.

  We wind up in the lighting aisle. Janice saunters up to a large floor lamp and turns to us. "I was thinking perhaps this by her desk?"

  My head instinctively shakes side-to-side as I blurt out my opinion. "No, I don't think so. That wouldn't go at all."

  "Lexie!" Rayne hisses behind me, embarrassed by my blunt response.

  Luckily, Janice doesn't take offense with my definitive tone. In fact, she looks intrigued, so I explain my reasoning.

  "Don't get me wrong—it's a beautiful lamp. You've got a great eye for sure, but the problem is its industrial, tripod style. The dark wood and metal combo make it way too masculine for your daughter's room. Her style is extremely feminine, so we need something more dainty and light."

  My head twists down the aisle as I search for something that meets those qualifications. A glint of gold catches my eye, and I point my finger towards the perfect arched floor lamp. "There! That one would look amazing."

  Janice gives it a good look and nods in approval. "Yes, I do like that one. And I see what you're saying about the style...."

  ———

  The next forty minutes are spent picking out a few more pieces to complete the bedroom.

  I offer my opinions, Rayne chimes in with a few "yeah's" and the occasional "what she said" as her contribution, and Janice happily takes our advice to heart as she makes the final decisions.

  Along with the lamp, we also decide on a fluffy cream-colored rug, a trio of hanging succulent plants, and a white marble end table. Her daughter's gonna be freaking thrilled with the gifts, I'm sure of it.

  Janice situates the last box into her shopping cart and beams at me. "Thanks for your help."

  "Of course." I give her a warm smile. "I really enjoyed it."

  And I truly did.

  I can't tell you how refreshing it is to find someone who actually appreciates my nonstop chattering about colors and styling and room layouts. Whenever I try to talk to my friends about this stuff, they zone out two minutes into the conversation.

  She pulls out her cell phone and hands it to me. "Let me have your contact information, dear, and I'll send you a picture of the room with all the new decor."

  I nod as I quickly input the 10 digit number.

  When I finish, she tucks her phone back into her purse. "Thanks again for your time. You're going to make a great designer one day, honey!"

  "Oh, no, I—"

  Before I can correct her, she lifts a hand in one final wave and pushes her cart towards the check-out.

  As I turn back to Rayne, I notice the flabbergasted expression on her face.

  "What?"

  She shakes her head. "Only you can walk into a store and end up texting pals with a total stranger!"

  I grin, about to respond when the buzzing of my phone interrupts us.

  Rayne gasps. "Oh, God. It's her already. She's gonna be a clingy one!"

  "Are you jealous of my new BFF?" I joke as I fumble around in my bag and fetch my cell.

  Trey: Are we still on for tonight?

  I quickly type out a "Yep" in response to Trey, also known as Breakfast Bar Boy.

  Apparently, Yasmine wasn't the only one who noticed my not-so-inconspicuous stares last week. Trey approached me a few lectures later, said he saw me eyeing him during class, and then asked if he could take me out sometime.

  I didn't have the heart to tell him it was his snack that caught my initial interest, not him.

  All that lip-licking and excessive drooling? Not for you, dude.

  But he's sorta cute and seems decent enough to spend an evening with, so I accepted his offer.

  I hit send as Rayne peeps my screen and snorts. "Trey? Who's Trey? Seriously, Lexie. Where do you even find all these guys?"

  "We're in a college town, R. All you have to do is look around. They're everywhere!"

  I wave a hand sporadically through the air, our heads following the movement around the store.

  In the vicinity are half a dozen middle-aged women, a few elderly ladies leaning on canes, and a handful of sorority girls searching for Big/Little gifts.

  Not a twenty-something male in sight.

  Rayne catches my gaze and gives me an amused look.

  "Okay, not here." I roll my eyes. "You know what I mean."

  My phone vibrates again. I glance down, expecting a final confirmation from Trey.

  But it's not him.

  Weston: Hey.

  Weston: You busy?

  My thumbs fly over the screen as I respond.

  Me: I thought we agreed no booty calls?

  Weston: Give me more credit than that, Barbie. My pick-up lines are a helluva lo
t more creative than 'You busy'

  Weston: & for someone who claims she's not interested in a booty call, it sure is on your mind a lot...

  Weston: ;)

  Me: Keep dreaming!

  Me: You could txt me about the weather and I'd assume there's some sexual innuendo hidden between the lines.

  Weston: I'm no weatherman...

  Weston: ...but you can expect about 9 inches tonight.

  I try to hold back my laughter, but it bubbles over involuntarily.

  He's got a dirty joke for any and every situation. I've never met someone who's so prepared with this shit.

  Me: Haha damn.

  Me: Ok, I'll admit it. That one's pretty good. I laughed.

  Weston: Thought you'd appreciate it.

  Me: It wasn't exactly "hidden between the lines", though.

  Weston: Subtly doesn't suit me.

  A giant grin pops on my face as I shake my head.

  Subtly and Weston go together like oil and water.

  "Dang. You like this Trey guy, don't you?"

  Rayne's accusation pull me from my texting trance. I peer up to see her interested eyes fixed on me.

  "Actually, I'm talking to Weston," I admit with a casual shrug.

  "Really?" Her brows pull together, the intrigue on her face morphing into total confusion. "Is he still driving you crazy?"

  "I mean, he's still Weston, but...I don't know." I chew on my lip as I consider it. "He's not that bad."

  Weston Paine's not that bad.

  What a complete 180 from a mere two weeks ago, but it's the truth.

  I don't dislike him near as much as I thought I did.

  Sure, his womanizing ways still grind my gears.

  And don't even get me started on how little I trust him when it comes to our schoolwork.

  But studying with him at The Treehouse wasn't a terrible experience.

  And then there's the fact I got to see a whole other side of him in lab this week.

  This macho soccer star can't handle a little rat guts?

  It was kind of cute.