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by May, McKinley

  Not until now.

  I grab my phone and take a quick gander at myself, hoping the liquor has had a similar effect on me.

  Dear God it has not.

  The drunken glaze in Weston's eyes just emphasizes the green and brown swirls in his irises.

  My red-rimmed, smeared-mascara gaze looks like I've hit the bong one too many times.

  His mussed-by-sweat hair is sexy. Just screwed someone's brains out sexy.

  One of my umbrella garnishes is tangled in the rat's nest that is my hair. As I drag a hand through the knotted locks to remove it, my fingers graze something else. I pull the mysterious item from the blonde jungle, frowning when I see it's a bar-tab wristband.

  What else is hiding in there?!

  In lieu of grossing you out any further, I'll just put it simply; I'm a walking disaster.

  "It's not fair," I moan, tossing my phone down on the table in disgust.

  My cell glides across the smooth surface, Weston snatching it right before it flies off the edge.

  "What's not fair?"

  "You! You're not fair! How can you drink so much and still look like that?!" I poke my pointer finger into my chest. "I mean, look at me. Heroin-addicted hooker is my aesthetic right now."

  "Nah, don't be so hard on yourself." As his eyes flit over me, a taunting smirk appears. "More like a crackhead escort. A high-end one."

  "Asshole!" I reach forward and give his forearm a scolding little smack.

  He emits a deep, genuine laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners.

  "Where are the other three?" I ask as I glance around.

  "Probably asleep. You and I are the only ones who made it through the whole night. I'm impressed you're still standing, to be honest." He grins. "You have fun?"

  "I had a great time," I blurt out. "More fun than I've had with a guy in a while."

  Uhh...What?!

  Who said that? There's no way that came from me.

  His radiant smile doubles in size. "Sorry, I didn't catch that. It's loud in here. Say it again?"

  I hear a pen drop behind the register. I can make out the whispered conversation between customers six tables over. Someone sneezes at the gas station next door and our cashier yells out "Gesundheit!"

  Pretty sure Weston heard me the first time.

  I glare a hole in his smug face and attempt to retract the words. Unfortunately, my brain and mouth are on completely different wavelengths as evidenced when I speak again.

  "I said hanging out with you was more fun than any date I've been on in the last year. The last year or two, actually."

  What.

  The.

  Fuck?!

  Curse my inebriated self!

  If I could slap myself across the face without looking like a raging lunatic, I would.

  Because that was even more damning than the original confession.

  Weston lets out a low whistle. "Shit. Getting deep here." He cups a hand around his ear and leans forward. "Anything else you want to share?"

  He lifts a brow, awaiting another revealing comment, but there's no way in hell I'm divulging any more information.

  In fact, I trust my alcohol-influenced state so little, I do the only thing I can think of to keep my blabbering mouth occupied.

  I grab a sprinkled doughnut, squash it in my hand, and shove the whole damn thing in my pie-hole.

  16

  Dragging my ass out of bed this morning was a bitch.

  My alarm was blaring like a freight train, every fiber of my being begging me to lob my phone out the window and go back to sleep.

  I dunno how—and I have no freaking clue why—but I got myself up and ready for class.

  Check me out.

  It's like I'm responsible and shit now.

  Next thing you know, I'll be running for student body prez and making the Dean's List every semester.

  I'm still feeling the remnants of the hangover that greeted me after Saturday night's antics. This is beyond aggravating considering it's Monday. I just turned 21 a few months ago for fuck's sake; I thought multi-day hangovers were reserved for the wrong side of 25.

  The persistent-as-hell ache of my head says otherwise.

  Luckily, the couple of Advil I tossed back with breakfast are working their magic, the pounding steadily decreasing as I stroll through campus.

  By the time I walk into the Bio building, the pain has dulled to a tolerable level.

  And when I enter the lab and see Lexie at our shared station, I forget about the throbbing sensations altogether.

  My gaze fixes on her as I make my way down the aisle.

  Her hair's pulled tight into a high ponytail, a blue fitted shirt hugs her slender frame, and there's a dark layer of mascara coating her lashes, none of which is streaked down her cheeks like the last time I saw her.

  For the record, she makes a sexy as hell crackhead.

  As if she can physically feel me staring her down, she lifts her head. Her features instantly twist into a look I've come to recognize, a strange attempt at a glare that's reserved solely for me.

  From the nose up, she appears pissed off. Eyes narrowed into slits, brows in a harsh V-shape...just straight up 'fuck you' 'I hate you' vibes all around.

  But travel below the button nose and we've got a whole different storyline. Those plump, naturally pale-pink lips are fighting a smile, but failing miserably.

  Her pearly-white grin is as big as Texas.

  Not only is the contradictory contortion of her face freakin' hilarious, it also perfectly personifies her feelings towards me—she wants to hate me, tries to express disdain whenever I'm around, but the veneer isn't convincing enough. There's an underlying dose of affection she can't tamper down no matter how hard she fights it.

  It's why she spent Saturday night glued to my side.

  It's why we had a badass time together.

  And it's why when she was a few drinks deep, the facade flew out the window and the truth flew past her lips. Her confession at the doughnut place confirms what I've known all along.

  Barbie and I are a good match. We just click.

  And there's nothing she can do to change that.

  "Morning." I slide onto the stool beside her. There's a half-empty bag of Skittles in her hand, and I hold out an open palm in silent request. After she pours me a generous portion, I pop a few in my mouth and chew. "How you feeling?"

  "A little tired." She shakes the package of multicolored candies and grins. "Hence the breakfast of champions."

  "Same. I'm thinking about starting a petition to make Monday 8 a.m.'s illegal. Can I count on your signature?"

  "Most definitely." She chuckles. "Can we make mornings after a night out illegal while we're at it? I felt like shit yesterday. You guys can drink, my God."

  Her head falls back on a groan of agony and I shrug.

  "Don't say I didn't warn you."

  "I had to bail on Rayne and our friend, Jess, for our Sunday morning run. Just the mere thought of getting out of bed made me want to hurl." Her mouth turns down. "I spent all morning hiding under the covers and the rest of the day at the hospital."

  My hand freezes mid-toss-Skittle-in-mouth.

  "Wait." Concern ices my veins. "You went to the hospital?"

  "Yep. I was at St. Anne's like all afternoon."

  Oh fuck.

  I almost killed her.

  My mouth opens, a hundred questions on the tip of my tongue. Before I can get one out, a mischievous glint appears in her eyes and she goes on.

  "I was there because I'm always there on Sundays. I'm a volunteer."

  A wave of relief whooshes through me. "Shit, Lex. You had me thinking you got alcohol poisoning on my watch." I give her a curious perusal. "That cherubic blonde hair is misleading. For a chick that looks like a damn angel, you sure have a fucking dark sense of humor."

  A guilty laugh escapes her. "I know, sorry. I can't help myself. Messing with you is my new favorite hobby."

  "You're a brat." I grin a
nd shake my head. "You know who felt shittier than both of us combined yesterday?"

  "Who?"

  "Your date. Mr. 3-and-out. Probably had to get his stomach pumped." I hike a brow. "But I guess you're used to out-drinking the dudes you go out with?"

  "Oh my God. What is with the never-ending interest in my dating habits?" She slices me with a bewildered stare. "You're just not gonna let this go, are you?"

  I lean back against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest in defiance. "Nope."

  "Is this what keeps you up at night? Tossing and turning with burning questions about my love life?"

  "Yup. I haven't slept in weeks thanks to you." I laugh before putting on a serious face. "But honestly, I don't get it."

  "Don't get what?"

  "Why you go out with all these losers."

  "Losers?" Her nose wrinkles at the term. "It's not like I'm hitting up the county jail or prowling sketchy alleyways picking up men."

  "I didn't say lowlifes," I argue. "I said losers. There's a difference."

  "Well, Trey was a loser. I'll give you that one." She frowns. "But that was a blip in the radar. The majority of guys I go out with are fine. They're nice."

  "Fine? Nice?" My grunt of disapproval echoes in the cave-like room. "Raving reviews, Barbie. They sound like a fucking blast."

  Fire heats her face, redness sprouting on the apples of her cheeks.

  I'm hitting a nerve here.

  "Why do you even care?" She snaps out the question and it brings me pause.

  Why do I care?

  Why are Lexie and her strange dating preferences taking up a significant portion of my thoughts?

  In my defense, anyone looking from the outside in would be confused, and rightly so. A fucking catch like Lexie settling for these weak, boring-ass dudes? Guys that aren't even remotely close to being in her league?

  It's bullshit.

  But does it affect me?

  No.

  So, again, why the fuck do I care who she dates?

  I don't know how to answer that.

  And the good thing is I don't have to because timing is on my side this morning.

  It's 8:00 on the dot, and Dr. Benton's ready to start class in his usual what-the-fuck-is-happening fashion. He's got a flute, playing a few notes to get everyone's attention.

  I'm still convinced this dude is Windhaven's band director and has yet to realize his room assignment was mixed up. I can picture our real science professor doing chemical experiments atop a freakin' drum set, a crowd of confused band members sporting the same WTF expression I've got right now.

  His welcome-to-class tune transitions into a fast-paced, Irish jig kind of song.

  Not gonna lie. It's catchy as hell.

  A few minutes later, he finishes. "Happy Monday, friends. How did that make everyone feel? Pumped up? Ready to dance? How's your pulse rate? Elevated? It should be!"

  He sets the instrument aside and rambles on. "And that is precisely what the lab is about today: correlations between heart rate and varying stimuli. We've got five stations."

  He motions to the computers lining the perimeter of the classroom, a pair of bulky headphones at each one. "You'll listen to the sounds, your partner will take your pulse rate manually, and we'll compile the data at the end of class. This is a fun one!"

  After taking our own resting heart rates as a starting point, we're divided up into stations. Staying with the theme of our isolated lab table, Lex and I are the only pair that doesn't have to share with another group.

  We take a seat in front of Station #1 and I gesture for her to begin. "Ladies first."

  She plops on the earphones, hits play, and spends the next minute listening to the stimulus. When she's finished, I look her over.

  "How do you want me to take your pulse? Wrist, neck, put my hand on your heart pledge of allegiance style?" My gaze drops to her chest and I grin. "I prefer that one."

  She rolls her eyes before pointing near her jaw. "The neck's the easiest to fine."

  "Okay." She's sitting a good three feet away from me, so I reach forward and grab the center of her chair. "Come closer."

  I pull her seat forward until our legs tangle together, one of her knees resting against the inside of my thigh. Leaning towards her, I get a delicious whiff of fruity perfume.

  "Ready?"

  She nods and tilts her head backwards, exposing the delicate skin of her throat for me. The moment my fingers graze her smooth flesh, something fucking wild happens.

  A powerful jolt of electricity surges down my spine, the feeling so intense I almost jerk out of my damn seat. The firing nerves spread out until every last inch of my skin is buzzing from the contact.

  The sensation is so extreme, it honestly freaks me the fuck out.

  And I'm not the only one who felt it, either.

  When I leisurely drag my fingers across Lexie's jawline, her eyes go wide, pupils dilating as she intakes a sharp breath.

  I continue my exploration of her velvet skin. Her head arches back further in response. When I find her pulse, I press down firmly. She releases a heavy sigh, her eyes fluttering closed as her lips part slightly.

  Shit.

  Instant hard-on.

  Somehow, I manage to pull my focus from her erotic expression to her pulse rate. The pitter-patter of her heart gets faster and faster as I count, the reading not exactly accurate.

  When I'm finished, I reluctantly remove my fingers and jot it down.

  "Your turn," Lexie mumbles, pushing the headphones my way with a staggered look.

  I listen to the stimulus, but the upbeat classical music barely even registers in my brain.

  What does register is the gentle scrape of her nails against my jaw. The cool touch of her fingers as they act like a salve to my burning skin. She expels a slow breath against my neck, and I legit almost shoot my load.

  God damn.

  Feels better than a fucking blowjob.

  She finds the beat, staying there for a good two minutes before I ask if she's counting.

  She blinks up at me, those lime-green eyes half-mast. "What?"

  "Are you taking my pulse?"

  "Oh." Her voice cracks on the word and she quickly swallows. "Yeah. I, uh, lost track."

  I watch as she counts under her breath, writes down the measurement, and immediately jumps from her seat. "I'm gonna go get some water."

  She scuttles out of the classroom and I drag a hand over my face.

  I'd like to get some water, too. Maybe cool down a bit.

  Eh, screw it.

  What I'd really like to do is rub one out in a bathroom stall, but I'm glued to my seat in utter confusion at what just happened.

  This physical reaction is wack.

  I've fucked my fair share of women, so it's not like I'm some sexually frustrated dude who comes his pants from a chick shaking his hand.

  So why is it that this innocent touch feels like the most intimate thing I've ever experienced?

  Five minutes later, Lexie comes back into the room. We move onto the next station, my notebook sufficing as a boner-blocker when I have to stand.

  She avoids any sort of eye-contact with me as she begins the next stimulus.

  I peer at the screen, the video showing some long-ass nails tapping on random shit. I think it's supposed to produce a calming effect, but when she finishes, it's evident she's not relaxed.

  Not even close.

  I can physically see her pulse throbbing on her neck, a steady buzz rivaling that of a hummingbird's heart beat.

  "You alright?" I murmur as I barely brush my fingers against the vibrating vein. "It's still really fucking fast."

  She ducks away from my touch and clears her throat. "I don't think we rested long enough between stations."

  I give her a pointed look, one that says that's bullshit. 'Cause we rested more than the full five minutes.

  Unless she was out in the hallway running sprints instead of getting water.

  Yeah, no. />
  She knows the real reason.

  "Watch the video one more time," I instruct.

  After another round of tapping, she removes the headphones and turns to me.

  "Okay," she says softly. "Try again. I'm ready now."

  I position my fingers in the same location as before, not surprised to find her heart's pounding even faster than the previous attempt.

  And my pulse?

  It's doing the same damn thing.

  Our data is fucked.

  Lab comes to an end, and Lexie's still frazzled as shit.

  She's so frazzled that when we turn in our data and Dr. Benton jokingly asks if we had methamphetamine for breakfast, she says yes without a trace of humor.

  After clearing up that little mishap with the prof, I follow her to our lab station. She packs up her things, hands so fidgety she can barely stuff her shit in her bag.

  I can tell she's gonna bolt the second he dismisses us, and bolt she does.

  She Usain Bolts it outta there.

  I chase after her, the scene all too reminiscent of that first day of lab a few weeks back.

  Except this time I know her name—her full, way too long, birth-certificate-official name.

  I know she doesn't get embarrassed. I know she takes her coffee black as night.

  And I know she's one of the most badass girls on this entire campus.

  But shit.

  I want to know more.

  She pushes through a pair of glass doors and steps out into beaming sunlight.

  "Lexie."

  She spins around, shoulders tense. "Yes?"

  "Date me."

  The words slip from my mouth before I even know what the fuck I'm saying.

  "What?"

  This would be the chance for me to take it back, but instead I double down.

  "I'm dead serious." I take a step forward, not giving a shit that I'm blocking the entrance. "Date me."

  "Why?" Shock and suspicion coats her tone.

  "Because," I say. "You should go out with someone you actually have a physical connection with. Someone you have chemistry with. And obviously you and I have that together."

  "No we don't," she states. "This is biology lab, not chemistry."

  "Deflection through jokes isn't gonna work right now, babe. Don't try to play this off."

  She grips the straps of her backpack and squeezes. "We don't have any chemistry."