I slam the door behind me and stalk out of the building.
I’m a good block away before I’m calm enough to think clearly again. I go over what just happened. Slamming him against the wall was technically battery wasn’t it? Assault is threat, battery is when you get physical. Fun fucking fact.
Deep breaths.
I try to consider things from Brett’s point of view.
I am a bit on the secretive side. I don’t like anyone knowing my business. And everything he’d said did make a kind of sense. From his perspective I must have been behaving oddly. Maybe even a little like his cousin.
The real question is, what had he intended to do if he’d actually found drugs in the room? I don’t do that shit. It’s a money sink and I’ve got control issues enough without some other substance fucking me up. Alcohol excluded. That’s a kind of fucked up you sometimes need.
Assuming that I had been stupid enough to keep illegal substances in the apartment, what would Brett have done when he’d found them? Turn me over to campus police probably. That was his cleanest out. The most likely way to keep himself out of trouble, at least to the mind of someone who doesn’t know how cops work. Chances were even though he’d been the one to call it in they would have still arrested him. Would he have known that? Or did he have some other goal?
If I strained to give him the benefit of the doubt I could see him getting rid of the drugs in some misguided effort to help me. I snorted. That was bullshit. But was it the kind of misguided goody-two-shoes bullshit that Brett would buy into?
I found a bar and made my way in, hopping up onto a stool and fishing out my wallet. I don’t like credit cards but they’re useful for evenings like this when you want to start a tab.
Before the bartender can take my card, however, a chorus of laughter sounds from across the bar. One of those voices sounds familiar and reflexively my eyes follow the laughter to its source.
Of all the watering holes in all the towns in the world, I’d walked into hers.
Chapter Twenty
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Isabella’s sitting at a circular table in the corner of the bar, surrounded by a half dozen girls, all laughing at something one of them had just said. Her laughter lights up her face so that she almost seems to glow among and I can’t take my eyes away. It’s been a while since I’d seen her, or even given her much thought, but seeing her now has me remembering our flirting and a little light bulb goes off in my mind. I won’t even have to contrive a reason to go talk to her.
My stomach and throat clench up as I go forward and the eyes of the table fall on me. It’s one thing to talk to a girl after solving a problem for her. I’d been riding on a competency high back at the party. It’s another to go up to her while she’s surrounded by a bunch of friends and ask her out.
“Aaron, right?” She asks as I approach. She remembers me. Hopefully only the first part of the evening and not the second.
“That’s me,” I say. “Isabella, isn’t it?” If she’s going to ask about my name I’m going to turn the same on her. She doesn’t need to know that I’d committed every detail of our encounter to memory.
She nods, still smiling. “What’s up?”
I resist the urge to clear my throat as I look her in the eyes. It’s hard. I normally don’t have an issue looking someone in the eyes—it’s what you do to show and command respect. But this girl’s eyes…I could go swimming in those dark pools and get lost in them. There’s a weight to them and I have to press against it to make my words come out.
“I believe you owe me a beer,” I say, and I’m surprised by how normal my voice sounds.
She raises her eyebrows. “I do?”
“That’s right,” I say, nodding sagely, then offer her a grin I hope is mischievous and not creepy. “For services rendered.”
She stares for a moment then bursts into laughter. “My truck!”
A moment later she’s out of her chair and skirting around her friends. “This guy saved me a trip to the mechanic,” she says to the sudden curious looks they’re offering her. “I definitely owe him a beer.”
Together we make our way up to the bar proper and she orders me something from the tap. That she doesn’t get a drink for herself puzzles me and I glance back to her table. She might have a drink there, there’s plenty of bottles, mugs, and cutsie little glasses with girly drinks her friends are drinking, but the area around her seat seems more devoid of beverages than most and I come to a conclusion.
“You’re not drinking anything,” I say.
She glances at me. “What, now?”
I nod my head at her table. “Your friends are all drinking, but you’re not.”
She laughs. “Good eye. Do you know how many calories are in a beer?”
I don’t bother to hide my surprise. “I didn’t think you were the kind of girl that counted her calories.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Those dark eyes flash. I’m on thin ice. One wrong word and I’ll plunge through.
“You’re athletic enough I figured you burn through calories like that,” I snap my fingers for emphasis and a second lightbulb goes off in my head. “That’s it isn’t it. You’re an athlete.”
She nods. “Yup. I give myself a cheat day every now and then, but one beer can undo an entire day’s workout.”
“So, what do you play? Futbol?” I ask.
Isabella scowls at me. “Because I’m Mexican your mind automatically goes to soccer?”
“No, actually,” I say, though that thought had crossed my mind. “It’s the way you carry yourself. You’ve got amazing balance and your core is clearly outstanding.” I run my hand in the air above my own belly, then glance at her arms. She’s not bulging with muscle but she’s definitely girl-buff. “But you’ve got great upper body strength too though, so I’m going to guess, swimming.”
She smiles. “I supplement my routine with swimming.”
Supplement? So she’s not a swimmer then. What else could give her this kind of physique then?
The bar tender sets my beer down in front of me.
“There you go,” she says with a smirk. “For services rendered.”
She turns, clearly meaning to return to her table. Without thinking I reach out and take her hand. She turns quick, eyes blazing. Some reptilian part of my brain is telling me I’ve fucked up and need to run because I’ve just awoken something dangerous. Another, less intelligent part of my brain, the part that thinks things like playing with fireworks is fun, pushes me forward and I meet her sudden scowl with a grin. She’s gorgeous when she’s angry.
“You forgot the late fee,” I say.
Her scowl deepens. “Did I?”
I nod and hold up a finger. “One dance should just about cover the interest.” I turn my finger to point at the mostly empty dance floor. A few partners are moving to the music over there but it’s too early for the real crowd yet. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you’re an incredible dancer.”
That softens her a little. But only a little. She’s smirking at me now. “Okay, cabrón. Show me what you got?”
I abandon my beer and follow her to the dance floor where I’m almost instantly proved right. When the next song comes on Isabella is on fire. She moves, hard, fast, and with passion. It’s all I can do to keep up. I haven’t exactly been doing a lot of cardio lately. That sort of thing is discouraged in prison for obvious reasons and since I got out most of my attention has been on classes and Kaiju Wars.
But keep up I do. Free and wandering spirit that my mother is, she insisted that everywhere we go we have a good time. To her, this included dancing. I don’t let myself think about how she’ll never dance again and instead focus on the memories of the lessons she gave me growing up and try to move to the music and match Isabella.
By the time the song ends I’ve got an embarrassing layer of perspiration clin
ging to my forehead and she’s beaming at me. Whatever her sport of choice it, it clearly includes a lot of cardio because she’s barely breathing hard.
“Ready for round two?” she asks, beaming as the next song comes on.
I’m not, but I’m not about to admit it.
I don’t do so well this time. It’s all I can do to keep moving from trying to match her pace. Isabella barely seems to notice. She’s lost in her own world, the music taking her somewhere far away. Who she’s dancing with isn’t nearly as important to her as the fact that she’s dancing at all. Her physique and good looks probably scare off most guys who’d consider asking her to dance.
Unfortunately, that means that this dance doesn’t mean the same thing to us. For me, it’s a chance to be with her. For her, it’s a chance to do an activity she loves. I’m not key to the equation. That’s not good enough for me, so I step back when the song ends, doing my best to disguise my heavy breathing. The girl can move.
“What, you done already?” Her eyes twinkle with mischief. She wants to shame me into another dance.
“Not at all. Only you’ve paid off your interest. You dance any more with me and it’s all voluntary.” I return her mischievous look with one of my own. “Might just mean you kind of like me.”
She rolls her eyes. “I was starting to, then you went and said something stupid like that.”
I give her my best smirk. “Oh, you liked me from the moment you saw me.”
“Did I?” She raises her eyebrows.
“Oh, yeah, but that’s okay, we can pretend you’re not completely into me.”
She makes a very unladylike sound. “You know, I heard somewhere that if you wear a mask long enough, it becomes your face.”
“That sounds painful.” I know it’s not what she means, but my mind immediately conjures up images of skin growing over a mask left too long on some poor victim. Taking that thing off would require surgery.
“Excruciating,” she agreed.
“Then I guess we shouldn’t pretend at all and I should just take you on a date.”
We stepped off the dance floor as another song came on, in part so we could hear each other and in part to get out of another couple’s way as they danced.
“You saying this doesn’t count as a date?” Isabella asked.
I rolled my eyes, then met hers. “When I take a woman on a date, she knows she’s on a date. And I pay for her drinks.”
She considers me for a moment, then nods. “That’s fair.”
“Excellent. It’s a date.”
“No. No, that is not what I said.” She’s flushed, her words coming out hurried. I’ve caught her off guard.
“What? Afraid you’ll like it?”
That flash is back in her eyes and she steps forward, getting right into my face and jams her finger into my chest. “I’m not scared of nothing.”
I beam at her. “Then it’s a date.”
For a moment, she looks like a tigress that’s just taken a bite of something sour. Then she shakes her head and that laugh is back, lighting up her face. “Alright. You can take me out on a date. When and where?”
I take her hand. “How about here and now?”
Her eyes widen. “What?” She glances at her friend’s table. A few are staring at her and when she looks at them, they look away, giggling, or wave at her with ‘go get it’ motions. “Traitors,” she mutters.
“I promise you, I’ll show you a much better time than they will,” I say.
“If you don’t, then you never come up and bother me again,” she says, crossing her arms.
“And if I do, then you owe me a second date.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Deal.”
Chapter Twenty-One
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Isabella is a crazy driver.
The luxury Jaguar handles her psychotic style well, barely a whisper from the machine as it glides around what for any sane person should have been an impossible turn to attempt. Isabella is having too much fun to care for anything that resembles sanity. Even the laugh she’s filling the car with makes me think of a mad scientist.
She’s laughing so hard that the dealer in the back seat, who is still trying to sell us on this vehicle, can’t be heard. I much prefer her laughter to his nasally tone anyway. The guy’s a trooper, putting up with us like this, but Isabella’s enthusiasm is contagious. This was definitely one of my better ideas.
I’d taken her from the bar to a car dealership, told them she was a pre-med student, about to graduate and looking for a luxury vehicle to “invest” in. Isabella was confused, but played her role quietly, waiting to see what I was up to. Only when I suggested to her, in a way that the dealer, convinced he was going to sucker us into an abysmal deal, couldn’t refuse, that she should test drive the vehicles to see what felt best to her, did she break character. The grin she’d offered me was positively wicked.
The jaguar is our third and last vehicle of the evening. The dealership is closing down. This has emboldened Isabella, and while she’d driven the first car timidly, as if afraid it might tear away from her like a wild animal, she’s putting the jaguar through its paces. From the sounds that managed to make it to the front from the dealer, he’s very close to puking.
This only makes us laugh harder.
“I definitely need one of these,” Isabella screams. She needn’t have bothered. Despite her speed the vehicle barely makes a sound.
I blow a raspberry. “Please. These things break all the time. Constant maintenance. Specialized parts.”
“Good thing I know a decent mechanic,” she says with a wink.
“I’ll have you know I am way better than ‘decent.’ And you wouldn’t catch me dead working on one of these things. Pain in the ass machine meant to break down and part rich people from their money.”
Isabella laughs harder. Another impossible turn, this time narrowly missing a car that’s forgotten to signal, and we’re zooming down the frontage road back toward the dealership.
I glance in the back. The dealer is green-faced and clutching his own legs, sitting rigidly in place. He looks as if one more sudden motion might make him spew. At least he’s given up trying to get us to go for the immediate buy.
When Isabella pulls us into the dealership and finally parks the car, the man all but falls out of the vehicle.
“Thanks for your time,” I say, and we run off, leaving him hunched over with his hands on his knees.
“You are some kind of adrenaline junky,” I say several blocks later. It’s not really late but she’s got a test to study for tomorrow. This date was impromptu after all. From the sheer joy she’s radiating, I’d say it’s a successful one.
“And you’re not?” she asks back, giving me a gentle shove. Gentle, but powerful. It’s easy to forget just how strong she actually is because she’s so pretty.
“What sport do you play?” I ask. She’d denied swimming and soccer, which I found a little hard to believe, especially with her cardio. Soccer keeps you running for pretty much a full hour and a half plus and swimming works the entire body. I’m struggling to come up with another sport that tones the entire body so well.
The look she gives me is sly, like she knows what my guess is and is delighted by just how wrong I am. “What makes you think I ‘play’ anything?”
“We talked about this,” I reply. “You’re definitely some kind of athlete.”
She twirls about, coming to a stop about a yard ahead of me, and shrugs. “Some kind, sure.”
“You like stringing me along, don’t you?”
She laughs. We’re almost to her place. “Maybe I think that’s a second date kind of question.”
“Who says there’s going to be a second date?” I tease.
She gets a shocked expression on her face and punches me in the arm. Hard. Like really hard. I think I’m actually going to get a br
uise.
“Damn,” I say rubbing the spot.
She sniffs pointedly. “You deserved that.”
I chuckle. That was a damn good punch. Is it weird that I find that sexy?
“No comment,” I say. “But I would like a second date.”
“Throw a punch.”
I blink. That was not something I expected to hear. “Come again?”
“Show me how you throw a punch,” she says, more slowly, stepping off to the side, looking contemplative.
“You think I don’t know how to punch?” I ask.
“I know you don’t know how to throw a punch,” she says. “I saw you at the party.”
“I knocked that frat boy out,” I protest. “There’s a fucking meme with it going around.”
She cocks her hips and gives me an exasperated expression. “Please, that pinche guey was a puta.”
I burst out laughing. There’s too much lost in the translation to properly appreciate some insults in English.
Shaking my head, I put up my fists and throw a punch.
Isabella makes a face. “Not bad. You’re kind of scrappy, I guess.
Scrappy? Me? I haven’t had that term applied to me since I was a little kid. Even then it was quickly turned into phrases like “tough as nails.” I’m a hard bastard, been fighting all my life. What’s she got against my punching?
“You guess?” I say.
She shrugs. “It took you three tries to knock that dickhead’s lights out.”
Yeah, only three, I want to say. Something holds me back though. “You think you could have done it sooner?”
She throws her head back and lets out a bark of laugher. “I know I could have.”
Maybe. I have some doubts. A lot of people say they can fight a lot better than they actually can. Most even think they’re not all talk. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. Hell, it’s actually kind of hot that I can talk to her about violence at all.
“I’ve enjoyed this,” I say to her, no more playing around.
How To Train Your Kaiju Page 11