by Vanessa Page
“Shit, that burns!” She cries quietly pressing the heal of her hand tight against her eye still.
Miranda leans in close from the other side and sets a hand on Krystal’s arm. “Krys, what happened?”
“I got lemon in my fucking eye.” Her voice is loud enough to draw attention from the guests at the tables closest to us, but it doesn’t matter.
I slide out of the booth and reach out a hand, gently wrap it around the wrist of the hand not covering her eye. “Come on.”
She scoots across the seat and stands, lets me lead her toward the back of the restaurant. “Where are we going?” She’s still covering half her face, and sounds almost on the verge of tears. I think I even hear a soft sniffle.
“The bathroom so you can rinse your eye.”
When we get there, I push the ladies’ room door open and motion for her to go in. “I’ll wait out here for you.” I let the door swing closed once she’s inside, and I lean against the wall across from the door.
Krystal emerges from the bathroom just a few minutes after going in, but enough time passes for me to wonder what the hell I’m even doing on this date. I should have bailed the minute I saw her walking toward the car. I shouldn’t find someone this troublesome this attractive. But there’s something about her that is drawing me in. Right now, her face is dewy and clean, stripped of most of the makeup she’d been wearing. Traces of it linger under her eyes and around the fringes of her lashes, and the effect reminds me of a morning after look, the way she might look waking up after a night in my bed. Suddenly, I’m picturing her between my sheets in soft morning light instead of the dimly lit hallway outside a restaurant ladies’ room.
I shake my head to dispel the image. “Better?”
“Yes, thank you,” she says in a soft voice. “You didn’t need to wait.”
“It was no problem.” I hold my arm out to her the same way I have twice before. This is becoming my signature move with her. And she sets her hand on my arm, tucking herself neatly to my side again.
When we get back to the table, she slides in gracefully, and I reclaim my seat beside her. Salads and bread are already on the table waiting for us, and Krystal focuses her attention on her plate.
“So, Krystal, where did you grow up?” It’s a ridiculous question, made for small talk among new acquaintances, but I’m grasping at straws here. This might possibly be the worst blind date ever. Truth be told, I’m not even sure why I’m trying.
Miranda and Jameson are leaning cozily toward one another in the opposite corner of the booth, all but ignoring us. And with Krystal pretending her salad is the most interesting thing she’s seen in years, I’m on my own.
When our food arrives a few minutes later, I’m ready for the distraction. Krystal, on the other hand, seems completely caught off guard by the guy delivering the plates from the kitchen. She jumps in her seat when he moves to put her plate down in front of her, and the back of her head connects with the seat behind her with a dull thud. She lets out a curse and reaches up to gingerly press her fingers to the back of her skull.
“Are you okay?” I instinctively reach toward her, but draw back when she eyes my hand like it’s a snake about to strike. Miranda and Jameson both watch with matching expressions that exist somewhere between horror and amusement. The waiter quietly goes about setting our respective dishes in front of us while avoiding looking at Krystal.
“Fine,” she mutters, but she’s still rubbing her scalp.
I can’t help but wonder if she is always like this, or if she’s just having an off night. She certainly didn’t seem so accident prone at the party or outside the frat house, but since those are the only other times that I’ve ever seen her, I can’t say for sure if this is a one-off thing.
When all of the food has been delivered and the four of us are alone at the table again, Miranda leans over to Krystal. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine. Just tired.” And she follows up with a weary sigh, as if to give truth to her words.
“Do you want to go?” Miranda asks.
Krystal shakes her head. “No, of course not. We just got here.” She pastes on what I’m positive is a fake smile and reaches for her silverware on the table.
And misses. Her hand knocks straight into my water glass, and it tilts, almost in slow motion, then tips completely and spills across my plate, over the edge, down onto the table, and straight into my lap.
Icy water pours straight onto my junk. I slide quickly to the side, claiming the empty space between Krystal and me, hissing from the cold sensation. Water continues to drip onto the seat, but it beads off the vinyl or leather or whatever this booth material is made out of.
Krystal is now in full freak-out mode. She’s scrambling for her napkin and talking so fast and in such a high pitch that I can’t make out the words. It sounds like she’s apologizing, but there’s ice water giving my dick hypothermia, so my ears aren’t exactly working at the moment.
Then her hand lands solidly in the center of my lap. She’s dabbing at my crotch with her napkin, attempting to soak up the water. I freeze. I should do something, say something, but her hand is on my penis and how do you tell a girl she’s touching your Johnson if she doesn’t already know?
She rubs at the wet spot, bending her head over my lap, I assume to get a better view of the situation. She’s about to get an eyeful if she keeps rubbing my junk like this. I clear my throat. Loudly.
Miranda sets a hand on Krystal’s shoulder and whispers, “Krys.”
Krystal stops rubbing, but doesn’t immediately move her hand away or lift her head. I hear her inhale softly, then, “Shit.”
She raises her head slowly and meets my gaze. Her face is tinged pink with embarrassment, and her eyes are wide, like a frightened deer, frozen in shock. Which would explain why her hand is still in my lap. Not that I’m one to complain about a pretty girl having her hand on my junk.
But the old couple at the table next to us is giving us dirty looks, and I suspect that’s the kind of thing that would bother a girl like Krystal. I clear my throat again and give a pointed look toward my fly and her hand covering it. Never mind the semi forming beneath it. Maybe she hasn’t noticed that. Here’s hoping.
Her gaze darts down, and she yanks her hand away from my pants so fast her elbow bangs against the back of the booth. She drops her wet napkin onto the booth between us. I grab it and use it to clean up the water on the other side of me so I can put a little distance between us. One glance at Krystal proves she’s back to ignoring everything except the plate in front of her, and I realize now that maybe that is a good thing.
I will away my impending erection, doing my best to reason with myself that she is not my type and I’m not in the market for a girlfriend. My dick, soaked in ice water as it is, doesn’t seem to be as discriminating. As much as I know, logically, that I do not want to date Krystal, or wake up to her in my bed, or have her hand rubbing at my crotch, my body doesn’t seem to have gotten the message. I just need to get through this date, and then hopefully I can keep my distance from her.
CHAPTER SIX
Krystal
“Worst date ever,” I announce to Abby as I throw my sweater on my desk. I flop face down on my bed, and briefly consider smothering myself in the blanket to put myself out of my misery.
“Come on, it couldn’t have been that bad.”
“Says the girl who’s reading alone in her dorm room on a Friday night,” I answer without lifting my head. Sure, Abby is curled on her bed with a book, but she was at some fundraising meeting for one of her clubs earlier. So, in all fairness, she did actually go out tonight.
“Book boyfriends are so much better than the real thing.” Her response is matter of fact and unapologetic.
“Maybe I’ll try that. Because I suck at dates. Anyone who is as bad at it as I am shouldn’t be allowed to do it.” I flip over and stare up at the ceiling.
Abby puts her book down, gets off her bed, and climbs onto mi
ne to lie flat next to me. “What happened?”
I release a long sigh and then dive in. “Well, for starters… I knew the guy.”
“And?”
“And… it was the guy who walked me home from the party the other night.”
Abby shifts on her side and props her head up on one hand to look down at me in confusion. “The guy you asked out who told you he didn’t date?”
I nod. “Ryan’s frat brother.”
Abby makes a choking noise of disgust.
“That’s not even the worst part, Abs. I was a total spaz.” I go on to relay the highlights of the date, how I almost flashed the entire parking lot, how barely a minute later, I tripped and fell boob-first into my date’s hands, squeezing lemon juice in my eye, practically giving him a hand job in front of an old couple. And how after that, I basically shut down and didn’t participate in the conversation at all.
I can tell by Abby’s tight-lipped expression that she’s trying hard not to laugh at me.
“Go ahead and laugh. I know you want to.”
She does. Long and loud. “At least you got to second base, though.”
Her humor is infectious, lifting my mood in small measures, and I join her in laughter. “Actually, I think I got to third.”
“Okay, but he got to second.”
I nod in agreement. “Yeah, in the middle of a busy parking lot.”
“I never pegged you for an exhibitionist.”
I chuck one of my many pillows at her. “Everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”
She tosses my pillow back onto my bed near my feet. “So, are you going to see him again?”
I laugh again, but this time it’s accented by self-deprecation. “He was only there as a favor to his friend. He’s sticking to the story that he doesn’t date. But honestly, Abs, I got the distinct impression there’s something specifically about me that he’s not into.”
“Well, screw him. You’re too good for him anyway.”
I know Abby means screw him in the proverbial, forget-about-him way, but her words conjure images of Jace hovering over me on my bed, his hand on my breast on purpose. My dress riding up because he’s pulling it up to get to what’s underneath. I push the thoughts aside and hope Abby doesn’t notice my sudden discomfort and realize the turn of my thoughts. “Yeah, screw him,” I mutter and push off the bed to go in search of pajamas.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m showered and comfortably clad in my coziest of leggings and pullover sweater. Abby’s light is off on her side of the room, and she’s curled under her blanket facing the wall. I do my best to be quiet as I settle into my bed with my phone and earbuds. Midnight has barely arrived, and I’ll probably be up for some time. My intention is to get lost down a social media meme hole, where I can pretend everything is funny and this night never happened.
When I look at my screen and scroll through my notifications, I see a message notification. From Jason Harlow. I don’t know a Jason Harlow, and the profile pic is a football player in full gear, helmet and all. No hints there. I open the message.
Jason: How’s your eye?
Recognition dawns. This must be my reluctant date. Jace could be short for Jason. I type back.
Me: Better, thanks
He responds almost immediately. Almost like he was watching the phone and waiting for my message.
Jason: And your head?
Me: Also better.
Jason: Glad to hear it
I don’t know what to say after that. Messaging me is an odd move for someone who doesn’t want to date and especially doesn’t want to date me. At midnight no less. I spend several long minutes trying to think of something to send back. Eventually, three little dots pop up on the bottom of the chat window to show that he’s typing.
Jason: You looked nice tonight. I don’t know if I told you that.
Me: You’re messaging me in the middle of the night tell me I looked nice?
Jason: I guess I am
Me: thank you
He doesn’t send anything back for so long I begin to think that was the end of the conversation. I’m just about to move on to mindless scrolling through my feed when a new message pops up.
Jason: I had a nice time tonight.
Me: aside from the water in your lap?
Jason: It wasn’t so bad.
I smirk. Yeah, because I ended up almost giving him an accidental handy under the table in my haste to help clean up the mess. I type back quickly.
Me: because you got felt up?
The three dots appear, then disappear. They reappear again. Then they’re gone. Shit. Why did I say that? When the dots appear and disappear again, I mentally kick myself. I close out the app and drop my phone onto my chest. Stare up at my dark ceiling. I fight the urge to mentally replay all the embarrassing details of the date.
My phone buzzes on my chest and startles me out of my self-pity. I scramble to pick it up and see another message from Jason.
Jason: pretty sure we both got felt up tonight
Heat floods my face at the memory of tripping over my own absurdly tall heels and falling into his arms like a total klutz. The memory of his hand connecting with my breast will be forever emblazoned in my mind. The feel of the pressure of his palm pressing against my hard nipple, the only barrier between his skin and mine a few thin layers of flimsy gauze. I might as well have been naked beneath his touch. I decide to play dumb.
Me: Did we?
Jason: Yeah, when you tripped and I caught you…
Me: I didn’t even notice
Jason: I noticed.
This entire conversation is stilted and awkward, just like our date was, but it also feels like we’re on the verge of flirting. Like the option is there, but neither one of us knows how to make the leap. Or maybe neither one of us is sure flirting is a good idea here. After all, he doesn’t date.
But, just because he doesn’t date, doesn’t mean he isn’t interested in something else, I realize. Maybe he just doesn’t do serious. Maybe casual hookups are his jam. A spark of interest lights up in my brain. I’ve only ever had serious relationships. What would a casual hookup be like? What would a casual hookup with Jace be like? Suddenly, I’m feeling much more brazen than I was a few moments ago.
Me: Maybe you should try it again when I’m paying attention.
Jason: You want me to touch you?
Me: Do you want to touch me?
Three dots and then nothing. Again. Maybe I’ve scared him off. Finally, he responds.
Jason: a guy would be stupid not to
I catch myself blushing stupidly into the darkness and make a concerted effort to pull my lips back into a neutral position. And I decide to go for it. Again.
Me: So, maybe we should go out again sometime?
A moment later, the message indicator changes from delivered to read. But no little dots appear to indicate he’s writing back. I wait for several minutes, then several more. Nothing. With each passing minute, I regret my last message more and more. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I close out of my messages, toss my phone onto the floor and cover my head with my pillow. I’m an idiot. The guy already turned me down once. Now I’m just being pathetic. I resolve then and there to be done with Jace. What kind of jerk leaves a girl on read anyway?
Well, I deserve better. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to forget Jason “Jace” Harlow even exists.
~
“Wakey, wakey!” Abby calls much too cheerfully, pulling me from a sleep so deep, I’m pretty sure I didn’t even dream. Which is probably a good thing, since my dreams probably would have just been nightmares anyway, like my brain replaying the entire events of the blind date from hell last night.
I groan and roll over to look at the clock.
8:12 a.m.
“Whyyy?” I wine, drawing the word out as I cover my face with my blanket to block out the overhead light Abby so rudely turned on.
“Come on, hon. We have that fundraiser meeting for the drama club, remember?
You promised you would help.” Her voice fades a bit as she moves across the room, it sounds like in the direction of my closet. I throw back my covers and crawl out of bed, if only to stop her from trying to dress me again.
Sure enough, she’s halfway inside my closet and already has a fistful of something black and lacy. “Stop right there!” I call out. “If you want me to go today, you will step out of my closet.”
She holds her hands up in front of her in a gesture of surrender, but doesn’t look at all upset about my reprimand. If anything, she looks pleased with herself, like it was some sort of ploy to get me moving. Knowing Abby, it probably was.
I make short work of getting dressed in khaki shorts and a plain navy-blue T-shirt, not bothering with makeup, beyond some mascara and a tinted lip gloss. I slip my feet into a pair of navy ballet flats, and after a quick trip to the restroom, we’re on our way.
Abby is considerably more made up than I am, in an orange and white maxi dress that reminds me of summer and enough gold jewelry to blind a person if she stands in the sun, which she has topped off with a face full of night-out-on-the-town makeup in sunset colors.
Abby tries to hide her impatience at the fact that the time is now 9:06 a.m. and the meeting was supposed to start at nine. She won’t even let me run into the dining hall for some coffee, even though it’s practically right next to Arthur Hall, where this shindig is taking place.
“I’m sure there will be coffee there, and I don’t want to miss more than we have to. RJ is in charge of assigning tasks, and he can be difficult to deal with sometimes.”
I smirk. “Difficult” is Abby speak for he doesn’t do whatever she says. Most guys find Abby intimidating, to say the least. And those who don’t find her intimidating find her irresistible. She’s outgoing, outspoken, and generally unaffected by what other people think of her. Pair that with her Hollywood-level beauty and mile-long legs, and she can be pretty intimidating to anyone. Most guys either do everything she says or avoid her entirely. So, what makes this RJ guy different?
Abby is walking so fast that I practically have to jog to keep up with her. When I’m out of breath and on the verge of breaking a sweat, I reach out and tug her arm to slow her down. “Listen, Abs. I love you, but if you aren’t going to let me stop for coffee, you’re going to need to slow down. I’m not the morning-run type, and I’m certainly not the morning-run-with-no-caffeine type. So, slow your roll or I’m going back to the dorm and back to bed.”