by Ney, Sara
I lift my chin and study him. Unwavering eyes. Purposeful gaze, unflinching. Straight brows.
Oh.
Crap, he isn’t kidding—I think it’s seriously bothering him that I’m checking out his body.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t staring.” I mean, I was, but not to be rude. Merely curious.
What was his original point? Pussy—god, that word—and something about rules and dating and the guys in this place?
Beards.
Jesus, my eyes are straying again and I swear I’m not doing it on purpose—there is just too much to see. His large brown eyes, the bushy brows. The man bun, the beard.
This guy is so freaking… Hairy.
And intense.
I give my head a physical shake. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
He expels a loud sigh. “We were talking about how if you’re going to date one of the guys here, you can’t be such a goddamn pussy.”
“No we weren’t. I never said anything about dating guys here—you did.”
He snorts then takes a drag from the cup in his hand. “Please. Everyone wants to date the guys around here.”
“Rugby players?” I scoff, disguising my snort with a cough. “I don’t think so.”
“Rugby players isn’t what I meant—I meant athletes at this school in general.” He lifts a leg, propping his massive booted foot on top of the metal keg. “But what’s wrong with rugby players?”
“Nothing!” I don’t want to offend him, it’s just… “Nothing is wrong with them, but I don’t think they’re any girl’s first choice in the hierarchy.”
That sounded so rude, the candor surprising me, and I clamp a hand over my lips to shut myself up.
I shouldn’t have any more beer.
“Well even if that’s not the case, you are without a doubt the worst jersey chaser I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen shit tons of them come through these parties. You’re terrible.”
“Did you just call me a…a…” I can’t even get the words out.
“Jersey chaser? Yeah. You didn’t hear me stutter, did you?”
“What would make you say that?” I’m one second away from clutching a hand to my chest at the indignation of it all.
“Dude, you’ve been here two weekends in a row, chatting up everyone and standing next to the keg—that’s prime real estate. That’s where all the guys congregate.”
Is it? I guess I hadn’t noticed.
“I did not do that on p-purpose!” I’m sputtering. Actually sputtering.
The giant takes another long pull from his cup. Swallows, his Adam’s apple somewhere in his throat concealed by all the hair. He’s in desperate need of a shave but clearly does not give a shit.
“Whatever you say, jersey chaser.” His drawl is nonchalant, and it’s obvious he doesn’t believe me.
“I don’t!” Wait, that didn’t make sense. “I’m not!”
Those wide, lumberjack shoulders shrug. “Whatever you say.”
“Stop doing that.” “Doing what?”
“Agreeing with me in a patronizing manner.” God do I sound like a prig.
One of his dark brows rises. “A patronizing manner? What the fuck is that? It sounds exactly like something my mom would say.”
Could this conversation get any worse?
“Look, man.” The word comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, further adding to my stuffy demeanor, but honestly, I have no idea what to say. “Thanks for the advice, but I don’t think I need it.” Especially not from someone who looks like he just emerged from the wilderness after being lost for a month.
“Just trying to help.”
“I don’t need help.”
His shoulders hunch as he laughs, and they shake a little with the action. “Sure you don’t.”
Pretty sure I’m gaping, mouth wide open. “I don’t! And I wasn’t trying to flirt with anyone so—whatever!”
“Then you were doing a great job.” His mustache twitches. “Until your friends showed up.”
Okay. Now he has my full attention, and I jut out a hip. “What about my friends?”
“They’re cock-blockers.”
Huh? “No they’re not.”
“So you weren’t flirting with Smith Jackson, and tonight you weren’t flirting with Ben Thompson, and your dark-haired friend didn’t come up and steal them both away?”
Wait…what? How does he know all this? “Smith Jackson who?”
I have no idea which guy he’s talking about, but they’ve all been nice. And so what if they’ve all walked off with Mariah? I wasn’t interested in them anyway.
“Were you watching me last week too?”
He shrugs. “Yes.”
His honestly confuses me. Most guys would lie or make up a lame excuse. “Why?”
“I had nothing better to do.”
Well then. “And you don’t think that’s strange?”
“Nope—not when you’re bored.” The guy snorts through the hair growing under his Grecian nose. “It’s not like I’m interested in you.”
Wow. “Gee, thanks.”
“No offense.” He looks like he couldn’t care less if he’s insulted me.
“None taken?”
He laughs again. “You sure about that? Now you look kind of pissed.”
Not pissed—but slightly offended. And embarrassed. And confused.
“Listen, I’m not trying to be a dick, okay? But you can’t come into a house like this and act like a deer caught in headlights. That just makes you an easy target. And if you’re interested in someone, you can’t stand there when one of your idiot friends hits on him and do nothing about it.” His voice is a baritone and drones on, doling out more unsolicited advice. “You can’t let your friends walk all over you.”
What the hell is he talking about? “I don’t!”
A pair of chocolate brown eyes settle toward the ceiling. “You’re in total denial. Your dark-haired friend is a total asshole—the female equivalent of a douchebag.”
Is he talking about Mariah? “Okay, this conversation is over.”
“Whatever. Suit yourself.”
“I’m walking away now.” My feet stay rooted to the spot.
The guy smirks…I think—it’s hard to tell with all the hair covering his mouth, but a set of straight, pearly white teeth flash, causing me to blink upward.
And now I’m staring again.
“Go. Don’t let me stop you.” I swear, he keeps taking sips of his beer for dramatic flare, flawlessly timed pauses. “Have fun.”
Annoying. “I will.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“I will.” Why am I arguing with this guy? Jeez, Teddy, stop repeating yourself or he’ll think you’re a moron. Not true, I continue protesting to myself, because he already does.
Thinks he’s so damn smart, watching everyone from the corner like a creeper. Judging.
Mariah is not a cock-blocker! She would never…
Besides, I scoff, it’s not like I wanted any of those guys to hit on me—we were just talking. I was standing at the keg, and they came up for beer, not to hit on me. And I certainly would never hit on a guy—not on purpose, anyway.
If Mariah, Cameron, and Tessa happened to come up at that exact same time and join the chat, and Mariah just happened to have better chemistry with someone, that has nothing at all to do with me.
She would never purposely…
I feel my brow tighten and furrow, glancing at my feet, at the open-toed, brown leather wedges buckled around my ankles. Cute. Pretty.
Sunk into the worn, stained carpet that’s been beat to hell from all the abuse, still standing in the spot I just declared I was walking away from.
My gaze wanders, settling on those stupid work boots.
Who wears that kind of footwear these days? Seriously? Lumberjacks, construction workers, and bad male rappers, that’s who, not twenty-something-year-old college guys at a house party. What is he even doing?
My lips purse with annoyance.
My eyes slide up his denim-clad legs, quickly passing over the slight bulge of his crotch—he doesn’t have a hard-on, but since I know he has a dick in his pants, naturally I want to look. Narrow waist. Belt. T-shirt half tucked at his hips.
Broad chest.
“Hey, look at you, leaving and shit. Good job following through.” With one hand clasped around his red cup, he smacks it with the other in a mock clap, holding it forward so it doesn’t spill.
My god, could he embarrass me any more?
“Your friends went that way.” He points, the mammoth paw at the end of his hairy arm raised and directed toward the back of the house.
“Thanks.”
“No prob—I’m here to help.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Helping?”
“I do what I can.”
I cross my arms over my breasts, mindful that my cleavage is now plumped and uncomfortably on display. I immediately uncross them—from his bird’s-eye view, no doubt he can see right down the valley between my boobs. “I didn’t ask for you to give me advice or stalk my friends or cast judgment on me.”
“Then you shouldn’t make it so damn easy.” He has the nerve to laugh, tipping back his beard-covered neck. The stubble is thick and dark blond, and I want to pull on it to get him to stop talking.
A few deeps breaths and I’ve sorted my insides out, quelling the unease that has been growing in the pit of my stomach. I smooth a hand over my abs, down the pleats in my pretty yellow sundress—a nervous habit I’ve caught myself doing on more than one occasion.
Expel a long, drawn-out breath he won’t be able to hear above the noise.
“It was nice meeting you.”
Only it wasn’t, because we didn’t actually meet. I have no idea what his name is, where he’s from, what his deal is.
He tilts his head. “Same.”
“Bye.”
When I chance a glance over my shoulder, the behemoth is watching, cup to his lips. It’s paused there, suspended, dark eyes boring into me.
Wow. He really is freaking huge. And honestly, not polite and not at all cute.
With a grimace, I give my head a shake and keep walking.
THIRD FRIDAY
“The Friday where he’s a combination of Neanderthal and Prince Charming.”
TEDDY
This is the third weekend in a row we’ve been at the rugby house, and I don’t have any solid proof, but I’m almost positive Mariah is hooking up with one of them. She hasn’t said anything to me about it, but why else would we keep coming back? She either likes someone here or she’s already sleeping with them.
I fiddle with the cup in my hand, conscious of the fact that once again, I’ve been left alone to fend for myself while my childhood friend works the room, having ditched me within minutes of our arrival.
It stings a little, if I’m being honest.
I wouldn’t have come tonight if I had known she was going to once again leave me hanging.
She never used to be like this; in high school, we were inseparable. When we began applying to colleges, against her parents’ and my mom’s better judgment, we applied to all the same schools. Lived together in the dorms our freshmen and sophomore years. Now, it’s our junior year.
We used to be attached at the hip, and now it seems I’ve become a second thought where Mariah is concerned.
In any case, I’m not going to get stuck standing by the keg tonight and risk the chance of being caught by that…that…
Guy.
He weirds me out, not because he’s creepy or perverted, but because he’s way too honest, and it makes me uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t need to have things sugarcoated, but he did bring up a subject that’s been on my mind a lot lately and that I’ve been a bit salty about.
Mariah taking advantage of our friendship. Of me.
The fact that a complete stranger picked up on it is embarrassing. I’d like to avoid him if humanly possible.
Tonight, I want to have fun, not have it thrown in my face that my friends keep throwing me over for boys.
I move along the perimeter of the room, putting up the pretense that I’m not scanning the room for him.
Him.
That guy—whatever his name is.
I wonder about that as I grip the cold red cup in my hand. Try to picture what a guy like that could possibly be named.
What would I name a lumberjack baby if I had one? Billy Ray. John Boy? Duane.
Cooter—that one makes me laugh, and I choke on the foam rimming my cup. The name Woody makes me laugh too, and by the time I look up and meet his eyes, I’m almost stupid giddy.
He’s scowling at me, of course, and wearing a plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled and pushed to the elbow.
His hair is up, twisted into a messy mop, long strands escaping at his temples, curling up and around his ears. It’s a gorgeous dirty blond, naturally streaked from the sun, a hue any girl would kill for and few could recreate.
Skin tan, high cheekbones pink. Not ruddy, but close.
The beard still long, although from here, it does look like he might have cleaned it up a bit? I have no interest in finding out—the last thing I want is for him to come over.
God no.
I rotate my body, presenting him with my back, and come face to face with the keg.
Dammit.
Move to the side a few feet, creating more distance between us, not sure what to do with myself because once again, I’m standing in the middle of a party alone.
I should be pissed at my friends, but the truth is, I’m relieved; standing with them is too much pressure. Too many people coming up to chat, too many guys coming up to flirt. Drunk guys make me nervous. Guys who are hitting on us make me nervous.
Drunk guys who are hitting on us make me nervous.
Unfortunately, that’s what I’m surrounded by, and unfortunately, I’ve been left to fend for myself.
The party is packed—third weekend in a row. I make a silent vow not to return for a fourth, not if I can help it. I’m bored and, stifling a yawn, take a drag of my beer for lack of anything better to do.
Stop watching me, I implore the hairy guy, still feeling his eyes on the back of my head.
The skin on my neck prickles.
Stop it. I’m not turning around.
My nose twitches despite itself, my head gives a little shake.
No.
Jeez. Doesn’t he have anything better to do other than stand there and creep on people who want to be left alone? I mean, not that I’m alone, alone. We are, after all, in a room full of people.
My gaze wanders.
Is he still looking? I’m dying to look over my shoulder but square them instead, standing taller on the heels of my tall, brown boots. Tap a toe impatiently, craning my head to survey the room.
If I tilt it just so, maybe I can catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye without actually having to turn my head? I test the theory, adding a hand to the column of my neck, faux-massaging it, lifting my cup to my lips.
So smooth.
Shift my eyes to the right.
Heart plummeting to my stomach because those sullen brown eyes of his are indeed locked on my short frame. I’m not facing him, but they’re so bright and striking I can make them out nonetheless. Even shrouded amongst all that hair.
Is he judging me? He must be—why else would he be attempting to telekinetically drill holes into the back of my skull? No doubt he thinks I’m a loser with no friends.
No—he thinks I’m a loser with shitty friends. Big difference.
He doesn’t like them and doesn’t even know them. Or me, for that matter.
Judgy, arrogant asshole.
My throat hmphs indignantly.
A noise from the kitchen has my head jerking in that general direction. Two huge guys spill through the narrow door and into the living room. It looks like they’re fighting—or wrestling?
; I recognize one of the moves as a half nelson, and the entire scene suddenly escalates when one of the guys maneuvers his meaty right arm, hooks it around the others guy’s neck, and pulls the guy down. Down onto the dirty, disgusting shag carpet.
Gross.
They’re both grunting, feet smashing into end tables. The wall.
One booted foot kicks. Entire body thrashes.
The guy on the bottom is unsuccessfully trying to untangle himself from whatever hold he’s in now, floundering like a fish out of water. Flopping, too drunk to remove himself but giving it the old college try.
Face bright red, he’s sputtering, getting pissed.
Steam practically rolls out of his nostrils as he throws his head back, trying to knock it against his opponent’s sweaty forehead.
No luck.
“Fuck you, Kissinger,” he slurs. “Let me the fuck up.”
Kissinger laughs, squeezing his arms like a python, wrapping them tighter.
The crowd shifts, girls gasping, people calling out. Cheering. Stumbling around, trying to make room as the boys tussle.
An elbow is released, nailing Kissinger in the gut. It’s not a taut stomach; he clearly hasn’t missed a kegger in months, beer belly pronounced.
A punch.
Someone gets kicked and falls over as blood gushes from his nose.
Girls scream—so dramatic—and a few guys on the perimeter of the room start shoving people forward, toward the fight. Why? I have no idea, but it creates chaos and more fists are thrown, this time from spectators, not the two dudes still on the floor.
The person closest to me stumbles backward, and I take a step back to prevent myself from getting jostled. Another and another and my back is almost pressed firmly against the wall, eyes bugging out when half the room erupts into right hooks and punches.
“Oh my god,” I say breathlessly as I exhale, the scene playing out in front of me a far cry from how the evening began.
I measure the distance to the front door, the bodies in my way. The noise. The chanting and cheering from the idiots watching instead of breaking up the brawls.