“You really don’t though,” she points out. “You bug me constantly. As if you enjoy taunting me on a regular basis.”
Should I admit I enjoy taunting her? “You’re easy to bug, G. You get all riled up.”
“People say we argue all the time because we secretly want each other,” she says, her voice light. Like it’s no big deal what she just said.
But her words render me frozen, my mind going a mile a minute.
Yes, I think she wants me, but she’s never flat-out said something like that before.
Hmm.
The server chooses that moment to return to our table with our food, and Gracie orders another margarita.
“You sure about that?” I ask her.
She sends me a look. “You don’t want to pay for another one?”
“That’s not the point. It’s a big drink, G. You really think you can handle another one?” I ask.
“Hell yes.” She smiles up at the server, who laughs. “Make it a double.”
“Please don’t do that,” I tell the server, who keeps laughing. “Just make her a normal one.”
“Will do,” the server says, her gaze flirtatious when it meets mine. I flash her a quick smile and look away, not interested.
Wait a second. What the fuck? What’s wrong with me?
The moment the server is gone, I’m shoving half my taco into my mouth, mulling over what Gracie said, and how I could bring the subject back up.
Then again, why would I want to do that? Am I ready to talk about this with Gracie? She could shut me down with a few choice words, and I’d have to forget about ever getting a chance with her.
And do I really want a chance with her? Or am I just out to fuck her once and be done?
“You’re looking at me as if you want to eat me like that taco,” Gracie says, leaning over to casually slurp on the straw in her mostly empty drink.
I hold back any talk of eating her actual taco and study her, still wondering exactly how I should respond to her.
“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” she continues. “You eating my taco.”
Nice to know she caught her own reference. “Why not?”
“We’d be bad together.”
Fuck no, we would not. “Why do you say that?”
“I’m too old for you. I’m about to embark on my career while you’re still playing around, trying to figure out what you want to do with your life,” she says.
I take immediate offense to that. “You make me sound like a kid.”
She raises a brow, just before she shoves a chip in her mouth.
“I’m all man, baby,” I tell her, sounding like the biggest cheeseball ever, and she bursts out laughing.
“Oh, I’m sure you are, Caleb. But I’m not impressed by the size of your dick or all the moves you could make on my, ahem, taco,” she says, still laughing. “You’re still a kid up here.” She taps her temple.
“You’re judging me because I don’t know what I want to do with my life?” I started college with my major undeclared and my counselor kind of forced my hand. I figured business was just about as general as you could get, so I went for it.
Now I’ve taken all of these bullshit classes about international business and world economics or whatever the fuck, and I have no idea what I’m doing, or if it’s going to apply to what I end up doing with my life. I don’t envision myself as an international businessman. I can see Tony doing that, but not me.
Never me.
“No, I’m judging you for still acting like a kid,” she says, just as she takes a vicious bite out of her taco.
“I’m only twenty,” I remind her.
“And I’m almost twenty-three,” she returns.
“You’re, like, six months from that. Just like I’m only a few months from twenty-one.”
“I’m about to start teaching.”
“Student teaching,” I stress.
“Same diff.” She shrugs. “I’m pretty much done with college. I’m not getting any younger. I suppose I should look for someone…solid.”
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Husband potential,” she says plainly.
That word makes my balls shrivel up. Husband. Please. I am not ready for that. Not even close. And honestly? I don’t think she is either. She’s just trying to scare me or whatever.
“Have fun finding your husband then,” I say, taking a sip of my iced tea. “Hope you find him soon, so you two can settle down and eventually lead a very boring life together.”
“My life is not going to be boring,” she says, full of irritation.
“Right. Keep telling yourself that as you teach the same bunch of brats every day, year in and year out. Going home to your nice guy who wears a suit and glasses to work, who’s slightly balding, but not enough to be too obvious, and already has a paunch around the middle thanks to his desk job and a penchant for too many IPAs on the weekends,” I continue, warming up to the idea of Gracie’s future.
Not that I want Gracie to get married to some chubby fuck who bores her. It’s more that I can envision this for myself too. I’ll be the balding, chubby fuck with a penchant for too many IPAs on the weekends. This is my biggest fear.
Mediocracy.
I want something more out of life. Something big. Something meaningful. I just don’t know what it is yet.
“You’re a dick,” she says, her upper lip curled into a sneer. “What’s so wrong in finding comfort in the mundane, huh? So what if my husband is balding and has a slight paunch?”
“Gracie.” I lean across the table, staring into her eyes. I wish I could figure out what color they are exactly. Right now, they burn a bright golden brown. “You talk about him as if he already exists. I made that guy up.”
“I know you did,” she says. “But you make it sound so awful, when it’s really not, Caleb. Steadiness can be a good thing.”
“Or a boring thing. And you’re anything but boring, G.”
We’re quiet as we continue eating, and I can tell she’s thinking about something. The server stops by with her fresh margarita and she grabs for it eagerly, taking a healthy sip. She finishes one taco then starts on another one. I polish everything on my plate, not a crumb left behind.
Still, she doesn’t speak. Neither do I.
I’m waiting her out. Plus, I’m tired. With food in my belly, I’m ready to go home, take a shower, and crash.
“You really think I’m anything but boring?” she finally asks, her voice soft, her eyes not blazing as brightly as they were only a moment before.
I realize this could be the moment of no return. A shift in our relationship. I could say the right thing, and next thing you know, she’s all over me. It would be so easy. We’d go at it, and I’d give her an epic orgasm. She’d probably make me come hard too. It’s been a while since I’ve been with a chick. Longer than usual for me. I’ve been so busy I haven’t had a chance to go find a random to mess around with.
Plus, the idea of that isn’t appealing, which is scary and weird, but I don’t have time to worry about that right now.
“I definitely think that,” I say, keeping it simple. I could’ve added some flowery words or a crude innuendo. Instead, I treat her like a friend. I give her respect.
Something I can admit, I’ve lacked when it comes to females.
Her smile is small, yet brilliant. Stunning. She is beautiful. A little crazy, let’s be real. Constantly chasing after guys. Chasing after everything she wants. I like that about her. She’s bold. Unafraid.
“Every time I think you’re completely hopeless, you go and say something sweet or endearing, and you make me change my mind,” she murmurs.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I’m trying to tell you that I think you have potential, Caleb,” she says, that smile still on her face. “You can be so much more.”
“More than what?”
“More than you give yourself credit for.”
Six
Gracie
I’m drunk.
Not falling down sloppy drunk. And not seeing double, unfocused drunk either. Though, would it be such a bad thing, seeing double of Caleb? No, that wouldn’t suck. It wouldn’t suck at all. He’s so pretty.
But I am buzzing pretty hard. I feel loose. As in loose in my limbs, my muscles. My tongue. I want to say things. I want to tell Caleb I think he’s pretty. Would he be offended? Probably. Boys don’t want to be called pretty. They’re too manly for such a feminine word.
We’re still at the restaurant, our plates long gone, a half-full basket of chips in between us, Caleb still dunking the occasional one in salsa and munching on it. Like a bad habit he can’t quit.
Hmm, that’s an interesting analogy. I should think of Caleb like that. He’s a bad habit I can’t quit. I don’t want to quit him. Arguing with him is stimulating. He gets my juices flowing, and I like it. I like him.
I frown. No, I don’t like him. I don’t. He’s annoying. He’s also a complete player who couldn’t be serious with a woman even if someone held a gun to his head and told him he had to be. I bet he’d mess it up somehow and bam, he’d be dead.
God, my thoughts are morbid when I’ve had a little too much to drink. I need to stop. I need to go to bed and wake up sober. Banish these Caleb-filled thoughts of mine.
“I’m tired,” he says as he polishes off his third giant glass of iced tea. “You ready to leave?”
I slurp up the dregs of my margarita, longing for another one. Knowing I can’t have anymore or else I’ll be full-blown drunk. Sloppy. Unfocused.
“Sure,” I say with a small hiccup, blinking him back into focus. No double Calebs in front of me. Such a bummer. He’s so cute. And hot. Look at his shoulders. At his arms. At his broad chest and square jaw and thick hair and blue eyes with the long, thick lashes.
What is wrong with me? I get some tequila in my system and suddenly I’m hot for Caleb?
Oh, let’s be real, shall we. You’ve been hot for Caleb since that first time you met him at Strummers and thought he was a complete dickwad.
I shove that know-it-all little voice inside my head to the far corner of my brain and tell it to shut up.
I slide out of the booth, wobbly on my feet, and Caleb is right behind me, grabbing hold of my arm and keeping me steady. I send him a grateful smile and he basically leads me out of the restaurant, his hold tight the entire time. I notice all the women who swivel their heads with their admiring gazes as he walks by, and I feel stupidly proud to be seen with him.
See? I can snag this pretty boy and you can’t, is what I want to tell them. Which is rude, I know this, but I can’t help it.
And I really didn’t snag him. He’s not mine to snag. I need to calm down.
We approach his car and he holds the door open for me, making sure I get inside in one piece. “I told you, you shouldn’t have had that second margarita,” he says, sounding like a scolding parent.
“Sorry, dad,” I say, my head lolling against the seat.
His lips form a thin line and he slams the passenger door shut before he rounds the car and gets into the driver’s seat. I quietly watch him as he starts the engine and backs the car out of the space. I continue watching as he guns it through the parking lot, driving like a madman, his focus one hundred percent on the road, never straying toward me.
I can’t stop watching, my mouth going dry, my imagination going haywire. There are so many things I would do to this man if given the chance.
“You’re pretty,” I blurt.
He glances over at me, frowning. “What did you just say?”
“I think you’re pretty.” I pronounce each word slowly, making sure he heard me. “Your face.”
He actually grins. “My face?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Everything about you, really.”
“Are you complimenting me, Gracie?”
“I am. You’re pretty and you know it.” A sigh leaves me and I turn to stare out the window as the buildings pass by. “Too bad you ruin it all by opening your mouth.”
“How do I ruin it when I open my mouth? Most girls like it when I do that,” he says with a naughty smile.
I angle my whole body in his direction, pointing at him. “That right there is how you ruin it. By saying rude, vulgar things.”
“It’s called innuendo.”
“It’s called turning everything dirty, even when it’s unnecessary.”
We come to a stop at a light and he turns to look at me, his gaze narrowed. “What’s wrong with turning things dirty? I thought you liked it dirty.”
My brows shoot up. “How do you know I like anything dirty?”
He studies me, his gaze so intense, I almost start to squirm in my seat. “I get the feeling you like a lot of dirty things, G. It just makes you uncomfortable to talk about them because you want to do those dirty things. With me.”
I’m about to deny what he just said but the light turns green and he presses hard on the gas. So hard, my chest jerks against the seatbelt. My curiosity piqued, I ask, “What sort of dirty things do you like?”
“I asked you first,” he says.
“Nope. You definitely did not,” I say firmly. “Tell me, Caleb. I want to know.”
“Okay. I love it when a girl gives me a blow job on her knees and makes eye contact when my dick is in her mouth,” he says, so casually while I’m over here sputtering.
Envisioning some other bimbo on her knees in front of Caleb with her mouth full of his cock. Yeah, no.
“I love it when a guy goes down on me,” I throw back at him, trying to scrub the image of Caleb with another girl from my brain. “I like it when he sucks my clit and finger fucks me at the same time.”
“Whoa, G!” He actually sounds shocked.
“TMI?” I giggle. And I never giggle.
“Keep going. I like TMI.”
I roll my eyes. “You would.”
“I like it when a girl sits on my face,” he says.
“I like sitting on guys’ faces.”
“I like fucking standing up. Girl pressed against the wall, her legs wrapped tight around my hips. Something about that angle.” He hums, and the sound hits me right between the thighs.
My skin warms at the description. No guy has ever fucked me against a wall. Caleb could support my weight. He’s strong. The muscles in his arms are a work of art. “I just like getting fucked.”
He laughs. “Gracie. You should drink tequila more often. It’s like truth serum.”
“You just want me to blab all my secrets.”
“Definitely,” he says without hesitation. “I do have one major question for you.”
“What is it?” I roll the window down, letting the warm night air flow into the car.
But it’s still too damn hot outside so I immediately roll the window back up.
“How many?”
“How many what?” I glance over at him.
“How many guys have you been with, G?”
“How many girls have you been with, C?” I throw back at him.
“I asked first.”
Damn it, he really did this time.
I sit there and calculate, silently counting them up in my head. “Actual sex partners?”
I need some clarification here.
“Yeah. Guys you’ve had sex with,” he reaffirms.
“Penetrative or just messing around?”
He chuckles. “Let’s go for the whole enchilada. Penetration only. Does that change the number drastically?”
I say nothing because it does.
“It does for me,” he continues.
“Oh, so you’ve had sex with guys?” I’m teasing him.
“No, I don’t swing that way,” he says. “What about you? You ever mess around with girls?”
“Hayden and I made out once,” I tell him, immediately hating how honest tequila makes me.
His eyes look like they’re ready to bug out of his head. “That woul
d’ve been a sight to see.”
“Picture it. Freshman year. Frat party. Hayden and I get super drunk. Some frat boys are playing truth or dare, and we join them. Hayden took the dare, and they dared us to kiss. With open mouths and tongues. We were drunk enough that we did exactly that.” I start giggling all over again when I see the wondrous expression on Caleb’s face.
“Does Tony know about this?” Caleb asks, clearing his throat. “Uh…interaction between you two?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Hayden told him. Maybe not.” I shrug.
“How was it?” he asks.
“How was what?”
“Kissing Hayden?”
“Oh. Nice. Soft. Girls are softer.” I laugh because I know I’m torturing him. “You like soft kisses, Caleb?”
“I’m not much of a kisser.” He pulls into our apartment parking lot, and I’m a little disappointed. I was so enjoying this crazy conversation.
“Wait a minute.” I turn to look at him as he steers the car into an empty spot. “You don’t like kissing?”
“I like it, but I said I’m not much of a kisser. Kissing is…” He stops, seemingly at a loss for words.
“Kissing is what?” I prompt.
“So personal.” He puts the vehicle in park and cuts the engine before his gaze finds mine. “Girls read too much into kissing.”
“Caleb.” My voice is soft and he leans in a little, as if he needs to hear what I’m about to say. “Kissing is the absolute best. Why would you avoid it?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs, uncomfortable. “Like I said, it’s personal. I make out with a girl, next thing I know she thinks she should start planning our wedding.”
“Your ego is ginormous,” I tell him without hesitation.
“I know. But fuck, G. It’s true. I’m not looking to fall in love. I’m looking to get off. And kissing a girl is—romantic.” He makes a face the moment the word leaves his lips.
“You’re not a romantic?” I already know this about him. I’m just giving him grief.
“Hell to the no.”
“So you don’t like kissing?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I just don’t do it much,” he corrects.
I’m suddenly filled with the urge to kiss him. He has a beautiful mouth. Big, pillowy lips. His lower lip is plumper than the upper one, and they kind of form a natural pout that is so adorable.
The Junior (College Years Book 3) Page 6