by Eros, Marata
“You're not. You're a ballerina posing as a student.” Carlie's brows arch.
I smile, that's a fair assessment. “I don't have to date just one guy.”
“True,” Carlie says in a droll way, studying perfectly good sparkly acrylic nail tips.
“I hear a but....”
“You haven't dated anyone since you came here.” Her eyes meet mine. “And then there's the mysterious transfer hunk-o-love with a dark reputation, Devin Castile.”
I could see why. “Wait, isn’t Mitch new too?” I knew that Carlie had the Guy Roster memorized.
She nodded. “He's a hybrid, did his first two years at a community college then transferred here.” Carlie shrugged. “Don't know why...” she began then gave a furious flap at Amber as she came up the steps of the dungeon, her high heels clacking on the wet pavement.
She troops over to the car and opens the back passenger door, sliding in with a sigh.
“I hate this shitty weather!” Amber fumes.
I turn back, facing forward.
“IDs Girls?” Carlie asks, turning the car back on.
We wave ours like flags.
Of course I had ID. For two different names. I'd emptied my trust fund to make it happen. With enough money, anything was obtainable.
We pulled up to Skoochies, the nondescript, flat-roofed building had crap parking but was high on my list of anonymity: dark, primal, skimming fake IDs and lots of dancing.
Perfect.
We didn't bother to lock the door on the car, like Carlie said, if they wanted it, let them have it, it hardly ran.
There was already a line and I got to the back with the rest of the made-up crowd of twenty-somethings.
“Holy shit,” Amber breathed.
I looked where she pointed and my stomach dropped.
The bouncer was Devin Castile.
Of course.
So much for anonymity.
7
I was thinking I'd get a girls' night out. No. Such. Luck. Those dark eyes scanned the crowd. They skidded to a stop and shifted back to me.
My breath stopped as Devin Castile drove his eyes down my body like a freight train. Just that searing appraisal caused heat to bloom, the moistening of my panties a success, that dull ache revisiting me. Then those restless eyes moved on. He was obviously in work mode when some obviously underage guys tried to sidle past him and the other bouncer. He gave them the look. They weren't getting in. I could tell, I'm sure everyone else could too. But the asshat was a slow learner.
He thought to get cocky and got tossed four feet away by a casual fist in his shirt courtesy of Devin.
I watched as muscles bunched and sprung taut at the maneuver, like he'd done it a million times. Maybe he had.
Carlie watched the testosterone purge and looked at me, brow arched. “Huh, seems like Castile's a versatile guy.” She laughed then shushed herself in a hurry.
“Hey, he's coming this way, Jess...” Amber said in awe, like the President was coming for tea. Of course, Amber was going on old information. She didn't know I'd sold my soul to the devil.
I shall not be in a relationship,I shall not be in a relationship, only sex, I sang to myself like the tuneless mantra it was.
Devin is suddenly there, looking down at me, the streetlight illuminating the side of his face; the square jaw, his eyes like black jewels. He says nothing for a heartbeat then, “Hi.”
My heart races. “Hi,” I say, feigning casual and losing by a mile. He seems to pick up on my discomfort and gives me a break, staying in the role of casual acquaintance instead of almost-sex commando and breaks our stare. He turns to Carlie. “Hey,” he says and she gives him a coy smile back. He chin dips at Amber and she twitters at the minute attention.
“Hi, Devin,” Carlie says and a flustered Amber gives a little rippling wave of her scarlet nails.
His brows rise. “Do I know you?” he addresses Carlie. I die, silently hoping that she doesn't give away that I've Told All.
“Castile!” a male voice raises like a flag of noise from the entrance. Devin stiffens but lifts a hand. Like anyone can't see where he is because of his height.
“I'm ballerina girls bestie, Castile,” Carlie says like he's dim-witted.
A frown forms on Castile's face as the faceless male voice rises for a second time, irritation flashing over his face. “Just a sec!” Devin shouts back.
His eyes meet mine. “I know she dances. Is that what defines Jess?” he asks Carlie in a soft voice. Of course he knows I dance. He'd been the one silently studying me at the tryouts. It'd been unforgettable.
It's Carlie's turn to frown.
She looks at me and I give a small shrug. I'm not entirely sure what he's asking.
“She... I don't know. Jess dances,” she says, as confused as I.
The crowd grows restless and just as I think Devin is probing for something I don't want to give that male voice shouts out again.
But the tone has changed.
“A little help!” Nameless bellows.
Castile's head swivels toward the sound and a low hiss of annoyance issues.
I gasp when I see who it is that the other bouncer is having a hard time containing.
Brock.
Devin gives me a loaded glance then jogs over to his fellow bouncer and seeing that Brock is giving as good as he's getting, Devin wades into the flashing fists and meaty smacks of a fight in full throttle. I can't believe that Brock is here, that Castile is a bouncer here at Skoochie's in the seediest part of Seattle.
As if on dreadful cue, I hear a familiar voice and realize that everything has just ratcheted up into a special kind of complicated.
“Hey Jess,” Mitch says.
I turn and there he is, looking good enough to eat. The one I will be eating is busy pounding Brock's face in.
Oh good Lord.
Mitch gazes at the two bouncers restraining Brock and then Brock's fleet of loser friends stomp in and the number tide turns against them.
Suddenly, it's two bouncers against five college athletes, soaked in booze and driven by lack of inhibitions.
I don't think, I run over to Devin, the man who's an enigma to me and watch as two of Brock's friends hold Devin, the other two beating the other bouncer. I skid to a stop, my spiky heels making a clatter as I break through the noisy crowd, everyone straining to watch the bouncers get their asses kicked, getting into the club forgotten for the show of blood and fists.
“Do something!” I yell to Mitch.
But Mitch shakes his head. “Castile can take care of himself,” he says with a sarcastic snort.
I know I'm just a girl. I know that Devin wants to screw me, not love me.
Those are the glaring and unforgiving facts.
It doesn't seem to matter. Sometimes emotion reigns supreme and all I can think of is getting in there and distracting them long enough for Devin to break free as my soon-to-be-boyfriend stands and watches the unfairness unravel.
I can't.
Carlie anticipates me somehow and shrieks as I move forward, “Jess no!”
Mitch is a fraction of a second late holding me back and I sweep in with my purse, a small suitcase, and bash the Beater on the back of the head. He staggers a little at the blow and it's enough.
I'll never know if it was my lame distraction but it seemed like Devin had already freed one arm and in combination with my interference that was all it took.
“Jess!” I hear Mitch yell, taking after me and as the Beater turns, he sees the purse spilled on the wet pavement and his eyes meet mine for a suspended moment. Then the knowledge that I'm a woman fills his eyes seconds before he backhands me.
It looks great in the movies, as the heroine who is victimized falls gracefully to the ground in a sexy tumble.
The reality was oh so different. “No!” I hear Castile roar as I fall in an unladylike sprawl on my ass, my skirt hiked up to my thighs, a sliver of the crotch of my panties on display for the world to see.
I'm hurt and humiliated as I watch two things happen simultaneously: Mitch and the girls run to my position on the ground as Devin Castile, with apparent renewed vigor, plows through the jocks making his way like a human tornado to me.
I bat Mitch's hand away; I'm pissed and I don't know why.
I was the only one that wanted to do the right thing apparently. I can feel the moisture from the ground seeping into the back of my skirt as Devin reaches me at the same time Mitch does.
Behind him one of the jocks falls like an unbalanced bowling pin, landing with a sickening thud behind him, the abuse of his face from the fists that hang by Devin's sides looking like a meat plow had visited and stayed awhile.
“Jess,” Castile says in a low voice as Mitch reaches for my hand. My eyes widen and I sit there on the ground, my cheek throbbing from the hit by one of Brock's friends. Water from the street soaks into my barely-there panties as the guy who wants to be my boyfriend gives me a hand and the man I want inside me says my name without a trace of indifference. The caliber of emotion I hear in that one word says more than any endearment could.
Devin looks at the hand Mitch offers me and says, “Fuck off, Maverick. A day fucking late and a buttload of cash short, pal.”
Mitch hauls me up anyway and I fight a shooting pain in my head as the suddenness of the motion threatens me with vertigo.
The crowd has dispersed now that the fight has ended and a third bouncer is cautiously letting in the handpicked crowd, his eyes wary and watchful.
While five guys and the other bouncer groan and writhe on the wet ground in various stages of consciousness.
“You listen to me, Castile,” Mitch begins in a voice of barely contained anger, “why is it that every time you're around, Jess is threatened?” He gives Castile a direct look.
Carlie puts a hand on my arm and leans her head into my shoulder, whispering, “You dumbshit.”
I nod soundlessly, I couldn't agree more. It was a stupid move, I knew better but somehow, that reactive nature of mine wouldn't stay still.
Devin doesn't refute Mitch's words. Instead, he just folds his muscular arms across a vintage T-shirt that reads, Go ahead, make my day. Beside the slogan, there was a fine splatter of blood like an artist threw paint at his chest. I run my eyes over his body, taking in the shredded skin of his knuckles, the cut above his eye that slowly oozes blood but is trying to close as I watch.
Finally, my gaze lands on his beautiful full lips. Lips that had crushed mine with a velvet intensity. I find the marring split on his lower lip and wanted to suck on it and make it better.
I gulp and his nostrils flare at the scorching look I give him.
Carlie looks between the two of us, seeing the potential for an unraveling moment of epic proportions.
Mitch pulls on my arm. “Let's go Jess.”
Devin steps forward, moving as if to touch me and I shy away. I'm so confused. I offered myself up for the slaughter when he's attacked, like I could do anything. I don't even know what had possessed me to do it. Then, Mitch shows up and I can't reason or respond for myself. Pathetic.
We'd made plans, Devin and I, and they didn't include the world knowing. I pleaded with my eyes that he wouldn't make Mitch the wiser. That he'd keep the arrangement a secret.
There was a pregnant pause that felt like the Grand Canyon opening up underneath us.
I see his frustration, his indecision... as his hand drops and Mitch hauls me away, a stunned Amber and a puzzled Carlie falling in our wake.
I glance back and Castile is standing there watching us go, having never made a rebuttal to Mitch's accusation that he was a danger magnet to me.
It was true.
But not for the reasons Mitch thought.
Castile mouthed a word at me right before I was ushered into that vintage Camaro of Mitch's.
It looked like thanks.
*
Carlie's pissed, tapping her high heel. “Okay, she's not some baby, I can take her back to the dorms, Mitch,” she says.
Mitch gathers me against him and asks softly, “Are you okay?”
Tears threaten and I nod against his broad chest. “Yeah, I'm okay.”
I turn my face to the side that's not hurting and Carlie sees my expression and huffs out an exasperated sigh. “Why, Jess?”
Amber pipes in, “Yeah, I mean, there's like a hundred and one guys that could have gone to the ground for Castile but you what.... bash the guy over the head with your Guess purse?” Amber clucks out that last with a laugh and I can't find the humor no matter how hard I look.
“Yeah,” I say. Mitch tilts my chin up, examining my cheek.
“That's going to bruise,” he says, angry.
I shrug. “He helped me,” I say defensively, referencing the Brock incident.
Mitch shrugs. “Him jamming his tongue down your throat is not helping, Jess.”
I blush to the roots of my hair and am thrilled that it's night and my red head's complexion doesn't give me away.
“Are you talking about the Brock Episode, Jess?” Amber inquires.
I nod.
Carlie throws her hands up in the air. “Fine, go with La Hunk but not out past one!”
Mitch raises a brow. “She might look like she can kick people's ass using her purse like a weapon and all but Jess... Jess needs protecting,” Carlie says like she doesn't want to.
I don't. I'm used to not having any protection. I lived that life. Carlie had me dead wrong.
Dead.
I open my mouth to argue that and Mitch answers, “I know, I'll take care of her.”
I give up, giving Carlie a tight hug instead. “I'm sorry I screwed our girls' night,” I say.
“It's okay, purse-bludgeoner.” She smooths the wisps of my hair behind my ear and it feels eerily like what my mom used to do before becoming Senator MacLeod's wife. A life so distant and soft in my memory it hurt to recall.
I gulp back the lump in my throat and she leans away, her eyes searching my face, hesitating over the tenderness of my cheek. “Are ya sure, Jess?” she asks in a very un-Carlie-like voice, giving me an out if I want it.
“Yes,” I say, shoving as much of a resolute note into the affirmative as I can.
“Okay,” she says and loops her arm through Amber's. “Onward and upward.”
I crack a grin and grimace. It hurts but I hold the expression in place because it's genuine and Carlie needs to see it so she can have fun.
She does and grins back. I give her a subtle nod and she walks off to the club again, leaving me with Mitch.
We stand awkwardly for a moment at ten o'clock on a Friday night, a second date not even under our belt and I am about ready to let him go.
The relationship farce suddenly seems insane: I can't do it, it won't go anywhere, Castile says I can't sleep with him.
Why am I listening to Devin Castile? I hear his words in my mind: I don't share.
I shiver. I'm not sure why and I'm not interested in analyzing it.
Mitch watches whatever emotions wash over my face in the gloom of the night.
“How about that dinner date?” he asks and I hang on the chasm of jumping or fleeing. Now is the time to come clean, to tell him that I think I just want to be friends... that I'm conflicted.
What an understatement.
Mitch waits and I see the fine muscles in his forearms ripple as he shoves his hands in the front of his jean pockets, flipping dark hair back out of his eyes, their paleness in sharp contrast to the blackness that surrounds us.
Instead of doing what I should, I do what I want, grabbing on to more than mere existence while I can.
“Okay,” I say and exhale with relief. At least I've made a decision.
Not the right one but I'm sticking to it.
His smile flashes in the night and he holds out his large hand. I slip mine inside his and he pulls me to him, placing a gentle peck on my lips and I sigh.
Mitch is safe.
8
He takes me to an all-night diner, I'm too far gone emotionally to even notice the name.
I like the way Mitch touches me. His hand warms the small of my back as we enter the eatery, very near Pike Place Market, still so alive even at this hour and he lets me slide in ahead of him, hesitates then finally decides to sit opposite of me.
Safe.
The waitress hovers at Mitch's elbow, dismissing me with my scraped face and wet ass. I’m sure I look awful. I try to muster up the proper embarrassment but can’t do it.
In fact... “Why don't you order some coffee for me, I'm going to hit the bathroom.” I rise gracefully, over a decade of ballet doesn't desert me just because I've had a rough night and I'm wearing heels. Boel would be proud.
Mitch smiles and nods, turning his attention to Doris, the crooked nametag reads on her crisp uniform, in sharp contrast to her badly dyed red hair, fading to pink as all red dye jobs eventually do.
I float to the bathroom in a state of surreal fog, so wrapped up in what happened I could have been blown over by a feather.
I open the door and it slams back, making me jump at the noise. I level a dirty look at it, heave my purse on top of the vanity’s only dry spot and get a look at the damage.
It looks worse than it feels. Half my face is an angry red with a welt that appears like a raised comma on my cheekbone, my fair skin making it stand out like a zebra stripe. The area is swollen and raw. It makes me angry all over again at the prick that hit me.
Of course, I did wallop him over his head with my handbag. I dig deeply in my purse for a make-up wipe. I take off everything, carefully cleaning the wound, wincing as I go over the worst of it. Then I peer closer, prepping to apply a new round of mascara and notice the worse thing ever:
One of my blue contacts popped out in the melee and a green eye blazes out of my fair complexion, accentuated by the injury, red and green.
Kinda like Xmas.
I give a shaky laugh at my dumb internal dialog and turn away, taking down my hair from its normal loose messy bun. The curls spin out in soft rolling spirals, feathering at my waist. I can use my hair like a curtain and hope it’ll distract from my eye color discrepancy.