by P. Dangelico
“Weren’t you at that Theta UCLA mixer? Cat Woman, right? With the vinyl getup and the red lips?” Fuck if this isn’t an Oscar worthy performance.
Kitten just went from sporting a cherry stain on her cheeks to a third degree burn.
Zoe scoffs. “Are you high, Van Zant?”
That means one of two things. Either her friends are covering for her or––they don’t know.
Dora’s honey-brown eyes finally lift and connect with mine. “W-we have class together.”
And there’s my answer––they don’t know. I make my way to her side of the booth and sit as close as I possibly can, stretching my arm out over the back of the bench.
“Russian Lit,” I muse leaning in. This is the most fun I’ve ever had with clothes on since I hit puberty.
“English Lit,” Dora is quick to correct.
“Right, that’s what I said.” And the more I stare, the more she squirms. “I know your name…Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me…Mmm, I know it.” My eyes narrow. I tap my lips with my index finger, doing my best to sell it. “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.”
“That’s D-Dory. My name is Dora.”
“Huh.” Fighting a grin now. “I guess that makes you an explorer.”
“And I guess that m-makes you unoriginal.”
She’s got more guts than I initially surmised. Even better. Hand braced against the back of the bench, I hover over her, and she reacts by subtly shrinking away.
“Van Zant, step off my girl. You’re making her uncomfortable,” the Zoe chick orders.
“It’s fine,” Dora mutters.
“No. It’s not,” Zoe insists. When I don’t move fast enough for her liking, her stare sharpens. “Now.”
“Chill, mama cat,” I say and lean back. “Kitten here has claws. She can speak for herself.” Which, to my growing delight, is absolutely true.
“Kitten?” Dora and Zoe repeat in tandem. Dora seems genuinely surprised while Zoe’s expression is less favorable.
“Isn’t that right, Kitten?”
Zoe fake-gags. “I just threw up in my mouth.”
I gotta say I’m a little disappointed in the Brock’s taste in women.
“S-stop calling me that.”
“See?” I tip my head in Dora’s direction, a self-satisfied smirk on my face that I know will get under the blonde’s skin. Also called a twofer.
Tired of my game, Zoe looks off and starts a conversation with Blake, which is my cue to delve a little deeper.
“Your friends don’t know, do they?” I murmur quietly.
Silence. More silence. She refuses to look at me. Then I hear a quiet exhale. “P-Please don’t t-tell them.”
My day just got brighter. This time I do nothing to rein in the grin. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I caught me a naughty kitten and I intend to celebrate. “Don’t sweat it. Your secret is safe with me,” I murmur back.
“Would you two just fuck already,” comes from across the table. The blonde again. “The sexual tension is killing us!”
She’s talking about Rea and Bailey who moments ago were huddled together on the bench engaged in a heated whispering contest. Now they look ready to melt into the ground from embarrassment.
The entire coffee shop erupts. People cheering, clapping, whistling loudly.
“Alice,” Rea calls out as she stands and begins picking her way between tables.
“Alice, don’t leave,” Blake pleads.
Ignoring us, she heads for the door. I’d say this is the perfect opportunity for Rea to make his move but I’m not him. He’s gotta connect the dots on his own…and it looks like he finally has. Getting up, he chases after her.
“That really crossed the line,” Blake scolds.
“You were all thinking it,” the blonde argues in her defense. “Don’t pretend you weren’t. I just did them a favor.”
“She’s not wrong,” I casually remark. The three of them stare at me while I finish the muffin Bailey left behind. “Wha?” I say around a mouthful.
“Is your friend dumb or just dense?” Zoe again.
Snorting, I swallow and chase it with my coffee. “Dense––but cut him some slack, he’s got a lot on his plate right now.”
They know it too. They saw what happened when Reagan’s older brother, Brian, unexpectedly showed up at the match strung out on meth and looking to hit him up for money.
Kitten’s eyes tag mine and hold on. Big and warm. Open with her feelings and secretive with her thoughts. They draw me in a little at a time. My humor fades. I could get lost in those eyes. I could if I let it. “Which one of you is giving me a ride home?”
“You’re in the back, Van Zant,” the blonde orders.
I’m staring at a mint green Fiat 500, and Kitten is staring at me from the other side of the hood, chewing on her lower lip. I’m tempted to pull it away from her teeth and kiss it just to see her reaction.
“It’s a little cramped for a guy my size,” I go with instead.
It’s the obvious answer but the blonde doesn’t seem to care. Shrugging, she points to her abnormally long legs.
“And did you just insult Bernadette?” she snarls.
“Who?”
“Dora’s car, genius.”
Our eyes meet again over the roof of her midget car. “You named your car?” Kitten flushes to the roots her hair. Damn, she’s cute.
“Get in the back, or call an Uber, dude,” says the ornery friend.
Beggars can’t be choosers so I get in. Blake squeezes into the seat next to mine, and gives me a sympathetic smile when our cramped knees bang together. We head for campus first since my house is located in the opposite direction.
“Behave yourself, Van Zant,” Zoe barks as she gets out of the car.
“Bye, Dallas.” Blake waves and shoves Zoe forward. “Enough, Zoe,” she aims at her friend. The two of them stroll inside while I slide into the passenger seat.
In silence, Dora starts the car and merges into traffic. We leave campus and head for the beach. It seems like she knows where my house is.
“Nice friend you got there,” I venture to say. “I’m going to need a rabies shot.”
“She’s l-looking out for me.”
“Yeah? Does she know that you go around kissing strangers in your spare time?” Immediately, her face turns into a stoplight, flashing cherry-red. “So I was right––they don’t know.”
“T-T-That’s private.”
“Oh, it’s a habit of yours. I get it now. What’s it like––a kink? I mean, no judgement. I’m partial to food as foreplay myself but––”
“No! N-no. Gosh, no. It..it only h-happened that one t-time.”
She’s so flustered it almost makes me laugh. Every emotion this girl has is displayed on her face. “So I’m your first?”
Her face gets tight. “You are n-not my f-first.”
“I’m not?” I tamp down the urge to chuckle. News to me. I’m pretty sure I’ve got proof sitting in my backpack that says otherwise.
“I-I mean, it’s the first time I did that.”
Embarrassment coats her face, her cheeks pink with it. She can guard those thoughts all day long. It’s her feelings that give her away.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, cat lady. I know how good it feels to be bad. I encourage it actually.”
She rolls her eyes at me. It’s the most spunk I’ve seen out of her yet. I mean, besides her impersonating Beth and kissing me.
“The house on the right,” I point out.
She pulls the car/the golf cart––whatever you wanna call it––into my driveway and parks. In the meantime, I study her profile, the long neck, the freckles across the bridge of her nose. Those lips––glossy and full.
As much as I’m tempted to put my mouth on hers right now, I’m guessing she wouldn’t dig it. Nope her body is a bundle of nervous energy, both of her small delicate hands wrapped around the steering wheel like it’s an anchor meant to steady her.
Impatiently, she taps her short dark nails on the wheel, eager to get rid of me. In contrast, I could sit here all day. As a matter of fact I haven’t felt this good, this at ease, since before…
She finally looks at me, the red in her hair making her eyes look a light shade of brown. They’re long-lashed and tilted up at the corners––what my Grandpa calls bedroom eyes.
“Look at that broad over there, Dallas. Not much of a looker but the bedroom eyes on that one…those eyes could ruin a man’s life.”
“If you ever wanna do it again, you know where to find me.”
Her face flashes red again. As expected. I hop out and turn to face her, the car still idling in my driveway. The smile I’ve been fighting breaks free. Then, in case she didn’t get my meaning, I shout, “The kissing, I mean.”
Chapter Seven
Dora
If you ever want to do it again, you know where to find me…
It feels like I stuck my face in an oven and it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m exercising. Of course he recognized me. He’s not a total idiot. I, however, am. An idiot who’s been caught red-handed and shamed to death. Well…not exactly shamed to death, but he definitely got his kicks at my expense.
The humiliation spurs me on, my arms pumping faster, my chest expanding and contracting as I huff and puff, power walking uphill back to my dorm.
Confession: I’ve never been an athlete. Hard to believe, I know. I mean, it’s not like I’ve been a couch slug my entire life. Just the last few years.
When I was still living at home, I played with Iggy a lot and took him on long walks. That was the extent of it, though.
My parents on the other hand…
They play tennis, golf, basketball, surf. They both hit the gym regularly. Yeah, that gene skipped right over me. Once I got to collage, I shed the walks and gained the freshman fifteen. That’s just a really longwinded way of saying in the spirit of making changes, I’ve started going on regularly scheduled power walks. Which, more often than not, happens to be after dark.
Earbuds in, I’m strutting back to my room still riding high on Taylor Swift and some serious post work-out endorphins when I catch a strange sound rise above the music.
Conspicuously, I turn off Taylor and listen. Maybe it’s the wind. The Santa Anas are gusting tonight. A beat later, much to my chagrin, I hear the sound again and my pulse begins to race. Maybe not the wind.
This campus is built on a chain of steep hills. The grounds manicured to within an inch of their life, the sidewalks all well-lit. Which is why personal safety has never been a concern. It has crossed my father’s mind about a trillion times, however. And thank God for that.
I’ve been warned repeatedly about the dangers of walking around alone at night. I know the stats by heart, got them all memorized and everything. And yet, I still can’t believe it’s happening to me.
Having a parent in law enforcement is both a chore and a blessing. Am I maybe a little more paranoid than most people? Probably. But I sleep well at night knowing I’m prepared for just about anything. Case in point, the tiny can of pepper spray dangling on my keychain.
I hear it again, the sound. Under closer scrutiny, it definitely sounds like footsteps. And they’re drawing closer. Goosebumps break out over my skin and the palpitations are going to put me in cardiac arrest. I take hold of the pepper spray, finger poised on the trigger, hand shaking.
Regardless of the near panic attack I’m having, I manage to control my instinct to cut and run. I need to get closer to the safety of my dorm first––I can’t risk being dragged behind a bush or building––and I’m only a block away.
Roughly thirty steps.
Ten steps.
With each one I take, my anxiety escalates. I’m too terrified to look back. I don’t want to make him real.
The footsteps behind me accelerate, and they definitely belong to a man. The cadence, the hollow heavy sound of weight hitting cement is distinct––even in sneakers.
By the time I reach my dorm, I can barely hear anything over the sound of blood rushing in my ears. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it pulsing in my throat. I punch in the code on the security pad. The chime signals that the door is open and I dive inside. But not before someone––a large someone––barrels in right behind me.
That’s when all hell breaks loose.
I don’t think. I don’t feel. I just react, aiming the spray at the face of my assailant, kicking and screaming for dear life, fifteen years of parental training and dormant law enforcement DNA coming into play all at once. This is my fight song in the literal sense.
Next thing I know, there’s a bunch of shouting and cursing, and I look down and find Dallas curved into a fetal position, writhing in pain on the hallway floor with one hand covering his face and the other his privates. Not only have I sprayed him, I also landed an unprotected hit below the belt.
Oh effing crap.
Zoe, Blake, and Alice rush out of our suite, their expressions in various stages of surprise. I take that back. Zoe is wearing one of those sparkly purple beauty masks, the gunk is all over her face, so I can’t really tell what’s going on with her.
“Oh my God, Dallas!” Alice shouts.
Then I shout “I-I-I’m so sorry!” at Dallas, not meaning to. “You snuck up on me. I d-didn’t know it was you!”
“Burns––” he barely manages to get out. “Holy fuck, it burns!”
“What did this mofo do to you?” I hear Zoe ask with unmitigated contempt in her voice. “Did he lay a hand on you?!”
“What? No! I just r-reacted. I thought he was a s-s-stalker!”
Stepping around me, Zoe walks over to Dallas’s prone body…and kicks him in the shin.
“Zoe!” Blake, Alice, and I scream.
My automatic reaction is to shove Alice out of the way and dive onto him, shielding his body from further abuse by covering him with my arms.
“You don’t sneak up on women, donkeybrains,” Zoe snaps, glaring down at him. Not that he would know that with his eyes being sealed shut. She attempts another kick that I thwart by grabbing at her ankle.
“Fuck!” Dallas shouts.
“Zoe, stop.”
“Gimme a break. I’m wearing my Golden Goose sneakers. Not like I have my steel-toed Chanel boots on.”
“Jesus Christ, Zoe,” Alice adds.
“Bad. Bad. Bad!” Zoe continues. This time she delivers her justice by pinching his arm.
“I’m pressing charges!” Dallas shouts between coughing fits.
“Please fuck off in the fuckingest way possible.”
“That’s not a thing,” Blake casually remarks. She glances up from staring critically at her perfectly manicured midnight blue nails and rolls her eyes, not even mustering a pretense of interest in this mess.
Zoe glances at Blake and smirks. “I’m making it a thing.”
Meanwhile, back in reality, I’m as far from casual as I could possibly be. Watching Dallas squirming in pain on the ground is seriously stressing me out.
In my entire life I have never hurt a soul. I’m the girl who takes up ants in a dust pan and releases them outdoors instead of killing them. I hurt him and by the looks of it––badly.
“He’s really hurt,” I say to no one and everyone.
“He’ll live,” Blake remarks.
“Can somebody grab the milk from the r-refrigerator, please?”
“Almond, soy, or regular?” Zoe’s voice drips sarcasm.
“Regular!” I bark, exasperated at this point with the lack of cooperation I’m getting from everyone. “Quick, before t-there’s p-permanent damage!”
“What?” I hear Dallas mutter through a cough as the pepper spray is no doubt burning his throat.
Gently taking hold of Dallas’s wrists, I guide his hands away. “Don’t rub. I-It makes it worse.”
Alice thankfully hands me the carton of milk. “Keep your eyes closed,” I tell him.
With no time to lose,
I pour it directly on his face, and although at first he jerks, when the milk starts neutralizing the capsaicin he stops squirming.
“Better…thanks,” he rasps.
“C-Come with me,” I murmur and offer my hand, which he grabs onto with a brutal grip. As if I’m the only thing that stands between him and certain death.
Three sets of curious stares follow us as I slowly guide him to the suite bathroom, ones I do my best to ignore. Now is definitely not the time for explanations.
“Holler if you need help cutting up the body.” Zoe’s parting shot comes just as I close the door and lock it.
“If you walk me into oncoming traffic, I’ll be really mad at you, Dory.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I find Dallas trying to stick his head under the running faucet. The fact that he can tease me while his face looks like raw meat and his eyes are sealed shut says a lot about him.
This is the most we’ve ever said to each other, an actual conversation as opposed to what happened during and after the Slow Drip.
Talk about a moment of true fear. I thought for sure he was going to expose me in front of the girls. Not that they would judge, but I would never hear the end of it. Zoe in particular. She seems to equate Dallas with the devil, and finding out that I, not only went to a sorority party in disguise, but also ended up kissing the devil in question, would have given her enough ammo to last until graduation.
“I promise…I’m s-so s-sorry. I didn’t––”
“I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.”
Speaking of the devil…why is he here?
Eyes closed, he pushes the wet hair back off his forehead, and I hand him a clean towel, then guide him to sit on the closed toilet seat.
“Don’t rub, just pat dry.”
“You didn’t stutter,” he says, the sound muffled by the towel to his face.
“I d-don’t always.” My voice sounds weak and pathetic and I want to kick myself for not having better control.