by Wade, Ellie
She simply replied, “Hey, whatever floats your boat.”
I would come to see that Paige was full of one-liners, and she’d sometimes use popular sayings that didn’t actually fit the scenario.
From that first meeting in the dorm room to now, Paige McAllister and I have been best friends. We were roommates all four years. We saw each other through wardrobe malfunctions, bad boyfriends, worse breakups, drunken nights, horrible hangovers, useless classes, and tedious tests. She majored in marketing, and I majored in journalism. The two degrees had a lot of the same coursework, so we took as many classes as we could together.
We rushed the Delta Delta Delta sorority together as well, which leads us to our current predicament. The Tri Deltas love to donate to various charities. This week, we are raising money for the local no-kill animal shelter, which is a great cause. Of course, I have nothing against giving money to those in need—especially puppies—but seriously, it’s such a waste of time. If every girl in our chapter donated twenty bucks—basically pocket change—to our cause of the week, then we would have more money to give to each charity than we could make on any car wash.
Then again, as I look at Paige in her string bikini, this event might actually raise money.
“You look hot, BTW,” I say to her.
Her lips press into a satisfied smile. “Thanks.”
“I mean, you do look slightly like a hooker but hot nonetheless.”
She laughs. “I’ll take it. And as they say, When in Rome. You could join my hooker status if you would take off your shorts, you know.”
“I think I’ll keep them on, thank you very much,” I say matter-of-factly. “I mean, I already feel like a tramp with my girls on display like this.” I look down to my cleavage popping out from the top of my bikini.
“Your boobs are hot. With them, we’ll for sure make some money for our furry friends. We should have made a sign with our slogan!” she says excitedly.
“What slogan is that?”
She puts her hand out in front of her. “Boobs for a cause. Raising money for puppy paws.” She bounces her hand in the air after each word, as if she can see the slogan in lights.
“That’s not bad,” I respond with a chuckle.
“So, I’m doing the first car, right?”
“Um, yeah. You haven’t forgotten your little stunt from a minute ago, have you?”
“No, that’s fine. I was just checking. So, that means, you are doing the second one?”
“Um, yeah. Why?”
“No reason.” She shrugs with obvious mirth in her voice.
Makeshift rows have been set up in a large parking lot behind a local bank. Some of our sorority sisters have already started their washing duties, but we lucked out and got the farthest row out. The persistent low grumble of a large engine alerts me to the fact that my time chitchatting with Paige is over. I turn to face the two vehicles in our line, and I immediately understand Paige’s jovial mood.
“No way,” I protest.
“Yes way.” She giggles.
It isn’t the shiny little Toyota that catches my attention but the monstrosity of a dirty truck that is lined up behind it.
I stare, my mouth agape, at the mud-caked Ram Truck. The truck’s size itself is overwhelming. I’m going to need a ladder to reach the hood. But the dirt…seriously?
“Oh, charity,” Paige sighs, her voice rising an octave. “It just makes you feel so good inside, doesn’t it?” She skips toward the first car and waves. “Have fun,” she calls back toward me.
I close the distance between myself and the truck, internally preparing myself to greet the asshole who is sure to be inside it with a smile because I am a Tri Delt, after all.
The truck idles before me. My eyes scan from the wheels to the doors. Every inch is simply covered in a hard filth that appears to have taken up permanent residence on this truck. If the truck were taken care of, it would probably be quite an expensive vehicle.
My gaze continues upward, but I can’t force my smile to come. Chalk it up to the fact that this is my last event with the sorority or maybe that it is eighty-seven humid degrees out or that the world’s largest dick just pulled up, but I can’t seem to force my Tri Delta classiness and jovial smile. So, instead, when my eyes finish traveling up the door to the window, I am wearing a verified pissed off scowl.
That is, until I see him.
His window is rolled down, and his arm is resting against it. He’s wearing some type of military camouflage uniform—Army, I think—along with a hat of the same material, but it isn’t the commanding presence of the uniform that has me speechless.
It’s the face beneath the brown-and-tan camouflage cap.
Damn.
I don’t find myself in this predicament often. Not much can rattle me to my core, but this Adonis before me has managed to steal every coherent thought I had.
The smirk across his face should anger me—normally, it would—yet I can’t allow myself to feel annoyed when I find myself in the presence of his rugged face with those lips and deep blue eyes that seem to glimmer next to his sun-kissed skin. His sandy-blond hair is short and barely visible beneath the cap, but an image of my hand running through the hair at the nape of his neck flickers in my mind before I can stop it. He is manly perfection, plain and simple.
I’m lost in visions of hot, sweaty sex, a beautiful wedding, and making babies. Yes, loads of babies. It’s official. I’m going to marry this man.
Movement before me pulls me out of the dream playing in my head, and I see Hottie’s smirk has grown in width.
“Um…what?” I stutter ever so non-gracefully.
“I said, you should close your mouth before you swallow a bug. It’s just mud. It will come off with a little elbow grease. You’re not afraid to get a little dirty, are ya?” His deep voice sends a torrent of chills across my skin.
It takes a split second for me to realize what he’s talking about. That’s right…car wash. Got it. “Oh, I love getting dirty.” I beam before internally cringing. A huge desire to kick my own ass rushes over me.
Enough of this middle-school-starry-eyed-girl syndrome. I’m a smart, attractive twenty-two-year-old college graduate. If I’ve learned anything in the past four years, it is how to get a guy to do what I want. And, right now, I can think of a lot of things I want this particular specimen to do.
I put on my sexy smile. “Hi, I’m London. London Wright. Sorry, momentary brain lapse there. Must be the heat.” I shrug. Why did I give the car wash guy my last name?
“Yeah. It’s hot as a bitch.”
“Perfect day to make some poor college girl clean your filthy truck, huh?” I provide a smirk of my own.
“Exactly my thoughts. Although you’re anything but poor, London Wright.”
I love the way my name rolls off his tongue.
“Maybe not. But it’s not very nice of you.”
His body is turned toward the window, and I catch his name patch on the right side of his chest on his uniform.
“Berkeley,” I address him.
“It’s Loïc. If you didn’t want to wash cars, maybe you shouldn’t have put up the sign. I’m just trying to do my part for the”—he pauses momentarily as he looks back at one of the posters—“puppies.”
“Yeah, well,” I say in my favorite flirty voice, “if you really wanted to help the puppies and me, you could just donate some money and drive through an actual car wash before picking me up for a date later.”
His laughter booms through the truck cab as his head falls to the headrest behind him. “You’re something else, London. Does that sort of line work for you often?”
“Well, to be honest, I usually don’t have to work too hard. But I’ve found, when I see something I want, the best approach is a straightforward one.” I pause. “And to answer your question, yes, my lines always work for me.”
He takes me in, his beautiful blues squinting slightly.
I can’t make out his thoughts, but
the silence is uncomfortable, so I continue, “So, I hear a slight accent in your voice. Where are you from?”
“A little bit of everywhere, I guess.”
“From the South?” I question.
“Partly.”
“You’re not giving much away, are ya?”
“Nope,” he answers.
My eyes are drawn to his lips and the way they form a perfect pout after he finishes that word.
“Loïc…that’s a different name. Is there a story behind it?”
“Maybe. Is there a story behind yours?”
“Yes, there is. Would you like to go out later, and I can tell you all about it?” I’m starting to get irritated with his evasiveness.
“Nope,” he says again, putting emphasis on the P sound.
Oh, crap. He must be married.
My eyes dart to his left hand that falls from the open window.
A rumbly chuckle vibrates through his chest as he assesses me while I squint toward his ring finger. “I’m not married, London, and I’m not in a relationship.”
“Oh,” is my only response.
“I am in a hurry though and in need of a truck washin’, so if you wouldn’t mind getting started, that would be awesome.”
My mouth drops open, but I quickly close it while rolling my eyes toward Loïc, God of Assholes—drop-dead gorgeous ones but assholes nonetheless.
“Right,” I snap, turning to grab the hose.
Ugh, what a jerk.
Unadulterated fury powers me through cleaning the truck. In actuality, most of the crap comes right off with a simple spray of the hose, but the truck itself is inconsequential at this point. What is driving my rage is Loïc sitting pretty inside the cab of his truck, his fingers tapping away at his phone. He seems completely oblivious of me. Although I’m pissed, I’m still using every opportunity I can to get his attention.
Isn’t watching a half-naked chick leaning over a wet truck some sort of fantasy for guys?
Yet, every time I glance his way to see if he’s checking out my ass, I find that he’s not. He’s staring at his damn phone.
Maybe he’s gay. He has to be.
But I didn’t get that vibe from him in the least.
He’s just some Army jerk. Why do I care?
I finish spraying his truck down and stand outside his closed window. He doesn’t look up until I tap against the glass. When the window is open, a rush of urgency comes over me. I’m suddenly inundated with this longing to say something to keep him here, to make him want me.
Part of me knows that, when he drives away, I will never see him again. For reasons that escape me, that thought terrifies me. I don’t know anything about Loïc besides that he drives a big truck, he might have lived in the South at some point in his life, and he’s in some sort of military service.
But it’s not about what I know of him. It’s what I see in him. Behind his insane good looks is something. I’m not sure what it is, but I want to find out. I need to find out. And the fact that he doesn’t seem to be interested is causing me to panic.
His right eyebrow rises. “All done?”
“Yeah, it’s five dollars,” I answer with a sigh.
There is so much I want to say to him, but none of it seems appropriate or, to be honest, sane. I shouldn’t feel this range of emotions toward a stranger, and I’m starting to wonder if the heat is getting to my head.
He hands me a twenty. “Keep the change”—his deep blues send an electrifying current through me—“for the puppies. And, London?”
My eyes expectantly shoot up to his.
“Thank you,” he says before pushing his gearshift into drive and pulling out of the parking lot.
London
“Why didn’t he want me? I’m amazing.”
—London Wright
I turn my attention from the How I Met Your Mother rerun that I’ve been watching to face my best friend, who is sitting at the other end of the couch. She is being awfully chatty at the moment and has been talking my ear off, ruining the better half of this show with her obsessive babbling. Granted, I’ve watched this particular episode at least three times, but that’s not the point.
She must notice my less than amused look. “Listen up, girlfriend. You need to stop this little pouting session that you have going on. It’s getting annoying. As they always say, When it rains, it pours.” Paige plops a corner of her frosted Pop-Tart into her mouth.
“What exactly do you mean by that? What’s raining?” I ask, my eyebrow quirking up in question.
Paige looks at me like I have two heads, her face scrunched up in confusion. “How am I supposed to know? That’s just what they say.” She shrugs.
I chuckle. “Well, Paigey Poo, the entire point of using an expression like that is to have it make sense to the situation and, by extension, help in some way. Your sayings never fit what is going on, so there’s really no point in saying them at all.”
“I say them because I like to. It makes me sound”—she pauses, thinking of the exact word she wants to say—“smart.”
I can’t hold in my laughter, and an obnoxious roar of giggles comes from my mouth. “No, it doesn’t.” I wipe the few stray tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. “It actually has the opposite effect. You do know this, right?”
She plops another piece of her Pop-Tart into her mouth, her expression one of annoyance.
“It’s just, when you say something that doesn’t make sense, it makes you sound a little silly. I love you, silly and all…but I’m just saying.” I give her a sheepish smile.
“You can just say all you want, but I will continue to say what I want even if you think I sound stupid.” She narrows her eyes at me.
“I never said you were stupid.”
“Yeah, you basically did,” she huffs out.
I let out an exhale. “You’re right. Say whatever the hell you want. I’m in a bitchy mood, and I’m sorry that I’m taking it out on you.”
Paige crosses her legs underneath herself and leans in toward me, a wide smile on her face. “You’re forgiven. So, are you really still all grumpy over hot Army guy?”
I sigh. “I think so. The whole thing is ridiculous. I don’t even know him. I have no idea why his dismissal made me so mad.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure this is what we call the first-time blues.” She nods her head with her lips pressed into a line.
“Huh?”
Her hands flail as she talks, “It’s obvious, isn’t it? This is the first time you’ve ever been turned down, and your ego is throwing a pity party.”
I absently chew on my lip, thinking about her words.
She continues, “It was bound to happen, London. You can’t take it personally. Not everyone in the world will be attracted to you.”
I squint my eyes toward Paige. Irritation lines my voice as I say, “You make me sound like a stuck-up snob.”
“Well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” She shrugs.
“We’re bringing my mom into this now?”
She’s right. My mom is a total snob.
Paige looks at me in confusion. “Why would I bring your mom into this?”
“You said that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“So?”
I roll my eyes. “That means that I’m like my parents.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Paige shakes her head. “I don’t know why you’re bringing your mom into this. Yes, she is a little snooty, but you know I would never compare you to her.”
I groan. “We’re talking about my parents right now because your little saying implied that I was like them.” My voice rises an octave with annoyance. “Did you mean to say, If the shoe fits? Because I think that might make more sense here if you meant that I can be a snob.”
“Yeah, whatever. All I’m saying is, you have established certain expectations, and this Army dude didn’t act accordingly, so you’re butthurt. You need to move on. You know what they say, The best way to
get over someone is to get someone else under you.”
I laugh. “‘They’”—I raise my hands and bend my fingers in air quotations around the word—“totally do not say that, and now, you’re making me sound like a slut. Have you always hoped your best friend would be a snobby slut?”
She giggles. “I’m not calling you a slut—or a snob really, for that matter. You know I love you exactly the way you are. I guess all I’m saying is, we need to go out tonight. You know, to get you out of your funk.”
“All of that”—I raise my hand in the air, my finger drawing a circle between Paige and me—“was just to say that we need to go out?”
“Yeah!” She grins. “This awesome club band is playing at Necto tonight. Some of the girls were talking about going. I’m sure you could find someone to make out with. That would totally make you feel better.” She winks.
“I could use a night out. Good plan,” I say through a smile. “But, for the record, why didn’t he want me? I’m amazing.”
My phone buzzes against the couch, and I peer down to see my mom’s face on the screen.
“Speaking of trees,” I say to Paige.
“I thought we moved on to shoes?” She looks to me in question.
I laugh. “I can’t keep track with you. Anyway, I’m going to take this, and then we’ll pre-party.”
“Yay!” She claps her hands together. “I’ll get my shower out of the way.”
I love our pre-party ritual that we’ve perfected over the past four years. It consists of snacks, music, drinks, and a couple of hours to style our hair and makeup to utter flawlessness. Someday soon, when we decide to grow up and get real jobs—or employment, period—I’m sure these nights are going to be few and far between. But, for now, I’m going to relish in the joy they bring.
“Hey, Mom,” I say into my phone.
My mom doesn’t call often. She usually communicates through text, so I’m sure she has some news to share.
“Baby girl! How are you? How’s life since graduation? Anything exciting going on? Have you applied for any jobs?”
“No, not really. And, no, not yet.”