Caleb.
I ditch Gabe by giving him money to buy us each a Gatorade. I’m not proud of my ploy, but the bench outside my calculus class is empty and quiet—a win in my book. I sit and wait for fantasy girl to head my way. I’m into this girl. I can’t figure out if it’s her face, her attitude, or the body she tucks away like a secret.
Maybe it’s the fact she won’t even tell me her name.
Last week I noticed her return a student ID when the clasp that held it broke off someone’s backpack. Three other students stepped over it—either they were oblivious or couldn’t give two steamy turds about returning it, but fantasy girl did. She had to hustle to catch up and hand it over, while I enjoyed the view on my way to the Gladiator weight room for conditioning.
She turns the corner, and she’s not alone. A guy walks beside her. My shoulders go tight. Damn, I hope he’s just a friend. I don’t poach. Period.
What’s her story? Beige camouflage pants and a pink Cookie Monster sweatshirt with Smart Cookie printed across her chest. Her dark hair gathers in a long ponytail, and curls cascade down her back. She’s authentic. Without makeup, her sharp cheekbones beneath those big brown eyes draw me in. The cargo pants, flip-flops, an oversized hoodie hiding her curves make me wonder if she’s trying to disappear.
And if I’m thinking this hard about her clothes, I’m freaking hopeless.
I’ll wait for the guy to leave, bide my time, and allow her to reach me. I scroll through KickBack on my phone. The guy remains beside her, and they’re five feet from my bench. They’re involved in a whispered argument, which slows their pace. I’m all for it. They should break up. Now would be good. He stops beside me. Fantasy girl passes close enough for me to catch her scent—which for some reason reminds me of vanilla ice cream. She keeps moving like I’m invisible.
The dude turns toward me. Up close, he looks vaguely familiar. I try to place him when he says, “Hey, eighty-three. Good to see you vertical after the high-low double threat hit Saturday.”
“Thanks, man. I’m wearing two helmet-sized bruises with a Spartan imprint to show for it.” I stand and stick my hand out to shake his. “Caleb St. John.”
He grips my hand. “Beau Waverly.” He points in fantasy girl’s direction with his left. “Faith Lacerna.”
She hears her name, stops, and turns toward us. She shoots Beau a dirty look. Her body language bristles with attitude, maybe a bit of resignation as she glances my way. Heat and curves. A dangerous combo for me.
She nods once. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say back. “Were you at the game too? That’ll make my humiliation complete.”
“Aren’t you all kinds of charming? Too bad charisma gives me a rash. See ya.” She waves as she walks away from us both.
Damn. Easy dismissal. Her snark makes me want to try harder. A first for me.
Beau smirks. “You may want to change your game plan. Use less charm. Layer in more sincerity. If you’re looking for a random hookup, look elsewhere.”
Tendons spasm in my neck. I’m not my father. I’m not the kind of as shat who hurts girls, fucks with them or around on them. “If getting laid was the end game, there’s an entire football groupie fan base to choose from.”
I turn to head toward class.
Beau raises his voice. “She’s worth the effort.”
I’m sincere. Damn it. I’m not a player. How the hell do I prove it, and do I want to? Yep. Fuck it. In football, the offense has four tries to get the first down. I head into class, determined to get Faith to hang out with me. I climb the steps toward her. This will either turn into an epic fail, or I’ll get to spend some time with her. Five minutes before class begins. Magic can happen with that much time on the clock. I sit in the seat next to her in the last row.
“Hello, Faith.”
She turns to me, eyebrows raised, face stern. “Sinjin.”
I want to press my lips against that unsmiling mouth. She twists me up that way. “Did I piss you off somehow, or is your default attitude always set to dominatrix?” I wink to let her know I’m joking. “By the way, it totally works for you.”
“Lines don’t work on me.”
I’ve got to get her to agree to hang out with me. No charm. Dry fact. “Fine. No line. I’d like to get to know you. Maybe grab some coffee or a meal sometime? My treat.”
She stares at me as though the answer to whether or not I’m a serial killer is inked on my face.
I catch the elusive scent of vanilla, and I want to know if it’s coming from her hair or skin. “Take some time,” I say, “think it over, but give me your phone.”
She turns away, mutters a curse in another language—which is savage hot—and passes me her unlocked phone. All without glancing my way.
I dial myself, feel the vibration, end the call, and add myself to her contacts. “One hour of your time, somewhere off campus. That’s all I ask. You name the time, date, and place.”
I make my way to the middle of the lecture hall and sit down next to Gabe. Dr. Hadin, our professor, walks in the hall. I lean toward Gabe. “Tell me straight. How did we fuck up this week?”
While the professor struggles to get the projector to work with his vintage laptop, I settle into the rhythm of Gabe’s dissertation on last week’s game.
He says, “Faith, huh? Never put you two together.”
“Why’s that?” I turn toward him. He has my full attention now.
Gabe shrugs. “She doesn’t seem like your type.”
“Out of curiosity, what’s my type?” I lean back in my seat.
“Uh. You know.”
I make eye contact. Waiting for his reply.
“Scorching.”
He nods in the direction of a girl who sits two rows down and five seats to our right. She has long blonde hair, blue eyes, black leggings—the kind that go sheer in the right light—and a pale silver top hanging low on one shoulder.
“You interested in her, Gabe?”
“Who wouldn’t be?”
Not going there. “You know Faith?”
Gabe shakes his head. “Not really. Ran into her once in the student union. She’s cool, but…”
Normally, he won’t shut up about the game, but I have to work hard for information about anything else. “But?”
“I guess she’s pretty, but, you know…she doesn’t fix herself up or wear anything except giant sweatshirts and pants with enough pockets to store snacks for an entire week.”
I glance over my shoulder at Faith. She’s staring in my direction. I wonder how anyone could see her as ordinary despite her efforts to disguise herself. I raise my cell phone, point at it to give her a hint, then bring my hands together in the universal sign of prayer and face forward again.
“Guys like you can get anyone,” says Gabe. “If I were you, I’d go for the blonde everyone wants. Not the girl who wears Muppet shirts.”
Amazed that a smart guy could be so dense, I check out Gabe’s attire. I gesture toward his ancient yellow cargo shorts and what might have been a white T-shirt, now discolored to a dingy gray. “Do your fashion choices get you laid?”
Gabe leans toward me and deadpans, “Large sums of money will have to change hands for me to get laid.”
I’m forced to turn my laugh into a cough when the lecture begins. Expectation tightens my belly while I wait for my phone to buzz in my pocket. For all I know she’ll wait days to answer or leave me hanging indefinitely. When I feel a vibration, I glance at the text from an unknown caller.
Meet me at Philz Coffee @5p Plz. I’ll make it worth your while.
Excitement turns rancid when I realize Dana sent the text. I’m willing to bet big money Faith is not the type to dangle sex in exchange for a meetup. I refuse to act like a stalker. If she doesn’t text me in four days I’ll have my answer, and I’ll leave her alone.