Bashful Read online

  You know when you try on someone else’s ring and it gets stuck on your finger? That instant feeling of panic and dread when you twist and pull to no avail?

  Try it with a shirt that refuses to come off as easily as it went on.

  Agitation and fear clouded my common sense as I grunted and tried to wrestle with the fabric. The buttons tugged at my hair, tangling together and making it impossible to remove the shirt myself. Why didn’t I unfasten more buttons? With my arms straight over my head and my face covered, I stumbled blindly from behind the screen in defeat. I muttered in what I hoped was the direction of Melissa. “Mel, a little help, please?” I listened as footfalls echoed close to me, and I sighed in relief.

  Warm hands relaxed my arms into a bent position. Pulling slowly, deft fingers worked the snarled buttons from my hair and I was freed from my cloth restraint. A relieved gulp of air made its way into my lungs while I focused my eyes on Melissa.

  Wait, Melissa has boobs. There are no boobs on this person.

  I was nose-to-chest with a plane of hard muscle covered in a gray raglan T-shirt.

  Definitely not Melissa.

  Bash crossed his arms in front of his chest as he took a small step back, his raised brow laser-beamed in on where my shirt should be. I traced his line of sight, my chin dipping lower.

  Son of a motherbitch, I didn’t have a bra on.

  The shirt was thick enough that I didn’t need one.

  My hands flew to my bare chest, my forearms grasping for privacy as I squeaked out an embarrassed apology and explanation. Blood rushed to my face as I stood in front of Bash in all—well, half—of my glory. It wasn’t like I’d flashed him on purpose, and even if I had, my equipment wasn’t what got his motor running. Taking a deep breath, I cleared my throat and nudged him with my sock-covered foot. No way was I moving my arms. Bash stared for what felt like the longest two seconds of my life before averting his gaze and handing the crumpled shirt over.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not like I haven’t seen boobs before.” He winked. “Nice shirt, though. Really brought out your...assets. I’ve gotta say, I think I like this au naturel look better than that blue lacy bra from your apartment.”

  A quick blush bloomed over my décolletage before annoyance and sexual frustration gripped inside my belly. Covering my boobs with the wrinkled shirt, I stepped forward and shoved him and his stupid muscles out of my changing area. He really needed to stop walking in on me with my tits out. It wasn’t helping anyone.

  “What are you doing here, ass?” I asked through the thin wall, fastening the clasp and adjusting the straps of my bra.

  “I was coming in to try stuff on. But now, I’m much happier helping stuff come off.” He laughed.

  I pulled my flannel over my head and worked through the buttons. Mental note—buttons are tiny circular assholes. Only buy things with Velcro or zippers from now on.

  “Fun fact, Callie; Bash and flash rhyme.” The idiot started laughing even harder. “It’s like we were meant to be.”

  I slipped on my Chucks and stepped out from behind the screen, only to find him doubled over against the mirror. “Did you really just say that?”

  He leaned against the counter, hands in the front pockets of his jeans, a cocky grin on his face. The round lightbulbs surrounding the mirrors had given me multiple reflections of him at once, and I couldn’t be mad about it. He looked beautiful. He looked happy. Moving my pseudo-glare back to him, I found him yet again having a staring contest with my boobs.

  I think my boobs were losing.

  I snapped my fingers, trying to break whatever secret bonding experience he seemed to be having with them.

  “Hey! My face is up here. Bash. Bash! What color are my eyes?”

  He looked up. “Um, 34C?”

  I burst into laughter, wiping tears from my cheeks as he stood there stunned. I guess Bash could still appreciate a decent rack. Every time I looked at his face, I started cracking up again. His brow furrowed deeper, that bottom lip of his jutting out as I went to town.

  Melissa walked back into the dressing room, her poor arms weighed down with piles of men’s clothing. She looked back and forth between Bash and me, trying to figure out what had happened while she was gone.

  “Um, I’m not even going to guess with you two. Weirdos,” she muttered that last bit under her breath and heaved her pile of garments over the back of a chair. “Since you’re here early, Bash, why don’t you try these on?”

  He took three hangers from her hands, his name safety-pinned to the different colored dress shirts. Bash could have walked behind the screen, but I guess it was torture-Callie day. My jaw went slack when he reached behind his head and pulled, making quick work of the cotton covering his skin. Melissa and I were meager creatures that were now sucked into his devious strip show. We exchanged quick, wide-eyed glances as he tossed his T-shirt onto the counter before putting his toned biceps through the sleeves of a navy dress shirt. Bash smirked and I had a sudden need for a huge glass of water. He lazily worked the buttons, his focus more interested in my reaction. Was he trying to make this look like a striptease in reverse? Because it was working. I suddenly wished I had a wad of dollar bills in my back pocket.

  I shook the thoughts from my brain. He totally knew he was pulling a Magic Mike.

  What a tempting tease.

  “Bash, go behind the freaking screen, for Christ’s sake,” I complained, gesturing to his exposed chest. “We don’t need to see all of that.”

  Melissa started cackling, turning away to label more outfits.

  He backed up slowly, a devious smile growing on his lips. “I just figured since I saw yours, it was only fair that I showed you mine.”

  I slapped my hand over my eyes at the very same time Melissa spun around and screamed, “What? Bash saw your boobs?”

  He finished buttoning the shirt, obviously amused that I was fuming.

  “It’s not what you think, Mel,” I explained. “The stupid buttons on that burgundy top got stuck in my hair and I thought it was you helping me get it off.”

  Bash walked forward, cutting between Mel and me. “It’s okay, Melissa. I got it off, probably much quicker than she could have on her own.”

  I was going to kill him, or at the very least maim him. Her face was almost the color of that ill-fated shirt, her embarrassment at this situation looking like it was worse than my own. She was such a shy, sweet, almost-prudish person. I couldn’t imagine what was going through her mind.

  I swung him around, yanking the fabric surrounding his bicep, and dragged him behind the screen. I hit him as hard as I could in the shoulder, immediately shaking out the pain radiating from my knuckles. “What the hell are you made of, rock? You hurt my hand!” I whisper-shouted.

  He looked gobsmacked. “I hurt you? You hit me! How is this my fault?” He lifted my hand, appraising the damage and rubbing his calloused thumb over my sore knuckles.

  “I wouldn’t have had to punch you if you didn’t just embarrass me and Melissa like that!”

  Bash kissed my swollen fist with a wink, which only angered me more. “Violence is not the answer, Calliope.”

  I murmured something foul under my breath before turning on my heels and storming away. Yelling toward the piles of clothes that I’m sure were suffocating my friend, I let Melissa know I was finished for the day.

  Twenty-Three

  I STOMPED OUT OF THE room and quickly rushed up the stairs to the main floor, but the footfalls pounding behind me meant that Bash was on my heels. He reached for my elbow, gently pulling me backward. Thrown off guard at the reverse force, I panicked and missed the next step. I felt myself falling and squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the painful impact of my ass against the hard floor. But it never came. Bash was quick, and before I knew what was happening, his arms were wrapped around my waist. My synapses fired on all cylinders when I realized I was safe—that once again, he saved me. He righted me, pulling me close enough that our bodies brushed toge
ther.

  My hand didn’t hurt anymore, but my ovaries were starting to.

  He leaned closer, his magnetic force pulling me to him. Slipping the backpack from my shoulder, Bash wrapped his arms around my waist to tug me closer. My gaze settled on his plump lower lip, his teeth grazing over it back and forth.

  He was thinking about it.

  I bit my own, the pressure building in my core as Bash circled his thumbs into my lower back. He wanted to kiss me. I could see it. Feel it.

  “Sweets...” he said huskily.

  I was stock-still, too afraid to break the delicious tension swirling around us. I lifted my hands and skimmed over the rough denim until I reached his hipbones, until my fingers were tangled in the hem of his shirt, clinging, begging.

  Sweet baby Jesus, please kiss me, Bash.

  I licked my lips, leaning slightly into him as I closed my eyes. Finally. I held my breath and waited.

  One second. One single second was all it took. One second to realize that I forgot myself.

  That one stupid second where he remembered who he was about to kiss.

  That one fucking second where we both realized I wasn’t a guy and he released me.

  My heart bottomed out as I shoved my hands in the back pockets of my jeans. He coughed to clear his throat, tugging at the long tendrils of hair on the top of his head. He was giving me whiplash with his mood swings.

  “I’m, uh, going to have to buy you a bubble suit,” he said, his focus on the wall above my head.

  I rolled on the balls of my feet, fury and embarrassment fighting its way through my limbs. I couldn’t do this push-and-pull anymore. Stick a fucking fork in me, because I was done. Why did we keep playing this cat and mouse game? Why did I keep getting sucked in? A lump of humiliation formed in my throat and I knew I needed to say something to put a stop to it once and for all.

  It was one thing to fool myself into letting the flirting and the touching happen—it was an entirely different being to allow it to mess with my head. The laugh that came bubbling from my throat was full of heartbreak and resentment.

  “You should have just let me fall,” I said, looking him straight in the eye, teeth clenched. “Might have been less painful than this.”

  He closed the distance between us and I halted him with my hand, slowing him from entering my personal space again. “Callie, I—”

  “No. Just don’t, Bash. I don’t know why we keep playing these games...no, you know what? I’m not that girl—or that person, whatever—I’m not playing. I can’t do this anymore.” I don’t know what he was thinking, but the vibe he’d given off was that of a guy about to kiss someone. Maybe he was questioning his sexual orientation, but if so, I wasn’t the girl he could practice on until he figured it out. It was time to start putting myself first. Scooping my backpack from the floor, I hurled it over one shoulder. “I’m done. I’m leaving. Don’t follow me.”

  I spun around and hurried up the remaining steps. His brow furrowed as I scolded him and his hand yanked at the strands of his hair until he looked less put-together than I felt. He was warring inside just as much as I was, but I couldn’t afford to care anymore. It hurt too much. When I reached the top of the stairs, he called out my name.

  “Are we okay?” he asked rigidly.

  His fingers were clasped around the railing so hard, I could see the white of his knuckles from here. Pulling my flannel around my body tighter, I fought the chill running down over my skin that most certainly wasn’t from a cold breeze.

  Taking one last look at him, I adjusted my bag and blew out a breath. The dirty ceiling tiles were a welcome reprieve for my teary eyes. Anything was better than looking at him again.

  “We will be. Just give me some time.”

  J

  I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad that she was gone, but the apartment and my mood seemed even sadder without Evie in it. She’d left this morning for Chicago to audition for a dance company and wouldn’t be home for a few days. As much as I wanted my BFF with me, it was probably for the better that she was avoiding my dramatics.

  My eyes were leaking that watery crap again. Why is it that when you really didn’t want to cry, tears were in an abundant supply? I wiped the salty streaks away with my damp sleeve and willed myself to stop. Bash had successfully screwed with me again, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own. I felt like I’d just gone through a real breakup, which was pathetic since the last ‘serious’ boyfriend I had was for six months my senior year of high school. This hurt way more than that. After the first full night of wallowing—and an entire bag of cheese puffs—I had a slightly orange-tinted epiphany. I’d given myself a two-day grace period before I decided to put on my big-girl pants and get the hell over him once and for all.

  For real this time.

  Mind over matter, right? No one likes a pity party when they’re the only one in attendance.

  I shook the thoughts from my head as my phone vibrated next to me. Pulling in it front of my puffy eyes, I groaned when I saw it was yet another text from Tucker. Give it a rest, man. Flipping the button on the side to silent, I tossed it farther away from me on the couch, hitting my foot in the process.

  I had managed to avoid at least a dozen phone calls and fifty texts between Tuck and he-who-won’t-be-named, but it didn’t stop them from irritating the crap out of me. Unless one of them was dying on the side of the road, nothing would break my grace-period-inspired moping.

  I knew I was going to have to see them on campus and during rehearsals, and I’d deal with that when it happened. It wasn’t that I couldn’t handle Tucker, it’s just that I wasn’t ready for the onslaught of accusatory questions about why I was being such a downer. So, avoidance? It was the best option. I’d rather remain holed up in my apartment with my carbs and greasy hair than try and people like a grown-up.

  I shoved my hand back into the bag of Doritos on my lap, mindlessly watching a Kirsten Dunst romcom I loved as a teen. I scowled at her stupid face. I watched every single one of those movies when I was younger, and they were a bag of bullshit.

  Young love didn’t always end in a happily ever after. Sometimes it ended with wearing your fat pants and the delivery guy knowing your address by heart.

  The screen on my phone illuminated the blanket surrounding it. “Oh my God, stop. I’m not going to answer you,” I yelled at it. It didn’t relent, so with a huff I grabbed it—with the plan to throw it across the room—when I saw it was a small photo of Tinder Jordan accompanied by a text notification.

  Jordan: Hey, Callie! It’s been a minute. How are u?

  My thumb hovered over the unlock button. How was I? That was laughable.

  I’m great, Tinder Boy. I fell for a gay guy and held onto my feelings for three years and now I’m a basket case. How are you?

  Callie: Great. Just awesome. How are you?

  Jordan: Doing good, doing good.

  I cringed at his lack of proper grammar. Everything was making me particularly cranky today. I’d blame it all on Bash, but I’m sure it had just as much to do with the cramps that decided to invade my uterus this morning.

  Jordan: So there’s this party at my frat next week. I’d really luv for u to come. I’d be honored if u would be my date. There’s no French food, so don’t worry about that. ;-)

  I was fully aware that our first date was completely terrible. Horrific, basically, but I was a sucker for second chances. Jordan probably thought that taking a date to his parents’ restaurant was a surefire way to impress someone, and with me it backfired. Who would I be hurting if I went out on a second date with him?

  No one. Definitely not Bash.

  I was serious about getting back into the dating pool, or at least the shallow end. Plus, at least going out again with Jordan meant I wouldn’t have to log back into Tinder yet to search for another winner. I didn’t think I had that in me. What happened to the meet-cutes at coffee shops? Was that all just a big conspiracy designed by Starbucks to sell more ventis
? My fingers flew over the letters on my phone as I typed out my response.

  Callie: As long as there’s alcohol instead of food, I’m down. That sounds like fun. I’d love to. :-)

  Jordan: U a party girl? I didn’t picture that, but I’m liking it. I’ll text u with the details?

  Callie: It’s a date.

  Putz. I had a feeling I was going to regret this decision.

  Twenty-Four

  FULFILLING MY FORTY-EIGHT-HOUR PITY-PARTY GOAL—AND after convincing Tucker to leave me alone by claiming cramps—I’d gone through the motions when class resumed on Monday. Evie had returned in the middle of the night on a red-eye, and was still sleeping when I’d left the apartment. Even though the October weather was colder than I’d like, I decided to forgo my car and had been walking to and from campus. Google said stress could be relieved by music and exercise, and maybe that was true—the walking helped with my anxiety, and the volume in my earbuds was high enough to dull my thoughts.

  Pulling my beanie low over my unkempt hair, I fixed my gaze on the concrete at my feet.

  A lot of students here had ugly shoes.

  When I wasn’t in class I kept my nose to the grindstone, filling all vacant hours with studying and polishing my lines for Playing with Fire. It kept my mind from wandering.

  I’d barely survived rehearsals with Bash, putting on a brave face during our scenes and fading into the background as soon as Professor James called ‘scene.’ I’d sit in the unlit corner of the auditorium with my nose in my Kindle, far away from the rest of the cast. Everyone had sensed the mood shift in me—that or they were afraid of my newfound resting bitch face.

  Bash’s voice jarred me anytime it projected from the stage, halting my reading. I’d been reading the same page of my book for the last week. I felt a tinge of heartache when I looked at him, his body turned outward and his lines directed toward my side of the auditorium. I knew he was looking for me. Thankfully the spotlight blinded him.