Bashful Page 11

  When Professor James called rehearsal fifteen minutes early, I jumped from my seat. Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I skipped down the wide steps and pushed through the double doors before anyone else had even packed up their belongings.

  Before I even heard the telltale click of the doors shutting, a palm landed on my shoulder. I spun around with closed eyes, bracing for it to be the one person I couldn’t handle being around. I was so close to escaping unscathed.

  Thank God. It’s not Bash.

  Tucker enveloped me in a hesitant hug, patting my back like an awkward uncle. “There, there, Calliope,” he shushed, moving one hand to my hair.

  I wriggled out of his grasp, the dirty look on my face enough to give him pause. “Not today, Satan.”

  Tucker lifted his arms in surrender, eyebrows high on his forehead. “Easy, tiger. I’m not going to grill you. I wanted to see how you’ve been. Everyone has been worried about you.”

  Yeah, everyone meaning his roommate. I loved Tucker, but that man would spill the tea for a Snickers bar. If I told him how I was feeling, I was pretty much telling Bash directly. Not happening.

  “I’m fine, Tuck. Great, okay? I’m in a hurry, so if you want to keep talking then you’d better keep up.” I pivoted on my heels without looking back and listened to the rustling of his peacoat as he trailed behind me.

  Catching up, he matched my stride, the click of his dress shoes pattering on the sidewalk.

  “To risk sounding like a campus counselor—it’s okay not to be okay,” he murmured through one side of his upturned mouth, brushing my shoulder with his own. I stopped in my tracks and turned to face him. Lifting my hand, I cooled my features before yanking him roughly by his bowtie down to my level.

  “Tucker Garrison, I swear to God, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to tell the whole school about the time you sharted freshman year.”

  His eyes went wide, bulging out of his head like one of those rubber squeeze toys.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me.”

  Tucker paled at my raised eyebrow. He focused on my don’t-test-me expression, knowing full well not to test me. Unfortunately for him, I’d gotten my stubbornness from both parents—if I said something, I meant it. Not breaking eye contact, I released the tie and he righted himself, the color in his cheeks rushing back. Adjusting his tie, he held up his pinky.

  “Fine. But I don’t like it. He may be my bestie, but you are too.”

  I gripped his pinky with my own and huffed.

  “I know, Tuck. Just drop it, okay? Nothing is going to change between you and me. I just need a break from all of that,” I said, gesturing wildly in the air. I had to freaking spell it out for Tucker. “Let’s talk about you, instead. How’s Harold? Good?”

  His puzzled expression confused me before his face lit up in recognition. “Harold? Oh, girl, that was just a one-and-done. And trust me, it wasn’t anything to write home about. His dick was so small he could fuck a cheerio. Like for real, it looked like—”

  I slapped my hand over his mouth, cringing. Ooookay. Hearing about his one-night stand’s peen was a topic I didn’t want festering in my brain for years to come. “Nope. Stop right there,” I said, holding my fingers against his lips while he mumbled beneath them.

  While I could usually handle Tuck in much larger doses, my absence had made him excited to share too much, too quickly. Giving him a quick hug goodbye, I headed to Loxley’s for a Happy Hour drink.

  J

  I dropped my jacket and book bag into the backseat of my car before walking briskly into the bar, staring at the neon sign. Evie was meeting me up here, and I was thankful for it. I was feeling pathetic enough, I didn’t need to drink alone on top of it.

  Pulling the door open, the telltale aroma of grease and beer invaded my senses. Doing a quick assessment of the room, I noted an unfamiliar band setting up on the stage as I took my time heading to the bar. Evie was already here, talking to the bartender animatedly. Plopping onto the stool next to her, I rubbed my tired eyes before bumping her shoulder in greeting.

  Tracing her finger along the rim of her nearly-empty drink, she batted her long eyelashes at the man behind the bar before turning to give me a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Hello, love. This is Garrett. Garrett, Callie,” she swooned.

  What the hell? I’d never seen her so smitten. I gave him a quick nod before turning back to Evie with a puzzled expression.

  “He’s just started,” she explained to me. She grabbed my knee under the bar, where Garrett couldn’t see and squeezed hard enough that a small yelp escaped from my lips. It was a little overenthusiastic—I’m sure there’d be a bruise tomorrow—but that squeeze was a surefire sign that she was excited. Evie turned on her sultry voice like it was a switch and lowered her chin. “Garrett, would you mind terribly if I asked you to make us both a Long Island?”

  He stood a bit taller, puffing out his chest as a grin overtook his face before he cleared her glass from the counter. “Can do, beautiful.”

  Evie stretched over the teak of the bar top and blatantly checked out his ass when he turned around to set up our drinks. I watched as he poured various alcohols into the tall glasses, appreciative that he was making them stronger than usual. While he was distracted, Evie slyly produced a rhinestone-covered compact mirror from her purse and checked her makeup. Rolling bright red gloss over her full lips, she smacked them before whispering to me.

  “Look at that arse, Callie. It’s so perfect. I want to bite it,” she gushed, putting her fists to her chin and staring again.

  I did a quick butt-check before watching him add the final splash of soda to our glasses and wedging a lemon on each rim. Nice ass be damned, he needed further study before I deemed him worthy of my best friend’s affection. He was attractive in a biker-gang kind of way, which wasn’t my taste—or Evie’s. His wavy light-brown hair was pulled to the crown of his head into a rough man-bun that matched his lengthy, albeit groomed, beard. A dark T-shirt with the Loxley’s emblem on his chest writhed and flexed as he moved, tattoos peeking out from the edges of the tight sleeves. His attractiveness matched my best friend’s, so he had that going for him. Plus, Evie had a heart-on for him, so he must’ve said something right. I silently nodded my approval, while also making a mental reminder to run a background check on him later.

  “Get him, girlfriend. You know you want to,” I said, pulling my phone from my purse while she eye-fucked him. “He seems pretty damn smitten already.” I laughed.

  “He’s giving me a lady boner. All my Brit-bits are tingling.”

  We giggled as Garrett came back with our drinks, his attention solely focused on Evie.

  “On the house.” He winked.

  I’m pretty sure Evie floated into la-la land after that, because I couldn’t keep her attention. I’d lost her for the night.

  As happy as it made me to see her finally interested in someone, I couldn’t help but feel a dull sting in my heart. Evie was more deserving of love than anyone I knew, and maybe Garrett would be her Prince Charming.

  That gave me a sliver of hope.

  Maybe that hope was for the pain to disappear instead of taking permanent residence in my gut. Maybe that hope was for a Hemsworth to walk through the door and sweep me off my feet. Maybe that hope was to cut my losses now and become the Guinness World Record holder as the youngest ever spinster cat lady. I knew one thing, though—whatever that little sliver was, I was happy it was there.

  Leave it to a bearded biker and a bubbly Brit to restore my faith in love at first sight.

  I swirled my straw slowly, watching the condensation roll down the glass to the soggy napkin underneath. The alcohol was quickly warming my belly, a welcome distraction from the flirting going on next to me. Turning to Evie, I excused myself from their conversation before snatching my belongings and moving closer to the band. I found a small table near the wall, draped in shadow. Perfect.

  A halo of light surrounded the le
ad singer. He tapped the microphone in front of him with a black-polish-covered fingernail, testing the sound as a small crowd gathered. His hair was long, the dark stringy curls tied at the nape of his neck. He looked like he needed a shower, or possibly ten. Maybe everyone in the front would inhale and pass out on the floor before he could even start singing.

  “Hey, guys, we are The Addison. Thanks for coming tonight. We hope you enjoy the show.”

  Deep booms from the drummer echoed around the room as the bassist joined in on the downbeat. I watched each musician move their fingers deftly, studying their body language while I swayed in my seat with the rhythm. It was a rock song, something I normally didn’t get into, but it was catchy as hell. GreasyPants—I mean, the lead singer—had a smooth, low tenor to his voice. His fingers were pliable on the strings of his guitar, the expertise of his crafts impressive. I watched from the sidelines, noting the crowd had grown exponentially in a short amount of time. I pulled out my phone and looked them up on social media, reminding myself to download some of their songs later.

  “This next one goes out to all the heartbreakers,” GreasyPants called out, his lips close to the mic.

  I stiffened in my seat as he sang through the verses, the chorus piercing me like a thousand knives.

  Floated like a feather

  drifting in my air

  pushing souls together

  moving into me

  then you flew away

  then you flew away

  my heart was your cage

  never mine at all

  the bars are mine to bear now

  spread your wings and let me fall

  The crowd erupted in cheers as the last notes faded away, the noise deafening. Sniffling, I blinked back tears from the corners of my eyes. Every emotion that dripped from his voice, every word escaping his lips soaked in that gut-wrenching pain—I felt it. He looked drained, like the words took every ounce of energy his body had to offer.

  He had been broken and bled through it onstage.

  If he could lay it all out there, performing through his pain night after night, then I could get through the rest of my show with Bash.

  I could heal too, though I might break a little bit more in the process.

  But that was okay.

  I stood and nodded to the singer as his eyes caught mine, saluting him in solidarity before walking away.

  I hoped whoever the girl who hurt him was got crotch scabies.

  Team GreasyPants for the win.

  Twenty-Five

  PLASTIC RED CUPS LITTERED EVERY available surface as Jordan and I arrived at his frat party. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, nodding a greeting to some and pounding his fist with others. Sound blasted from the speakers in each corner of the living room, all held up by duct tape. Seemed safe. I steered Jordan in the direction of the kitchen with a turn of my hips—anything to escape imminent death-by-stereo equipment.

  He lowered his mouth to my ear, his breath tickling my skin. “Are you ready for a drink, gorgeous?” he asked over the music, careful not to deafen me by shouting. I nodded, pointing questionably to the liquor bottles and mixers on the laminate counter near the back door. Jordan grinned, grabbing my hand to take me to the good stuff.

  “Normally, this is reserved for girlfriends, you know,” he said playfully as he splashed cranberry juice over the icy vodka. “But you’re a girl, and I consider you more than a friend.” He winked. “I think we can get away with it.”

  Smirking, I accepted the cup from his hands and took a sip. Damn, he made it strong. Not that I’d complain—it was a thousand times better than drinking the lukewarm, watery gnat-piss these guys considered beer. Before he could turn back to make himself a drink, a whoosh of air flew past my head. Above me, a hairy fist shot out to meet with Jordan’s. He spun me around, and I lifted my eyes higher and higher to the behemoth standing in front of me.

  “Rich, Callie. Callie, this is Rich.” He gestured between us.

  I stuck my hand out and up, unable to blink. This guy must have been at least six foot seven and three hundred fifty pounds. He returned with his own mammoth paw, wrapping it around not just my hand, but half of my forearm.

  “The liquor is for girlfriends only, Jordy. Not some groupie,” he softly yelled, as if his height meant that I was out of earshot.

  What an asshole. I’d never be a groupie. I’d tell him to go suck it, but I’m sure that was a groupie’s job.

  “Rich, huh? Can I call you Richard? Or should I just settle on calling you Dick? Seems appropriate.”

  At that very moment, two songs shifted from one to the other in a silent transition. My words echoed throughout the room, reverberating off the walls. Jaws dropped around us and everyone froze.

  Rich threw his head back and laughed voraciously, and I could swear the entire kitchen let out a collective sigh. As the music picked back up, a song about apple-bottom jeans started blaring through the enclosed space.

  The big man slapped Jordan on the back before wiping tears from his eyes. “Keep this half-pint around, will ya, Jordy? I like her.” He picked up two forty-ounce beers in his giant fists before stomping away.

  “Holy shit, Callie,” Jordan said, looking at me like I’d just won the lottery.

  “I’m so sorry, it just came out. He was being a dick, calling me a groupie like that. I’m sorry.” Defending my actions to Jordy was frustrating, especially when I didn’t feel the need to apologize.

  “I’ve never seen anyone talk like that to Rich. Everyone’s terrified of him,” he explained. “Sorry for not jumping in. I was mentally preparing to get my ass kicked.”

  “For what?”

  “For defending my girl,” he stated matter-of-factly. “You are one of a kind, Callie. You just charmed the crap out of the scariest guy on campus like it was nothing. I’m terrified what you’ll do to me.”

  I’m not your girl.

  I shrugged at Jordan with a small smirk, unsure how to respond. With his hand on the small of my back, he guided me through the back door, which led to a screen-covered porch. Large vintage bulbs were strung along the ceiling, highlighting a group of guys playing beer pong. The ‘table’ they constructed was slightly terrifying—a giant piece of plywood held up by what appeared to be a broken bookcase. Jordan greeted some of the people closest to us while I hung back and took in the rest of the space. Decaying paint was peeling from the beams, and small tears in the screen were allowing in the last of the autumn’s mosquitos.

  Shouts of victory came from the other side of the porch, the drunken victors temporarily overshadowing the booming bass of the music. Behind them, high-pitched shrieks came from girls who’d been sitting on the laps of guys clad in polo shirts with popped collars. I didn’t know how they weren’t freezing, their short skirts teetering close to showing off the goods.

  Ah, those must’ve been the groupies Rich the dick was referring to.

  “Do you want to play next?” Jordan asked, gesturing to the game.

  I stepped forward, anxiously aware of the multiple sets of eyes waiting for my answer. The whorebags in the corner were whispering to each other, making it all too obvious that I was the topic of discussion.

  “She’s dressed like a snobby sorostitute,” the fake blonde said, loud enough that she wanted me to hear.

  Good one, Barbie. “Excuse me?”

  I’d been here for all of ten minutes, and I’d been insulted twice. I got that a fraternity party wasn’t my scene, but I didn’t stick out like a sore thumb. I stepped ahead of Jordan, challenging her with a raised eyebrow to say something, anything else. I was feeling feisty tonight. She backed down, slinking into her flavor of the night and guzzling a Smirnoff Ice.

  Looking down at my clothes, I didn’t feel embarrassed by my appearance. My pink V-neck sweater was just low enough to show off a bit of the girls, and my distressed gray skinny jeans and fringy booties completed the cozy-cute fall look I was going for. Miniskirts weren’t my style, and while I wasn
’t usually one to judge, it was hard to keep my snark at bay when I saw their teeth chattering. That’s what they get for being bitches—and for wearing tank tops in near-freezing temperatures.

  Whatever. Sweaters are for winners.

  I didn’t need some random guy’s lap to keep me warm.

  I turned to Jordan, who wore a mask of indifference. “I’m going to go find the bathroom. I need to wash my hands before I catch some weird skank-to-air disease. Next game?”

  “No worries. Up the stairs and to your right, babe,” he said with a smirk before turning around and joining in on the laughter from the group.

  Thanks for defending my honor, by the way. 0 for two, Jordan. 0. For. Two.

  Weaving my way through the crowd had proven to be more difficult than I planned. I was drenched in sweat and drips of stale beer by the time I reached the upstairs bathroom. At least it was vacant. Huffing out a breath, I closed myself in and turned the brass lock before banging the back of my head against the door. I’d sink into a pile on the floor, but come on—this was a fraternity house. I should’ve brought one of those bodily-fluid black lights. I gripped my phone tightly and sent a message.

  Callie: Thank you for never letting me rush or become a sorostitute. I now owe you money.

  Minutes later, Evie still hadn’t responded. She’d texted earlier about a last-minute date with Garrett, so I wasn’t expecting anything in return. I glanced down at the time—only 10:00. Hurling myself into the dating world was still happening, regardless of my shitty luck so far. No going home yet.

  I’d give this date a little while longer, so I had no choice but to brave the crowd once again. Washing my hands thoroughly, I left the bathroom and made my way back to Jordan.

  J

  My quest had failed. The beer pong idiots were so wasted they were no help in locating their own asses, let alone Jordan. I scanned each room, eyes roaming as quickly as they could for any sign of him, my tiptoes not much help. I wished I would’ve known at least one other person at this party. The buddy system made complete sense now.