Bashful Page 2

  “Stop laughing. I’m surrounded by break dancers and twerkers, and I look like I’ve never danced a day in my life.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get just as, um...krunk as all of the other students.” Was that the right slang? “I’ll keep your mind off things and walk with you, since I didn’t end up dropping Madame Theresa’s Improv class.”

  She grimaced and I knew she wanted to put me in the ‘box of shame.’

  Here comes the scolding. “What? I couldn’t pass up taking it again.” I picked at the turkey club on my tray, thinking of the last two times I’d taken the course with Tucker and Bash. Tucker nicknamed us ‘the Classholes’ since we all admitted our true interest in taking the course a second time was not to be challenged, but for an easy GPA bump.

  “Three times now, Callie? I suppose it doesn’t have anything to do with a certain bloke who’s also a repeat offender?” she asked, sipping her hot tea.

  “Bash is not in the class, thank you very much. I just like easy As.” It was time to confess and risk the Brit-Brat rearing her ugly head. “I, uh, saw him earlier.”

  “Please tell me your feelings for him are gone for good this time. At the very least, tell me he grew a beer belly while he was away. Oh, or developed an extreme case of acne. Or halitosis!”

  I winced and wished it were true. “Unfortunately, no, to all of the above.”

  She sighed, placing her utensils down. “Okay, I guess we’ll be doing this the hard way then. You need to get over this crush. Let it go and find a hot guy who’s interested in touching your boobs!” She cracked her knuckles, preparing to dive further into the topic I absolutely did not want to talk about it.

  “Don’t get me wrong, he’s hot as hell—but you’ve never given anyone else a real chance. You’re the whole package—you’re smart, funny, clearly have excellent taste in best friends, and you’re beautiful. But, honey, he’s not interested in what’s in your pants. He’s gay. No amount of female perfection will change that.”

  I opened my mouth, ready to defend myself, but her finger was on my lips and shushing me before I could get a word out.

  “Every girl has had one before, trust me. Asking a straight girl if she’s ever had a crush on a gay guy is like someone asking you if you want free tacos. The answer is always ‘yes.’ Seriously, love, it’s time to find someone who’ll treat you like a princess and actually wants to kiss you.”

  Ouch. As much as I loved her, that stung. It wasn’t as though I could turn it off like a switch. There was an invisible string between Bash and me, and I couldn’t cut it. I didn’t know how we’d ever be more than friends, but something inside told me to fight for my feelings.

  “Tell me how you really feel, Evie, Jesus. I’m trying, okay? I went out with a guy from home this summer. I’m not withering away like an old maid. I’m still in the game.” I grabbed my phone for proof. “And look, I joined Tinder!”

  She stretched her arms across the table, making grabby-hand gestures for my phone. I handed it over, watching as she swiped left and right. Evie loved to play matchmaker and had sent me on many disastrous blind dates over the years. I was once taken out by her friend’s-boyfriend’s-friend whose idea of a perfect date was to go junk-picking with him. Yeah. She set me up with a dude who drove us around in his piece-of-shit truck looking for metal scraps next to dumpsters.

  “Oh, my. Left, left, left, left—seriously, are there any attractive men on this campus?” She brought the screen closer to her face and tilted her head in investigation.

  “The good ones are probably all taken or still staring at you.”

  “Bollocks. You get as many looks as I do. Oh! I found one! Hello, Fucky McFratboy. Jordan, age twenty-one. Nice face, muscular arms, and good hair. Swiping right!”

  I snatched the phone out of her hand, but it was too late. She’d already swiped. He was posed in a T-shirt with cutoff sleeves and sunglasses and didn’t look half-bad. I scrolled further down and started cracking up at his bio’s tagline. It read:

  My license says I’m 6’3”, but I’m really 6’1”.

  I don’t want you to be disappointed about a lack of two inches.

  Sending a quick hello to Jordan, I pocketed my phone and gestured to Evie that we needed to scoot and get to class. Hopefully he’d be a good prospect.

  Four

  WE WALKED INTO MACARTHUR FIVE minutes late, since Evie insisted she show me her horrible break dancing beforehand. After nodding prettily and convincing her she wasn’t half bad—she totally was—Evie veered to the left, but not quick enough that she missed the slap I’d aimed for her butt.

  Waving goodbye, I added a little pep to my step, knowing this class would once again be a breeze. Madame Theresa was a hippie chick and the most relaxed educator I’d ever met. If you walked through the door and participated, you got an A in the class. The decision to take it a third time was cemented when I realized every other theatre elective had been waitlisted.

  The door was closed when I got to the Black Box theatre where the course was being held. It was called the Black Box because that’s exactly what it was—the walls, ceiling, and floor were all painted matte black. Large, dusty spotlights hung carefully from the ceiling, hidden in the shadows by cheap fluorescent lighting used during normal class hours. Those spotlights were only used during small student showcases. I rubbed my hand along the velvet-curtain-lined walls as I climbed the steps to an empty chair.

  “Pleased to see you could join us, Miss Miller,” a deep, annoyed voice said to my back.

  Turning around, I planted my feet.

  “Oh, uh, thanks, Professor James, and I’m so pleased to be here.” I plastered a Cheshire grin onto my face and plopped into my seat before pulling out a notebook and pen.

  When did Professor James start teaching this course? Pulling up the email app on my phone, I scrolled through my schedule and found that Madame Theresa was no longer listed.

  Professor James hadn’t been a fan of mine since I took his Acting 101 class my freshman year. The class was for basic acting techniques, stuff so simple I’d known it since I began performing at age eight. Since the 100-level theatre courses were prerequisites for more advanced classes, I had no choice but to attend. I’d ended up going—albeit extremely tardy—and zoned out while he spoke. Agitated, he’d call me out in front of everyone, and his hatred for me grew when I passed his challenges with flying colors.

  It wasn’t that I was a disrespectful asshole. I did my best to focus, but he was one of those professors who was both patronizing and narcissistic, and tuning him out was the best way to cope.

  “As I was saying, Melissa, cheat your body to the front. If you face the back, your voice does as well. Are you talking to the wall, or to the audience? Do it again,” Professor James commanded.

  I watched poor Melissa shuffle her feet forward and start her line again. She was a close friend, but was truly shy to people outside of our circle. Her passion was in costumes, and it was obvious having the spotlight on her was making her uncomfortable.

  Her eyes locked with mine and I gave her a reassuring smile. Professor James kept the stick up his ass for the remainder of the class, and although I wanted to sling insults his way, I held my tongue.

  “Melissa, wait up,” I called as I skirted around the students loitering after class. She was already halfway out the door. “Don’t let James get to you. He’s an ass. You did great back there. Was that your first time doing improv?”

  “Yeah, and I got called out in front of everyone on the first day. Maybe I should just stick with what I’m good at and repair costumes.” She shrugged, her half-smile unconvincing.

  I locked my arm with hers. “Let’s grab a coffee, yeah? Nothing cheers me up more than a giant dose of sugary caffeine after Professor James acts like a dickwad.”

  “You must drink a lot of coffee then.”

  We picked up our cups from the counter of the lobby coffee kiosk. Melissa spotted Tucker and Evie at one of the small café tables,
and I sighed in relief when Bash was nowhere to be found. I couldn’t handle two awkward conversations in such a short timeframe. We pulled chairs from a nearby empty table and joined them, listening as they spoke animatedly about the upcoming auditions for the fall production, a show called Playing with Fire. Blowing on my coffee, I reminded myself to pick up the script later that day. I’d seen the show before and obsessed over it online. It was one of my favorites.

  “It’s amazeballs,” Tucker said, his eyes lighting up. “I’m already thinking of the set designs I can pull off with this material.”

  Evie nodded, skimming the script in her hands. “Callie, isn’t this that Tony award-winning show you’re always on about? You’d be perfect for the role of Quinn.”

  “I should convince Bash to try out for Aiden.” Tucker flitted his eyes toward me, and I wanted to smack the devious smile from his face. “Don’t you think, Melissa? You’re doing costumes for it, yeah?”

  “Costume manager for the win,” she mused, ignoring his Bash baiting. I loved her a little more in that moment.

  “Contemporary options with normal fabrics? Girl, I’d be thrilled if I were you.” He smirked, tapping Melissa’s arm and motioning to Evie. “I bet it’s easier than stitching the leotards and tutus for all of those skinny ballet bitches.”

  Evie’s head snapped in his direction.

  “Beg your pardon? My ‘skinny’ bum can still kick your ass, you knobhead!” she screeched, jumping from her chair and rounding the table.

  Tucker stood so quickly his chair was knocked over, but he recovered fast, jumping over it to run from her. I sat there, amazed at the sheer stupidity of my two adult friends playing a game of duck-duck-goose in public. Evie finally tackled Tucker to the floor and straddled him, wriggling her fingers near his neck until she stood up in celebration, holding his bowtie.

  “Success! Melissa, would you mind trimming this lovely bowtie into scraps for me?”

  He lifted his hands in the air as a white flag and wailed a pathetic fake cry. “Dear God, no. Not the paisley! I’ll do anything!”

  I glanced at Melissa, who was so unaffected by their antics she’d totally zoned out, still reading the script Tuck had left on the table. I wondered what would happen if a psych major walked in and witnessed this little episode between my people—it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Maybe we’d all get hauled away to a mental institution.

  Evie dangled the undone bowtie and swung it around in her hand like a whip as she considered her revenge.

  “Hmm...let’s see. We could do full-face makeup on Facebook live, or maybe he should give that weird lighting-design major a smoochy-smooch...”

  Tucker gasped. “Kris? Please, dear God, no. He keeps string cheese in his pocket, Evie. He eats warm pocket cheese when he’s up on the catwalk. Don’t make me do that.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “Fine then. Friday night, you’re coming with us to Loxley’s. You’ll dance to a song of my choosing, and it’ll be up on the stage. The rest of the time, you’ll be our personal anti-creeper bodyguard.”

  Tucker got up from the ground, brushing his backside for any remaining dirt and dust. He sauntered over to Evie, full duck face masking his emotions, and snatched the bowtie from her hands.

  “Done. I’ll rock whatever you pick.”

  I watched her eyes go from jovial to menacing and saw my devious bestie’s internal gears ticking away. She was totally making a worst-songs-to-dance-to list. I felt giddy at Tucker’s potential suffering. He totally asked for this.

  Five

  “GRAB ME ANOTHER GIN AND tonic, please,” Evie shouted over the thumping bass at Loxley’s. Her attempt to dress casual backfired, the simple white tank, boyfriend jeans, and heels instead making her look like a model as she swayed her hips to the Top 40 music playing overhead.

  I glanced down at my own outfit, feeling pretty hot myself. My curves were draped in a cleavage-baring skater dress that showcased my toned legs and small waist. My smoky makeup highlighted the green flecks in my eyes, and the thin coat of gloss on my lips accentuated their fullness. Fanning cool air onto my damp neck, I made my way through the crowd, wishing I would’ve remembered to bring a hair tie. We’d been there for about an hour, dancing our stresses away.

  Ordering a second round at the bar, I spotted Tucker entering from across the room, his arm tucked into Bash’s. On instinct, I waved to grab their attention and winced as Bash broke away to high-five the bouncer and Tucker danced his way through writhing bodies toward me. He didn’t even acknowledge me. 0 for 2 on waving at Bash.

  “Hey, girlfriend!” Tucker greeted, sidling up next to me at the packed bar. “Where’s the Mistress of Mayhem?”

  Pointing to the middle of the dance floor, we spotted Evie completely smothered by two Jersey Shore wannabees. Her eyes were bugged out and she mouthed ‘save me’ enough times that we got the hint.

  “That’s my cue.” Tucker moved into the crowd to reach her, stopping to pass flirty looks to every hot man in his radius. Still, though, he was our knight in flamboyant, glittery armor.

  The recently vacated seat next to mine was filled, and I knew by the signature scent of his cologne it was Bash. His tight, olive-green Henley was shoved to his elbows, showcasing sinewy muscles.

  Hot damn, his forearms were gorgeous. Was forearm porn a thing? Because it was getting hot in here.

  I shook my head and pinched the skin on the underside of my arm. Bad Callie.

  Black jeans and his signature boots faded into the dim lighting under the counter. It wasn’t fair that guys could make any clothes look like they were tailored for their bodies.

  “Hey, Sweets. I’m loving the footwear,” he said with his head down, smirking at my Chucks.

  I scuffed my soles against the rung on the stool.

  Let him know why you’re here. Set boundaries.

  “Ha, thanks,” I replied, sipping my rum and coke. “I didn’t get better with heels after you left. I still tend to wobble like a newborn giraffe.” I cleared my throat. Just spit it out. “Bars are a great place to pick up a guy, maybe get a date—but not at the expense of my ankles. I’d rather be comfy than sexy.”

  “It’s a good thing you don’t have to try then.” He leaned over and rubbed his hard bicep against my arm. His stupid cologne wafted into my bubble and it was making me weak. “You’re sexy as hell, Callie,” he studied me slowly, and my body warmed as he trailed his gaze upward. “I’d be on you in a second if—” He stopped himself when his eyes reached my chest.

  If what. If WHAT?

  Oh. If you were attracted to women.

  Removing the straw from my drink, I downed the rest of it without an extra breath. My heartbeat fluttered as I looked back at him, the alcohol burning the back of my throat. His eyes reflected an intensity I was used to from men, but I knew he didn’t want to take me home like the rest of them. Still, I couldn’t stop staring at him.

  Thankfully, the trance was severed when cool liquid trickled down my neck.

  “Oh shit, sorry,” a voice shouted from behind me, the laughter surrounding his words pissing me off even more.

  I leaned forward in my seat, reaching over the bar to grab a stack of napkins so I could pat the sticky, freezing drink off my dress. I tilted my neck to the side and hopped off the stool, ready to hand this drunk some serious attitude.

  “What the hell is your—” My lips clamped shut as I looked up, trying to place the guy in front of me. I knew him from somewhere. “Is your name Jordan?”

  He perused me quickly, smiling his answer as he spoke. “Callie from Tinder, right? Dude, I’m so happy to meet you.” He grinned. “I’m so sorry about that—one of my brothers must’ve pushed from behind. Are you all right?”

  I nodded, turning toward the bar and reaching over the counter to grab a stack of napkins. Wiping the remaining beer from my dress, I wished Jordan hadn’t mentioned Tinder in front of Bash. I glanced over to gauge his reaction, but the focus wasn’t on me—his arms
were crossed and he was burning holes into Jordan.

  “I’m so pumped you sent me a message. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you. Things have been crazy lately, but now that I’ve seen you, I want to know more. Maybe next week?”

  I smiled, studying his boyish face as I recited my number.

  “Let me at least buy you a drink tonight to make up for the spill.”

  Just as I began to accept his offer, Bash shoved his arm between us, handing me a glass. “Got her covered, thanks.”

  I stood in silence, sipping some of the second drink I’d ordered for Evie as Bash and Jordan had a pissing match. Jordan was the first to break eye contact, grabbing a clean napkin from the stack on the bar and returning his gaze to me. He rubbed a small circle above my collarbone. “You missed a spot.” He flirted, his gaze trained on mine before walking away. “I’ll text you soon.”

  Smiling, I backed up to my stool to get out of the way of any more sloshing beers. At some point between the pissing match and now, he’d left the bar. I figured he’d wait for me like he used to, insisting I held on to him in a crowd, because he’d worry I’d get lost. After grabbing Evie’s refill, I moved through the crowd until I made it to the small round high-top table where my three friends had settled.

  “Bloody hell, Callie! Who was that scrummy bloke?”

  “That was mister two inches from Tinder. Can you believe it? Not too shabby, my little swiper.” I nudged her and grinned from ear to ear. Evie shrieked and clasped her hands on my shoulders. We jumped up and down, flailing around with excitement.

  My matchmaking bestie practically swooned, visibly excited about my potential date. “Did you hear that, Tucker? Our little bird is going to fly the nest,” she squealed.

  Tucker was lazily swirling his fruity concoction while swaying to the beat. His eyes bounced from Bash to me, back and forth like he was playing ping pong. “Finally.” He slapped the table. “The last time she got ‘the D’ was sophomore year when she failed her science midterm.”