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“We’re ready, Estate Bait,” Heather says, hitting Cole where it hurts. He probably spends hours with his therapist each week bemoaning that no one loves him for him but only for his money. If he wasn’t a douche waffle, it might be different, but he is, so it’s not.
I clear my throat to get Heather’s attention,, and when she looks my way, I flash her a weak version of my ‘Rock brow’ to remind her not to get too carried away because we’re not ready . . . yet.
“Potty break and refills first, then we’re ready,” she says to stall.
“Aww, so scared you’re gonna piss yourself?” Cole teases.
“Nope. Need to puke because you make me sick,” she retorts. Several people laugh, including Bryan, though he tries to hide it from Cole.
“Fine. This round’s on me, next one’s on the losers. That’d be you.”
His smack talk falls on Heather’s back as she heads toward the bathroom, but she does shoot him a middle finger of acknowledgement. Meanwhile, Cole calls out to Don, the bartender, “Three pitchers, please, one for the Meg-a-dicks, one for Chaos Control, and one for us.” That’d be his not-cute nicknames for the professors and us. “Oh, get Bossy Boots a cranberry vodka too.”
Huh, that was actually nice of him to remember that Heather not only doesn’t drink beer, but to remember her preferred poison. Maybe there’s a bit ‘protesting too much’ in their banter?
Pretty-boy Cole and rainbow-haired Heather?
I’ve heard of stranger pairings, but not too many, honestly. Before I can ponder that too much, the door swings open, slamming back against the wall.
Zoey’s entrance is just that, an entrance. Spotlighted and framed by the door, she looks adorable in pink, fuzzy, skull-printed pajama pants, a yellow tank top, purple Ugg boots, and an oversized black cardigan pulled tight around her.
Her hair is piled on her head and she has glasses on. She’s the ultimate in nerd-geek-hot, and I just want to scoop her up again and cuddle and nuzzle her until she’s soft for me, and then when she’s nice and warm, ravish her like a wild animal.
“Oh, shit.” I see her mouth and immediately make my way toward her. Even now, I can see how wide her eyes are behind the lenses.
“Zo! You’re here. Thank fuck.”
“Blake, what’s going on?” she asks, looking shell-shocked. She definitely was not expecting something social. Still, her eyes scan me, and I know she’s looking for some injury or illness, an emergency situation she’s the cause of.
“Come here, please. I’ll explain,” I say, taking her hand and pulling her toward our table. “How’s your ankle?” I ask, noting that she’s walking with no obvious sign of pain or difficulty.
She mumbles ‘fine’ but stops short because the Anarchists are looking at her like their hope and savior, along with a healthy dose of curiosity over this supposed ringer I’ve called in at the last moment. “Zo, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Zoey.”
Zoey wiggles two fingers in the tiniest of waves, nerves wafting off her.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” I explain before she can freak out and run like a cheetah with a rocket up its ass. “Remember I told you about trivia nights being serious business? We need you.”
“What? Trivia? You said it was an emergency! That you needed help!” she hisses.
“Shh,” I urge, putting my hand over her mouth, “Not so loud.”
Above my hand, her eyes have gone steely cold, but I remove my hand slowly, begging her with puppy dog eyes to hear me out. “It is an emergency. I do need your help. We’re up against our biggest rivals, The Estates.”
“And biggest jerks,” Heather adds, coming up to the table. She sticks her hand out, “Heather. You must be Zoey. Let’s do this.”
Heather doesn’t give Zoey a chance to say yes or no, just assuming she’s on board. “All right! We’re ready.”
“Finally,” Cole sighs with a dramatic eye roll. “Don’t have all fuckin’ night.”
Everyone heads to the far edge of the bar where the team stations are set up, which is just a simple table with a plastic chicken that screams when you squeeze it instead of a buzzer. Trivia nerds, we make jokes about choking our chickens.
Zoey pulls on my hand as we get close. “Blake!”
I turn to face her fully, gripping her hand back. No running, no fear. I’ve got you. “Zo, please?” She sighs reluctantly, but her lips are turning up ever so slightly in the smallest smile. I smile back. “Did I mention that you look beautiful? And we’ve got beer? And the best nachos in existence?”
“You’re buttering me up with compliments, nachos, and beer? That sounds suspiciously like a date, Mr. Hale,” she says, giving me a one-brow lift of her own.
I shake my head, totally playing innocent. “Nope. No preplanning. Still not a date. This is a rescue mission with thank-you-for-saving-my-ass food. C’mon.”
