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I was about to walk into a free yoga class they offer at the campus health center only I got stuck outside, answering his text.
Me: Walking into a yoga class.
Big Deal: ants?
Me: What about ants?
Big Deal: you said you would try anything. would you eat them?
Me: Seriously?
Big Deal: why not, you said. that’s what you said. what if they were chocolate covered?
Me: Then yes. I would. Because why not? One try won’t kill me.
Big Deal: admirable bailey. i like a girl with conviction.
Me: Go away.
I never did make it to that class.
“I don’t play games. I can’t do that to him,” I tell Zoe. Or anyone else for that matter. “He’s my friend. He trusts me. And I wouldn’t appreciate someone doing it to me.”
Zoe tilts her head, her pale blonde ponytail swaying with it. “Then get ready to see him with another girl, because there’s one universal truth about men––”
“They’re clueless?” Dora startles us all by saying. We all stare at her, pausing for a moment to absorb this.
“No. But I like where your head’s at, Red. What I was about to say is…if he’s not gettin’ sum from you, he’s gettin’ it somewhere else.”
Reagan
Tuesday night at the Cantina is a bust. Or maybe I’m just in a crappy mood. Tipping my chair back, I let it slam back down and reach for my third beer of the night because I need to either get trashed, or get laid. What I can not do is go home and jerk off to thoughts of Bailey one more time. My dick won’t allow it. It’s probably too chaffed for sex, but I’ll risk it for some seriously needed body-to-body contact.
“So what’s the real story with phone-tree girl? Is she available?”
I don’t like the smirk Cole’s wearing. I don’t like it at all.
“Why?” I ask, suspicion riding high. Why would he bring her up now? I scan around and find nothing to explain his sudden interest.
Most of the guys have moved to the bar. The only ones left at our table are Dallas, Brock, and Cole who’s usually off hunting for a new hookup but for some reason decided to stick around tonight just to fuck with me.
“Why?” he repeats, half chuckling. “Because I’m a hetero dude and she’s cute.”
She is cute. And sexy. And funny. And fun to be around. And easy to be with…damn, this is turning into a problem.
I’ve been trying to give her more space lately, not spend so much time with her, but that has not worked out well. In her defense, it’s not her fault that she’s the first person I want to speak to when I wake up, and the last before I hit the sack.
“No story. We’re friends.” The words do not come easily. They feel like a lie.
He crosses his arms over his chest and nods. My attention moves over to Dallas, to see if I’m the only one finding this line of questioning odd, but he’s staring at the television screen over the bar behind me. Whatever.
“Friends?” Cole repeats. Like a dick.
“Yeah.”
“So she’s available?” He smiles wider. “For dates and such?”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up straight. Eyeballing him, I take a sip of my beer. “Nah, man. She’s not available. I don’t even think she dates and such.”
“Really? Why not? Is she a Bible banger?”
He’s really starting to get under my skin. “Because she’s got a full course load and a scholarship to hold on to. She’s not your type anyway.”
He nods again. His mouth pressed tight. I swear, laughing at my expense is his favorite hobby after hooking up and polo. Shrugging, he says, “What’s her type?”
I glance at Dallas and note he’s trying not to smile. “What are you two assholes up to? What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you what her type is––” Cole starts. “About, mmm”––he looks off, squinting––“six feet.” He glances at Dallas. “Six feet, right?”
“’Bout six feet,” Dallas answers with a quick nod.
I know something’s up when the chuckles start.
“Blond, surfer type,” Cole chokes out.
“The hell is going on?”
Cole points to a spot over my shoulder. “Your girl’s at the bar.”
My head rips around and the two idiots I call friends break out in laughter.
Alice
The Cantina is packed tonight. It took fifteen minutes of intense stalking and searching to finally earn me an open seat at the bar.
I look around. Zoe’s busy gettin’ her flirt on with the bartender. Blake is talking to a guy I don’t recognize, and Dora has yet to return from the restroom. In the meantime, I’m getting to know my barstool next-door neighbor. He’s kind of cute.
“What’s your major?” Ken says in a slow voice.
Seriously, Ken? You can do better than that. Cute, but not my type. Too blond, too surfery, and way too baked. His eyes are so bloodshot they make his red t-shirt look orange.
