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Cat Woman? He’s such an ass. A harmless one, I should clarify. Since I began filming the team I’ve learned two things about Dallas and both are one hundred percent accurate. The first, he has one of the most photogenic faces I’ve ever captured on film. And the second, he’s never been anything other than nice and helpful to me. That doesn’t negate the fact that Dallas is a major player––something he does not dispute. Problem is, I can’t figure out if he’s teasing her, or he’s actually serious.
The thought of Dora in a vinyl jumpsuit has me grinning despite the circumstance sitting next to me.
“W-we have class together,” she answers about a full minute later.
Without invitation, he sits on the bench, crams himself between her and another dude, his muscular arm stretching out over the back of the bench. “Russian lit.”
“English lit,” Dora is quick to correct.
“Right, that’s what I said.” He searches Dora’s face with a pointed look. His cornflower blue eyes narrow. “I know your name…I know it.” He taps his lips with his fingers. “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.”
“That’s D-Dory. My name is Dora.”
“Huh. I guess that makes you an explorer.”
“And I guess that m-makes you unoriginal.”
Guffaws and snorts all around. Dallas grins and it’s not one I want to see directed at sweet Dora. I’m all for growth and experimentation. Hell, I’m sure that’s half the actual benefit of college. But this dude would not be good for her burgeoning self-esteem.
With his hand braced against the back of the bench, Dallas leans in, hovering over her, and she reacts by subtly shrinking away.
“Van Zant, step off my girl. You’re making her uncomfortable.” Zoe’s voice is a sharp knife cutting through all the chatter in the room, the threat clear.
“It’s fine,” Dora mutters.
“No. It’s not,” Zoe counters, staring a third-degree burn onto Dallas’s already tanned face. When he doesn’t move fast enough for her liking, her stare sharpens. “Now.”
Dallas leans back, takes Zoe’s measure, and grins. “Chill, mama cat. Kitten here has claws. She can speak for herself.”
“Kitten?” both Dora and Zoe say at once, their expressions on opposite ends of the spectrum. Dora’s surprised and Zoe’s disgusted.
Meanwhile Dallas is looking real proud of himself. “Isn’t that right, Kitten?”
“I just threw up in my mouth,” Zoe declares.
“S-stop calling me that.”
Dallas’s attention reverts to Zoe. “See?”
“I missed you,” the man on my right whispers in my ear. Exhaling a tired sigh, I meet him eye to eye. One way or another this is getting resolved today.
“Yeah, what did you miss? Using me as an emotional punching bag? Or someone to eat with because you don’t like to eat alone?” In his defense, he looks hurt.
“It’s not like that. You know it’s not.”
He leans closer. So close that I can count the faint freckles hidden under his deep tan. That I can pick out the sharp needles of dark blue in the rims of his green eyes. That I can see the regret etched in the grooves of his forehead.
“I was wrong.” He breathes deeply, pausing to gather his control. Then he lowers his voice. “I should never have treated you that way. I just…I…”
“What?”
“Would you two just fuck already,” comes from across the table. “The sexual tension is killing us!”
If anyone’s going to die it’ll be Zoe and it’ll be by my bare hands.
The entire coffee shop erupts…erupts. People cheering, clapping, whistling loudly. And I mean the entire place. She didn’t even speak that loudly––not for Zoe.
I erupt too. My face, that is. To the brightest shade of red on the Pantone color scale. This is my basic nightmare. Being the object of everyone’s attention. I can’t even look at Reagan. If I find indifference or worse, an awkward refusal on his face I will die. So I do the only thing I can do; I get up slowly and walk out.
“Alice,” Rea calls out.
“Alice, don’t leave,” Blake pleads.
Their voices trail after me as I pick my way between crowded tables.
“Zoe, that really crossed the line,” Blake scolds her in a hushed tone.
“You were all thinking it. Don’t pretend you weren’t. I just did them a favor,” Zoe argues in a much louder one.
“She’s right,” Dallas mutters.
I push through the glass door and take a deep breath. The crisp October air stings my lungs.
“Alice, wait.” Reagan’s hand wraps around my bicep, gently stopping me.
I turn around to face him. “You were rude and insensitive and you embarrassed me in public,” I begin without preamble. “You know how much I hate being put on the spot. What kind of friend does that?”
His face pinches. He crosses his arms. Looking off, he rocks back on his sneakers. “A bad one,” he quietly admits. “I don’t know what came over me…I mean, I know what came over me I just don’t know why I embarrassed you on purpose.”
