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AM_1906: Bo Randolph is in my bio class.
Eggs_Martini: What? Why is he not in Rocks for Jocks?
AM_1906: Dunno.
Rocks for Jocks was Geology 101 and was so nicknamed because all the athletes took it to pad their GPAs. It was commonly known that Bio 101 was harder, but at least you avoided spitballs hurled across the room and suffocation from the smell of gym socks and sweaty jerseys.
Before I could reply to Ellie, the professor began telling us how a typhoon would swallow us up eventually or that the sea level would rise gradually, so that all the land would be eroded. Nice. I could see Bio 101 was going to be swell.
Out of the corner of my eye, I heard the rustling of paper and then the scratch of a cheap pen. Bo was a lefty, and he took notes the old-school way. By hand. With a pen and paper. Insane.
AM_1906: Good call on changing science class. Apparently we’re all going to die soon. From a natural disaster.
Eggs_Martini: Escape now.
AM_1906: Like rocks for jocks will be better? You can die from a mudslide or avalanche or other geological disasters. Global warming, anyone?
Eggs_Martini: Rocks do not cause or are not related to global warming.
AM_1906: I’m pretty sure the class is more than about rocks.
Eggs_Martini: Clearly not or it wouldn’t be rocks for jocks.
I was so intent on my IM conversation with Ellie, I hadn’t noticed that Bo had angled himself to view my screen until I felt the brush of his arm against mine.
“Nosy much?” I hissed, turning the laptop away, my anger and surprise overcoming my initial nervousness.
“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” drawled Bo. The rumor about Bo being a southerner? True. His drawl was as recognizable as the shocking blue eyes he sported. They were so blue I wondered if they were fake. I stared at them for a moment too long, looking for the outline of a contact lens, but saw nothing but pure ocean blue, like the waves you see in the spring break pamphlets of the Caribbean Sea lapping against the white sand beaches. Who needed Cancún when you could stare at Bo Randolph’s eyes for a week?
I wrenched my gaze away. Bo was the poster child for every disaster that female singers warbled about. He’d break your heart and do it smiling. Worse, he’d make you think you were better off for having your heart broken because it was done in by him.
“Why are you even here? Aren’t you a senior?” I said, anger at myself making me sound peevish. At least I kept my voice low enough to avoid getting us in trouble. The professor was on the other end of the stage, making sure everyone in the room was sufficiently depressed with their dim prospects for survival.
“No, I’m a junior college transfer and I’ll be a junior forever unless I get my science prerequisite out of the way,” Bo said, unperturbed. His reportedly quick trigger was apparently not set off by snippy girls. “Why are you here? You seem like a responsible person who would’ve taken her science elective in her first year.”
His gaze swept me like a scanning machine and I felt so thoroughly examined I wondered if he was planning to make a 3D model of me later. Probably wishful thinking, but it didn’t stop a thrill from shooting up my spine at the thought of Bo pulling up a mental picture of me during a private moment.
“How do you know I’m not a first year?” I whispered.
He looked at me disbelievingly. “Because you were a sophomore when you sat behind me last semester in advanced economic theory, AnnMarie West.” He emphasized my name. It was my turn to be disbelieving. I could not believe that he knew both my name and that I sat behind him in class last semester.
I didn’t have a chance to respond because the professor had strolled back to our side of the auditorium and was instructing us on how to sign up for a lab partner.
“The TA will hand out sign-up sheets. If you know someone and have arranged to be their lab partner, please indicate that on the sheets. If you don’t have one, one will be assigned for you at the end of the day, randomly. Thirty-five percent of your grade will depend on your lab work. Choose your partner wisely.”
My heart sank into my feet. With Ellie in geology, I would be assigned to some random freshman. It could be some guy who would think he could make obscene passes at me because I was that girl, or a girl who thought I’d try to steal her man. This was part of the reason I’d put off my science requirement.
The teacher’s assistant handed Bo, who was sitting at the end of our table, a sheet and he scribbled his name and another. I wondered who he was partnering with and why he wasn’t sitting next to that person. I didn’t know what to write down, given that I avoided all the other students and knew only a few names, none of whom were sitting in this room. But Bo didn’t hand me the sheet when he was done. Instead, he leaned past me and laid it on the far side of the empty table, where another student grabbed it and started writing.
“Hey,” I said, trying to reach for the paper, but Bo covered my hand and jerked his chin at the first-year to go ahead.
I rounded on Bo. “I didn’t get to write my name down.”
“You don’t have to,” Bo said, still holding my hand in his. His large hand made me feel tiny and fragile and, briefly, I allowed myself to enjoy the feeling of being protected, like Bo was the shell of my frail turtle body. I shook it off and reminded myself I had my own protective casing called self-reliance. I tugged gently, but he refused to let me go. “We’re going to be lab partners.”
“We? As in you and I?”
“That would be the correct composition of individuals making up the ‘we’ in my sentence.”
“But…” I wasn’t sure whether I was secretly indignant or relieved.
“You don’t want to be stuck with a first-year. You’re smart, given that you were in advanced theory last semester. You’ll be a good lab partner.”
“But are you a good lab partner for me? You’re taking a first-year elective in your third year. You were in advanced economic theory with me, a sophomore.”
Bo laughed but then grew serious. “Fair enough. Yes. I have good grades, and I never let a teammate down.”
A tremor shot through me at Bo’s words. I didn’t have many people on my team, and this guy, this much-wanted guy, was suggesting he was going to stand beside me? It’s for the class, I cautioned myself. But the part that crushed on Bo all last semester? That small, secret part was whispering things I knew I should not allow myself to believe. Like that Bo wanted to be on my team.
I looked down at my hand, still engulfed in Bo’s, and knew that want was winning the battle against fear.
Chapter Two
BO
ANNMARIE WEST. I’D SAT IN front of her for an entire semester and chick didn’t say two words to me. She didn’t say two words to anyone, though, if I recalled correctly, other than to her friend who sat next to her. Her friend called her AM, like the radio or the time. My first glance at AM last fall made me think that she’d look good in the morning with her hair spread out on my pillow and her long legs wrapped around my waist. AM’s hair looked like the color of a melted Hershey’s kiss, and, sitting close to her, I realized it smelled just about as good. Not chocolatey, though, but like a hard candy. Maybe lemon. It made me want to lick her neck to see how she’d taste.
I had winked at her once, to test out the temperature, but received a frightened glare in return. Or maybe it was a frozen look. Either way, it wasn’t an encouraging response. I wasn’t going to pursue someone who was afraid of me.
Over the course of the semester, though, her frightened look faded and sometimes I thought I caught a glimpse of interest. But if I’d smiled at her, she’d recoil. Frustrated, I gave up and went for the easier hookups.
But now she was in biology with me. What were the chances? It was like fate had dropped her in my lap and instinct told me I shouldn’t allow this chance to go by unwasted.
The female population had always been attentive to me, from old ladies to little babies and every age in between. The Randolph men were born with something that drew women in. Maybe “lured” was the better word, because we Randolphs rarely ended up being good for women. I tried to reduce the wreckage by limiting myself to women who were interested in short-term encounters. It meant that my liaisons were shallow, but no one got hurt. I should just leave AnnMarie alone. And I would’ve if she’d looked scared again, but fear wasn’t evident in any of her responses. Instead, she looked at me like I was a tasty treat and talked back like we were equals. I’m delicious, AnnMarie, take a bite.
Still juiced after a lackluster workout, I found myself pushing at her limits. It was the college version of dipping her pigtails into the inkwell or pushing her off the swing in hopes she’d chase me back.
AM spent this class, like the economics class of last semester, looking intently at the teacher, disregarding the TA’s attempts to catch her attention, and typing studiously into her laptop. I doodled on my paper and watched her the entire time. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, switching quickly between her IM chat screen and a note-taking application. There was a tiny muscle in her biceps that flexed when she clenched her fingers to release the tension built up through typing and from holding her body rigidly away from mine. I’d have offered to rub her tension away, but based on our earlier interaction, I guessed the offer wouldn’t be welcome.
I could hear the professor droning in the background but preferred reading AnnMarie’s recitation of the lecture.
Global disasters. Too far from anything interesting to die. Cells, molecules, plants. Disgusting lab things with THAT guy.
I know you’re watching me type but I’m not sharing my notes with you.
I snorted out loud. She had my number. And then I realized that the ball in the pit of my stomach that I hadn’t managed to work out this morning had dissolved. While watching AnnMarie, from sparring with her, even a little, I’d somehow, miraculously, calmed down. I closed my eyes and envisioned my failed fights this morning. Nope, still felt good.
At the end of class, AnnMarie pulled her phone out of her bag and set it on the table while she packed up her laptop and pen. Her phone lay forlornly on the side of the table, as if were waiting for me, so I seized the opportunity that had presented itself. Pressing the home button and accessing the dial pad, I entered my phone number and pressed send.
“What are you doing?” she asked, grabbing the phone out of my hands.
“You know, you should really use a passcode on your phone,” I chastised. “Anyone could use it.”
She looked at the screen. “What did you do?” Her voice rose, nearing the screechy, dog whistle octave.
“As your lab partner, I think we should exchange phone numbers.” I looked as placid and nonthreatening as possible, angling my body toward her but pulling my hands out of her space. She might bite my fingers off if they were too close to her mouth. I didn’t mind taking chances, but I wasn’t stupid. I also knew I needed to spend more time with her. If a man in a desert finds a pool of water, he doesn’t leave until he’s lapped that fucker dry.
“You could have asked me first,” she bit out.
“I could have, but you’d have said no.” My reasoned responses were only making her angrier, but she was trying to fight it back. She had a lot of control. I admired that. I possessed little myself. It was one of the many shitty things I inherited from my dad. Maybe biology would teach me how to excise the bad genes from the good ones. I think that’s what they teach in the molecular biology section.
“We can communicate via e-mail,” AnnMarie replied evenly. Her color was high, but she’d subdued the high notes in her voice.
In just fifty minutes, I’d learned several important things about AM. She had cute, tiny, girl muscles; she took great notes; she smelled good; and she had a great deal of self-control. And in no way was she afraid of me.
“Come on. No one uses e-mail but professors.” I nodded toward the front stage, which now held only an abandoned lectern and a desk. The good thing about us having this extended post-class discussion was that the aisles weren’t crowded and the TA had gotten fed up waiting for AnnMarie to break from the herd so he could inappropriately offer her private tutoring sessions.
“You look like you’re going to blow up. It’s a good thing class is over,” I added. Something perverse inside me wanted to needle her some more just to see how good her self-control really was.
Her eyebrows shot up, but instead of the expected high-pitched yelp, her voice got lower. “Oh my God,” she said in clipped, low tones. “It’s a good thing there are still people in here because, I swear, if we were alone, I would stab you through the eye with a pen.”
“You know, a lot of people say that they’d do those things, but I’ve found few can actually follow through.” I tried for contemplative but could feel my facial muscles moving into a grin, and probably an unrepentant one at that, because the more she talked, the more interested I became. She was actually turning me on. I might have to sit in the chair for a few minutes before I could walk out.
