She’s avoiding me, that’s probably my pride and vanity talking. People say they’re my biggest flaws. I have bigger ones, like being a fuckboy jackass, but I’m feeling… things… about this girl I don’t even know, that I shouldn’t be experiencing.
Things I haven’t felt in a while.
Things I really have no desire to feel.
Casual hookups and booty calls are my thing. One-and-done is the way to go.
Except now, all of a sudden, they’re not.. If they were, I wouldn’t be trying to get her to see me. I meanreallysee me. I wouldn’t be planting little packets of fancy hot chocolate everywhere she goes, just so I can see her smile. Even if only for a second.
Familiar beady eyes meet mine across the bar. One of my old cocaine dealers stares me down, head tipped in an all too comfortable suggestion. My mouth dries, heart pounds. I’m not spiraling, I’m not in a mental health crisis, and all things considered I’d say I’m doing pretty fucking well. But the allure of the adrenaline shot and euphoria from even one hit of the white powder claws at me.
I give him an almost imperceptible shake of my head. Whatever he’s selling, I’m not buying.
Cabrón won’t back down, though. He pushes back from his chair, adjusts his pants, and heads my way, weaving through my teammates to get to me. He shoulders me, hand outstretched. I’m sure a white bag is nestled in the hand he’s trying to brush against mine, but I’m not interested.
Temptation tickles my nerves as I force breaths in and out of my body. I don’t need it, I don’t want it, and I have no intention of starting a fight with this guy. He has connections I’d rather not piss off by starting shit.
Another shake of my head seems to dissuade him from persisting. “You know where to find me.”
He leaves, but the invitation doesn’t leave with him. The lure, the pull, the addiction. The last sips of my non-alcoholic beer don’t hit the spot anymore, and my jittery leg suggests I need to get the fuck out of here before I do something I’ll regret.
Going out tonight has not improved my mood any. I don’t want to go dancing either, so I abandon my half-eaten burger, make my excuses, and decide to walk home to my pig. Maybe the cool October air will blow the cobwebs from my gray matter and kick my sour mood in the balls. I’m not naive enough to think it’ll do anything from this all body itch I can’t scratch.
Spotting lights down the block I didn’t expect, I detour toward Bitches Brew. They must have extended their opening times, and I’m not at all mad about it. In fact, I might even get myself a delicious hot chocolate while I’m picking up a couple packets for my favorite pink-haired sprite.
The goddess herself comes walking out of the café, alone, eyes fixed on the ground in front of her feet and crashes right into me.
Her head snaps up on a gasp. If I wasn’t already simmering mad at her for being reckless and walking to her car alone this late, it would be adorable.
Our eyes meet. I reach out and brush her hair back from her face and her arms tremble, clutching books against her chest. She doesn’t even have her keys out of her backpack, ready to unlock her car.¿Qué coño?
A group of guys comes out of the coffee shop behind her, and I snarl at them like a feral animal. Grabbing her by the elbow, I guide her out of their way, and we’re silent as they pass.
My chest heaves. I have no idea why I’m feeling so protective, so possessive of someone who isn’t mine, other than the fact it’s late at night, and the idea of anyone laying hands on her against her will makes me homicidal.
I know how common it is for women to be assaulted. There’s a reason—other than the fact it pisses Papá off forhisson to be studying gender studies—that my major and minor are what they are. Our cousin was brutally raped when I was twelve. They never caught the guy.
Mom’s complacency about not pursuing the rapist bedded under my skin. I asked her why she didn’t want justice for Camila, and her haunted expression as she recounted the statistics for prosecuting rape will stay with me forever.
I haven’t told anyone other than my sister, Athena, but even if I make it to the NHL, I want to be an advocate for survivors of sexual assault when I graduate. If I graduate. I want to fight for people who have had the worst crimes in the world committed against them. People who have had their “no” disrespected and been touched without their consent, people who believe fighting for their own justice isn’t worth it.
I might be a player, an asshole, and hell yes, I love to fuck and be fucked, but no means fucking no.
The twins don’t know, not because I think they’ll laugh or anything, but because I’m not sure I can maintain the grades I need to graduate. Apollo tried to talk me into an easier minor when I signed up for college, but I was determined. As much as I love him, that fucker will definitely stick me with an “I told you so,” if I fuck it up. Best to keep my plans to myself until I know for sure whether I’m capable of achieving them.
Too many guys take advantage of drunk girls, and I haven’t yet met a single woman who has either not been assaulted herself, or doesn’t know someone who has. It’s fucking sickening.
I’m irrationally upended right now. She should be fine walking to her car. She’s not mine to feel this way about, and yet…
She stares up at me from behind her pink curtains. Her hair dye has faded, but her lips are vibrant, glossy, and calling to me.
Her brow is wrinkled, but she doesn’t seem mad, only confused. I take a step toward her, and she shuffles back two. I stop my advance, not wanting to crowd her or make her feel trapped. Her back meets the exposed brick of the coffee shop, and a little puff of air escapes her.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone late at night.” I’m still staring at her lips, so when her tongue slips out and glides between them, I almost jizz my fucking pants.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Screw that. What the hell is so different about this girl that makes me want her so fucking badly?
