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No, instead, I shake it off and blame it on dehydration.
I’m chugging a bottle of water when someone calls my name, and for a split second, bashful hope tickles the back of my neck. That is, until I turn around. A not-so-silent groan builds in my throat when the guy from last night sets his forearms on the counter with a heavy thump, every inch of visible skin slick with drunken sweat. “I had fun last night.”
“Well, that makes one of us.” My words are a quiet grumble but even if I shouted them in his face, I don’t think he would hear. Currently, all his attention is directed south of my face, honing in on the minimal cleavage my uniform tank top allows.
Lacing my fingers together and squeezing, I force a smile. “Can I get you anything?”
Besides a mint.
“Another round.” The man who’s name I don’t feel an ounce of guilt about not remembering smirks, and I wrinkle my nose at the disgustingly obvious innuendo. “Of drinks, obviously.”
My only response being a grim nod does nothing to deter the guy; I can practically see the gears in his brain churning as he prepares another dirty comment he, luckily for me, never gets the chance to spill.
The brush of another shoulder against his isn’t that hard, only momentarily knocking him off his already precarious balance, but it’s enough to direct his attention from me to the guy squeezing in beside him. “What the fuck?”
“My bad,” Jackson holds his hands up in surrender, faking a guilty expression and purposefully not looking at me. “Sorry, Billy.”
I gape at the pair, not because they seem to know each other or because of Jackson's sudden miraculous appearance, but because of the name Jackson just uttered.
Billy?
I banged aBilly?
God, no wonder I didn't remember his name. Blocked it from my memory, obviously. Definitely wouldn't want to associate sex with a name that conjures up an image of an old man with a beer gut and goatee.
FuckingBilly'sface morphs from angry to calm in the blink of an eye. “Jackson,” he greets, pulling him in for one of those bro-hugs. Jackson smiles and indulges him but when he grips the counter, I notice his white knuckles. And I notice how he slaps Billy on the back a little harder than necessary before pointing in Nick's direction, encouraging Billy to amble away and do the whole bro greeting thing again without even a backwards glance at me.
I just watch, a little perplexed by how fucking smooth that was.
Jackson.
Smooth.
Interesting development.
He doesn’t linger to accept praise and gratitude like most knights in shining armor would. He tries to leave without a word but I stop him. “Did you need something?”
Jackson turns slowly, just as slow to raise his gaze and finally,finally, graces me with those beautiful eyes. Dark brown, with hints of gold that glint when the light hits them just right. He must be feeling generous because he indulges me with that voice too—no nodding or head shaking like I’ve become accustomed. Deep but quiet with a rasping quality that sends a shiver down my spine every day. “Coffee, please.”
Unashamedly, I take my time filling a mug with dark liquid. Feeling selfish, wanting his presence longer, even if he’s not saying a word. It’s… comforting. Warm. Like a little slice of calm. When I eventually slide the drink his way, I wave off the money he offers. “It’s on me.”
You save me from leering men, you get free coffee.
Jackson’s lips purse, unimpressed yet undeterred as he drops what more than covers the cost of a measly black coffee in the tip jar. A dip of his head and he’s gone, scurrying back to his friends without a backwards glance.
And what do I do? I watch him go like a fucking creep because I think we’ve silently established staring is our thing.
8
LUNA
I'm exhausted.
My legs feel like lead as I scale the stairs to my apartment, my fingers numb as they fish for keys. It’s been a long ass day, packed with classes and the longest work shift known to man, and I want nothing more than to curl up on the sofa with a preferably cold and necessarily alcoholic beverage. And food. Lots of food; a day survived on only a couple of sneaked granola bars and a measly apple is not a day worth living.
So, when I shove open the front door and find Kate splayed on the sofa cradling a mug, another one and a bottle of wine set on the coffee beside her propped-up feet, I almost weep. I can’t find the energy to shed my coat or shoes, or even greet my roommate. I just kick the door shut and collapse beside her, my head propped on her lap.
Kate doesn’t spare me a glance. She just leans forward and fills up the spare mug before transferring it to my greedy hands. “Want some dinner?”
