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When a hand wraps around my arm right at my favorite part of the song that always gets me hyped, I’m so fired up—and completely confused as to how anyone is touching me when I’m running at a pretty fast pace along the shore—that I whirl around and act without thinking. Just like I was taught to do in the self-defense classes I took when I moved to L.A.
“What the fuck?” me and my attacker scream at the same time when we come face-to-face, both of us stumbling away from each other.
We both let out another blood curdling scream at the same time. Except he’s freaking out because I whirled around with my arm up in the air and sprayed him with the tiny canister of pepper spray I always run with. And I’m freaking out, because what in the actual hell is Quinn Bagley still doing on my island, grabbing my arm at six o’clock in the morning?
“What the fuck?” Quinn shouts again as I yank one of my earbuds out. Although, at this point, it’s more of a gurgled choking sound than a shout, since he’s now bent over at the waist with his hands on his knees, snot and tears running down his face while he coughs, dry heaves, and spits into the sand.
Quickly shoving the pepper spray into the tiny pocket of my running shorts, I move over to Quinn’s side and start gently rubbing circles against his back.
“I’m a woman running alone on the beach, and you grabbed my arm! What did you think was going to happen?” I ask him as he chokes and gags.
I continue moving my palm soothingly up and down his spine, careful to keep my face turned as far away from him as possible, while I breathe fresh, clean, ocean air instead of the cloud of tear gas currently surrounding Quinn.
“Yep. Immediately regretting that decision now.” He nods in between coughs as he lifts the bottom of his shirt and wipes the snot and tears off his face from his bent-over position. “I was grabbing your arm to warn you that you shouldn’t be running alone, because someone could grab your arm. It sounded better in my head. I’m happy to know I don’t have to worry about your safety now.”
No, my heart absolutely does not pitter-patter, because he’s probably lying about any concern he had over my wellbeing.
“I think we’re even in the humiliation department,” Quinn continues, in between hacking coughs and loud heaves. “You can try to hold my hair back if you want, but I just got it trimmed, so that might be tricky.”
When I have the urge to throw my head back and laugh, I remember who the hell I’m trying to comfort right now and quickly jerk my hand off his back, taking a step away from him in the sand.
“Not the kind of music I thought you’d be listening to.”
Quinn looks up at me pitifully, with watery eyes and red splotches all around them, while he continues to gag and spit into the sand, pointing to the earbud draped down into my cleavage, still blasting Korn’s “Freak on a Leash.” I press the Off button on my ancient iPod that’s Velcroed to my upper arm, yanking the other earbud out of my ear.
“What? Did you expect a ditzy cheerleader would listen to Bieber or Britney Spears?” I question.
“Hey, no hating on the Beebs, and free Britney!” Quinn announces, holding his fist up in the air when he can finally breathe again as he stands back up. He brings the bottom half of his shirt with him that he still has his other hand stuck under, using it as a towel to wipe his face.
“Jesus,” pants out of my mouth, along with a sound that’s part moan, part cat in heat, when I’m treated to a close-up view of Quinn’s mouthwatering washboard abs.
“And you are very far from being a ditzy cheerleader,” Quinn’s muffled voice comes from behind his shirt as he wipes his face once more before finally pulling his hand out from under his shirt, letting it fall back into place. “Right now, judging by the look you’re giving me, I expected you to be listening to “Goodbye Earl” or some other anthem about killing a man.”
Don’t smile. Do not smile! He’s not funny, and you should just be happy he didn’t realize the look you were actually giving him was one filled with lust and not murder.
“That Korn song was actually the one I danced to the first time I auditioned for the Vipers,” I mutter, my eyes still staring at Quinn’s cotton-covered stomach, where I just had a glimpse of heaven.
“Seriously?” Quinn chuckles.
“My friend Tess dared me to do it. She said it would leave an impression. She also refused to be friends with me when we were younger unless I got better taste in music. She set fire to my NSYNC and Spice Girls CDs while they were still on the bookshelf in my room.”
