“Hi,” I offer, using my sweetest audition voice.
He doesn’t even flinch. After too long a moment, he takes a sip of his beer, then stares into it like he’s disgusted with his own reflection. God, he looks so hot when he makes that face, scowling at absolutely nothing.
I try again. “I’m Dessie.” A beer is in my hand and I don’t even remember getting it. Its contents shake because my hands do. “I—I’m a transfer here. Second year. Are you an actor? You look like an actor.”
Still nothing. He even turns his head upstage, looking off as if something far more interesting than me caught his attention. Y’know, like a fly.
That’s when I notice the seriously sexy, dark tattoo running up the base of his thick neck, making me wonder what else he’s hiding under that tight shirt.
“Listen, I’m new here, and … and I’m just trying to meet people,” I go on, feeling more desperate and dumb by the second. I set my beer back down on the table. “It would be rather nice to talk to someone who actually acknowledges when he’s being—”
Then, the asshole walks away.
I watch, completely taken aback by his rudeness. It was clear as hell who I was talking to, wasn’t it? He had every opportunity to just simply tell me he wasn’t interested in getting to know me. Except, isn’t that the point of this damn Theatre mixer thing? To … mix?
“Prick,” I mutter at his back, drawing the attention of a couple girls at the other end of the table, but not from the guy to which the word was directed. I hope they didn’t hear me.
Or maybe I do. I suddenly, immediately, wholly don’t care about anything. I’ve been used to this my whole life. Cece gets told “yes” every day. My peers at Rigby & Claudio’s got all the praise while I sat back and wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I’m the outcast, the failure, the family joke.
I’m the guppy.
I abandon the stage, departing through the wing and the rehearsal room. In a matter of seconds, the School of Theatre is behind me and I’m tramping down the dark pathways back to my dorm, alone.
DESSIE
I don’t even know his name.
Yet there he stands in all his perfect glory.
“Hi,” I mutter stupidly.
He sees me. His eyes zero in and the world zeros out. Nothing exists but me, him, and the breath between us.
“Can you help me?” I ask him, drawing close, too close, far closer than I thought I’d dare. “I think I’m lost. I know the School of Theatre, and the School of Music, but I can’t seem to find the—”
“School of Sex?” he finishes for me, and his voice is like silk against my skin. I suppress a moan just from hearing it.
“Yeah.” I feel so confident and beautiful. “I need your help … in finding … the School of Sex.”
He licks his lips and nods knowingly. His eyes pierce me. The subtle light of whatever room we’re in barely colors his gruff, unshaven face, leaving so much of him in the mysterious dark.
His hand slips behind my neck. “What … What are you doing?” I ask, knowing full well. My heart is hammering against my chest. Heat surges between my thighs and I’m trembling with anticipation. “All I needed … was help in … in finding the School of Sex.”
“Consider it found,” he murmurs, his lips drawing close to mine.
Then I open my eyes, and I’m all alone in my dorm room again. Evil. My mind is pure evil. The crushing vacuum from my dream’s sudden departure leaves a hole in my chest that I literally, physically clutch at. I shut my eyes and beg to return to where I left off. It felt so fucking real. I try to imagine his face and it’s already gone. I try to feel his touch again and all I feel are bed sheets and my own thumping heart.
Believe it or not, this is the second night in a row that I’ve had this dream. Sunday was an uneventful yet totally necessary day where I got to decompress from the move (still without a roommate), buy my books from the crowded campus bookstore, and then enjoy three totally normal college meals at the Quad cafeteria. I even successfully dodged yet another call from my mother.
But nothing seems to ease the ache I carry for that sexy hunk from the mixer. Prick, I had called him.
Ugh.
Then, I hear the turning of a page. I’m not alone. I bolt up, drawing the sheets to my neck as if I’m naked, and I see her. “Who’re you??”
The girl sitting cross-legged on the other bed lifts her sullen, shapeless face from the book she reads. A sad pair of thick-rimmed glasses rest at the end of her nose. Her hair, straight and plain as the bristles on a broom, is cropped dully at the neck. An unfortunate pox of red bumps I’ll pray aren’t chickenpox dance up the side of her short, blunt neck. Her nose is a round bulb of flesh and her eyebrows are thick and black and unsightly. She stares at me with the enthusiasm of a sock, her eyes dead and blank.