Beneath The Skin(133)

Since my sub’s cut in two pieces, I lift the first half to my mouth and take a bite. “It’s so freaking busy in here,” I whine through a full mouth. “And so loud!”

“Yeah.” She swallows, staring at my hands.

“Have you eaten already?” I ask her.

“Yeah. I had … breakfast.”

I don’t know how, but I suddenly suspect that my roommate skips meals and saves every penny she’s got. Maybe her parents’ weekly-or-monthly allowance is regrettably meager at best. Maybe she didn’t eat.

“Y’know, I’m not gonna be able to finish all this,” I confess. “Want the other half of my sub?”

“Oh.” Sam shifts in her seat. “No, it’s … it’s okay. I’m not that hungry.”

“Well, guess that second half’s gonna go to waste.”

She stares at it dubiously. I nudge the remaining half of the sub I was totally planning on eating toward her. After a moment of hesitation, she picks it up and takes a bite. From the way she eats, it’s clear how very hungry she was indeed.

Not to say the sight of her scarfing down the sub is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I suffer staring at a speck of mayonnaise on her chin for a solid five minutes before she wipes it and licks it off her finger.

Just before I put the last bite past my lips, I see Clayton through the mess of people in the cafeteria.

Fuck. He’s here.

I never see him anywhere on campus except for the theater.

My insides seize up. The last delicious bite of my lunch is left on the table, forgotten. My eyes zero in and the only thing that exists in the world is his muscular frame as it slowly strolls by in the distance. Just at the sight of him, my legs squeeze together.

I can’t explain that last reaction.

“What’s wrong?” asks Sam flatly.

“I’ll be right back.”

I ditch the booth and cut through the masses, my feet flying as if there were no floor beneath them.

I maneuver around all the annoying tables that stand in between Clayton and I. My feet nearly catch the strap of some guy’s backpack that rests by his feet. My elbow knocks into some girl who shouts a protest at my back that I don’t hear.

I find Clayton standing near the double glass doors at the entrance to the cafeteria, the sunlight cutting through and painting his face in shades of white and yellow, making his dark demeanor glow like some beautiful, otherworldly being. He stares down at his phone, his biceps bulging from holding the screen to his face. The plain black shirt he wears hugs every contour of his body, tapering down to meet his sexy jeans, which are torn at the knees.

He is sex in the shape of a man. God …

He looks up, and when his eyes meet mine, there is electricity there. Kill me now. His face changes, and his heavy-lidded, dark stare penetrates me. All that bright confidence I had a moment ago is sucked into my throat, rendering me unable to breathe. He’s so sexy. He’s got that distinct, bad-boy handsomeness, his cheeks dusted with a five o’clock shadow and his eyes catching the light from outside, making them appear like two shimmering chips of glass.

My heart hammers against my chest.

It’s performance time.

I lift my hand up and wave, offering a smile.

After a moment of staring, he returns a tiny nod.

You’re doing good, I coach myself. He acknowledged you. Keep going! With a jolt of excitement coursing through me, I bring a fist to my chest, then slowly rub it in a circle—Sorry.

He doesn’t respond to that, his eyes glued to my face as if he didn’t just see what I tried to sign to him.

Just keep going, Dessie. I bring a flat hand to my chest—My. I take two fingers from one hand and tap the two fingers of my other—Name. Then, I carefully form what I hope to be the correct letters with my right hand—D, E, S, S, I, E. When I’ve finished, I clasp my hands together, proud of myself, and smile again.

His face hardens. His lips purse, causing his sexy cheeks to suck in as he considers me. Oh, crap. Did I do it all wrong? Did I just call him an asshole, or insult his mother, or accidentally tell him I’m a purple frog? Maybe I should have gotten a second opinion before practicing sign language for the first time—that I learned from a Google search—on Clayton.

Then, without relaxing any of that hard attitude on his face, he nods again, then redirects his attention to his phone, where he seems to be typing for a short moment. He shows me the screen:



I’m Clayton



I breathe a sigh of relief. “I know,” I say out loud, then find myself struck with the horror of the fact that I don’t know any more signs. I looked up how to say some other things, but they’ve gone completely out of my head.