Beneath The Skin(148)

Can I really trust him?

I take a deep breath, shake out my hair, then face the beautiful beast with a pinch of confidence.

“Where?” I ask nonchalantly.

He types again:



Bowling alley on Kingston Blvd.





Right off campus.





Walking distance.....ten minutes tops.





My roommate has a competition thing....





I’m going, thought you might like to come too





With that, he meets my eyes as I read the words a few times. The look in his eyes is … hesitant. It’s like he fears my answer. Is he as afraid of rejection as I am afraid of his intentions?

Even if I agree to this, I can still be in control. It’ll be a public place with other people around, and I don’t have to kiss him again or do anything I don’t want to do.

Not that I don’t want to kiss him, because I do.

A lot.

Oh, hell. I’m so screwed. Look, Dessie, you can bolt at any time. You owe him nothing. Right?

Or maybe my fear is that I won’t want to bolt.

What am I so afraid of?





DESSIE



Okay, so I said yes.

Something about a man like Clayton standing over me and asking … with his dark, hungry eyes and his smooth, sexy hands and his plush, perfect lips … is somewhat persuasive.

Annoyingly persuasive.

I haven’t been to a bowling alley since I was a kid. Yet somehow, I instantly remember the smoky, sweaty stench. No, I’m not a fan. There’s only one reason I’m suffering it tonight.

And that reason isn’t here.

I stand awkwardly by the entrance. The front counter, where a man has annoyingly asked me four times if he can help me, is to the left. An arcade filled with the likes of the Alpha Kappa Louda-As-Fucka fraternity is to my right. Ahead, the loud clanking and banging of the bowling lanes awaits.

I stare down at my phone and curse myself for not getting his number. At least then, I might’ve received a text that he would be running late, or that the thing was cancelled—who knows. Instead, I’m standing here wondering if I should bother getting a drink, or maybe making the ten-minute walk back to my dorm before it gets dark. After all, I was warned by Victoria that our campus sits between crime-land and fortune-land, and I can’t with any confidence say which one I’m in.

Someone rushes up to the front, leaning across the counter to speak to the man there. He’s a slender, tan, good-looking guy, full of energy, with tight jeans torn at the knee (is that a Texan thing?) and a grey fitted t-shirt with a frog plastered on the front. Upon second inspection, a joint hangs out of the frog’s mouth and its big eyes are bloodshot. This carefree, cheery dude-bro wears a pair of bowling shoes, one fingerless glove on his left hand, and a backwards cap squishing down a head of messy brown hair.

He turns. His eyes flash when they meet mine.

I look down at my phone suddenly, pretending to be occupied with a very interesting text message. In reality, I’m staring at the reflection of my own worried face. Crap, is that what I look like?

“Hey.”

I look up, startled. It’s the carefree dude-bro.

“Hi…?” I return warily.

He brings the blue and orange marbled bowling ball up to his chest with one hand, his bicep bulging in the effort. “You look lost. Are you lost?”

He’s got a slight Texan drawl to his voice. I offer an apologetic smile, then shake my head. “I’m not lost. Thanks for your concern.” I look back down at my super interesting phone.

“Do you go to Klangburg?”

I nod without looking up. He’s pretty cute, I’m not going to lie. But if I were to take a guess from his easy demeanor and slick charm, he’s had about eight girlfriends this week alone, and he’s likely sizing me up to be his ninth. I know a player when I see one.

“What’s your major?” he asks, leaning against the wall and tossing his bowling ball gently from one palm to the other.

“Theatre.”

“Oh, sweet. My roommate—ah, um … Anyway, you here to bowl?” He shuffles uncomfortably, which draws my attention back to him, wondering why he changed the subject so abruptly.

“Just to watch,” I answer, then glance down at my phone for the time. Almost thirty minutes late. Where the hell is he? “What do you study?” I ask distractedly.

“Boobs. Just kidding. Titties. Just kidding. Uh …” He grins as he looks off, flashing a pair of perfect teeth, then hugs the bowling ball to his chest and answers, “I’m thinking architecture.”

I don’t know why, but I find myself amused by this totally cocky horn-dog. I swallow a laugh. “You’re thinking architecture? Still undecided?”

“I’ve … ah, I’ve changed my major about four times since my freshman year. Don’t judge.” He gives me a warning look, his blue eyes flashing. “I like to take a little taste of everything, if you know what I mean.”