Just before I reach the glass doors, my phone gives a shake in my pocket, startling me. I wince as I reach to grab it, some totally new and annoying ache in my shoulder making itself known. I free the phone and lift the screen to my strained eyes:
DMITRI
Clayton! Where are you?
I sigh, ignoring it since I’m already here. I push my way in, the stench of the place dancing unwelcomed up my nostrils. The guy at the counter waves, then flashes me a number of fingers, his hands opening and closing two times to indicate lane twenty. I give him a nod of thanks, then make my way.
Brant whips around the corner out of nowhere and grabs me for a hug. I snort and wince in pain, caught off-guard by him as he thanks me profusely for coming.
Then his face changes when he gets a good look. “The fuck happen to you?” I think he asks. I shrug and wave him off. He grabs my arm, stopping me as I try to move past him. Reeling me around to face him again, he asks, “You fall down the stairs?”
I could laugh if I didn’t know it’d hurt like fuck. I lick my lips and say, “I’m fine,” with my voice sending tremors up my jaw and to my cheek. Even speech hurts.
He frowns, then beckons me over with a shake of his head. I follow him to lane twenty where I see the opposing team has set up shop. Through the crowd of them, I catch Dmitri with the rest of what I take to be Brant’s team: two Hispanic chicks—who, if I recall, are an on-and-off couple, but no one talks about it—and a computer nerd black dude named Josiah who’s a head taller than me and always seems to be smiling.
Dmitri rises from the bench the second he spots me, rushing up to my side. What happened? he signs.
I use as few signs as possible: Nothing. Fell.
He shakes his head: You should clean up. Bathroom. You’re bleeding through your bandage.
I huff irritably: It’s not that bad.
Dmitri lifts his eyebrows, which carry his glasses up a bit with them: Yes, it is. Dessie is in the bathroom. Fix yourself up before she returns.
The spelling out of her name sobers me at once. Of course she’s here already. I’m late. I move my hands: How long has she been here? How long has she been waiting? Do I really look that bad?
When Dmitri’s eyes avert, I realize I’m too late.
I turn to find Dessie standing there. My god. She gets more beautiful every time I see her. She’s wearing some cute white peasant top thing over a pair of jeans that hug her sexy, curvy shape. They hang low on the hips, leading my disobedient eyes straight to them—and my imagination straight to what smooth sexiness resides underneath.
And her pretty face … it’s evident from the subtle makeup and the pink of her lips that she fixed herself up a little for our hanging out tonight. Even with the smog of our regrettable environment, I swear I can smell her through it—lilac and fruit and something else I can’t name, something fresh and inviting.
I can’t trust myself in a room alone with her. I would rip off that innocent-looking white top and strip down those hot as fuck jeans.
Fuck … what I’d do to her … I’d own those lips for longer than just one fleeting moment in a cherry-picker, that’s for sure.
So mesmerized by her, I belatedly realize her lips are moving. “What happened?” she’s asking.
I shake my head, then murmur a word to her.
“What?” she says, leaning in closer.
I guess the place is louder than I realized. I tell her, “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” But the words rattle my jaw and I wince against the pain.
Dmitri steps in, puts an apologetic hand on Dessie’s shoulder, then signs: Maybe you two should go back to the apartment and hang out. I’ll stay and support Brant. You’ll have the place to yourself for at least a couple hours, maybe more.
I feel my face flushing. I don’t know if it’s because of the attention Dmitri’s signing is earning us, or if it’s because of the pain, or if it’s because he’s basically giving me permission to take Dessie back to our place and have ample time … alone together.
He seems to be relaying the message to Dessie, as he leans into her and says something. I feel my heart jerk awake, hopping around inside my ribcage as I wonder frustratedly what he’s saying to her.
She gives a shrug in response, then says something back to him. I look at her eyes questioningly. She spreads her hands, then says something to me. I don’t quite understand until Dmitri signs: She said yes. You two can hang at the apartment. It’s too loud here.
Too loud. What a concept.
I lift a brow at her. “You sure?”
Dessie nods, the waves of her long, brown hair dancing when she does, and her cheeks seem to flush the same shade as her beautiful, kissable lips. Fuck.