I’m no good for Clayton, regardless of whether or not he’s any good for me. “I should go,” I tell him dejectedly, though I’m really not so sure I want to.
“Why?” he murmurs in his small voice.
The students in the lobby whisper to each other.
“I don’t know,” I admit, hugging the script to my chest. It feels heavier with each second that goes by. “I just need to go. I need to be by myself.”
He sucks on his tongue for a moment, frustrated, his jaw tightening. Then he pulls out his phone, types, and shows me the too-bright screen:
Want to hang out tomorrow night?
I’m stunned. My heart races up my throat as I read the words five times in a row. I look up to meet his eyes. He’s searching mine, desperate for the answer.
He wants to hang out with you, Dessie. You’d be crazy to say no. Don’t you dare say no. I will never, ever forgive you if you say no.
But can I say yes? I was feeling so defiant a week ago when my friends enthusiastically advised me to stay away from the Watts boy, telling me he’s bad news. Chloe even gave me his romantic history. Ariel even pitched in her two unasked-for cents. Now, I wonder if I should have heeded all their warnings. Is this the game he plays, luring a girl into his little trap, having his way with her, then tossing her aside like a used towel? I’m not going to lie; he looks exactly the type to do just that. I mean, he’s gorgeous. He’s got a killer body. And he’s aggressive as hell, despite the soft nature of his voice.
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?
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?”