ing-bullet-for-breakfast me. No, not that me. The me beneath the scars and the ink and the scruff.
“Sure.” She’s watching me carefully. I’m definitely being inspected. For what failings, I’m not sure.
I sit. Not right next to her, because that would be kind of strange in a room that has as many empty seats as it does. I leave a single seat between us and try to do the mindless prep for class rituals my classmates appear to be doing.
I’m getting ready to summon up the courage to ask her what her name is when I get a second unpleasant surprise. Two in one week. Well, I only need one more for the shit show trifecta to be complete.
Parker Hauser breezes into class like a force of nature. It’s a certain way that women like her carry themselves around here but Parker, Parker has perfected it and it’s annoying as f*ck
. She was in one of my classes last semester and she annoyed me to no end talking about personal responsibility and rational choice theory. Before I remembered that I was a founding member of the f*ck
ing nuts club, I'd tried to engage with her arguments. Now? Now if she starts in on her rational choice theory bullshit, I might just completely lose my shit. Again.
“Oh great,” I mumble.
“Friend of yours?” I am very much drawn to the sound of her voice. I wish we were alone. So I could do something daring and bold. Like talk to her while being cold sober.
“Not really.” The anxiety catches in my throat, squeezing tight. I take another sip of my coffee and watch my cellmates—I mean classmates—filter in, trying not to feel awkward and weird that I don’t know what to say to the girl I’m not quite sitting next to.
Maybe if I had a drink or two in me, I’d finally find something witty to say. Maybe I’d be able to ask her why she was in this particular class without choking on the nervousness. Maybe I’d finally feel something around a girl.
Except I haven't felt that kind of excitement in a long, long time. And it’s not likely to change any time soon.
And holy hell, I am not confronting that unpleasant memory today. I mean, what in the world is wrong with this week? It’s like my psyche is deliberately f*ck
ing with me.
And honestly, I don’t need any damn help in that department.
The professor walks in. I suppose it’s strange that I’m relieved and disappointed all at once.
It’s actually a good thing he showed up. Because a thought had taken hold – this idea that maybe, I could actually have a conversation that didn’t involve alcohol. That maybe I could flirt and pretend that I'm just another guy in the dating pool.
I'm meant to be alone. If I wasn't sure about that before the war, I damn sure am now.
Professor Quinn finally starts class, ending any chance I have to talk to her.
Which means she'll be safe.
At least from me.
Abby
I am struck silent the moment he walks into the classroom.
Even more so when he scans the room briefly then his gaze settles on me. Only me. I am poignantly aware of my skin fitting too tightly over my bones.
I can't explain my reaction to seeing him here, in my space. There is a sense of anticipation, a warmth flowing through me.
If I really investigate what I am feeling, it is…that anticipation just before hope turns into something else. There is no reason why I should react this way to a man I've spoken to exactly twice.
He seems darker here. More threatening and out of place. Here I can clearly see the hard lines of his face beneath the stubble. The penetrating green of his eyes is focused one hundred percent on me.
He is still as the world moves around him. The motionless energy of a predator watching his prey.
Which would be me.
And I am not afraid.
No, it's definitely not fear coursing through my veins at the moment.
It's something decidedly different when he approaches and asks if he can sit next to me.
Just like that, I am no longer alone on the edge of the classroom.
I am used to sitting by myself. I barely even notice it anymore.
In that single span of time when the space close to me goes from empty to filled, something shifts inside me.
I release a hard breath. It should not be a big deal that maybe a guy wants to actually talk to me. It shouldn’t be and yet, it is.
Maybe Graham is right and I do need to knock the dust off.
For once I am not alone and I have no idea what to do with that feeling. Maybe I can assume risk this once and allow myself the pleasure of a fantasy daydream.
If I close my eyes, I can let myself imagine his fingers on my neck. A simple gesture that is both erotic and comforting all at once.
Something no lover has ever done to me publicly.
Something I need to give myself permission to want. To let myself crave. Today, I want to imagine his fingers on my skin. His breath mingling with mine, the woodsy taste of scotch on his tongue.