The fantasy comes to a screeching halt. Wow, my life is a real beacon of hope for strong women everywhere. The only guy who seems to get me hot and bothered was drinking before noon yesterday.
I want to know his name. I've decided that already. I should text Graham and ask him if he knows it. But that would clue Graham in that I was interested, and while I love Graham like a brother, he has far too much invested in my love life or lack thereof. He'd give the guy my number, home address, and blood type if he thought it would get me laid.
I might make jokes about it, but I'm not that open when it comes to sex. It's not that I'm morally opposed to it. But it hasn't been exactly…earth shattering for me. Robert was…more concerned with his own pleasure than mine.
And wow, do I need to think about something else. Something other than the man next to me with the haunted eyes and thick, blunt fingers that are currently toying with a pencil.
Down, girl.
I'm better than this. I'm not boy crazy. I don’t let myself get distracted from why I’m here and guys definitely fall into the distraction category these days. I know who I am and what I want in life. And while the fantasy of having a guy stroke my neck and whisper things to make me laugh might be appealing, it's nothing more than a fantasy for girls like me in a place like this.
Fantasies are safe.
Fantasies don't ruin your life and crush your soul and try to change who you are. They don’t pretend to love you.
And in my fantasies is where he'll stay. In the dark and the shadows, where I can take out the idea of him and play with it for a little while, then put it safely away where it can wait until next time.
Because fantasies can’t hurt you.
And as interested as I am in the man who did such a simple thing by sitting next to me, I am far too cynical to pretend that this is anything more than it is—a kind gesture.
Nothing more.
Chapter 4
Josh
I really should say something. Introduce myself. It feels really stalker-esque to think of her as her.
And when class doesn’t start because the projector isn’t working, I realize I have another opportunity to not be a f*ck
ing coward and actually talk to her.
I'm curious. Despite all my good intentions of keeping my distance, I want to know what on earth compelled her to approach me yesterday at the bar. I want to know what inspired her to stand and fight instead of try to downplay the situation on the street outside The Pint last week.
I worked with a female soldier back in my unit. She wasn’t officially assigned to us, which was why she was the only one around. She was badass on a weapons system but she never would have stood her ground like the girl next to me did the other night. She always traded cheap shots with the NCOs until they stopped hassling her. Deflection and de-escalation through dick jokes.
But the confrontation isn’t what has me intrigued. At least not completely.
I want to know why she approached me. Why she talked to me at the bar. Why she pretended to care.
Women don’t do that. And women who work in bars damn sure don’t do that. Not if they’re smart.
I know what she said. But people never tell the truth about stuff like that. They always have ulterior motives.
Funny, I can’t figure out what hers might be. I’m usually better at reading people but she’s got me stumped.
There's something about her that draws my attention. Maybe it's the tight curls that frame her face, drifting around her neck. Maybe it's the way she observed the entire room with her golden eyes that give you the impression she doesn't miss the smallest detail.
I steal a glance over at her, trying to be smooth and not completely f*ck
ing obvious.
She is focused on her paper, her right hand furiously scratching notes out in scrawling, neat penmanship. But her left hand is resting at the base of her throat. Her fingers sliding gently over her smooth skin, almost absently. Almost as though she wasn’t paying attention to the lecture but instead, lost in a fantasy.
For a moment, I'm enthralled by the movement. The slide of a single finger over soft, soft skin. The feel of your lover’s pulse racing beneath your caress. The power of a touch that says you are mine.
I haven't been touched like that in a long, long time.
I look away, seized by a sense of loss almost as powerful as the panic from yesterday.
I have to admit, I'm mildly relieved when Professor Quinn pulls up the PowerPoint for his lecture.
Death by PowerPoint even in college. But sometimes, it’s the familiar that offers comfort.
Except that now I’m paying for the privilege of being lulled to sleep by slides.
Quinn is a short, skinny guy who looks like a fifty-year-old version of the aging hipster. Maybe he's the original hipster. With his thick glasses and greying goatee, he looks like what I imagine Colonel Sanders of the KFC variety would look like as a college professor.