Unknown: Hey. It’s Drew. You busy?
I stare down at the screen, my mind trying to make the letters form comprehensible words. Drew? Texting me? I glance over my shoulder, as if he might be behind me or something. Which is stupid and juvenile. I’m still pretty sure he’s made me insane. There is a part of me, however, that gives a little leap of excitement. The lower part of me, I think darkly as I text him back.
Me: How did you get my number?
I rise and head into the apartment, the feeling of being watched still riding strong.
Unknown: Class study roster. ;)
I snort as my thumb taps on the screen.
Me: Damn study roster.
Unknown: Highly grateful for it myself.
“Yeah well, you would be,” I mutter, but, who am I trying to kid? I am too. The phone dings again.
Unknown: Where are you now?
My cheeks start to hurt from my repressed smile.
Me: Home.
Unknown: Where’s that?
I pause, my heart now giving a little leap as well. This is stupid. He’ll hurt me. Without even trying. I have to protect myself. The thought barely forms, and yet I find myself responding.
Me: Why?
Unknown: I want to know, obviously.
Me: Is this a booty call?
Damn if all my happy parts aren’t perking up now. Traitors.
Unknown: In the spirit of the brutal honesty in which we interact, yes. Yes, it is.
I laugh, too shocked not to. And a stupid grin pulls at my cheeks when I respond.
Me: Brownie points for that honesty, Baylor.
Unknown: Then give me the address, Jones. My list of semi-public places has grown thin. I’ve come up with janitor’s closets and bathroom stalls. Both unsavory. And I don’t want someone other than me seeing your gorgeous butt. I’d like to refrain from punching people, if possible.
I have to agree about the lack of privacy, although my brain’s stalled out on his reference to my butt. He thinks it’s gorgeous? Okay. I can do this. I can keep it about sex. Only sex. Awesome, hot, perfect…
Before I can talk myself out of it, I tap out my address. Sweat blooms along my skin the second I hit send.
My phone is quiet. For too long. Shit. When the text signal chimes again, my heart skips a beat.
Unknown: I’m on my way.
My heart promptly begins to race. And so do I. I practically slam down my phone as I fly into action, grabbing strewn clothes, trash, a sock, my ratty comfort bra, and a variety of other junk that’s cluttering the place. It all goes into the closet. Okay, I shouldn’t care what my place looks like. If I’m a slob, I’m a slob.
But I’m also a girl, and I’m not letting him see my place in any other condition than pristine.
I don’t know how far away he is; why didn’t I ask where he was? Skidding into the bathroom, I look myself over in the mirror. At least I don’t have a zit or anything. Which makes me think of George and his zit analogy. Fucking George.
I look all right, but Drew’s coming here for one thing, and I’m now slightly sweaty. I don’t have time to wash my hair so make do with washing my body, shaving all pertinent areas in record time and dashing butt-naked out of the shower and into my room. I stub my toe on the dresser.
“Fuck!” I’m hopping around on one foot as I tug on some yoga pants. The doorbell rings and I’m still half dressed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Grabbing a sweater hanging over my desk chair, I shove it over my head. A quick, frantic look down to check for stains—please don’t let there be stains—calms me somewhat; the sweater is a nice one, deep green and silk wool knit.
One second before I open the door, I pull out my hair tie and fling it into a far, shadowy corner of the living room.