Ouch. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t like me.”
My persistence paid off. Her scowl smoothed, and the skin around her eyes relaxed.
“I didn’t say you’re a bad person. I just don’t like being a foregone conclusion for the sole reason of having a vagina.”
Whatever it was that had come over me, I couldn’t contain it. I choked back my laughter to no avail, and then burst out laughing. She didn’t think I was a dick after all; she just didn’t like my approach. Easily fixed. A wave of relief washed over me, and I laughed harder than I’d laughed in years. Maybe ever.
“Oh my God! You’re killing me! That’s it. We have to be friends. I won’t take no for an answer.”
“I don’t mind being friends, but that doesn’t mean you have to try to get in my panties every five seconds.”
“You’re not sleeping with me. I get it.”
That was it. She smiled, and in that moment, a whole new world of possibilities opened up. My brain flashed like channels through Pigeon porn, and then the whole system crashed, and an infomercial about nobility and not wanting to screw up this weird friendship we’d just begun appeared in its place.
I smiled back. “You have my word. I won’t even think about your panties . . . unless you want me to.”
She rested her small elbows on the table and leaned onto them. Of course my eyes went right to her tits, and the way they now pressed against the edge of the table.
“And that won’t happen, so we can be friends.”
Challenge accepted.
“So what’s your story?” Abby asked. “Have you always been Travis ‘Mad Dog’ Maddox, or is that just since you came here?” She used two fingers on each hand as quotation marks when she said that god-awful fucking nickname.
I cringed. “No. Adam started that after my first fight.” I hated that name, but it stuck. Everyone else seemed to like it, so Adam kept using it.
After an awkward silence, Abby finally spoke. “That’s it? You’re not going to tell me anything about yourself?”
She didn’t seem to mind the nickname, or else she just accepted the backstory. I never knew when she was going to get offended and freak out, or when she would be rational and stay cool. Holy hell, I couldn’t get enough of it.
“What do you wanna know?”
Abby shrugged. “The normal stuff. Where you’re from, what you want to be when you grow up . . . things like that.”
I was having to work at keeping the tension out of my shoulders. Talking about myself—especially my past—was out of my comfort zone. I gave some vague answers and left it at that, but then I heard one of the soccer players make a crack. It wouldn’t have bothered me nearly as much if I wasn’t dreading the moment Abby realized what they were laughing about. Okay, that was a lie. That would have pissed me off whether she was there or not.
She kept wanting to know about my family and my major, and I was trying not to jump out of my seat and take them all out in a one-man stampede. As my anger came to a boil, focusing on our conversation became more difficult.
“What are they laughing about?” she finally asked, gesturing to the rowdy table.
I shook my head.
“Tell me,” she insisted.
My lips pressed together into a thin line. If she walked out, I’d probably never get another chance, and those cheese dicks would have something more to laugh about.
She watched me expectantly.
Fuck it. “They’re laughing about me having to take you to dinner, first. It’s not usually . . . my thing.”
“First?”
When the meaning sunk in, her face froze. She was mortified to be there with me.
I winced, waiting for her to storm out.
Her shoulders fell. “I was afraid they were laughing about you being seen with me dressed like this, and they think I’m going to sleep with you,” she grumbled.
Wait. What? “Why wouldn’t I be seen with you?”
Abby’s cheeks flushed pink, and she looked down to the table. “What were we talking about?”
I sighed. She was worried about me. She thought they were laughing about the way she looked. The Pigeon wasn’t a hard-ass, after all. I decided to ask another question before she could reconsider.
“You. What’s your major?”
“Oh, er, general ed, for now. I’m still undecided, but I’m leaning toward accounting.”
“You’re not a local, though. You must be a transplant.”
“Wichita. Same as America.”
“How did you end up here from Kansas?”
“We just had to get away.”
“From what?”
“My parents.”
She was running. I had a feeling the cardigan and pearls she wore the night we met were a front. But, to hide what? She got irritated pretty quick with the personal questions, but before I could change the subject, Kyle from the soccer team shot off his mouth.
I nodded. “So, why here?”
Abby snapped something back. I missed whatever it was. The chuckles and asshole comments from the soccer team drowned out her words.