Then I started bouncing my heels. Where the hell was this lady? She was definitely late.
A hand came down on top of my knee. “Stop. It,” Ivan muttered in that perfectly balanced voice that was deep but not too deep, just perfectly aggravating. “I didn’t know you knew how to be nervous.”
I stopped bouncing my heels and slid him a look out of the corner of my eye, taking in that flawless complexion. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him with a single pimple, whitehead, or blackhead. Ever. Ugh. “I’m not nervous.”
He snorted so loud I turned my whole upper body toward him. He was smiling. That lean face with its microscopic pores, high cheekbones, and angular, hard jaw were all lit up. He was smiling, and he hadn’t just won a competition, and he wasn’t around his family either.
I’d never seen that before.
Who the hell was this person? His leg hit my thigh as he asked, “That’s why you won’t stop shaking your leg?”
“I’m shaking my leg because we could be practicing right now instead of waiting around,” I said, only partially believing my own bullshit. “Why are you in my business anyway? And why are you being so talkative?”
The truth was, I hadn’t been able to stop shaking some part of my body from the moment I’d woken up, knowing this interview was coming. I had no problem talking to people, but what I had a problem with was the fact that I had to answer questions and those responses would be recorded and kept forever to be judged and torn apart for the rest of history. While sitting beside Ivan. Ivan who was already getting on my nerves and no one had even started asking us questions.
No pressure.
“You’re full of shit,” he muttered back, shifting beside me so that his hip pressed against mine.
I glanced back at the door as I said, “You’re full of shit.”
He made a noise in his throat.
Another minute passed.
Maybe two or three more. And the lady still hadn’t shown up.
I was leaving when time was up. I wasn’t going to sit around and wait.
“I’ll talk if you’re worried you’ll say something wrong,” Ivan said in an almost whisper, like he didn’t want us to be overheard either.
I paused for a second at his offer, then scoffed. “I’m not worried.”
“You’re a liar,” he replied immediately.
I couldn’t think of a single comeback, damn it. So I settled for, “Shut up.”
The laugh that came out of him caught me off guard, and it only made me madder about the entire situation.
“What are you laughing at?” I snapped.
It only made him laugh harder. “At you. Jesus. I’ve never actually seen you so tense. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Pulling my hands out from under my thighs, I set them on top of the table and started tapping my fingertips on it.
“Relax, Meatball,” Ivan kept on talking, sounding way too amused.
I ignored the Meatball, even though I felt myself wince. “I am relaxed,” I lied again.
“Anyone ever told you that you suck at lying? You’re not even trying.” He snickered.
Rolling my eyes, I kept my gaze on the door and slid my hands back under my thighs. I was just about to start bobbing my ankle up and down when I realized I’d start shaking all over again. It was harder than I would have expected to sit still. “Weren’t they supposed to be here at ten?”
“Yeah. It’s ten-oh-six. Give them a break,” my new partner muttered.
“I have things to do,” I explained, only partially lying. “And why isn’t Coach Lee in here with us?”
“Because she doesn’t need to be?” he replied, trying to make me feel like an idiot with his tone.
Huh.
“What kind of things do you need to go do anyway? Steal blankets from babies for fun?” God, he sounded so amused with himself. Dumbass.
“No, Satan. I don’t do that anymore,” I told him dryly.
“Push over elderly people using walkers?”
“Ha ha,” I replied, gritting out the words as I glanced at the door for like the tenth time.
“So? What are you doing after?”
I glanced at him. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” he replied easily, and something in my chest felt tight. I shoved it away.
“Good, you shouldn’t.”
“I still want to know.”
I glanced at him again, feeling a sneer come over my mouth and nose. “I have to get to work, nosey ass. Is that okay with you?”
His blank expression was confusing. “You have a job?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
I blinked. “Because things cost money and money doesn’t grow on trees?” I offered, still blinking.
“Ha ha,” was his dry response as he crossed his arms over his chest and gave me another one of those lazy looks that drove me crazy. “Where do you work at?”
Now that genuinely made me laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
A hint of what might have been a smile or a smirk crossed his features. “You’re not going to tell me?”
“Why? So you can show up at my job and make fun of me?” I asked.
He didn’t even try and deny he would do something like that. He just stared at me. I’d swear some muscle in his jaw twitched too.
I raised my eyebrows like see? Obviously he did, because he didn’t bother arguing over it at all. Instead, his jaw shifted to the side and then back in place before he glanced down at the table, then again at me. “What’s your deal anyway?” he asked, shifting even more so that the entire length of his side—thigh, arm, and my shoulder—were lined up alongside his. “It’s only an interview.”
It was only an interview, like he said.
But it still made me feel almost sick.
“I’ll only laugh at you a little if you tell me why they freak you out so much,” he offered, like that was some sort of consolation. He’d laugh at my fears, but just a little. Oh, okay. “So?” he egged on.
I stared right into those soul-sucking eyes and didn’t reply. He blinked, then I blinked right back. That stupid smile-smirk didn’t go anywhere, and it was that, that had me hunching over to the side to lightly dig the boniest part of my elbow to the middle of his thigh in a warning.
He didn’t flinch or move as I applied pressure. Instead, he lifted his leg to purposely press it against my bone, trying to get a reaction. “It’ll be harder to hold you later if I have a bruise on my leg,” he tried to threaten me.
“So much harder.” I rolled my eyes. “Fuck off. You could do it with bruises all over your thighs.”
He laughed, and it caught me off guard again. “Tell me what your deal is before they get here.”
“I don’t have a deal.”
“You have a problem.”
“I don’t have a problem. I’m fine.”
“I’ve never seen you so squirmy before, and I don’t know if it’s annoying or kind of cute.”
I stared up at him for using the c-word, but nothing on his face confirmed he’d said anything like that to begin with. I didn’t think he’d use the c-word on me, at least not that c-word. Cunt, maybe. Cute, no way.
“We’ll go with annoying,” he went on, still leaving that word in the open. “I’m going to keep asking you until you give me an answer.”
God. What was with all these people in my life who couldn’t and wouldn’t take no for an answer? This was the same game my mom played when she wanted something. Actually it was the same game everyone in my family played when they wanted something that I didn’t want to give them.
“Meatball.”
“You’re the annoying one. I hope you know that.” I glanced toward the doorframe again. “And don’t call me Meatball in front of the reporter person. I don’t need anyone else calling me that.”
“I won’t, if you tell me what’s wrong with you.”
“You’re an idiot.”
He let out a little puff of breath from his nose. “I won’t. Tell me.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes, not feeling like hearing about this the rest of the day—or days—if I refused to. “Look, I don’t like the media is all. I don’t like most people period. They’re always twisting and turning words around to make them controversial. And people eat that shit up. They want the drama. They want to believe all the bad things they hear.”