For real 1 ed 2013 1493741969

For Real (Rules of Love, Book One)
Copyright © 2013 Chelsea M. Cameron
www.chelseamcameron.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or are use fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form
without permission. All rights reserved.
Edited by Jen Henricks
Cover Copyright © Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations
Interior Design byNovel Ninjutsu


“I’m sorry to bother you, but can you watch my computer?”
“What?” I pull my earbuds out and look up to meet a pair of astonishingly golden-brown eyes set
in a chiseled face under a head of black hair shaved short on the sides and left long on top and gelled
to one side like a wave. From the top of his shirt peek several tattoos and both arms are also covered,
but I don’t have a chance to see what they are, as my eyes are drawn back to his eyes and I’m left
momentarily without words.
I fish for something in my brain to say and come up with two words.
“Yeah, sure.” Brilliant.
He flashes me a quick smile, pulls his ringing cellphone out of one baggy pocket, and dashes out
of the cafe. I’ve been so immersed in working on my paper that I hadn’t even seen him come in, even
though he’s been sitting at a table right behind me.
Outside, he’s strolling up and down the sidewalk in front of the cafe, talking on his phone, a
smile on his face. I turn in my chair and sneak a peek at his laptop, which is open to Facebook. I’m
too far away to see anything, but I know the page layout well enough. He also has a stack of books,
and a notebook open with some scribbles in it. A cup of black coffee steams next to the computer. I

turn back around so he won’t catch me being a total creeper. Plus, I need to get back to work. I can’t
get distracted now.
I’m just starting the second semester of my junior year, and I can almost taste my degree. It tastes
like victory and thick paper. In less than two years I’ll have a bachelor’s of science degree in
business and be well on my way to an MBA. It makes me shiver inside just thinking about having my
own office at the top of a glossy skyscraper, sitting at my mahogany desk and crossing my nylon-clad
legs as I sign a corporate merger with a pen that probably costs more than the car I currently drive.
Utter bliss. Yes, I want to have money when I’m older. I’ve lived twenty-one years without it. I know
it can’t buy happiness, but my family was pretty miserable without it.
My phone buzzes with a text from my roommate, Hazel. I open it to find a picture of a penis.
I’ve never sexted with a boy. Just Hazel. Maybe I should look into the lesbian thing.
Shut it down, Shannon. Shut it down and focus. I breathe three times, in and out, closing my
eyes and emptying my mind. Every thought drains out and I lock my eyes back on my computer screen.
My paper isn’t due until next week, but I never wait until the last minute to do a paper like everyone
else. You never get anywhere by procrastinating, as has been proven by both my parents and my older
brother, Cole, through the dizzying array of semi-failed jobs and careers they’ve had. My brother
can’t even make it as a pot dealer, his current occupation. Probably because he smokes too much of
his product.
Sometimes I’m convinced I was adopted. Even though I look like the rest of my family, with


dishwater blonde hair (that I cover up with highlights) and blue eyes, I don’t act like a single one of
them. I’ve heard my parents wonder more than once if I was possessed. They were joking, of course,
but it still stings when they point out what I’m already painfully aware of, that I don’t fit in. I’m the
black freaking sheep.
“Thanks.” The laptop guy is back. He braces his hands on my table and leans down so his face is
close to mine. Dude, invade my personal bubble much? “I don’t normally trust strangers with my stuff,
but you look . . .” his eyes skim their way up and down my body, and I shift under his scrutiny.
“Trustworthy,” he finally says.
Well, I probably do. I have to go to work in the operations department of a local bank later, so I

have a black pencil skirt with a white blouse tucked into it and my cute-but-comfortable tan pumps
on. In contrast, his shirt has a cartoon robot splashed across the front and his jeans are really baggy,
but not sagging too much. It would be clear to anyone looking at us side-by-side that we have next to
nothing in common.
“I think that’s a compliment,” I say as he straightens up and starts moving back toward his table.
“That’s up to you,” he says, walking backwards and finally sitting back down. I turn back
around, shaking my head. Whatever.
I start putting my earbuds back in, but stop when someone taps me on the shoulder.
“For your trouble,” he says, as I slowly turn around to see him standing right behind my chair,
holding a plate out to me with a scone on it. “Raspberry scone?”
“Uh, no. Thank you. I’m good.” I just polished off a blueberry muffin and I’m on my second cup
of black tea.
“You sure? This is a really good scone. You could wrap it up and take it home with you.” He
waves the plate in front of me, as if that’s supposed to entice me.
“No, thanks.” I turn around again and hope he’ll go away.
“Fine, then I guess I’ll just owe you one.”
I turn my music back on and ignore him. Saint-Sens fills my ears and drowns out the rest of the
noise in the cafe as I pull my focus back to my paper.
An hour later, I type the finishing touches and start packing my things up. The guy is gone, and
I’ve been too absorbed to notice when he’d left. My chances of seeing him ever again are slim, since
Central Maine University has nearly ten thousand students, and most of them are commuters.
I say a quick prayer before turning the key on my Crown Victoria (which I got dirt cheap because
it was a former police car), hoping it’ll start. Thankfully, the engine engages with a minimum of
sputtering and I drive from downtown Hartford to the next town over, Deermont, where my job is. I
park near the back of the building and swipe my card in the door. I have just enough time to get to my
desk, turn my computer on and clock in. So far, I have never been late. Not only because I hate being
late, but I’m also terrified of my boss.
My cubicle is near the back of the building, in the “farm” as everyone calls it. I say hello to a
few of my coworkers, most of whom are fellow students. My favorite coworker, Amelia, isn’t
working today. Bummer. Nearly everyone else’s cubicles just has a few papers or photographs, but

hers is covered with her drawings and positive notes and pictures of butterflies. Amelia’s the sunniest
person I’ve ever met. Sometimes she’s too much, but things never seem too bad when she’s around.
I have a stack of loan files that need to be scanned, so I start with removing the staples from all
the pages. Yes, it’s as boring as it sounds, but at least I can listen to my music. I put my earbuds back
in and get to work. This is what I need to do to get where I want to be. Everyone has to start
somewhere. I have to pay my dues, even if that means removing staples from a two-hundred page


appraisal.

Three hours later, I am ready to go back to my apartment and get busy on more homework. I’m
fishing in my purse for my keys when my hand closes on something. It’s a paper crane folded out of
notebook paper. What the heck? I don’t know where it came from, but I know that it wasn’t in there
this morning. My mind drifts back to the café, and the guy with the laptop. Maybe he dropped it in
there?
It’s a weird thing to do, so I hope it was by accident. He’s Asian, so maybe it’s just a thing that
he does to celebrate his culture? God, is that racist? I don’t mean it to be.
I turn it over in my hand as I walk to my car, my heels crunching on the pavement. Cranes are
supposed to be good luck or something, so I set it on my dashboard. I don’t really believe in
superstition, but you can never be too careful. I don’t want to risk any bad mojo.
“I’m baaaaack,” I say as I unlock the front door to my craptastic apartment. I shuck off my heels
and sigh in relief. There is nothing quite as nice as taking your heels off at the end of a long day.
Except maybe taking your bra off. Men could just never understand that.
“How was work?” Hazel, my roommate, is hovering over a pot of something in our microscopic
kitchen. This could be bad.
“Fine. What are you making?” I say, setting my bag down and trying to avoid the kitchen, in case
this turns out to be one of her experiments.
“Relax, it’s from a box.” She holds up an empty box of mac and cheese. I don’t breathe easier,
because she’s definitely messed that up more than once. “And I bought a pre-made salad and there is
ice cream. So we’re good.” Only then do I let out a breath. She holds the spoon out and I take a bite.

Phew.
“I swear, every time I cook you act like I’m feeding you poison.” Hazel and I had become
friends two years ago when we’d lived next door to each other in the dorms. She’d had issues with
her roommate, I’d had issues with mine, and we’d ended up moving in together halfway through the
year. We’ve lived together ever since. We were both poor as all get-out, but we’d managed to find an
apartment in Deermont and it hasn’t fallen apart yet, although it’s held together with duct tape and
staples.
As much as we get along, Hazel and I are visual opposites. Her skin is gorgeous and dark and
she tans within twenty seconds of standing in the sun. Her dark hair curls in perfect rings, unlike mine
that tends to do its own thing and be curly on some days and not so curly on other days.
With the kind of figure that made guys eyes pop when she dances, she definitely gets more
attention from the opposite (and sometimes the same) sex than I do.
“You going to work?” A few months ago, Hazel had gotten herself a job as a bartender at the
campus bar a few nights a week. It’s a little bit classier than some of the college establishments, but
the tips suck, so it’s a tradeoff. At least, if one of the patrons gets rowdy, she can call campus security
and they actually show up.
“Yeah, in an hour. Remind me why I didn’t sell my organs online to pay for my education?” I
grab a fork and start stealing bites of mac and cheese from the pot. I’m starving, so I’m willing to take
a risk.
“Because it’s illegal?”


“Right. That. They might frown upon that at law school, yes?”
I nod and she gets a fork, too. We often eat dinner like this. Less dishes to wash.
“Usually.”
We finish off the pot and then share the salad from the plastic container as we sit on the couch
and work on our various never-ending homework assignments.
“So it’s going to happen tonight,” Hazel says as she puts on the tight shirt she always wears to
work. It shows a lot of cleavage, but she gets better tips that way. I don’t hate the player, I hate the
game in this instance.

“What’s going to happen?” I already know the answer.
“I am going to find a nice young man to pop that cherry of yours.” She jabs her fork at me and I
back up so she doesn’t stab me with it.
There it is again. The reminder that I’m a card-carrying member of the Virginity Club. I wish I
had some good reason, that I was saving myself for Jesus, or my parents had put the fear in me, or told
me that if I had sex with a boy that my ears would fall off and I’d gain forty pounds, but I have no such
excuse.
The truth is, boys are just gross. Part of me is still semi-convinced they have cooties.
I’ve sort of dated, but every time I think about getting physical, or close to a guy, he smells
weird, or has hair on his knuckles, or burps or does something else to completely turn me off.
I’ve been on a few dates here and there, but usually I have to send out an emergency call to one
of my friends. In high school, rumors went around that I was a lesbian, and I went ahead and let them
spread. Of course, then girls started hitting on me, but they were easier to fend off.
I thought that in college, I’d have the chance to maybe meet someone. But, here I am, well into
my junior year and that fellow hasn’t shown up yet. Sure, there are plenty of guys on campus, but a lot
of them are taken. Or gay. Or taken and gay. Or total and complete douchebags. Or budding
alcoholics. Or gay, taken, douchebag alcoholics.
Since my friends have always struck out when it came to setting me up with a boy in order to
make him my boyfriend, they’ve lowered their expectations to just getting me laid.
I don’t exactly advertise my virginity, but it always seems to come up when people are drinking
and swapping stories, and I get red-faced and run away to the bathroom when everyone starts talking
about their first times.
“How many times have I told you I’m set? It will happen when it’s supposed to happen.” This is
always my response. Even though it’s probably bullshit.
She shakes her head, her curls bouncing. “Don’t give me that fairy godmother, dreams come true
shit. We don’t need to find your prince charming. Just a non-skeezy guy to do you a service. Think of
him as . . . a plumber.” She scrapes the bottom of the salad container for the last few croutons.
“A plumber? Have you ever seen a sexy plumber? Outside of a porno?” One of the other things
my friends have done to try to make me want to have sex is make me watch it. I’d only lasted about
five minutes when I had to run away and beg them to shut it off. Seeing other people . . . doing things

like that? I don’t understand how anyone can find that sexy. Plus, the girls were like, unbelievably
flexible. No way I can contort myself like that.
I’d been branded as a prude from then on.
“Why are you so hung up about it? I know you have a little battery friend.”
“Yeah, so? I’m a virgin, but I’m not supposed to know about my own body?” Hazel has also
surprised me a time or two when I thought I was alone. “I have a sex drive, Haze. Being a virgin
doesn’t stop me from having sexual feelings.”


In fact, I probably have more than the average girl, just because they are so . . . pent up.
“We just need to take those sexual feelings and transfer them to something with a penis. A real
penis. With a boy attached to it.”
I shake my head and go to take a shower.


When I get out of the shower, Hazel yells to me that she’s going to work. I change into my
favorite sweats and start on some more homework. I’m NEVER done with homework. Or maybe it’s
never done with me.
As soon as I finish everything on my To Do list, I finally allow myself a reward: a few chapters
of the book I’d gotten last week. It’s a heart-wrenching contemporary, and I know it’s bound to make
me cry. Hazel is always telling me that I’m missing out on the college experience, but I’d rather not
wake up on the floor of a strange apartment, under a strange naked guy, not knowing how I’d gotten
there. If that makes me a loser, then I guess I’ll wear that label proudly. I can party when I’ve gotten
what I wanted.
I plug my phone in, making sure the alarm is set for seven, and shut the light off. I try to go to
sleep, but my mind is busy and chattering in my skull and making it difficult. I don’t like to dwell on
negative thoughts, because they’re rarely productive, but tonight they seem especially loud. I blame it
on the encounter with Laptop Guy.
Maybe the reason I haven’t found a good guy is that he doesn’t exist. That there’s something in
me that’s . . . allergic to them. I’m attracted to them, sure, but the moment things get close, I just . . .

can’t go any further. I find flaws and they turn me off.
I’m a control freak. No one needs to tell me that. I’ve known it my whole life. Ever since I
freaked out when my mom didn’t put the crayons in the box exactly the way they’d been when we’d
opened it. I’ve always needed order, and things to be just so. It’s a wonder I don’t have Obsessivecompulsive disorder. Hazel is always telling me I should get tested when I spend fifteen minutes
rearranging the plates the right way after she’s unloaded the dishwasher.
Sex is one of those things that’s a complete loss of control. You give yourself up, in your most
vulnerable state, to another person, and they give themselves to you. I don’t think I’m ready for that.
For the . . . intimacy. I mentally gag on the word.
I spend the rest of the night tossing and turning and thinking about sex until it’s too much and I
have to get myself off a few times just so I can sleep. Can you be a nymphomaniac if you only have
sex with yourself? Finally, I fall into a semi-restless sleep, and I’m grumpy when I get up the next
morning.
Hazel’s passed out in her room, so I make sure I’m as quiet as I can be while I get ready and
drive to campus for yet another day of my undergraduate career. I’m setting my travel mug in the
cupholder when I notice the paper crane. Shrugging, I toss it in my bag. It can keep my pens company.


I end up carrying the crane with me for the rest of the week, but I don’t see Laptop Guy again.
Hazel also hasn’t been able to find me a guy at work, so on Friday night I’m told, for the thousandth
time, that I must get myself ready to go on the prowl. Fun, fun, fun.
Sometimes, I wonder if I should just tell my friends to go fuck themselves. To leave me alone
about it. I can picture how that would go, and it wouldn’t stop them from continuing to try. It would
probably make them work even harder, actually. So, I curl my hair, put on my “going out” make-up,
which is a little sexier than my normal make-up routine, and make sure that my boobs are boosted and
show to good advantage. There aren’t a whole lot of social options around, and the local bars are
more than happy to cater to the collage populace. Despite the fact that Hazel works in a bar, the only
thing she seems to want to do with her time off is . . . go to a bar.
“Are y’all ready yet?” Jordyn, our resident Southern Belle (who completely denies it, despite
the overwhelming evidence), stands in the kitchen and taps her heel on the floor. A South Carolina
girl at heart, she’s somehow convinced that her upbringing left no impression on her.

She pulls some gum out of her purse and hands me a piece as she fluffs her brown hair that
certainly doesn’t need any fluffing. Jordyn has a tendency to go for big loose curls that flounce on her
shoulders and down her back, and she’s no stranger to a teasing comb.
“Hazel is taking her time,” I say, adjusting the strap on my heel. Jordyn rolls her eyes.
“Are you guys coming?” Daisy pops her head in the front door, followed by Cass. They’re both
statuesque and tall (the bitches), Daisy with dark shoulder-length hair, and Cass with a strawberry
blonde bob. They’ve been friends since high school and I’d adopted them our first week, back in our
freshman year, when I’d bumped into them after having a wardrobe emergency in the dorm bathroom.
Jordyn is the newest of the group and Hazel had met her in one of her classes last year. Strange
how you can have one encounter with someone that forms a friendship that can last years.
Sometimes I wonder if the reason I can’t get a guy is because I only have friends who are girls. I
can talk to guys, certainly. I’m not a complete social defect. I just . . . have a tendency to say
embarrassing things in front of guys. Or do embarrassing things. Or both. And then I have to run away
to my friends and they admonish me and then I beg to go home.
“Tonight is the night!” Hazel says, banging her bedroom door open and striking a pose in the
doorway. A shiny black top slinks over her torso, paired with her tightest jeans and her BBs (bitch
boots).
“Tonight is what night?” I ask, even though I know the answer. We’ve done this routine enough
times.
“Tonight is the night, you, Shannon Travers, are getting laid.” She draws out the word “laid” and
swivels her hips around, as if she’s having sex with it. Dread churns in my stomach.
The other girls cheer and clap and I die a little inside.
“Um, may I remind you how many times you’ve tried this before? And how many times has it
worked?” I say, tugging on my shirt so it’s even.
“This time, I have a feeling. My Hazel senses are tingling,” she says, wiggling her nose. Oh, she
is asking for it. I spank her and she shrieks.
“Yeah, I think I’m feelin’ you,” Jordyn says, and Daisy and Cass nod as if they’re one person.
“It’s happening, Shan,” Cass says, patting me on the shoulder. It’s not reassuring. I don’t have
any hope for tonight.
None of them are virgins and Cass and Jordyn both currently have boyfriends. Daisy is fresh off

a break-up and Hazel doesn’t date. Any way you slice it, I’m the fifth wheel. Their unfortunate virgin


friend.
I hate it.
They’re still going on about getting me a man as we pile into Cass’ car. It’s her turn to be the DD
and she isn’t very happy about it, judging by her constant grumbling. I should have just taken her turn,
but I’m going home with a guy, if they have their way. I swear, one of these days they are just going to
pay someone to take me home. Or maybe pool their money and buy me a mail-order-virginity-taker.
There is a general cheer that goes up when we pull into the parking lot of the least-sketchy bar in
Hartford. I tell them I’m cheering on the inside.
I allow myself one last inhale of cool fresh air before my friends drag me into the darkness, heat
and noise of the bar. Here goes nothing.

Alas, it’s just like all the other times. We all order Sex on the Beach drinks, find a spot, and my
friends start scoping while I wait to enjoy dancing. I might be a control freak, but contrary to what my
friends believe, I do love letting go on the dance floor. I did dance team in high school, but it
conflicted with my other activities so I had to give it up after graduation. I miss it all the time. There’s
something wonderful about knowing your body and how it moves and escaping into a song for a
while. The world blurs, and I don’t feel awkward and out of place. But we can’t dance until I’ve
rejected at least three prospects. Or that’s how the routine goes.
“What about him?” Daisy says, sipping her drink and leaning down so I can hear her. She jabs
her chin at a cluster of guys at the bar. “Gray shirt, baseball cap.”
I try to study the guy with an objective eye. He’s turned sideways and talking to another guy.
They’re both nursing Bud Lights. If you looked up “average twenty-something male from Maine” in
the dictionary, that guy’s picture would pop up. Just . . . generic. Average. He does have nice arms, I
suppose, and a nice smile. But he probably doesn’t read, ever, and he’s probably really into sports. If
there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a guy who makes fun of me for getting excited about a book, and
then turns around and gets even more excited about some stupid sports team.
I turn back to Daisy. She should be looking for her own man, but here she is, trying to help me

out. I can’t get mad at her for that, can I?
“Well?” she says, sucking the last of her drink down. I look back at the guy, who has sensed us
staring at him, and looks over.
“Meh,” I say, shrugging. He isn’t virginity-losing material. If he’d even be interested in me
anyway. Right now he’s staring at Daisy, who is oblivious.
“You’re impossible,” Daisy yells, shaking her head as she goes to get a second drink. The guy
tries to talk to her, but she ignores him.
We finally head out to the dance floor, have some more drinks and I turn down some more guys.
My friends all get approached, and they try to steer whatever guy trying to hit on them to me, but I
manage to give off enough of a repelling vibe that their eyes slide right over me. On the rare occasion
they actually want to talk, I spend the time giving them one-word answers while counting up their
flaws in my head. Crooked teeth, weird cologne, wart on index finger, won’t stop calling me “dude”,
doesn’t understand that “irregardless” isn’t a word . . .
They finally get fed up with me and insist that I at least talk to someone for five minutes. Hazel
even got a timer going on her phone. I guess I could do that. Five minutes wasn’t going to kill me. I


scan the bar, looking for someone I could comfortably converse with for five minutes without wanting
to kill myself or run away.
And then there he is. Like a lighthouse on a foggy evening, Laptop Guy from the café walks in the
door. My savior. I nod to my friends and point at him. They all give me a thumbs-up, so I walk over to
him, with what I hope is confidence. He appears to be alone, which is even better. His eyes scan the
room, like he is looking for someone, and then they stop on me. I lift my hand and give him a little
wave.
“Hi,” I say. Or yell. The music is pretty loud at the moment. I can feel my friends staring at my
back.
“Hi. Nice to see you again.” He smiles and my knees go wobbly. “Do you, um, come here
often?” Wow, he’s nervous now? He’d been so confident at the café.
“Yeah,” is my brilliant response. “I mean, I don’t come here a lot, a lot, but I come here
sometimes.” Even more brilliant.

“Do you want a drink?” I motion to the one already in my hand. I wonder how many minutes
have passed. I must be close to being done. Would they come get me when I was done? Would they
yell or make a buzzer sound?
“Oh,” he says. “Are you here with someone?”
“Just some friends. They’re right over . . .” I trail off because my friends are not where I left
them, watching me fumble through my five minutes. I do a quick scan of the room and they aren’t
there. What the hell?
“Um, they were right there. Can you give me a second?” I went for my phone, but remembered
I’d left my purse at the table. It was gone. They’d taken my purse hostage to make sure I talked to him.
They were probably in the bathroom having a good laugh, or maybe hiding in a corner. Yup, there
they were. They spotted me and Hazel pointed at my purse and shook her head.
“Something wrong?” Laptop Guy says.
“Nope. Just having an absolutely sucky night.” They thought it was funny, and I might have, if
they hadn’t been so pushy and insistent so many other times. It isn’t a harmless joke. Not to me. And
that is when I snap and decide I’ve had enough. I turn to Laptop Guy and say something that I have
never said to a stranger before.
“This is going to sound really weird, but could you take me home?” Laptop Guy’s eyes go wide
for a second and he laughs and shakes his head.
“Well, if you put it that way . . .”
Now it’s my turn to be shocked. “Oh my God! I’m not asking you to . . . you know . . . I just need
a ride. In a car. Like, I need you to get in your car with me in the passenger seat and take me home.
Driving. Just driving. Not a euphemism.” I’m glad the bar is dark enough that he can’t see my face
flame up.
Yup, I can add this moment to the list of reasons I’m forever single. I sniff and try not to look
behind me at my friends.
“Yeah, of course. You must be desperate if you’re willing to ask a stranger.” That’s one word
for it.
“You’re not a stranger, exactly. You’re Laptop Guy.” He laughs again and I feel a tiny bit better.
At least there’s one person who’s willing to be nice to me.
“I was going to meet my roommate here, but I can’t find him anyway, so come on.” He holds the

door open for me. I don’t even have my coat, since they have that, probably so I couldn’t leave
without telling them first. I don’t look back as Jett and I exit the bar and walk toward his car. “Also,


although Laptop Guy is the name on my birth certificate, I go by Jett. It’s actually my middle name, but
no one can pronounce my actual first name.” Cool guy, cool name. Not a lot of guys could pull off a
name like that. But he definitely wouldn’t have passed as a Winston or a David.
“Hi, Jett, I’m Shannon.”


He leads me toward a car that seems to have been assembled by taking apart several other cars
and welding them back together in a sort of patchwork vehicle. It isn’t even all one color.
“Um,” I say as he holds the door open for me.
“It doesn’t look like much, but it’ll get you where you need to go. You scared, princess?” Okay,
so I’d asked the guy for a favor, and I know his first name, but he’s calling me princess now? That’s a
little too . . . familiar. He must have seen the uneasy look on my face, or my hesitation to get in the
car.
He backs up immediately. “Whoa, okay. I’m sorry. If you want, I can call you a cab.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say sliding into the passenger seat. I thought it would reek of oil, or dirty socks,
but it smells really nice, as if he’d just cleaned it and also has an air freshener hidden somewhere. He
gets in and clicks his seatbelt. I look at the front of the bar and see my friends. Or whatever they are
now. I glare at them. I wish the identical looks of shock on their faces were more satisfying, but they
aren’t. Hazel starts to walk toward the car.
“Um, if you could go, that would be great.” Jett manhandles the shifter into submission and we
take off, driving right past my friends.
“You know them?”
“Yeah. They’re on my shit list right now.” Jett nods in understanding and then puts his arm
around me.
“You also might want to smile like I’ve said something funny,” he says as he slowly drives past
them.

“Well, say something funny, and I will.”
He turns his head and says one word.
“Penis.”
This causes me to burst out laughing just as we drive by my “friends”, my head thrown back as
Jett laughs with me and punches the accelerator and we screech out of the lot, the tires definitely
leaving marks behind. As soon as we’re out of sight I duck from under Jett’s arm. I can’t believe he
made me laugh.
“Thanks for that.”
“Anytime. So where can I take you?”
Now I have to ask him another favor.
“Here’s the deal. I can’t go back to my apartment right now, so could you just, drop me off
somewhere and I’ll take a cab home in a little while.”
Jett shakes his head and pulls the car over on the side of the road.
“There is no way I’m leaving someone who looks like you alone on a Saturday night. I know we


just met and all, but if you need a place to go, you can come to my place. My roommate is still MIA.
Or we could go somewhere else, but I’m definitely not abandoning the girl who guarded my laptop.”
“You really . . . you really don’t have to do that. I can um . . .” I really don’t have anywhere else
to go. I really don’t. Unless I want to camp out at the library. Been there, done that.
“I’m not a serial killer, I swear,” he says.
“Um, that’s probably what a serial killer would say. I mean, it’s not like they walk around
wearing t-shirts, or carrying signs. ‘Hello, my name is Jake and I’m a Serial Killer’.”
“True. But a serial killer probably wouldn’t bring up serial killers. You know, because that
would be too obvious.”
He does have a point there.
“So can I take you back to my place?” he says, putting his hands back on the wheel. “In a
completely non-creepy, non-sexual, not-trying-to-pick-you-up-way?”
I sigh, because I really don’t have another choice. Unless I ask him to take me back. No, I can’t
do that. I’m following through.

“Sure.”
“Well don’t sound so happy about it,” he says, chuckling as he signals and pulls back onto the
road.
“I’m sorry. It’s just been a sucky night. It’s a long story. I’d rather not get into it.” He nods in
understanding. It’s also an embarrassing story.
“Well, I’m just going to say that a true friend will never make you feel like shit. Just my
opinion.”
I don’t know what else to say, because I’m terrible at small talk and usually say the wrong thing,
but Jett appears to be gifted in that area as well. I learn that he’s a graphic arts major and he’s also
twenty-one. He asks me about my major and some of my classes. It helps me stop thinking about how
angry and hurt I am and I find myself smiling and laughing. Jett is infectious.
It turns out we’d actually had a class together last year and start talking about the insane
professor and before I know it, we’re pulling into the driveway of what probably once was a
building, but only loosely resembles one now. It had been painted and re-painted so many times that I
can’t tell what color it’s supposed to be anymore. The windows look like eyes and they’re sagging so
much they made the house look depressed.
“Yeah, it’s a shit shack. But I’m shit poor, so it kind of fits, yeah?”
“No, it’s, um . . .” I struggle to find anything nice to say about it. “Okay, fine, it’s a shit shack.
But I’m sure you did the best you could with it. Mine isn’t much better.” I’m being kind. I thought my
place was bad, but it’s a mansion with a fountain and a circular driveway compared to this, and the
trailer I grew up in was the Four Seasons.
He laughs and comes around to open my door before I can do it. I’m so surprised I can’t stop a
look of shock from going across my face.
“Sorry. It’s a habit. My parents were kind of strict.” His normally happy demeanor drops for a
minute. Then his smile is back in place and he’s leading me to a door that he has to unlock with two
keys and two kicks before it will open.
“There’s also a secret password if the kicks don’t work,” he says as he lets me into the
apartment.
“What is it?” I whisper. He leans down and his breath is warm on my ear. In a really nice way.
Not a creepy way. He also smells good. Not sweaty or too much Axe-y. Just a hint of . . . deodorant

maybe? Something fresh and clean that might have a “rainforest” on the container. It’s delicious. I


kind of want to keep smelling it, but he moves aside.
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“So you are a serial killer then.” He just laughs. I give him a look, but he keeps walking.
“Do you want the tour?” He motions at the living room, which has one of those uglier-than-sin
(or, if it’s possible to be uglier than that, this one is) plaid couches that he’d probably picked up at a
yard sale, a coffee table covered in cup rings and empty red plastic cups, pizza boxes and other man
trash.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, trying not to look down at the floor as he leads me through the living room to
the back where there’s a postage stamp-sized kitchen complete with yellow cabinets that are probably
from the 1970s and appliances that are at least that old in that ugly green someone must have been
high to think was attractive.
Jett rubs the back of his neck and I can tell he’s kind of embarrassed by how messy it is. Dishes
in the sink, more pizza boxes on the counter and just a hint of old beer smell.
“Yeah, I gave up on cleaning out here. My roommate just messes it up again. He’s a decent guy,
he just doesn’t understand that you have to clean on a regular basis.” He hurries me out of the kitchen.
“Um, bathroom is here. At least that stays clean, because I’m a little obsessive about it.” He
points to the door where the bathroom is and I tell my bladder that it’s going to have to hold on for
however long I’m here, because there is no way I’m going to use it, no matter how clean he assures
me it is. I’d rather pee in the woods.
“And, um, this is my room,” he says, pushing open a door off the living room and right next to the
bathroom. I try to prepare myself for it to be disgusting, but it isn’t at all. In order to cover up the
horrible dark wood paneled walls (who EVER thought that was a good idea?), he’s hung posters of
famous paintings and interspersed in between them are what I can only assume is his own art. Halffinished drawings done in ink on white paper, some with color, some without.
The room is small, but the art makes it feel a little bit bigger. The only furniture in the room is a
bed with a bright red comforter on it, a desk covered in paper and stained by various art supplies and
a dresser with a lamp on it. The room is clean and orderly, and there even seems to be an order to
what’s where on the wall.

“Wow. Did you do this?” I cross the room and point at a half-done picture of a young girl. It’s
almost Da Vinci-esque in its simplicity.
“Yeah. That’s my little sister River. She’s nine in that picture.” His voice gets tight and sad
again when he mentions her. There’s definitely some family drama there. I know all about that, but I
don’t want to seem weird by saying anything, so I just kept looking at his wall.
I also notice that he has several paper cranes made from different materials pinned here and
there, and there are some scattered on the dresser.
“Sometimes I freak out and making those calms me down. It’s a habit now, I guess,” he says as I
pick one up off his dresser that’s made from what appears to be a test he’d gotten a good grade on.
I turn around and he’s still standing in the doorway. Oh no. This is one of those times when I’m
bound to say something stupid.
“Sometimes when I freak out, I imagine what kind of underwear people are wearing based on
their personality. You know how they tell you to picture people naked when you’re nervous about
public speaking? That freaks me out, so I imagine what their underwear is. Not that I’m doing that
right now, because that would be weird—” Thankfully, I’m able to cut myself off there as my face
goes redder than his comforter and I drop the paper crane.
He just looks at me like he doesn’t know what to make of me and then shakes his head and starts


laughing.
“Whatever works for you, I guess.” I die a little inside and pray that he asks me if I want to go sit
in the living room.
“You wanna watch a movie or something?” He jerks his head at the living room.
“Yeah, sure.” Still, mortified, I leave his room and he shuts the door again.
“Oh, yeah. Let me tidy this up first.” The couch is covered in crap, including a few hoodies,
takeout boxes and more red plastic cups. Part of me wants to take them and build a fort. If they were
clean, I might attempt it.
Jett mutters to himself and cleans the couch off, goes back to his room and comes back with his
comforter and spreads it on the couch.
“Um, yeah. You kinda want a barrier between you and the couch. Don’t ask why. Just trust me.”

My mouth drops open and he laughs again. It makes his eyes crinkle up and I can’t help but smile,
even though I don’t intend to. Are smiles contagious? Like yawns?
“I’m sorry. If you knew Javier, you’d get it, but luckily, you won’t have to meet him.” He sits
down on the couch and pats the empty space beside him.
I stop for a moment and assess how weird this situation is. I’m going to sit and watch a movie
with this guy I’ve barely met (who smells great and has a swoony smile) so that my friends will think
I’m out losing my virginity to said guy. Is this my life now?
“I don’t bite, I swear,” he says and smiles again, and my stomach gets a little fluttery at the
thought of sitting next to him, even though I’m terrified of the couch.
I sit down and there’s about a foot of space between us and it feels like it actually has weight
and substance. A wall. He grabs the remote and turns on the television, which is a fancy flatscreen
that probably cost more than all the other furniture in the apartment combined.
“It’s Javi’s,” he says in answer to my unasked question. “Okay, so we have movies with
explosions, movies with robots and explosions and movies with superheroes and explosions, some
really weird porn that belongs to Javi, The Hangover, Knocked Up, Superbad, Serenity and, for
some reason, Mean Girls. I honestly have no idea where it came from. Sorry I don’t have more
choices.”
Actually, those aren’t bad choices, except for the porn. There is no way I’m watching that with
him. I like robots and explosions and all that, and I’m a huge fan of superheroes, but my ultimate
choice is the last movie he mentioned.
“Have you watched Mean Girls?”
“Uh, no. It looked kind of lame.” Yup, that settles it.
“Uh, no, it is the greatest thing ever, so that is what we are watching.” I take the initiative and get
up and grab the DVD box off the shelf beside the television where it’s the lone pink box. Now it’s
time to figure out how to work the stupid fancy DVD contraption. I push what I think is the eject
button, but nothing happens. This is why I can’t have nice things.
“Here,” his voice says and suddenly, he’s right behind me and he’s breathing on me and I can’t
move. I am paralyzed as I hear his voice in my ear and he reaches around me to hit the right buttons
and get the little tray that you put the DVD on to come out.
His tattoos go all the way to his wrist. I somehow make my body move and put the DVD in and

turn around and I nearly crash into him, but he puts his hands on my shoulders to prevent it. He laughs
nervously.
“Steady there.” My body tingles from head to toe, almost like the pins and needles when your
arm falls asleep and starts to wake up. Only my whole body is waking up.


“Sorry. I’m, um, not always this uncoordinated.”
His hands are still on my shoulders and the DVD starts to play previews, but neither of us seems
to be able to move. And then it’s like Jett shakes himself mentally and goes back to the couch. Takes
me a second to do the same.
“Usually I wear heels and I think I’m more coordinated in them than flat shoes. That makes no
sense, but it’s true,” I babble as he skips the rest of the previews and goes right to the movie menu,
but doesn’t start it.
“Do you, uh, want some popcorn or something? I’m sorry, I should have asked sooner. I suck as
a host. I just don’t have people over that often. Or at least, I’m not the one who entertains them. That’s
all Javi.” He gets up and it’s like he needs a reason to run away from me. What? I’m completely
confused. There is no way that I could have done something to make him want to run away from me.
Unless, when he was standing close to me, I smelled bad.
Oh my God, do I smell bad? While he’s searching through the fridge, I do an armpit check.
Nope, my deodorant is still working, and I’d sprayed a little perfume and I can still smell a hint of it,
so I don’t think I smell bad. Unless, I’m one of those people who doesn’t know they smell bad,
because it’s you and you’re so used to your own smell—
“I don’t have anything to drink other than beer, orange juice and water. Sorry, I haven’t bought
groceries. You came on the worst night, I guess,” Jett says, interrupting my freak-out about smelling
bad.
“Oh, um, water is fine.” He pours two glasses and then puts a bag of microwave popcorn in to
pop and then comes back when it’s done.
He hands me the glass of water and our skin touches and I get just the teeniest bit of tingles. I can
feel myself blushing, so I turn my head and reach for the remote to start the movie.
“You ready for this?” I say as he rips open the popcorn bag.

“Let’s rock it,” he says holding the bag out to me so I can have the first handful.
I hit play and then grab some popcorn. Since I have crazy small child-sized hands, I only get
about four pieces, but I pop them into my mouth.
The movie starts to play and I reach for another handful of popcorn. Jett shifts closer to me,
presumably so I can reach for the popcorn, but I can’t really tell. Wouldn’t it be great if boys’
thoughts would just emerge like those little bubbles in cartoons? Or maybe not. I probably wouldn’t
want to know ninety percent of what they’re thinking.
“Wow, Lindsay Lohan looks really different,” he says, and I’m a little relieved. I always talk
during movies, especially ones I’ve seen before, and I was hoping Jett wouldn’t be a shusher. Those
are the most annoying people.
“Yeah, those were the good old days,” I say as both our hands reach into the popcorn bag. We
both pull back and laugh nervously.
“Ladies first,” he says, and I grab another handful and then a huge sip of water.
He laughs at something in the movie, and I’m glad I’ve already seen it so I can figure out exactly
what he’s laughing at. Let’s face it, I’ve seen this movie enough times that I could do a one-woman
show and quote the entire thing.
For the next half hour, ninety percent of my attention is on Jett and the other ten percent is on the
movie. He’s much more interesting than Regina George at the moment.
I’m trying to figure out what his tattoos are. His left arm is clearly a dragon’s tail that swoops all
around and around and ends where it curls around his wrist. I’m guessing the rest of the dragon is up
further and goes across his chest or his back. His other arm looks like it has waves on it like one of


those old Japanese paintings. I want to ask him to take his shirt off, but that would be rude and kind of
awkward and totally weird. He also has stuff around his neck, but I couldn’t really see what it is
because his shirt is in the way. Curse you, shirt.
It’s really hard to watch someone out of the corner of your eye when you’re sitting right next to
them. I’m kind of afraid that my eyeballs will get stuck that way, or that he’ll see me, but it seems like
his attention is fully on the movie. He doesn’t glance at me once.
Maybe I do smell.

“This shit is funny,” he says, laughing again as I struggle to make my laugh convincing as I check
back into the movie to make sure I know what’s was going on.
“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites. Tina Fey wrote it, and she’s a genius.” I have a bit of a
heterosexual girl crush on her.
Jett shifts again, and his shoulder brushes mine and he moves a fraction closer to me as I try not
to freak out. It’s only an inch closer and our shoulders have barely brushed. Nothing to make a big
deal out of. I’ve touched boys’ shoulders before. I’ve had plenty of shoulder-touching experience. I’m
not a shoulder virgin.
But still, I shiver as he brushes against me again.
“Are you cold? I can get you a blanket.” Without an answer from me, he gets up and comes back
with a fuzzy blanket and places it over me. Then he sits down and pulls part of the blanket over his
lap. We are sharing a blanket. This should not be cause for me to get fluttery again, but it is.
“Better?” he says holding the popcorn out again.
“Yeah, thanks.” Not much is left but the half-popped kernels and I don’t like those.
“You can have the rest.” He dumps them into his hand, crunches on them and moves closer to me
again. Any moment now, my eye is going to start to twitch, or I’m going to say something dumb. I just
know it.
He puts the bag down and then he rests the arm closest to me on the back of the couch, right
behind my shoulders. I freeze for a moment and then lean back a little. This is the signal for him to put
his arm around me, right? God, I suck at this.
The arm creeps closer to my shoulders and then, there it is. I make sure I don’t look at him,
because if I do, I don’t know what will happen. I shift closer and he finally slides his arm around me.
Letting out a shaky breath, I finally look at him.
“Is this okay?”
“Y-yeah,” I say, my voice shaky too. God, I’m a freaking junior in college. I should not be acting
like a sixth grader at her first dance who’s wondering if she’s going to be asked to slow dance. This
is what happens when you have nearly zero dating experience. If only it was something you could
learn from a book. I’d be all over that.
“Good,” he says and he pulls me closer so I’m almost resting on his chest. It’s a very nice chest.
Not too skinny, but not too muscle-y. Those guys that have so many muscles that the veins stand out

are gross. Hazel thinks they’re sexy, but I think she’s out of her mind.
The rainforest-y smell floods my senses and I swear he can probably hear my pounding heart as
the hand that’s on my shoulder starts making little circles on my arm, as if he’s not even aware that
he’s doing it.
Wow. I guess I don’t smell. Or maybe I do and he thinks it’s sexy. That could also be a
possibility.
The movie keeps playing and I find myself actually relaxing, and before I know it, my eyes are
closing and I’m falling asleep against Jett.


“Wake up, princess,” a male voice I only sort-of recognize says in my ear. My eyes are slow to
open and I’m staring right at a chest I don’t remember falling asleep on. I lift my chin and meet a set
of gorgeous brown-gold eyes.
“Hey,” he says, his voice soft as I realize I’m lying on top of him. At some point during the
movie, he’d shifted under me and brought both our sets of legs up on the couch and laid back, pulling
me so we’re front to front. My boobs are completely squished into his chest, which is the first thing
that makes me try to shift off him.
“Um, hey,” I say as I struggle to get off him, but there’s no place to put my hands, so I end up
trying to roll and he tries to help me, but I end up tipping too far off the couch, banging the back of my
head on the coffee table and landing on my side on the floor with a crash.
“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” Is he laughing?
“Ow,” I say. I’m awake now. There’s a sharp pain in my hip, and in my skull. Jett reaches down
and hauls me up.
“You’re laughing at me,” I say as I feel the back of my head.
“No I’m not,” he says, while trying to contain his laughter.
“Asshole,” I say, but he’s still holding onto me.
“Where does it hurt?” he says, finally showing some concern.
“The back of my head and my hip banged on the floor. That’s gonna leave a mark.” He walks
around me and tenderly moves my hair out of the way to look at my soon-to-be-bumpy head. I go all
tingly again, and the pain fades just a little. This guy is better than Tylenol. And then I feel something

warm right where the bump is and I swear he just kissed it.
“And your hip?” he says, his voice low.
Is it possible to die from anticipation? Because I think I just did. Jett crouches down and I swear
I’m going to have a seizure if he does what I think he’s going to do.
And then he very carefully places the lightest of kisses on my hipbone and OH MY GOD I
SWEAR I CAN FEEL HIS LIPS THROUGH MY JEANS AND I’M GOING TO DIE NOW.
He looks up at me from his crouched position and his face is oh so serious.
“All better,” he says and his voice hitches a little and I realize that if I just turned my body, he
would be face-to-face with my downstairs. Well, not like my downstairs has a face. It does have lips
though . . .
My pondering of my downstairs face is interrupted by Jett standing up and chuckling again. I’m
not sure why, but I start laughing with him because, well, I don’t want to be the one not laughing.
“What time is it?” I ask. He leans around me and looks at the DVD player.
“Nearly one.” He stretches his arms over his head and his shirt rides up and I realize four things:


One, he has tats on his stomach.
Two, it is a very nice stomach.
Three, I want to touch this stomach.
Four, I need to resist this urge.
I can’t help myself as my eyes move lower and take in the rim of his underwear that peeks out
from under his jeans. I can’t tell if he’s wearing boxers or briefs. Or that weird hybrid thing. Boy
underwear is confusing, but I suppose that’s nothing compared to girl underwear. Thongs, bikinis,
boyshorts, hi-cut—
“See something you like?” he says when he stops stretching and I figure out that I’ve been
staring.
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, what?” I look away from his face and pray to switch personalities with
someone with better control over their eyeballs and mouth.
Jett just shakes his head.
I’m trying to prevent myself from saying something else dumb when the door slams open and in

barges a guy who looks like he should pose in a calendar with the title “Brawny Beefcakes” or
something. He’s one walking muscle and he’s also covered in tats, but his are more of the abstract,
sort of black tribal-looking variety. My eyes move up to his face and it isn’t as hard as I thought it
would be, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t cut glass on his jaw.
He sees me, his mouth drops open and I swear I hear Jett groan behind me.
“It’s about fucking time, man!” He crosses the room in three strides and pulls Jett into one of
those handshake-manly-hug things that’s supposed to show affection, but not TOO much affection.
Because they are men, and they hug like men.
“It’s not what you think, and you were supposed to meet me at—” Jett tries to say, but another
voice yanks our attention toward the door.
“Javi, I thought you said we were going out.” A girl wearing a dress so short that shouldn’t even
qualify as a dress leans in the doorway, and ignores the fact that Jett and I are staring at her.
“Yeah, babe, we are. I just had to grab some condoms.” Now my mouth is the one that’s
dropping open.
“Can’t have my boys going rogue on me and knocking someone up, you know what I mean?” he
says to me with a wink as he goes into his room.
No, I don’t know what you mean. I look back at Jett and he just shrugs one shoulder.
“That’s Javier.” Like he needs any other introduction. I glance back at the girl by the door.
Yikes. Generally, your dress should be longer than your vagina, but this girl clearly hasn’t taken that
advice and is busy trying to pull it down while the dress protests that it will NOT be pulled down.
She finally gives up and I quickly avert my gaze. I don’t want to see if her downstairs has a face.
“And what is your name, sweetheart?” Javier finally turns his full attention on me and the girl at
the door sighs in irritation that he’s ignoring her.
“Sh-Shannon. I’m Shannon.” Please don’t say anything stupid, please don’t say anything
stupid.
“Verrrry nice to meet you, Shannon.” His voice drips with innuendo.
“We didn’t have sex,” I blurt out. “I mean, not that you would think that we had, but we didn’t. I
wouldn’t do that here—” I’m stopped by Javier’s hand on my shoulder.
“Whoa there. Simmer down, now.” He pats my shoulder and gives me a wink as I try to swallow
my tongue so I won’t talk anymore. I can NOT look at Jett. Or the girl near the door. Javier leans

close and whispers in my ear.


“Handle with care, sweetheart.” He hovers for a moment, as if he’s smelling me. I can definitely
smell him. He’d pretty much bathed in that douche-y fragrance that half the guys on campus wear.
Ugh.
He steps away and licks his top lip like he’s in some sort of erotic film. Dude, seriously?
“Javi?” The girl at the door taps her foot and he finally focuses on her.
“Yeah, babe. I’m coming.” He slips his arm around her and then sticks his tongue in her ear as
his hand grabs her ass. She giggles and they stumble out the door.
“Soooo, yeah. That’s Javier. I’m sorry.” I finally raise my eyes and meet his face.
“He’s . . . interesting?” It sounds like a question. And that isn’t the best word for Javier. I don’t
really have any words for him, and Jett doesn’t either.
“What did he say to you?” He walks back to the couch, and I can tell he really wants to know but
he’s playing it off like he doesn’t.
“‘Handle with care.’ What does that mean?” I sit next to him on the couch again, being careful to
avoid the coffee table this time.
Jett puts his head in his hands and rubs his eyes. He looks tired when he raises his head again.
“I have no idea,” he says, but the way he says it means that he has more than an idea. He knows
exactly what Javier means, but I can’t begin to figure it out.
“Look, I should go. I can, um, call a cab.”
“No, no, you don’t have to do that. I can drive you if you want to go.” He almost sounds sad.
“I mean, I don’t want to go. I just felt kind of weird, intruding on your life.” I start to stand, but
he grabs my arm to stop me.
“You don’t have to go. Stay.” His glorious eyes plead with me.
“Okay,” I say without even thinking about it and sitting back down. Wow, I’m easy.
So, what now?
“I’m really sorry about him. He’s a great guy; his delivery just sucks sometimes. He also has
issues with tact. As in he doesn’t know what it is and doesn’t want to learn.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Hazel.” I don’t mean to mention her, but it’s sort of inevitable. “My

roommate. She was pissing me off so bad tonight. She’s also my best friend, but sometimes she needs
to back the hell off. Tonight she went too far.” And now I feel like I’m going to cry again, but I
swallow it. Jett gives me a sympathetic look that I want to hide from.
“Friends can be cruel sometimes, can’t they?” I nod.
“You let them get away with things that you wouldn’t let a stranger get away with.
“I hear you.” And then we start talking. About friends, and roommates and going against the
grain, and childhood traumas and random life moments. He gets me laughing again and once I start, I
can’t stop.
We talk until I’m starving again, and we go to the kitchen, put a bunch of things together and
make the most random nachos ever. Velveeta, black beans, tomatoes, leftover chicken, pepperonis,
red peppers, onions, hot sauce.
“It looks both disgusting and delicious,” I say as we shove the concoction in the oven.
“I still think the hot dogs would have added something special,” he says, setting the timer and
leaning back against the counter.
“That’s just too much meat.” I make a face.
“That’s what she said.” I roll my eyes at his terrible joke.
“Yeah, Javier is the immature one.” He smiles again and I’m struck with the urge to lick his face.
Yeah, I have no idea where that came from. I have never had the desire to lick someone’s face before.


Temporary insanity?
“Do I have something on my face?” Whilst I’ve been pondering the face lick, I have, once again,
been caught staring.
“Nope. Nothing.” I manage to play it off. Maybe I’m getting better at this. Just requires practice.
Jett’s phone rings when the nachos are almost done. His ringtone is the sound of Darth Vader
breathing and it scares the shit out of me until he answers it.
“Hey . . . No . . . No. NO. You’re drunk. Goodbye.” He looks down at his phone and shakes his
head.
“I swear if I have to pick up his drunken ass again, I’m going to hogtie him, draw penises all
over his face with permanent marker and take tons of pictures.”

“Javier?” I ask.
“Yeah. He’s still in a good place, drunk-wise, but one more drink and he’ll start crying about
losing his cat when he was ten. If I have to listen to that again, I’m going to lose my shit.” He groans
and stares at the nachos as the timer dings.
“I should probably go get him. He’s already had one DUI and he doesn’t need another.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll just call a cab. No big.” He looks at me and I feel it too. I don’t want to leave.
Despite all the stupid things I’ve said tonight, I like being around him. Yeah, sure, I’ve known the guy
for only a few hours, but sometimes you meet people and you click. You get each other. And if you get
each other’s twisted sense of humor, that’s even better.
“I can go get him and then drop you off, if you want. The least I can do is offer you a ride.” He’d
already given me a ride, let me crash at his house, let me force him to watch Mean Girls, kissed the
back of my head and my hip and made me nachos. Any more and I’m going to have to owe him, or at
least send a thank you card.
“Please,” he says, cutting off my protest.
“Okay, but no more, or else I’m going to owe you.” Am I flirting with him? Was that flirty? I’m a
really bad judge on that kind of thing.
“I think I could be okay with that,” he says in a low voice with a half-smile. And the world
ceases to spin. Or at least it feels that way.
“Oh, you want me to owe you?” Where the hell did that come from? Whatever, I’m going with it.
He bites the corner of his lip and then his phone rings again.
“Yeah, we should go.”


We pull up to a bar that’s the definition of “seedy”. I don’t really know where that term comes
from, but I know it when I see it. This is it. I didn’t even know this bar existed.
Tucked into the corner of an intersection with a tattoo shop on one side and an abandoned
building on the other, the brick front is crumbling, and covered in graffiti and a cacophony of neon
signs for various beers. The door is propped open by a bucket filled with cigarette butts.
“Classy,” I say under my breath. Jett just pulls over to the side of the bar and parks.
“I don’t know if it’s safer for you to stay in the car, or come with.” I don’t either. A few of the

people hanging outside look like lost cast members from Sons of Anarchy. Are there Motorcycle
Clubs in Maine? There must be.
“I think I’ll come with,” I say and he gives me a look that says, “Are you sure?”
I fish in my purse and bring out my pink Leatherman tool.
“What’s that for?” Jett says.
“You can never be too careful. Also, it has a bottle opener.” I hold it up and pull out some of the
tools to show him before we get out of the car. He automatically takes my hand, and I can’t tell if it’s
to keep me close so I don’t get lost in the crowd, or for some other reason.
There’s no one at the door checking IDs, which is probably why there are several girls that
barely look like they made it out of high school going gangbusters on the dance floor. Jett scans the
room for Javier, but I’m having trouble seeing over everyone’s heads.
The place smells like moldy cigarettes and sticky beer with a hint of puke and sweat. They
should call it The Dive. It’s also so hot in here that it’s almost steamy. Jesus, get me out of here. I grip
my improvised knife, ready to attack if need be.
“There he is,” Jett says, pointing across the room where Javier has the girl with the non-dress
dress shoved up against the wall. Thankfully, there are people in front of them to block my view, or
else I probably could see if her vagina has a face.
Jett tugs me through the pulsing bodies and over to Javier and the girl.
“Javi, time to go,” Jett says, clamping his hand on Javier’s shoulder and pulling his face away
from the girl with a sound like a suction cup being pulled off the wall. This is why I’m single. Gross.
“Hey, man. What are you doing here?” At least I think that’s what he says. I’m not fluent in
Drunkish.
“Time to go home, Javi.” Jett practically spits the words out, and for the first time I glimpse
something hard in him. Intense. Don’t-fuck-with-me.
I don’t understand what Javier says next, but then he notices me. I’ve been huddling into Jett
because I’d rather huddle with him than with a creepy stranger, especially since my ass has already
gotten slapped twice.