Vic Vaughn is Vicious

“Oh,” I say, tapping my head. “I get it. You’re a biker!”

“Got it in one, Betsy.”

“No, it’s Daisy.”

“Get out of here. Your name is not Daisy.”

“Cross my heart it is,” I say. His eyes follow my fingertips as they cross my heart. But he’s really looking at my milk jugs, appreciating them properly. “Um.” He looks back up at my eyes. “I’m looking for the TA for the Tuesday-Thursday one-thirty art class?”

He laughs. “Me too. Lucille, right?”

I shrug. I have no idea what her name is. “Maybe?”

“She was supposed to meet me here like ten minutes ago. Looks like I got stood up.”

“Oh.” I make a frowny face. “You’re dating her.”

“What? No. Kinda just… you know.”

“Oh. OK. Friends with bennies?”

“Eh. Sorta. If you skip the friend part.”

I laugh and slap his chest. And holy shit, it’s very hard underneath his t-shirt. “You’re bad.”

He grabs my hand and holds it, his blue eyes piercing mine in a way that makes it impossible for me to look away. “Do you like them bad, Bo Peep?”

“Milkmaid,” I correct him again. “And”—I shrug—“I dunno. Don’t we all like the bad ones?”

Sometimes the things that come out of my mouth these days surprise even me. Because this was not who I was back home on the farm. I was shy, and nerdy—like Angie. But ever since I came to college last year, it’s like… I’m a whole new girl. A girl who knows what she wants, and what she wants is sex. Lots of it. With guys like this.

To be fair, it’s so much easier to be this girl here at school than it would’ve been back home. My high school class consisted of eight people. There were only thirty-two kids in the whole school because the school was built for us. Farm kids.

Trust me when I say this, no boy at my school ever had any chance of looking like this guy here. He’s a fucking Viking.

So when I got to Fort Collins, I was all in. Freshman year never saw me coming.

“Here,” he says, reaching for my sketchbook. “You can just leave it on her desk if you need to go.” He pauses. “Do you need to go?”

“Um…” I look over my shoulder like Angie is waiting for me, but I know she’s not. It’s been way more than nine and a half minutes and when Angie gives you a deadline, she means business. “No. Actually, I got left behind.”

“Who would leave you behind?”

“The girls in the dorm. They’re a little bit rigid.”

“Hmm. Are you rigid, Peep?”

“Milkmaid,” I say again, chuckling as I point to my chest. “See my jugs?”

He practically giggles with delight. “Oh, they are unmissable.”

I sigh, smiling at him. He’s very nice to look at. “So, my answer is no. I don’t have anywhere to be, actually. How about you? Which party are you going to?”

“Party?”

“Halloween party.”

“Oh. Um. Well, would you believe that I’m actually throwing one?”

“You are? Are you taking the Tuesday-Thursday TA as your date?”

“No, actually. I came here to meet you.”

“Did you?”

He nods. “Would you like to come to my party?”

I point to my shoes. “Is it far? They’re not made for walkin’.”

“You’re in luck, Peep.” He grabs a helmet off the closest desk. “I got the bike. All you have to do is hop on and we’ll be there lickety-split.” He waggles his eyebrows at me.

It’s many, many, many hours later—OK, it’s actually lunchtime—when I remember that I owe my daughter breakfast. And I’m appalled at myself for forgetting to feed her, but my shift is over, I did way better today with the tips—nearly three hundred dollars this time—and I’m already planning a trip to the Bohemian Poet’s House for a good cup of coffee and a grilled panini we can share on the bus ride home.

But when I get to the break room… no Vivian.

Hmm.

“Hey, Carla?”

“Yep, honey?” Carla is probably mid-fifties, but she’s one of those ladies who refuses to age. If you describe her by hair, eye and skin color only—brown, brown, and brown—you’d only get one tenth of the picture that is Carla. She is big gold earrings. She is the best eyelash extensions in Colorado. She is tall updos, and little black dresses, and high heels with red soles. She’s got like seventy-seven boyfriends and likes to play poker with the Ameci men on Tuesday nights.

Carla’s third husband was an older gentleman. She married him in her early thirties and he died about eight years ago, leaving her everything, which is a really nice house on Mountain Avenue and a fat bank account. She doesn’t need to work, but she says she’s been working at the Pancake House since it opened up in 1994 and has spent all her best years in this place, so she will stay working here to take care of her regulars until the day she drops.