Dirty Curve

Tobias

Right on time, a bag is slammed onto the desk, and not with gentle hesitation like before.

“Good morning to you too.” I grin, lifting my eyes to her, and frowning when I do.

She looks worse than she did last night. Wet hair in an ungroomed ball on her head and even darker circles beneath her eyes, but this time, they seem slightly swollen and red, like not only did she not sleep much but maybe cried a bit. She’s wearing the same garbage sweater again, and this time, there’s a stain, probably spilled beer, right along her right breast that wasn’t there yesterday.

“Rough night?”

She tenses, a blush creeping up her porcelain cheeks, but says nothing.

There has to be something wrong with this girl, and as much as I want to call her out on it, I have class soon, so time to get moving.

Apparently, she thinks so, too, ‘cause she gets right to it. “Did you happen to get anything down last night?”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t go down.”

Her hands freeze over her keyboard a moment, but again, no response comes.

Man, she’s no fun. Not a laugh or a flirty “oh, but I do” comment meant as a not-so-subtle offer.

Nada, nothin’.

A frown builds. “I did the first couple questions before I got distracted.”

Last night, when I got home, Echo and Drew had company, like I knew they would, and like good teammates, they made sure there were extras.

I was hoping for a reaction, it’s really the only reason I told her, to tease her a bit. To make her anxious or nervous or fuck, I don’t know, blush. Show signs of the real-life girl that’s got to be in there, and cut back a bit of the robot mode she’s stuck in.

Of course, I get nothing.

“That’s good.” She nods. “A little effort is better than none.”

Little effort?

Little effort?

I sit forward and knock my knuckles on the tabletop right in front of her.

Her eyes dart up to find mine angry and annoyed.

“Clearly, I hate school, hate classwork, but I did manage the past three and half years of it on my own. I’m not some unmotivated asshole. I get up by five every morning to work out before working out with my team. I practice my craft, in some way, every fucking day. Watch game film, study stats. Every. Single. Day. I hold records for the shit I’ve accomplished because I work my ass off and am now that fucking good as a result of that effort. Despite what you read in the paper, princess, that ain’t me. So, don’t treat me like some frat boy fuckup.”

Her brows snap together, her fingers curling into her palm. It’s as if she’s trying to figure something out, but what is lost on me. I can’t gauge this chick for nothing.

Finally, she nods. It’s slow, small, but it’s there.

I’m sure that’s all there will be of that, but then her eyes meet mine, and the shine in them has my anger fading.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she nearly whispers, not once looking away like she did every five seconds last night. “I know how much work you put into your craft; I didn’t mean to insult you.” Her features pull, as if she’s struggling in some way, with what I don’t know. “Being an athlete is life consuming and I’m supposed to be here to help, not stress you out or add any new problems, so if it’s okay, let’s get started. I don’t have too much time this morning.”

Funny. She’s sorry for her comment, but no retraction of the statement, huh?

“I’ve got you for two hours.”

“It won’t take us that long. I expected—” She stops herself and speaks again. “I’ve printed all the pages we need, and highlighted the key terms from the questions, so all we have to do is read and paraphrase.”

“I’ve got you for two hours.”

“You have to turn these in, in two hours.”

“Don’t much care right now.”

She sighs and drops her head, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. “Could you please just start the work?”

“What’s your problem?” I cross my arms and drop back against my chair. “I never met you before our first session, but you act like you’ve got me pegged and can’t stand the thought of helping me out.”

A strange, tangled expression sweeps over her, as if she’s at battle with her own mind and has no idea what she’s even thinking, making it impossible for me to guess.

And I’m kinda feeling like being a dick.

Tutor Girl wants me to hurry, huh?

I scoot my chair back to stand and her eyes follow my every move. “I’m gettin’ a coffee. Be back.”

She begins to say something, but I don’t wait around to hear it. I walk toward the front of the library, where a coffee bar sits.