Dirty Curve

She scowls. “I said I ate.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care.”

“You need Chinese.”

“I don’t want Chinese.”

“Well, you’re eat—”

“Stop!” She turns to me, resolve in her eyes, but something deeper behind them. “Please, just ... I’m walking out the door now. I’ll see you Thursday.”

Slowly, cautiously, she leaves.

And I follow.

No one tells me to get lost or whatever it is she’s doing. I do that. Not her.

I give her a small head start, let her think she’s in the clear, and then step in line beside her.

“Will you go?” she whispers, glancing around as we strike it across the grass.

It takes a second to register, but when she looks to the side for the millionth time, sweeping the vicinity with jerky movements, it’s clear as damn day she’s making sure no one’s eyeing us.

No fucking way she’s trying to avoid being seen with me.

Reaching out, I catch her upper arm and quickly jump in front of her.

She doesn’t expect it, and she takes a step the exact moment my feet plant, bringing her right against me. All fucking on me and yeah, there’s some major miracles under this fucked-up rag she wears.

I wonder if they’re real? They’re on the firmer side, full, but still offer that natural squish against my body, like I could grab ‘em good and hard and she’d like it.

Would she like it?

Her eyes widen, and her hands come up to push off my chest, but I grab ahold of her other arm, keeping her right there, right where she is.

She inhales through her narrow little nose, causing her tits to press harder into me. Those big, sandy brown eyes of hers, begging me to let go.

Don’t want to.

Someone bumps her with their backpack as they walk by and she stumbles closer, her hip brushing against the hard-on that came out of fucking nowhere, uninvited, yet painfully present.

Her chin slowly lowers, and while she tries her hardest not to allow it, her eyes then follow. She’s looking at my jeans, and with the new angle, the scent of her freshly washed hair assaults my nose.

Fuuuck, this girl smells like vanilla ice cream. I happen to love me some vanilla ice cream.

“Tobias,” she whispers, looking away.

“That’s the first time you’ve said my name.”

Her brows crash. “What?”

“Uh, huh.” Oh, it’s that spicy vanilla, too. “Thought maybe you were afraid of it.”

Her head turns, and I realize I’ve reached up to hold a fallen strand of her golden-brown hair.

“What are you doing?” she worries.

“What am I doing?” I push even closer. “I’m wondering why I want to fuck you all of a sudden, and why all you ever do is try real hard to get away from me.” She gulps, but I ignore it. “Why you worried about being seen with me, Tutor Girl? Women beg for me. Being around me might be good for a girl like you. Get you noticed more.”

Why would I want that?

Why wouldn’t I want that?

Something makes her sassy after that and she steels her spine.

“Yeah, well. I’ve never felt a need to be noticed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go.” She yanks herself free of my grip, but I catch her around the waist because she’s pissing me off.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“Let go,” she whispers.

“Why you tryin’ not to be seen with me?”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t lie.”

She sighs and finally meets my gaze again. “We aren’t friends.”

“And?”

“We live different lives.”

“And?”

“Why are you asking me questions that you don’t really want the answers to?”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” I glare at this frustrating little thing in front of me.

“What’s my name?”

I open my mouth to respond, but I’m forced to pause a second and her brows lift as if she’s proving a point. “Well, what is it?”

She clears her throat. “It’s Meyer.”

“I like it.” I nod.

A tight laugh leaves her and she nods, frowning at the ground.

“We’re strangers, Tobias.” A hint of dejection crosses her face. “You’re here because you have to be. I’m tutoring you because it’s my job, and I’m obligated. That’s it.”

“For the hundredth time ... and?” I prompt, irritation crawling up my skin. I know there’s more.

I know where this is going, and her next words confirm it.

“And I can’t afford rumors being spread about me.”

“Cause I’m a rumor waiting to happen, right?”

She makes it a point to lead my eyes the way hers point, where a stack of Avix Inquirer sits, a photo of me stepping out of the locker room after Tuesday’s game printed across it. “Don’t pretend you’re not.”

I can’t control what they write, but what’s the point of telling her this?

She probably thinks I ate that shit up. That I wanted the pathetic bad boy label and press that came with it.

I didn’t, but the papers created him anyway, and once I realized they’d never stop, I did the only thing I could: I accepted the role.