I bark out a laugh. “Noooo, J. You’re Danny from Grease.” I’m giggling so hard right now. “You’re not Elvis.”
He freezes, leaving his hands out and lip quirked, and pops a brow at me. “Huh?”
He looks absolutely ridiculous, and I’m tearing up from
laughing.
“Grease!” I shout. “John Travolta? Olivia Newton John? The T-Birds!? The Pink Ladies?”
I’m actually shocked, because there’s not a single ounce of recognition on his face. He’s just standing there in the same position, lip still quirked, looking like a wax statue that was molded to be Elvis but was dressed like Danny Zuko and then given a really dark tan. I take out my phone and snap a picture, which makes him break into a smile.
“Looks like we’re gonna have to have a movie night, V. I need more of these Pink Ladies,” he says with a wink.
“Ew, J.” I laugh.
“And send me that picture,” he adds as we walk in the frat house. “That’s gonna be my new profile pic.”
About an hour later, Jesse is cozied up to a pretty brunette on the couch and I’m officially off duty. I’m here strictly as his wing woman tonight, so I’m not looking for company. Two weekends in a row was a lot for me. Add in the phone call with my brother earlier, and I’m mentally and emotionally drained. Instead of mingling, I’m sitting on the counter in the kitchen scrolling TikTok and sending Kelley the videos that make me think of him.
So far, I’ve sent him ten, and he’s liked almost all of them.
No matter how many times I try to ignore it, I still feel a bit giddy when I know I’ve made him laugh. I tell myself it’s normal to want to make your best friend happy, and then I promptly squash any of those pesky tummy butterflies who don’t get the Just Friends memo. The dang pests are persistent, though.
Apparently, my RBF and phone scrolling don’t send a strong enough message, because soon a guy with blond hair and biceps for days is sliding up beside me.
“Hey,” he says. Real smooth. Poetic. A regular Wordsworth. I stifle a laugh.
“Hey,” I reply without looking up from my phone.
Go away. I’m not interested.
“I’ve seen you before.”
“I go to school here. It’s not that big of a school,” I deadpan while watching a video of a dancing cat wearing a party hat. It’s so funny. I shoot it to Kelley and wait for his reaction.
“No, that’s not it,” he says, and moves in front of me, bracing his hands on the counter, boxing me in.
“Excuse you,” I snap, and glare at him in warning, but he doesn’t back off.
“You were with my brother Brock last weekend.”
“Oh, you mean Chlamydia Brock?” I say with attitude. He’s too close and can’t take a hint, and if he gets any closer, I am going to show him just what four years of self-defense training has taught me. “Yeah, I remember him. He’s your brother? Just how close are you? Do you share STDs?” I say the last part loudly hoping he’ll finally get the message and leave me alone.
“Don’t be like that, Ivy,” he croons, and I bristle at the fact that he knows my name. “Brock is a dick. He doesn’t know how to treat a girl like you. But me?” He winks at me and I get a sick feeling in my stomach, anger and unwanted fear swirl violently. “I could treat you real good.”
He leans in, invading my space even more, and I’m about to tell him to kick rocks, maybe knee him in the nuts, when I get a whiff of a spicy, expensive, and absolutely terrifying scent that sends me reeling.
My chest tightens, my skin pricks, and I can feel sweat dotting my hairline. I push his chest away with my hands and squeeze my eyes shut, but my panic intensifies when flashes of memory play out on the backs of my eyelids. The same flashes I haven’t seen in almost a year.
A dark mesh jersey.
A low rumbling voice.
Dark hair.
Navy curtains.
Pressure.