All Played Out (Rusk University 3)

“A picture. That seems doable.”

“In recent years, it’s become more popular to leave a little, uh, token of appreciation behind for Big Daddy.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know. Coins. Knickknacks. Lacy underwear.”

That time I do choke on my coffee, and it burns as it goes down the wrong pipe. I cough and cough, and Torres stands and slides into my side of the booth to rub at my back.

“Jesus, woman. If you try to die on me every time I mention underwear, that’s going to make seducing you trickier than I thought.”

I gulp in some air and shove him out of the booth.

“People really do that?”

“Oh yeah. They loop all kinds of stuff over the fingers on the statue, especially during homecoming week. The school assigned security guards there this year, but people still found a way.”

“That’s crazy.”

“If you really want crazy, there’s always the Sweet Six.”

“Do I even want to ask what that is?”

“The six spots on campus where you’re supposed to have sex before you graduate.”

“Oh, come on. Now you’re just making things up to shock me.”

“I’m not. Swear to God.” He holds one large hand to his chest and lifts the other like he’s being sworn to tell the truth. It’s not fair that he’s this charming. It’s not fair that this is all just a normal day for him. He’s always this outgoing and fun and spontaneous. I’m just a regular occurrence for him, and God, how I wish I could say it was the same for me.

“I don’t believe you,” I say.

“One of the Sweet Six spots is the stacks with all the old university records on the third floor of Noble Library.”

“What? I study in the lounge on the third floor all the time.”

“Well, then. That’s a prime opportunity for a study break if I ever heard one. There’s also the old stairwells that they have roped off in the chapel.”

“The chapel? Seriously?”

“Do you think the Sweet Six should count as six things on your list?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“You’re right. They’re kind of a package deal. We’ll just count them as one.”

I drag my hands through my hair and gape at him. “You are . . .”

“You keep doing that. Am I that hard to describe?”

“Yes.”

“Is that a yes for the Sweet Six or. . . ? ”

I force myself not to react. He likes flustering me, and I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“That’s a no to the Sweet Six. Final answer.”

“What about Big Daddy Rusk?”

I throw up my hands and stand up from the booth. “I think it’s time to go. Any longer here and I might murder you. And it wouldn’t be smart to murder you with an audience.”

I reach for my wallet, but Torres stops me.

“I got this. You shouldn’t have to pay on the day of your very first hangover.”

I return my purse to my shoulder and smile. “Thanks.”

He leaves some money on the table and then loops his arm over my shoulder. “I’ve got some ideas for how you could thank me. Six of them, in fact.”

I laugh, and shove his arm off me, and he calls out after me the entire time I march toward the door, getting louder and more dramatic with every step. He’s making a giant scene, and everyone in the diner is watching us. Normally I would be horrified and well on my way to an unattractive magenta blush, but . . . it’s different with him.

Everything is different with him.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE I’m about to do this. I’ve gone crazy. You’ve made me crazy.”

Torres’s hand lingers at my waist for a long moment before he does what he’s supposed to and helps boost me up onto the base of the Rusk statue that we talked about at breakfast a few days ago. The base alone comes about as high as my chest, and I never could have gotten up without him. Or a ladder. The statue’s pose is reminiscent of the Lincoln Memorial, with Rusk sitting down, only his hand is open and stretched out, and that’s where I’m heading. If I can manage to climb all the way up without falling and breaking my neck. When Texas was an independent republic, Rusk served first as secretary of war and later the Supreme Court chief justice. And when Texas became a state he was elected as one of its first senators.

And now I’m honoring his memory by doing my best to climb up into his lap like he’s some giant bronze Santa Claus. I step up on his foot and try to haul myself up onto his knee, but I have a pitiful amount of upper-body strength. As in . . . basically none. I jump, hoping that might help, but I only end up clutching ridiculously at the knee, unable to pull myself up but too afraid to let myself drop for fear that I might twist my ankle landing on the statue’s foot.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Torres says, having hopped up behind me with zero assistance. Then his hands are on my ass, and he’s pushing me up onto the knee.

“Did you suggest we do this just so you could grope me?” I call down to him.

“Unexpected benefits.”

Carefully, I climb to my feet, holding on to Rusk’s outstretched arm to keep me steady. Then, after one deep breath, I scramble my way onto his large bronze arm and shimmy my way down into his hand. I sit in his palm, and have to hang one leg over each side. My thighs are a bit too large to fit comfortably, so I feel like I’m wedged into his hand. And one look down at Torres’s grinning face tells me what an idiot I am.

I’m straddling the statue’s hand.

And while it’s holding my weight just fine, there’s no way I don’t look ludicrous. And probably a little lewd.

“Most people don’t actually sit in his hand, do they?”

“It’s the knee for most people, true.”

“Torres!”

“What? I figured go big or go home. Besides . . . it’s pretty fucking hot.”

“I’m going to kill you as soon as I get down from here.” I start trying to shift myself out of the hand, but my butt really is entirely too large for this thing.

“No! Wait,” he says. “Let me jump down and get a picture. You’re up there already. Might as well make the most of it.”

I try to scowl at him. But it is pretty funny when you think of it. And it will make a good picture. When my brother and I were growing up, Leo’s room had been covered in stuff like this. Photos with friends. He had a big stop sign on his wall that he and his friends had stolen God only knows how. He had souvenirs from places they’d been and things they’d done. Nothing crazy because we weren’t quite well-off enough to travel or anything. But little things that meant something to him even if they didn’t matter to anyone else.