Tyed

“Both,” he says, removing a lock of hair from my forehead.

Wow. I mean, wow. Hot Parking-Lot Dude is so sizzling, calling him beautiful would be the insult of the century. He's lucky his nose is slightly crooked, like it's been hit one too many times, because otherwise, he'd be sickeningly pretty. What the hell is he, anyway? Latino? Asian? Mixed Caucasian? He looks like he’s been photoshopped by a bunch of horny teenagers. He has pouty, perfectly shaped lips, slanted Asian eyes and the chiseled, Brad Pitt-like bone structure girls shit themselves over.

Quick reminder:

I’m a girl.

I’m standing in hazardous vicinity to him.

And I’m clearly, unbelievably fucked.

“That’s some car you drive.” His bedroom eyes narrow to a spot behind me.

“Problem?” I bat my eyes slowly, trying to look bored.

“Na, figures.” He’s so pretty I can’t concentrate on what he’s saying. Or what I’m saying, for that matter. Then he pivots in the other direction, and before I realize what’s happening, Poof, he’s gone.

It takes me a minute or ten to regroup.

I lean back against my hood, practicing deep breaths and trying to calm down. Everything is under control. I just had a brief encounter with a personal-space invading maniac. Who happens to be unfairly gorgeous. But the gym is huge and my chances of running into him again are slim.

Besides, Dawson is waiting and I can’t afford to be late. I need to focus on this assignment in order to graduate. Mom and Dad will kill me if I fail again. No, I will kill myself if I fail again.

I enter the gym, and I’m greeted at the counter by a ginger-bearded dude with a man-bun and a black XWL tee just like the one Hot Parking-Lot Dude wore.

“Hi, I have a meeting with Dawson Alba. My name is Blaire Stern.” I offer a polite smile and try not to look like the place is freaking me out. Which is difficult, especially since the gym is painted in floor-to-ceiling black.

I adjust the messenger bag hooked over my shoulder and try not to feel conspicuous in my ripped jeans and black chucks. The scent of aftershave, sweat and testosterone assaults my nostrils. I see tons of Iron-Man-sized dudes punching stuff and rolling around on the floor, and even spot a few women lifting super heavy barbells. These women mean business and are nothing like the soccer moms at my mom’s gym, the kind on the treadmills with their makeup still on, walking at the pace of a dying turtle.

“Okay…” Ginger-Bearded Guy looks distracted. “Sorry, can’t leave this place unattended.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “The boss’s office is on the other side of the gym. Let me get someone to show you the way, cool?”

I nod. So they are not all bossy jerks. Ginger-Bearded Guy is nice and helpful. He motions someone over to the desk while I drink in the place with my eyes.

“Here we are! This is Ty. He’ll take you up to Dawson’s office,” GBG announces behind me.

I turn around to greet the Good Samaritan who’s come to my rescue, and my jaw drops to the floor. Hot Parking-Lot Dude is standing in front of me, sexy galore. “You!” I squint accusingly, for a reason beyond my grasp. Other than putting out my blunt, he hasn’t done anything wrong. Then again, I guess it was a no smoking area. And, well, pot is still illegal, and stuff.

Hot Parking-Lot Dude, now officially identified as Ty, fights the slow smile that's spreading on his lips. Is he laughing at me or with me? My cheeks flush and I look away immediately.

GBG’s eyes shift between us. “You two know each other?”

“No,” we both answer in unison. I think Ty is still looking me. I wish he'd stop. Why am I embarrassed? It's very unlike me.

“Right. Then Ty, could you show Blaine where Dawson sits?”

“It’s Blaire.” I grit my teeth.

“Right.” GBG waves my correction away dismissively.

I follow Ty’s broad, triangle-shaped back as he separates the ocean of gym rats like Moses parting the Red Sea. His dark hair is buzzed extremely short, and I study the tattoo of a giant snake winding up his neck. The snake’s face is a zombie skull that looks like it’s about to sink its teeth into one of his ears. His ears look deformed and lumpy, so I try to focus on them and his tattoo, soothing my out of control hormones.

Final verdict? Ugliest tattoo to ever be inked on human flesh, but Ty somehow pulls it off without looking like a serial killer. The guy has such an attraction to death that I’m surprised he is still alive. Skull bandana, skull headphones, skull tattoos.

Other than my pounding heartbeat, we walk in silence. Ty takes a set of metal stairs, bypassing an elevator, probably hoping to avoid the awkward elevator conversation. Can’t blame him. I don’t know what to say, feeling embarrassed about our earlier encounter, and also because it’s becoming evident that Hormones are taking over Brain.