I turn toward the English building.
“Where’re your manners?”
“I ain’t got none,” I say, mimicking his accent and poor grammar. “Where are yours? You took food from me without even asking, ate it without paying, then complained about the facility where I have to eat lunch serving slop.”
“It is slop.”
“Well la-ti-da, you eat shrimp scampi for lunch and I have to eat hot dogs.”
“Shrimp scampi has too much butter. They’d never serve that.”
How did I not just roll my eyes at that comment? I miraculously restrain myself and pick up my pace, shooting a look down at my watch, searching for the time.
Shit.
Five minutes to get to class and get my ass into a seat. Bickering with this dude isn’t going to get me anywhere but locked out by the professor or TA, who are both pompous windbags. They thoroughly enjoy locking tardy students out of the lecture hall.
I hike my backpack up, scarf down the remainder of my burger, and toss the wrapper in a nearby trash can. He does the same.
“I’m super glad you’re so special. Enjoy the lobster for your next superior meal,” I sass him.
His sneakers stop on the concrete sidewalk. Then his voice shouts toward my retreating back.
“Are you mockin’ me?”
Mockin’.
“Yes!” I shout, turning to walk backward so I can laugh directly to his face and tossing my arms up for extra measure. “Yes I am mocking you!”
It takes everything I have not to throw him the middle finger.
Third Friday
Charlie
I slam my car into park, impervious to the fact that I’m in the middle of a busy road in the heart of campus, that fact probably giving me the courage to shove open my driver’s side door and step out into the warm air.
It’s late—almost eleven o’clock—but still the perfect temperature for the tank top and jean shorts I’m sporting. Hair down and in wild waves, my sneakers hit the pavement.
Without thinking, I stalk toward the truck, arms flying into the air.
“Open your damn window, asshole!” I rage, so incensed I’m not one bit afraid of whoever is sitting behind the wheel of this honking truck. “What the hell is your problem? Are you purposely trying to blind me?”
The driver does as he’s told; the window on his side starts to lower little by little, revealing the guy perched behind the wheel.
Big.
Blond.
Bulky.
Oh. My. God—I recognize his face immediately. It’s the jocktacular asshole from the cafeteria last week! The jerk who took my chicken sandwich and then tried to take both my burgers! What the hell is he doing, driving around in the dark terrorizing people?
I walk straight up to his window so I can get in his face.
“You!” Now I’m pointing at him, forefinger aimed at the middle of his mug. “Roll down your damn window!”
He rolls it down all the way. Then I hear the laugh.
“You don’t look happy to see me again.”
“Because I’m not, you…you…” Words escape me, I’m so pissed. “Ugh, what the hell is your problem?” I shout into the dark, hands on my hips, indignant and outraged. I give the hood of his truck a pound with the palm of my hand for good measure, to punctuate how mad I am. “What are you doing? You’re going to get someone in an accident!”
His laughing is loud, booming, and amused—three things that are pissing me off and not welcome right now. He can save his good humor for when he’s not being a thoughtless imbecile.
“Well, well, well—look what the cat dragged in.” His twang is lazy and drawn out and—I won’t lie—really kind of cute.
Shit.
I do not have time to get mushy over that damn Southern accent. It sounds even hotter when he uses metaphors and slang that make no sense whatsoever.
Focus, Charlie.
“Your careless driving is what dragged me in.” I use air quotes around the word, stabbing the air with my forefingers.
“There you go again, mockin’ my accent.” He grins, arm propped on the open window. “Not such a sweet thang, are ya?”
Damn right I’m not—especially not when it’s Friday night, I’ve been scared shitless, and I’m standing in the middle of the road yelling at the rudest guy I’ve ever met.
“How dare you tail me like that? How dare you! Are you trying to get me killed?”
His eyes are so blue, and with the light from passing traffic, I can see their vibrant color clearly—though they hardly need a spotlight shining on them to be beautiful.
I take another a good look at him, something I didn’t do in the student union last week. Tan. Blond.
Lots of stubble. Hair still too long.
My gaze drifts to the hand that’s lazily hanging half out the window; it’s big and rough. He sees me looking and flexes his fingers.
Curls his lips into a knowing smile.
Cocky bastard.
When he smiles, dimples press into both cheeks like two fingers pressing into dough; a visible gap between his teeth winks at me, too.