Dirty Curve

I laugh. “Not me, Joe, not me.” I turn to Meyer. “This is Meyer, she goes to school at Avix, too.”

“Well look at you.” The old man grins at her. “You don’t have all that shit on your face and you’re still prettier than this one.” He jerks his head toward me, kisses his wife and disappears behind the door once more.

Franny laughs, introduces herself and gets us seated on the back patio.

Meyer shakes her head as Franny leaves, and then turns to me. “They’re so cute.”

“Yeah, I want to be them when I grow up.” I smile.

She eyes me, a look of surprise crossing her face.

“What?”

“I guess that’s not something I’d expect you to say.”

“I wonder why?” I tease, knowing exactly where she’s coming from. “You know you can’t believe everything you hear ... or read.”

Her laughter is light, and while her head lowers, those eyes hold on to mine.

“You okay with pepperoni? It sounds boring but Joe’s is fire, swear.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re eating with me.”

Her smile is sheepish. “I didn’t know you wanted to go eat. I like to leave my wallet at home so I don’t spontaneously spend.”

A quick meal is spending spontaneously for her?

As I think that, a sense of aversion washes over me.

Twenty bucks didn’t always come so easy for me either. My parents lived paycheck to paycheck all our lives, and the little extra they did have, they saved. Maybe I need to remember that next time I pop into the grocery store.

I shake off my thoughts.

“Contrary to what you may believe, or the shitty impression I gave with the whole ‘be my schoolwork slave,’ I’m not a complete dickhead.” I lean forward. “I wouldn’t invite you, order a pizza, and expect you to pay for any of it.”

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

A chuckle leaves me, and she grins at her joke, but hides it by focusing on pulling her laptop from her bag.

“Pepperoni isn’t boring, by the way.” She looks to me and pops a brow with a playful grin. “It’s a classic.”

Damn straight it is.

A little over an hour and a large pizza in, my assignments are done. We’ve already gone over a few ideas for my next English essay, and I officially have no pressing work that needs handled ... but she hasn’t asked to leave yet.

In fact, she stood up and chatted with Franny for several minutes about plants and how to keep them alive, while I watched on, finishing up the last of the breadsticks.

She’s back in her seat now, though, has shed that awful sweater, and even let a flip-flop fall to the floor beneath the table, one of her legs now folded up in the chair.

And right this second, she’s accepting a refill of iced tea, only after making sure it’s not an extra fee.

Meyer sighs, smiling into her glass as she looks at me. “We got through a lot today. If you do your reading tonight and your professors stick to their schedules tomorrow, you won’t have any work while you’re away the next two days.”

I nod, staring at her, and while I think she wants to look away, she doesn’t.

“We still have a good half hour before we have to head back.”

For the first time today, she pulls her phone from her bag. “It looks like we do.”

“Read to me.”

Her eyes pop up. “What?”

“The sections I have left? Read them to me.”

Her chest heats, a soft red changing the color of her fair skin, and I want to reach out, run my knuckle over the spot to see if it’s warm to the touch.

I bet it is.

Something tells me she’s not capable of half-assing anything, not even a sudden, uncontrollable dose of adrenaline that causes one to flush.

She’s fire, I know it, and call me a fuckin’ pyro ‘cause, goddamn if I don’t crave the flame.

To be honest, I’m not sure what to do about this girl. She’s so hot and cold.

Okay, maybe she’s never hot, but she definitely gets to that lukewarm level, like the half empty water bottle you dig out of your back seat when you’re dying of thirst.

But I guess she could say the same about me. The hot and cold part, I mean.

I’m as good as whiplash when it comes to her, I know that, but she does that to me. She confuses my mind and sends shock waves through my brain that don’t quite compute the way I’m used to. My initial reaction is always to do what’s expected, to be who they expect when things around me begin to feel sour or new. Unexpected.

But maybe that’s the wrong way to go about it where she’s concerned.

Maybe she doesn’t expect a thing from me at all.

That’s an unrivaled, terrifying, electrifying ideal.

Licking my lips, I tip my head the slightest bit. “Please?”