She heaves and puffs, inhaling a loud gulp of air, holds it, lets out a out a huff, and eyes me skeptically. “Do you even need my help?”
Withholding a grin, I shake her hand off and lift myself to my feet in one easy motion, unassisted. “Nope.”
All her timid restraint flies out the window in that moment. Crossing her arms and glaring, the brunette purses her rosy-pink lips for the second time. “You! Y-you made me go through all that trouble when you could have gotten up yourself? You are a… a jerk.”
Can’t deny that.
I snort, amused. “Whoa. A jerk? Trust me, I’ve been called worse.” Jamming my hands inside my hoodie, I shrug. “Besides. You had to at least try to help me up…” since I just saved your ass.
The implication hangs between us, unspoken.
“I already said thank you. What more do you require?”
“What more do I require?” Seriously, who talks like that? “And actually, no, you didn’t say thank you.”
“I—” She opens her mouth to argue, then clamps it shut. Her almond-shaped eyes go wide for a few seconds, and she takes another calming breath to steady her breathing. I can see her pretty brain counting to ten. “Thank you.”
Behind us, vulgar voices float from inside the house as my friends stir to life from within. Pretty soon guys are going to start filtering out to leave for work, or time on the ice.
“Listen, I’d love to stand here and chat with you, but...” My sarcastic remark trails off as I dust off my gray athletic pants, glancing around to survey the street, which is mostly void of any parked vehicles. I scowl. “Wait. Do you have a car around here?”
She waves a hand airily and bites her lower lip. “No, but I don’t live far. I can walk.”
“Ah, I’ll call you Walk of Shame. It suits you.”
The brunette gasps, dismayed, and pleads, wide eyes darting to the Kappa O house. “Please don’t call me that.” She takes another deep, calming breath. “For your information, the room I climbed out of was my cousin’s.”
“Seriously? That was your cousin’s room? Wow, that makes the story even better. So very… backwoods Appalachia of you.”
“Backwoods Appalachia! That’s… we’re not… are you implying what I think you are…?” She pauses expectantly.
“Caleb.”
“Your name is Caleb?” she blurts out in surprise, changing the subject.
I accidentally chuckle, the sound coming out in a rich timbre and sounding foreign. “Yeah, why?”
“Nothing. It’s just… you don’t look like a Caleb.”
“Wow, thanks. I’ll let my mom know,” I drawl out slowly.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just. You look more like a—” She clamps her pouty lips shut.
I tip my head, curiously waiting for her response, and prod her on. “More like a…?”
“I don’t know. Like a… like a…” her hand twirls around in the air aimlessly, her cheeks burning up with fire. “Biff.”
I almost let out a bark of laughter.
Almost.
“My friends call me Showtime,” I supply, growing uncomfortable with the intimate direction our conversation is taking. I don’t want to know anything about her, and I don’t want her knowing shit about me. Pretty soon we’ll be sharing childhood tales and favorite colors.
“Showtime?” She rolls her eyes, mumbling to herself with a feminine snort. “Guys are such idiots. Why would he let anyone call him that?”
“Because I’m such a fucking idiot.”
“How about you watch your mouth!”
Instinctually, I go on defense. “How about this instead: why don’t you tell me why you were climbing out your ‘cousin’s’ window at seven in the morning rather than taking the front door?” Yeah. I use air quotes when I mock the word cousin’s, sounding suitably repulsed.
“How about you mind your own darn business?”
Darn business? Jesus. Doesn’t this chick ever swear?
“I was minding my own darn business, sweetheart, only you were too busy sticking your ass out your boyfriend’s second-story window to notice. Oh wait. I’m sorry. Did you want me to let you kill yourself?”
“I told you, he’s—ugh!” Pausing to shoot me a look of contempt, she starts stomping her feet across the grass and heads for the sidewalk, calling over her shoulder, “I don’t have to stand there and listen to you belittle me like I’m full of—”
“Shit? Or were you going with… poopy?” I snicker at her retreating form.
She halts abruptly on the lawn, spinning to face me with her hands planted on her hips. “You know what, Showtime?” She spits my nickname with such disgust I’m surprised saliva isn’t dripping out of her mouth. “You have some nerve making assumptions about me when you stand there looking like a… l-like a common thug who rolled off of his mattress just so he could rob the place.”
Ouch.
I take a few menacing steps toward her. “Oh, you think I look like a thug? Because I’m wearing a hoodie and Adidas track pants? Honey, clearly you wouldn’t know a thug if he passed out between your thighs. Hurry back to your dorm and bitch about the STD you undoubtedly contracted last night.”