Halfway Girl (Girl 2.5)

He reaches up with a paw complete with five thick fingers and tunnels them through his short, midnight-black hair. That hand pauses midway through its journey when we make eye contact across the jam-packed kitchen…and my stomach performs a pirouette.

Oh.

I’ve been caught staring and I still can’t look away. Maybe I have contact high from all the pot smoke circulating through the house. It’s just that he’s also not looking away and my body seems to appreciate having his attention. My belly is still flopping like a hooked fish and I have the oddest impulse to angle my body in an advantageous way. Or fix my hair, even though it’s not broken, as far as I know. I’ve brushed it at least once in the past couple days, right?

What am I wearing?

I wet my lips nervously and try to remember my outfit without glancing down, because that would make me look either crazy or straight up thirsty. Oh right. Black leggings and a black tank top. Lime-green bra, the straps of which are probably showing. Boots.

Okay, Birdie. Whoa. Turn the crazy train around. A. Since when are you interested in athletes, and B. Since when do you think one of them would be interested in you?

Taking this whole sorority girl persona a little too far, aren’t I?

I take my first real sip of beer tonight and turn on a heel, traveling back through the marijuana smoke and reentering the living room. There’s a weird twist in my chest and I can’t completely check the urge to look back over my shoulder at the big guy. And he’s still watching me. Although now he seems embarrassed over getting caught, dropping his gaze to the ground and shifting on his size nine hundred feet. I twist back around with a grudging smile on my face. Jesus, I really need to get out of here. My brain is being a dumbass.

Noticing the saliva soul mates have ventured into groping territory, I set my mostly full beer down on the cluttered coffee table. “Leaving this for you guys in case you want to refuel…”

They make no move to stop kissing.

“Cool.” I wave at Carline across the room, letting her know I’m heading home, and give her the international signal for you coming? She gives me a subtle head jerk in response, indicating the football player she’s been seeing off and on for a couple weeks. In other words, I’ll probably have the room to myself tonight. I’m kind of looking forward to it, because I’m overdue a phone call with my brother, Jason, and my new sister-in-law. I don’t want an eavesdropper—especially when I speak with Naomi. Probably because she’s the only person in the world I can be one hundred percent honest with at all times. When I tell her I’m rushing a sorority, she’s going to have questions. Uncomfortable ones that make me think too much about why. I’d rather not have my roommate eavesdropping on that conversation.

I swallow hard. On second thought, maybe I’ll call Naomi next week.

“Big J!” A loud shout from the kitchen draws my attention and I pause on my way to the front door. “Where are you going, man?”

One of the keg-operating football players is addressing the black-haired, gargantuan-pawed giant and he seems reluctant to respond. “Upstairs,” he says finally. “You need something else before I go?”

Holy shit. His voice is like an earthquake. It’s deep, rich and…rumbling. Strong. It makes my nipples gather into tight buds inside my bra, forcing me to swallow a gasp.

“Uh, yeah.” Keg dude grins. “Can you bring up one more keg from the basement? It would be a pity if we ran out too early.” Some foam spray catches him in the forehead and he wipes it off with the shoulder of his hoodie. “I’d go, but I’ve got my hands full pouring drinks.”

I wait for Big J to call bullshit on his teammate and point out the real reason he doesn’t want to carry a keg up from downstairs. He’s not physically capable. At the very least, it would require a major physical effort, whereas it’s probably like lifting an apple for Big J.

I’m not sure why I continue to stand there in limbo, caught between the living room and the door. But there I am. Arrested by Big J’s reluctant nod, the way everyone in the kitchen essentially ignores him. Not one person addresses him or says hello as he wades through the people half his size, careful not to step on anyone’s feet. No one even says thank you to him for being their beer delivery service. Why is this irking me so bad?

I back into the shadows as he passes through the living room. He hesitates at the top of the stairs, turns and scans the room. Whatever he sees—or doesn’t see—makes his big shoulders sag. And then he’s gone. Vanished down what I assume are the basement stairs.