8. Thora
CHAPTER 8
THORA
“Thora! Get the door!” My dad bellows from the living room, where I’m sure he’s sprawled on the couch from the night before. Chances are pretty high that he was drinking, but chances are also pretty high that his probation officer won’t stop by today to check.
I brace myself to dash through the cloud of cigarette smoke before it occurs to me that people don’t usually knock on the door at eight in the morning. I poke my head out of my bedroom. “Are you sure it’s not the P.O.?”
Dad snarls, and I sigh, grabbing my backpack. I try to spend as little time as possible at my parents’ house and even less time away from the air purifier and dryer sheet haven I rigged up in my bedroom. I know I can’t do anything about having grown up poor, but I sure can try to keep the cigarette smoke smell away from my clothes, hair, and school supplies.
I shoulder the heavy bag and peek through the smeared glass pane on the door, shocked to see Odin Stag waving up at me from the sidewalk. Yanking open the door and stepping outside, I hiss, “What are you doing here? How did you know where I live?”
Odin waves at a black vehicle idling in the street, and the driver peels off with a deliberate screech of the tires. Odin shakes his head. “A, I got a ride from my brother so I could go over our bibliography before it’s due today, and B, you shared your dot with me the other day.”
I furrow my brow. “I shared my dot?”
He shrugs, adjusting his giant frame on his knee roller device. “On your phone. The tracking thing.”
I lean against the stoop, still wondering how he managed to knock on the door without climbing the four concrete steps. Maybe his brother knocked for him? “I never shared my location with you.”
Odin grins, one of his earrings twinkling in the morning sun. “It’s possible. I asked Fern where you live.”
“Why would you do that? She would have told me.” I didn’t realize Fern chats with the Stag family, especially since Wyatt moved out of the country.
Odin rolls closer to me. “Like I said, I wanted to talk about the project before class, but you weren’t answering your phone.”
I slide the device in question from my coat pocket, and sure enough, I missed a zillion texts from Odin and Fern, as well as a few calls. “Oh, sorry. I set it to do not disturb when I was at the bar, and I guess I forgot to turn it back on.”
“Seems unlike you, Janssen.” He winces, and I realize he must be uncomfortable. I bite my lip. “I, um, can’t really invite you up.” I gesture vaguely at my parents’ row home. “But we’re just a few blocks from Constellation Coffee if you want to go sit and talk?”
He checks a very fancy watch and shakes his head. “Nah, we better start moving to campus. Don’t tell me you walk the whole way from here?”
I scoff at him. “I take the bus. Do you not know about the bus?”
He shrugs. “Never had to worry about it before this.” He waves a hand at his foot. I think about how close his apartment is to campus and remember again that I’ve had an unconventional education. That’s why I usually only hang out with Fern. She gets it. She lived at home all four years, too, and we were queens of finding library space to camp out on long stretches between classes. We know where all the free food is around campus and the best places to nap without worrying that anyone will snatch our bags.
“Come on, big guy.” I start walking up the hill toward Penn Ave. “I’ll show you the splendors of the 93 bus.” He rolls alongside me quietly, grunting a bit at the rough spots in the sidewalk. I slow my stride and absolutely do not stare at his ass in his gray sweatpants. I also don’t admire his shoulder muscles, obvious and visible even in his hoodie. “You’ve got to be six feet tall,” I mutter, and he laughs.
“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” Odin growls as his roller catches on a tree root. He hoists the device up and over the uneven surface and says, “I’m six-four. And before you ask, so is my dad, and all my brothers are right around that range. We grow ‘em big in the Stag family.” I’m treated to a wink that sets my pants on fire, and I know this guy knows exactly how good he looks, but I am swooning like a jersey-chasing fan regardless. If I were the sort of person who went to sporting events, I’d be screaming over the railing right now at half-time, begging Odin to fire a t-shirt cannon my way.
I try to cover my ogling by explaining, “I was just thinking about how we will get you inside the bus. Some of them have a ramp that flips out, but some just…” I try to demonstrate how the buses sort of squat to let old ladies step aboard.
“Don’t worry about me,” he says. I nod and point at the bench inside the bus shelter. He shakes his head. “We can stand. I’m serious. I have enough people worrying about me and treating me like an invalid. Talk to me about our sources for class.”
I’m about to tell him about conference proceedings I downloaded from some university in Portugal when I spot a bright red bus chugging up Penn Ave from the Strip District. I wave at the driver, who stops and stares at Odin. Does the driver recognize him? I guess so in this sports-obsessed town. The bus beeps and squats down, and I don’t know if I should get in first and help him or…actually, I have no idea what to do because there’s no way I could lift him or anything. He gestures for me to get on, and I do.
He heaves his knee roller in the door, and I grab it with one hand as he muscles the rest of himself into the bus. He’s not even breathing heavily. The driver and I both look at him, impressed. I shake myself out of my stupor and tap my student ID on the fare box. Odin arches a brow and fishes in his pocket for his wallet, clearly unused to having his ID at the ready to gain access to buses and, probably, dining halls.
Everyone on board watches as he rolls down the aisle to the accessible seating. I stand in front of him, and he scowls, clearly grappling with some sense of chivalry and the dueling reality of his temporary impairment. I cross my arms over my chest and frown at him until he sinks into the seat, tucking the roller in between his enormously long legs. I consider sitting on his lap, on his good leg, obviously. Would he even notice my weight? I shake my head as the bus chugs forward. I steady myself on the pole by Odin’s head, and he glances up at the strap hanging from the bar far above my reach. “Neither of us is well-suited for this,” he says with a shake of his head.
I shrug. “Beats walking, I guess.”
Once on campus, the sidewalks are better maintained, and the buildings have ramps and elevators. We get to class a little bit early and settle into seats in the back of the room. I pull out my ancient laptop and open my mouth to tell Odin about the new source.
“What the hell is that thing?” Odin points at my laptop, which whirs noisily. I glare at him. “Is that a telegraph machine? Why is it so big?”
I punch him in the arm, which stings because his body is pure muscle. He shakes his head and removes a shiny, lightweight laptop from his bag. “You said something about Portugal?”
I can smell him seated this close together. His laundry detergent smells expensive, and there’s a whiff of either hair gel or deodorant or maybe cologne with an alpine scent. I like it…too much. I guess it’s fine that I’m attracted to him. What straight girl in Pittsburgh wouldn’t be? I can give him a huff and work on this project and still achieve what I need to get out of here in a few months.
“Did you just sniff me?” He leans close to my ear to ask this, and his breath melts over my cheek and neck like honey. Shit, this is bad.
“Yes.” I turn to face him, meeting his blue eyes with my dark gaze. “You stink.”
A laugh rumbles out of him as the professor walks into the room. “You lie, Thora.”