Chapter 14 #2
All the guys hold their breath in anticipation as if they’re watching the final play of the Stanley Cup, and then, finally, Staten blesses me with four words that gauze my open wound of worry.
STATEN
See you at ten.
My friends and I face down the two-story exterior of Sigma Chi’s frat house, rambunctious partygoers separating into distributaries around us while they all fight for a spot inside.
Despite the building probably being in violation of multiple health codes, the magnitude of the crowd is intimidating, and a pang of queasiness swoops low in my belly.
I can’t believe Staten actually agreed to come tonight. I was sure I was going to have to do a lot more begging, and I wasn’t ready for my teammates to see that side of me yet.
As our group is welcomed into the function like we’re the guests of honor, I loiter outside and wait for my plus-one, the glacial air bogging down my lungs, yet somehow failing to douse the inferno that rules inside me with an iron fist. Cinders the size of confetti nuzzle into the dark, untouched corners of my body.
The jaundiced moon overhead just barely illuminates the foot-beaten path in front of me, shadows prowling on the outskirts of my vision.
With each minute that passes, I wrestle with the conclusion that Staten might’ve dipped at the last second.
I wouldn’t hold it against her, obviously. Parties aren’t her thing.
I’d never admit this to anyone, but I’d take a night watching chick flicks with Staten over getting drunk off my ass and bumping fists with people who only like my hockey persona. They’re all parasocial relationships, and most times, I’m only interesting when someone wants something from me.
Suddenly—without me having to send a distress flare—there’s movement in my peripheral that has me upright and alert like a defenseless doe clocking a twitch in the dense underbrush, and the girl I’ve been waiting for materializes out of the sable pitch of night.
Staten, uncharacteristically, is dressed in a black, skin-tight dress that fuses to all her curves, emphasized by a short, cheeky hem and a plunging neckline—both of which I’ve fantasized about on multiple occasions.
She’s decadent hedonism wrapped in shadow, wanton lust booking a one-way trip to the crotch of my jeans.
Shit. I can’t have a repeat of the boner blunder from last week.
With an extra three inches of height, she shuttles over to me on miniature heels, cautiously marking each step as if it’s the first time she’s ever walked in non-orthopedic shoes.
She traverses a troublesome crack in the sidewalk with surprising ease, then rushes me with a hug that almost unbalances me.
I stare down at the crown of her head. Her small arms are braided around my torso—her cheek pressed against my stocky chest—and I find myself outsourcing counterfeit confidence to drug the ker-thump of my heart.
“You’re hugging me,” I say, too nervous to return the gesture, in a near-catatonic state just from that bombshell of a dress alone.
“Yeah, we’re in public.”
Fake relationship. Right. This is the first time we’re going official. Everything that Staten does tonight is to appease a narrative that we created.
Come on, dude. Don’t be stupid. Don’t read into this. You both agreed to work together to achieve your individual goals, and that’s all this is. It…it will never be anything more.
For a brief second, my arms engulf her, and the feel of her body is like gasoline to a match that I hadn’t realized I lit. Staten Renault isn’t just the girl next door—she’s something to take the edge off, addictive, a long-lasting compound that stays in the system.
When she pulls away from me—and I silently curse the distance—her fingers reach up to brush the forgotten stubble sprouting along my jaw’s coastline.
“You’re hairier,” she observes with absolutely no inflection as to whether that’s a good or bad thing.
It’s ridiculous, but I don’t move in fear of scaring her away. God, I wasn’t even this nervous for my first threesome, and the guy brought a vibrating butt plug with him. Yes, I said guy. I’m an equal opportunist.
The cotton in my mouth is hard to ignore. “I, um, haven’t had the chance to shave.”
“You look good,” Staten tells me, her arm falling to the side.
There’s no sultry purr in her voice, no coy flutter of her eyelashes, no simper unraveling over her kissable, glossy lips.
She isn’t even trying to seduce me, and yet I’m seconds away from collapsing onto my knees before her.
She’s a siren that drags men to their underwater graves—unmarked and wrought with offshoots of hydrilla—and all I want to do is drown.
Am I blushing right now? I feel like my man card is going to be revoked at any minute.
“Thanks. You look—”
Staten tugs at her dress, cowing in embarrassment.
“Is it too much? I borrowed it from my friend. It doesn’t really feel like me, you know?
Oh my gosh, it’s so tight. It’s a pain just to go to the bathroom in this thing.
I swear she slipped this sausage casing over me just for her amusement.
Is it obvious that I had a giant bowl of pasta before I came? ”
I grab her hand instantly, the heat from her palm and the complementary butterflies that spawn silencing the voice of worry in the back of my head. A gunshot to my self-sabotaging thoughts, muffled by the chamber’s suppressor. A clean kill. Quiet.
“Ace, you look fucking incredible,” I assure her, dewy-eyed admiration smoldering through my veins—a warmth akin to the marigold hues of a paint-splattered sunset.
Who am I right now? I’ve never given a girl a compliment if it wasn’t about her rack or ass.
She perks up a bit. “I do?”
“Yeah, you do. I already know you’re going to blow everyone away at this party, so why don’t we go in there and show the people just how lucky of a guy I am?”
“You know you don’t have to say any of this, right? Nobody can hear us.”
I brush my thumb over the apple of her peony-pink cheek, sliding a genuine beam her way. I can’t tell if her skin is pebbling from the cold or the contact. Touching her like this is a covenant to touch her forever.
“Not everything has to be a performance.”
Staten’s lips peel apart to say something, but she’s cut off by an incoming mob of scantily clad students shepherding us toward the entrance.
Once we stumble over the threshold, the smell of body odor and booze pollutes my nostrils immediately. Diaphanous moonlight is traded for neon-colored LEDs, every single seating area occupied by handsy couples who are tongue-deep down each other’s throats.
An impressive cache of alcohol is easily accessible to impressionable twenty-somethings, and those who aren’t partaking in light conversation are sweating out water retention on the crowded dance floor.
The feng shui of it all is underwhelming—paint-thin walls, a floor so tarnished in grime that there’s no telling if that mystery stain is a spilled drink or some bodily fluid, moth-eaten couches, and overexposed Bud Light posters that cover up unsightly cracks in the foundation.
I lead her with my hand on the small of her back, clobbering any suspicion that the two of us are nothing but friends.
The dissonance of whispers rends the THC-infused atmosphere, the tracking of raptorial gazes reminiscent of the first time Staten and I met—where sensationalized rumors touched base in the hub of a restless crowd.
Nobody would’ve expected that Little Miss Straight A’s would be providing charitable service to the broken boy light-years away from her league. From the outside eye, people probably think the opposite.
I don’t know what over-exaggerated commentary will emerge in Mustang Mania’s gossip column tomorrow, but I hope the delivery is merciless.
A few Alpha Phi girls glower at me—past conquests, unfortunately—and harp amongst themselves, probably using some kind of collective coven witchcraft to mentally curse me for the wrongs I’ve committed against half of their sorority.
And to my utter dismay, I recognize a couple of one-night stands who focus all their efforts on unimpressed perusals of my fake girlfriend—nothing but broody hens clucking and ruffling their feathers in fierce intimidation.
Protectiveness cracks through my chest like frostbite. I need to get Staten away from them as soon as possible.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask, guiding her with a careful touch. I won’t be the one to break her. Not this time.
Uncertainty stilts her words. “Uh, sure.”
I nod at the giant keg in the corner. “Great. Beer? It’s kind of all they have.”
Taking her polite, stiff smile as acquiescence, I ferry her over to the less populated area where the cloying scent of malt interferes with the air quality. I shove a red Solo cup under the nozzle, hit the tap, and watch as a runnel of amber liquid splashes against internal grooves.
I have no idea what to say to her. I feel this inherent responsibility to make sure she has a good time tonight, and that’s a feat in itself considering a frat party isn’t really the ideal place to get to know someone.
Aside from the diamond-forming pressure, it’s so stuffy in here that I can barely pull a breath through my nose, my heart is a hiccupping mess unattributable to one too many IPAs, and I feel as if I’m an overworked conduit for both Staten’s and my anxiety.
“Are you having fun?” I blurt out of nowhere.
When she looks up at me, it’s like her brain pops back online. “We just got here.”
Shit. Nice going, Knox.
“No, right. I know that. I just meant…you know, if you’re not having fun, we don’t have to be here. We can blow this popsicle stand and do whatever you want. I’m good with anything. No pressure. It’s really up to you. But if you want to stay, that’s totally fine too.”
Staten’s eyes trail to the drink that’s still gripped in my hand, and I don’t even realize it’s overflowing before she points it out.