Bear
I’m going to fucking kill him.
He’s my Little, one of my best friends, my brother and my mentee. But none of that matters. Because he made me sign up for this stupid motherfucking dating app, and I am going to kill him.
“Gosh, this was just so fun,” Kimona says, smiling big enough to show me the piece of pepper she’s had lodged between her two front teeth all night again. “We have to get together again soon.”
“Definitely,” I grind out, holding my breath as she leans in for a goodbye hug. This girl has no concept of personal space, which normally wouldn’t be a big deal. But when she smells like our fraternity house after an intramural game and a keg party, it’s an issue.
“Walk me to my car?” she asks when she pulls back.
For a moment, I just let myself stare at her, convincing myself that it’s not my fault she bottled all that crazy up in that hot, tight little package and put it on a dating app for me to swipe right on.
Her abdomen is lean, all of it showing under her tiny crop top.
The ripped-up jeans she’s wearing hug her hips, rounding over her firm ass in the perfect way, and her hair is straight as a pin, flowing down behind her shoulders to touch the top of her belt.
She’s got style, her kicks matching the floral designs on her crop top, and her makeup flawlessly applied.
But that’s the thing about online dating — no matter how hot the girl looks, and how well she sells herself in her bio, and how funny she is in text messages — you never really know what you’re getting into until you meet her in person.
And boy, did I get myself into a big, steaming pile of horse shit with this one.
Kimona, though cute as hell, is fucking insane.
I’m talking Mike Tyson taking a chunk out of Holyfield’s ear crazy.
If her starting off our “casual” Friday night date of bowling by bringing me a stuffed bear wearing a t-shirt with her name on it and box of her favorite chocolates — because she “just knew I’d share” — for Valentine’s Day wasn’t weird enough, the fact that she was so genuinely appalled that I didn’t buy her a gift that she made me buy enough tokens in the arcade to win her a teddy bear pretty much sealed the deal.
And this was in the first fifteen minutes.
Forget about the entire two hours of bowling, listening to her talk about her Instagram followers and her crazy fucking friends, who, by the way, ended up video chatting us after the first game.
One of them drilled me about my background, and the other made me lift up my shirt to show her my abs, to which the third friend, a slender kid with his makeup done better than Kimona, celebrated with a “Yes, daddy.”
“Um, I actually think I left my jacket inside, so I’m going to run back in. But I’ll call you,” I told her, offering a hand in a wave.
She started to pout, opening her mouth to ask something else, and then she paused, brows pinching together like she was trying to remember what jacket I’d worn.
The answer was that I hadn’t worn a jacket. I needed a drink, which they conveniently had at the bar inside the bowling alley.
Before she could say anything else, I turned, booking it toward the bar. I checked over my shoulder to make sure she left, and when she had, I slid into the first barstool at the edge of the bar, running my hands over my fade with a groan.
I’m going to kill him.
It would be one thing if this had been the first horrific, nightmare-inducing date from this stupid app.
But no, this was now the fifth one in a row.
And, sadly, Kimona, as crazy as she is, was the best of those five.
Between the girl who neglected to put in her profile her obsession with vampires and desire to have her blood sucked, to the girl who cried about her ex the entire time we were at the nauseating romantic comedy screening — that she chose — well, you could say I’m over it.
There was a little promise in the date I had last Saturday with a girl who, oddly, reminded me a lot of Shawna — only her hair was pink instead of purple and she didn’t wear those sexy glasses I loved so much.
But, after two hours of a pretty decent date, I rode home with her in a taxi only for her to tell me it was going to cost me five-hundred dollars to go past that point.
Sighing, I thumb out an angry text to Josh warning him to guard his loins next time I’m around him.
Then, I text Skyler, telling her I hope her night at the Alpha Sigma dance is less of a disaster than my fifth and final blind date.
She doesn’t answer, which doesn’t surprise me — she’s been more than a little occupied with the new transfer since she sank her teeth into him the night they met at rush.
We have plans to meet up for breakfast next week, so I decide to fill her in on my dates then, and toss my phone on the bar face down with another long sigh.
“You know, I want so badly to tease you about all that huffing and sighing, but I had a front row viewing of that train wreck and I can’t say I blame you. Here,” a commanding, yet melodic voice says. “This one’s on me.”
A tall glass filled to the top with a light, amber-colored beer appears in front of me, and I follow the hand hooked to it.
To a girl so beautiful that I have to actively think about keeping my jaw clamped shut.
Wow.
It’s been a long time since a girl has stunned me with her beauty alone.
In fact, I can’t think of the last time it happened.
Perhaps when I met Skyler? As much as I was into Shawna, it wasn’t the same kind of beauty.
Shawna was different, unique. She stuck out with her purple hair, her glasses, her pierced nipples.
But this girl? This girl is a classic, timeless kind of pretty.
She looks like she walked straight out of a 1970’s issue of Ebony magazine, her skin dark and smooth, hair just a couple inches longer than mine, framing her face with natural, easily styled curls.
She’s dressed in the aqua blue bowling alley tank top that all the other girls working there are wearing, paired with a short pair of white shorts, but she adds her own flair with an aqua and orange bandana tied at the front edge of her hair.
Large, gold hoop earrings adorn her ears, her makeup natural and slight, but what catches me most is the combination of her smile and her eyes.
That smile, not a bright, blinding one, but a comfortable smirk, like she knows something the rest of the world doesn’t.
Her plump bottom lip is nude, giving her a natural pout, and the way those lips complement her bright, golden eyes is enough to make me blink to be sure I’m seeing it all as it really is, and not as a dream.
Because she must be a dream.
I’m not sure how long I stare at her before my ability to find words comes back, but she’s just waiting, watching, that beautiful smile in place as she hangs one hand on her hip.
“You mean you saw that whole thing and didn’t send help? What kind of monster are you?”
She chuckles, tossing her hands up to reveal her smooth, light palms. “Hey, it’s not my business to get involved in the affairs of customers — even if they are poor sonofabitches dating quite possibly the worst kind of girl.”
“We’re not dating,” I clarified quickly. Then, I tilted my head with a cock of one eyebrow. “Well, technically, this was a date. But it was our first one. And our last.”
“Bit off more than you could chew, huh?”
“Let’s just say I’ve quickly discovered that online dating is not for me.”
I take my first drink as she laughs, savoring the cool, refreshing bubbles as much as the sound of her delicate voice.
“Oh God, don’t tell me your friends suckered you into downloading one of those atrocious apps.”
I point one finger at her like a gun. “Bingo.”
“Poor thing. Tell you what, the second one is on me, too,” she says, nodding to my already half-empty glass.
Cocking one brow, I take another small sip. “Buying me two beers within the first five minutes of talking to me, huh? Is this what it feels like to be a chick at a bar?”
“Don’t get used to it. You’re buying on our next date.”
I have to swallow slowly not to choke on my beer at that. “I didn’t realize we were having a first.”
“Well, now you do.” She winks, nodding at a customer down the bar to let him know she’s on her way over.
Then, before she makes her way toward him, she extends her hand for mine.
Her nails are nude, just like her lips, but each delicate finger is covered with gold and silver rings. “It’s Becca, by the way.”
I take her hand in mine, not fighting the smile she brings to the surface after such a shitty night. “Bear. Er—” I pause. “Clinton.”
“Which one is it?”
“Both. Clinton is my real name, but my friends call me Bear.”
Becca smirks, that same confident, sexy-as-hell one she had when I first laid eyes on her. “Well, let’s start with Clinton then.” Then she knocks a knuckle on the bar. “Be right back.”
She sashays down to the other end of the bar, and I don’t dare tear my eyes away from her plump ass, even though I should.
Nope, I shamelessly watch her for the rest of the night, whether she’s tending to other customers or hanging out in front of me.
We talk as much as her busy bar allows, and at the end of the night, she puts her number in my phone — and a kissy face emoji right next to her name.
The next thing I do is delete that fucking app.