The ringing is low, growing louder when I finally bring the phone to my ear. I stroll further away from the room, the music fading into the distance. It rings several times before there is an answer, and I'm about to give up when I hear the other line click.
“Where are you, Jerry? You were supposed to be here an hour ago!” My words are strained, an attempt to mask my frustration, a trait I've mastered over the years.
"And I'm busy. What have I told you about questioning me? Do you think my days are supposed to revolve around you? Or are you trying to upset me?" he seethes.
I can hear the frown as it forms on his face. I know because this is standard for us. Scowls, angry words, and macro-aggressive forms of deflection are what my life has become. But he wasn't always like this. There was a time when all he did was make me smile—a very long and distant memory it is.
“No,” I shake my head and wrap my arms around myself. “Sorry." I huff. "I know you’re busy. It's okay. I'll see you later. I know you have a lot on your plate.”
That doesn't end his rant. Nothing ever does, and like always, I start to tune him out. I shut my eyes again and point my nose to the sky. Fresh air fills my senses, and I realize that I've wandered outside. Tension fills my body, and tears prick the back of my eyes.
"Okay," I choke out, even though I'm not even sure what I've agreed to. Somewhere along the last few seconds, I've completely shut him out.
The keys click when I end the call and sniffle back a cry. I pull my shoulders back, mentally telling myself not to get upset. It'll ruin the night, not that I want to be here now any more than I did a few moments ago. But that doesn't mean I want my new colleagues to recognize me as the broken bitch that cried at the holiday party.
When I open my eyes again, the guy from earlier, the one who couldn't fit in with this crowd if he wanted to, the boy with the eyes that seem to slice right through me. That one. He's standing only a few feet away from me, walking backward toward the steps, a plate of hors d’oeuvres in hand.
I drop my gaze to stow my phone in my clutch, all the while stealing glances his way. Embarrassment is already claiming me for fear of how much of my conversation he's heard. By the way he's lingering about, my guess is he heard it all.
"Can I help you?" I ask after a while. Letting my shoulders relax, I try to make myself appear larger than I am at this very second.
"No," he quips, then bites into a party wing.
I scoff, drop my hands at my side and look away, turning slightly, only to freeze in place. Light from the ballroom pours out into the hall, the dread I have making it seem as if the pathway is miles away. I glance over my shoulder, studying him, and he raises a brow, almost as if he's challenging me.
It looks like he's going to say something, but he doesn't. Instead, he walks over to the trash and tosses his plate into the bin. He pulls something from behind his ear while descending the stairs. For the first time, I spot the Yamaha R1 parked in the middle of the courtyard.
He's a rebel.
He makes it to the bottom and the few feet to his bike, spinning to look at me again. I watch as he removes something from his pocket, learning what it is when he puts a joint to his lips and lights it. He inhales deeply, his face tilted up while still staring at me over the bridge of his nose. The moonlight hits him at an angle, its rays illuminating his features.
Ink coats his forearms, peeking out past his sleeves and collar of his t-shirt, the ends of one stopping just before it reaches his neck. His features are darker, as is his low-cut hair and neatly trimmed beard. And his eyes, interestingly enough, are the subtlest parts of him. Maybe it's the color of his eyes or the drinks I've had tonight. Hell, it's probably the frustration from my call with Jerry. But it's definitely the way he's peering into me.
Several rings of smoke float into the air when he releases the drag he took, the smell of marijuana teasing my senses. Not once does he break eye contact as he takes another pull of his joint.
Then I remember I'm now a member of the teaching staff here and should probably reprimand him.
"Seems like I'm the one who can help you?" He lets out a puff of smoke.
"That's three things you've done wrong tonight," I say, unsure of why I'm inching forward instead of heading back inside.
"Excuse me?" He forms the question, but I don't think he means it, let alone cares.
"I'm pretty sure you're violating a code parking your R1 in the middle of campus, especially when we have a parking lot for that."
His brows raise like I've surprised him, and I take another step.
"I'm positive you just crashed the faculty event on top of smoking an illegal substance on school grounds."
He huffs, his chest rising and falling sharply. Scrubbing a palm over his mouth, he leans against his bike then smiles at me. Then the little asshole brings the joint to his mouth again, disregarding everything I've said.
"You can't smoke that here," I exclaim and cross my arms over my chest, trying to wrap my mind around why I'm even bothering.
It's not like I care who he is or what he does. And while I'm technically an authority figure here, I don't start until the Spring. So, then why am I entertaining this right now? I should leave, put on my big girl persona, go back to that godforsaken party, and act like the dotting wife of the city's newest District Attorney.
That's what needs to happen.
Despite how miserable I am in this suffocating life, I'm supposed to stay in line. No reactions, no fights. That is the unspoken agreement, some hidden scripture in this sham of a marriage of mine. We all have roles to play, right?
“Yeah?" He grips his wrist with his other hand, and the joint is pinched between his fingers. "Who's going to stop me?”
Arrogant, I note.
"I could have you arrested," I threaten and mimic him by grabbing my wrist to hold my arms in place in front of me.
He laughs a full-on roar that feels more like he's taunting me. "You could. You won't, though." He puffs again, blowing the smoke out and inhaling it back in through his nose.
I frown but quickly let the expression fall. He's right, and I don't care what he does. But standing here, talking to this boy who is way too young, is the highlight of my night. Hell, the highlight of the year.
"And what makes you think I wouldn't?" I'm at the edge of the top of the stairs now.
He runs his gaze down to my thighs and trails them back up slowly. A chill races down my spine, forcing me to breathe. I can tell he notices by the slight tilt of his head as he continues to stare at me.
It's intense, and though I know it shouldn't, it makes me feel alive. More alive than I've felt in a long time.
"Because it looks like you need it more than me." He holds the weed out toward me. "I'm Baby."
I freeze for a moment, contemplating whether I should take it. A part of me wants to, it's been forever since I've indulged, my freshman year of college, and even then, it wasn't really my thing—something I did to take the edge off from the first-year jitters.
Taking the stairs one at a time, I stop in front of him, catching a glimpse of myself in the reflection of his motorcycle. I did put in an effort tonight. A black A-line dress that stops below my knees with quarter sleeves. The neckline reaches my collarbone, no cleavage, and light make-up. I even wore my kinky curls down for the evening.