She twists around, her body contorting so she can look toward the dining room behind her, and calls out, “Alright, Jose, we can keep you. We are quite clever when we chill, if I do say so myself.” She even goes as far as to toast the tequila brand with an imaginary glass, holding an empty fist in the air.
See what I mean? Zero hint of embarrassment if she’s acting a fool. She owns who she is and lives life to the fullest.
Unlike me.
Her thumb is back to scrolling, pausing every so often, then tapping here and there.
What is she doing?
Please, God, don’t let her be reading my messages. I don’t need her to see my awkwardness in text.
“Can you stop,” she scolds, holding my phone out farther when I try taking it back. “I’m basking in my awesomeness.”
“Okay, now you sound like Trav.”
“Mierda, don’t talk to me about Shark Bait right now.” She makes a cross with her pointer fingers, hissing at me like I’m Dracula.
“Shark Bait?” I ask, doing my damnedest to shift subtly in my seat to avoid her noticing my reaction to her Spanish curse.
“Don’t even get me started.” She slashes a hand through the air. “But”—she all but clucks her tongue, snapping the T sound—“I would like the record to show that if Mr. Quarterback ruins my chances of getting to stunt with the JT Taylor when they all get back from their little National Lampoon’s Vacation, I will take a page out of Kay’s book and shave him bald when they come home.”
Her threat has me rubbing one of my eyebrows, remembering the story about the time Kay and Tessa Taylor shaved off JT’s and Eric’s.
“It’s too early for shots, so careful with the fangirling,” I joke, referring to the drinking game Kay insisted we invent because of Quinn’s over-the-top cheer crush on her old stunt partner. It’s either that or focus on the slimy and highly inappropriate jealousy I feel toward my friend over something he never asked for.
JT’s better suited for her anyway.
Yeah, even I can’t argue with myself about that one.
“Don’t tempt me with a good time, mister.” Quinn shakes a finger in front of my face. “I have to leave for The Barracks soon.” The scowl she tries to put on melts after two seconds, then she’s all boobs jiggling and panting breaths as she tries to scoot her stool closer to mine without getting off of it.
Stop staring at her chest. Your mama raised you better than that.
I drop my gaze from her bouncing bosom to her bare knees slipping around mine, but that’s not any better. Nope, because as she spreads them enough to fit my leg in the V of hers, the hem of her skirt inches higher and higher.
“Now stop trying to distract me.” She slaps my thigh, the muscle spasming beneath the playful touch. “These writing prompts”—the phone she’s still somehow managed to not relinquish control of dances in her grip—“are meant to be icebreakers, a fun way to let somebody new learn something about you in a way that doesn’t feel like pulling teeth.” The arch of her brow adds the Like you are with me she politely refrains from tacking on.
“I get that.” Her slow blink tells me Uh-huh. “I do,” I challenge, her lips twisting to the side, clearly not believing me at all. Might as well get straight to the point. The sooner I do, the sooner I can escape to my room, putting an end to this uncomfortable inquisition and gaining some much-needed distance from an unattainable temptation.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“I love that you’re asking permission like I have a choice in the matter,” I deadpan, more than used to how my friends—especially the ladies—run roughshod over anybody when they’re curious about something.
“Oh, be still my beating heart, Superman.” I get a You silly man nudge as she really vamps it up, deepening her drawl. “I don’t know how much more of this playful side of you I can take until I burst like a glitter-filled piñata.”
I move to stand, but that only causes her to latch on to my arm like some kind of bubbly barnacle.
“Don’t run away.” The plea swimming in her dark eyes is the one that has had me doing precisely what she’s accusing me of on multiple occasions because of how much power it could wield over me.
“I thought you said you have work.”
Yes, work at a cheerleading gym because she is a cheerleader.
“I see what you’re doing.” She narrows her eyes but glances at the clock on the stove then curses softly.
Sweet freedom is in sight. It’s so close I can practically taste the cool water spilling from the showerhead, the bathroom my sanctuary.
“Well, Mr. Smartypants, it seems once again you are correct and have somehow weaseled your way out of exploring this”—her expression shifts, crinkles creasing the ridge of her brow, her nostrils flaring like she smelled something foul—“further.”
My prayers have been answered.
“But…”
Her pointed pause as she starts to walk away has me on guard. It takes everything in me not to cover my balls as if she’s about to hit me with a junk punch despite the distance expanding between us.
“I’ll help you practice evolving your conversation skills.”
She mutters under her breath, but she does it in Spanish and is too far away for me to make out anything more than the lyrical rolling of Rs.
Still…something akin to premonition causes goose bumps to rise on my skin.
I walk over to Herkie, who’s still chowing down on the couch. “I know your name isn’t Toto, bud.” His furry blond head tilts as it rises. “But maybe I would have been safer back in Kansas?”
Dozens of childhood bullies are starting to look like they might be small potatoes compared to one feisty cheerleader.
#CHAPTER8
* * *
The barest hint of light peeks through the slats in the built-in blinds, but I can’t hold out any longer. Sure, what I’m about to do may incite a revolt and have my friends boarding planes, trains, or automobiles to murder me in my sleep, but it’s a risk I’m just going to have to take for the sake of my sanity.
For reals, they will have to forgive me if they want me to continue to be their roommate. Because if I don’t finally give in to the urge to text them, I’ll be moving out of the penthouse and into a padded room somewhere.
I swear to Christ, the butterflies in my stomach must have called to the coffee flowing through my bloodstream like Snow White singing for woodland creatures. But, instead of collecting helpers to clean, they gathered up every lingering molecule of caffeine they could get their grabby little wings on. Seriously, those bitches have not stopped fluttering since I left the kitchen yesterday.
“Aren’t you tired yet?” I lift the hand I have pressed to my belly, pointedly ignoring the eyebrow-scrunching head tilt Herkie gives me. And yes, dogs can totally eyebrow scrunch.
My canine companion flops back against me, more than content to bask in the butt scratches I’m giving him with my other hand.
If only those butterflies weren’t suspiciously unresponsive. Nope, they all but ignore me entirely in favor of hosting a rave in my gut.
“I’m totally screwed, Herk,” I say to the pooch, not giving a single fuck that he’s a dog. At least he acknowledges me, his nose pressing into my armpit as he readjusts his furry body to make eye contact. I’m going to miss having him around once Kay returns from vacation.