His lips purse to the side, one brow lifting as if to say See? I told you you do that. Damn. He’s right. I’ve totally turned his full name into a nickname.
“Enough trash talk.” I clap my hands. “Time to earn all this beer you’ve made me buy.”
“Made you?” Now he’s the one rolling his eyes as he collects the balls from the catch and starts to rack them. “I’m pretty sure the deal was I would buy the first round if you”—he points to me—“beat me.” He hooks his thumb at his own chest.
“And what about rounds two and three?” I throw my arms up, clipping the dude closest to me in the stomach, or at least I’m assuming it’s a dude based on the defined washboard he has smuggled under his shirt. “Ohmigod, I’m sorry!”
Warm hazel eyes blink down at me in amusement, and…whoa. His face totally matches the abs for days he has going on. There’s nothing butterface-y about it. “Don’t worry about it, beautiful.”
Ooo, and he’s charming too.
“And I don’t think we’re going to need a fourth since now you’re beating up the locals.” CK slides my beer glass away from me.
When did he get over here?
“Aww…” I pout, creeping my hand toward my beer, wanting to keep the happy buzz warming my blood going. “Don’t ruin my fun, Superman.” I boop his nose.
A deep chuckle comes from my right, sending CK’s gaze bouncing between Mr. Charming McHot Pants and me.
Umm…
“Like I told your girlfriend, it’s cool, bro.” Charming McHot Pants runs a No harm, no foul hand down those abs I’m just tipsy enough to be more than a little curious about.
Thankfully, the burst of happiness I feel at hearing him call me CK’s girlfriend is enough to distract Tipsy Quinn’s loose tongue.
I’m beaming like I’m at the top of a stunt. Fortunately for me, it’s beer in the glass I have cradled to my chest like it’s the stuffed teddy bear I used to sleep with as a kid and not tequila. If I were hanging with my homeboy Jose tonight, I’d be fluffing my ponytail and vamping it up like I do during competitions. That would be bad, seeing as there aren’t any judges around.
Charming McHot Pants called me CK’s girlfriend. First, he was all, No biggie when I accidentally assaulted him, and now he’s calling me CK’s girlfriend. I should use my fake ID to buy him a drink because my night just got a whole lot better.
I really, really like the way that sounded—
“She’s not my girlfriend.” CK’s uncomfortable chuckle is like nails on a motherflipping chalkboard.
Could he denounce me any quicker?
“You two aren’t dating?” Mr. McHot Pants bounces a finger between CK and me, the former shaking so enthusiastically I worry his head will pop off like a broken Barbie—or I guess Ken—doll.
Meanwhile, I sit frozen in my seat, fighting the sudden heat prickling behind my eyeballs that denial causes. I refuse to be that girl in the bar—or pool hall, in this case—drunk crying.
Now it’s his gaze doing the bouncing. “Are you sure? You two certainly sounded like a couple.”
Aww…that prickling starts to fade as I consider CK’s and my interactions. You know what? We do sort of bicker like Kay and Mase do—
CK starts to laugh—no…wait…that’s not laughing. He’s full-on guffawing, the arm not holding the pool cue even folding over his middle. Yup, somebody else is feeling his beers. Good thing I already called in the cavalry—aka Kaysonova and company—to pick us and the car up. Neither of us is fit to drive.
But…
Still…
Ouch.
I know he doesn’t like me like that, but is the idea of us dating really that laughable? Geez.
It takes a solid minute for CK to compose himself enough to speak. “If you knew our crew, you’d understand. Trash talk and nicknames are how we show our love.”
Mr. Charming McHot Pants glances around at the now dwindling crowd before returning his attention to us. “Are we talking a Step Up/Stomp the Yard-type crew or the type where I should be worried about somebody coming after me with a baseball bat?”
I snort. His humor reminds me a bit of Noah’s and helps ease some of the sting from CK’s appalled reaction to someone linking us romantically.
“We have to refer to our group of friends as a crew because the cheerleaders”—CK holds a hand out in my direction—“already belong to a squad.”
“You’re a cheerleader?” McHots seems to perk up at this revelation.
“Isn’t it obvious?” CK eyes my high ponytail, his tone coming across as…annoyed? Maybe a tad bit angry? I don’t know. That’s probably the beer talking.
Time to redirect my brain before I start to wallow and overanalyze every little thing.
“Ooo, we should totally choreograph a dance.” I tap my chin. “How difficult do you think it would be to teach y’all the "Bye Bye Bye" dance?”
“Don’t even think about it, Red,” CK cautions, but my mind is already churning with possibilities. I hope Tessa is with Kay when they get here. Chica will be all over this idea.
“Too late.” I waggle my brows, tacking on a wink.
“You sure you two aren’t a thing?” Charming makes a loop with his finger. The perplexed expression on his face is cute, but could he maybe stop twisting the knife I feel wedged between my ribs?
“No. No.” Again, could CK have answered any faster? Then he adds, “Definitely not.”
There’s a shift in the atmosphere, one strong enough that not even the alcohol can dull it. McHot’s very broad shoulders roll back, and he drapes a muscly arm across the back of my chair.
He chances one more peek at CK, who’s watching the exchange stiffly, before focusing the full weight of his attention on me. A dimple pops out in his right cheek, then he asks, “Since you’re available, would you be interested in going on a date with me this weekend?”
Ay dios mío.
#CHAPTER21
* * *
No amount of coding in the world can distract me from the memory of Quinn agreeing to go on a date with Grady. How the hell could it? I was standing right there when he asked her out. Every word they exchanged imprinted on my brain like my very own 1s and 0s.
Why the fuck wasn’t that Grady guy some jockhole douchebag? I mean, it was obvious he was a jock before he even told us he’s a winger for the hockey team at BTU, the other major Division 1 university in the state. But in the few minutes he spent talking to both Quinn and me, it was also clear to see he falls more on the same side of the jock line as my roommates than that of those I grew up with.
Still…
I abhor the thought of Quinn going out with the guy. Don’t ask me why. It’s illogical, but I guess it makes sense, since emotions aren’t generally logical in nature.
It’s the only explanation I can come up with for why I did what I did.
Never drink and text people. I mean it. Never do it. Nothing good comes out of drunk texting. Hell, I barely have any success doing it sober, but intoxicated? Yeah, that doesn’t end in good life choices.