Not a good look for her.
But I think I remember her being kind of tall, fit, and most importantly, she had a shit ton of food in her freakishly heavy overnight bag.
You might not think this is important, but trust me. It is.
My phone chimes, and the little green email light flashes.
How weird - my pulse actually accelerated… Or maybe I’m just imaging it. Why would I get excited over some unkempt chick I think is incredibly annoying and quite possibly a total bitch?
Maybe something is wrong with me. I put my hand to my forehead and feel for a temperature.
Hmm. Or maybe I just need to get laid. It has been a while.
TO: Matthew Wakefield
DATE: September 13, 2014 at 9:06:23 PM CST
FROM: Cecelia Carter
Subject: JACKASS
Stop emailing me. I get dumber every time I read one of your messages. - C
Sent from my Android Smartphone
This has me throwing my head back against the headboard and laughing out loud. Then, out of the dark comes an angry, muffled “What the fuck? I’m trying to sleep.” Weston’s head pops up and he’s glaring at me from his side of the room, his hair sticking up in ten different directions. Dude needs a haircut. “Whatever it is you’re doing, knock it off.”
“Sorry,” I answer. But I’m not.
Not at all…
CHAPTER 3
CECELIA
“All I could hear over the loud music when he was talking was ‘Blah, blah, blah, I’m a rude asshole.”
- My best friend Abigail Bennett
Leaning against the damp counter in the small bathroom of Lone Rangers, the one bar in Madison not entirely dominated by the under twenty-one crowd, I look up and study myself in the cracked mirror.
There are girls standing around waiting for a stall, some of them slumped against the tile wall - a few because they’re drunk, and others because they’re bored from the long wait. Realizing I need to make it quick because of the growing line, I pull out a tube of gloss (Cover Girl Baby Lips in Pink Punch, my favorite in case you were wondering) and swipe it across my lips.
I give my boring, plain white tee a once over (only some of it is wet from leaning against the counter), note that my face isn’t too shiny (thank goodness) and my hair hasn’t lost much of its volume. Considering how freakishly hot it is in this damn bar, I take that as a good sign because there’s no telling when my friends will want to leave. In fact, people might have to look at me for a few more hours yet, and I’d rather they not to have to stare at my hair when it gets frizzy…
Although my eyeliner is a tad worse for wear, I leave it and grab my drink off the counter before yanking the door open.
Noise assaults me, and my eyes do a quick scan of the room, spotting my little group of girlfriends at the front of the bar (figures, since I’m all the way in back). A virtual sea of people separates us, and elbowing my way through the sea of people is not an easy task, let me tell you...
Someone even grabs my ass.
Drunk people are so rude.
And then there, in the middle of the crowded floor, is none other than Matthew Wakefield.
Wait, where did he come from?
I falter for a brief moment, tripping slightly on the short girl who suddenly appears in front of me, to study him. Immediately the metaphoric wall goes up, and I paste a passive expression on my face… but pretending not to be affected by him is easier said than done.
I’m sorry, but have you seen him?
Matthew Wakefield is like a bad episode of some low rent MTV show; think ‘Awkward,’ for example - it’s a terrible show, with even worse acting, and it’s gotta be a fact somewhere that you get stupider watching it. And yet some sick part of you wants to see what is going to happen to that dipshit main character.
So much so, that when your little sister walks into the room and rudely changes the channel, you scream at her to change it back.
Er… Not that it has happened to me (cough).
I won’t insult your intelligence by gushing that Matthew is the hottest guy I’ve ever seen; time is not standing still right now, nothing is moving in slow motion, the crowd is not parting like the Red Sea when our eyes meet across the room. Too cliché. But you know… there is definitely something about him…
Maybe it’s his arrogance that I’m warming up to.
Maybe it’s his rich auburn hair, which is incredibly thick, unruly, and seems like a terrible waste on such a man.
Or maybe it’s the sinewy biceps, that have actual defined edges and can be seen beneath his shirts.
Or his dark green, expressive eyes, that are hooded, sharp and never miss anything.