The girl she presumed to be Rebecca gave a half-wave fitting of a debutante. Kenna leaned across Brandi to greet her. She sported a messy fishtail braid and her timid grin revealed a mouthful of braces. “I’m Rebecca, Brandi’s roommate.”
Will held up a hand to silence them.
Something grim came over his boyish face. “Rorschach’s Sheets are in the building.”
The students adopted their sharpest glares, aiming the theatrical hostility in the direction of their rivals. Kenna’s gaze gravitated to the walkway. The place teemed with patrons but it was easy to identify the two men in question among the predominantly younger crowd. Her headache magnified as Dr. Merino and Professor Scott sauntered toward her group, an audacious edge in their step.
“I’m surprised they let you sit in here among humanity. If I was the owner, I’d make you guys play by the dumpsters out back,” Nathan said.
The remark echoed faintly through Dayton’s ears as he registered Kenna seated amid the Barenaked Philosophers and he was too overwhelmed to supply a slight of his own. He was suspended in a haze of infatuation. They were no longer in the bar but lost in the Ponderosa pines. He and his forest queen. Her sweater hung freely, swallowing her lithe form. Her modesty made his heart twitch. Dayton yearned to demolish the purity that diffused from her body with the strength of an expensive perfume.
Their eyes met for a brief moment, her blazing jade burning into his lifeless black, until Kenna tore hers away.
“Nice one, Prof, but we’ll be wiping the floor with you guys tonight.” Liam’s tongue flicked against his silver lip ring before his mouth contorted in a smirk. “Again.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Dayton said.
He dared one last look at Kenna and caught her peeking at him through her lashes.
Satisfaction lightened his chest. As the emptiness faded, it grew heavier and heavier, and the chatter coming from the Barenaked Philosophers’ table was lost to the pounding music as he and Nathan padded off to the end of the bar. The bartender, Sasha, slid their drinks toward them and some spilled over the rim of the tumbler, pooling on the counter. A pale lager and a vodka lime. Their order never changed. They nodded at her as a silent show of thanks.
Nathan drained half of his bottle in one pull.
“Those kids are always on their A-game. We have 22 years of college between us, and they still keep us on our toes.”
“They’re not kids,” Dayton corrected.
He savored the inaugural sip of vodka, shutting his eyes as it singed his throat. Alcohol was a coveted indulgence, forbidden by his cardiologist and reserved for trivia outings.
“To me, they are.” His nose wrinkled in displeasure. “They really will be sweeping the floor with us tonight and every Thursday after this if O’Callaghan is a permanent addition to their team.”
Dayton’s ears perked up beneath his thicket of hair like a curious canine. O’Callaghan. The name rolled from his friend’s tongue with utter casualness.
He set aside the drink and ran a thumb along his soft jawline. “You know her?”
“She was in my cognitive class last semester. Why?” Nathan arched a brow but he soon connected the dots. “That’s who you’re mentoring?”
“Yep. Anything I should be wary of?”
“She didn’t give me any problems. But you seem to have trouble with everybody so I can’t wait to see how this unravels.” Nathan slapped Dayton on the back.
Feedback screeched through the sound system, replaced by the trivia host’s voice. “Alright folks. It’s that time of the night. Send one person from your team to the back to get signed up and we’ll kick things off shortly.”
“I’ll sign us up. I have to piss, anyway,” Dayton offered.
Michael’s collapsible table was in the back corner, sandwiched between the end of the bar and the restrooms and conveniently located behind their seats.
He resented that Michael made them sign in every week, even though their team name had stuck for the last five years. He’d scribbled the name on the list and was about to dismiss the pen when Kenna appeared in his peripheral.
The out-of-focus glimpse of her green sweater and red hair set his body ablaze. He held his breath so as not to inhale her sinful redolence. Surrendering the pen to her required the utmost concentration. The meaningless action was a test without a curve and he had nearly failed.
Dayton thought she’d say something. A ‘thank you’ would have sufficed. Instead, she searched his eyes. He didn’t know what she was looking for but he knew she wouldn’t find it. They held opposite ends of the pen through their silent shakedown and the rest of the bar was oblivious to her turmoil and his intent, this quiet war that had all but begun.
The music flooded his eardrums as if it’d been on mute. He was still gripping the pen.
“Good luck,” he ground out, yanking his hand away and brushing past Kenna toward the men’s room.
“What were UFOs called during World War II? Again, the answer was foo fighters.”