Jesus, I don’t even know why I’m bothering to think about it, but any time I see him with a girl, it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
The girl seems to be warming up to him, slowly but surely, her shoulders relaxing in a way they weren’t when he first walked up. Her laugh looks like it’s coming easier, less forced. She’s not touching her face anymore or fidgeting with her long hair.
I watch.
I watch as three more girls approach, shouldering their way into the conversation, the one with dark hair planting herself firmly in front of Smith. Flipping her hair and laughing so loud I can hear it from here, and believe me—nothing that jackass is saying could possibly be that funny.
There is no fucking way.
The blonde one in the group throws her arm over the quiet girl’s shoulders. Gives it a squeeze.
Ah, so they know her.
She gives a weak smile, her eyes darting to Smith, that smile eventually fading until it’s nothing but a flat line of confusion. Resignation.
I see her body sigh, and she’s back to brushing her hair to the side, out of her pretty face.
Smith touches one of the friends, fingering the strap of her skimpy tank top, earning himself yet another loud, fake laugh. He smiles.
She smiles, and…
I’m instantly irritated.
Her friends are jock-blocking—so fucking typical. I recognize their type: jersey chasers. Gold diggers. Here for the MRS degree and not for an actual education because there are so many athletes running around this university who will end up in the pros.
And these girls reek of desperation: while their pretty, shy friend was chatting Jackson up, instead of leaving her to it and letting her enjoy the moment, they swoop in and flirt with him instead. Like vultures. How fucking shitty is that?
I’ve seen it over and over and over, and it pisses me off every fucking time. Why are chicks like this? Why are they such backstabbing bitches?
I can’t hide my scowl.
That right there is the reason for the long hair and the beard, and for the I gave up giving a shit attitude toward women. That right there.
No loyalty with these girls when they see something they want.
Man, if I had friends like that, I’d want to fucking cut my own balls off with a dull knife.
That’s not true—I wouldn’t let anyone near my nuts with a dull knife, let alone have the fucking nerve to hack them off myself.
I lift the beer bottle in my hand and take a healthy swig. Wipe at the liquid dripping from the corner of my mouth with a wry smile.
SECOND FRIDAY
“The Friday where she learns she needs a bigger set of lady balls.”
Kip
She’s back.
And this time, she’s dolled herself up a bit more.
No, not a bit more—a lot more.
Her long hair that was straight last week falls in waves down her back. Last week it looked like her eyes were free of makeup, now they’re coated with mascara and dark eye shadow. Full, pink, shiny lips. Large, gold hoop earrings hang from her ears.
The girl is wearing a yellow sundress, sticking out like a goddamn sore thumb in this room full of provocative clothing. It’s got thick straps that are tied around the back of her neck in a bow, the waist snug and skirt flaring out around her hips.
The outfit is conservative and sweet, and I almost feel bad for her.
She’s on the taller side with toned, tan arms and a tentative smile curving just above the rim of her red beer cup. Eyes roam around the room but don’t make it as far as my spot in the corner—the same spot I stood in last weekend, silently judging everyone in the room.
I sigh.
This is fucking boring.
I don’t understand why these assholes keep having parties; it’s not like anyone gives two shits about rugby at this school—they reserve the top spots on the totem for wrestling, football, and baseball. I don’t give a shit, but if our captains keep throwing keggers, someone at campus security is going to notice and nail us, and we won’t be able to talk our way out of any fines.
Not like the assholes in the other houses can. And do.
Trust me, I’ve seen squad cars come and go plenty, but they never linger out front for long.
Lucky fucks.
Entitled.
I snort. Like I’m one to talk. Life at home doesn’t get any more privileged than I have it, but at least I’m not a total prick when I’m out in public, or to anyone living in the house. For all they know, my father is a mechanic and my mom is a school secretary. None of them have a clue because guys do not give a crap about that kind of thing.
If any of them found out, I’d probably catch a rash of shit for it.
Girls, on the other hand…
The less they know, the better. And the only way to keep someone at arm’s length is to not get involved.
Easy.
I’ve managed for the past two years, and I’ll manage until I graduate in the winter.
Speaking of girls…
I can’t believe what I’m seeing: the chick from last weekend is down by the keg—again—and has been filling beer cups in the middle of the room for the past hour. Every so often that dark-haired friend of hers wanders over, flirting and talking to whatever guy the girl is chatting with—then walk off with him.
Cockblocking harpie.
I watch as Phil Blaser, a rookie hooker on the rugby team, saunters off, confident that the girl has the whole thing handled—a job he’s supposed to perform the entire night.
Why the fuck is Phil leaving, and what the actual fuck does she think she’s doing filling beer cups?
Wow. This girl.
She is way too polite—it’s almost painful to watch. Jesus, she needs help, and not the kind a shrink can provide; no dude, she needs a reality check. This is the second weekend in a row I watch her get taken advantage of—not an attractive quality. First by her friends—a trio of jock-strap-pursuing jersey chasers—then tonight by Phil, a member of my team.
I make a mental note to find him, wring his scrawny neck, and lecture him about treating women with more respect. This is our house—it’s his goddamn job to stand rooted in that spot and keep our guests happy, not hers. We fucking assigned him that spot. Then he hands the hose off to some girl?
What the actual fuck, Phil?
Not only that, it’s the same girl as last weekend—a girl who obviously needs to be taught how to say, Go screw yourselves and stop walking all over me.
That’s a bit of brutal honesty she’ll only get from someone who couldn’t care less about her feelings.
Someone like me.
***
TEDDY
I’ve been standing in this same spot for over an hour.
At first, it was because I had to get in line for the keg, then, when they kid at the tap finally handed me the hose to fill my own glass…
Somehow, I never let it go.
Or. No one took it from me?
Somehow, without my noticing, a giant of a man-child sidles up to me, shadow looming from above, almost blocking the light.
That’s how large he is.
That’s how large he seems, anyway.
Gingerly, without speaking, he plucks the tap hose out of my grip, grasping the nozzle in a giant hand, pinching it between two fingers and holding it over his cup. The hose hisses from having air in the line, so the big dude reaches down and gives the barrel a few pumps.
Holds the nozzle down again. Fills his cup without speaking to me.
Then, “Where’s your tip jar?” He’s still not looking at me, intent on watching the foam building over his beer. Flicks the top off onto the rug beneath the keg before meeting my eyes.
His are big, brown, and framed by arched bushy brows, a hair-covered face, neck, and head.
His whole appearance is startling. He’s kind of a mix between Wolverine, Teen Wolf, and Bigfoot—if Bigfoot were real. And now he’s pinning me to the floor with his question.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t all bartenders have a tip jar?”
“I’m not the bartender.” Did he really think I was? I can’t for the life of me read his expression under that bush.
“I know that. I was fucking with you.”
“Oh.” Yeah, I said Oh, as if it was the best response I could come up with. Then, because I’m a genius, I follow it up with, “Why?”