“Hey, man.” Lyle gives me a fist bump as I step into the foyer crammed with sweaty, drunk college kids, then he shoves a cup of beer in my hand. “You made it.”
I scan the people’s faces, searching for someone in particular—the person I came to this party for, the girl I was dreaming about this morning. “I told you I would.” I sip the beer, despite not being a big drinker. I’m just really nervous about seeing Clara and need to chill out.
“If you’re looking for Clara, she’s in the kitchen.” Lyle guzzles the rest of his beer and crunches the cup.
I take a swig of the frothy alcohol. “Am I that obvious?”
“Yeah…” Lyle’s gaze tracks a chick wearing a tight red dress. “Hey… I’ll see you later, okay?” He chases off after her like she’s a magnet and he’s made of metal.
I push my way through the mob and into the kitchen where I immediately spot Clara in the sea of bodies. She’s near the counter by the booze, laughing at something her friend Dana is saying, her crystal blue eyes crinkling at the corners. She’s holding a cup and must be a little bit drunk because she ends up spilling her drink on the floor.
“Whoops. I’m such a klutz.” Her voice floats over the voices and music, swirling around me.
I linger in the doorway, watching her talk and laugh. I’m fixated on the way she keeps brushing her hair off her shoulder, the way her lips move, and how when she shifts her weight, the hem of her red and black dress curls against her long legs.
Finally, her friend spots me and leans in to whisper something to Clara. Clara twists around and her eyes find mine. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, and I know what she’s thinking because it’s the same thing that’s on my mind.
I want to rip her clothes off. Take her upstairs and strip her bare. Kiss her and never come up for air again.
Okay, so her thoughts might not exactly match mine. At least the last part. Friends with benefits—that was the agreement we made three weeks ago after our third hook up. I have to remind myself it’s all Clara wants. That she’s not looking for more, even though I am.
She weaves around the people, pushing her way to me. “Hey, you.” She grins as she reaches me. “How long have you been here?”
“Like ten minutes maybe.” My heart does this stupid little pitter-patter inside my chest when her gaze deliberately drinks me in.
“I thought you were going to text me when you got here, so we could…” Her cheeks flush then she bites her lip again and looks away.
“Fuck,” I finish for her, even though I’m a bundle of nerves.
I don’t hate that I’m nervous. I prefer it. I started dating when I was sixteen, although the term “dating” might be a stretch since I never stayed with anyone for more than a few weeks. It wasn’t like I bailed on the relationship. Things just crumbled the moment they realized I came from a shitty home and had a mother who whored herself out and was constantly doped up on heroin. I never took it too hard when they bailed out, because I couldn’t really blame them.
When I was seventeen, I moved from my hometown in Wyoming to North Carolina to live with my sister. The list of reasons why I moved is endless. Shitty living environment. Crappy mother. My fifth stepfather had started using me as his punching bag. My mother had also disappeared at the time. Just up and left with no reason, something she did a lot. At that point, I didn’t trust anyone. Hook-ups filled my weekends, and I never felt anything for anyone.
Then, a little over six months ago, I met Clara.
She was wearing scrubs with kittens on them the first time I met her, looking absolutely adorable. We quickly became friends. She made me smile. Laugh. She made me nervous in the best sort of way. One night, we accidentally hooked up at a party after too much Bacardi. Neither of us were drunk enough to forget what happened—how fucking amazing we were together. When the next weekend came, the same thing happened. I realized maybe I wanted to try the girlfriend and boyfriend thing. Problem is, Clara’s still afraid of commitment for whatever reason, which is the main reason I haven’t told her I’m moving into the same apartment complex as her—she’s going to flip out.
She shakes her head, still avoiding eye contact with me. Her flush deepens. “You have such a dirty mouth.”
“What? I’m just saying it like it is.”
Our gazes weld, and her breath hitches in her throat.
“Fine, Jax Hensley, I thought you were going to text me when you got here so we could fuck.” She elevates her brows, arrogantly challenging me, even though her face is bright red.
“Jesus, Clara.” My eyes mockingly widen. “You’re making me blush.”
She swats my chest, laughing, and the sound is better than the music. “Ha, ha, you think you’re so funny.”
“No, I don’t. I think I’m fucking hilarious.”
She rolls her eyes. “All right, Mr. Hilarious. Where to this time?”
I chuckle lowly. “Always straight to the point.”
“You knew that about me before we,” she gestures between the two of us, “started doing this.”
“True.” I glance at the overly stuffy kitchen, the trashed living room, then at the narrow stairway leading upstairs. “Follow me, my lady.” I offer her my hand, grinning.
She promptly shakes her head and shuffles back. In the beginning stages of our fling, I thought her offish behavior stemmed from her embarrassment to be seen with me, considering I’m a year and a half younger than her, but I know the real reason now.