We’re in Greenies.
Again.
A common fucking occurrence lately.
We always start somewhere else yet end up here. Like it’s kismet or some shit.
We lost Cass along the way, replacing him with other guys from the team, a swap I’m less than happy about. They’re fine. Just a bit… much for me. Vinny is loud enough to break eardrums, Jay can’t carry a conversation that doesn’t involve sex, and Frankie does little more than chug beer and belch.
Plus, I’m not a fan of the girls they brought with them, particularly the one who’s ended up perched on my lap through no encouragement of mine. My disinterest is clear—or, at least, I think it is—yet she keeps rubbing my thigh and whispering things I think are supposed to be alluring in my ear but kind of just make me cringe. Only politeness and the lack of room in our cramped booth stops me from shoving her off.
I pretend to listen to her spout incoherent nonsense about baseball but really, unsurprisingly, my focus is elsewhere. Namely, it’s flitting around the diner following the path of an uncharacteristically frazzled blonde.
It looks like she’s braving the masses alone tonight, the sole provider for the droves of drunk students demanding another one, and as unhappy as the situation makes me—something about seeing Luna so clearly uncomfortable strikes a bum chord within me—I can’t compare to the man squished beside me.
I wonder if Nick thinks he’s being subtle, with the way he cranes his neck slightly to peer around the diner. Brows drawn together sullenly. Lips pursed in a permanent disappointed pout. The girl perched on his knee has spent the better part of an hour fighting a losing battle for his attention, and with a chime of the bell above the front door, she’s defeated. Blatantly rejected as Nick actually shucks her from his lap, the poor thing scrambling for a moment before finding a new purchase on Jay’s knee.
The mysterious Red waltzes into the room and everyone else ceases to exist for my friend. His golden eyes glow as she approaches, her pencil poised ready to scribble our order, her smile falsely bright as she asks, “What can I get you?”
Even if he hadn’t adopted the unholy trinity of a lazy slouch, a cocked head, and a crooked brow, I would’ve anticipated Nick’s snarky response before it leaves his mouth; the man just can’t help himself. The goddamn twinkle in his eyes screams trouble long before he does. “Are you even old enough to be here?”
Red purses her lips, fire flickering in green eyes as they narrow, something saccharine lacing her tone as she retorts, “Are you? I’m afraid I’ll need to see some ID.”
The burgeoning chuckles die out immediately.
Except for mine; I can’t keep from smiling as I rummage for my ID, shaking my head at Nick’s expression; nothing short of lovestruck. I think he likes the girl even more now. Hell, I like her; anyone who refutes Nick’s attitude rather than falling to their knees and kissing his feet is a winner in my book. And she, when they fail to cough up IDs, gets rid of the girls with a shrug and a ‘hey, what can you do?’ kinda smile.
Wins all around.
Ben casts us a forlorn look as he slides from the booth, his fabricated protests futile—no matter how hard he tries to convince Red he’s of age, he still ends up trailing towards Greenies’ exit, tossing a scowl and a middle finger in Nick’s direction on his way out.
It’s as I’m watching him leave that, for the umpteenth time, my gaze snags on something else. Tanned forearms propped against the counter and a mouth that makes no attempt at hiding its amusement. When sparkling eyes meet mine, that smile thins to a smirk, lips forming a silent apology that doesn’t seem all that sincere.
I last a record-breaking five seconds before all that blue becomes overwhelming, and God, I hope the blush searing my cheeks isn’t quite as visible as it feels.
“I like that girl,” Frankie muses, watching Red as she retreats with our sheepishly mumbled orders. “Feisty.”
An honest to God growl rumbles in Nick’s chest. Ripping his gaze from his newest—and, I suspect, first—infatuation, he glares at my teammate, the sweet sentiment he doesn’t say clear as day; shut the fuck up.
I can’t help but snort; doesn’t like the girl, my ass.
Slumping, Nick hits me with a warning look. “Don’t say a fucking word.”
“Wasn’t gonna.” Copying my friend, I lean back and cross my arms before adding in a voice low enough for only him to hear, “you got a ring picked out yet?”
Golden eyes narrow. “Hypocrite.”
“Coward.”
“Hey, pot?” Sarcasm weighs down Nick’s drawl as his beer bottle tilts toward the spot my gaze can’t help but stray. “It’s kettle, you’re black.”
The downside of drinking with people you dislike, besides the sudden urge to plug your ears and sing ‘la la la la la la’ on repeat?
You always get a lot drunker than you intended.
Self-preservation, I guess; easier to drown out the inanity when you’re halfway to a hangover.
I don’t realize quite how past my limit I’ve gone, though, until a full bladder sends me to my feet and I find myself swaying through the diner, bumping into more people than I care to admit. I make quick work of going to the bathroom—leaving Nick alone with my teammates for too long feels like a recipe for a bloody disaster. In my haste, I round a corner too quickly and run smack bang into someone. Instinct has me reaching out to steady whoever I almost bowled over, an apology on my tongue.
The smell of vanilla hitting me like a slap to the face has a different word escaping me. “Shit.”
“You know,” a lilting voice cuts through the tipsy haze, “for an athlete, you’re pretty clumsy, Jackson.”
She remembers my name.
My hands drop with my gaze, finding shelter in my pockets as they fist, palms buzzing with the memory of warm, soft skin beneath them. “Sorry.”
Silence follows my mumbled apology, and I’m wondering just how awkward it would be if I turned and ran without another word when an amused question breaks it. “Do you have something against my eyes?”
I frown at the dirty tiled floor. “What?”
“My eyes,” Luna repeats slowly, and I glance up just in time to catch her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip, teeth finding purchase in the plump pink. “Something repulsive about them? Remind you of an ex? Or do you just hate blue?”
Repulsive.
I almost laugh.
Definitely not a word I would use.
Dizzying, maybe. Overwhelming, definitely. Magnetic? Stunning, but not in the beautiful sense, although they are that. In the way that dazes a person and robs them of words and thoughts and the ability to do anything but marvel.
There’s a hundred better descriptors yet all I manage is a croaked, “no.”
“You think you could manage to look me in them every once in a while?”
The teasing question catches me off-guard, has my wide-eyed gaze meeting one full of roguish mirth. “There you go,” Luna croons softly. “Much better.”
And there it is, I think as my internal organs begin to malfunction. The reason I avoid looking right at her. The same reason you don’t look directly at the sun, I guess; bad for your health. Even as frazzled and disheveled as she appears right now.
One hand smoothes back the wisps escaping her ponytail, the other swiping a flushed cheek before pushing open the door behind her. She slips into an empty kitchen and, without thinking, I prop myself in the doorway, watching as she yanks open a dishwasher. “Were you looking for something?” she asks, the question punctuated by a grunt, the muscles in her arms straining as she hoists a crate full of freshly washed glasses out of the machine and onto the counter.
“No,” is what I plan to say, since Luna’s question sounds suspiciously like a dismissal.
I’m not sure where “you need help?” comes from.
It’s slow, how she turns to me, a hand on her hip and an incredulously amused expression arching her brows. “You wanna help me polish glasses?” When I shrug, she tuts. “It’s a yes or no question, Jackson.”
I swallow, I cough, I fucking choke. “Yeah, I do.”
A moment of hesitation, a half shake of a head, before an inviting arm waves in the air. “Be my guest.”
It feels weird, wrong, and slightly exhilarating, sauntering through a door marked ‘staff only.’ Even more so because of the pretty blonde watching me like a hawk.
Picking up a rag and a glass, I get to work, trying and failing to ignore the sight in my peripheral vision. It’s only when I pass her a rag of her own, slender fingers brushing mine, does Luna let out a quiet, breathy laugh and re-assigns her gaze to the steaming glasses. “Are your friends really that boring?”
“I prefer sober company.”
“Sober company,” she repeats with a low hum. “And what about mine?”
It’s a miracle, really, that I don’t drop the glass in my hand. And that it only takes a very long minute to choke out, “Yours is good.”
“Help and flattery. Your girlfriend is a lucky woman.”
I pause polishing. “My what?”
“Your girlfriend,” Luna repeats nonchalantly, the glitter in her bright white nail polish catching the light as she holds up a glass for inspection. “The one my friend kicked out. Sorry about that, by the way.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.” I’m really not sure what gave her that impression considering I barely talked to the girl.
Up goes a pale brow. “No?”
“Nope.”
“She’s busy tonight?”
“Who?”
“Your girlfriend.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Oh.” Luna hums, a hint of a smile gracing pink lips. “Good to know.”
Good to know.
Good to know.
A phrase suddenly so goddamn foreign to me because what? What does that mean? What does she mean?
I’m too chickenshit to ask. I just cough and nod and stay silent some more until… I don’t. Until I find a long-buried, tiny shred of bravery and spit out, “What about yours?”
Luna side-eyes me, head tilted in question.
I swallow hard. “Your boyfriend. He busy tonight?”
Her hesitation lasts forever. Or at least, it feels like it does. I hold my breath as I wait, silently wishing I could pluck my words from the air and shove them back down my throat. When that serious, contemplative look softens and laughter echoes around the room, my breath leaves me in one big whoosh. “No.”
An answer but not an answer. An answer that evokes another question. An answer I have a feeling is entirely purposeful.
