Love Show (8 page)

“Thanks.”

“So, what’s up?” he asked.

I looked up at him and lifted my
shoulders. “Not much. I was, um…” I glanced over at where David had been
standing. Ben was finally talking to him, although he had his arm wrapped
around some blond girl’s waist. “I was about to get my roommate.”

“Roommates are awesome. Let’s find
him.”

“How much have you had to drink
tonight?” I asked.

He laughed. “I don’t know if I
should tell you that. You might put it in your newspaper.”

“Trust me. You’re not that
interesting and we’re not that desperate yet,” I said.

 “Yet?” He shook his head. “That’s
not a very strong sell. Well, the answer is not that much. It’s a crowded bar.
Somebody pushed me. And you make me nervous.”

I smiled at that. “Bullshit.”

He tilted the neck of his beer
bottle towards me. “I bet you get that all the time.”

I shook my head. “No. I never get
that.”

He laughed. “Well, maybe everyone’s
too nervous to say anything.”

I tried to think of something witty
to say back, but I was watching David downstairs at the bar, with his arms crossed
tightly over his stomach. He was alone, nobody was talking to him. It broke my
fucking heart.

I could see how Ben glanced over,
occasionally, and how each time David looked briefly hopeful and how each time
Ben averted his eyes.

“Seriously?” I muttered bitterly.

“Sorry,” Jack said. “Is that not
allowed?”

“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
I asked him, not taking my eyes off of David. I needed to go down there.

“Ah, your week? I asked if you had
a good week.”

“Yeah, it was fine.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “My roommate is
being an idiot.”

“You want to go find him?” he said.

I nodded. I took a sip of the beer
and made a face.

He laughed. “You don’t like beer.
Good to know.”

“You’re not supposed to buy me
drinks.”

“You’re right,” he said. “Give it
back.” He reached out his hand for it.

I smiled, in spite of myself. “It
has my germs on it.”

“So, what’s up with the roommate?”
he said.

“It’s a long story.”

I looked around for Ben and saw his
back retreating towards the door.

Bastard.

David was still cradling his phone.
When it lit up, so did his face. I leaned my arms on the railing to watch.

Jack’s voice was quiet in my ear.
“That him?”

“Yeah.”

“You can tell me the story,” he
said. “Even if it’s long.”

“I told him I wouldn’t,” I sighed.           

“Well, go talk to him if you need
to. I’ll wait here,” Jack said.

I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thanks.
Sorry.”

“No worries,” he said. He looked
around. “I’ll guard your railing.”

I smiled, wishing I could enjoy Jack
instead of worrying about David. I walked back downstairs past the crowd in
front of the bar and found him.

I tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey.”

David whirled. “Hadley! Hey.”

I smiled. “You okay?”

He nodded and beamed. “Ben just
texted me to meet him. So I’m going to go.”

I nodded once. “Got it.”

He met my eyes. “Sorry.” He looked
around. “Do you want me to stay with you? Is Jack here yet…” He bit his lip
apologetically. “I know I told you I’d introduce Justin to some people but
Ben’s—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.  “I’ll
see you at home.”

He nodded. “Have fun.” He hugged
me. He didn’t look back while I watched him leave.

Jack was waiting for me, as
promised. He was the kind of person who didn’t look uncomfortable alone. He
took up a lot of room, leaning over the railing, one beer resting at his elbow,
nursing another one at his lips.

“Everything cool?” he asked.

No, it wasn’t, but I nodded. “Yeah.”
I smiled. “So, I saw you this week.”

“You did. We made out in my car.”
He smiled. “You let me feel you up. Then you said I wasn’t allowed to date
you.”

“I remember,” I said. “I meant in
Riley’s class.”

“Ah.”

“I think you called him Bobby.”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t recommend
trying that.”

“I wasn’t going to. He’s
terrifying.”

“He’s harmless, really.”

“How do you know him?

“He’s my godfather,” Jack said. “We
go way back.”

“Oh, okay,” I said. “How’d that end
up happening?”

“Oh, you know,” Jack said. “I
insisted on it as soon as I was born.” He grinned. “Nah, my dad knew him.”

I nodded. “Gotcha.”

“He thinks I want to be a
photographer.”

“Do you?”

“No. I don’t want to be anything.”
He smiled. “But I like to humor him. It makes him feel like he’s doing a good
job as a godfather. You like the class?”

“Yeah, I do. He’s amazing. I grew
up reading his books and his articles and—”

“Of course. That’s why you’re Editor-in-Chief.”

“Yeah, that and a long masochistic
streak, apparently,” I said.

“
Really
?” Jack said wickedly.
He smiled. “Tell me more about your masochistic streak. Is that like a
Fifty
Shades—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I meant it’s
a lot of work and it’s pretty thankless.”

 “Alright,” he said. He laughed
into his beer. “Ah…” He looked back at me, chuckling. “Want to dance?”

“Sorry?”

“Do you want to dance?” he nodded
at the dance floor. “You didn’t make a rule against that.”

I squinted at the dance floor. “I’m
not a good dancer.”

“You just haven’t had enough to
drink. Everyone’s a good dancer when they’re drunk.”

“Are you a good dancer?”                     

“Amazing,” he said. “C’mon.”

I followed him downstairs past the
bar to the dance floor. He grabbed my hips and I’d had just enough to drink to
not care who saw.

I wrapped my arms around his neck.
He pulled me close, and he moved against my hips.

Yeah, he was a good dancer.

I was not. And I don’t think there
was enough alcohol in the world to make me one. But, he didn’t seem to mind, so
I held onto his shoulders and moved when he moved and spun when he spun me. And
we laughed. Every time I did something stupid, he started laughing and so did
I.

I kept spinning the wrong way. His
feet kept slipping and he kept grinning each time, gripping my forearms,
pressing his forehead to mine, his laughter low and gravelly close to my ear.

When a slow song came on, he shook
his head. “This against the rules?”

I shook my head. “This is the only
kind of dancing in which I don’t feel like a spaz.”

I felt small in his arms and I
couldn’t remember feeling small before, and warm. Too warm—really—but I didn’t
want to let go. I could feel every place where we touched.

He grinned. “It’s too hot.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.

“We need drinks.”

“Yeah.”

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me
towards the bar. He got the bartender’s attention.

“Jack!” the bartender said. He
grinned and they shook hands and bumped shoulders.

"Xander, this is Hadley."

He nodded and grinned. "Right.
Nice to meet you."

I shook his hand.           

"You're the one who seems like
a trap, right?" Xander asked.

"Shut up," said Jack.

“I think so,” I said.

Xander laughed. "Do you like
tequila?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I
like margaritas."

Xander nodded and poured four shots
skillfully, pushing them towards us. "On the house," he said, turning
to a girl shouting for his attention.

I looked at Jack. "I don't
know about this."

Jack grinned and licked his hand,
shaking salt along his hand.

He reached for my wrist and pressed
a damp kiss beneath my pulse point. Without looking up at me, he poured salt
along the imprint of his mouth.

It stung slightly, the salt, where
it clung to my skin.

He handed me a shot glass, tapped
his against mine, and licked the salt and downed his, biting down on a lime
last.

I spluttered with the mouthful of
salt and alcohol.

"Bite it," he said,
holding out a lime while my eyes streamed. I did, turning away from him as the
juice dripped down my stinging hands. I winced.

"Blergh. Oh my god," I
said. "I'm sorry, that was incredibly inelegant."

He laughed. "Another?"

I shook my head. "I don't
think so."

A slim, gorgeous redheaded girl who
I knew was the president of Kappa-something, slipped by us.

"Shots?" Jack asked her,
offering our leftovers.

"Oh my god, love you,"
she said, taking them. She grinned at me. "Hey! Are you rushing? How do
you know Jack?”

"Sorry?" I asked.             

"Are you rushing? You are,
right? I think I saw you at our event today. I'm the president of Kappa Delta.
Let me know if you have any questions at all. We mix with Jack's frat all the
time."

"Oh, no,” I smiled. “I’m
actually a senior.”

She frowned. "Oh my god!
Sorry. I'm totally mortified. I'm sorry."

"No worries," I said.
"I'm Hadley."

"Reese."                                    

"Nice to meet you," I
said.                      

Jack laughed again. "See you
around, Reese," he said. He wrapped his arm around me. “It’s too fucking
hot in here,” he said, pulling at his thick flannel shirt. His hair was damp
with sweat. Mine was, too, but it was a good look on Jack. It made him look
strangely alive.

“Want to get back out there?” he
nodded at the dance floor. I pulled my hair into a high ponytail. The air against
my neck felt delightful.

“Sure,” I said.

The alcohol and the heat got to me
quickly. Jack got cuter and cuter. We danced and danced. My legs ached. And
every time he spun me, I started to laugh.

"You want to get out of
here?" he asked, when we were both breathlessly and giggling.

I looked at him. His sweat-soaked
hair, his rumpled plaid shirt. And I said exactly what I wanted to say. “Yeah.”

He pulled me through the crowd and
out the door into the winter night. For five fleeting seconds, we both stood in
the chilled air without our coats.

“This feels so good,” he said
holding out his arms and walking up the sidewalk, in between two banks of snow.

But we quickly started to shiver
and I pulled on my down coat and he slid on a Patagonia fleece and stuffed his
hands in his pockets.

“So, what’s your deal, Hadley
Arrington?”

“No deal,” I said.

“Please. Everyone has a deal.”

“What’s your deal?”

“I’m an underachiever,” he said. He
smiled. “Your turn.”

I grimaced.

“I bet you’re an overachiever.”

“Not really,” I said.

He glanced at me. “Editor-in-Chief
of the newspaper?"

I shrugged. “I like it.”

“Because you’re a masochist?”

“Because—because I feel like I’m
actually creating something instead of just...flopping around aimlessly.”

“See, I flop,” Jack said. “You
should try it. It’s not nearly as dreadful as you just made it sound. It has
some advantages.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you’re never disappointed in
yourself. Flopping is easy.”

The frat house wasn’t far—four
hundred or so yards down the road. And we walked through the unlocked front door
to the sounds of video games and the smell of pot. I crinkled my noise and he
laughed. “Come on.”

His room was upstairs, down the
hallway and in a corner. It was small and cozy and absurdly clean. He had countless
books, lined on shelves. And an open sketchbook on his desk. I walked over to
glance at it, but he closed it before I got there.

I didn’t know what to do with
myself, where to sit, what to say, or how to say it. I looked at him and tried
to sound cool. “So, what do you want to do?”

He closed the door and put his
hands lightly on my waist. His hands had rested there all night, but the
dancing had been more about fun than about sex. Now the light hands made my
heart beat quickly in anticipation. He leaned forward and kissed me again,
pushing me back onto the bed.

"Jack..."

He stopped kissing me and frowned.
“You okay?”

I rolled my eyes, took a breath,
and disentangled myself from his grip. "Fine. So, how do you know
Reese?"

He grinned. "The most clueless
girl on campus? How could I not know her?"  He raised his eyebrows.
"
I'm guessing you never went in for the
sorority thing."

"I went to rush," I said.

"Seriously?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I was trying
to cut through the student center to get to the library, went right through
some kind of cheer. Lots of clapping. Very weird."

"Ha. I thought so." He
got up from the bed and took off his shoes. He started unbuttoning his shirt. I
watched him pointedly.

He grinned, unabashed. "So,
Hadley Arrington."

"Yes," I said.

"You're not a bad
dancer."

"I'm not a good dancer
either."

He smiled. "Don't be so hard
on yourself."

"I don't get flowers and you
don't get to lie to me," I said.

"Okay, you're not a good
dancer," he said.

"I'm devastated," I said.

"I bet.” He pointed a finger
at me. “You're an overachiever."

"Completely devastated. There
are almost no serious journalists who can't dance."

He grinned, his eyes crinkled, and
he tossed the sweat-soaked shirt on top of his dresser. His wide shoulders were
smooth and brown, like he’d been in the sun, despite the fact it was January in
Illinois. A thin white scar ran from his left rib to his right groin,
diagonally splitting his rippling muscles.

I met his eyes, feeling panicked.
“How’d you get that?”

“Slip and slide,” he said. “There
was a sharp rock underneath the slide. And I had to go down first. Of course.”