Ninja At First Sight (9 page)

“Yes, starting with your panty drawer. Be a good girl and point me in the right direction.”

I forced a chuckle, reminding myself to be bold, and sat on my bed. “Go ahead, snoop. I have nothing to hide.”

His gaze skittered over me, considering. After a short pause, he stepped forward and sat next to me. My heart jumped to my throat and I tensed in anticipation. We were alone together, in my dorm room. The door was closed. Anything could happen.

How wonderfully exciting.

Greg bounced a few times, flattening his hands over the mattress as though testing the springs. “I think your bed is firmer than mine. And it squeaks less.”

“You should file a complaint.” My tone was tighter than I wanted so I tried to swallow… and failed. I took a deep, calming breath.

“I should. Or,” he lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, “I could just steal yours.”

“Or…” I cleared my throat to dispel the nervousness, placed my hands on his chest, and gently pushed him down on the mattress. I finished my thought as I settled next to him, “You could sleep in here with me.”

I was being bold and brave and not a prude. But I’m sure the effect of seductress was ruined by my shaking hands and voice. I tried not to wince at the terse awkwardness of my attempt. I was bad at this.

Greg cocked an eyebrow, narrowing his eyes. Again he looked like he was biting back a retort, literally this time—he was biting his bottom lip—his gaze assessing.

At length, he gathered a deep breath and said, “You look like one of those sorts who has perpetually cold feet and stabby toenails.” As though to illustrate his point, his foot played with mine at the end of the bed. “But I do enjoy your hermit socks. Where can I get a pair of these?”

I realized he was trying to disarm his earlier sexual innuendo, encourage me to relax with benign teasing. I was grateful, but it also made me feel naïve and inadequate.

But then again, I was naïve. I was unworldly, and I couldn’t become worldly overnight.

“I knit these hermit socks.” I poked his foot with mine and grinned when I realized we were playing footsie.

“You knit those socks?” He sounded impressed. “Do all hermits knit?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Especially misogynistic manifesto writing hermits.”

He lifted his head, inspecting our feet as they continued to play, then leaned his head toward mine. “These socks scream,
Ask me about my thirteen cats!
” Greg whispered, his eyes widening for a beat, his mouth forming a crooked grin.

I smiled at him as I giggled, reaching forward and enjoying the connection, the warm solidness of his stomach and chest under my fingertips. We were laying on our sides, face-to-face, so close I was able to count his freckles. The light from the window behind me highlighted the flecks of gold and copper in his dark irises. I was lost to the moment, fuzzy headed with possibility, allowing myself to be caught in the halo of his strength and… maleness.

Then he said, “You’re beautiful.”

I blinked his face back into focus, feeling flush with pleasure, and unable to contain my smile. “Thank you.”

He wasn’t smiling; his gaze sharpened, the curve of his mouth almost stern. “I don’t know that you understand my meaning. Allow me to explain.”

I nodded, still smiling despite his somberness. I couldn’t help it. The boy… rather, the
man
I couldn’t stop thinking about had just told me I was beautiful. I wasn’t coming down from the clouds anytime soon.

“Do you know who Henry Rollins is?”

“The singer?”

He bobbed his head back a forth in a small considering movement. “Technically he’s a spoken word artist, but what he is or isn’t doesn’t relate to my point. Sometimes his words are nonsense, rubbish, innocuous propaganda. And sometimes his words are…” Greg paused, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth and staring through me. He was quiet, obviously debating how to adequately describe what Henry Rollins’ words sometimes are.

Suddenly he quoted, “‘
Girls aren't beautiful, they're pretty. Beautiful is too heavy a word to assign to a girl. Women are beautiful because their faces show that they know they have lost something... and gained something else.’
”

My smile faded as we stared at each other, the full meaning and implication of Greg’s use of the word
beautiful
registering in increments. His eyes warmed, and I realized his hand was resting on my hip, his fingertips slipping under the hem of my shirt. I shivered involuntarily at the contact.

When he spoke next his voice was a whisper, like he was sharing a secret. “I’ve often wondered why you are so beautiful when everyone else is merely pretty.”

I lifted my hand to his cheek, molded my palm against his strong jaw. “What do you think I’ve lost, Greg?”

He covered my hand with his and I mourned the loss of his light touches on my back. “Vanity.”

“Vanity?” His answer surprised and confused me.

“Yes. An aggrandized lack of self-awareness, a yearning to be coveted as the center of the universe. You’ve lost the desire for a self-centered manifest destiny.”

“And here I thought you were referring to my hair loss.” I tried to lighten the mood.

“No you didn’t,” he challenged, narrowing his eyes. Then apropos of nothing, he asked, “What was your childhood like?”

I shifted an inch away, my hand falling to the bed between us. “Um, fine.”

“Not happy. Not terrible. Just fine?”

“Yeah.”

“Define
fine.
”

I debated how to answer this question because I had very few positive feelings about my childhood. My mother was an irrational screamer who required constant management and handling. My father was hardly around due to his job, but I’m sure he loved me in his own way. I’d started college ignorant of the world. I would never have a fulfilling relationship with either of my parents.

Yet making complaints about my privileged upbringing struck me as petulant and entitled.

“I had a roof, clothes, food, safety. I have a younger sister I adore. I have parents who… do their best.”

Greg’s grin returned and I was happy to see it. “See? No vanity. You’ve lost the ability to care about bullshit that doesn’t matter. You’re a star, the center of a solar system, with no desire for the planets, asteroids, and moons caught in your gravitational field.”

“Who wants creepy planets anyway? Planets are amoebas, circling mindlessly in the vacuum of space. They’re star stalkers of the worst sort.”

He continued to look at me like I was a treasure. “Planets are creepy, when you put it like that.”

I looped a finger into his jeans pocket and tugged lightly. “What about you? What was your childhood like?”

His grin turned brittle and his attention moved to the right, beyond my head to the window behind me. “My parents’ house was in Mayfair, but I went to boarding school. My father was a banker and my mother was the daughter of an earl.”

Whoa…!

Mayfair— an exclusive area of West London, by the east edge of Hyde Park, in the City of Westminster—was one of the most expensive postal codes in the world, home of aristocrats and billionaires.

“An earl? Your grandfather is an-”

He spoke over me, giving me the sense that he needed to finish now that he’d started. “My father killed himself when I was fifteen. Apparently he was terribly corrupt, stole millions of dollars from people, very bad man. I have few memories of him, and none of them pleasant. My mother died the year after, an overdose. I was sent to live with my father’s half-sister in California when I was sixteen.”

“Oh my God.” I released the words on an exhale, unable to mask my astonished dismay and empathy. Reaching forward, I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him tightly, as though I could hug away his past hurts and disappointments.

After a moment, his arms came around me as well. He buried his head in my neck, therefore his words were muffled as he continued, “She lived in Compton, just outside of Los Angeles.”

I jerked my head back and stared at him, my mouth gaping. “Your aunt lived in
Compton
?
The
Compton? Like, the home of Dr. Dre and Easy-E?”

“The one and only.”

“You moved to Compton when you were sixteen? After living in Mayfair?”

“It was a very different environment, and yet also extremely similar. Did you know they have a cricket team?”

“The city of Compton has a cricket team?”

“Oh yes. It’s called the Compton Cricket Club, founded a few years ago at the Dome Village Homeless Community in L.A. I was one of the charter members when I was in high school.
Gangsta, Gangsta
by N.W.A. was our victory song.”

A disbelieving laugh tumbled from my lips. My Greg was a walking, talking contradiction.

“Another similarity, I’d come home after high school and frequently find random crackheads milling about outside, offering to prostitute themselves for a few dollars. Once or twice I found one in my room, going through my belongings, looking for something of value to steal.”

“How is that similar to living in Mayfair?”

“My mother’s friends often milled about, prostituting themselves for scraps of attention. And I used to find my mother—who was addicted to any number of prescription medications—going through my belongings when my father would cut her off, looking for something of value to steal.” He chuckled as he finished drawing the comparison, like his past was hilariously ironic rather than heartbreakingly tragic.

“Oh Greg…” I couldn’t laugh with him, so I kissed him. Soft, slow kisses, first on the lips, then on his forehead, temple, and jaw. His hand slipped beneath my shirt, gripping my bare back and holding me steady.

I heard him sigh, like a contented cat. And I thought I also heard him purr—not actually purr, more like a rumbly, pleased groan—before we were interrupted by a door slamming and raised voices in the suite area. I stiffened, reluctantly glancing up from Greg’s lovely neck.

I didn’t want to retreat. He smelled like hints of warm skin, oranges, and spicy aftershave, the good kind that makes the chest feel airy and light. But based on the volume of their drama, Dara and Hivan were only moments away from bursting into the room and kicking us out.

I pulled my hand through my hair and gave Greg an apologetic look. “I guess we should get going.”

“Why?”

“That’s Dara and Hivan.”

I moved to sit and he stopped me. “So?”

“So, they’re going to want to come in here to fight.”

“…so?” He paired this with a single eyebrow lift.

“So, we should leave.”

“Why should we leave? Don’t they do this all the time?”

“Well, yes. About once a week.”

Greg snorted, his arm tightening around my waist. “Then they should leave. We were here first.”

“But…” I faltered, because the reason was obvious. “They need privacy.”

Hivan’s bellowing greeted our ears, causing Greg to roll his eyes. “They don’t want privacy. They want an audience. A pair of pribbling base-court varlots.”

“Pribbling base-court varlots? What does that even mean?”

“It’s a Shakespearean insult. Roughly translated, it means selfish twats.”

I gave him a squinty grin despite Dara and Hivan’s shouting match outside the door.

Greg’s eyes flickered to my mouth and his tugged in response. “I’m not ready to leave yet.”

“We’ll go to the library,” I suggested, not wanting to leave either, but recognizing the futility of the desire.

“No. Hang the library. I want to stay here with you.” Abruptly, he rolled to the edge of the bed and stood. With his hands on his hips he glowered at all four corners of my room.

“What are you looking for?” I rose to a sitting position.

“Where are your tissues?”

“There.” I pointed to a wire shelf at the end of my bed.

He pulled three tissues from the box and handed them to me. “Pretend like you’re crying.”

“What?” I accepted the tissues and swung my feet to the floor.

“Just, do it. When they come in, pretend like you’re crying.” He flicked his hand impatiently.

“Greg-”

He cut me off, shouting, “O serpent heart hid with a flowering face!” Then bent toward me and said in a rushed whisper, “Follow my lead.”

I stared at him askance, his words both odd and strangely familiar. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to reject this silliness or play along. But I had no time to ponder, because Dara opened the door. Her back was to us and Hivan was yelling at her.

I only caught the tail end of his rant, “… such bullshit, Dara! I was with you the entire time, you always see things that aren’t there. Stop being so fucking paranoid.”

“You were not with me the whole time. I saw you! You were all over her, Hivan! Don’t pretend like it didn’t happen. I am so done with you! I hate you!” Her screeching, tearful response reminded me to bring the tissue to my nose.