#Superfan
Authors: Jae Hood
#superfan
By Jae Hood
Copyright © 2016 by Jae Hood
All rights reserved
Disclaimer:
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. All references to ancient or historical events, persons living or dead, locations, and places are used in a fictional manner. Any other names, characters, incidents, and places are derived from the author’s own imagination. Similarities to persons living or dead, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of any wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction.
Edited and formatted by Rachel Lawrence.
Cover art by Kellie Dennis at Book Cover by Design.
For Lin
In the twenty-four years I’ve been alive, I’ve come to despise stepping more than a foot outside my own home.
I’m not exactly sure how it started, becoming an introvert, that is. On some psychosocial level I blame my general dislike of society as a whole for my state of isolation. People are dumb. People disappoint. People piss me off, and I’m the type of person who’s easily peeved. Crowds weird me out, no matter how great or small. And speaking to strangers? Please. I’d rather shove needles underneath my fingernails.
Which is why I’m breaking out in a cold sweat at the moment, standing just outside the glass doors leading into a local Chinese restaurant. My best friend’s husband set me up on a blind date with an acquaintance of his, some guy my best friend Madi doesn’t even know, which probably isn’t the most ideal situation imaginable. Best friend input is of the utmost importance when potential hook-ups are involved, and I’m standing here with nada. Not one iota of information about this guy.
My normally curly hair I’ve worked so doggedly to straighten begins to frizz. A bead of sweat trickles its way between my shoulder blades and down my back. Must be the nerves because it’s cold outside, or at least cold by Georgia standards.
I pull my phone from my purse for the millionth time in the past hour and check the time. I’m ridiculously early, which blows, because when you go on a blind date you should always arrive a little late. That way you can scope out the guy from a distance, decide if he’s a one or a ten, and duck out before he sees you no matter how high or low he is on the hotness scale, because come on. No one wants anything below a five, and no woman in her right mind wants a ten. Not really. Who wants to fight over their own self-confidence or mirror-time that much?
Opening the glass doors of the lobby, I take a peek at the pretty surroundings: the rock waterfall against one wall, filled with turtles and bug-eyed fish lounging around inside the clear water. Silver and copper-colored coins gleam from the bottom of the pool. I drop my phone inside my purse and dig around the bottom of the bag for some loose change. Tossing a couple quarters in the pond, I pray I didn’t forgo my typical Friday night Netflix movie marathon in vain. An ugly fish stares up at me, challenging me to make a wish.
“Give me a hottie with a body,” I tell the fish. “But not like a super-hot body because I’ll never feel good enough for him. But don’t make him too pudgy or anything because maybe one day I’ll be active. Not today, but one day. Give me a five, lucky fish. Give me a solid five.”
One fish stares at me with its weird eyes and closes its gaping mouth. Sighing, I leave the waterfall behind and approach a wooden podium near the front of the restaurant where a grinning Asian girl patiently waits.
“Smoking or smoking?” she asks, her accent thick.
I’m thrown off kilter for a moment, wondering if this is a trick question. “Um, is non-smoking an option?”
“Yes, I say smoking or smoking.” Her words are a slur of syllables.
I glance around the room looking for a hidden camera. Surely this is some sort of test on my patience. Or sanity.
“I’ll take the non-smoking.”
Grin growing wider, she gives me a curt nod. Her blunt-cut bangs shift on her forehead, and her silky black hair falls easily back into place as she grabs a menu. I half expect her to ask “table or booth,” or maybe “booth or booth,” but apparently neither is an option I get to choose because she turns on her heel and walks away. I’m two beats behind before I recognize she expects me to follow. She leads me to a booth in the corner of the room, and I immediately slide into the seat with my back facing the wall.
In my mind I dub my waitress “Pete” because “Repeat” just sounds dumb. Pete asks if I want sweet tea or sweet tea, and this one is a no-brainer. I’d choose sweet tea over sweet tea every time.
When Pete abandons me to fix my tea and allows me to peruse the menu, I take the opportunity to scan the sparse crowd. My blind date isn’t here, or at least I hope he’s not. The only person other than myself dining alone in the oversized room is an eighty-year-old man with his rolling walker perched beside him. His teeth rest on a napkin situated near his plate. I guess you don’t need your choppers when slurping down lo mein.
I shrug off my peacoat and stare out the nearby window, menu forgotten. The smoking area Pete suggested sits outside, far enough away from the building to comply with the non-smoking city ordinance. There’s only one guy sitting out there at one of the metal tables, not even eating. He drags his fingers through a mop of messy curls and tips his head back toward the stars. Puffs of smoke occasionally leave his mouth, but it’s from the cold, not from any cigarettes as far as I can tell.
Smokers irk me, but I don’t know why. We all have our vices, some more disgusting than others. Lord knows I do. I could blame the nicotine and tar for ruining people’s hearts, lungs, skin, and teeth, but the truth is being an introvert is just as dangerous to one’s health. Avoiding people for the past few years has changed me, made me the sort of person I would have made fun of a few years prior.
I’ve never been a naturally outgoing person, but at least when I was younger I attempted socializing with others, trying new things. I tried out for the cheerleading squad in high school and made alternate, which basically meant if someone fell from the top of a pyramid and broke something, I was in. Fingers, toes, legs, and eyes crossed, I prayed from the bleachers during every Friday night game that someone would fall from that blasted pyramid. Or not catch the ninety-pound girl lunging toward their outstretched arms from a sky-high basket toss. But no one fell. No one broke an ankle. Not even a nail. And so there I sat for an entire football season on the sidelines. Alexa Hannah, the girl with two first names, which also happens to be the most interesting fact about me, sadly enough.
Sometimes I think it’s failures like cheerleading that have made me into the cynical person I am. Or instances like tonight, sitting at a booth well past my date’s arrival time, shooing Pete away each time she offers to refill my tea. Every time the bell rings above the door I tremble. Each time, it isn’t him, the mystery guy. Eventually I inform Pete there’ll be no need for the menu, because I’m hitting the buffet tonight.
Hard.
For the first time in my life, I’ve been stood up, and not surprisingly I feel nothing but relief. First dates are too much like job interviews. Stiff. Uncomfortable. Nerve-racking. Wearing nice clothes when I’d rather be home in bed or on the couch, braless, wearing my favorite stretchy lounge pants. Striving to say all the right things, the things I think the other person wants to hear. A pinprick of truth, not the real me. Not yet, because I lure them in with fantasy me before unleashing that hidden beast of a person. Peppering them with questions and hoping they’re not a psychopath, but also hoping they’re accepting of my amount of weird, because let’s face it, we’re all varying levels of weird.
Between bites of my delicious Asian cuisine, I do what I normally do when something monumental happens in my life: Tweet my favorite actor. Comparing his perfection to the rest of the mediocre males populating the earth has become a daily habit, sadly enough.
I bet @therealAydenVaughn wouldn’t leave a girl hanging. #superfan
While I work on plate number two, the guy from outside enters the building and pauses near my booth. He tosses his jacket into the corner of the seat across from mine. The stranger slides into the booth, the action forcing the working of my jaw to come to a halt. His sleeves are pushed up, exposing lean forearms and fine blond hairs, matching the askew mop of blond curls atop his head. Tiny slivers of healing abrasions line the creases in his knuckles. There’s a small white bandage on one elbow and a scattering of what looks like road rash peeking out from the edges of the adhesive. Embarrassingly enough, the fact that this guy may or may not have been involved in some type of brawl turns me on.
Tired blue eyes stare at me. Light shadows of sleeplessness dust the corners of his eyes. The beginning of a lazy smile lifts one corner of his mouth. Even in his obvious exhaustion, he’s hot, a definite eight.
I drop my fork with a clang and reach for my napkin. Patting my mouth, I swallow the remnants of my shrimp fried rice and pray to God there’s not a pea or something plastered to my front teeth. Not that it matters, because like I said, this guy is an eight. And I don’t mess with eights.
Before I can ask what’s up, he’s opened his mouth.
“One reason,” he says, tossing one arm on the back of the booth. He’s wearing one of those stupid soft shirts that boys sometimes wear. Plain. Cotton. Boring. Clinging to all the right places.
The shirt ripples over his impressive chest, and I swear on all that’s Holy I may or may not audibly whimper.
“One reason?” I manage to say. Hard to concentrate with a definite eight staring back at me. “One reason what?”
Eight leans forward, resting his forearms on the table between us. “One reason why you shouldn’t take me home.”
The seconds tick by. Ten seconds of heart-stopping lust, replaced with a heated anger, because really? Do I look that easy? Just because I’m rolling up in the Chinese restaurant on a Friday night solo doesn’t mean I’m down for whatever. And now I’m laughing. Laughing at his audacity. Laughing at his smirk fading away, his deep blue eyes narrowing at my hysterics.
“You only want one?” Wiping the corners of my eyes with my crumpled napkin, I survey the plate in front of me before tossing the napkin aside. Tucking myself into my cooling food, I disregard my impromptu dinner companion with the flick of my wrist. “Go away. You’re killing my MSG buzz.”
“Not until you give me one reason.”
With a huff, I finish off my shrimp fried rice and push the plate aside. “How about three? Three good reasons I won’t hook up with you.”
Eight gestures for me to continue.
“Reason number one: you’re a solid eight, hence the nickname I’ve so suitably bestowed upon you,
Eight
.” My words carry a hint of an English accent, although I’m not sure why. I’ve never crossed the Georgia state line.
Eight’s thick brows furrow. “An eight? What’s an eight?”
Cue eye-roll. “On the hotness scale? From one to ten, you’re an eight.”
Forehead smoothing, he gives me an easy smile. “And that’s a bad thing?”
“That’s an intimidating thing, especially for someone like me who’s a simple six.”
“Simple six?”
“Yeah, what are you, a parrot or something? Jesus.” I pluck a new napkin from the dispenser and clean my greasy fingertips. “I’m a six. Just above average. Not too hot, but not a dog. The kind of girl who shoots for a five, someone she can take out on a Friday night and not worry about him catching some girl’s eye or vice versa. He’s a five, so he’s intimidated by any woman higher than a six. He’ll look, but he won’t pounce, because he’s more terrified of rejection than a simple six. He’s a feasible five. Anything over a five will cause me to overanalyze the situation too much, and I’m the queen of over-analysis as it is. No need to put more strain on my poor little mind.”
“Sounds like you’ve got this down to a science, but I’m confused as to why you call yourself a simple six when you clearly rank much higher.”
Eight smiles at Pete as she arrives to take my plates. She skirts away with red cheeks. Surely her heart is aflutter from his ridiculously charming grin.
“Ugh, don’t do that.” I ball up the napkin and toss it on the newly clutter-free table. “Don’t try charming me with the possibility of higher numbers. You obviously came over and dropped that dumb line because I’m a six and you’re an eight. You think a six is a sure thing. You think because I’m not high on the hotness meter I’ll, what, take you home with me? Which is reason number two why I’d never hook up with someone like you. You’re supposed to invite the woman to
your
place to hook up, not the other way around. What kind of person does that?”
“The kind of person who has no place to call home anymore.” Eight shrugs.
For a fraction of a second I feel sorry for him. No wonder he looks so haggard. He’s homeless. How do hot guys become homeless? Isn’t there a gaggle of Naughty Nines who’ll take him home for the night?
“Dude, I drop my spare change in the red bucket outside WalMart every Christmas just like the rest of the population. That doesn’t mean I want to take a homeless person home to live with me.”
“Not like literally homeless.” Eight sighs. “I’ve become a semi-permanent fixture in a local hotel after a falling-out with my roommate. We’ve decided to part ways. Our apartment’s been uncomfortable since I decided to move out, so I’m spending as much time away from there as possible.”
“By attempting to hook up with random sixes?”
“You make me sound sort of pathetic.” Eight gives me a sad smile.
“That’s because you sort of are.”
Eight’s face falls and I veer the conversation back to the original topic. “Reason number three: if I took you home you’d inevitably see my bedroom, and my bedroom is dedicated to an untarnished ten. A man so intimidatingly gorgeous, you’d go from rock hard to shriveled prune in two seconds flat.”
“Wait, what? An untarnished ten …”
“Yeah, an untarnished ten.” Pete brings my bill and a couple fortune cookies. I toss one across the table to Eight. He needs all the good fortune he can get. “One good thing about this place, their fortune cookies don't taste like cardboard.”
