Part 4 (1/2)

But once I met Ca.s.sie... it was like all of that interest just drained out of me. I only wanted her.

Her eyes had wiped over me like I wasn't even something to be acknowledged, and then they had gone right back to her textbook. There might have been a mild look of disgust on her face, like she'd just tasted something foul.

It was perfect. A girl seemingly immune to me. It wasn't born out of insecurity, but out of contempt! G.o.d, that's s.e.xy.

I read the page header of her textbook as I walked to my customary seat at the back of the cla.s.s: A Brief History of Political Science.

I didn't even f.u.c.king know that our school had political science electives.

And now I'm walking with her along Sunset Way, and the sound of the surf is in my ears, and the smell of salt is on the air, and I'm waiting for her to tell me to go, because I will if she does.

I don't know why, exactly, but I will.

But she doesn't say it. And we just keep walking. She veers onto the beach, and I walk there with her, feeling the soft sand beneath my shoes.

I feel it inside me, as I pull another drag from my cigarette, this growing ball of energy. I feel like I've got a fireball inside my gut, and it's going to burst me at the seams.

She does things to me. f.u.c.k, she really does.

And... and I like it. I like it and I hate it. If this was any other chick I just wouldn't f.u.c.king care. But look at me, walking on the f.u.c.king beach in the late afternoon with her.

I never thought I'd be a cliche.

Jesus, if we were holding hands you could put us on a f.u.c.king advertis.e.m.e.nt!

”My father is a p.r.i.c.k,” she says after a moment.

”Hey, it's like a checklist,” I say. ”Box one, daddy issues. Check.” I tick it off with my finger.

She scowls at me.

I don't even know why I said it. It just came out of my mouth. I shrug. That's who I am, why the f.u.c.k should I apologize for it?

”If you think I've got daddy issues, then you've got oedipal issues.” She flashes her eyes at me, challenging me. She thinks I don't know what she's talking about. It's cute.

”No I don't,” I say. ”And that s.h.i.+t's pretty much been debunked.”

”You know, for a dumba.s.s jock, you have a surprising vocabulary.”

”I'm not a jock,” I say. ”I don't give a f.u.c.k about all that.”

”Right,” she says, rolling her eyes. I just grin at her again. ”You don't give a f.u.c.k. Tell me something new. But you were a school athlete. Wrestling champion, and you were quarterback of the football team? Seems pretty jockish to me.”

”Hey, I take care of my body. I'm better than everyone else at every sport. It was easy credits. I had half the school watching me at practice.”

”You're so full of yourself.”

”So are you, just in a different way.”

”I am not full of myself!” she shouts.

That got a rise out of her...

”Really?” I challenge, walking in front of her and turning around. I'm walking backwards now, and I see her eyes roam up and down my body. I can see she's trying not to meet my eyes. It's... it's hot. She's hot.

Now with the gown off, I can see the shape of her body. G.o.d, she's got some hips on her, and thighs I'd caress for hours.

And her a.s.s... she's got it there, alright. It's big, and it makes my hands feel empty.

She's no Barbie-doll or fas.h.i.+on model. She's got curves, and I love 'em. Just thinking about running my hands down her sides, over her hips, down the insides of her thighs... I'm straining to contain myself.

I don't know exactly what it is about her, but she's special, different. She's got me all wound-up and she doesn't even know it.

”Really,” she sniffs, looking toward the sea. ”I'm definitely not full of myself.”

”Well, let me think. Today you've called me an idiot something like seven times, stupid maybe three times, and basically all your insults have been aimed at my intelligence. I'd say you're pretty up yourself in a very particular way.”

”What, you a psychologist now?”

”See, you did it again. And I don't have to be. Any idiot could see it.” I wink at her, and to my total surprise, I see just a flicker of a smile.

”You know, Chance, you're not as interesting as you think you are.”

”I'm certainly more interesting than you thought I was,” I say.

”Try again,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

I take out a box of mints. I rattle it, but she just shakes her head, so I shrug, and pop two into my mouth.

She takes a deep breath, and I prepare myself for a lot of words.

”You think you're like this mystery to be unraveled. Some kind of enigma. You think that girls like you not because you're the quote-unquote bad boy on the outside... stop laughing.”

But I can't help myself. She even did the finger air-quote gesture.

”You think you're all hard on the outside and that actually you're this interesting person on the inside and that everybody is just dying to puzzle you out, dying to unlock the true you.”

”Now you sound like the psychologist.”

”I've met your type before.”

”No you haven't.”

”Yes I have.”