Hard Pass Page 7

  She has no idea who I am—and I’m not talking about the fact that I am Noah.

  She has no idea I am famous.

  She has no idea that around here, in this town?

  We are gods among men.

  Leo, Davis, Buzz, and the others? Heroes.

  Tripp Wallace, Buzz’s brother, is here, too. Tripp plays for the Chicago Blues, the professional football team, another local—and national—star.

  So, of course, the fucking bartenders are going to zoom in my direction to help me—they recognize me, as does everyone here. They want to be seen with the men who are going to take their team to the goddamn national championship.

  Her? Not so much.

  “This place is full of small dicks, bartending staff included.” I can feel the smirk on my face as I insult every person in the club.

  “Yourself included?”

  “No. I’m only here because I was forced out of the house. This isn’t my scene.” I take the drink in front of me—the one Tiffany the bartender just set down—and sip while Miranda assesses me.

  “What is your usual scene?” She takes a drink of her mojito, watching me over the brim of the glass, her eyes wide and sober.

  “Home. The backyard. I jog a lot.” Work out a lot, too, because I have to, and practice—obviously.

  “What’s so great about your backyard? Mine is all public access—there are people everywhere. Does your apartment have a community center?”

  Uh, no.

  It makes sense that she would assume I live in an apartment since we’re in Chicago and most everyone does, especially the people our age. Little does she know I’m outside of town, in a gated community, in a 4 million dollar house. By myself.

  At 24 years old.

  She would shit herself.

  But also…

  Maybe she wouldn’t give a crap, which I have a feeling would be the case. She knows Wallace is wealthy, knows he’s good-looking, and she still wants nothing to do with him.

  “You’re doing it again,” she tells me, nudging me with her elbow, and I look down, into her empty mojito glass. Dang, she must have downed the entire thing while I was daydreaming.

  She must be tipsy, feeling the buzz, if she’s teasing me.

  “Doing what?”

  “Spacing out.” Her smile is restrained. “I know I’m not that exciting—please do not feel like you have to stand here and keep me company.”

  Guilt slams me in the stomach, a tight fist to the gut. Is that what she thinks? That she’s boring me?

  Hardly.

  “Sorry, I had a…” I search for an excuse. “It’s been a crazy week.”

  “Right,” she deadpans. “Like I said, don’t let me keep you.” She pauses and looks over the bar top. “But would you do me one favor before you go? Can you order me another drink? They’ll leave me standing here all night and I don’t want to be empty-handed—it feels weird.”

  That’s hardly a favor.

  My hand goes out, finger up.

  Tiffany is back in a flash; I hand her Miranda’s empty glass. “Mojito?”

  I nod.

  “Wow. That is unreal.” Miranda shakes her head—in disgust? Contempt? Disbelief? It’s difficult to tell under these lights, which have turned everyone a slight shade of blue. On her, it’s flattering, and I wonder what color her top actually is. “You just snap your pretty little fingers and she comes running over. Must be nice.”

  It is nice, actually, but let’s focus on the word pretty. My pretty little fingers? Does she actually mean my hands or is she indirectly referencing my face?

  I know I’m not much to look at, but she doesn’t have to be a bitch about it.

  “I don’t understand. Why is it so easy for y’all to get service when I’m just standing here like a shit in someone’s punch bowl?” she muses, tapping her hand on the bar.

  “Did you just call yourself a shit in a punch bowl?”

  Her hand flies to her mouth, embarrassed. “Did I say that? Oh my god, I am so sorry.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t be—it’s just not something I’ve heard a woman say before.” I’ve only heard it from men, usually when they have to take an actual shit. “Are you from the south? Y’all just rolls right off your tongue.”

  “No, I just love that word and I love the south.” Her mojito arrives and she takes a sip of it before bowing her head. Unsnaps her purse and pulls out a $20. “Here, this is for the drinks. I appreciate it.”

  A few things are wrong with this scenario.

  $20 isn’t enough to cover her two drinks, but far be it from me to say so. I don’t want to embarrass her further. $30 is more like it—even $40 with the tip.

  I’ve never had a woman pull money out of her purse to pay me before.

  She’s expecting me to take it and I anticipate an argument—one I am not ready to have.

  I hold my hand out and up in protest, pushing against the money in her hand.

  “Keep it.”

  “No really.” She flaps it in the air. “I insist.”

  As I figured she would, a girl like Miranda is full of principles and ethics. Clearly she is not at this bar to find herself a sugar daddy.

  “My treat,” I counter. “Unless you want me to leave it on the bar as a tip.” I have a tab open and all the bartenders know we’ll tip very generously so this is an empty threat, but Miranda doesn’t know that.

  “What! Hell no—she didn’t give me the time of day!” The bill gets snatched back, shoved into her little black and gold purse. “I’m sorry, but no.”

  I laugh, deep within my chest, and Miranda halts what she’s doing to watch, eyes going wide. Staring like I’ve sprouted a second head, and now I feel like I have, self-conscious and uncomfortable.

  Immediately, I stop. “What?”

  “Nothing.” She shakes her head in the way girls do when ‘Nothing’ means something. Bites down on her lower lip, smiling as she takes another dainty sip from her mojito, the alcohol probably muddling her brain.

  She must be drunk; it feels like she’s flirting.

  She cannot be drunk—she’s only had one!

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Really, I want to know. Girls don’t give me these looks, not even when they’re at my house, or in my bed, or spending my money.

  “What look? I’m just looking—it’s not a crime.” She tilts her head just then, studying me. “How are you all so tall?”

  “Who?”

  “You and your friends. It’s like a giant convention.” Another shake of the head. “It’s so weird.”

  I want to laugh. Want to tell her she’s adorable, and cute and funny, but instead, I drink from my cocktail to occupy myself. It goes down strong, the bartender having added too much vodka and not enough soda, and despite my size, it hits me in the head.

  I lean against the bar, mimicking Miranda’s stance, settling in for a conversation, content to have the rest of the group—and the servers—ignoring us for now. I’m going to enjoy the anonymity, my drink, and this pretty girl for as long as it lasts.

  “Weren’t you going to go back to your friends?” She toys with a mint leaf sticking out of her glass, swirling it around.

  “I never said I wanted to go over there—you did.”

  She looks bashful, and I can’t see it, but I know she’s shuffling her feet. “I just assumed.”

  “Why?”

  Miranda is beautiful and sassy, so riddle me this: why the fuck would I go back to my dipshit buddies when I could stand here in the dark and hide away with her?

  “Because?” As if that explains everything.

  I wait for more of a reply, casually keeping my lips shut, knowing she’ll elaborate if I don’t prod her.

  I’m right.

  “Because look at me! And look at them! I’m in jeans!”

  A snort escapes my nose, then a laugh. “So? I’m wearing jeans.”

  “Okay, well, look around you: all the women in here are wearing dresses—ti
ght, sexy dresses—and I’m in this thing.” She pulls at the fabric of her blouse, and I catch a glimpse of cleavage that’s been hidden until now. Is she even wearing a bra? She must be, otherwise they wouldn’t be sitting so far up on her chest, right? Shit, what do I know about tits? I’ve only seen a few pair, most of them too round and fake.

  Eighties implants I call them.

  “Are you staring at my boobs?”

  Staring? “No.”

  Checking them out? Yes. 100%.

  “But you did look.”

  Shit, she really must be getting drunk, her filter slowly slipping.

  “Looking is not staring.” I feel the need to clarify this point. Feel like I’m in middle school again, wanking it in my bedroom and almost getting caught by my mother because she always refused to knock.

  You do not walk into a boy’s bedroom when they’re a teenager—you’re only in for a rude awakening if you do. Mom did not get the memo and I lived in fear every time I jerked it, sometimes in the closet.

  When all my buddies were getting laid by girls from our grade, I was masturbating in the walk-in closet at home. Or in the shower. Or in the dark, in bed.

  But I digress…

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. I must be getting buzzed from this mojito—I don’t usually drink.”

  “Neither do I.” Which is true. I don’t. One, I’ve never liked the taste of it, and two, as an athlete, it’s just bad for my body. I spend countless hours eating healthy and exercising. I don’t want to counteract all that by drinking my calories. “This is the only one I’ve had tonight.” And then I’ll switch to water.

  We have a scrimmage this week and I’ll be feeling this one drink in my system for days. No doubt tomorrow morning I’ll have a headache.

  “So…” Her voice trails off, eyes wandering around the room before settling back on me. My chest. Hair.

  Nose.

  Fuck, my nose.

  I resist the urge to cover it with my hand, sniffing instead. Nostrils flare.

  She pulls her eyes away, thank God. “You’re all friends?”

  I nod. “Friends and…” Let’s see, how do I put this? “Co-workers.”

  “Dang, what kind of job do you have where everyone is over six feet tall and made of steel? Are you all gym rats?”

  “Something like that.”

  She emits a humph. “Figures.”

  “I’m sorry, what was that?” I lean in so she has to repeat her snarky comment, stereotyping us as meatheads. Not having a single clue we’re professionals, earning money that would make her pretty head spin. “You’re mumbling.”

  “I’m not mumbling. I said what I said.” She’s defiant, getting a bit tipsier, and sounds like a meme on the internet. “Wow, I’m being a brat. Please ignore me—I’m not usually like this.”

  Not usually like this?

  What a liar. Miranda is a complete sass pants. I can see it in her eyes, along with something else: mischief and sparkle. Interest.

  Interest, Noah? In you? Please get your head out of your ass. This girl is not interested in you.

  But she’s not interested in Wallace or Leo, or anyone else, either. So what is her type if it’s not tall, rich, and handsome?

  “You have a terrible habit of gazing off into space. Do you know that?”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. One second we’re talking and the next you’re off in another world, overthinking things.”

  I twist my mouth. “How do you know I’m overthinking things, let alone thinking about anything? We’re in a bar—it’s loud, and crowded. I can’t hear you, can’t hear my own thoughts.”

  “Whatever. I can tell by the way your forehead gets all wrinkled, even though it’s covered by all this hair.”

  She reaches up then to brush it out of the way, and I grab her wrist to stop her.

  Please don’t touch me.

  It’s been so long my entire body vibrates from the heat of her skin beneath my hand, and I quickly drop it. “Shit. Sorry.”

  “Whoa, what was that?” Her face changes then, expression softening. Worried, then concerned. “I wasn’t going to hit you.”

  “I know what you were going to do. That’s not why I…” I feel like such an idiot, heat rising to my face. “Knee-jerk reaction, that’s all.”

  I can’t say, I have PTSD from all the balls flying toward my face on a regular basis. ’Cause that wouldn’t sound weird at all.

  “Well, I’m still sorry. I shouldn’t get in your personal space. It’s something I’m working on.” She smiles up at me, white teeth shining in the dim light. “I’m overly affectionate.”

  I clearly am not.

  Miranda rambles on. “I’m a hugger. I think it’s going to be an issue when I run my own business—I don’t need anyone reporting me to HR because I grabbed them for a bear hug.” She giggles into her glass. “I think it’s because my parents weren’t really huggers. I don’t remember them even touching each other very often. Weird, right?”

  Jesus, are we suddenly having a therapy session?

  I shift on my heels, uneasy. “Right.”

  “You could probably use a hug.”

  Uh. What?

  “I’m good, but thanks.” Vigorously, I shake my head.

  “Aww, the big teddy bear needs a hug.” She says it in that way only girls can, almost as if she’s cooing to a baby.

  Yeah, she’s drunk. “Trust me, I don’t.”

  “Come here.” Her arms open and I stare down at her tiny, hot little body. The boobs beneath her blouse. The tight, high-waisted jeans. The tips of her toes peeking out from whatever heels she’s got on.

  No. I do not want her to hug me.

  I do not want that body pressed against mine.

  I do not—

  She grabs me before I can stop her. Tits and pelvis and everything else pressed against me, this virtual stranger, the top of her head tucked under my chin.

  Her arms are around me and I feel her hands brushing my spine, then along my latissimus dorsi, as if she’s feeling me up, but not brave enough to go all in. ’Cause that would be strange, right?

  I’m ramrod straight, fighting so fucking hard not to sniff her hair but failing; it smells like hairspray and shampoo—the fruity kind, not the fussy kind, and as I inhale it, my body relaxes.

  “You can put your arms around me, you know,” she suggests, settling in.

  She is only hugging you because she is drunk, Noah.

  I have to keep reminding myself, but it’s hard. I want to believe this is chemistry, but since I’m not a damn idiot, I know better. Miranda is drunkish and it’s making her act loopy, and that’s fine.

  I guess.

  “I don’t want to wrap my arms around you. I don’t even know you.”

  “Just do it. Stop being so grouchy.”

  Grouchy? No one has ever called me that.

  Slowly, I raise my arms. My hands slide around Miranda’s small waist. Brushing the silky fabric of her shirt, I’m not quite sure where to put them. I’ve touched women before, but usually only during sex, and that’s mechanical with no feeling involved.

  This? This is making my heart palpitate, and if it was before a game, I’d have my vitals checked by the team physician.

  Miranda settles into my body deeper, burrowing almost. I’m not sure she’s aware she’s even doing it, or if she doesn’t care, or if I’m just that cozy as a cuddle buddy.

  Her soft voice manages to reach my ears. “You feel good.”

  And with that, I pull away, the cold air rushing between our bodies like a bucket of ice water I need to break this spell of stupidity.

  “There. Don’t you feel better?”

  No, I don’t feel better; this just made everything a helluva lot worse.

  “You want anything else to drink?” I ask. “Because I think I’m going to bounce.”

  “Leave? We just got here.” A hand touches my forearm and I can’t not look down at it resting there, si
ngeing my skin. “Don’t leave me to the wolves—I’ll never survive.”

  Then stop touching me and stop flirting with me and stop making me feel…

  …like I’d stand a chance if I gave enough fucks to try.

  You can’t live like a monk for the rest of your life, dipshit. You want kids and a family—how do you suppose you’re going to do that if you don’t take a chance?

  Easy—by letting the opportunity to flirt pass me by.

  “You haven’t even told me your name.”

  That’s right. She has no idea who I am. Has no idea that the $20 bill in her purse and the $25,000 in her bank account came from me.

  Me. Not goddamn Buzz Wallace.

  “You don’t have to know my name.”

  Her mouth opens, shocked. Hurt? Speechless. “Oh.”

  Oh.

  That one little word makes me feel like the world’s biggest…douche. A bigger douche than I’ve seen any of my friends be.

  Her shoulders sag, the entire mood spoiled. Miranda inhales a breath before squaring herself upright, back straight. Fake smile pasted on her face.

  “Wow. Okay.” Her lips are still glossy, shining beneath the lights, and if rejection had a look, her face would be on the poster. “Get home safe, I guess.”

  I nod.

  Shoulder my way through the crowd, leaving the way I came.

  I’ll tell Buzz to settle up my tab for me. I just have to get out of here.

  * * *

  Miranda: Noah, are you up?

  Me: I am now. What’s up?

  Miranda: This is going to sound crazy, but—I was wondering if…

  Miranda: You know what, never mind.

  Me: What?

  Miranda: Nothing. I feel stupid now. Go back to sleep.

  Me: That isn’t going to happen until you tell me what’s up. Is everything okay?

  Miranda: Yes, I was just…

  Miranda: This is going to sound so dumb, but I was wondering about your friend. The one from tonight?

  Me: Which one?

  Miranda: The tall blond. I was talking to him by the bar.

  Me: What about him?

  Miranda: He left abruptly—was everything okay?

  Me: Uh, yeah? I mean, it’s nice that you’re asking, but why do you care?