Fearless Page 4

  “Aren’t you very busy trying to coax two bi-curious girls into your bed?” I ask.

  “Don’t even bother,” he says about the pretty girl, ignoring my question. “That’s got lost cause written all over it.”

  I glare at him. “Why the fuck not?”

  “The girl looks like she hasn’t left her house since, oh, I dunno, the eighteenth century.” He gestures broadly to me, clicking his tongue like I’m a petulant child. “You, my molten chocolate friend, so ain’t her type. If you’re looking to finally get some head, that one ain’t it.”

  “You don’t know that,” I spit.

  “And you, Duchess, I see you,” he says to Duke, ignoring me now. “Chunky monkey? Too confident for you. She’ll rip you to pieces.”

  “I can live with that,” Duke sighs, still smiling like a dope while he gawks at this girl.

  Rhett’s probably right. My fascination looks uptown, sheltered. I’m probably the last thing she pictures when she thinks of eligible bachelors. And who am I kidding—even if she isn’t what she appears, there’s no way she doesn’t have a boyfriend with those eyes.

  I take a second look, only to find her watching me. One of her other friends, a plain girl with short, choppy brown hair and a smug look on her face, is yammering away in her ear, but she can’t take her eyes off me.

  It’s worth a shot, right?

  She smiles at me finally. A huge, against-her-will type of smile that splits her face and brings a redness to her cheeks. She drops her head again, hiding behind the curtain of dark tresses and turns her back on me to focus on her yapping friend.

  Fuck it. I already know I won’t forgive myself if I throw away my shot.

  The fourth friend, a redhead doll face, grabs for green eyes’ wrist, but choppy hair sweeps her away and plows into the crowd to dance without her. Green eyes stands, dumbstruck with her back against the wall, her face darkening as she snaps at them to come back.

  They don’t. What nice pals.

  “Linc, man,” Rhett tries, but I brush off his hand and cut through the flocks of people. Pretty girl’s eyes are wide, and her hands are clenched in front of her stomach, cracking and popping each knuckle over and over again until her snow colored skin is aflame with irritation.

  She looks like a lost kitten in the lion’s den. So I pretend she’s the exact opposite.

  “Hey, Trouble,” I say.

  She looks up at me, and then to each side for someone else who might fit that nickname, knowing damn well she’s nothing but an angel girl in hell. “Trouble?” she asks, with the tiniest of grins. “Am I doing something wrong?”

  “Maybe,” I tease. “You look awful lonely.”

  She bites her lip, openly appraising me and she doesn’t give a fuck what I think about it. Her gaze burns from my lips down to my knees, slowing to a lingering stare as she comes back up over my thighs. My stomach jumps when she pauses there, keeping her head angled down as she glances up through her lashes to meet my eyes once more. There’s a hesitation in the back of her throat, conflicting with her confident overlook of my body, when she says, “I’m not here by myself.”

  Every single one of her friends look like they’re up to no good, so some random guy walking up to her in a shady basement probably feels...wrong.

  I refuse to believe it’s a race thing. I have blown my own fantasy bubble around this girl and, damn it, I won’t be the one to pop it. I can’t think like Rhett. Hell, even he said I need to get out more. Yet he worries everyone is out to get you on surface level alone—that’s no way to live.

  “I know. I saw all your friends finding better shit to do than linger next to the wall lookin’ pretty,” I say. “But here you stand.”

  She blushes hot, her smile opening up her face a bit more. “You got a name?” she asks.

  “Lincoln,” I say. “Do I get to know yours?”

  She purses her lips and tilts her head, and for a minute I wonder if she’s about to lie to me. Jane Smith, so and so, give me the number to a rejection hotline and escape. But instead, in the bluntest of tones, she says, “Riley.”

  “Pretty name,” I say. She offers her hand for me to shake, strong and practiced. I pull her small hand to my lips, laying a kiss on her knuckles. Her grip on my hand tightens and her spine straightens as I capture her gaze. “Nice to meet you, Riley.”

  For the first time tonight, she looks utterly unsure of herself. She’s been unsteady since she tumbled in the door, but she played it off with strength. Now her cocky façade slips and it’s clear she doesn’t know what to do with a man treating her like I do.

  “What are you doing out here?” I ask.

  She gnaws her lip. “My friend’s birthday,” she says, waving her hand in the general direction her buddies ran off. “We were going bowling, and laser-tagging, but...another friend got us in here, so.”

  I smile. “Prefer a low-key scene?”

  “Yes,” she says with a cringe. “I’m more the coffee-date type.”

  “Are you asking me out?”

  “What?” she asks, her cheeks going red. “I—well, wait, I mean...with you—what?”

  I chuckle. “Well, that was almost smooth.”

  “Look,” she says. “I didn’t mean... not that I wouldn’t go on a date with you—I mean... I wasn’t asking you—but...”

  I wave a hand to cut her squirming short. “You could make it up to me with a dance,” I offer.

  “Riley!”

  Damn it. Her friends come rushing back over, holding dark pink drinks and beaming from ear to ear. The one with the choppy hair throws her arm over Riley’s shoulder and I can almost feel the disgust come straight from Riley’s toes. “Girl,” choppy says. “We have been looking everywhere for you.”

  “We got you a drink,” says the ginger.

  Riley looks mortified by the beverage. “I’ve been standing here the whole time, Cheyenne,” she grits out, rolling her shoulder a bit to get the other girl off her. “Right where you left me.”

  “Do you know him?” Cheyenne asks. Her look of disdain isn’t masked at all.

  “No,” Riley says.

  “She wants to, though,” I add. Riley looks up at me and softens again. I wink, and the shiver that runs through her body is not lost on me. She gulps her drink.

  The ginger whistles. “That was slick.”

  “We were just talking,” Riley says after she swallows.

  “C’mon, girl, it’s time to dance,” Cheyenne says over her. She grabs the heart shaped cut in the middle of Riley’s shirt and pulls it down a few more inches, trying to expose more breast.

  Riley jumps away from her, covering her chest with her hands. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  I reach out and touch her waist, strictly to get her attention back, if only for a second. “It was nice talking to you,” I say.

  Her friends look relieved I’m not putting up too much of a fight, but Riley almost looks sad I’m going to let her leave. Who could blame her. My previous assumption they’re up to no good was way too mild. She runs with the who-needs-enemies crowd, it would seem. No wonder she looks so weathered.

  Maybe I’m making it up, it’s not beyond me, but it makes me feel a little better she doesn’t desperately want to get away from me.

  “Catch up with me later,” she says, like a question.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Her friends all but haul her into the middle of the floor, and I lean against the wall to finish off my drink. Duke is already on the floor with the fourth friend, grinding up against her ass and groping at her waist like the vulgar little shit he really is. She’s got her head leaned back on his shoulder, eyes closed, and mouth parted, so I don’t think she minds.

  Rhett elbows his way through to stand beside me, sighing deeply as he watches me watch Riley dance.

  “Say it,” I prompt without looking at him.

  He shrugs. “Told you.”

  “What a fucking freak,” Carly giggles.

  “Hones
tly, Riley, if you’re gonna sneak around with us, you need to learn how to say no to losers,” Cheyenne says. “Thank God we’re here to guide you.”

  I don’t see what the big deal is. The fucking freak they’re referring to, happens to be a godlike figurine of a man who happened to come talk to me. Impossibly tall, with broad shoulders and strong legs. His thick black hair sat in lazy, soft curls on the very top of his head, shaved in a slow fade down the sides. And those eyes—darker than the night sky and swimming with more stars than I’d ever seen before.

  That man was stunning. How it’s possible for someone to be put together so spectacularly and not be from Hollywood is a mystery. And to make things better—he came up to me.

  “He was nice,” I say. “You guys are just jealous.”

  “No, he was creepy,” Carly says. “That whole, she wants to line? Rapey vibes.”

  “Roofie master, no doubt,” Cheyenne says. “So, you’re gonna have to start coming to the gym with me. And cutting back on all the tacos.”

  “What?” I ask. “Why?”

  “Because black guys only hit on fat white girls,” she says simply. “And he wanted you. Like, I’m not trying to be mean or anything, but...”

  “Oh my god, Cheyenne,” Carly groans.

  “I’m just trying to be a good friend,” Cheyenne says. “Riles is getting a little wide in the butt. No one wants her to end up looking like Paris.”

  My throat is so tight with embarrassment I can’t even muster up an insult. Girls are actually terrible.

  I...really hadn’t noticed he’s black. I hadn’t noticed anything but that smile, until Cheyenne pointed it out.

  Do black guys exclusively hit on fat girls? I don’t think I’d heard that one before, not from Dad anyway. And up until this year, I couldn’t remember consciously discussing this with anyone. Was I getting fat? I mean, I would think he came over because he thought I was attractive. He had no way of knowing my personality, so why else would he? Was I fetish, that was the only reason he was so sweet?

  They all want to sleep with pretty white girls...

  I take another pull off my drink, hoping to drown out my father’s persistent nagging voice. Not tonight. I’m not doing this tonight.

  I’d felt so good talking to Lincoln, and my friends want to ruin it. And for no good reason, at that. I didn’t want to stop talking to him. Hell, I want to turn around and accept his dance offer. I want to be dirty—just tonight—feel firsthand what his body would feel like up against mine. His thigh between my legs, while we would move together to the thrum of the bass...

  Paris is off with some other black guy, and the way they’re moving their hips together looks more like dry humping than dancing, but she looks so...good while she does it. She’s bright, and happy, and proud. I want to be like that—bold, fearless. Just unabashedly confident, to the point it infects everyone around her.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Paris,” I manage after a long moment. I can’t defend myself or Lincoln against the unnecessary catty comments it seems, but I can defend her.

  “Sure,” Cheyenne says. “If you’re into black dudes.”

  It's bizarre to me to hear this kind of talk outside of my own house. It feels alien, like this kind of bigotry couldn’t possibly exist anywhere but the wrong side of my father’s mouth. But it flies free off Cheyenne without hesitation, without even a moment of consideration to who might overhear us.

  I wonder what my dad would think if he saw Lincoln and I talking. It felt so harmless at the time, like a regular conversation with any normal guy.

  “Never trust a negro,” he’d said. He’d said it so many times. He drilled it into my young mind until I knew that rule better than all my favorite songs.

  Still. That was different—he’s my dad. Cheyenne could eat it.

  “Shut up,” I spit.

  Her eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  “Alright, bitches!” Paris bellows, abandoning her grind partner to rush up to the three of us. “This all looks way too serious. It’s Carly’s birthdaaaaaaaay! Get out here and dance with me.”

  Cheyenne puts her fingers under my glass and tips it towards my mouth. “You don’t want to dance with that. Someone might roofie it.”

  “Chug!” Paris giggles. Carly and Cheyenne immediately follow suit chanting, drawing attention from the crowd. I put the straw to my lips and suck it down, the cold squeezing my head while the alcohol burns the roof of my mouth. I get the full glass down in three big gulps, much to the excitement of a lot of random guys.

  Scratch my last comment. Guys are actually terrible, too. In general, people suck.

  Carly downed her pink drink, but Cheyenne kept hold of her bottle. She wasn’t drinking it—hated beer if I remember right—but guys are attracted to girls who drink beer. Well, so she says, anyway. She claims to know quite a bit about men, for someone who’s dating a guy with three other side pieces.

  Paris grabs both of Carly’s hands, hauling her into the middle of the floor. Cheyenne puts herself against Carly’s back, clumsily grinding her hips into her ass while shaking her own at the same time. Carly laughs and goes right along with it, shimmying behind Paris, who is back up to no good with her dance partner.

  I sway beside them on my own, not wanting to dance so...shall I say, intimately with Cheyenne, but unsure where else I could fit besides sandwiched to her back. None of the girls seem to notice I’m not in their crowd, and God only knows where Elliot and Mason ran off to. Not that I want to associate with them in the first place, but still.

  I wonder where Lincoln wandered off to...

  A man to my right reaches for me, his fingers tugging on the heart-shaped peek-a-boo hole at the front of my top. His knuckles linger on the crest of my boobs for a second too long, even as I push his hand away. He laughs at my flinch. “I like that,” he says, loud, like he’d said it once before and I hadn’t heard over the music.

  “Thanks,” I say, for lack of anything better. I edge closer to the girls, but he follows.

  “Dance with me,” he says. His hands are on my hips before I even have the chance to answer, pulling me back towards him. He drives his hips against me, my shirt riding up with the force of his grip. He starts to move his hand upwards, digging into my stomach and I yank myself away again.

  I stumble into the girls, and Carly pulls me between her and Paris. She didn’t see what happened and she doesn’t seem to care about the horrified look on my face. I want to tell her we should move, or even leave before something bad happens to us, but McGrabby has moved on to groping Cheyenne. She’s smirking like the cat with a canary—guess she doesn’t mind being pawed at.

  Whatever. Long as he stays away from me.

  Carly takes my hands in both of hers, throwing our arms over our heads as she drops down to the floor. She slips and slides on her heels a bit, giggling like mad, but her stiff attempt to drop it still gets a few hollers from around us. She comes back up and stumbles into me, jabbing her finger into my chest. “I’m too sober for this.”

  Paris taps me on the shoulder, her face split with a wicked smile. “Let’s get shots!”

  I shake my head no, but Carly and Cheyenne scream so loud the whole party turns to look at us. They flock forward and propel me toward the kitchen. Cheyenne pipes up before anyone can say a word, “What’s the strongest liquor they’ve got?”

  McGrabby throws himself over the counter and starts digging around in the liquor cabinet. “Bourbon,” he says. “Expensive bourbon.”

  “Something that doesn’t taste like dirt?” she asks.

  “Bourbon is great,” I hiss.

  She shushes me. “Something sweet.”

  McGrabby holds a tall bottle from the bottom shelf, long forgotten behind the other more popular styles. “Peppermint liquor is an option.”

  “That,” Carly says. “Line ‘em up!”

  “Aw, yeah,” he says, falling only twice on his way back to standing up. He
lines up the shot glasses, ranging from miniature red plastic cups to the disposable medicine measuring spoons, and pours the clear liquid to the brim. It looks like thick water, and smells like mouthwash on steroids. I gag on the stench and set mine down, even as the rest of my idiot friends shoot theirs back.

  “Riley,” Carly squeaks. “Drink!”

  I shake my head. “I need a minute,” I say. It’s not a complete lie, but I have no intention of drinking that. The odor alone made my body shake.

  “She’s going down,” Cheyenne mocks.

  “C’mon,” Carly gripes. She grabs my shot off the counter, waving it in front of my face. “You ’ll ’re pussies. I’m not even tipsy,” she slurs. “Another!”

  McGrabby starts to fill the shots again. Paris meets my eyes and shakes her head, before ducking back onto the floor to find a new dance partner.

  I grab Carly’s elbow, trying to block the drink on its way to her system. “Girl, you’re fucking hammered—drink some water or something, you’re gonna get sick.”

  She yanks out of my hold and swallows my shot, then the one McGrabby just poured. Her eyelids flutter, and I swear I watch her soul leave her body for a minute. Faster than I could’ve snapped my fingers and the girl blacked out. “Carly...”

  “Quit being a wet blanket, Ri,” Cheyenne says. Then she’s sweeping Carly back into the crowd.

  McGrabby pushes a shot glass my way. It’s bigger than the ones Carly and Cheyenne got. He must’ve ran out of glasses and grabbed the first tumbler he could get his hands on. “Let’s go, princess. Get that bottom up.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I growl.

  He pouts his trembling lower lip at me, edging into my personal space until his semi is rubbing against my thigh. “Loosen up. You’re too cute to be so bitchy—”

  I slam both of my hands against his chest and shove him backwards. “Get a fucking clue, creep, I’m not into you!”

  His smirk is malicious as he moves close again. “But I’m into you.”