Mickie
2006
I was going to smoke pot tonight.
I, Mickie Deandra Thomas, was going to finally step out of my straight-A-earning, law-abiding, good girl box and do something I’ve always been told not to do.
At least…I was pretty sure I was.
But that’s what people did at concerts, right? They drank, danced, acted stupid, and smoked pot. Especially when the band was a Bob Marley and the Wailers tribute band called Rasta Roots.
To not light up a joint was probably sacrilege to Rastafarians everywhere.
It would be the first of many more firsts yet to come. Because I was in college now, and by God, I was going to act like it. That involved making new friends, staying up way too late and going to class the next morning on two hours of sleep, and—for the love of Zeus—getting into trouble.
Not once in my life had I ever been sent to the principal’s office. Never been pulled over by a cop. Hell, I’d never been so much as reprimanded by an adult.
I mean, I wasn’t about to start a rap sheet or anything.
But at this point, I would take getting scolded by my RA for having an illegal hot plate.
My new roommate, Whitney, linked her arm through mine as we made our way down to the standing area in front of the stage.
“I’m telling you, girl, you’ll thank me when you get a look at the two studs meeting us,” she yelled, even though the concert hadn’t started yet.
But we’d also “pre-gamed,” as Whitney called it.
So, yelling…alcohol. You get the picture.
“And how did you meet them again?” I asked, squeezing my way around two guys who were arguing about being in the wrong seats.
“This afternoon on the quad,” she replied. “One of them caught a Frisbee that was headed right for my head.” She looked over her shoulder and winked at me. “Isn’t that romantic?”
“Like a fairytale,” I muttered. “What did you say their names were?”
She stopped in the middle of the aisle and squinted up at the ceiling, causing her to sway on her feet.
Ah, there was the alcohol working its lovely magic.
She laughed, the sound coming out a little manic. “You know what, I don’t remember.” She shrugged. “Eh, carpe diem, right?”
“Yeah, until we get kidnapped and cut up into little bitty pieces,” I half-shouted.
Of course, that had to be the moment when there was a pause in the music playing over the speakers. Naturally, everyone in the seats around us turned and looked at me like I was the creepy murderer in the bunch.
Perfect.
Whitney made some pssh noise with her mouth that caused her to spray like a sprinkler. “These guys are Zac Efron wannabes, with fake bakes and tight asses. Not exactly the Ted Bundy’s of our age.”
“Then why did you tell them to meet us?” Because she wasn’t making them sound very appealing.
She looked at me like I was the village idiot. “Because they had tight asses. I thought I’d made that clear.”
I pushed out a heavy breath. “Fine. But if they do handcuff us and lock us in the bathroom, you’re the one chopping off her arm to free us.”
“Deal.”
We showed our tickets to the guy at the gated area in front of the stage and made our way through the crowd. When I didn’t see any open spots at the very front, I deflated a little. Peering over all the mammoths in front of me could be a problem. At this rate, I wouldn’t be able to see anything, at all.
Story of a short person’s life.
“Oh, I think that’s them!” she said and waved her arm wildly.
Must be nice being tall.
Because I couldn’t see a damn thing.
“How’s the helmet looking?” I asked, pointing to my hair.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, my God, you don’t have a helmet. That’s some of the curliest, most gorgeous hair I’ve ever seen. A lot of women would kill for your hair. So, embrace it.”
Easy for her to say. She didn’t have to brush it every day.
Ever since I was a kid, my springy curls gave me more trouble than I could usually handle. And with a deadbeat mom, I’d never had a female figure to teach me how to manage them. Until my sister, Margot, and I moved in with our aunt and uncle, and Aunt Hope took over the task.
These days, I usually just left it down and prayed for the best.
“I’ll take the one in the blue shirt,” she said as the guys approached.
I squinted. Either I’d had more to drink than I thought, or— “They’re both wearing blue.”
She casually flicked her wrist. “No, the other one’s in violet.”
Violet? How the hell could she see the difference?
I liked Whitney.
She was from New York and since I was from New Jersey, we had a lot in common. We both loved East Coast life and preferred big cities. We were both attending the University of Maryland on academic scholarships. She was going into forensics, and I was studying to become a nurse. She was also a ton of fun, and was helping me break out of my by-the-book shell I’d cultivated over many years.
But if she made me spend the entire night with a guy who couldn’t do his own laundry, or used the word “bra” to refer to his male friend, or couldn’t do basic math…
I would kill her dead.
I was learning that college guys could be really immature. In some cases, even more so than the guys I’d gone to high school with in Jersey.
“Hey, you made it!” Whitney cooed to one of the guys, and kissed him on the cheek.
Apparently, that one was hers.
Then she kissed the other one on the cheek.
Well, now I was confused.
She turned and waved her hand toward me. “Guys, this is my roommate, Mickie. Mickie, this is…” She trailed off, throwing them a coy expression. As if to say I can’t remember your names, but notice how cute I am when I flutter my eyelashes?
“Cody,” the first guy offered.
“Corey,” said the second.
I smiled and tried to make polite conversation with them. But the overwhelming stench of beer filled my nostrils, making it difficult to get too close. They smelled like they’d just bathed in grain alcohol.
Judging from some of the stories I’d heard about campus parties, that was certainly possible.
Between that and their half-lidded eyes, the night wasn’t looking too promising for the Fake Bake Twins. Fortunately, both of them seemed content with Whitney’s company and vice versa, so I made myself comfortable as the fourth wheel.
Minutes later, the band came out to roaring cheers from the crowd, including myself, and my heart kick-started.
I loved reggae music.
My father was Jamaican, so my sister Margot and I had grown up around it.
It was one of the few things in this world that truly calmed my mind.
As the Roots began to play their opening song, I Shot the Sheriff, I ventured into another world. I started swaying to the beat without care. I sang without needing to think about the lyrics. I was lost to the escape the melody provided.
Until I felt a presence beside me.
Without looking over, I could tell it was a rather large presence.
I slowly peeked up through my lashes.
And I practically tripped over my own feet…while standing in place. That’s how intimidatingly amazing-looking this guy was.
Plus, al-co-hol.
Dark skin, dark hair, dark stubble on his cheeks. Just dark all over, including his clothing. And tall. He towered over me, actually, with muscles so cut I could have climbed them like a rock face.
He turned his head toward me, his mouth spreading into by far the most devastating half-grin I had ever seen. You couldn’t really call it a smile because his lips barely moved. And I got the feeling he wasn’t the type to laugh with abandon, or throw his arms up and scream on rollercoasters. In fact, his whole demeanor sort of screamed badass.
I gulped.
“Enjoying the show?” he shouted over the music.
Even more so now was the first response that popped into my head. Because it was the truth.
I managed a nod. “Yeah. You?”
“Depends on which one you mean,” he said in a lower tone.
What?
My mouth hung open. I was at a loss for words. “Uh—”
“It looked like you were having a good time,” he said.
I winced, hoping I hadn’t looked like a total moron.
He put his hands up. “I meant that in the best way possible.”
Relief made my shoulders relax. I quickly determined that despite his outward appearance, this guy didn’t seem harmless. “I’m Mickie,” I said, holding out my hand.
He looked down at my hand. When he brought his eyes back up to mine, something sparked in them I couldn’t put a name to. Whatever it was, it made my insides quiver.
“Dawson,” he murmured, and slowly shook my hand. His gaze shifted to the space over my shoulder, his jaw clenching. He tipped in his head in my roommate’s direction. “You with them?”
I looked over my shoulder to see Whitney, now sandwiched between the Twins, laughing hysterically. “She’s my roommate. I don’t know the other two.”
His gaze stayed on the three of them for a moment longer, then lowered back to my face. “Good,” was all he said.
Oo-kay.
I wasn’t really sure how to take that.
But I think I liked the sound of it.
I attempted to focus back on the band since they were the reason I’d been looking forward to this night for months.
But Dawson was a complete and total distraction.
He bumped his shoulder against mine, forcing me to crane my neck to meet his eyes. “You want a hit?” he asked, holding something out to me.
It was a joint.
Or, shit, was that a roach?
Margot had tried to quiz me on basic terminology of marijuana consumption—as she was quite the connoisseur herself—but I needed a damn cheat sheet. And I didn’t want to look like a dweeb in front of this god-of-male creation.
So, I just took it, put the tip to my lips, and tried to remember how I’d seen people do it in the movies.
I sucked hard.
Like, two lungfuls’ worth.
Wracking coughs overtook me as my lungs burned like the fire pits of hell.
“Whoa, easy there,” Dawson said, patting my back with surprising gentleness. “First time, huh?”
“Is it that obvious?” I asked between heaving breaths.
“Not really,” he deadpanned. “Matter of fact, I would have pegged you as a full-blown stoner before that little incident.”
I laughed even though he didn’t. He’d made a joke, but he’d said it with all the seriousness in the world. I had to wonder if this guy even knew how to laugh.
I was finally able to catch my breath and straighten my shoulders, feeling like a giant asshat. But strangely, Dawson didn’t make me feel embarrassed, at all.
“Does that mean you are?” I asked. “A stoner?”
He shook his head. “Nah. I just do it to relax sometimes. I don’t have the money to make this a regular habit.”
Seeing as how I was a marijuana virgin, it didn’t take long for it to hit my system. My limbs felt lighter, my head felt clearer, and my hormones were suddenly…there. Right on the surface. It was certainly a new sensation. I usually ignored my hormones.
The marijuana department wasn’t the only area in which I maintained virgin status.
Which was ironic.
Because all I’d been able to think about since Dawson lumbered over here was sex.
“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do in college, though?” I asked, ignoring the sudden desire to lift up his shirt and see what he was hiding underneath all that black material. “Spend what little money you have on drinks, drugs, and tattoos?”
I was standing on my tip toes in order to see more of the stage. Even in my four-inch wedge sandals, it was hard to see anything over the silhouette of bobbing heads in front of me.
“Wouldn’t know,” he said in a more subdued voice. “I never went to college.”
My head whipped around to see a dark expression take over his features, before he quickly wiped it away and adopted the half-grin again. “You want a lift?”
Um. “What?”
Before I could squeak a word in protest, Dawson had his head between my legs—get your mind out of the gutter—and was propping my thighs up onto his shoulders. I felt myself rise above the rest of the crowd as he straightened to his full height. I quickly wrapped my feet around his back and gripped his head of dark hair for balance.
Hell, what conditioner did he use?
More importantly, I was sitting on a guy’s shoulders.
A guy whom I’d just met.
I could feel his facial hair scratching my inner thighs. His strong hands were clutching my knees, the touch feeling more like a caress than anything. His skin was warm, his breath hot against my fevered flesh.
I was breathless.
My insides burned.
But this time, I couldn’t blame the pot.