Fall

I watch him, the way he laughs just before he takes another drink from his glass, his hand braced, long fingers spread wide on the gleaming oak bar counter. Blue-and-black plaid sleeves rolled up to reveal glorious, carved-from-marble-but-not-really forearms that can’t be real, yet are.

The black and blue on his shirt reminds me of bruises. I should want to see him bruised and battered, just like my heart, my freaking soul. But he’s not bruised. Not even close. He seems happy and carefree, like he doesn’t give a shit about anyone or anything.

Life is just that good for him.

I can’t tear my gaze away from him, not that he notices me. Why should he? He’s surrounded by so many girls, all of them focused only on him. His dark brown eyes light up when he smiles, bright and open and flirtatious, and he doesn’t have to say a damn thing. They’re all quivering with anticipation, hoping and praying he’s flirting with them.

So. Pitiful.

The way the girls swarm him makes me think of flies, and he’s the giant, steaming pile of crap freshly deposited on the ground. They buzz, buzz, buzz around him, loud with their laughter and their gestures and their ever-ready smiles, calling his name over and over again like that’s going to magically make him respond.

He’s not interested in any of them. When one of the girls touches him—the lightest press of fingers against his arm, his shoulder, even his chest—those glowing eyes of his dim. For the briefest, bleakest moment, I feel almost…akin with him. Like he and I, we could be the same.

No way is that even close to possible.

Tucking a wayward strand of hair behind my ear, I slump my shoulders forward, my posture closed off, though my gaze sharp, aimed directly at him. Rhett Montgomery. He’s with a group of friends, his frat buddies with snotty names like Chip and Spencer, assholes who rule the campus and keep tallies of the girls they’ve fucked by carving dashes into their headboards with extra-sharp knives. They keep score sheets and compare notes like it’s a great big laugh, how awful they are. How they use girls and toss them aside like a tissue they just blew their nose into.

Even though I’ve been on campus for only two months, I’ve heard rumors. These guys are not my kind.

Especially Rhett Montgomery.

One of the girls laughs extra loud, an almost guffawing sound that reminds me of a horse. I lift my head, wincing at the offensive noise, and my gaze meets Rhett’s. Locks with his.

Look away.

The voice is a harsh whisper rattling in my brain, and I usually obey it.

But it’s like I can’t look away.

He doesn’t either. That glow in his gaze, I swear it intensifies the longer he stares at me. Like his eyes are lit from within, flickering candlelight that hypnotizes and draws me in, and when his lush mouth curves into a slow yet knowing smile, I finally do tear my gaze away from his, breaking the spell.

My heart is pounding furiously and I reach for my glass of water with shaky hands, the ice rattling against the sides as I sip. Once I swallow, I take a deep, cleansing breath, glancing out of the corner of my eye to find he’s already distracted by someone else. Another one of his asshole buddies who’s giving him a high five, God knows why. The slap of their palms is loud despite the multiple TVs hanging on the walls, the girls’ laughter, the clink of glasses, the low hum of constant talking.

He looked at me. He seemed to look right through me, and I feel completely…

Unsettled.

That happened too soon. He wasn’t supposed to notice me yet.

The thought flashes in my brain, like too-bright headlights in the darkest night, and I remember why I’m here. What I’m doing. Why Rhett Montgomery is involved. I’ve studied him for days. Months. He’s never noticed me before until tonight. And I’ve been around. Lurking close by, on the sidelines like some sort of twisted stalker, which I suppose I am.

Really, I should’ve known he doesn’t like obvious girls. And every single one of those girls surrounding him right now is obvious. Desperate.

I keep my distance on purpose, because I’m not ready. Eventually, I’m going to approach him. And when I finally do talk to him, when I finally become a part of his life, I want him to believe I’m a mystery, a code he can’t crack.

“Hey.”

I go completely still at the sound of his deep voice. Panic rises, making my throat clog with unspoken words, and I lift my head, our gazes meeting once again, his expression open. Friendly. A flood of helplessness fills me and I part my lips, but no sound comes out.

This isn’t going as planned. At all.

“You’re alone.” His statement is obvious, and he does this soft laugh thing that could only be described as a “duh” sound.

I nod, still unable to speak.

“And you’re in a bar, but you’re drinking water.” He tilts his head in the direction of my water glass, which I’m suddenly gripping with all my might. “That’s downright sacrilegious.”

How does he know it’s water? “It could be something else.”

“Like what?” Is he actually challenging me?

“Um…” My voice drifts. My father wasn’t a big drinker, which, when you think about it is really surprising. So I don’t really know much beyond beer is beer and wine is wine.

“Maybe vodka?” His rumbly voice knocks me from my thoughts. I need to focus.

“Not vodka.” I shake my head. May as well confess my truth. “Actually, I don’t like to drink.” Correction: I don’t like to lose control, and that was one thing my father told me time and again. Liquor makes you lose control.

It makes you do things you’ll regret.

“Ah, so you do make conversation.” His smile is full of relief. Sweet and intimate, nothing like that flash of teeth he was offering up to his overbearing harem earlier. “So why are you in a bar if you don’t like to drink?”

Right. Why am I in a bar? Not like I can tell him the truth.

“I’m—meeting someone.”

He lifts his brows. “Are they late?” I must send him a questioning look because he immediately says, “You’ve been here for a while. I couldn’t help but notice. Beautiful girl sitting alone in a bar, giving off that ‘I’m too cool for this scene’ vibe…”

Wait a minute. Is he—flirting with me? Or insulting me? I slam back the rest of my water and rise to my feet, a trembling breath leaving me when I realize how close Rhett is standing. So close, I can feel his body heat radiating toward me, and I can smell his appealing—delectable—scent. God.

“I was just leaving,” I say icily, my shoulder brushing against his broad chest when I walk past him. A scatter of tingles washes over me at first contact, electrifying my skin, and I try my best to shake it off.

That certainly wasn’t supposed to happen either.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you mad.” He chases after me, pushing his way through the crowd as I head toward the door. I don’t turn back, I don’t acknowledge him or make a sound because I want him to think he made me angry.

And he did. He definitely made me angry.

So why does it feel like I’m trying to convince myself?

With an irritated huff, I push open the door and exit the bar, the sudden silence calming my racing heart as the cool fall air washes over my heated skin. I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize he didn’t follow me outside. He must not be interested after all.

At least, for now.

A satisfied smile curls my lips, and I duck my head against the wind as I start to make my way home, my mind full of endless possibilities.

Maybe us meeting like that for the first time will work out for the best after all.