True (True Believers #1)(7)
Author: Erin McCarthy

I dribbled the red liquid all down the front of me.

Nope. Not a fantasy.

Just me, rocking the awk.

I wiped my chin.

He stood up, and I was torn between not wanting him to leave because I wanted to know why he was there, and being so relieved that he might leave me in pathetic peace, that I said breathlessly, “Are you leaving?”

“No. Unless you want me to. Do you?” That question came directly at me over his shoulder, dark eyes unreadable.

I shook my head, because I couldn’t tell him to leave. That was too rude. And at the same time, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to leave.

I took math and science courses because they were easy for me, they made sense. There was logic to them, with a right and wrong answer. Literature could never provide me those absolutes, because you could never really predict what someone was thinking, or what they would say. At least I couldn’t.

Yet the mystery of words, of people, was fascinating to me. I wanted to understand, yet I never seemed to be able to assemble the puzzle pieces of behavior in the correct order.

“Is this your dresser?” he asked, tapping his knuckles on the chest of drawers.

See? Never in a thousand years could I have predicted he was going to say that.

“Yes.” I watched him yank the first drawer open and root around among my socks. “Um . . .” Thank God he hadn’t picked my bra-and-panty drawer.

“Where are your T-shirts? I’ll get you a clean one.”

For real? This was the guy Jessica had described as so hard-core? Who worked out with weights and came from a bad part of town and had his penis pierced? He wanted to get me a clean shirt.

“Second drawer.”

He dug around for a minute, then emerged with one of a kitty daydreaming about math equations. “Cute.”

Whether or not that was sarcasm, I wasn’t sure. If I had had to guess, he would have made a comment about liking pu**y, which I imagined eight out of ten males would have done under these circumstances.

But instead, as he brought it to me, he tapped it and said, “Though this one is wrong. The answer is 27.”

Sitting up, I took the shirt, blinking. I studied the equation his finger was pointing to and did the quick calculation in my head. “You’re right,” I said, not fully able to keep the surprise from my voice.

“I’m smarter than I look,” he said.

Apparently he was. I was mumbling an embarrassed protest when the door to my room flew open and Jessica and Kylie came in, giant mugs of coffee in their hands.

“Look who’s up!” Jessica called out. “Yay! Glad you’re feeling better.”

I wasn’t sure that was an entirely accurate assessment of the situation, but I knew from experience she didn’t really expect a response anyway.

“Alright, I’m taking off,” Tyler said, already heading toward the door. “Talk to you guys later.”

“Bye, bitch,” Jessica told him.

Kylie gave him a wave.

Then he was gone and I was just sitting there, clutching my kitty T-shirt. “Why was he here?” I asked.

“Because he likes you,” Kylie said in a singsong voice, stripping off her shirt and rooting around in the closet in her bra and sweats. “Are you going to the club with us tonight?”

As if. I totally ignored her question and pushed my hair back off my head, my fingers shaking a little. I reached for the drink Tyler had left sitting on the desk and took a sip, formulating my protest so I didn’t sound too reactionary. “Whatever. Seriously, why was he here?”

“He didn’t want to go to dinner with us. And I am being serious. I totally think he likes you. He has been asking a ton of questions about you to me and Jess. We were wishing we had like a bio on you so we could just hand it to him so he’d quit bugging us.” There was a thump as she fell into the back of the closet. “Ow. Shit. I can’t find my cowboy boots.”

Yanking off my dirty shirt, I pulled the clean kitty one on over my head, hoping it would cover the burn I felt in my cheeks. There was no way Tyler Mann was interested in me. He wasn’t. He wouldn’t be. He might be curious about who the mute brunette was, but in the same way that you’re curious as to why Donald Trump has a chinchilla on his head.

“He doesn’t like me,” I insisted when my head reemerged. “He’s with Jessica.” Who I was afraid to look at. I didn’t want to turn and see her shooting me murderous glares.

But Jessica laughed. “He’s not with me. He’s just been with me. Huge difference. Huge. I so don’t like him that way.”

I watched her moving around her desk, swallowed by a giant UC sweatshirt, bear paws stamped on the butt of her yoga pants. She was peering in a hand mirror, inspecting her teeth and looking very unconcerned that Tyler had been hanging out in our room while I slept. I seemed to be the only one who thought it was ludicrous.

“But you’ve . . .” I started to say, then wasn’t sure how to finish my sentence.

“Fucked him?” she asked cheerfully, shooting me a grin. “Yep. He’s a good time, and he knows how to use that piercing to my advantage, if you know what I mean.”

Actually, I had no idea what she meant. In theory, sure, I could imagine the clitoral stimulation that might occur from a tiny metal ring, but I couldn’t actually envision what that felt like. Too far out of my reality. “No, I don’t know.”

“Oh, shit, I guess not.”

The look of sympathy she gave me was so heartfelt, I almost laughed. At the same time, it made me feel a deep sense of longing for all the experiences I had missed out on.

Kylie emerged from the closet, triumphantly holding her coveted boots. “Found them,” she said breathlessly, flipping her hair back. “You should totally go for it with Tyler.”

“No!” The thought was horrifying. First of all, because I couldn’t imagine spending time with a guy who my roommate had had sex with. Second, because I was convinced there was no way in hell Tyler was actually interested in me. Third, because I wasn’t sure I was interested in him. He didn’t seem like my type. While I may not have dated, I certainly had crushed on plenty of guys, both fictional and living, and they tended to be the underdogs, with soulful eyes and a moodiness driven by insecurity. Hello, Grant.

Tyler was too confident to fit into that box of Broken Boy.

Then again, pining for passionate musician types hadn’t really played out well for me.

“Why not?” Jessica asked. “If it’s me, God, don’t worry about that.”