He arches a brow. “How about you tell me who you are first?”
I lift a shoulder, keeping it casual. “Name’s Patrick.”
He nods once. “Tobias.”
Well, the name exchange hasn’t made me want to punch him any less.
I pull my phone from my pocket and read his name from her text, “Easton?”
He nods.
“She gonna be okay with you being here when the smoke wears off and she wakes up?” he asks, eyeballing me just the same as I am him.
“Gonna go with yes, since she sent me a text sharing her location.” And telling me you were the villain in her little Clue game.
“Good. Try to get keep her ass calm and get her back to Seashore campus before they find out she’s been breaking rules since Wednesday night when she left without permission and gets tossed.”
I nod once, careful to keep my tone even when I ask, “She been with you?”
His lips curve up in slight amusement. “She’s been here.”
Fucker didn’t answer the question.
He turns to walk away, looks over his shoulder at me, and says, “She needs a friend. Be that guy.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I call back as he walks away.
“Dudes,” comes from behind me, and I turn to see Savvy pulling her knees up to her chest, hugging them, and then she mumbles, “Shut the hell up,” right before Tobias starts his truck and begins to pull away.
I walk over and sit on the black, folding lawn chair. With the small bonfire taking some, but not all, of the chill out of the air, I could easily sit here, and possibly freeze, watching her sleep.
The hood of her drug rug is all synched around her face, and she is wrapped up in some sort of sleeping bag that looks like it’s been around longer than either of us. Her insanely long, jet-black lashes rest against her skin. She looks a hell of a lot more peaceful this way … unlike any other time I’ve been around her.
It’s nice.
She’s beautiful, no doubt. I noticed that right away. Anyone with a dick and two working eyes would straight up want to get down with her, but that’s not the part that’s got my insides zinging. She’s full of sass, spunk, and spirit. She’s fucking life and in living color.
When any of my friends have used the phrase, “She’s different than anyone else I’ve ever meant,” I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes as I looked at the pictures of the object of their desire, and they looked like every other girl on IG.
Beautiful? Sure. But not like Savvy, whose beauty is effortless.
And she looks warm, which I’m not, not at all.
“Why are you guys here?” she mumbles, her eyes still closed.
“Not guys, just—”
Startled, she jumps, and her chair starts to tip backward.
I reach out and grab the chair, so she doesn’t get busted up, yanking it a little bit too hard. She comes flying out of her seat, but I’m not sure if it’s because of the force of my pull or that she’s indeed going to attempt to kick my ass. Laughable, but still.
What the fu—
When she falls, lunges, or what the fuck ever is going on, she ends up tipping my ass over and falling on me.
“What the hell is wrong with you!” she screams as she tries to get up while wrapped up like a damn sausage, flopping around like a fish out of water.
“Savannah, chill,” I say, unable to stop myself from laughing as I somehow roll us over so we’re untangled from the foldable chair and stop myself from crushing her.
“My name’s not Savannah!” She grips my hoodie, making it … well, not impossible—I certainly could try to move—but her eyes darting between my lips and my eyes, giving me a look I’ve seen a hundred times, suggests otherwise. But when she realizes she’s holding me in place, my body over hers, my hands on the ground beside her head, hovering above her, she pushes me. “Get off of me!”
After kicking the damn chair that’s hooked around my leg off, I push myself up fully and stand, holding my hand out so I can pull her up as I tell her, “You really need to chill.”
She flops around as she kicks and pushes the sleeping bag off her and stands on her own. “What do you think you’re doing here!”
“Jesus.” I step back, my hands raised in surrender. “How much have you actually had to smoke?”
“Don’t you dare make this a me problem. I was minding my own business,” she says as she grabs one of the chairs and begins folding it.
I reach for the other and do the same.
“I don’t need your help, but I will get a damn restraining order if need be,” she snaps, pulling the chair I’ve folded away from me then starts stomping toward the bus that I now know is hers. She slides open the door and tosses both in.
This shit’s not so cute anymore. Actually, she’s pissing me off.
“You do what you gotta do.” I grab her sleeping bag and start to fold it. “But you messaged me, so—”
“I certainly did not.” She stomps toward me and snatches the sleeping bag. “Get it through your head; you’re not my type. The fact that you have a dick makes that so. Now, leave me alone.”
Momentarily shocked at the confession, because “not my type” could mean a lot of fucking things, like she likes short, skinny dudes, not tall, athletic, and hot. Or what I previously thought she meant—that men who have money are assholes. Never in a million years would I have thought that meant she was a lesbian.
My head is racing, because when the word lesbian pops into a teenage guy’s head, it’s normally a big turn-on. Our asses immediately jump to the idea that we may end up with four titties to chomp down on, but with her, I all of a sudden think I want to become one,
