Page 7 of Bump and Run

Three

Junior

It’sway too early in the morning for geometry. I’m not sure what I was thinking when my academic adviser talked me into a math class at nine-thirty in the morning but here I am. At least there’s a coffee cart stationed between me and the lecture hall.

“I need coffee,” I mutter at the barista. “With a shit-ton of sugar.”

He nods and snatches an empty cup to fill up. I glance over my shoulder at the quad and flinch at the dull pain firing through my back.

That tackle at practice yesterday never should have happened. It wouldn’t have if Eliza Pierce wasn’t standing on the sidelines. One look at her and the next thing I knew, I was on the damn ground and the coach was shouting at me.

I scan the quad while I wait and my eyes land on her, Eliza Pierce, like fate itself dropped her in front of me again. She’s sitting alone on a bench with a paperback book in one hand and a pen in the other, scribbling down notes on a pad balanced on her crisscrossed legs. Her lips move as if she’s reading aloud to herself as her eyes pass back and forth on the page.

Cary Pierce’s little, darling daughter. Untouchable Eliza. His voice echoes in my head; that phrase of warning daddies just love to throw at unsuspecting prom dates to scare the piss out of them.

Stay away from my daughter.

But I’m not scared. Hell, I’m more curious than anything.

The disposable coffee cup beside her topples to the ground and she bends down to pick it up, exposing the gentle upper curve of her breast for one single, wonderful moment before throwing the empty cup into the trash can by her bench.

“Hey—” I nod to the barista and point at Eliza. “Do you remember what she ordered?”

He follows my gesture into the quad. “Black coffee.”

“Really?”

“Yep,” he confirms.

“Her?”

“I thought it was weird, too.”

“Give me one of those, too,” I say, passing my debit card to him. He steps back to fill another cup with piping hot brew and slides them both to me. “Thanks.”

I walk across the grass towards her and with each step, her voice gets louder and louder. She is reading aloud to herself, repeating the same phrase over and over again, sometimes with closed eyes to recite it from memory.

I clear my throat to get her attention. “Looks like you could use a refill, Eliza Pierce.”

She turns up and recognition instantly crosses her face. Her eyes bounce between mine and the coffee in front of her. They’re soft and blue, like digitally-altered photos of the ocean beside a tropical island paradise. She takes the cup from me and holds it to her nose to smell inside.

“It’s black coffee,” I explain.

Eliza nods slowly and takes a quick sip. “How did you know?”

I stand up taller. “A magician never reveals—”

“You asked the barista?” she quips.

“I asked the barista,” I nod.

“Well, thank you, just Junior Morgan.” She slides the cup between her crisscrossed legs, nestling it against her inner thigh. I force my eyes upward so she doesn’t notice me trying to glance up her skirt.

“Do you mind if I sit?” I ask.

It takes a moment but she nods, reaching for her messenger bag and sliding it onto the grass beneath the bench. I sit down beside her and take a quick drink from my own coffee, cool and relaxed. My nose detects her perfume; something faint but flower-scented. “So, why are you over here talking to yourself?” I ask her.

Eliza flips her hand to expose the front of her book. “Trying to choose a monologue.”

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