Page 13 of Strike Zone

“Fine.” At least it’s not karaoke night. A microphone and tequila shots transform Charlie into what I can only describe as what would happen if William Hung and Mariah Carey had a love child. It’s something you have to see for yourself.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

WYATT

I’m at the bar.

In the front room.

Right in front of the tv.

I have wings.

Well I had wings.

I ate them all.

No big deal.

We can order more.

More texts come through as I weave my way through the crowd toward Wyatt. We are going to have a conversation about the rapid fire texting he likes to do.

He is barricaded on all sides by beautiful women. I only recognized him by the worn down Newhouse Knights baseball cap he always wears—it sits backwards on his head and his golden brown hair flows and curls slightly around the bill of the cap.

“Excuse me,” I say, to one of the women standing behind him. She gives me a cursory glance before turning back around. “Excuse me,” I tap on her shoulder.

“Are you lost?” she asks.

While her question is insulting, my main source of irritation isn’t with her. “I am not. If you don’t mind, this will only take a moment.” If I can’t bring Mohammad to the mountain, then the mountain will have to go to Mohammad. I hope Wyatt likes to dance.

The girl pouts, probably afraid to lose her “prime real estate” spot as Wyatt calls it, but eventually steps aside to let me get closer to him.

“Thank you. I won’t be long.” I steel my spine and brush my hands down the blouse and slacks I’m wearing. Clearing my throat, I take one final step toward Wyatt. He turns and does a double take. “I’m here,” I say to him.

His eyes roam over me and land on my lips for a moment. While the rest of me is business as usual, I felt the need to wear my power red lipstick tonight. “Where’s Charlie?” he asks, his eyes back on mine.

“Dancing or getting someone to buy her drinks,” I answer honestly. It makes him wince. “I’ll text her.” I begin typing out a message to Charlie. I am not subtle about demanding her presence either. I’m almost finished typing when someone slams into me from behind knocking me into the back of Wyatt’s chair so hard my phone slips out of my hand.

With cat-like reflexes, he catches my phone before it falls to the ground. “Watch it,” he snaps at the bulldozer as he passes behind me. “You okay? He hit you pretty hard,” he says, handing me back my phone.

“I’m fine.” I rub the sting out of my forearm and bicep.

“If you say so.” He reaches out to straighten my glasses. My breath catches with his attentiveness to me. Wyatt is over six feet tall and built like an ox—wide shoulders packed with muscle. His gentleness seems out of character for someone of his size.

I slap his hand away when I come back to my senses. “Do you mind? I don’t need your wing-sauced fingers smudging my glasses,” I say, making him chuckle. It’s annoying that he is constantly laughing at my attempts to insult him.

“Take a seat, Wren.” Wyatt stands from his chair. Then steps to the side, offering it to me. I hesitate for a moment. I didn’t want to stay long.

My hope was that I could get him and Charlie talking and then sneak out without him remembering the whole ‘teach me how to have fun’ part of the evening. Now I have to figure out how to get him to Charlie. This whole situation is giving me a headache.

“If you don’t want it, I’ll take it,” the girl from earlier chimes in. She even raises her hand with a flourish. Her eyelashes flutter as she stares at Wyatt. Give me a break. What is it about this guy that has everyone wanting to barrel themselves face first into one of his various body parts?

When she starts to chew her lip, I sit down. “Sorry, it’s mine,” I say sharply, scooting around on the seat to get comfortable. I smile back at her, tasting the pettiness on my tongue.

Wyatt looks me over, wide eyed and grinning.

“Yours, huh?” he asks with a glint of pleasure in his eye. I glare back harder, daring him to challenge me. Realization dawns on me. My words could be interpreted as “he’s mine” even though I’m clearly speaking about the chair. Only Wyatt and his oversized ego would come to that ridiculous conclusion.

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