Page 21 of Deranged Imposter

“Then don’t,” Mikah commands under a hoarse growl, his fingers lacing mine into an intimate embrace. “Don’t think about him more than me.”

It’s a sign and a chance when the corner of his lips raises, so I gather my nerves as a shield of courage.

“Hard not to when you’re attached to my hips.” I squeal in pain while his fingers squeeze.

“You have great hips,” he flatters without missing a beat.

Not a blush in sight, nor does Mikah look remotely shy at the innuendo. The server coming to our table nearly trips when he hears it, awkwardly clearing his throat and gesturing at the plates for retrieval.

“I’m twenty-two. They’re in prime shape.” I grin toothily as the server weakly inhales, likely feeling the third-wheel effect.

The server skirts away and returns with the check. Mikah pays with cash, offering the change as tip. The amount is a little higher than the typical percentage.

He grabs the bag of lemon tarts, gesturing his elbow with a nudge. I hook a hand around it and let him tug me out of the canteen, relishing the smell of old books and pungent toner.

One of these days, I will sneak into that magnificent library and read until my eyes feel like a brittle wasteland.

“When you come home, we have to go over your survival technique when I leave to finish my group project.”

He stays silent for a moment, so I squeeze his bulging bicep. Like a whip, his hand slaps my thigh. It’s careful, speedy, and damn painful.

“I’m not your boxing coach!” I whine and use my other hand to rub the sharp stings.

“I’ll aim for the ass next time,” he quips as he ignores another lighthearted squish on his muscles.

“You wish.” I roll my eyes and scan the rustling trees, their leafy shadows painting a masterpiece on the concrete path.

“You’d dislocate my hips,” I say while hopping over a small crack. “Why would you hurt something you just complimented?”

“I’ll load it with so much love,” he promises, grazing a deft finger over the tingly spot on my thigh. “You wouldn’t even feel it.”

I scoff, to which he chuckles. “Yes, because you’ll score a knockout.”

Halfway down the path filled with roaming students, a familiar voice tweaks the peaceful afternoon atmosphere. I turn to squint against the brightness, discerning two darkened figures as the sun melts my face.

“Ah,” I recall quickly as I shade my eyes with a hand. “Miss Aquarius.”

“Actually,” the woman snaps haughtily while propping a hand on her hip. “It’s Aquilina.”

A queen.

I wish Mikah would abandon his social etiquette and slap my thigh again. I desperately need a distraction not to laugh when she keeps emphasizing special parts of her name to fit “queen.”

I was only joking; I didn’t expect her name to be that.

Thinking back to the evening when she forced me to take her accordion folder, I know she didn’t introduce herself as Aquilina. It might have been a nickname, but it’s not important to me.

Her friend shuffles gracelessly when Mikah stares into his soul and terrorizes the stranger with his sheer height.

Aquilina sends daggers to the hand gripping Mikah’s bicep, and I coolly give it a firm grope.

Who cares where this bizarre antagonism is coming from? I’m having fun welcoming her wretched expressions.

“I love Mikah,” she confesses shamelessly, staring me dead in the eye as if she’s proposing a fencing match. “He’s your boyfriend. I don’t want to be a cheater, but all’s fair in love and war.”

Before, I was his sugar baby. Or derogatorily, his opportunistic leech. Now, I’m his girlfriend. This place is a cesspool of wildness.

“You’re more than welcome to try,” I say as I peer at the shy man beside her. “Mikah’s difficult.”

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