Page 51 of Not a Perfect Save

Oh, right. Note to self—be less judgy.I sigh. It’s going to take a while to kick in.

Another song comes on. One with a distinct beat.Please don’t twerk, please don’t twerk.I squeeze my eyes shut when the twerking commences. I’m subjected to perky booties jiggling.

I cross and uncross my legs, squirming as I take in the bubble butts all around while more of Connor’s words mill around my head like pink elephants.

He said I needed to look beyond the labels. That I was hiding. Afraid.

And then that pinkest mammoth of them all—he said he loved me. The words trumpet in my ears, rivaling the sound system where Beyonce orders men all across the globe to put a ring on it.

Connor Hall said he loved me.

No wonder he kept saying he wasn’t perfect. The idiot is blind.

Who does that? Tell them they love them, tell them they’re enough, and then bails?

Talk about imperfect.

Just like me.

Because in my stupid attempt at self-preservation, I pushed him away. Regret is an ugly knot in my belly.

Panic rushes through me. I need to find him before he comes to his senses and decides he can do better. I grab my bag and stand, sloshing my drink over the edge of my glass in my hurry. But Hannah skewers me a look and I plop back into my seat. All I want is to get out of here and run Connor down—sit on him if I have to until he gives me another chance.

A sickening fear that it’s too late fills me. My foot bounces uncontrollably. When the lights dim further, I force myself to take a calming breath. The end is in sight.

An old school disco ball hangs in the center of the ceiling, its mirrored squares spin, casting lights in the shadows. It makes me think of my concussion. Which in turn makes me think of Connor.

A smoke machine starts up, spraying the room with a fine mist of red and pink. Small lines form between Hannah’s brows as her blond hair frizzes, just the tiniest bit. She makes fruitless attempts to smooth it down. The cool air brings back that afternoon in Central Park. Which makes me think of Connor.

And then the stripper comes in. He’s all strapping and muscly. Tall, with blond hair worthy of a Viking. My mouth dries. He reminds me of Co… HeisConnor.

My mouth drops. Flies might make their homes in my mouth.

Connor Hall. Football Star. Boy Scout.

Like, literally a Boy Scout.

He stands there, in a tan shirt with a red neckerchief, paired with olive-green shorts that come to his knees, making his powerful thighs look even more muscular. His uniform strains at the seams, almost like Bruce Banner in the midst of his transformation into the Incredible Hulk. Even his knees are manly.Can knees be manly?

I traverse the rest of him—solid forearms and hair roughened calves that disappear into high socks and black shoes.

He’s flanked by other men in uniform—a police officer, a fireman, and a construction worker with dildos and tubes of lube sticking out of the tool belt looped around the waist of his low-slung jeans.

But my attention is fixed on Connor. A whole mixture of feelings course through me. Disbelief, confusion, and underneath it all, a euphoria that he’s somehow found me. I slide a glance at Hannah. Her eyes meet mine, and all she does is raise a perfectly arched eyebrow before turning back to the oiled and lubed men, now gyrating to their enthusiastic audience.

Even in the ridiculous get up, the crowd is in awe of him. They part and let him cross the room, their dropped jaws and cow-shaped eyes following him until he’s here. In front of me. Right now, it’s just the two of us. The rest of the world has disappeared..

“You’re here,” I say dumbly.

“I’m here.”

“But why?” I ask.

“My grand gesture.”

I bite my lips, desperately trying to contain my laugh. It’s like champagne bubbles in my bloodstream. “Is it?”

“The guys said I needed to prove myself. Run into a burning building. Swim through a school of sharks. Something like that. Grovel.”

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