Page 32 of The Risk

“Cool.”

I wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t. He also doesn’t leave.

“So, are you a student?” I ask, resigning myself to this conversation. It’s not like I have better things to do.

“Dropout,” he says flatly.

Um. Okay. I don’t care either way, but that’s an odd thing to say. “Where did you drop out from? BC? BU? I’m at Briar.”

“I went to St. Michael’s.”

“St. Michael’s?” I scan my brain. “I haven’t heard of that college.”

“High school,” he grunts. “It’s not a college. It’s a high school.” He thrusts both thumbs at his own chest. “High school dropout.”

Um.

How on earth does one respond to that?

Luckily, the waiter spares me from replying. He appears with another vodka cran and a bottle of Corona for the self-proclaimed dropout. I eagerly raise my drink to my lips.

My companion takes a long swig of his beer. “So what’s your name?”

“Brenna.”

“Dope.”

“Thanks. How about you?”

“No, that’s my name—Dope. My name’s Dope.”

Um.

I swallow a soul-sucking sigh. “Your name is Dope?”

“Well, no, it’s actually Ronny. Dope is my stage name.” Heshrugs his massive shoulders. “Used to be in a band, we performed GNR covers.”

“Oh. Cool. I think I’m going to call you Ronny, though.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re a ballbuster. I like that.”

Silence falls between us again. He sidles closer, his elbow nudging mine. “You look sad,” he says.

“Do I?” That’s doubtful. The only emotion I’m experiencing at the moment is irritation.

“Yep. You look like you need a hug.”

I force a smile. “No thanks, I’m good.”

“Are you sure? I’m the hug master.” He holds out his beefy arms and arches his eyebrows, like he’s Patrick Swayze fromDirty Dancingbeckoning me to jump up on him.

“I’m good,” I repeat, firmer this time.

“Can I try your drink?”

What? Who asks that? “No. But I can buy you one, if you want.”

“Nah, I never let a lady treat.”

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