Page 21 of Past the Broken Bridges

He smacks my arm, whatever irritation he was feeling gone. “Seriously. When was the last time you went out? You rain-checked me before to hang out with your dad like a loser. Make it up to me. Sawyer’s friend is pretty cute. You might like her.”

He’s never missed an opportunity to shoot his shot. I respect him all the more for it, even though nine times out of ten it winds up in rejection.

I’ve never cared much to do the same, especially noton setups. But I don’t have anything going on tonight, so I don’t have an excusenotto go. And, oddly, I want to see what Sawyer is like outside class. Is she as fiery? Or reserved?

“Fine, but I still think we should take them to The Station,” I say. “It has live entertainment on Fridays, and it’s close by. If you don’t scare them away, then we can take them into New Orleans.”

We. I don’t want to get his hopes up or plan things too far in advance, but I also don’t want to be the buzzkill who brings everybody down.

His sigh is heavy, but I can tell he’s going to give in. “Deal. But since you changed the plans, you get to be the DD.”

My eye twitches. “How considerate,” I reply dryly.

He winks. “Considerate is my middle name.”

* * *

Sawyer and her friend Dixie are elbow in elbow as they walk ahead of us into the bar, whispering and giggling about whatever girl talk they’re having. Dawson is staring at both of their asses, his gaze locked specifically on Dixie’s because of the short leather skirt she’s wearing. I can’t blame the guy since I’m doing the same to Sawyer in the tight pair of jeans that hugs her lean legs.

Dawson nudges me. “They look good, huh?”

The girls are opposites—light and dark. Sawyer is taller than Dixie by a few inches, paler than the tan on her friend, with blond hair reaching her mid-back unlike the dark-brown curls that barely touch Dixie’s shoulders. Sawyer is louder, more abrasive. I can tell by how she carries herself that she has the type of confidence I’ve always found attractive. Dixie is quieter, shy, only talking to Sawyer the entiredrive to the bar.

Apparently, Dawson got both the girls’ phone numbers through Dixie yesterday. I don’t know what game he’s playing, but only one of them has been looking at him doe-eyed, and it’s not the blond who lives across from me. Yet he was texting Sawyer all afternoon when he was supposed to be doing homework for my dad’s class. She told him that she and Dixie would be waiting for us at her apartment at eight o’clock.

When Sawyer opened the door, my brows had gone up at the outfits they were in. Hers is much more casual than her friend’s—a tight pair of denim and an equally tight top that hugs the petite body I could wrap an arm around—and Dixie is in a miniskirt and a top that shows off a sliver of toned, tanned skin underneath. They’re both cute girls, but my eyes always find their way over to those tight jeans and the girl in them.

“Yeah,” I agree, shrugging. “They do.”

He tips his chin to Dixie before elbowing my rib cage. “She seems sweet. Your type. Maybe we both can get some tonight? I’m not the only one who’s had a dry spell lately.”

I don’t know why, but my eyes go to Sawyer when he says that. Jaw ticking, I pry my eyes away from her ass and hold the door open for Dawson and me. “Maybe.”

But I have no intention of sleeping with Dixie. Or Sawyer, for that matter. Still, I can’t help but feel a weight in my stomach knowing whathe’sgoing to try tonight, and it pisses me off that I’m even thinking about it.

What he doesn’t know is that I went home with some random chick I met at the campus store two nights ago. After a tense phone call with my father about my creative writing class, I’d been pent up and needed to relieve some tension. The girl, whose name I can’t even remember, washappily willing to provide that.

Thirty minutes later, the four of us are at a table in the back with drinks in our hands. While I’m nursing my one and only beer of the night, Dawson is already half done with his second one, and the girls have barely touched their fruity concoctions that look like punch.

While Dawson has been talking Sawyer’s ear off about how her classes have been, I notice the way her friend Dixie watches them in silence. She looks uncomfortable, and I wonder if she was as reluctant to come tonight as I was. Maybe we do have a lot in common. And shedoesresemble the last girl I brought home.

“What are you majoring in?” I ask over the loud music playing, having no idea what conversation to have with her.

When she realizes I’m talking to her, she peels her eyes away from the other two. They’re green. Pretty. “What?”

I lean over the table so she can hear me better, trying not to crowd her personal space too much. “I asked what you’re majoring in.”

“Oh.” She grabs her drink and nervously stirs the straw around. “Music. I haven’t narrowed down a concentration, but I’ve always loved jazz and experimental media.”

Sawyer breaks apart from the conversation she’s having with Dawson and wraps an arm around Dixie’s shoulders. “This girl can play one hell of a violin. And don’t get me started on the piano. I could barely play the recorder in third grade, so I don’t know how she does it.”

Even in the poor lighting, I can see Dixie’s face turn red from the attention. “You haven’t even seen me play.”

“I Googled you after you told me earlier,” Sawyer admits, causing my brows to go up.

“You can be Googled?” I ask, impressed.

Dixie clears her throat, using the drink as a way to stall.

---