Page 24 of On the Edge

“Polo Shirt,” I yell, just loud enough for him to hear and know I’m talking to him. He looks around, sees me, and smiles. When he raises a hand in greeting, I don’t return the gesture, but continue watching as he makes a beeline toward me.

“Good evening, Atlas,” he says once he reaches me.

“You lost?” I ask, gesturing around the dark, empty quad. His dorm is on the complete other side of campus.

“No. I was with a friend and walked her back to her house. It is a lovely night.” He shrugs. “I thought a walk might be nice, instead of driving.”

“A friend, huh? Good for you.” Tapping the ashes off to the side, I gesture to the other half of the bench. He hesitates and I see his eyes flick to the smoke curling up from my fingers. I feel like I can see the actual war going on in his head as he tries to decide whether he wants to be friendly or health-conscious.

Friendliness wins out and he sits next to me. I give it a solid minute before I glance over at him, eyebrow raised.

“What, no lecture on smoking?”

He shrugs. “You already know you should not be smoking, I think. I do not need to tell you.”

“True.” Sitting up and bending over, I stub it out on the sidewalk before pocketing the butt. I’m not so much of an asshole that I would smoke this close to someone I know won’t like it. I’m the one who called him over, after all.

“How are you this night?” he asks.

“Fine. I got laid, too.” Hooking a thumb over my shoulder, I indicate one of the dorms behind me. He glances behind us, mulling this over for a minute before speaking.

“That sounds like you’ve enjoyed yourself,” he says evenly. I snort. Jesus, this guy.

“Sure, yeah. It was fun. What about you? Must have gotten lucky since you walked her home.”

He looks surprised, eyebrows crawling up his forehead in an almost comical way. Again, I notice how fucking nice his face is. What sort of genetics does this guy have, to look like this?

“We had a pleasant evening. It was merely a date, and there was no…getting lucky,” he says, shifting on the bench so he’s facing me with one leg pulled up. The man has the meatiest thighs I’ve ever see. It would take both of my hands to circle one.

“Such a gentleman,” I tease. “No banging on the first date and you walked her back to her house. Love match?”

“Oh, I do not think so. Probably just friends. And yourself?”

“No. I don’t do repeats. No point, when we’re all going to end up miserable and alone anyway.”

Henri sighs, but doesn’t say anything. I let it go. Having an orgasm puts me in a good mood, so I’m less inclined to pickat him tonight. Closing my eyes, I tip my head back and breathe in the cooler night air. Maybe I’ll sleep out here.

“Did you wish to get together and work on communications this weekend?” he asks carefully, voice low. Similar to his face, he’s got a nice voice. I can’t explain it, but it’s a warm voice. The kind of voice that makes you feel like you swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee. A pleasant sort of burn.

“Sure,” I agree, surprising myself. “Want to meet up somewhere off campus?”

“I could pick you up, if you prefer?” he offers. I shrug. It doesn’t matter to me either way. Smiling, he nods. “I shall pick you up. There is a nice café where it is quiet to do homework.”

“Whatever.” I shrug again. Straightening out of my lazy sprawl, I rub my fingers idly on the bench. My skin catches on the rougher wood, and I pick at a splinter. “Thanks again, for helping me the other night.”

I still don’t remember everything that happened, but my fragmented memories are enough for me to piece together some of the story. I don’t have to remember everything to know it was humiliating, but Henri hasn’t said a single thing about it since I left his dorm that morning. If our roles had been reversed, I would have given him hell for weeks.

“You do not have to thank me for this—that,” he corrects, waving a hand. “Anyone would have done so.”

“Apparently not,” I muse dryly. “I called seven people before I got to you.”

This seems to stun him into silence for a few moments. I can practically feel his brain trying to think of something polite to say. He’s probably never ignored a call in his life. If he had, it surely would have been mine.

“You deserve better friends,” is what he eventually settles on. He’s probably right.

“Whatever,” I repeat, with another indifferent shrug. I’m better off alone—less people to let you down that way. He looks like he wants to say more, but is holding himself back. I can practically see the words crawling up his throat and knocking at his teeth. Rolling my eyes, I curl my fingers in the universal gesture ofgive it to me. “Just say it, Polo Shirt.”

“I think you should be careful drinking so much alcohol, and I also think you should not be taking pills that others give you. Especially those people you were with. They arenotpeople you should be friends with, Atlas,” he says firmly, giving me the kind of stare that probably shouldn’t be sexy but is. I struggle to remember why I used to think the way he said my name was annoying.

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