Page 48 of Anatomy of a Player

“Well, you look hot—you actually have the boobs to pull it off.” I took out my phone, pulled up the pic I’d taken of her right before we left our apartment, and texted it to her. “Seriously, send Beck that picture and just wait for his head to explode.”

While she sent that off, I tugged up the shimmery white, covered-in-candy-images top of my strapless dress. Katy Perry embodied all things colorful and glittery, so the instant I’d seen the costume, I knew I wanted to go as her. And once I’d seen the Lara Croft costume on the clearance rack, I’d known Lyla would look kickass in it.

We took a quick selfie, and I smiled even bigger when I caught sight of my neon blue hair. The skirt of the dress was rainbow colored and landed mid-thigh—which felt downright scandalous after over a month of boring slacks—and I was so happy to be wearing my glittery pink five-and-a-half-inch pumps that I’d barely refrained from kissing them when I’d pulled them out of my closet.

I was so excited about the party that we’d shown up on the early side, but there were still plenty of people in a variety of costumes. I linked arms with Lyla and we headed for the drink table.

As we passed by a group of guys, I heard a muttered “holy shit.”

That’s right. I usually look like this. Okay, not like this, but kind of like this.

Lyla’s phone chimed and she pulled it out and read the message onscreen. “I think Beck’s head is exploding in a bad way. He thinks all these guys are going to hit on me, and says while he doesn’t blame them, he doesn’t like the thought of not being here to fight them off.”

She quickly sent off a message, then lowered the phone. “I told him that I’ll just talk about cats and make chemistry jokes, and the guys will be running from me soon.”

Her phone chimed again. She read it and then turned the screen so I could read it, too.

Beck:Do you not understand that you’re every videogame geek’s wet dream? The cat and chemistry jokes are only going to make them want you more. Shit, I’m going to have to charter a jet there and keep them off you, aren’t I? ;)

More text bubbles popped up, one right after another.

Beck:Just be careful

Beck:And call me when you get home. xoxo

Beck:And save that costume for tomorrow night

Lyla quickly dropped her phone, her cheeks turning pink.

“See, it’s exploding in a good way,” I said. Finally we made it to the front of the line and grabbed a couple of drinks. Here and there guys approached. We made chit chat with vampires, werewolves, one zombie—you know, the usual crowd—and I waited to meet one of those nice guys who’d appreciate my bodyandmy personality and brain.

When one of Lyla’s chemistry classmates pulled her into conversation, I signaled that I’d be back, grabbed another drink, and looped around the room. A guy wearing aStar Trekcostume approached and offered me a drink, and I lifted my cup to show I was good.

“I saw you all the way across the room,” he said. “I really like your costume.”

“Thanks. Spock, right?” Admittedly, I didn’t know much aboutStar Trek, but I did know the pointy-eared guy was Spock—at least I hoped so.

“Yeah.” He beamed at me and then spread his hands to make aV, his thumb out. “Live long and prosper.”

I nodded, because I didn’t know what else to do with that.

The guy had no chin, just a slope from his mouth to his neck. He was on the scrawny side, too. Which was all fine, of course. I needed to shift my type, time had proven that. But shouldn’t I be a little attracted to a guy in order to date him?

I gave a stab at conversation, asking if he likedStar Wars, too, but then he ranted about how people always thought those two should go together, but they weren’t even close to the same concept.

Maybe if I dug deeper I’d find we actually had a thing or two in common, but when he placed his hand on my shoulder and asked about my major, all I could think about was finding a way to shift and get his clammy fingers off my skin without seeming rude.

We talked majors, I moved around enough to keep him from touching me again, and when there was a lull in the conversation—one I’d take full credit for—I said, “I better go find my friend.”

Three steps into my search for Lyla, I came face-to-face with Trevor. In what I took as a costume mirroring real life, my ex was dressed up as the devil. He had on black workout shorts and a red boxing type robe, no shirt, and a devil horn headband. “Whitney,” he said, a smile working its way across his lips. “Hey.”

It’d been over a month since he’d dumped me without a second thought, but the hurt rose up again, the hit to my self-esteem still there. I wrapped my arms around myself, almost expecting another insult on my neediness. “Trevor.”

His gaze ran up and down me—the total obvious check out I’d thought I wanted tonight, but it only made me shrivel further into myself. “Damn, you look hot.”

Did he want me to thank him for the compliment? Was it always so clear that all he’d wanted was sex, and I just hadn’t seen it because I’d been too busy thinking about his stupid handsome face and the athletic body he proudly showed off? I’d been so flattered that he’d picked me, which was extra stupid, because he obviously hadn’t.

I wanted to say something—to reach down and find enough confidence to tell him off—and yet I remained frozen in place, the insecure part of me wondering if I was as needy as he’d said. IfIwas the reason all my relationships failed.

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