Page 73 of Branded
So, I resisted the urge to punch my D partner in the throat, dealt with the quiet, albeit, not so subtle shit-giving that was tossed my way, from Cas and pretty much everyone else—though I made a mental note to start plotting?—
A mental note that grew into a mental billboard after I walked into the locker room and found my stall stuffed full of creepy as fuck plush wombats.
Why?
Why the beady eyes?
Why, God?
Grabbing a stick, I knocked them away from my space—ignoring the fucking cackles from the guys and definitely plotting some serious revenge.
“I feel like you should lead with the Stanford alum part,” I said lightly, reaching over and topping off her glass with beer.
I’d wanted to take her someplace nicer than CeCe’s—the bar me and most of the Breakers organization hung out at on the regular—but Kailey had asked to come here, saying she’d heard everyone talk about it and would like to see the place for herself.
Also, it was really early for dinner.
None of the nice places were open yet.
So, we were sitting on barstools at a high-top table, my feet on the bottom rung, Kailey’s swinging lightly as she sat next to me. A basket of mozzarella sticks was in front of us. A plate of nachos next to that. Both had been pretty much decimated, but the salad I’d ordered—wanting to pretend to be at least a little bit healthy—was untouched.
Now we were working our way through a pitcher of beer, sitting around, chatting about our pasts.
She’d been a little jumpy at first and had stammered her way through ordering, glancing at me a half-dozen times, like she’d expected me to explode in frustration.
I hadn’t, of course.
When I’d been in all my interventions in school, trying to figure out how to read initially, and then, later, the techniques to make it easier, I’d hated when I’d felt the impatience of the person helping me. Sometimes it was verbal—a sharp “come on” or “hurry up.” But the majority of the time it was nonverbal—a shifting, a sigh, a head bob, or a hand flicking.
I’d gotten really good at picking up on all of those things, tuning into that impatience, trying absolutely anything to stop it from coming to a head.
Kailey was that way, too.
Maybe that was why my soul felt comfortable with hers.
And the longer I’d waited, the more patient I’d been, the more she’d relaxed. The easier it had been for her to be there, in a new place with people all around—or at least, from what I’d presumed.
Her face had relaxed.
She hadn’t gotten that wide-eyed, panicked look I’d seen at the barbecue—which had brought me to a slight side tangent of hating myself for how I’d handled that initial interaction, not recognizing the signs, wishing I had and?—
“What?” she asked softly, her hand finding my arm.
“I’m just thinking about the barbecue.”
She shuddered. “Oh that,” she whispered. “Not my idea of a good time.” She released my arm, picked up the last mozzarella stick, offered it to me, and when I shook my head, took a big bite, washing it down with a sip of her beer. “But,” she said, when she’d swallowed, “I’m getting better at it.”
“I think you’re doing incredible.”
“You should have seen me before,” she whispered, a little shyly. “And you’d really think that.” Her fingers wrapped around my forearm again, and I fucking loved that she was seemingly touching me without thinking, comfortable enough that her body found mine.
Like Lexi to Luc.
Like Hazel to Oliver.
Like Pru to Marcel.
I was part of that solar system now, a pair of planets orbiting each other, or maybe I was the moon to Kailey’s?—
