Page 5 of Enticing the Enforcer
I hesitate. Only for a second.
Then I nod.
Because, although I do know who I’ll be tomorrow, up on that stage, giving everything I have to people I’ve never met, tonight I want to experience something different. Something I don’t know how it will end. Right now, I’m just a girl in a borrowed hoodie, standing in front of a boy who brought her dinner.
And for once, that’s enough.
He doesn’t waitfor me to speak again–just turns like he expects I’ll follow.
I stare at his back, his broad-shouldered, ridiculous wing-spanned back, until he turns and says, “Coming?”
No!I want to say. I almost do, because what the hell am I doing?
This is crazy. No. It’s fucking dangerous.
I’ve had stalkers before. Mentally disturbed fans. Parasocial relationships that blur the lines of reality. But for some insane reason, I just nod and take a step after him, my long legs working double time to catch up with his even longer ones. Why? Because I’m curious. Because I’m hungry. Because, despite all the good reasons to stay put in the safety of the hotel, I’m starting to think the suites and tour buses and arenas are starting to suck the very life out of me.
We walk side by side in silence for the first block, the only sound between us the shuffle of our sneakers on pavement and the crinkle of the brown paper bag swinging gently from his fingers.
He turns us off the strip, passing a street of large houses lit up like Christmas. Greek letters hang over the doors. There’s a guy in a backwards cap yelling from the second-floor porch while holding a red plastic cup. Down below another group stands around a wooden table, and one of them lets out a half-hearted “Wooo!” before recognizing Jefferson and shouting, “Good luck, Parks!”
“Bring home the trophy!”
Jefferson lifts a hand at the guys, but makes no move to join them.
“Are you in a frat?” I ask, trying to sound casual, like I understand this world.
“Not a chance,” he grins, flashing that dimple. “Although I guess my team is pretty close to a frat. We’re like brothers; we live and party together. We’re there through thick and thin.”
“That makes sense. I get close to the people I work with, too.”
“Those guys…” he gestures to the frat boys who are back to playing some game on the tabletop. “They’re fans. Hockey is very popular at Wittmore, I’m pretty well known on campus.”
Across the street are similar houses, although bigger and cleaner. No tabletop games or couches in the yard. A girl exits her car by the curb, and I look away quickly, but it’s unnecessary. Her eyes skirt past me and land squarely on Jefferson. That’s a first, but I think I get it. He’s got a magnetism. And from what I can tell from the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders, a killer body. “Hey, you.”
“Chantel,” he says, eyebrow raising.
“I heard Reese issued a no-partying rule tonight?”
“No partying here,” he says, positioning his body between me and the girl. I realize he’s keeping her from being able to see my face. “Just showing a friend around campus.”
“Well,” she tilts her head, “if you end up looking for a place to crash tonight, you know where to find me.”
“Will do,” he says, flashing her that grin. “See you around.”
Even after we’re a house away from the girl, I tug my hoodie lower, pulling the brim of my cap down. “That happen a lot? Girls inviting you to ‘crash’ at their place?”
“Pretty often,” he replies with zero shame.
“Is that what you think is happening here? That your little private tour and greasy hamburger will lead to a hook up? A one-night stand with Ingrid Flockton? A way to get tickets? An autograph? Details on what really happened with me and my ex to sell to the tabloids?”
He stops and looks down at me, a piece of blond hair falling in his eyes. “Babe, if I wanted in your pants, I would’ve brought condoms, not fries.”
A beat stretches between us, and I feel stupid and out of my depth, which rarely happens to me. Usually, I’m the one in control; I make sure of it, but at this moment, out on the coldstreet in Wittmore, I’m anything but in charge. Also? Marv is going to kill me. I narrow my eyes. “How do I know you’re not going to murder me?”
“Jesus, you sound like my roommate’s girlfriend,” he mutters. “I’m a hockey player, not a psycho.”
“That’s notentirelyreassuring.”
