Page 7 of The Fake
“This should be entertaining.”
I nod in agreement and watch as Clark weaves through people to get to Surfer Princess. He tosses a smirk back our direction when he’s a few paces from her and then goes for it.
She’s tall and the heels she has on make it so that I can see over Clark’s big head and watch her expression as he gives what I can only imagine is the worst pickup line ever. Clark is a good guy but about as smooth as a cat’s tongue.
A hint of a smile overshadows the slight discomfort I detect as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other. Her lips move in response to Clark and then she lifts her drink and takes a sip.
I can pinpoint the exact moment things go horribly wrong for ole Clark, though I haven’t a clue what he could have said to have the girl in front of him bristle in such a dramatic way I can spot it from twenty yards. Her mouth draws into a tight line as she nods and then takes off. She doesn’t even wait for Clark to move, just pushes past him and hightails it to the far side of the party.
“Crash and burn.” Mario chuckles as Clark turns back to face us wearing a sheepish grin and shrugs.
I laugh along with him, but I can’t shake the horrible day to offer a real one. I need more booze and maybe a lobotomy. “I’m gonna get some air.”
“We’re outside, man.”
I’m already two steps away when I respond, “Air other people aren’t breathing.”
I get stopped no less than five times, get forced into a photo with the team, and spend twenty painful minutes talking to an alumnus who has food stuck in his teeth before I can slip away from the party.
I pull the flask I stashed in my pocket and unscrew the cap. The burn of liquor is fresh on my lips when I spot her. She’s double-fisting it now, champagne in both hands as she leans against the side of Ray Fieldhouse. It’s the side entrance, only accessible with a badge given to staff and student-athletes.
Surfer Princess is hiding, not that I blame her. If the baseball guys knew about her, that means everyone else does too or will shortly.
She stills when she sees me, her haven invaded. Taking a step like she’s going to leave, I stop her. I’m not sure why, except she seems like the only person who might be having a shittier night than I am. “You don’t have to run off. You have dibs, being here first and all. I’ll just kick rocks.”
To my back, she says, “Wait.”
Color me surprised, I turn back to her, and she shifts uncomfortably on her tall heels. “Got something good in that flask?”
I shake my head. “Nah, it’s not good.” I close some of the distance between us and hold it out to her in invitation. “But it’s effective.”
She walks slowly until she’s within an arm’s length away. Up close, she’s even more beautiful, which seems like it should be impossible because she looked pretty damn good from a distance. She hands me one of the flutes, takes the flask, puts it to her lips, and tips it back without so much as a sniff or sip to test it first. She’s taken a healthy amount before she hands it back, eyes closed, and mouth twisted in displeasure. “You’re right on both counts.”
“Damn.” I take another, much smaller, drink. Who is this chick? I mean, I know who she is, but… damn. “That was impressive.”
“You say that now, but I might be sleeping right here tonight.” She shudders and coughs. “What was that?”
“Mostly Everclear. Little bit of Mountain Dew.”
“It tastes like rubbing alcohol.” She holds her hand out for the flask despite her obvious dislike for it.
“One hundred and twenty proof.”
She takes another drink.
“Go easy.”
When she hands the flask back this time, I pocket it. I know my limits, but I’m not sure she does. Lifting the champagne flute I’ve been holding for her, I ask, “This one for me?”
She shrugs. “Seems fair, I guess.”
I take a seat on the bottom step, one of three that leads up to the door. The sun just went down and there’s a nice breeze. I don’t know this girl, but this is the most at ease I’ve felt all day.
“Hiding from anyone in particular?”
“No. I’m hiding from everyone.”
“I feel that.”
