Pink Shades of Words: Walk 2016 (27 page)

He winked. "Hey, Miche. Is that for your Instagram? I follow you. I'll have to make a special point of double-tapping it later."

Oh, holy hell.
I stopped to count the individual instances of butterfly-inducing hotness present in just that simple statement. One, there was his deep, magnolia-drenched Savannah accent that never failed to send heat rushing through my entire body. He drew out the heavy, round vowel sounds so that the words sounded like honey dripping from his lips. It lent weight to everything he said, making it seem like poetry, like even the simplest statements were oratory.

Two, there was the special nickname that only he called me. Miche. Pronounced like
meesh
. Everyone else called me Mitch or Shelly. Or didn't bother with a nickname at all. Not Sebastian. Nope. To him, I was Miche. Three, there was the fact that he knew I had an Instagram and he followed me. Four, there was the dripping-with-sex, double-entendre way he’d said "double-tapping."

That couldn't have all been in my head. Could it?

Fuck! He’d gotten me so turned around with one little paragraph that I couldn't even think straight.

"Yeah," I replied stiffly. I wanted to be cool. I wanted to be smooth. But as my eyes traveled up and down the chiseled muscles of his body, the ever-present five-o’clock-shadow-esque scruff on his strong jaw, the buttery softness of his dark blue eyes, the wavy brown hair that I wanted to bury my fingers in so badly my hands actually twitched every time I was near him—well, every vestige of “cool” that I’d ever cultivated left me in an instant.

"You know, there's only one thing wrong with that Instagram of yours." He grinned, and then dialed up his honey-drenched accent to eleven. "It's all pictures of books and scenery. And don't get me wrong, darlin'. They're pretty. You have a great eye. But there's one beautiful thing in your world that you hardly ever post any pictures of, and it's a glaring omission."

Maybe listening to that slow, sexy Georgia drawl had my brain
that
discombobulated, but I really didn't see where he was going. "What?"

"
You
, pretty girl. You need to post pictures of your gorgeous self."

Fuck. My face was burning, but it wasn't from the effects of my crush this time. No, now, it was from humiliation. He had to be making fun of me. He
had
to be. I mean...right? There was no other explanation for why a guy like Sebastian—handsome, popular, baseball star, big-man-on-campus-type Sebastian—would be flirting with me.

It wasn't that I had low self-esteem. I was just realistic. I knew I was
cute
. I could see that. But I wasn't
gorgeous
. Not like the girls that Sebastian dated. And that was fine by me. It really was. With my short, blonde bob that usually had a neon streak (or two) running through it, black-rimmed glasses, array of tattoos, quirky fashion sense, and general artistic sensibilities, I tended to appeal to a certain type of guy—and it wasn't Sebastian's type. Not by a long shot.

No, my type of guy was more likely to be making fun of sports than playing them. My wheelhouse was far more "bass player" than "baseball player," and that had never bothered me.

Until now, anyway.

Something about Sebastian threw me
way
the hell off-balance, and...yeah. I didn't hate it as much as I wished I did.

We had met on the first day of the semester. We were in Comm205 together. The Art of Debate. He shouldn’t have noticed me. There were a hundred kids in that class. But he had. He'd come up and talked to me afterward—flirted, really. And he'd been doing it ever since. I just couldn't figure out why.

All of my past experience conspired to tell me that he was making fun of me. All of my instincts told me to watch out, not to trust him. There was no way he could like me for
me
. If he was interested in me, it was only because I was a "project." The words played in my brain nonstop when it came to him. But...damn. I was still drawn in. I couldn't help it. Something in his deep-blue eyes seemed sincere, and I couldn't keep from wanting more—in spite of myself.

I never knew how to respond when he got me into this state of confusion, however, so I did what I always did. I ran away.

"I've gotta get back to work," I mumbled, and then I hurried down one of the long, book-lined aisles without giving him so much as a backward glance.

Coward
.

Brandy caught up to me when I was halfway to the break room. "What are you doing?" she asked, a teasing tone in her voice.

"Hiding," I groaned. "And what was up with just abandoning me back there, by the way?"

She grabbed my arm to slow me down. "Girl, I wasn't abandoning you! I was giving you room to work your magic. Or let him work his. Either way. I never imagined you wouldn’t want me to! So, what’s the deal? Why do you need to hide from the hottie?"

"I don't know. He just makes me feel so...like I don't even know myself when he's around."

She sighed. "Oh my God, that's the best feeling!"

"No, it's not! It's very disconcerting."

She grinned. "But in the best
way
, right?"

I nodded begrudgingly, a small smile sneaking its way onto my lips. "Yeah. I admit it. In the best way."

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C
HAPTER TWO

Sebastian

––––––––

"D
ude. You are seriously delusional if you think you have a chance with that honey."

I had gone straight from the library to the weight room, and texted my roommate (and baseball teammate) Jackson to meet me there. I figured, why not kill two birds with one stone—get in one of my required outside-practice workouts, and also sweat out some tension. I figured just lifting weights with Jackson, enjoying the camaraderie, shooting the breeze or not talking at all, would help me clear my mind—particularly of anything Miche-related.

Normally, Jackson was about as deep as a puddle when it came to conversational topics. That had made me think he would be a good partner for some mindless weightlifting. I’d been wrong.

I scowled at him. "The fuck are you talking about?"

"Library Girl? That's who you're thinking about, right?"

"And again, I say. The fuck are you talking about?" I was full of shit. I knew what he was talking about. Obviously I did. But I didn't like him giving me crap about it. So I continued lifting weights as I did my best to ignore his pointed questions.

He shook his head, his knowing smirk telling me all I needed to know about how damn transparent I was. Of course, after having roomed together for going on two years, not to mention playing on the baseball team together, Jackson could read me like a book. But it didn't even take that level of familiarity to be able to call this one. I was an
open
fucking book when it came to Michelle. I couldn't help it.

He set down the hand weight he’d been lifting and lightly punched my arm when I was on the downswing. "Don't even try it. Ever since you spotted that girl across the auditorium in debate, you've been walking around in a zombie-ass trance."

"Maybe I'm thinking about the season starting. Or worrying about grades. Or obsessing over where my next Cali burrito is coming from."

He snorted. "The undisputed frickin' awesomeness of carne asada, french fries, and guac wrapped in a tortilla aside, I don't think
that
obsession would constantly lead your ass to the library. Where you've been hanging out a lot lately. And which is where Library Girl works. Call me crazy, but I don’t think that’s a coincidence."

"Whatever. Maybe I'm going to the library to, oh, I don't know...study? Research things?"

Jackson hit repeat on the snort. "Bullcrap. That's why God invented the Internet. You're there to creep on Library Girl. Trust me. I've known you long enough to know there's not a damn thing of any interest to you in that building except her sweet ass."

The protective flame that ignited in my chest was completely foreign to me. Normally, I was as easygoing as they come. Quick to smile, and even quicker to laugh. But when Jackson joked about her ass, I wanted to punch him in his smirky goddamn face.

"You shut your damn mouth about her."

That fuckin’ smirk grew into a full-fledged self-satisfied grin. "Ah, yeah. But it's not like you
care
or anything. Right?"

I stared straight ahead as I attacked my reps without saying anything. I didn't want to speak while I was this angry. I didn't want to lose control. I liked control. Michelle was the only girl I'd ever met who had the power to cause that control to slip. That made me nervous as hell, but at the same time, it thrilled the fuck out of me. Whenever I was with her I felt like I was jumping out of an airplane—sure, if your parachute didn’t open, you were gonna end up going splat in a big way. But, damn. What a way to go.

The one thing I knew was that she made my head spin—constantly. And, whether I loved that or hated it didn’t really matter. The point was, I couldn't get enough of it. I kept going back for more. Again and again. No matter how much of a lost cause it seemed to be.

The single-minded repetition of the exercise served to cool my blood. I saw the situation with Jackson in a new light. Even though it sucked that he had guessed what I felt for Michelle, maybe I could use it to my advantage. They didn't call him J-Dog for nothing. He was as big a hit with the ladies as I (usually) was. I could lay out the situation and get his perspective. After all, a month of hitting on her hadn't gotten me anywhere, and it was starting to drive me a little nuts. I needed a new approach, and maybe Jackson could help me devise one.

"Look, I'm not saying you're right," I begrudgingly admitted.

"Except for the part where you just did exactly that," he smart-assed.

I finished my set and carried my weights over to the rack. On my way back to the bench, I flipped him off, but laughed as I did. I had never met anyone in this world who loved being right as much as Jackson did.

"Setting that aside, let's go back to the part where you said I don't have a chance with her. Why is that, ya think?"

He shrugged. "Because you're not the kind of guy that gets emotionally destroyed over song lyrics by some band that wears eyeliner."

"The fuck now?"

"You're not her type, compadre. She's a...whatever you call it. Emo. Hipster. Goth. Whateverthefuck. She thinks safety pins are jewelry is my point. Until you paint your nails black and start wearing skinny jeans, you ain't gonna be getting in
her
jeans. Accept it and move on. She's not worth the damn trouble."

The tidal wave of protective rage boiled up again, and I wanted to defend her. To tell him to take his dumbass opinion and deposit it where the sun don't shine. But I shoved that impulse down. Fighting with Jackson would be counterproductive to the goal of picking his brain. I needed to think of this like a game. Eye on the prize.

"Well, what if I think she
is
worth it?”

He stopped lifting and looked at me for a moment, his expression thoughtful. For the first time in this conversation, I thought he might actually be taking it seriously. Finally, he sat on the weight bench across from me and said, "So, this isn't just a joke, then? You're not just trying to game her? You're actually serious about this one?"

I put my weights down and considered the question. "Shit, I don't know yet if it's serious. I just know I'd like it to be. I want to get to know her better. Hell, I
need
to get to know her better. But I'm getting fucking nowhere. And, not to be a cocky bastard or anything—"

"Oh, no. Not you." His voice was full of good-natured sarcasm.

"—but this is not how it usually is for me."

"Nah, I get it. This one's making you work for it."

"Yeah. I guess so."

"That's probably a good part of the appeal."

"Maybe," I admitted. "But there's a helluva lot more to it than that."

"Like?"

"Like...
fuck
. Like everything. Like the fact that I get more damn satisfaction from causing her lips to twitch just the tiniest amount at a joke than I do from making ten empty-headed sorority girls belly-laugh. Like the fact that looking at the artistic pictures she posts online has actually made me start looking at the world differently because I want to see it the way she does. To see that kind of beauty in small things. Like the fact that—"

"Look, I'm gonna cut you off there because, to be honest, I'm afraid that if I listen to any more, I'm gonna need to buy some tampons. But whatever. I get it. She's a special snowflake, and she's captured your tender little heart."

"Please don't make me beat the hell out of you right now."

"All right, all right! I'll get serious. So, here's the thing: If this girl's really that different than all the other girls who have fallen for your shtick—oh, sorry. I mean your
charm—
in the past, then why are you so surprised that the same moves aren't working on her? She's different. That's why you like her. So take a different approach."

"Yeah. Makes sense. But what approach would that be?"

He laughed. "Hell if I know. Shit, dude. Why do you think I stick to the baseball groupies? No strategizing required. The uniform does ninety percent of the work for me. But damn. I mean, if you want some real advice... I guess...be yourself or some shit? I don't know. I feel like that's what the Reading Rainbow dude would say. And he seems like he gives good advice."

I laughed. "Yeah, I'm sure LeVar Burton would be happy to know that his legacy was to inspire a generation of young people to 'I guess...be yourself or some shit.' That's some sage-ass wisdom right there."

Jackson laughed as he resumed lifting weights. "Hell, bro. And the sad part is you're the one coming to me for advice. So, how pathetic does that make you?"

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C
HAPTER THREE

Michelle

––––––––

"D
amn it!" I banged my head against the steering wheel as I turned the key in the ignition for the fifth time.