Getting Lucky Number Seven (6 page)

“Oh. Thanks. Cool. Lyla. That’s my name.”

He seemed to be waiting for something else, and I kicked myself for not looking up good party conversation starters. Finding it hard to meet his steady gaze, I glanced down and noticed some gray and white cat hair on my shirt. I wiped at it. “Sorry. My cat, Einstein, always sheds. Not that I’m a crazy cat lady or anything. I’ve just got the one. I mean, I had two when I was in junior high, but they both died. Not at the same time, or that would’ve been awful. It was still pretty sad. But now I have Einstein, and he’s super mellow, not to mention, like, the cutest cat ever.”

CJ nodded awkwardly, and I knew I should’ve stuck with keeping my mouth shut. After another weird beat where he just blinked at me, he walked away. Beck was standing off to the side, two red plastic cups in hand.

“Dead cats? You said you had a hard time talking to guys, but shit, Debbie Downer, I had no idea.”

My spirits sagged, taking my confidence along with them.

“Don’t worry.” Beck held out a cup to me. “The good thing about parties is there’s always another opportunity waiting around the corner. But let’s get you loosened up a bit before we try again.”

I took a generous gulp from the cup. Coke with a hint of coconut—much yummier than beer. Then I eyed the cup in his hand. “What about driving later?”

“It’s just Coke. Don’t worry about me, I’m the responsible one tonight. You’re the one who doesn’t worry about things, remember?” Beck stepped aside for a couple weaving through the crowd and then took my elbow and pulled me away from the steady stream of traffic headed toward the drink table.

“Here’s a tip,” he said. “When a guy comes up to you, ask him questions. Keep reflecting the conversation back to him. People love talking about themselves. Asking about their major might be overdone, but it’ll get the conversation going. Music. Hobbies. Things like that. And then, if the guy seems into the conversation, move a little closer—it’s loud in here, so you’ve got the perfect excuse.” He set his cup on a nearby ledge. “Try it out on me.”

“Do I have to? I’ll feel stupid. Plus, I already know you.”

Beck crossed his arms and looked down at me, all intimidation. I tipped back my drink, stalling for time, but he patiently waited, still staring me down when I finally lowered the cup from my lips.

“Fine, Coach. But just to be clear, I’m not going to drop and give you twenty if I mess up.” Going off the flirting I’d seen Whitney and Kristen do, I flipped my hair and shot him what I hoped was a sexy grin but felt like it might land me more on the possibly-a-psycho scale. “Beck, was it? So, like, what do you do for fun?”

His lips twitched and as I waited for his response, I was already trying to figure out what I should say next. But then his ridiculously blue eyes focused on me and only me, my breath caught, and suddenly my main thought was,
Pretend flirting or not, no matter what you do, do
not
comment on his eyes or the way they’re currently sending a shiver of electricity up your spine.

Chapter Eight

Beck

Telling myself I shouldn’t be staring at Lyla’s boobs wasn’t working as well as it should’ve, the same way it hadn’t when she’d first gotten in my car tonight. And when I tried to look away from them, there were her shapely legs peeking out of those tiny shorts to distract me. When she said she was going for a new look, I figured it’d be a trim that I’d get in trouble for not noticing, and maybe a new outfit. I had to hand it to her, though, she’d really gone all out.

The feisty redhead in front of me looked completely opposite of the girl who usually sat cross-legged on my couch, her skirt spread out like a blanket as she commentated on every unbelievable part of the movie that she “just didn’t buy.” But the train-wreck conversation I’d witnessed a minute ago proved that girl was still in there. Which was why I needed to
not
say, “Girls like you,” the way my instincts automatically told me to. That was a line for a very different type of girl.

So instead I went for a less bold response that’d help her work on her social skills. “I play hockey. I’m on the college team, actually.”

She licked her lips—another feature of hers I most definitely shouldn’t stare at—and then she shook her head, almost as if she’d been somewhere else for a moment. “Cool. I’ve never been to a hockey game.”

“You should come to one. Watch me play.” It was typical conversation, just like we’d talked about, but I wondered why she’d never come to a game. It’d be nice to have her there cheering me on, but judging from the way she constantly flinched during fight scenes in movies, she’d probably think it was too violent.

“I’ll have to check my schedule,” she said with another hair flip.

Now she was getting it, although she needed to learn another move—we’d go into that later. Right now she needed a confidence boost. “So, Lyla, what’s your major?”

She tilted her head and sighed.

“Let’s try a little less attitude. We don’t want the guys thinking you’re stuck-up.”

“Jerk,” she muttered, shoving my chest, and I laughed.

“Come on, you talk to me all the time, and you’re perfectly normal. Funny and passionate, with no trouble putting me in my place.” I took a sip of my soda, looking at her over the rim so she’d know she might as well answer, because I wouldn’t budge until she did.

She ran her hand through her hair, the new bright-hued bangs immediately falling back over one eye. “The ‘normal’ part is debatable, and it doesn’t count because it’s you, and I’m not trying to impress you. When I talk to a cute guy, my brain says be cool, but my mouth says screw you, brain, and then stupid things come out. I don’t think I can practice it away.”

“Not with that attitude, you can’t,” I said. A girl carrying a tray full of Jell-O shots walked by, and I snagged two. “Here. You’re drinking too slow.”

After Lyla took care of the shots, making a sour face after each one, we picked up with the typical party small talk, and I went back into instructor mode.

“Now, act like you didn’t hear what I said, put your hand on my massive bicep” —I flashed her a teasing smile, hoping it’d help put her at ease—“then lean in and say, ‘Huh?’ And make sure you sound as ditzy as possible.”

The wheels were turning as she psyched herself up to make the move, which was funny considering we were only practicing. Finally, she put her hand on my arm, leaned in so close her warmth soaked into me and I could smell the cherry Jell-O shots on her breath as she said, “Huh?” Then she bit her lip. It was a nervous tick she had, but in this instance, it totally worked for her.

“See,” I said, finding myself staring into her eyes and thinking that they were bigger and brighter than usual. My heart gave one hard pump that sent a burst of adrenaline through my veins. I cleared my throat, trying to get my thoughts back on track. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Lyla stepped back, and an unanticipated twinge of disappointment over the space suddenly between us twisted my chest. My dry spell must be messing with my head.

A couple of girls wearing even less than Lyla walked by, giggling and wobbling enough it was clear they were already past tipsy.

“If you wanna experiment,” I said, “I hear college is a good time for girls to kiss girls. I’ll supervise.”

Lyla smacked my chest, harder than she’d ever done before. “Don’t be pervy.”

I laughed, rubbing the spot she’d hit as if I were really injured. “If you’re doing this experiment, there’s something you should know. All guys are pervy. Some just hide it better than others.”

She frowned at me. “All guys?”

The disappointment in her voice almost caused me to take it back. But she should know what she was getting herself into. I saw how hurt she was when her boring dud of a boyfriend broke up with her—it’d be way too easy for some player jackass to use her and leave her crushed.

Even though I told myself not to soften it, I found myself saying, “You’ve got your complete assholes, and then there are the guys who are actually good guys and do their best to be decent. You want to go for the nicer pervs.”

The dimple in her cheek showed up as a smile broke free.

I cupped her elbow, and okay, I might’ve accidentally on purpose brushed my thumb across her soft skin. “Buzzed enough to try a keg stand?”

She glanced over to where people were filling their cups up from the tap. “No one else is doing one, though. Wouldn’t it be weird if I did it now? And you know, won’t people be a little grossed out afterward that my germs are on the—”

I slid my hand down to hers and tugged her toward the keg. “Trust me, people won’t care, and within a few minutes, I guarantee there will be at least a couple of guys circling. Then you can try out your new moves.”

If I knew she wouldn’t regret backing out, I wouldn’t push, but I could see that she wanted to break free for a night. Her years of being a rule follower, not to mention how she overanalyzed everything, just held her back. Once we got to the keg, it took all of two seconds to find another spotter and someone to work the tap.

I explained exactly how to do it, and Lyla’s eyes went wide as she gripped the metal rim. “Ready?” I asked, but we were already hoisting her up.

The crowd counted the seconds. They got to eight before she kicked out and we set her down. She spun to the other guy, putting her hands on his arms to steady herself. At first I thought she was putting my instructions to good use, but when she stumbled back, saying, “Sorry,” I realized she’d thought it was me.

I put my hand on her shoulder and slowly spun her around. “I’m here. You okay?”

She nodded.

“Want to go again?”

She shook her head. Already there were more girls lined up, ready to get the attention they so badly wanted, while Lyla was pushing away from it as fast as she could. The other guy who’d held her up obviously would’ve been happy to chat with her—he’d done less holding her up and more staring at her boobs.

A thread of heat stitched its way through my gut, but I worked to push it back. Lyla wanted to be seen as the hot girl. With the outfit she had on, I could hardly get pissed at every guy who ogled her like she was nothing more than a toy for them to play with.

She wobbled as we made our way from the crowd, and I caught her around the waist. I wasn’t sure if she was feeling the effects of the alcohol or if it was those shoes that made her legs look so damn good. When her eyes met mine, though, she smiled. “At least I did it.”

“You did.”

“That beer was super disgusting, though.” She wrinkled her adorable little nose. “I think the taste is going to be in my mouth forever.”

“I’ll go get you something else. Just Coke, or do you want rum in it again?”

“Maybe a little rum?”

“On it.”

I made sure she had a wall to lean on and then headed back to the drink table. While I was there, I ran into Jeff, one of my teammates, and an all-around good guy. One of the nice pervs, I suppose, which gave me an idea.

“Hey, you see that girl over there?”

Jeff followed my pointed finger. “The redhead with the nice rack?”

That same hot pinch went through my gut, and I again told it to shut up. Lyla wanted to make out with a stranger, and who was I to stop her? I’d tried to give her the skills to draw a guy in for a longer conversation, too, but now that she was drunk? Well, who knew what she’d say?
“Go take her this,” I said, placing the rum and Coke in his hand, “and chat with her for a while. Even if she… Just talk to her, okay? Make sure you tell her she looks nice—leave the rack out of it.”

He nodded and took a step toward her. I caught his shoulder, halting his progress. “You can kiss her if she seems interested, but that’s as far as it goes. Put your hands on her and I’ll make it my personal mission to ensure you limp home from practice every day.”

Jeff stared at me, mouth ajar.

I shoved him forward. “What are you waiting for? Go already.”

As he headed toward her, his reluctance clear, I realized I might’ve gone too far. With sending him. With telling him I’d hurt him if he touched her. Shit, I felt like some kind of kissing pimp now.

“Hi,” a blonde breathed at me as she pushed her body against my side. Under normal circumstances, I’d make small talk. See where it led. It’d been long enough that I was tempted, but then Jeff reached Lyla, and I was watching her flash him a smile. When he first offered her the drink, she hesitated, but then Jeff gestured at me. I nodded to let her know it was from me and she took the cup from him.

Letting him talk, good… Just be cool, girl.

The blonde got offended and walked off, which reminded me that I’d never called Monica back, and that if I did, she’d yell so long it wouldn’t be worth it. Cross that one off the list. She was probably too hot and cold to be even a semi-steady thing anyway. Drag it out much longer and regardless of her claim to be cool with our arrangement, she’d suddenly show up at hockey practices, thinking watching me train somehow equaled getting closer. Not only was I not interested in a relationship, I didn’t have time to maintain one, keep up with classes,
and
lead my team to playoffs.

After a couple of minutes of nodding at whatever Jeff was saying, Lyla glanced around. I moved closer, waiting to see if she made any other signs she was over talking to him. She swayed, putting her fingers to her forehead, and I realized I’d overestimated how much she could drink. From the looks of things, it was catching up to her fast.

“Hey, guys,” I said. “Lyla, I see you met Jeff. He’s on the hockey team with me.”

He gave me a look that said I was no longer considered on his list of friends.
Jeez, be a little bitch about it, why don’t you?

“Everything’s a little spinny,” Lyla said with a laugh. She wobbled and clamped onto my arm. “My lips feel funny.”

Jeff glanced from her to me and slowly backed away, shaking his head.

Lyla turned her big hazel eyes up to me. “I didn’t say anything about my cats,” she slurred. “He seemed nice, and he was talking about hockey, but then his head kinda separated in two and I decided making out with someone I don’t—or kissing a beautiful stranger—or what was it again…?”

I took the red cup out of her hand—she must’ve been nervous because she’d already downed it. “Okay, no more drinking.”

“Dancing?”

“How about we find a place to sit? You did eat tonight, didn’t you?”

She tugged my arm, heading toward the section where everyone was wildly flinging themselves around, the beat forgotten with their inhibitions. “Dancing.”

Considering the path my thoughts kept straying down—and that was
without
our bodies being smashed together—I couldn’t think of a worse idea. But she gave another hard tug, her resolve clear.

Well, hell. Apparently, we were dancing.