“Shit.”
“What?” Dad immediately asks.
No way. No fucking way is the girl I came here for the same girl I just made out with in a crowd of Greek students. No way did I just potentially fuck up the one thing I have to do to get to my dream school and enroll in the one program I’ve wanted to be in since I was twelve.
I scroll down a little farther and get the affirmation I was afraid of. Her name is centered under the photo and written in bold.
SKYLER THORNE.
“What is it, Kip?” Dad asks again.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, scrolling down a little further to glance at the information Dad had gathered. “I just, I recognize her. I met her tonight.”
“You did? Where?”
Oh hell no, I am definitely not ready to tell him about pledging. “They had a game night in one of the resident halls for new transfers. She was there,” I lie.
“Did she notice you? Do you think she knows who you are?”
You mean did she have my tongue down her throat?
“I don’t think so.”
“Good,” he says confidently. “You’ll need to make a good first impression. You don’t want her to feel like it’s forced. She has to want you to be around, to want to let you in and tell you about her life.”
“I think I can handle making a good first impression,” I mumble, my head racing with the feel of her chest pressed against mine on the table at Alpha Sig.
“I think you can, too. Now, it’s time for me to turn in. You should do the same. Call me tomorrow when you’ve got everything squared away.”
I nod, my eyes still stuck on the screen. “Night, Dad.”
The phone falls from my hand and down onto the bed as I scroll farther. We have one class together – Thursdays at seven in the morning. Wonderful. So much for thinking I would have time to get my shit together before having to face her knowing she’s the one person standing between me and my future.
My phone pings and I glance down to see a three-o’-five number illuminating the screen. I slide my thumb across the number and a text replaces the Dead Poets Society background.
- Well, it looks like the tequila didn’t kill you. Still swearing it off forever? -
A smile breaks across my lips.
- Stalking me already? I don’t recall giving you my number. -
- I’m a resourceful girl. -
- I don’t doubt that. And yes, I’m still anti-tequila. You should feel lucky, I drank it just for you. -
I wait a few minutes, but no other text comes through. A large breath vibrates through my chest as I exhale, staring at Skyler’s photo on the screen. Of all the shitty situations I could have found myself in, this had to be it?
I had one mission – one stupid, minor agreement to attend my dream school. Get in with the up and coming young poker star and learn her tricks. Take my game to the next level. Get to the final table with her in Vegas and beat her. Make my name known. Win for my dad, for the dream he could never live, and for me – for my independence from him and my freedom to finally start living my own dream.
- I think it’s you who should feel lucky, Four Eyes. See you around. -
Fuck me. Lady Luck is definitely not on my side.
Sighing, I plug my phone in to the charger on my bedside table and stare at Skyler a few more moments before closing my laptop and tucking it in my messenger bag. I set the alarm on my phone for six and shut off the light, falling onto my back and tucking my hands under my head. Immediately, my thoughts wander to Skyler laying in this same position earlier. My cock hardens and I curse, adjusting myself and rolling over to face the window.
I can do this. I just met this girl, it’s not like I’ve been dating her for years or something. She has no ties to me and I have none to her. It’s simple. I get in with her, do what I have to do to figure out how to beat her in May, and then we go our separate ways. She’s damn sure not going to want to make out with me after she finds out I’m in the tournament. I’m not the kind of guy to lie and manipulate, but this is the one thing that stands between me and my dream, between me and the emancipation from all the shit that’s held me back until now. One tournament, one girl, one little game to be played and then I can move on and never look back.
Except, I’m not so sure it’s going to be that easy.
One thing I love about this campus – they have coffee everywhere, and damn do I need a cup this morning. I opt for the Starbucks outside of the Student Union, trying the Hazelnut Macchiato at the barista’s recommendation. I sip on the hot liquid for the rest of my walk until I reach the large double doors that lead to my first class – Writing for Television. I was surprised they even offered this class, and even more surprised when I saw that Skyler would be in it, too.
There’s only ten minutes until class, yet I’m one of the first ones here. I guess punctuality isn’t a virtue valued at Palm South. I slide into a desk a few rows from the front and pull out my MacBook Air, opening a blank document to take notes. Syllabus week was always a joke at the community college back home, so I’m hoping it’s the same here, but who knows.
The professor walks through the door two minutes late, his messenger bag overstuffed with God knows what as he balances it along with a folder in his left hand and a thermos in the other. He plops the bag down on his desk and turns to write on the white board just as Skyler comes through the door. She’s alone, and for some reason I think it bothers her. She doesn’t look as confident as she did last night. Her ocean eyes scan the room and when they land on me, a small smirk curls on her lips and she walks my direction.
She’s dressed in a yellow sundress and tall shoes that aren’t quite high heels. My ex back home called them wedges, I think. It’s surprising to me that she’s in a dress, I didn’t take her for that kind of girl. She’s even got pearls on and her hair is slightly curled. But, as she strides toward me, her hips swaying slightly, I notice the uncomfortable way she’s carrying herself. It makes me long for the girl in the distressed jeans and hoodie that I met last night. Seeing the yellow against her skin, I realize she’s tanner than I remember, which makes me wonder if my theory of her being a surfer is accurate. Who is tan in January?
“Where’s mine?” she asks, sliding into the desk next to me.
I follow her gaze to my coffee cup and smile. “Sorry, they didn’t have tequila. I checked.”
“Damn them.” She sighs. “I need to run for Student Council so I can change that.” She offers a wink just as the professor claps his hands together and we both turn to the front.
“Why do we write?” he asks, holding his arms out wide to the class. “Why do we put pen to paper or fingers to keys and make words into sentences into stories? What is the purpose?”
“So other people will read what we write,” a girl calls out from the back. The professor moves toward her a bit, seeming to take in her analysis, just as the kid sitting in front of me passes back a stack of syllabi and I take one and pass them on to Skyler. Glancing down, I see the professor’s name in bold under the class subject.
Dr. O’Neal.
He’s a quirky looking son of a bitch. Tall, lean, his facial hair growing in a little unruly against his ashen skin. He has dark eyes that seem to move a little too quickly and his brown hair is dotted with specs of gray that look a little more dyed than natural. He’s wearing a bow tie, which usually I approve of, but it seems like he did it just to be defiant against regular ties rather than to make a fashion statement.
“Yes, I suppose that’s the end result that we expect – someone to read our work. But, is that why we write?” His eyes move across the class, questioning.