Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City) (9 page)

“Hey
—you remember this guy?” Sandra indicated with her thumb toward her dance partner. “He said you two were lab partners in biology.”

I brought the tall semi-stranger back into focus
, and, once my brain started working again, I was surprised that I could confirm he was indeed Micah Becker. “Yes—oh my gosh, hey Micah—nice to see you.”

I extended my
hand to him, and he gave me a lopsided grin. He accepted my hand and—instead of shaking it—he twirled me. “Elizabeth, it’s so good to see you—I didn’t recognize you until Sandra told me who you were.”

“Oh—
” I stumbled through the twirl then, once I was certain I wouldn’t trip, gave his hand a firm shake and released it. “Good to see you too—you look a lot different . . . also.”

I didn’t really remember
much about Micah because we’d barely spoken during high school. He’d been even quieter than I was. I remembered that he wore flannel shirts every day with jeans and Dr Martens. His hair had been a buzz cut, and his blue eyes were hidden behind large glasses.

Now his black hair was stylishly cut, his blue eyes no longer concealed, and he stood a good six inches taller. The
dress shirt he wore clearly signaled that he had a decent body. In fact, I could barely see the seventeen-year-old kid in the booty shaking man before me.

“Dance, girl
.” Sandra bumped her hip against mine and smiled at Micah. “Do you think you can handle both of us?”

Micah
turned his smiling blue eyes to Sandra. “No—I’m pretty sure I can’t, but I’d like to try.”

My mouth dropped open.
Who is this person?

This was not the
Micah I knew. This Micah was confident and sorta handsome. It’s amazing what ten years and nice clothes can do for a person.

Or, maybe more precisely, it’s amazing what
maturity and adulthood can do for a person.

Sandra threw her head back in laughter and grabbed my hand as she
encouraged me to dance. I complied, a little dazed at first, still feeling lingering gazes from the crowd. At first I kept my eyes on Sandra and Micah and the floor, because every time I glanced around the room I found people were still watching me.

However, w
ithout any conscious intent to do so, my gaze eventually sought Nico. He was still surrounded on all sides by women wielding sharpened elbows. Instead of just the three, he’d amassed six or seven, and he was smiling at them, all of them. But it didn’t look like a welcoming smile; it looked like a beleaguered, pacifying smile.

They had him cornered on one side of the dance floor
, and I noticed his movements were somewhat restricted; the pack of she-wolves appeared to be pressing into his personal space with increased audaciousness. Their slutty one-up(wo)manship made me inwardly cringe and outwardly chuckle.

Micah
stepped into my line of sight and grinned at me, I grinned back; he reached for my hands, and I allowed him to turn my back to his front, Sandra behind him. We made a Sandra, Micah, Elizabeth sandwich.

H
e was a pretty good dancer—not as good as Nico, but still decent—and I permitted him to place a hand on my hip as we continued our booty shaking good time. We turned, and I was facing Micah’s back, Sandra at his front, which—once again—allowed me a pretty good view of Nico’s harem.

I expected to get another chuckle from the lady-antics
; instead felt a bolt of fury. Nico was now surrounded by at least fifteen women; two of whom were pulling his shirt from his pants; he’d grabbed their wrists. He was no longer smiling. He did not look amused.

Before I
fully comprehended my intent, I was across the dance floor. I used no subtlety to push through the crowd of crazed women. At five foot four, I could (wo)manhandle these females in a way that would be forgiven—with hair pulling and scratching and smacking and eye poking—in a way he could not.

There were a few exclamations of: “Hey!” and “Ow!” and “What t
he—?” and “My foot!” and “That’s my eye!”

I ignored their screechy protests, but
—despite my aggressive attempts—an impenetrable barrier remained. Through the crush of bodies I could see that more women had placed their hands on him, squeezing his bottom, grabbing his tie. They’d tugged his jacket back by the collar in an attempt to pull it off.

The dark frown marring his features mirrored my own.

“Get the hell off of him!” Frustration made my hands shake.

Only one woman seemed to hear my shouted command
, and she merely smirked at me.

I glanced around the room expecting to see other outraged faces and was astonished to find
—among those who were paying attention to the great wall of women spectacle—only expressions of amusement. One person even had their phone out and was apparently either recording or taking pictures. I thought about asking Sandra and Micah for help, but, before I could turn, I witnessed one of the women snake her hand around and try to grab Nico in the crotch.

His dark frown turned furious. He looked murderous.

I gasped. I struggled to find words that would make them stop before he used physical violence and chaos descended.

I needed to
do something shocking, something no one could ignore. I could only think of one thing.

I found the nearest chair, climbed on
it, and yelled at the top of my lungs, “THE CHILD IS YOURS!”

Everything stopped.

Well, the music continued, but everything else stopped. No one was dancing; everyone was looking at me—including the pile of grabby females, including Nico.

I took a deep breath. His gaze tangled with mine
, and I saw the precise moment that he comprehended my words. Before I lost the crowd’s attention I climbed from the chair and charged through the circle of still-stunned women.

I reached for,
grasped Nico’s wrist, and pulled him through the parted red lipstick sea. I marched him off the dance floor. He gently slid his wrist out of my grasp then enclosed my hand in his. I didn’t know where to go. He must have sensed my hesitation because he soon took the lead and his pace immediately quickened.

W
e were near running when he pushed through the double doors that led outside. Darkness and cold wind greeted us. My teeth chattered; although, I didn’t know if it was from the cold or after effects of adrenaline from my outburst.

His long steps carried us to the
football stadium. Nico easily found a clandestine secret passage where we could squeeze through. The passage led to the hollow space beneath the bleachers, and the wind died as we entered the manmade cavern. Soda cups, water bottles, and napkins littered the dirt.

Nico paused
just inside and glanced at me. He withdrew his hand, slipped off his jacket, and placed it over my shoulders. I watched him as he did this, his face illuminated only by horizontal lines shining through the bleachers from the full moon and the quilt of stars overhead. His eyes moved between mine as he tugged the collar of his jacket closed around me, and we stood in silence, starting at each other.

He looked expectant, tense, agitated.

His gaze drifted to my lips. He licked his.

The sma
ll movement made my heart race, and I broke the silence with a rush of words. “God—that was crazy, those women were completely crazy.” For no reason at all I hit him on his shoulder. “Why don’t you have security guards?”

“Elizabeth,” he swallowed
the end of my name. “Do you . . . did we . . . do you have something to tell me?”

“Yes. You need to hire yourself some security.”
I nodded at the assertion. “I don’t think those women were going to stop until they had you naked—”

He closed his eyes
briefly, shook his head, and interrupted me. “Forget about that—what about the child?”

“The child
?” I frowned at him. “Nico. . . there is no child. I said that so those psychos would back off.”

He blinked at me, seemed to be holding his breath,
his eyes were impossibly large. He released the lapels of the jacket and took a step back.

“There is no
child.” He sounded skeptical and surprisingly angry.

“Of course there is no
child. I was trying to keep twenty crazy females from tearing your clothes off.” I straightened my dress needlessly before adding. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

His voice rose
, and he tucked his shirt back into his pants with jerky movements. “Then why didn’t you yell
fire!
Or
aliens!
Or anything else that wouldn’t have given me a heart attack? Why did you yell
the child is yours
?”

The vehemence and volume of his voice took me by surprise
; I didn’t immediately respond, but when I did I tried to sound soothing, calm. “It’s illegal to yell fire in a crowded room. I didn’t want them to freak out, I just wanted them to stop—”

H
e turned away. He stuffed his fists in his pants pockets and stomped to the slanted wall created by the bleachers. He turned. He glared at some unknown spot beyond the slats.

“I didn’t think
. I wasn’t trying to—did I—did I embarrass you?” I thought I might suffocate on guilt.

“No
. No—not at all. I wasn’t embarrassed at all. It’s just, for a minute I thought. . .” He shook his head as though to clear it. In the shadow and half-light of the moon, his face in profile, his features appeared as though carved from granite. I allowed myself to look at him, see him. He looked tired. In school, when I knew him, he never looked tired. He’d been bursting with restless, aimless, infectious, enigmatic energy.

As an adult
, I was discovering that he continued to radiate a difficult-to-ignore magnetism, but it felt more controlled, directed, harnessed. The effect was potent, heady when he focused the laser beam of charisma on a single person, as he’d done with me earlier.

Nico stirred and crossed the space with measured steps until he was just inches from me, his attention focused on the dirt at his feet
. “If there is a child then I want you to know that we would get married.”

It took me a moment to comprehend his words; when I did,
I choked, “What?”

“I w
ill marry you—”

“What is this? The
1950s? Are you for real? Are you seriously—” I released an exasperated sigh then rubbed my forehead with cold fingers. “No. We would not get married and there is no child so there is no reason to have this conversation.”

“Yes. Yes
, we would get married. I could move to Chicago.”

“
Oh my god, no. We would not. Your show is in New York. Why would you move to Chicago?”

“I could move the show for a few years. We could always go back to New York
, or even LA, if you wanted to.” He made it sound like it was all so obvious, like I was an idiot. He’d always done this to me.  

I pointed at his chest.
“This is so typically you, male chauvinism with a truck load of arrogance—”

“It’s not arrogant to
want to take care of my family.”

“We are
not your family. You don’t even know me, and the child would be ten by now and likely—gah!” I threw my hands in the air, determined to end this ridiculous, pointless argument before we started picking out china patterns and debated the merits of Le Creuset bakeware. “I don’t know why we’re discussing this. We’re not getting married and THERE IS. NO. CHILD.”

A muscle ticked at Nico’s temple, his jaw flexed
. He was silent for a moment then said, “We would talk about it.”

I blinked at him, momentarily speechless, then found the words.
“You are an insane person. You were just assaulted by a group of raging female horndogs and all you want to do is argue with me about a theoretical marriage and a non-existent child. You need to get a grip.”

Nico shifted a step away. He returned his gaze to the dirt
, and he released an audibly shaky breath. “Damn.”

I studied him for a moment. He appeared to be genuinely upset
, and it occurred to me that perhaps the groping from earlier had truly affected him. Instinctively, I touched him on the elbow then withdrew my hand. “Hey, hey, are you okay? Those women really were crazy and they had no right to touch you like that.”

He nodded; his eyes met mine for an instant then dar
ted away. “Yeah. I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

“Worse?”

“Groping.”

“Oh.” For some reason the thought of women
, or men, groping Nico made me want to shoot a machine gun. “How much worse?”

I didn’t know what possessed me to ask the question; I was obviously an anger-masochist.

“Well.” He gathered a slow, deep breath; his chest visibly expanded. “A few years ago I was charged with assault when three women in a club stuck their hands down my pants.”