Love's Learning Curve (8 page)

“Thanks for the game, Coach,” she says cheerfully, and I see she’s planning to make a quick retreat.  I watch as she turns, and I get another whiff of sugared daisies, and like an addict, my nose follows the trail of her scent.  I became addicted the second I got my first whiff, and in the last thirty minutes of her standing next to me, I didn’t get enough.

Need more.  If she smells like daisies and powdered sugar, I can’t even imagine what she tastes like.  FUCK.  What’s wrong with me?  I adjust my cock that’s getting crushed from the tightening in my pants, wishing I could kick my own ass for getting rock solid at the thought of just her taste.

I can’t take my eyes off her.  I’m trying to play it cool and not be obvious.  She’s looking through the crowds trying to find someone, probably her friends, but maybe she’s looking for the bathroom or a drink.  It’s doubtful, though.  How in the hell Morgan Chambers is a friend of hers could be the mystery of the century.  Anyone with eyes could look at her and know that she and crazy-ass Morgan have nothing in common.  I’m sure it would be an interesting story of how that match came to life, and even more surprisingly, I want to know.

Morgan left her a while ago saying she was going to get a refill and would be right back.  She’s not back, and while I’m not surprised, Charlie is.  I glance over the crowds, using my height as an advantage since she doesn’t have that benefit, to see if I can spot her shitty friend at either of the drink stations.  And as I suspected, she’s nowhere to be seen.  Charlie is looking more and more stressed by the second with her failed search efforts, and I discover that I don’t like that at all.  Shit.

I haven’t spoken to her much even while playing the game.  I’m not sure she’ll trust my willingness to be helpful, but at this point, I may be the only option she has.  She’s not looking at me, but I step in closer to her body and lean down to her small frame without touching her.  I already know that touching her causes a much bigger fucking reaction to my body than her scent.

“Buttercup, I’ll help you find your friend.  Stop looking like a deer in headlights,” I growl, my lips close to her ear.  I’m annoyed that she looked scared and pissed off that someone she considers a friend has caused this.  This is not acceptable. 

Startled, she jumps.  The response could almost have been invisible to the naked eye, but somehow, I can’t miss anything where she’s concerned.  She looks over her shoulder at me with her doe eyes, and I have an urge to jump in and fix this predicament.  It’s clear I’m not the reason for her fear.  Her cheeks turn a light shade of pink, and even though it’s a timid smile, I know it’s real, and the smile is for me.  She calms temporarily then like a switch, she adjusts her mood and somehow appears anything other than what I know she’s feeling.  With confidence, she begins, “Umm ... thanks, but it’s okay.  I’ll find her.  Enjoy your night.  I’m sure you’d rather enjoy your time with your own friends.”  Even with the effort to convince me she’s golden, I know differently.  I saw it before she magically hid those emotions under some insanely cool invisible cloak.  That was great and all, but still, I’ve already seen the truth.

I ignore her and decide I’ll spare us both the time of convincing her otherwise.  Against my better judgment, I place my hand on the small of her back, and the touch sends a jolt through my nervous system directly to the straining muscle in my pants.  My cock twitches, and I do my best to ignore it, trying to picture images in my head that will distract the problem in my pants as I guide her through the crowds.  Thankfully, the crowds part and allow us through the masses.  I don’t miss the sneering of many of the chicks we pass walking through to the less crowded clearing off to the side yard.  I came to the party tonight as I do any other, without a game plan for who’d do the honors of getting me off.  I never expected this buttercup to waylay my plans, and I’m positive she’s not here on any mission to get anyone off.  So there goes that plan.

When we finally make it to the area we can breathe, I release my hold on her back and turn to stand in front of her, thinking I should offer to get her a drink or something.  Her eyes are red and wide open.  Her breath is rushed, and I recognize all the signs of the oncoming panic attack.  Her eyes are unfocused, and I watch as they dart around searching everything and nothing.  I know I need her to focus, and if I can, I want it to be on me.  I squat a bit and fold my body a full foot to make myself her size and bring my face closer to hers to capture eye contact.  I’m not sure if the darkness of the evening is helping her anxiety or making it worse, but it’s definitely giving her a level of privacy, so in my mind, that’s a plus.

Her eyes finally register mine as I watch her intently.  When she begins to speak, it’s with a quiver as her voice breaks.  “Um … I’m sorry.  But I can’t do this.  I need to get out of here.  Can you tell me how to get out now?” she pleads as she tries to hide the onset of her panic under the invisibility cloak, but it’s too late.  She’s passed the point of hiding it no matter how hard she’s trying to keep it stowed away.

Her whisper is barely audible.  She closes her eyes tightly locking out everything and saying to herself the words that reach into the pits of my unlovable soul and rip them in half.  “Do.  Not.  Cry.  Charlotte.  People are watching.  Get your shit together.  This was supposed to be fun.  You’re ruining it.”

Her breathing quickens even more, and for the first time in a long time, I admit to myself I’m scared as I watch her sway then go limp as she loses strength and consciousness.  Her body folds toward the ground succumbing to her sheer terror.  I catch her and scoop her easily into my arms.

Walking quickly with her in my arms, I take the path of the side yard to the gate to get her out of here fast.  I’m definitely not going back through the crowds and I sure as hell don’t want people to think I’m carrying a drugged or overly drunk girl out of a party.  That’s not a good situation for either of us.

Panic attacks aren’t new to me.  I understand the effects of them, and unfortunately, I know how to handle them.  Getting her out of here without a scene is a top priority.  The gate leading to the front parking area is unlocked, thank Christ, and my truck is right there too.  I’m glad as hell I decided to bring the truck tonight instead of my bike.

I lay her across the seat of my truck just as she’s waking, so I turn the ignition on and switch the a/c to cool and high, pointing the air vents at her.  I push her hair off her forehead waiting to see her eyes.

“Charlotte,” I speak softly.  “You’re going to be okay.  I got you out of there.”

Even though I know she’s conscious, she presses her eyes tightly together as if she’s terrified of what she’ll see if she opens them, but I continue to prod her.  “Take a few deep breaths, buttercup.”  I pause hoping she complies, and she does.  I see her chest lift with measured timing.  “You’re safe. It’s okay to open your eyes.  No one’s around.”

I’ve dealt with this countless times, in far different situations, but it’s been a long, long time.  When she opens her eyes, they’re glassed over with unshed tears causing the sapphires to shimmer even more brightly, searing into me.  I’m not sure what happened to the bundle of feistiness I saw earlier this afternoon when I found her obliviously running into a traffic intersection.  I thought giving a wake-up call lesson was a good deed, but she didn’t agree.

God.  That was perfect.

She was perfect.

That girl cannot be this same person.  I briefly contemplate the possibility of a twin sister, but I know that’s not it.  I’d know those eyes anywhere, and even with an identical twin, there’s no way that two people even with the same blue eyes could possibly bring me to my knees with just a glance the way she does. It’s definitely her.

“I’m so sorry.  I’m so, so sorry,” she chants, sitting up abruptly.  I reach for her, taking her hand in mine.  “I need to go home. I’m sorry.”  Her eyes fill with panic again, and I watch as she attempts to calm herself and pretend that what happened didn’t.

I cut off her attempt to apologize and speak calmly. “It’s fine.  Where do you live, buttercup?  I’ll get you home.  You’re still completely safe.  Please relax a second.”  I’m trying like hell to reassure her and forgoing the expert-level asshole persona.  I’ve completely thrown it out the window with this girl somehow.  The image I’ve guarded with my life feels less significant in comparison to making sure she’s okay.

“Um … I need to call Morgan.  Or I can call Ashley.  Wait … My car … it’s right down there.”  She looks around, trying to gain her bearings through mumbled thoughts, but there’s no way I can let her drive home after the panic episode, not to mention the alcohol she consumed, even though I know almost positively it was not at all drink related.  Something spooked her to panic.

“Charlotte.  Listen to me.”  I wait for eye contact.  “I’ll get you home.  Relax.  Give me details,” I plead, not wanting her to stress and go back to the place in her head that caused her black out.

“Wait … how do you know my name?” she asks, her voice laced more with curiosity than fear from what I can tell.  Normally, I’d play a game with any chick asking questions, but this isn’t the time.  Shocking even for me, even if she didn’t have a panic attack and pass out in my arms, I wouldn’t want to toy with her.  There’s no mission to get her into my bed for the night no matter how much she makes my dick twitch.  Charlie’s better than a one-night stand.  It’s apparent.

When I made her join me for the beer pong game, I may have had other plans, but they quickly changed, and I don’t even understand how.  Even if I had a chance, and I don’t, I wouldn’t take it.  She’s not interested in what I have to offer.  I’m not into relationships or distractions of any kind, but I’m also not interested in breaking a heart like hers if she misunderstood.  I don’t play with hearts.  That’s playing with fire.

“Morgan kept calling you that,” I finally tell her, so she doesn’t think of me like the creeper I actually am.  She has no idea that she seared herself to my brain hours before the party, and I don’t plan to clue her in on that detail.

“Oh … you know Morgan?” she asks, still confused.

It’s hard not to laugh at that.  Fucking everyone knows crazy-ass Morgan Chambers.  Miss Goody-Goody until the lights go out, and then she’s an animal.  Her reputation precedes her, which brings me back to my question of how Charlotte ever came to be friends with a girl like Morgan Chambers.  Unfortunately, now isn’t the time for questions.  I respond with a nod to acknowledge that I do know her friend and disguise my feelings on Morgan to avoid any added stress for Charlotte.  She finally seems to relax.  She sags into the seat back and brings her knees up to her chest before resting her forehead on them.

“How many people witnessed me passing out?” she asks, worriedly, her voice shivering and her body language showing her embarrassment.  It feels like a sucker punch in the stomach.

I quickly answer not taking even a second to pause when she finishes the question.  “No one.  I got you out through the side gate and brought you directly to the truck.  No one knows anything.  You’re good,” I state hoping that information will help alleviate any additional concerns, and it appears to work.

She looks up shocked but relieved.  “Oh … my … thank you,” she says quietly.  “Wait … what’s your name?”

Shocked doesn’t begin to explain my reaction to her question.  Does she really not know my name?  She called me mystery man during beer pong, but I kinda thought it was a game, and she wasn’t serious.  Obviously, I was mistaken.

Buttercup doesn’t know who I am.  I’m not sure what that says about my ego that I pretty much assume everyone on campus knows who I am, but I am Tyler Fucking Stone!  I’m not just anyone.  Hell … I’ve worked my ass off to make sure everyone knows my name, and clearly, I failed since Charlotte has no clue.  It could be a blessing in disguise even if it comes with a blow to my self-esteem. 

“I’m Tyler,” I say leaving out the ‘
Fucking Stone’
part since that’s not really important or a sales feature in this case.  I know she’s planning an exit strategy, but I also know I’ll won’t let her out of my sight until I deliver her to her front door safely myself.

“Tell me where to take you. You can come back for your car tomorrow. You shouldn’t drive after everything but especially not after you’ve been drinking,” I finish hoping that detail seals the deal.

Her eyes question me before her words do.  “Haven’t you been drinking too?” she asks. 
Good girl.  Don’t ever get into the car with someone who’s been drinking,
  I think to myself, but I’ve barely consumed the equivalent of a beer and a half, so with my body mass and metabolism, that was out of my system a while ago even if I would have felt it.

“I’m good, Charlotte.  I assure you, I would never in a million years get behind the wheel and risk hurting anyone—not myself, not you, not others,” I tell her honestly without going into details about how much I have to lose and how important that is to me.  I’m losing a little patience at her avoiding my request for directions, though, because I don’t want to give her more time to remove me from the equation.  “You’re safe with me, but I really, for my own peace of mind, need to make sure you get home safely.  Please, tell me where to take you.”  Then digging deep to find a trace amount of my expert-level asshole persona, I throw in some sarcasm.  “Or we can sit here longer and play this little game of twenty questions that you seem to be enjoying.”  I wink with a smirk, hoping to lighten the mood.  Honestly, I really am happy to sit here longer if she needs or wants more time, but I suspect that’s not the case.

Without an immediate response to my statement, she sits staring at her hands deep in thought.  Then finally, I hear, “Okay, take me home, please.  If you don’t mind.”  She speaks timidly, unsure of herself and the decision to allow me to escort her home.  I keep the fact that I wouldn’t have let it work out any other way without a good fight to myself.

She tells me where she lives, and I’m surprised to learn that she lives in the sorority house.  I know or, at least, think I have seen most of the sorority girls around.  This one, I’ve never seen her before our little encounter outside the baseball field today.  I’d never forget those eyes, and it’s hard to believe she runs essentially in the same social circles as I do.  Maybe she’s new to campus.  Those are questions for another time.