Unspoken (The Woodlands) (5 page)

“Let’s talk about the most important topic of the semester,” I said. My audience perked up. “Where are we gonna spend spring break?”

We argued raucously about the merits of going north to ski or south to the beach for the rest of the afternoon. And I tried hard to push all thoughts of Bo, Clay, and Roger to the very back recesses of my mind.

Chapter Four

AM

W
HEN
MY
PHONE
ALERTED
ME
to a text message just before I was getting ready to go to bed, I figured it was my mother. Two weeks spent at home had made me ready to flee back to school. For my mother, time spent together at Christmas break only made her more melancholy when I departed. But the message wasn’t from my mother.

I’m going to put this number to good use. Bo Randolph.

What was he doing sending me a text message at nine on a Monday night? I debated deleting the message.

“Bo Randolph just texted me,” I yelled down the hall to Ellie. She appeared like a witch at my door a second later, scaring me half to death.

“My God, where were you?” I yelped.

“Looking for my hoops.” Ellie held up large gold earrings. Just outside my bedroom door, our front hall held a mirror and dresser, courtesy of the thrift store, and it had become a repository for all of our jewelry and half our makeup as we dumped things coming and going from the apartment. Most of the time it looked like the sale counter at the mall after the prom rush swept through.

“Should I reply?”

Ellie shrugged and pulled her pearl studs out of her ears. “What’d he say?”

I read her the text.

“He’s flirting. No guy texts at nine at night with just friendly intent.” Her eyes were bright with interest. I wondered what mine looked like. Probably full of stars.

“Replying would be encouragement I don’t want to give.” If I told myself that I wasn’t interested enough times maybe I could make it true.

“Why not?” she challenged.

I ticked off the negatives. “He’s really good looking. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him. He took advanced econ theory apparently just for the hell of it.”
Because Clay Howard has a hard-on about me being on campus and is threatening me.
I didn’t list the last one out loud.

Ellie’s mouth hung open. “These are his bad attributes? Give me the phone. I’ll text him back!” She lunged for the phone, but I turned on my side and held it away from her. Ellie’s pixie-sized, and I’m like a horse compared to her. There was no contest.

“Fine,” I huffed. Now that I’d told Ellie, I’d have to text Bo back or she’d take the phone from me somehow. Ellie didn’t make idle threats. She told you what she was going to do, and then she followed through.

How? You going to send duck-faced selfies?
I shot back.

What?
Came the immediate reply, like he had nothing better to do than send me texts.

I searched the Internet and then selected an appropriate picture of three young girls making the V with their fingers pointing to their overly pronounced lips pursed and pressed into little fleshy duck bills.

I now know why we’re sitting next to each other in bio. We need to find a cure for the disease those young ladies are suffering around their oral cavities before it spreads to others.

An inadvertent huff of laughter escaped me, and Ellie demanded to see the reply, which I showed to her.

“You’re toast.” She rolled off the bed and exited the room.

“I know it,” I told the empty space. Bo was funny, smart, and showing an inordinate amount of interest in me. I was
so
screwed.

O
THER
THAN
THAT
LATE
M
ONDAY
night text, I didn’t hear from Bo again. On Wednesday, though, he met me outside of class.

“Cutting it a little short, aren’t you?” He checked his watch, a big black thing with many dials.

“Class hasn’t started yet.” I tapped his watch, which showed we had about two minutes to find a seat. “Besides, I like to sit in the back.”

“Since when?”

Since the rumors regarding my supposed sexcapades had infiltrated the classroom and people behind me felt bold enough to lean forward and whisper things like, “Leave your panties at the Delts last night?” I didn’t know whose panties were waving from the fraternity flag; they weren’t mine, but protests were only met with knowing smirks.

“Since Thor decided to hog the front row.”

“I’m Thor?” he asked, sounding a bit too pleased.

I guess being compared to a Viking war god was a compliment. I cringed inwardly at revealing that I sometimes envisioned him standing on the prow of a longboat with a horned helmet and a spear. In my fantasies he was shirtless even in the long, cold, Icelandic nights. Real Vikings, I theorized, would be immune to the cold. Or at least they were in my dreams.

Adopting my best uncaring attitude, I waved a hand down his body. “You add a spear and a helmet and you look like you should be standing at the prow of a longboat.”

Too busy rifling through my mental images of Bo, it wasn’t until he maneuvered me sideways that I realized I had walked all the way to the front again where we had sat on Monday.

“Just because we’re lab partners doesn’t mean we have to sit next to each other in class.” I frowned.

“I know.” Bo just grinned and pulled out my chair. “It’s a perk.”

Remaining immune to his infectious charm was going to be near impossible. I was given a momentary reprieve when the professor greeted us with an announcement about our lab studies. “You’ll have two primary lab projects this year. The first is to test the hypothesis of nature over nurture by examining whether there are innate differences between males and females. The second is to create a crossbred plant or animal that can survive here in the Midwest and combines whatever traits are perceived to be lacking in the other.”

I tried to pay attention to the details of our lab project, but as hard as I was attempting to ignore Bo, every shift of his body that brushed up against mine sent little prickles of electricity shooting throughout me. I felt his jean-clad thigh press against mine when he let his legs fall open. He stretched his right arm across the back of my chair. The smell of his cologne or aftershave or shampoo released into the air with each movement.

By the end of class, I felt like I was drunk on Bo Randolph. How in the world was I going to make it through a five-credit course with Bo Randolph as my lab partner and not become totally obsessed with him?
Get a grip,
I scolded myself. So what that he was so good looking he belonged on a movie poster? So what that he sent cute text messages? So what that every time I inhaled, I could smell a warm, inviting masculine scent? None of these were things I couldn’t find in some other guy. Okay, maybe not as good looking or as funny, but there had to be hundreds of non-Central College guys who smelled good.

And had big hands and broad muscular chests. And tousled blond hair with a thousand different colors that would take me a year to catalog, with a matching scruff around his chin and upper lip. I wondered what that felt like if it was close to your skin. Would it feel scratchy or soft?

“Something on my face?” Bo asked, his long fingers coming up to wipe at his cheek.

“Uh, no, why?” I said, still staring.

“Because you’re rubbing your cheek and staring at me like I have parts of my breakfast hanging off my chin.”

Heat burned my cheeks as I realized I was stroking my face as I fantasized about the texture of Bo’s stubbled cheek against my skin.

“Ah, no, just a scratch,” I lied, turning my nails inward, wincing at the pain as I scraped my skin too hard in compensation. “Don’t you type?” I tried to distract him. He was about the only one in class without a laptop.

“I can, but I also have impulse control problems.” He shrugged. At my questioning look, he went on, “I’d want to play a game or something. But I do get them typed up. Want to share?”

Why not. “Sure, text me your e-mail address and I’ll shoot you my notes.”

The indent on the left side of his mouth deepened as he smiled with approval. Was it wrong that I wanted to stick my tongue into that groove? I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, a movement that caught Bo’s attention. His eyes shifted down to my lap and then up to my face again. My breath stopped, or maybe it was just time that froze, as he leaned toward me, his ocean-blue eyes now the color of water at midnight. All thoughts of my immutable rules, the reasons why to avoid him, were gone, replaced by the shape of his lips, the hot, dark hue of his eyes, and the warmth of his breath as his face came ever closer.

His mouth brushed lightly across my cheek and I felt him inhale, his nose an infinitesimal space away from my jaw. His chest contracted, and he let out a waft of warm air that lifted my hair away from my neck. “You smell good, AnnMarie. It’s hard to concentrate, so I need my pen and paper to keep me on track.”

I was still shuddering when he drew back. An earthquake had happened inside my body. He was going to utterly ruin me.

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT: Class notes

ATTACHMENT: NotesDay2

AM—

Did I ever tell you I actually hate texting? My fingers are way too big for those tiny little squares. I might not be in class on Friday. Have something going on the night before. May be too sore to show up. I know it makes me sound like a lazy jackass, but can I borrow your notes if I don’t make it?

Bo

Sore? My God, was he telling me he was going to be having sex all night and would be too worn out to show up for class? This was probably the reason he asked for us to exchange notes. The balls of this guy. He
knew
he wasn’t going to show up and was planning ahead. Affronted, jealous, and upset with myself for even caring, my return message was terse.

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT: RE: Class notes

Really? Sore. Whatever, but don’t make this a habit.

AM

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Class notes

AM—

Promise not to do this often. Have plans this weekend? Let’s go talk to some plant experts and get our lab project out of the way.

Bo

What kind of
ass
was he? Bo was going to screw some girl so hard on Thursday night that he wouldn’t be able to make it to class, but he wanted to go to do our “lab” project this weekend? And I’d already planned on going to the Natural History Museum this weekend to look up indigenous plants and talk to a staff member. I tried to remember if I’d mentioned this in class because I couldn’t believe he’d come up with this on his own. I was totally going to call him on this bullshit.

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Class notes

Sure. When, where, etc.

AM

I slammed my laptop shut before I could read any response but couldn’t turn off my thoughts.
How could he flirt so blatantly with me one day and then give me the kiss-off the next?
I fumed. The rest of the week I was testier than a five-year-old stuck inside because of rain for a week.

“W
HAT
’
S
YOUR
PROBLEM
?” E
LLIE
ASKED
me Friday morning as we were getting ready for class.

Not wanting to admit that it was thoughts of Bo making me act unbearably, I held up my birth control case. “Why do I take these when I haven’t had sex in months?”

“Because you’re in college and you might have sex?”

“Why not just use condoms?”

“Because you’re smart and thrifty.”

“Thrifty?”

“Yes, birth control is free from the health center. Condoms fail. Abortions cost money and having a baby is like eighty thousand times more expensive than that. Birth control is an economically sound decision.” Ellie spoke in calming tones, as if she knew one wrong word would send my head spinning around on my neck.

After my less-than-stellar first time here at Central, I’d tried out two more guys. One was a local, a gorgeous guy who introduced me to good sex. I followed him around like a stray puppy, which annoyed him, and he dumped me after a few weeks. My second try at the dating scene was last semester. I hooked up with an osteopath student from the College of Osteopathy across town, but we never clicked. He’d take time describing each bone in my body like I was an anatomy exam, and while he might have thought he sounded sexy, it came off like he wanted to dissect my cadaver. I ended things with him, but his sigh of relief when I suggested it wasn’t working out was telling. My lust for Bo was probably just a product of a long dry spell.