Like Gravity Page 3

  Suddenly, we were walking up steps and through a set of glass doors. The health desk receptionist took one look at us before calling for a nurse on the intercom, simultaneously directing us toward a curtained-off section of the room. Laying me down gently on a cot, the guy moved my hair away from my eyes and grinned down at me, a dimple appearing in one cheek.

  “Well, this definitely fulfills my annual act-of-kindness quota,” he quipped. “At least, I think helping someone oblivious enough to trip over a fire hydrant will count.” His eyes crinkled up in laughter as he joked at my expense.

  Rude.

  “Careful,” I warned, wagging my finger back and forth at him. “Making fun of the injured is a definite deduction of karma points.”

  “I’ll take my chances. You got blood on my favorite shirt, by the way,” he said, gesturing unhappily toward the bloodstain now marring the band insignia on his dark grey T-shirt. “I mean, I knew walking and talking simultaneously posed a challenge for you sorority girls, but at least try to remember to avoid the hydrants – you know, those red shiny things – in the future. Think you can manage that, sweetie?” he mocked.

  In an instant, any gratitude I’d felt toward this stranger vanished, replaced by anger and more than a little embarrassment. Not only had he insulted my intelligence, he’d equated me to, as Lexi would say, a sorostitute!

  “Oh, I’m just so sorry. Next time I’m bleeding from the head I’ll be sure to direct it at someone else!” I snapped, my voice trembling with indignation.

  “I’d appreciate that,” he bantered back. “Now, as fun as this has been, I really need to go. Watch out for those hydrants, kiddo. Next time I might not be there to save you.”

  Kiddo?! Who the hell did this guy think he was?

  “I don’t recall asking for your help!” I glared up at him icily. “I’d typically say thank you, but at this point I think I’d have preferred to be left to bleed out in the street!”

  “You’re welcome,” he grinned back at me, again showing off that infuriatingly cute dimple as he retreated backward toward the door. As he turned, he spotted Lexi making a beeline for my cot with a nurse in tow.

  “Enjoy your time with the redhead. I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone talk that fast in my life,” he noted, one eyebrow quirking up at the thought. “Oh, and before I forget – you owe me a dark grey Apiphobic Treason t-shirt. Size large.”

  With a final wink at me, he spun and walked to the glass entryway, disappearing out into the sunshine before I could even contemplate a comeback. I lay in stunned silence, slowly processing the fact that he’d just sauntered out, leaving nothing but his freaking t-shirt order behind.

  What an asshole!

  Shock from the accident had worn off several minutes ago; in my anger, I hadn’t even noticed that the aching in my head had mostly subsided. The nurse quickly determined that I did not, in fact, have a concussion – just a severely unattractive lump on my temple and a small cut by my hairline. With an efficiency that attested to years of patching up reckless college kids, the nurse cleaned the blood from my face, placed a small bandage over the cut, and sent me promptly on my way to class with an ice-filled compress to reduce the swelling.

  My brush with death wouldn’t even make me late for Criminal Justice.

  Damn.

  ***

  In a rare moment of silence, Lexi and I stepped outside and slowly retraced our steps to the accident site. My backpack, discarded in the rush of activity, lay abandoned on the pavement. As I bent to retrieve it, I noticed a lump of dark material had been roughly shoved beneath the pack. I threw my bookbag strap over one shoulder and reached for the wadded up material, which I now recognized as the black leather jacket.

  Shit.

  “Finn’s jacket,” Lexi explained. “He put it under your head as a pillow after you fell.”

  “After I fell? That’s the story you’re going with?”

  “Well, I guess I may have been slightly at fault,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing pink.

  “Slightly? Lexi, are you kidding me? You completely—Wait. Did you just say the boy who carried me was Finn? As in…the Finn you nearly killed me by chasing?” I asked, somewhat shocked.

  “Yes,” Lexi murmured dreamily. “Isn’t he such a gentleman?”

  “I could think of a few other choice names for him. Like asshole, doucheb-”

  “Brooklyn!”

  “What?! He was such a dick to me!”

  “He saved your life!” She stared me down indignantly, hands planted firmly on her hips in a show of intimidation.

  “Lex, I hit my head. I wasn’t exactly dying,” I pointed out.

  “You are impossible,” she huffed. “Only you could be literally swept off your feet by the most attractive man on this campus and remain completely unaffected. You know, sometimes I think you’re an alien.”

  She tilted her head and peered down at me through narrowed eyes, as if contemplating the odds that I was, in fact, an extraterrestrial. I simply shrugged and started walking toward campus, knowing she’d soon fall into step.

  Lexi had never understood my interactions with boys; it was highly doubtful she’d start now. To me, it wasn’t worth making yourself vulnerable for the sake of intimacy. Or worse, letting some boy own a piece of you only to inevitably break it. Most of Lexi’s relationships stopped just short of her boy-of-the-month whipping out his package and peeing all over her to mark his territory. And yet somehow, in her mind, this translated to romance.

  Then again, Lexi wholeheartedly believed in things like soul mates, true love, happy endings.

  I didn’t.

  Humans aren’t meant to be monogamous creatures. Most people would probably disagree, but then, most people would also be overlooking the ever-increasing divorce and infidelity rates. Why anyone would choose to rush into something with a 50% chance of failure was incomprehensible to me.

  Personally, I’d prefer to stick with my own definition:

  Marriage (noun): betting someone half your stuff that you’ll love them forever.

  In high school different boys had asked me on dates and, mostly to appease Lexi, I’d gone out with them. But after a while, they’d all realized that I could never give them what they were looking for. I’d never belong to them –never wear their letter jackets, or hold their hands in the hallway, or decorate their lockers on game day – because I’d never be tempted enough to even consider becoming emotionally involved.

  I understood perfectly the benefits of pure physical attraction. It always seemed like fate, or evolution, had played a cruel joke on me – I was probably the one girl in the world who didn’t want a boy’s commitment, yet every guy I dated seemed to expect one from me.

  I’d tried to explain this to Lexi many times, but she didn’t understand. To her, any prospect of love, no matter how dim, was worth pursuing. Unfortunately for me, her mentality mirrored that of the high school majority, and I’d quickly earned the charming title of “Ice Bitch” from the male population. Or at least from those who’d tried, unsuccessfully, to date me. The girls in my class tended to call me by a slew of even less flattering names, but I didn’t really give a shit that they thought I was a slut.

  Lexi was still muttering under her breath about my astonishing lack of gratitude toward Finn when we parted ways at the Criminology building. Apparently, as the only girl on campus who didn’t turn to putty in his hands, I was a freak of nature destined to die alone with thousands of cats. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what Lexi mumbled as she sauntered off toward the art studio.

  Walking into my first classroom, I realized that Finn’s leather jacket was still clenched in my right hand. Not knowing what else to do with it, I shoved it into my backpack. It was a tight fit, barely zipping closed with the bulky jacket trapped inside. Examining it, I sighed. I knew by carrying this I’d look like one of the stereotypical freshmen, easily picked out of the crowd by their bulging, textbook-laden bags at the beginning of every semester.


  After weighing the pros and cons of that unpleasant scenario, I hastily removed my notebooks from the pack, leaving only the jacket inside. Much better, I observed, breathing a sigh of relief and settling into a seat in the middle of the large lecture hall.

  The rest of my day passed without incident. With the exception of a handful of stares drawn by the bandage on my temple, I was able to fly mostly below the radar. My classes were, as expected, boring reiterations of the syllabus and a discussion of course expectations.

  Criminal Justice and Sociology each had several hundred students enrolled and were graded on a bell-curve so they’d be easy A’s for me. Public speaking would be a different matter – with only twenty students, the professor made it clear that hiding out in the back row wasn’t an option. She’d even forced us to make juvenile folded paper signs, prominently displaying our names on our desks like we were in the second grade. Of course, she immediately noticed mine and decided to torture me in front of the class. It was just that kind of day, after all.

  “Your name is Brooklyn?” she exclaimed, her voice artificially interested. “How unique! Is there any significance to it?”

  This question was not new to me – year after year of elementary school teachers had wondered the same thing. Somehow, I just assumed I’d escaped it when I got to college. Then again, I also thought I’d escaped bubbly, mothering teachers. Was this simpering woman seriously an accredited professor?

  “Oh, yes, I guess there is,” I shrugged, uncomfortable under the weighted stares of the entire class. “My mother named me Brooklyn because that’s where she and my father met.” Translation: that’s where he knocked her up.

  I purposefully gave her as few details as possible, knowing it was best to discourage any further questions about my parentage. Disappointed, she frowned slightly before turning to interrogate someone else. I relaxed, looked at the clock above the door, and proceeded to count the minutes until the end of class.

  ***

  Back at my apartment that night, John Mayer crooned through my speakers as I danced and sang my way around the kitchen, gathering ingredients for dinner. The front door opened and Lexi strolled in, a Starbucks cup in each hand.

  “One venti nonfat chai tea latte, as promised,” Lexi said, smiling as she handed me the steaming cup. “Forgive me?”

  “Forgiven,” I agreed, happily sipping my chai.

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “How do you feel about veggie lasagna?”

  “Sounds perfect. How’s your head?” she asked, grimacing slightly.

  “It’s fine, I took some Advil and I can barely feel it anymore.”

  “Great! Because we’re going out tonight,” Lexi announced.

  “It’s Monday night. I have two classes tomorrow, Lex; I’m not going out.”

  “Pleeeease,” she whined, making puppy-dog eyes, “There’s a band playing at Styx tonight and they’re supposed to be amazing! We have to go.”

  “You don’t even like going to see bands, and you definitely don’t like Styx,” I noted, remembering her reaction to the dark, crowded club the first and only time we’d ever gone there. “So who is he?” I inquired casually, between sips of chai.

  “Who’s who?” she asked, playing innocent.

  “Who is the guy who talked you into going out tonight?” I said, calling her out on her bullshit. I knew I’d hit my mark when her cheeks flamed to match the exact shade of her hair.

  “Okay, fine! You got me,” she admitted, not meeting my eyes. “There’s this guy in my American Lit class. He may or may not have mentioned being there tonight.”

  “But why do I have to go with you?” I complained.

  “Brooklyn Grace Turner! You know I can’t just go alone! You’re my wing-woman. Plus, you don’t want me walking home by myself, do you?” she begged, batting her lashes at me. “I’ll owe you big time!”

  “You almost killed me this morning! You already owe me, Lex,” I reminded her.

  “Yeah, but you already forgave me for that! Pleeeease come with me, Brooke.” Her baby blue eyes were practically glistening with fake tears.

  “Even if I agreed to come – which I haven’t – there’s still the matter of the giant bruise on my forehead.”

  “The swelling has completely gone down and I’ll work my magic on your hair and makeup. No one will even notice, once I’m through with you,” she promised.

  “Fine,” I muttered, knowing I was only prolonging the inevitable by holding out. Once Lexi made up her mind about something, it was nearly impossible to deter her.

  “Yes! You are the absolute best,” she squealed, throwing her arms around my neck. “You won’t regret this, I swear!”

  “I know,” I agreed, smiling as a thought occurred to me. “Cause you’re buying every round.”

  Chapter Three

  Small Packages

  “What’s this guy’s name, anyway?” I yelled in Lexi’s ear, trying to be heard over the thumping bass.

  The band had yet to make an appearance, and Styx pulsed with the computerized sounds of electronic music. The dance floor was mobbed with bodies, and Lexi and I pushed our way through the crush to the bar. The bartender was swamped, racing back and forth to fill drink orders.

  “What did you say?” Lexi shouted back at me, smoothing her red bob and adjusting her cleavage before trying to flag down the bartender. Finally managing to grab his attention, she ordered two vodka-cranberries and slapped a ten down on the bar.

  “Keep the change,” she winked at him when he placed the drinks in front of her.

  Handing one to me, she led the way toward the front of the dance floor, as close as we could get to the stage. She turned when we reached our destination, holding her drink out to me in salute.

  “Cheers, bitch! To sophomore year,” she declared, playfully bumping her cup into mine.

  “And to fake IDs,” I agreed, laughing. I sipped my drink, refreshingly cold in the damp heat of the club, and looked up as the stage lights began to blink, signaling the band’s arrival.

  “Finally!” Lexi yelled. “Tyler’s the drummer, by the way.”

  Ah, so that was her mystery American Lit man’s name – and it explained our ridiculously close proximity to the stage.

  I tugged uncomfortably on the short black lace dress I’d let Lexi to talk me into wearing. I had to admit, though, she’d done wonders with my hair and makeup. My long waves were artfully pinned up around my head, with carefully selected tendrils hanging down to frame my face. As for the bruise, Lexi had kept her word and made it disappear beneath layers of expensive foundation and bronzer. The dark shadows beneath my eyes, permanent remnants from my sleepless nights, would only be discernible under intense scrutiny.

  The stage lights came up suddenly, illuminating the platform and blinding me temporarily. When my vision cleared, I saw four men silhouetted against the backlit stage. Slowly, the full house lights came up, revealing the band members.

  My eyes tracked appreciatively up the lead singer’s body – starting at the black combat boots near eye-level, up past the black denim-clad thighs, and finally settling on the well-sculpted chest filling out a plain black v-neck. An elegant tattoo neatly cuffed one of his biceps and disappeared up under his shirt – a tribal whorl of indiscernible patterns that immediately captured my attention and had me fantasizing about tracing my fingers along the swirling labyrinth of ink.

  “Oh, shit,” I heard Lexi mutter beside me; apparently I wasn’t alone in my appreciation of the band, and my slow perusal hadn’t even reached his face yet. With that thought, I stopped blatantly ogling his shoulder muscles and moved my gaze higher.

  I stopped breathing.

  Yes, it was certainly an attractive face – more than simply attractive, if I were honest with myself. He was beautiful, with dark eyes, a chiseled jawline, and a wickedly sexy smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

  The same mouth that had insulted me less than 24 hours ago.

 
Because I was looking up at Finn. And Finn was staring straight back at me.

  He mostly looked surprised, but undercurrents of amusement and smug satisfaction played out across his face as he recognized me and my palpable discomfort. The asshole had obviously just caught me in the process of slowly undressing his body with my eyes, and he couldn't be happier about it.

  Crap.

  I’m sure he registered my look of shock and confusion before I managed to break away from his smug gaze, turning to glare at Lexi. She looked just as blindsided as I felt.

  “I swear I had no idea he was in the band, Brooklyn! I never would’ve made you come if I’d known.” I’d filled Lexi in earlier while she applied my makeup, rehashing all the patronizing remarks he’d made and ultimately concluding that he was a condescending jerk who didn’t deserve any more of my time.

  “Maybe he won’t notice us,” I lied futilely, knowing he’d spotted me immediately.

  Finn’s voice crackled over the microphone, startling my attention back to the stage.

  “Hey everyone, welcome to Styx. We’re Apiphobic Treason, and we’re here to liven up your Monday. Make some noise, people!”

  The crowd roared back at him.

  “I SAID MAKE SOME FUCKING NOISE!”

  The cheers that erupted were even louder than before. His presence alone seemed to make most of the girls in the audience go into heat; they were elbowing closer to the stage, pushing out their cleavage, and screaming Finn’s name like he was Tom Cruise or something. And I don’t mean that because I think Tom Cruise is attractive – more so because he’s a crazy religious zealot, and these girls were acting like a hoard of cult-like Scientologist worshippers.

  I rolled my eyes at their pathetically transparent ploys for attention.