Page 30 of Getting Lucky Number Seven

Apprehension filled her hazel eyes, and I almost took it back, but then resolve replaced it. She gave me a smile I felt all the way to my bones. “Your wish is my command.”

If that were really the case, I wanted to take back the singing request and make a totally inappropriate one about her in my bed, naked and underneath me.

Chapter Seventeen

Lyla

I walked through Whitney’s open bedroom door, stepped over the piles of clothes she had scattered across the floor, and tugged up the neckline of the lacy white tank top she’d lent me. “What do you think? I’m not sure it’s a good option.”

Whitney glanced at me, only one of her eyes rimmed in black—tonight she looked more alt than sorority. “You know, you’ve been showing off your boobs a lot more lately, but I’m still blown away at how well you hid them for so long. I’d kill for your cleavage.”

I flinched at the reference to how much cleavage I had on display—I kept thinking I’d get used to dressing differently and stop feeling a pinch of shame every time I wore something that showed a little skin, but so far, it still loomed there in the background.

“And the white with the leather cuff and black necklace gives you a mix of virginal with the naughty,” Whitney continued, apparently not noticing my shakier-than-I-wanted-it-to-be confidence. “Trust me, guys will go crazy for it.”

For months all I’d wanted was to be looked at instead of looked through, but now I wasn’t sure I cared what the guys went crazy for. My jeans were so damn tight that I wished for my skirts, and I even missed my scarves. Maybe I’d used them to hide, but I missed the bright colors. And their warmth.

“I’d kill for your butt,” I said, hoping it was okay to comment on something like that. “I wish I had more junk in my trunk. Instead it all landed in my hips.”

Whitney laughed. “And I wish I had half as much. I guess we all want what we don’t have.”

“True,” I said, exhaling a quick sigh of relief that we could talk about these things. I’d never had anyone to confide in about my body issues, and it was nice to know that even Whitney—who was so confident and beautiful I was intimidated standing next to her—struggled sometimes, too. “Right now, I’m also wishing I knew how to dance better. I still don’t feel ready for Sexy Dancing on a Bar.”

“All it takes is a little gyrating and hair flipping. As long as you don’t fall off the bar, the men in there won’t be paying much attention to the moves.”

For about the hundredth time this week, I wondered if coming clean about my college bucket list to Whiney had been a bad idea. I’d come home from karaoke, high off the energy of singing and how much Beck and I had laughed. There was the serious moment in the middle about his parents, and I was glad he’d finally opened up a little—hopefully he didn’t regret it. But then we’d gotten back to butchering songs and laughing, and the entire ride home, we sang to the radio, all our cares forgotten.

And even though I totally got that the cheek kiss was just a thanks-buddy-ol’-pal, I’d replayed it as I’d climbed the stairs to my apartment.

When Whitney accused me of looking like I was in a “lust daze,” I’d panicked and insisted it was just the list, which led to me showing it to her, complete with number seven. Now she was on a mission to find me a bar to dance on, and a guy to get lucky with.

The edges of my phone dug into my palm as I swiped my thumb across the smooth glass again and again. I’d fought the urge to call Beck all day. There’d be no finding a guy for number seven if Beck went, and I was sure he had plenty of other, more exciting options on a Saturday night. But he was my safety net. I knew he’d be there to catch me if I fell. Even if it was falling off a bar in these wicked spiked heels Whitney had also lent me.

But I also wanted—no,needed—to be strong enough to do some of the list items myself. Or, you know, with the help of Whitney and lots of alcohol. After going from a drink once every few months to a couple every few days, I felt a bit like a lush.

That’s what college is for, right? Drinking, dancing like an idiot. Falling for your hot guy friend and then getting over it by hooking up with someone else.

My roommate finished off her makeup with another coat of mascara, stuck in large hoop earrings, and tucked her ID and money into her bra. “Let’s do this.”

My “Yeah!” came out a little weak, but the important thing is, I followed after her anyway.

Bring on number five!

…

When I noticed Colin, Matt, and the guy whose name I forgot—although the image of him groping Kristen stayed burned in my mind—I stopped so abruptly that Whitney and Kristen barreled into me. Thanks to the extra-tall shoes, we almost went down like bowling pins, but I managed to snag a nearby stool.

“Uh, Whitney, what are those guys doing here?” I asked.

“Well…” Whitney’s apologetic expression didn’t change the fact that the guy who’d called me fugly and boring was on his way over, and now I’d never have the courage to dance on the stupid bar and cross off number five. “Don’t be mad,” she whispered, stepping in front of me. “Matt asked what I was doing tonight, and I couldn’t lie to him. I’m trying to start a relationship with him.”

Right. Not that she’d tellhimthat. It was so stupid.

Said the girl who’s out at a bar with strangers to avoid the guy she likes.But that was different. Beck didn’t feel that way about me, and we weren’t even close to dating. Colin ran his gaze up and down me, lingering on my neckline, and I fought the urge to flip him off. The surge of angry heat surprised me, but I was glad it’d showed up instead of sorrow or raging insecurity.

I should get Beck to show me how to check someone, the way he does in the hockey rink. It’d be so satisfying to slam Colin into the wall right now.

“Damn, girl,” he said. “Why’d you dress like a nun the night I came over?”

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