Page 20 of Her Name in Red
“Thanks,” I mutter, not looking up from my laptop. “Just what every guy wants to hear.”
Martinez flops down on my bed, making himself comfortable among the rumpled sheets. He's wearing his standard uniform of jeans and a faded band t-shirt, his dark hair sticking up in all directions like he just rolled out of bed. Knowing him, he probably did.
“Ever heard of waiting for someone to say 'come in'?” I ask, not looking up from my textbook.
“Why start now?” He takes another loud bite of his apple, the crunch setting my teeth on edge. “Besides, you've been holed up in here like a fucking hermit. Thought you might've died.”
“Studying,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the open book. “Some of us actually care about passing our classes.”
Martinez finishes his apple and tosses the core into my trash can. He misses. Doesn't bother to pick it up.
“Classes are whatever, bro,” he says, leaning back on his elbows. “I'm here to play hockey. At least you haven't been sucking ass at that these last few days.” He eyes me with that look that says he's about to dig deeper. “Coach would hand your ass to you if you brought this zombie vibe to the ice.”
I slam my laptop shut, giving up the pretense of productivity. “I'm fine.”
“Bullshit. You wanna tell me what the fuck is up with you and Bloody Mary?” he asks, and the nickname makes my jaw clench. “She's fucking hot but crazy as fuck, man. Word around campus is she once stabbed a guy in the hand with a mechanical pencil for touching her backpack.”
“Don't call her that,” I mutter.
“I'm just saying.” Martinez leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His dark eyes bore into mine, uncharacteristically serious. “She's liable to fuck you then Lorena Bobbitt you in your sleep.”
My jaw clenches so tight I can feel my molars grinding. “Don't call her that either.”
He sits up straighter, eyes narrowing. “Holy shit. You're actually into her. Like, for real.”
“I'm not into anyone,” I say, but even I can hear the lie in my voice.
“Yeah, and I’m a virgin and ain’t ever touched a single puck bunny in my entire ass life. You’ve got a look. Let’s call it the 'I'd-jump-off-a-cliff-if-she-asked-me-to' look.”
“I don't have a look,” I growl, shoving my laptop into my backpack with more force than necessary. The zipper catches, and I yank it so hard the teeth nearly break.
“You've got a whole fucking catalog of looks, bro. And this one?” He points at my face like he's identifying a specimen. “This is your 'I'm about to make a catastrophically stupid decision about a girl' look.”
I flip him off, but he just laughs.
“Real mature, Rhodes.”
“Says the guy who drew a dick on Coach Calloway’s whiteboard last week.”
“It was anatomically correct. That's educational.” He reaches for my psychology textbook, flipping through it with zero interest. “So what happened Friday night? You went missing for like an hour after your fight.”
“Nothing happened.”
“Yeah? Then why's your face doing that thing?”
“What thing?”
“That thing where you look like you're constipated and horny at the same time.” He tosses the textbook aside. “Did you fuck her?”
“Jesus Christ, Martinez.” I rake a hand through my hair, frustration bubbling under my skin. “Why are you so obsessed with my sex life?”
“Because yours is way more interesting than mine right now. Coach has me on such a short leash I can't even look at a girl without him materializing out of thin air like some kind of cockblocking demon.”
I can't help the laugh that escapes me. “Maybe if you hadn't been caught with Tiffany and—what was the other one's name?”
“Jessica,” he supplies, a dreamy look crossing his face. “Worth it, though. Those twins could?—”
“I don't need the details,” I cut him off, glancing at my watch. “C'mon, it's time for Little Jaguars.”
