Page 19 of Body Check
Hazel, Blue’s Scottish Fold cat, hops up on my lap. Like her owner, she loves attention.
“Seriously, though,” he begins, “the guys aren’t so bad. Once you get past Mickey’s constant need for motion and Ollie’s inability to be quiet for more than two seconds, they're decent people. Ollie wants a bunch of us to join the committee for the winter carnival. There’s a meeting next week and you should come.”
I pull my phone out and look at it for half a second. “Sorry, I have plans.”
“I’m serious,” he scoffs. “You need to contribute to the team off the ice.”
“I do,” I insist. “Every time I don't punch Mickey in the fucking face, that's my contribution. I should have a sticker chart. But I want to punch him a lot, so you should get the mega pack of stickers.”
“Done,” he agrees. “Also, what are these plans you have? Are you getting a third haircut in as many weeks? Dude, even I don’t go to the barber that much, and this look is not easy to maintain,” he says,
“Yeah, must be tough to travel all the way back to 1989,” I say, poking fun at his outdated hairstyle. I don’t care what anyone says or does. Mullets are not back, and porn ‘staches aren’t either, no matter how trendy Blue thinks they are.
9
Dutton
I’ve been waiting all week for this date. Or hell, maybe all my life. When I pull up outside Bridgette’s dorm and see her standing on the stone path, my heart stutters. Well, at least now I know I have one.
I should get out of the car to greet her. It’s the polite thing to do. The right thing to do. And I will. But I’m going to take my damn time because her full hips are swaying as she walks toward me, and I’m fucking mesmerized. She’s wearing a dress again, and it hugs every curve on her thick body. Bridgette never did tell me what we’d be doing or where we were going. All she said was to pick her up at eight tonight, so here I am. I’m game for anything, but I’m suddenly hoping the night’s itinerary includes a nature hike or some mini golf. The fuck-me heels she’s wearing indicate otherwise, but I definitely wouldn’t mind an activity that involves Bridgette walking back and forth, maybe bending down to smell a flower or scoop up a neon-colored golf ball. I’m an asshole. I know. But damn, her body is in-fucking-sane and I’m a fan.
I finally get my ass out of the car just in time to walk to the other side and open her door. I might be a dirty-minded asshole, but I’m also a gentleman.
“You look gorgeous,” I tell her as I hold the door open. A pink flush washes over her cheeks as she smiles at me.
“And you look very handsome,” she says, settling into my car and buckling herself in. “Thanks for picking me up.”
Before I do something moronic and brush a kiss on her forehead or reach over to check that her seatbelt is fastened—I’m a sucker for safety, obviously—I make my way back to my own seat and start the engine. I’m about to ask for the address of where we’re going tonight so I can type it into my navigation system, but I pause when I notice that Bridgette’s focus has shifted to the backseat.
Or, more accurately, what’s in it.
“Are you planning on having a sleepover?” she asks, her eyes darting in the direction of the duffel bag that rests on the bench seat.
“I’m planning on doing whatever you want me to,” I answer honestly. “And I mean that literally. You were being all mysterious and withholding vital date information from me, so I brought a change of clothes in case you had something other than dinner or a movie in mind.”
She arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “Like what?”
“I packed sweats and a hoodie, so I’m open to whatever you want to do. If you need me to change the oil in your car or bury a body, we’re all set. You want to go mini golfing? I can do that, too.”
“You know how to do that?” she asks, her eyes wide.
Drumming my hands on the steering wheel, I try my best not to look offended. “I’m a fucking champ at mini golf. I never buried a body before, but I think pigs are the key. So, which one will it be?”
Her laugh makes my heart expand. I can’t explain it, but this woman affects me in ways that no one else ever has, or ever will.
“Neither. I’m impressed that you can change the oil in a car,” she says, crossing one leg over the other and causing her skirt to ride up a few inches. My eyes are drawn to her creamy thighs, and I’m tempted to keep looking, but my need for self-preservation has me pulling out onto the main road. Regardless of where we’re going, we need to leave campus, so I wind my way through the rows of dorm housing until we hit the first major intersection. A left will take us out to the highway, and a right will lead us out to the bay. Dammit. I could have rented a boat for our first date. Bridgette in a bikini? Yes, fucking please. I’m saving this idea for next time.
Bridgette calls out directions, and I follow them. The drive takes about thirty minutes, but I don’t mind at all. She tells me about her clients at the salon and the classes she’s taking at BU. I’m not the type to overshare, but I hear myself telling her that I do, in fact, know how to change the oil in a car, and that I can rotate her tires or switch out her car’s battery if it dies. She seems impressed, so I silently thank my dad for teaching me the basics, even though I always preferred being out on the ice to being under the hood of a car.
We make the final turn into the parking lot of a strip mall, and now I’m curious. “Are you taking me to the urgent care or the shoe repair place?” I ask.
“We’re going there,” she says, pointing at a spot just past my left shoulder. I turn to see it, but when I look at the nondescript building, I’m still clueless.
“It used to be a dance studio,” she tells me, biting her lip. “I guess it closed a few years ago, but one of the former students bought it and turned it into a dance hall. They're only open a few nights a week, and I’ve only been here a few other times, but it’s so much fun.”
I turn off the ignition and unbuckle my seatbelt, my jaw clenching as I wonder who the hell she came here with last time. I must be scowling because when I turn to look at her, she seems a bit flustered. Fuck. Sometimes I hate being an asshole. Don’t get me wrong. It has its benefits, but it’s times like right now that I wish I was a little more cheerful or friendly or whatever traits aren’t the sole property of assholes.
“We can do something else if you don’t like dancing. I can’t even remember the last time my car had an oil change,” she says, her laughter filling the space between us. “I should have asked first. It’s just that I love to dance, and I never have a partner, so I always get paired up with another singleton, which is fine, but I’m always the tallest, which means I have to lead, and since you’re tall and you asked if there was anything I wanted to do?—”
