Page 77 of Fight or Flight
“Well,don’t you clean up nice,” I tell Shane as he opens the door to his room.
He gives me a flat look, but I don’t miss the slight flush of color on his cheeks.
He really does look good in a pair of fitted pants that hug his thick thighs and probably make his ass look amazing, and an emerald green shirt that fits him like a second skin and makes his brown eyes and chestnut hair pop in the light. But then again, he always looks good.
“You’re not going to tell me I look nice?” I tease as he steps into the hall and closes the door behind him.
He makes a big show of looking over his shoulder and giving me a once-over. “You don’t look awful.”
“Better than what I expected you to say, so I’ll take it.”
I wait for him to finish locking up, then hand him a small earpiece about the size of a CIC, or completely in canal, hearing aid.
“Is this really necessary?” he asks as he takes it from me.
“Yup.”
He fits it in his ear and flexes his jaw a few times, like he’s testing to see if it’s secure. “It feels weird.”
“You’ll get used to it. Have you ever worn one before?”
He shakes his head, and the two of us head down the hall together.
“It’ll pick up your voice when it’s on, and it’s sensitive enough that you can whisper and I’ll still be able to hear you.”
“How do I turn it on and off?”
“You don’t, I do. But I’ll leave it off until it’s go time.”
“I could have just met you in the lobby,” he says, his eyes darting around like he’s expecting his friends to pop out of the woodwork and catch us together. “You didn’t have to come to my door.”
“You could have,” I agree. “But I wouldn’t be a very good date if I didn’t pick you up.”
He swings his surprised gaze to mine. “This isn’t a date.”
“I think it is.” I push the door to the stairs open for him and wait for him to go through.
“It isn’t,” he insists, his voice hushed so it doesn’t echo in the stairwell.
“What do you call going to a party together and getting up to some mischief if it’s not a date?”
“A bad fucking idea, that’s what I call it.”
“You’re freaking out.”
“No, I’m being realistically cautious.”
“You’re freaking out.”
He lets out a frustrated sound, almost like a grunt mixed with a sigh, and tips his head up like he’s asking for some divine intervention, or for a lightning bolt to appear out of nowhere and delete me from existence.
We fall silent as we make our way to the main floor, then exit through the side door.
“How are you so calm about this?” he asks when we’re outside and the door has closed behind us. “Do you have any idea what will happen to us if we get caught?”
“We’re not going to get caught,” I tell him as he falls into step beside me.
“You’re either overconfident, or there’s something seriously wrong with you that you don’t see this for the insanity it is.”
