Risk Me Page 4

  Claire is already there, next to her car, a little yellow Beetle with a crushed-in headlight. She’s leaned back, her hands splayed over the scratched hood, a big, sexy smile on her face. I get out of my car and head over to her.

  “Hey. How are you?” She pushes back off the hood and makes her way to me, then kisses me softly on the lips as a “hello.”

  “Uh, I’m, uh, I’m good. I’m really good now that I’m finally here with you.” She has her arms around my waist and is running her fingers over my back in a way that’s more intimate than that kiss.

  I feel like our wires got crossed in a huge way. Like maybe she thinks we’ve met before; I know her through Deo, but we never did more than wave across the bonfire a few times at a rager I went to when I was still with Kensley. He and I ditched the party early and spent most of the night surfing.

  Maybe Deo has some other half-Mexican, half-Jewish friend he introduced her to?

  When she tilts her head back, I can see her eyes are pretty glassy, and I realize that, like most of the girls Deo hung out with before Whit, she probably spent the day tanning and getting high. Not that I’m judging. It’s just those girls have never really been my type. At all.

  “You’re so tall! And dark.” She giggles. “And handsome.” She turns and seems surprised but pleased to realize we’re standing in front of a restaurant. “So, I’m, like, so totally starving.” She pulls the words out so they’re a few seconds away from a slur. “Wanna go in?” She bites her lip and grinds her slight hips against my side.

  “Sure. After you.”

  I hold my arm out to let her go before me, but when she almost crashes into the statue of St. Francis in the poppies by the walkway, I grab her around the waist. She loops her arms around me and giggles.

  “Oh, Calvin, I’m gonna like you!”

  “Cohen,” I correct, walking her in quickly. I try to ignore the dread that’s rushing through me like a warning, chalking it up to nerves instead. “Two for dinner, please,” I say to the hostess.

  “Mmm.” Claire sighs. “Can you tell our waiter to bring over some bread?”

  I cringe and the hostess rolls her eyes and says in a flat voice, “This is a Mexican restaurant. I can bring you some tortillas and salsa if you want.”

  “Perfect!” Claire claps. “And hurry.”

  No “please.”

  Maybe it is super dorky of me, but my parents are all about manners, and Claire’s brusque behavior is grating.

  But I’m supposed to be staying open-minded. I’m supposed to be taking chances. So she came on a date a little toked? It’s not something Kensley would have done, but maybe that’s a good thing.

  Kensley ripped my still-beating heart out of my chest and shredded it. I want the anti-Kensley.

  I look at Claire’s brown curls, her sweet hazel eyes, and soft lips, curved in a flirtatious smile. So she yanks the tortillas out of the hostess’s hands? So she eats with her mouth open? So she interrupts me a couple times and can’t seem to remember my name? These are tiny things, and I decide to stop being so damn judgmental.

  Then she opens the drink menu.

  “Jose Cuervo!” she squeals. “Double margarita, frozen, sugar on the rim, and fast,” she demands. “And enchiladas. Extra sour cream.”

  I will not judge her disappointingly generic order. I will not.

  “A Negra Modelo and the pozole, please.”

  I hand the menus back to the waiter, who was sort of checking Claire out before she opened her mouth. Now it’s clear on his face he’s looking at her with the same feeling of dull horror I’m trying to suppress.

  “So, Claire. Are you in school?”

  She shifts some half-chewed chips and salsa around in her mouth. “Mmm. Yeah. I am.”

  I wait for her to say more, but the salsa must be pretty damn amazing, because she’s scooping it up so fast she’ll be scraping the bottom of the bowl soon.

  “Um, what’s your major?” I wince at my predictable question. I’m not doing much to stray from the dud Kensley accused me of being so far.

  “Undeclared.” She’s licking some salsa off her thumb. I’m half sure she’ll lick the bowl any second now.

  “Yeah, I hear that. Sometimes it’s hard to know what you want. I started as an engineering major, but eighteen credits a semester, along with the pressure of keeping an insanely competitive GPA, was pretty intense. Plus, I basically hated every class, so I switched to accounting.” The waiter puts our drinks down, and she picks up her glass with both hands, sucking on the rim and chugging at least half the liquid in a few long gulps.

  When she sets the glass down, she licks some sugar off her fingers and lets out a sigh. “Oh my God, so damn good. Did you say eighteen credits?” I nod, and she shudders. “I did twelve when I was a freshman, and I failed three of the classes. No way. I can only do six a semester.”

  “Six? Credits?” Now it’s my turn to chug my drink.

  “Yeah. My father said it’s way smarter to just go slow, you know? College will be the best years of our lives. Tons of my girlfriends are doing six or nine credits. It just lets you focus more, ya know?” She pauses. “So, you’re an accounting major?”

  I’m trying really hard to keep my eyeballs from rolling out of their damn sockets. Six credits? That’s, like, eight years of college!

  “Was. I was an accounting major. I graduated.”

  “Wow.” Her mouth forms an adorable little O, and her eyebrows go so high they almost disappear into her brow line. “I thought you graduated with Deo’s class? A year ahead of me?”

  I nod around another long sip of beer, hoping the alcohol dulls my brain sooner rather than later.

  “So, did you keep taking eighteen credits? ’Cause I thought that was too hard?” She takes another drink, and I decide to blame her misunderstanding on all the pot and booze she’s currently full of.

  Conversation stalls while she holds up one finger, telling me to wait, so she can concentrate on drowning in her drink until her teeth float. I feel like my IQ is plummeting, and I’m suddenly desperate to talk to someone with a full set of working brain cells.

  Cohen: I know this # is for furniture emergencies only…

  I’m about to put my phone back in my pocket, embarrassed I even thought to bother Maren with this crap, when I feel a buzz.

  Maren: So funny. I was just praying for a distraction. Please distract me! I’m at the laundromat, and this insane couple is about to commit a felony because he put his red shirt in with her new white dress. I’d run away, but I just loaded up the dryer, and I had to dig through my backseat to find those last few quarters! ;)

  Claire is using both stirrers to take a sip so long and deep her cheeks suck in.

  Cohen: LOL! That dude is in trouble! I wish I was at a laundromat right now…

  Maren: That is a bizarre wish. Where are you instead?

  Cohen: The world’s worst blind date.

  Maren: Uh-oh. How bad?

  Cohen: I’m willing to bet there’s currently more tequila than blood flowing through her veins, and she has yet to call me by my actual name.

  Maren: Wow. Not good at all. I can totally hover over the empty dryer next to mine, save you a spot…

  Cohen: Not even kidding, I have a huge basket of laundry back home. I’m at a great Mexican place. I could order two dinners to go and bring my change jar.

  Maren: Stop teasing me! I’d kill for some pozole…

  I stare at my screen and smile for the first time since this crappy date started. Why can’t I be out having dinner with a girl as cool as Maren?

  Maren: Oops, gotta go! The gf is throwing Tide packets at the bf. I’m gonna run around the corner and hang at the bookstore til the screaming dies down. Text me if she gets your name right.

  Cohen: On the bright side, at least I’m not getting pelted with detergent pods tonight. I’ll keep you posted.

  The food comes, and it’s delicious. Or mine is. I would ask Claire what she thinks, but the questio
n might confuse her. Anyway, she’s way more interested in sucking down a second enormous margarita.

  Which is when she makes her first trip to the bathroom. I jump up to steady her because she veers dangerously to the side, forcing a man to lift his plate of tostadas over his head so she doesn’t crash into it.

  “I’m fine, Corwin. It’s okay,” she slurs as she heads down the back hall to the bathrooms. I stand up and keep an eye on her, about to run interference when she attempts to go into the men’s room. Luckily a guy is coming out and points her in the right direction.

  She gives him a big hug and shrieks with laughter as she heads in. The poor dude rushes out the door, a spooked look on his face.

  I know exactly how you feel, man.

  I watch my phone. Three minutes go by. Five. Seven.

  How long is it okay to let your severely inebriated date hang out in a bathroom stall? She did tuck away a ton of food, so maybe this is just run of the mill call of nature stuff. But there’s also the chance she fell over and knocked her head on the sink.

  I need a problem solver.

  Cohen: In your undercover crime fighting, have you ever had to swoop in and save someone who had too many margaritas and never came back from the bathroom? Because I need some advice.

  I watch the bubbles under the text message move and feel this weird thrill.

  Maren: Hmm. I usually leave the drunk and disorderlies to the police. Has it been a while?

  Cohen: A few LONG minutes. I don’t want to break down the door if she’s taking care of business… You don’t happen to be in a nearby telephone booth, do you?

  Maren: Thwarted by the wait times at the dryers! Maybe you can get a female civilian to poke her head in and see what’s up?

  Cohen: Genius! This is why they trust you with the invisible jet ;)! Thanks!

  I follow Maren’s advice and get a friendly waitress to help me. She opens the bathroom door just as Claire comes tottering back out, ready for another drink.

  She doesn’t seem to notice that I’ve stopped trying to make any conversation, and she continues to jabber about brain freeze, some kind of mutant puppy she desperately wants to own that’s made when you mix a Chihuahua and a poodle, and how she always tries to get in classes with male professors because, and I quote, “lady professors can be so unfair if they’re older and jealous of what they don’t have.”

  Like eight years of college and no medical license to show for it?

  I laugh at my own silent joke, and that’s when I realize this date is just a lost cause. I call the waiter over and nurse two more beers. I know for a fact the third is a huge mistake and realize I’ll probably have to break up Deo and Whit’s sex-fest to have one of them pick me up, because I’m in no position to drive. I am officially that loser friend.

  The uptight, anal-retentive, no-fun asshole who’s the perpetual butt of every joke in every comedy.

  My life is a cesspit.

  Claire heads to the bathroom again, and I feel my phone vibrate. I can’t help smiling at the text.

  Maren: OK, I def don’t mind giving advice, but you can’t leave me hanging. Operation Tequila Sunset… Was it a bust?

  My fingers fly over the keys, but I delete the words a second before I hit send. I don’t think Maybe you should come by in your leather superhero getup and check is anything other than sleazy, no matter how many winky faces I follow it up with.

  Instead I type out, Recon mission was a success. Target is safe and sound. At least for now… By tomorrow she’ll most likely have a crippling hangover. Hey, do you know what you get when you mix a Chihuahua and a poodle?

  Maren: Please tell me that’s the beginning of this great joke she told you…?

  Cohen: I did laugh every time she said Chi Poo, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t intend for that to be a punch line. Is the laundromat still a battlefield?

  Maren: All quiet on the Red Shirt Front! I actually just finished folding and am about to drive home.

  Cohen: No texting and driving. Thank you for the bathroom advice. And for making this date generally less hellish.

  Maren: It was my pleasure. Thank you for making laundry night a little more fun (domestic detergent conflicts aside).

  Cohen: LOL, cool. Drive safe. TTYL.

  I actually do “laugh out loud” as I reread her message.

  “What’s so funny?” Claire asks as she stumbles back to her chair just then.

  “Oh. Nothing. Just a work joke.”

  “Tell me,” she demands eagerly, leaning across the table so her very nice cleavage is on full display. I’m actually worried that if she leans just one more inch forward, she’ll be showing way more than she bargained for. “I love jokes. All my friends tell me I have the best sense of humor.”

  “It’s kind of an inside joke,” I say, faltering over my words.

  She bangs her hand on the table. “Just tell me!”

  Like a godsend, the waiter runs over to our table at that second to drop the check, and Claire gets distracted opening the Montes Tomy butterscotch candy they give out the end of the meal.

  By the time I pay, Claire’s voice has reduced itself to fuzzy white noise that I’m totally happy to tune out.

  When we walk through the exit, she totters to my car, and I grab her under the elbow.

  She laughs and tosses her arms around my neck. “Calvin,” she singsongs. “I wanna go somewhere jus’ me and you.”

  I already have my phone out to text my cousin, who owns a female-only cab company, to come as fast as possible. This date can’t end soon enough.

  I lead Claire to my car and contain her in the passenger seat so I don’t have to worry about her getting run over in the parking lot. “You don’t need any more, Claire. What you’ve already had is going to hurt like hell tomorrow.”

  “I know what you’re thinking.” She reaches her hand over and presses on my leg. “You think I’m an airhead. I know it. And I have a confession. I maybe smoked…a lil bit…before I came. Don’t be mad. You’re intimidating, Calvin. But you’re also sexy. We can have some fun if you want.” Her fingers slip up my pants and yank at my belt.

  I put a hand over hers. “Claire. Don’t. Look, your cab will be here soon. And, to be honest, something just didn’t click on this date.”

  Her fingers are working to unbutton and unzip my pants, and it seems like she’s growing multiple arms, because, no matter how I bat her away, she’s always got a hand on my crotch. And then my pants are open, and she’s yanking at my boxers.

  “No. Listen to me, Claire. No.” Claire is surprisingly strong and persistent, and I have no damn clue what to do. I just pray the cab shows up fast, so I can get her out of my car and be done with this hellish night. All of a sudden, she nosedives for my junk.

  I’m willing to jump out of this car with my pants halfway off my ass if that’s what it takes to shake this girl, but my door is stuck and she’s wiggling around, trying to pin me, and suddenly she heaves.

  The sound is so specific and disgusting that I almost heave, too.

  “Claire!” I reach down for her shoulders, but she already has her hand at her mouth and is bucking, trying to hold it down.

  Before I can sit her up and attempt to get her out, there’s a hot, wet torrent on my lap and down my legs.

  I may be covered in her vomit and out of patience, but I’m not a total dick. I go around and help her out of the car. I lead her back into the restaurant and explain what happened to the hostess, who’s so disgusted she waves us to the ladies’ room and promises to not let anyone in for a while.

  By the time I’ve cleaned her up, my cousin, Madeline, is in the parking lot, tapping her foot, but her aggravation turns to disgust mixed with hilarity. “Holy shit, cuz! When you have a bad date, you go all the way!”

  “Hardy har har.” I nod at the door. “Help me get her in.”

  “You’re so nice,” Claire says sleepily. “Why am I so drunk?”

  “Too much tequila,” I explain.
<
br />   “Wait.” Madeline goes to the trunk and takes out the heavy, plastic-backed blankets my aunt made especially for situations like this.

  My cousin finally waves me over, then rifles through Claire’s purse and finds her ID, laughing when she realizes Claire lives way across town.

  “I hope you’ve sold more than a couple corner cabinets this month, Cohen. I’ll send you a bill!” she calls as she pulls out.

  I’m left in the middle of the parking lot with puke dripping down my pants, slightly too buzzed to drive safely, and with a seat full of vomit. I could call Deo and Whit, but I’m not in the mood for his laughter and her pity. I’m way too far from home to walk. But my parents’ storage warehouse is twelve blocks from here. It’s got a little office in the back that has a tiny shower my father uses on his gym days. If I’m lucky, my over-prepared dad may have left an extra gym bag there. At the very least I can lie down on the couch and sleep my buzz off in peace.

  When I get to the storage warehouse, I luck out on every count, though it would be a serious stretch to say I’m feeling lucky after tonight’s date.

  I shower and change into my dad’s too-short gym shorts, then settle back on the couch to catch some sleep, wishing Deo’s mom made some kind of potion that could erase the memory of the world’s shittiest date along with your hangover.

  Chapter Four

  Maren

  Jacinda and the group of a dozen women she invited, who range from her neighbor’s obnoxious teenage daughter to Jacinda’s half-deaf grandmother, are sitting in her sparse living room, vibrators and anal beads covering every surface, playing a “game.” The “game” consists of screaming “dildo” whenever the words man/guy/boyfriend/husband/fiancé come up. The Jell-O shots, which Obnoxious Unsupervised Teen has already partaken of twice, are making the game even more “hilarious.”

  I’ve got a half hour drive home after this little get-together so, as appealing as berry-blue flavored vodka is, I’ll pass.

  The problem is a bunch of shrieking women going nuts, so to speak, over sex toys wouldn’t usually be my scene even on my craziest, drunkest night. So being stone cold sober isn’t helping me deal with this at all.