#Score (3 page)

R
amona

O
kay
, so remind me to never,
ever
let my friends drag me out to a club again. We’re not in here for half an hour and I’m already getting my drink dumped on me by some random drunk guy. I can see myself fifteen minutes from now, having found Brie and Michael and explaining why I’m calling a cab. I’ll get that look they always give me when they’re secretly judging me as a ‘party pooper,’ and then I can go home and change into some dry PJs. Maybe find a good episode of those courtroom dramas I like to watch.

It’s hard not to scream at the situation. My parents would see it as kismet, but I see it as straight-up bullshit and clench my jaw as I wring out the daiquiri from my shirt. I try to pull myself away from the guy who’s standing way too close for comfort and mumbling something to himself, but I get a good look at him and freeze right as he says “cinnamon,” in this way that sort of thrums through me even though it’s super fucking loud in the club.

I automatically reply with a loud “What?”. I don’t recognize him at all, except maybe sort of. It hits me instantly—he reminds me of a sculpture I’ve seen at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. It’s one of my favorites, a classical rendering of a Roman man with an insanely fit body for the times. I’ve always thought it was sort of out of place, which makes me like it that much more. This guy reminds me of it, with his square jawline that could have been easily chiseled from marble, the prominent nose that fits right in with the rest of his face, and the full lips that any woman would kill for. My eyes drink him in easily, even though it’s chaotic and way too bright with all the raver lights overhead. His dark t-shirt clings to him in a flattering way, revealing the lean, muscular physique that marks him as an athlete, and when I look farther down I see he’s wearing jeans that work very well for him too. Dammit, maybe I should stop looking at him. I really need to get out of here and find Brie and Michael.

I look around to see an easy exit, but the guy leans in enough to block out some of the crazy lights and mentions something about hot chocolate and a secret. I raise a brow. What is he on?

It’s hard not to at least try to make out what he’s saying. His thick brows that perch over his lighter-colored and glassy eyes knit together in concentration. I can’t tell whether they’re blue or green from the lighting in here, but if the world is as fair as it probably is to this gorgeous-looking man, then they’re probably blue. Girls are always suckers for blue eyes.

There’s a smile on his face now and although it’s all too clear that he’s ten sheets to the wind, the smile at least seems genuine. This model for Sports Illustrated is looking at me, giving me a toothy grin when he finishes off with “Your freckles, they kind of look like that.”

My freckles? He was talking about my freckles? Even though I really shouldn’t care and I’m still pissed he spilled my drink all over me, I’m sort of wishing I heard what he said better. I reach up, instinctively touching my cheeks. Most guys in L.A. don’t give a damn about freckles, because they all want the same thing. A little blonde white girl with a tan, bright white teeth, a C-cup on average, with a tiny waist and hips that only just flare out. You would think that’s just a cliché that people use, but it’s the truth, and it only makes me stick out that much more. L.A. guys exude this vibe that I’ve never been able to get along with.

Is this guy different from all the rest? I have to roll my eyes because I’m clearly reaching. No need to be an idiot, Ramona. There’s no substantial evidence that this guy is even remotely different from the thousands of others like him.

“You don’t say much, do you?” his voice cuts through loudly as the DJ takes a moment to transition to another song.

I shake my head and start scanning the thick crowd for my friends. Beneath the flash of neon lights, everyone looks similar and alien to me. It’s going to take a miracle to find Brie and Michael in the middle of all this.

The guy grins at me again, and this time I notice that his canine teeth are particularly sharp. Even though I’m stone cold sober, I sort of want to ask him if he’s trying to pull off the hot vampire thing. I’m sure there are plenty of females out there who are still pretty hopped up on that idea, anyway. Ugh, the weird, random stuff I think about sometimes . . .

“I’m really sorry, again. I feel like such an asshole.” His words are still slurred, but I’m able to make them out. “Can I buy you another?”

“Are you really asking if you can buy me a drink? That’s actually a thing?” I’m genuinely curious because as of yet, no one has ever offered to do so for me.

“Well, I did spill your drink on you, so yeah.”

I shrug, because why not? I’m still thirsty and I barely managed to take a sip of my daiquiri before I ended up wearing half of it. “Yes, thanks.” I don’t know what else to say without sounding ungrateful or rude.

He gives me another unrelenting grin and motions for me to follow him up to the bar. I look around one last time and frown because I still don’t see my friends, but I go with him anyway. We’re out in a big public spot, what’s the worst that could happen?

There’s a separate row of people along the bar, some sitting on stools and some standing, and everyone’s waving around money and drinks. I hadn’t intended on drinking anything tonight but figured I might have a sip or two of my barely-registers-as-alcohol drink. I look at the group of people and then back at the guy. “I’m not sure we’re going to be able to get past everyone.”

He’s looking at everyone too, but I can tell something is brewing in his brain because he simply shrugs and looks over his shoulder at me. “Leave it to me, Cinnamon. We got this.”

I wrinkle my nose at his poorly worded answer. Normally the nickname would aggravate the hell out of me, but for some reason it’s not bothering me. Yet.

It takes him a minute, but he manages to snag a bartender’s attention, flagging the heavily-tattooed man down. He juts his thumb behind himself, pointing at me and says something along the lines of “I’m an idiot and I spilled this girl’s drink on her, can you hook her up with a new one?” I may have imagined the “I’m an idiot” part though.

When he returns with a new drink in hand, I take it from him and give him a little wave before turning around to go look for my friends. Shit, I can’t be that rude. I turn around and sigh. He’s still standing there, looking the perfect mix of hot football player and sexy boy-next-door. A drop of sweat trickles down the back of my neck and I freeze in place, not wanting the heat from all the warm bodies in the club to overwhelm me. I almost forget to finally say thank you. “Thanks for the drink.” And I tip it back, taking a long sip from the cold plastic cup.

The guy gives me a funny look, and for a moment I have to wonder why when he’s the one who’s so blurry-looking. Maybe he’s on something else besides just the alcohol? Someone jolts into me and I catch their elbow to the fleshy part of my upper arm, yelping from the pain. Yeah, it’s time to shut this adventure down for the night.

“Are you okay?” His voice trails over me but I’m already walking away, hunting down Brie and Michael. It’s hard to move when there are so many damn people in the way, so I try to push through without having to actually touch anyone. It’s kind of gross how warm and moist it is inside this place.

I close my eyes for a second just to get a reprieve from the crazy lights, and I sway on the spot. I know I need to move or else I’m going to tip over one way or the other when a cool hand finds my shoulder, pulling me away from the thick of the crowd that I’m trying to go through.

I feel a little woozy so I let them guide me away, wondering if the drink that I’ve only taken one sip from was laced with anything. The guy didn’t seem like that much of the creep, but then again, you just never know.

“You look like you need some fresh air,” the person says into my ear, their breath tickling my hair.

“Yeah . . . fresh air.” I take in a deep breath because I’m sure I’m about to pass out, but the person holds on tightly to me and pulls me to the other side of the room, where it’s more quiet and less full of people. “I need to find my friends. They’re here . . . I think.”

“I need to find mine too. Maybe we can help each other?”

It’s easier to hear him now, and I’m surprised that not only is the drunk guy sticking around trying to help me, but his voice is so . . . well, it’s a lot of things. The words sexy, sultry, and captivating sound about right. His hand is still on my shoulder and when I look up at him, I see that while he’s still slightly red-faced, he’s aware enough. “Okay then.”

“Have you tried texting them?” he asks, pulling his own phone out of his pocket. “My friends aren’t picking up. I’m looking for my brother and my friend Joshua.”

I shake my head and stifle a giggle that bubbles up when I think about the fact that there might be another one of this guy running around.

While he’s texting his brother and friend, I pull my phone out and start doing the same. Just as I suspected, no one answers, not while they’re in the middle of the dance floor most likely. I look over my shoulder back to the crowd that we just came from and decide it’s not worth it. I know them well enough to know that they have each other’s back and they’re fine without me. Me, on the other hand, I need to get out of this place. Preferably back to my own bedroom.

The guy holds the phone up to his ear, leaving a message for someone named Cal. “I tried man, I really did. But if you guys did make it in, I’m sorry. I’m going to try and find you and Joshua, so stay put wherever you are, douche.”

I raise my brow, now wondering just how old this guy is. He has one of those faces that could be any number of ages really, but the definition in his muscle really has me wondering.

“Maybe we should go check outside?” I suggest. It’s probably the only way I’m going to stop feeling so gross.

“Yeah, let’s do that. Here,” he replies as he stands up and holds out his hand to me. I take it because I’m probably going to need it if I plan on making it out of here without passing out. His hand is cooler than I imagined it would be, especially with the alcohol coursing through his veins.

We skirt around the majority of the crowd set in the middle of the dance floor, creeping past the wallflowers and random tables set up throughout the large room. Once we get to the front entrance I take a deep breath, so happy to be out of the middle of everything finally. The guy lets go of me and I pull my hand back quickly, relieved.

The bouncer that’s standing outside of the club gives the guy one of those weird nods, and I wonder if maybe he’s a celebrity that I just don’t know about. Michael did tell me this club was a hotspot for them. I’m so out of it that I consider actually asking him. It hits me all of a sudden that I don’t even know his name.

“I’m Ramona,” I say to him as I stick my hand back out. I don’t know why I feel the need to tell him my name, but whatever. I guess I’m just being nice.

“Benji. It’s nice to meet you, Ramona. But I’m still going to call you Cinnamon.” There’s this light behind his eyes when he says it that throws me for a loop. Now that we’re out in the open night, I can actually make out his features, and oh man, maybe I shouldn’t look at him anymore. He’s that kind of hot that’s hard to look directly at. And matched with that crazy grin on his face, I can only imagine the slew of girls that wait on his beck and call. He’s probably never had to ask anyone out on a date – no, they probably all come to him.

Usually the snarkiness comes easily to me, but I have to fight with myself to even think of something to reply back with. “Well I’m just going to . . . ignore you, then.”

I don’t mean to make him laugh and when he does, I have to remind myself to breathe. I’m getting way too weird around this guy, and while I did tell him I’d help him find his friends, I don’t want to forget about catching a cab home.

“I think I want to check out the Starbucks down the street. I can see it from here, and I know my brother loves him some coffee.” Benji says, nodding his head to the left.

* * *

H
is brother Cal
, I’ve learned, may love some coffee, but he’s not at the Starbucks. In fact, they’re not at any of the nearby gas stations, restaurants, or even sitting along the mile stretch of street we’ve been walking up and down for the past hour.

Other things I’ve learned from Benji in the last sixty minutes: Cal is apparently an asshole, but he’s also really smart and plays professional baseball. Joshua once drank so much that he forgot who he was and instead of passing out drunk, he penned a well-written rap about life as a Latino on the campus of Clemson. He drank before they came out tonight, and that’s why he’s a little ‘drunker than usual.’ He’s not actually from Los Angeles, or even from California. He’s from South Carolina and he’s here for something called SuperDraft, which is also the dumbest name I’ve heard for anything, ever. Benji plays soccer and he’s very, very good at it. Since he just graduated from Clemson, he’s looking to get drafted into the SLA.