Tyed(4)

A tall guy shakes his head in amusement as I release the custom-installed, pink-patterned Hello Kitty seat belt. Damn you, Izzy. I want to yell that a supermodel chose the car, not me, but keeping a low profile seems to be a higher priority right now.

I stumble my way out and light up a blunt, frowning at the guy through my Wayfarer sunglasses (another discard from Izzy) as I attempt to calm my nerves. I'm not going to smoke the whole thing. Just a few drags to take the edge off won't do any harm, right?

Say what you will about my pink car, there's no mistaking me for Izzy and her designer clothes once I step out in my Subhumans black tee and Boyfriend ripped jeans, my messy bun tied carelessly at the nape of my neck. We're a different species, she and I. I take another deep drag, frowning.

That’s it. Breathe in, breathe out.

I’m getting kind of good at it.

“Yo. You’re not allowed to smoke here.” It’s the tall guy again. He’s wearing a black-skull bandana mask covering the lower part of his face, presumably because he thinks it makes him look badass. (It kinda does.)

“I’ll put it out in a second.” I grunt my irritation and puff a cloud of smoke skywards.

“Oh, man, you're smoking pot?” He jerks out his SkullCandy earbuds, puffing his cheeks. He is athletic and muscular, his chest and thick arms bulging through his black XWL tee. I scan his gray sweatpants and flip-flops and catch a glimpse of the huge snake tattoo crawling up from his back onto his neck.

Crap. I need to say something. “We’re outside. How the hell is it your business if I smoke here.” I puff my blunt coolly, but inside, my pulse is racing. “Keep walkin’, cowboy.”

No, not that, you idiot. I want to shut up. Correction, I need to shut up. He is three times my size, pure muscle and male arrogance, and he has this dusky stare that makes my skin tingle.

But I can’t seem to stop myself, and to my horror, my mouth continues firing more stupidity. “If you care so much about your health, second hand smoke should be the least of your worries. You realize getting punched on a regular basis damages your brain. It affects memory and all kinds of other stuff.”

Fantastic, Blaire. You basically just called the guy brain dead. My chances of leaving here in an ambulance have just dramatically increased.

He closes the space between us and plucks the blunt from my lips, flicking it to the other side of the parking lot with his thumb and forefinger. My mouth is still agape when he pulls his bandana down to his neck, exposing his whole face.

“That’s a very bad idea,” he warns in a low, husky voice. His breath smells of mint gum and mouthwash, and he is standing so close I can feel the heat pulsing from his body despite the fact it's ludicrously hot today as it is.

“You mean smoking or running my mouth at you?” My voice cracks. I’m tongue-tied. It feels like my mouth is full of cotton wool.

“Both,” he says, removing a lock of hair from my forehead.

Wow. I mean, wow. Hot Parking-Lot Dude is so sizzling, calling him beautiful would be the insult of the century. He's lucky his nose is slightly crooked, like it's been hit one too many times, because otherwise, he'd be sickeningly pretty. What the hell is he, anyway? Latino? Asian? Mixed Caucasian? He looks like he’s been photoshopped by a bunch of horny teenagers. He has pouty, perfectly shaped lips, slanted Asian eyes and the chiseled, Brad Pitt-like bone structure girls shit themselves over.

Quick reminder:

I’m a girl.

I’m standing in hazardous vicinity to him.

And I’m clearly, unbelievably f*cked.

“That’s some car you drive.” His bedroom eyes narrow to a spot behind me.

“Problem?” I bat my eyes slowly, trying to look bored.

“Na, figures.” He’s so pretty I can’t concentrate on what he’s saying. Or what I’m saying, for that matter. Then he pivots in the other direction, and before I realize what’s happening, Poof, he’s gone.

It takes me a minute or ten to regroup.

I lean back against my hood, practicing deep breaths and trying to calm down. Everything is under control. I just had a brief encounter with a personal-space invading maniac. Who happens to be unfairly gorgeous. But the gym is huge and my chances of running into him again are slim.

Besides, Dawson is waiting and I can’t afford to be late. I need to focus on this assignment in order to graduate. Mom and Dad will kill me if I fail again. No, I will kill myself if I fail again.

I enter the gym, and I’m greeted at the counter by a ginger-bearded dude with a bun ponytail and a black XWL tee just like the one Hot Parking-Lot Dude wore.

“Hi, I have a meeting with Dawson Alba. My name is Blaire Stern.” I offer a polite smile and try not to look like the place is freaking me out. Which is difficult, especially since the gym is painted in floor-to-ceiling black.

I adjust the messenger bag hooked over my shoulder and try not to feel conspicuous in my tight jeans and black chucks. The scent of aftershave, sweat and testosterone assaults my nostrils. I see tons of Iron-Man-sized dudes punching stuff and rolling around on the floor, and even spot a few women lifting super heavy barbells. These women mean business and are nothing like the soccer moms at my mom’s gym, the kind on the treadmills with their makeup still on, walking at the pace of a dying turtle.

“Okay…” Ginger-Bearded Guy looks distracted. “Sorry, can’t leave this place unattended.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “The boss’s office is on the other side of the gym. Let me get someone to show you the way, cool?”