Scared of Beautiful (Scared #1)(8)

“Okay, I’ll go first,” she volunteers. “Why were you looking at my ass in the library earlier?”

And there it is. “What makes you think I was looking at your ass? A bit vain don’t you think,” I replying cockily, mainly to hide my surprise.

“Are you going to answer me or should I call bullshit?” she asks defiantly.

“Call bullshit,” I challenge, offering no further explanation.

“Fine, your dare is to go downstairs, find a girl who is clearly out of your league, and get her number. Oh and you have five minutes,” she grins at me with a smug expression. Maia is clearly enjoying this shit.

I shake my head ruefully. “Damn, and here I thought a clever girl like you was going to give me an actual challenge.” I shrug my shoulders and make my way down the stairs.

She knows very well that the last place to find bobble head women in rubber band dresses would be at a café like this, so it won’t be easy. I spot a leggy brunette sitting alone, reading a copy of some trashy romance novel at the coffee bar and introduce myself. I look up and notice that Maia is staring at me intently from the galley railing. We chat for a few minutes, and by minute three I have my phone in hand, dialling on the keypad. By minute four I’m walking back up the stairs. By four and a half she’s asking me to dial the number, to check that I actually did it. By four minutes and forty seconds, I tell her my phone won’t dial and ask her to prank call it to test it, praying that she has her caller ID on. By four minutes and fifty five seconds, Maia’s number appears on my screen. And at five minutes flat, I’ve created a contact with her name.

“So?” she asks me impatiently. “It clearly works, so call her.”

Grinning smugly I call her number from my contacts list. Maia’s expression is priceless when she feels her phone vibrate in her hand. I end the call and raise my phone to snap a quick pic of her slack jawed expression of disbelief. My shoulders shake with restrained laughter and she goes to open her mouth but quickly shuts it. I can’t resist being a smart ass about this one. “Never try to play a player, little lady.”

For the rest of the evening she stays away from difficult questions and I decide to go easy on her. Mainly because the only dares that I can think of for her involve the removal of clothing, and the two of us in extremely close proximity to one another. I manage to wow her again when she asks me to show her my favorite book, and I read her Annabel Lee, from Edgar Allan Poe’s complete works. I close my eyes as I recite my favorite verse, without even looking at the well-worn book.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we-

Of many far wiser than we-

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

I stop reading. The last person I read this poem to was Shana. I shake myself out of the funk I’m about to land myself in and snap the book shut.

“Why didn’t you finish it?” she asks me softly.

Time to man up, screw this shit. “Poe’s depressing as hell.” I answer as nonchalantly as I can manage.

“Do you write poetry as well?” she probes.

f-uck. Just f-uck. I’ve made it my life’s mission these days to avoid deep and meaningful reflections into my past. “Used to. Not a fan anymore,” I answer, the response coming out sounding shorter and more irritated than intended.

She’s silent for a few minutes, staring at me with those huge brown eyes of hers. “Bullshit,” she says softly.

“What?” I look up to meet her eyes. “I said, I call bullshit,” she repeats slowly, not taking her eyes away from mine. “As the rules of the game go, there’s a dare you have to fulfill as a result.” Her tone is playful but her eyes watch me with an intensity that could bring the strongest of men to their knees. “I dare you to read a poem, an original,” she continues.

Is that all? f-uck, I thought it was going to be much worse than that. Then she says it. “At open mic night here next Saturday.”

And there it is. Shit. You know when there’s something intensely private about something you do? Poetry is like that for me. My own fault, I guess when you come off as a cocky, self-assured ladies man; people think you’ve got confidence for days. But still, a dare’s a dare.

“Okay,” I answer thoughtfully, but this could very well work for me, too. “If, you answer a question that I have.”

She looks at me expectantly, and I swear to God I could drown in her eyes. I’m pretty damn sure I could die in her arms, as well. I try to maintain focus again. Dear Lord, this girl has me twisted in all kinds of ways. “What were you thinking when I was reading that poem to you?” I ask seriously.

She turns away slightly and replies, “I love poetry. You read it well. I was just enjoying the words. Besides, you weren’t reading it for me.”

As she answers I walk over to the sofa she’s sitting on and lower myself onto the seat next to her. “Bullshit,” I smile. I reach for her hand. “I dare you to listen again. This time close your eyes.” She complies, shutting her eyes and I recite the verse again. From her hands in mine, I can feel her pulse quicken with each line. “Like I said, bullshit.”