Looking to Score(6)
With my glass in hand, I made my way over to an empty table and looked around. It was surprisingly crowded for a Monday. The start of the semester brought on a flood of camaraderie and excitement. Students were greeting and hugging one another with broad smiles and loud squeals as if the summer break was more of a year-long sabbatical instead of two short months.
I felt a twinge of jealousy. There was no one here excited to see me. I didn’t get to hug my friends and pose for reunion selfies. Maybe if I were back in California, a few people would politely smile if I walked into a room, but here I was invisible. Most of the time, I liked that, but tonight it felt a little more lonesome.
I took a sip of my refreshing, fizzy drink and sighed in fake satisfaction as it slid down my throat. Fuck, I wanted some vodka. Something to dull the chatter in my teeth—something fulfilling, but the sparkling water would have to do. I was here for a reason.
It didn’t take me long to find Oakley Davis. In the corner of the large bar was a loud group of people cheering and slapping each other on the back. The guys were tall and muscular, obviously athletic. Some of them wore football shirts or other athletic wear, and the girls surrounding them were dressed up in tight little dresses, strappy high heels, and expertly applied makeup.
I recognized Oakley the moment I saw him. It wasn’t his signature dark hair or the way he towered over everyone else that made him stand out—though his classically handsome appearance helped—it was his very essence, his energy. He had this carefree power about him that was intoxicating to watch. The entire room seemed to shift to accommodate his presence. Girls craned their necks to stare at him, and guys nudged closer for the opportunity to rub elbows. When his drink was empty, another one replaced it immediately. When he said a joke, everyone laughed at it, like the world was at his fingertips.
He looked like the type of guy to cum down a girl’s throat in some frat house bathroom and expect gratitude. As if letting her swallow his Taco Bell-and-vodka flavored jizz was some sort of gift from God. I was not amused. It was like watching a documentary on Antarctica: fascinating to watch, but I wouldn’t be freezing my tits off to experience it any time soon. Oakley was, like, literally the worst kind of privileged.
His ego was huge. Gigantic. Heavy. I could already tell that he was a complete douchebag based on the way he treated his coach, but seeing him here, in action, furthered that belief. I started to wonder what exactly I had gotten myself into and if I could do this.
His strong jaw could cut granite. His defined Adam’s apple that bobbed whenever he swallowed down large gulps of his beer would forever be ingrained in my mind. He had a sense of swagger that couldn’t be duplicated. It was in how he spoke to people. It was also in the way he wore casual clothes that perfectly fit his body with name brands that cost more than some people’s rent.
Oakley even occasionally stopped to take photos with fans. He took requests, going as far as to pose in football stances or with his arms draped across a girl’s shoulders. It seemed almost expected. He didn’t seem annoyed by the attention—he thrived on it. Oakley Davis was a big fucking deal.
I watched him toss back drinks without a care in the world. I wasn’t sure how long he’d been here before I got here, but he wasn’t showing any signs of stopping after the fourth pint. Sorority girls with tequila in their shot glasses rubbed their breasts against his chest in the crowded area. He looked down at them with cocky pleasure but didn’t entertain anyone specific.
It wasn’t until someone jokingly asked him to sign her tits that I decided to intervene. It was important to watch him and get a feel for his presence, but now I had to do my job. From now on, autographing boobs was off the table.
As I walked over to him, I couldn’t help but think how much my life had changed over the last few months. Before, I probably would’ve been trying to get his attention for entirely different reasons. I would have been wearing Spanx and an uncomfortable dress that clung to my body like a second skin. Just a few short months ago, I would’ve worn heels and caked-on foundation and smoky eyeshadow just to feel a little bit pretty. I would’ve ordered a couple of pitchers of margaritas for myself and drowned my insecurities so that I could be the life of the party.
Now, I was still wearing the leggings I put on this morning, and my blonde hair was thrown back into a messy ponytail. I couldn’t even remember the last time I wore makeup. I knew that image was essential to be in the PR business, but I just couldn’t be fucked to impress anyone anymore.
As I made my way through the thick crowd, people barely looked at me. It was like I was invisible—something I used to fear but now welcomed. And it wasn’t until I elbowed a girl in the ribcage to introduce myself to Oakley that someone noticed I was intruding on their party. “Whoa,” a guy with olive skin and rust-colored hair said. I had seen him in quite a few of Oakley’s posts on Instagram, so I assumed that they were friends. I quickly scanned my thoughts to remember his name. Ah, yes. Dale.
“Excuse me,” I said politely with a smile.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where are you off to, hmm?” he asked while positioning himself in front of me. His breath reeked of cheap beer. I nervously tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear before answering him.
“I need to speak with Oakley Davis,” I asserted, trying to sound professional despite our environment. Dale frowned for a moment, then quickly schooled his face into a smirk. I stored the brief crack in his relaxed appearance away to think about later. I wasn’t really a fan of frenemies and needed to protect my client at all costs.