Desperately Seeking Epic(47)

“Shut up, Paul,” I mumbled as I walked by him, shoving him with my shoulder, which only made him laugh more.

“Are you saying you can do it?” he yelled after me.

Spinning around, I crossed my arms. “Of course, I can do it!” And I could. That’s not to say I could do it well, however, I had two things that men liked; ass and tits. Oh, make that three. I was breathing. Those three attributes were my key to success in the art of flirting.

“Prove it,” he challenged me. If a look could convey hatred, then the one I gave him did. Bastard.

Looking down at my attire, I twisted my mouth. I didn’t exactly look like the other women walking around. They looked sexy . . . well, some of them did. The ones that were trying too hard looked trashy. I mean, really. They were wearing bikinis for God’s sake. There wasn’t a body of water or pool for miles.

Modest.

That’s the word that came to mind when I thought of myself.

I looked modest.

And as much as I absolutely hated to admit this, I didn’t want Paul to see me as modest. I didn’t want him to see me as trash either. I held Paul’s gaze as he approached me and I tugged up the front hem of my blue T-shirt and looped it through the collar. I pushed the material up so it was wedged under my bra. My separation from Kurt had a lot of shitty things that came with it, depression for starters. But while depression sucked majorly, the weight I’d lost was the only bright side. My tummy was flat and as I pushed down the waist of my white shorts slightly, I could tell Paul was liking what he was seeing when he widened his eyes and his mouth quirked up on one side into an appreciative smile. I couldn’t see myself, but the whistles coming from men passing by us was all I needed. The slight tweak to my outfit paired with my cowboy boots, and I was prepared to flirt. God, I felt like such a hussy. I mean, who does that? But the way Paul licked his perfect lips, his tongue darting out, wetting them as he stared at me, I kind of forgot to feel bad about being a hussy.

Tugging the tie from my hair, I shook it out, letting the length of my hair fall down my back and cascade over my shoulders. Paul’s smile faded.

“What?”

“I didn’t mean you had to do . . .” he waved his hand, motioning it around my body, “all that.”

“Do I look bad or something?” I asked, second-guessing myself.

“No,” he mumbled. “You look fine.”

Fine?

He told me I looked fine.

He might as well have said I looked mediocre.

Plain.

Unexciting.

Maybe pathetic.

“Gee, thanks, Paul.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Clara.” He clenched his eyes closed. “You know you look hot as f*ck.” With a wave of his hand, a frustrated gesture as if he was dismissing me, he passed by me, grumbling to himself. I smiled to myself where he couldn’t see. Moments later, I sashayed over to a small group of men playing cornhole.

“Can I get in on the next game?” I asked, twirling a lock of my hair between my fingers.

They welcomed me most enthusiastically. Within a minute, I had a cold beer in my hand and the attention of two decent looking, yet sweaty men. Paul bullshitted with the guys on the other side of the game and from time to time I caught them looking at me or pointing at me. At one point, I puckered my lips at Paul and he rolled his eyes. As we played, I asked the men around me about their jobs, their lives, their girlfriends, and so on. Then came my opening.

“What do you do?” one of them asked as he stared at my chest. Eyes up here, buddy.

“Me?” I threw my beanbag, sinking it, and earned a loud groan from the guy standing next to me. His partner and mine were on the other side. “I own a skydiving business.”

“Are you serious?” he snorted.

Tilting my head, I looked at him. “Is it so hard to believe?”

“Why don’t you tell him in detail what it’s like to dive, Clara,” Marcus interrupted. I looked down at him, glaring. Where the hell did he come from? He must’ve just caught up to us. I shot Paul a quick glance, but he didn’t seem to understand that my look was saying, get your ass over here and take your * friend away.

“Clara is our best diver,” Marcus continued.

“I wouldn’t say that,” I laughed nervously.

“She’s just being modest. Go on now, tell him all about it.” Marcus’ mouth curled. Asshole.

I could do this. I didn’t have to know the technical details. I only had to sell the idea of the thrill of diving. Licking my lips, I let out a soft sigh. I was aiming for schoolgirl sultry, but I wasn’t sure I pulled it off. Acting like a slut to sell wasn’t something I really wanted to do, but Marcus needed to be proved wrong. I was fearless. I could do anything. I hoped.

“How can I describe the rush of diving?” I mused as I trailed my fingers lazily down the collar of my shirt and stopped just before I reached my cleavage. “No matter how prepared you are, you still feel nervous. Kind of like . . . making love to someone for the first time.” I glanced around and realized everyone was watching me, listening, even Paul who had moved over to our side. Marcus was standing with his arms crossed, clearly convinced I wouldn’t pull this off. “As they take you up in the plane, the engine roaring, that pressure building as you get higher and higher . . .” Lifting my hair up, I rolled my cold beer over the back of my neck and then my chest. I could feel everyone’s eyes upon me, burning into me. I really did feel like a slut. “Your heart is beating like a drum, your blood pumping because the anticipation is killing you. Then you’re at the door, the cool air whipping against your face, the earth spread out beneath you. It’s breathtaking.”