Fighting Fate (Fighting #7)(4)
One
Present Day…
Killian
The sun beats down on my back as I hunch over my phone. My eyes devour line by line of the latest sci-fi novel by my favorite author, Mikel Vermouch. Aliens have implanted their seed in hundreds of unsuspecting human females, their gestation cycle is half the length of a human’s, it’s been four months, and shit’s about to get ugly.
Voices flood my fictional world, along with the opening and slamming of doors signaling my time is up, and the best part of my day is about to begin.
I shove my phone into my backpack and lean against the picnic table, my gaze zeroing in on a door that leads to her last class. Creative Writing, room E34.
One by one, UNLV college students filter out of the room, and I search for her from behind my sunglasses: a guy shoving a book in his bag, another popping in his earbuds, a string of women I don’t even notice beyond their hair color, and then finally… I suck in a breath.
Axelle.
Fuck, time slows like some cheesy chick-flick, and I drink in every inch of her—from all that chestnut hair she bitches about being too thick to her baggy tee that droops on one side to reveal the smoothest olive-skinned shoulder, and those dick-hardening yoga pants that hug her ass. I groan as she pulls her backpack straps on, taking the fabric of her shirt on a ride up her slender belly. Gorgeous. I want her.
I tell myself it’s possible to live the kind of life I read about in books. The kind where ordinary men can become extraordinary and the geek wins the girl. Even if that girl is more beautiful than anything he could possibly deserve. Somehow the fates would favor him or some dynamic bullshit within would shine through and show her he’s a f*cking superhero.
Yeah… I tell myself it’s possible.
But experience has proven it sure as shit is not.
Her eyes find me almost immediately, and she lifts her chin before heading over. Green Converse-clad feet trudge through the grassy commons, and she smiles, watching me watching her. Those thick lips can deliver a slicing word and bring unimaginable pleasure. That’s not true. I’ve imagined it plenty. Hell, that’s all I’ve f*ckin’ done is imagine it. Any pleasure those lips have brought me so far has been in words only.
She pops on her sunglasses and my stomach plummets. Those blue eyes, so expressive when they light with the fire of her anger, shine with tears, or dance with humor are entertaining as hell to watch.
She stops a couple feet in front of me and props a hand on one slender hip. “You don’t have to wait for me every day, Killian.”
That’s true, but you know what they say about old habits. The last three semesters our classrooms were close, and I made a habit of walking her to her car every day after school.
We’ve only been back in school for a week after Christmas break, and though the spring semester brought more distance between our last classes, that doesn’t mean I’m giving up my after-school ritual.
I shrug one shoulder and swing my gaze around the commons, taking in groups of co-eds. “Who says I was waiting for you?”
Her smile slams me in the chest, but I’ve worked for years to school my response to her, tamping down my physical reactions to appear unfazed. Friendly. Because that’s what I’ve always been—friend zoned.
“Your last class is all the way across campus.” One sculpted dark eyebrow pops up over her shades. “You’re telling me you come here to sit outside my classroom for thirty minutes for someone other than your best friend?”
Friend. There’s that f*cking word again.
“Maybe I’m waiting for my girl.” Truth. She just doesn’t know it.
“Oh, your girl.” She taps her chin. “Hmmm…and who is this imaginary girl, huh?” She points to a huddle of women. “Oh, is it Charlene? She’s a book-nerd like you. I could see you two getting along.” She flashes a teasing smile then searches the common area and points to what I’m assuming is another girl. I don’t know. I only have eyes for her. “Tarryn maybe? She’s smokin’ hot and dates jocks.”
“Jock? I thought I was a book-nerd?”
“You’re both.” Her smile suddenly crunches up, and she curls in on herself, hissing through her teeth. “Ugh!”
My pulse kicks in worry. “What’s wrong?” I stand and move toward her, but she holds a hand up.
“No, I’m okay.” She takes a few steps to the picnic bench and sits.
“You sure?” I sit back down next to her, her pained expression not doing shit to relieve my worry.
“Yeah, just cramps.” She crosses her legs and lays a hand on her lower abdomen. “Worst. Period. Ever.”
Being an only child and having a terrible relationship with my mother, I put talk of girl issues high up on my don’t-go-there list of convos, but this is different. This is Axelle, so I swallow my discomfort.
“Right.” I reach into my backpack and pull out a bottle of Advil. I shake a couple out and hand them to her. “Here.”
She flashes a grateful, but strained, smile. “Thanks, but I don’t have—”
I push my water bottle into her hand.
She sighs and thanks me again before tossing the pills back. Her lips wrap around the bottle’s mouthpiece, and I have to look away. A sick part of me revels in the fact that I’ll be able to have her mouth on mine, even if only through the connection of the water bottle. Yeah, I’m f*cking pathetic. Four years of this shit and I still haven’t grown a pair big enough to confess my feelings for her.