Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
She shrugs playfully, and it’s chased by a slide of her teeth along her bottom lip. A thoroughly distracting move.
“I wonder,” she says, teasing me more with the possibility of her watching me play. A possibility that is lighting me up, that has electricity crackling under my skin. “By the way, do you have a new bruise from when you hit the boards?”
I grin. I guessed right. She watched me play. And this excites me. Because that is not roomie behavior. That’s the behavior of a girl who maybe wanted another night with me too.
I pluck at my shirt as I meet her midnight gaze. “You want to check?”
Her blue eyes flicker with heat as I up the ante. She matched me, then she raises me saying, “If you want to unbutton that shirt.”
Briefly, I think of Christian, my impromptu workout partner, my mentor. But thoughts of him evaporate as his sister’s eyes roam up and down my torso. What is with her tonight? I don’t know, but I’m not about to stop whatever this is. So I unbutton the shirt, letting it fall open so she can see my bare chest.
She steps closer, studying me through those glasses. Checking me out for a good, long time. “Yeah, you have a new bruise.”
“Shame,” I say, then lick my lips. “I know how much you hate those.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps her gaze locked on me as the air sizzles. Then sparks. “So much,” she says, then yawns. “Good night, Bryant.”
“Good night.”
She leaves and I watch her till the door to her bedroom closes, wishing I could leave this kitchen, march to her room, and knock hard on that white door.
Then tell her everything I want to do to her.
But I force myself to replay tonight. The moment on the bench. The moment in the locker room. The moment in the weight room. My team captain’s not in charge of his sister. He doesn’t get to make decisions about what she does or who she sees.
But I’m in charge of me, and I should not do a damn thing to create a single ripple effect across the team. I finish my acai bowl, go upstairs, and get in bed.
Counting down the clock till Thursday night.
19
YES, AND…
Josie
“I spent my lunch break reading up some more on improv classes. The kind of prompts they might give, how to approach them,” I say as I walk to the theater with Wesley a few days later, on Thursday night. I’m trying, I swear, I’m trying not to trudge there. But the pit of dread in my stomach is turning into a gaping maw the closer we get to the old theater in the heart of the Mission District where the Bay Area Banter Brigade hosts classes and shows.
“Of course you did,” Wesley says, his lips curving up. We turn the corner, passing a huge graffiti mural of animals riding bikes. It looks like something Maeve would paint, and she has painted similar works of art in other sections of the city. But even that can’t distract me from my dread.
It’s skyrocketing now that we’re a block away from the gates of my personal hell. “I even checked out a couple resources at the library on the history of improv, and I read some articles on the best improv teaching techniques,” I continue, narrowing in on all the data I’m storing in my head. If I can keep my focus on the homework I did, I’ll be fine. Just fine.
Wesley chuckles under his breath.
“What’s that for?”
“You. Doing research on improv,” he says, smirking now as he looks my way with more amusement than his light brown eyes should legally be allowed to hold.
But this is not amusing. Improv is not funny. “How else would I know what to expect in a class?”
He stops outside a convenience store peddling fruits and flowers in a display out front with a sign advertising Mexican baked goods inside. “Let me guess what they’ll say.” He taps his chin, then holds out a hand, like he’s an emcee, saying take it away. “You’re a team of astronauts who have just crash-landed on an uncharted planet inhabited by sentient alien beings who communicate through interpretive dance…and go!”
I shudder. “No! No one said anything about doing interpretive dance. We are not doing interpretive dance.”
Tilting his head, Wesley arches a brow. “We might be.”
I frown, then stab his chest. “Take it back. Take that horrid idea back right now.”
He grabs my hand and curls his bigger one around it. “Josie, you might have to do interpretive dance.” He lets go of my hand, then tips his forehead. “But I’ll be right there with you.”
Nope. I dig in. My feet are concrete. I refuse to move. I cross my arms. “I’m not doing it. I am never doing interpretive dance. Greta will understand.” I raise my face heavenward and say to the starlit sky, “Love you, Greta. But you know that’s a hard pass, right?” I listen for her answer, hoping it’ll come in the sound of a throaty-voiced laugh, then return my focus to Wesley. “She said she gets it. A hard pass is a hard pass.”