“Just came in, waiting at the counter.”
I risk a look. Black hair. Torn clothes. Total skater. Damn, those chicks are hard-core. I slap my hand against the table and our trays shift.
Why? Why did Skater Girl have to wander into Taco Bell tonight?
Chris’s rough chuckles do nothing to help my growing agitation. “Admit defeat and you won’t have to suffer.”
“No way.” I stand, refusing to go down
without a fight.
All girls are the same. It’s what I tell myself as I stroll to the counter. She might look different from the girls at home, but all girls want the same thing—a guy who shows HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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interest. A guy’s problem is having the balls to do it. Good thing for me I’ve got balls. “Hi.
I’m Ryan.”
Her long black hair hides her face, but her slim body with a hint of curves catches my attention. Unlike the girls at home, she isn’t wearing marked-down designer labels. Nope.
She has her own style. Her black tank top shows more skin than it covers and her skintight jeans hug all the right places. My eyes linger on a single rip in them, directly below her ass.
She leans over the counter and the rip
widens. Skater Girl turns her head toward me and the drive-thru. “Is someone going to take my fucking order?”
Chris’s laughter from our corner table jerks me back to reality. I pull off my baseball cap, mess my hand through my hair, and shove the hat back in place. Why her? Why tonight? But there’s a dare and I’m going to win. “Counter’s a little slow tonight.”
She glares at me like I’m a little slow. “Are you speaking to me?”
Her hard stare dares me to glance away, and a lesser guy would. I’m not lesser. Keep HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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staring, Skater Girl. You don’t scare me. I’m drawn to her eyes though. They’re blue. Dark blue. I never would have thought someone with such black hair could have those brilliant eyes.
“I asked you a question.” She rests a hip against the counter and crosses her arms over her chest. “Or are you as stupid as you look?”
Yep, pure punk: attitude, nose ring, and a sneer that can kill on sight. She’s not my type, but she doesn’t have to be. I just need her number. “You’d probably get better service if you watched your language.”
A hint of amusement touches her lips and
dances in her eyes. Not the kind of amusement you laugh with. It’s the taunting kind. “Does my language bother you?”
Yes. “No.” Girls don’t use fuck. Or they shouldn’t. I don’t care for the word, but I know when I’m being tested and this is a test.
“So my language doesn’t bother you, but
you say—” she raises her voice and leans over the counter again “—I could get some fucking service if I watched my language.”
Wouldn’t hurt. Time to switch tactics. “What do you want?”
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Her head snaps up as if she had forgotten I was there. “What?”
“To eat. What do you want to eat?”
“Fish. What do you think I want? I’m at a taco joint.”
Chris laughs again and this time Logan joins in. If I don’t salvage this, I’ll be listening to their ridicule the entire way home. This time I lean over the counter and wave at the girl working the drive-thru. I give her a smile. She smiles back. Take lessons, Skater Girl. This is how it’s supposed to work. “Can I have a minute?”
Drive-Thru Chick’s face brightens and she holds up a finger as she continues with the order from outside. “Be right there. Promise.”
I turn back to Skater Girl, but instead of the warm thank-you I should be receiving she shakes her head, clearly annoyed. “Jocks.”
My smile falters. Hers grows.
“How do you know I’m a jock?”
Her eyes wander to my chest and I fight a grimace. Written in black letters across my gray shirt is Bullitt County High School, Baseball State Champions.
“So you are stupid,” she says.
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I’m done. I take one step in the direction of the table, then stop. I don’t lose. “What’s your name?”
“What do I have to do to make you leave me alone?”
And there it is—my opening. “Give me your phone number.”
The right side of her mouth quirks up.
“You’re fucking kidding.”
“I’m dead serious. Give me your name and
phone number and I’ll walk away.”
“You must be brain damaged.”
“Welcome to Taco Bell. Can I take your
order?”
We both look at Drive-Thru Chick. She
beams at me, then cowers from Skater Girl.
With her lids cast down, she asks again, “What can I get you?”
I pull out my wallet and slam ten dollars on the counter. “Tacos.”
“And a Coke,” Skater Girl says. “Large.
Since he’s paying.”
“Oookaay.” Drive-Thru Chick enters the
order, slides the money off the counter, and returns to the order window.
We stare at each other. I swear, this girl HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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never blinks.
“I believe a thank-you is in order,” I say.
“I never asked you to pay.”