Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) (61 page)

I choke on a laugh, unsure how to react to that. “Were you expecting a swamp creature?”

“He said you’re from New York City,” Brant goes on, a hint of uncertainty in his voice, “so I kinda presumed you’d be, like … I dunno. Rough-looking? Edgy? Nose-ring and purple hair and kinda rude?”

“Is that what you think everyone from New York City’s like?”

“I’ve lived here my whole life, born and raised,” he explains, a twinge of southern accent playing in his words. “I don’t get out much. You can just tell me to shoo at any moment, seriously, and I’ll just go and bury my head in an ice bin or something.”

“Good thing I came down here to Texas,” I say, toying with him right back. “I totally thought you all ride horses to the supermarket, dodge tumbleweeds on the highway, and wear spurs to your best friend’s wedding.”

“Wedding? Oh, no. Clayton’s never marrying,” he says with a hearty guffaw. “That dude’s been …”

And then as quickly as the joke occurred to him, it dies on his tongue, his eyes glossing over. I wonder for a moment what he was about to say, then find myself staring down at his shoes awkwardly, struggling to give Clayton the benefit of the doubt and assume that his “best friend” Brant here wasn’t about to spill some magic beans I might want to be privy to, if I had any interest in pursuing Clayton seriously.

Which I don’t. I’m here to hang out. That’s it.

“Let me get you a drink,” he says suddenly. “What do you drink, Dessie? I’ll get it for you. On the house. I know people. Just name it, they got everything.”

I smile mutedly. “Tea?”

He frowns. “Except that.”

“Water, then.”

“I mean a
real
drink. The bartender who’s working tonight, mmm, she makes a mean martini.”

“Just a water.”

He studies me for a second. “You don’t drink?”

I fondly recall the hangover I enjoyed last weekend after my night at the
Throng & Song
. “No.”

Brant nods, appraising me with smiling eyes. “I think I like you. I hope Clayton keeps you around.”

I fight one of my stubborn blushes that’s coming on. “We’re just friends,” I insist, checking my phone again. Thirty-five minutes late.
What the hell, Clayton?

“Well, hey, why don’t you come over to our lane?” He beckons me with a wave of his hand as he backs away. “Dmitri and I are hanging out. Oh, you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Dmitri, Clayton’s
least
favorite roommate. He isn’t drinking tonight, either. His major is poetry and general arty-fartiness, so you two will get along just fine.”

Figuring it to be safe, I give a mild shrug and follow him into the noise. The bowling alley is packed tonight with people of all ages, from families with children to college students. Even a pair of elderly couples occupy lane fifteen.

It’s lane twenty near the wall where the guys are set up. Dmitri rises from his seat, a short, chalky-skinned guy with black spiky hair and thick glasses that remind me so much of Sam’s, I’d think I was staring at her if it weren’t for the blue and red tattoo running up his arm. He wears a black tank top and dark grey shorts that cut-off just below the knee.

“This is the one,” Brant says in half a whisper to Dmitri, though I hear it perfectly.

They lean into each other. “What one?”

“The girl.”

“Clayton’s?”

“Yup.”

Dmitri pulls away from his friend and shoves his hands in his pockets, facing me. He even smiles the same as Sam, his lips flat-lining. “Hi. I’m Dmitri.”

“Dessie,” I return.

Brant sighs. “Oh, hell. The fuckers are here.”

Dmitri squints through his glasses. “The who?”

“My dipshit opponents from Sigma Phi Dildo,” he answers, “whose asses I’m gonna whip into Saturday.”

“It
is
Saturday.”

“Sunday, then. I’ll get your water, Dessie,” he tells me suddenly, then hops away through the crowd.

The benches opposite us are quickly filled by the loud frat boys I saw in the arcade. Two of them give me a more-than-obvious once-over. I turn away, not appreciating the attention and growing more and more annoyed by the second at Clayton’s absence.

“You okay?”

I look up at Dmitri. “I’m just wondering where Clayton is, to be honest.”

“I could text him,” he offers, pulling a phone out of his pocket. “Not like him to be late to anything.”

“Thanks.” In stark contrast to Brant, he has no southern drawl at all. “You’re a poetry major?”

“That damn Brant! I’m a
creative
writing
major.”

“Oh, okay.”

“And I’ve probably told him twenty or thirty times and he just blanks out. Poor guy can’t process a damn thing past his wiener, I swear.”

I laugh, then cross my arms and glance at the frat boys who’ve occupied the other half of our lane. There is at least ten of them, but only four seem to be changing their shoes. I wonder for a moment who else is on Brant’s team, as the only other one who seems to be here is Dmitri. Isn’t this supposed to be some kind of tournament or something?

“It all goes down at nine,” Dmitri explains to me.

I nod. “And Brant’s team is … where?”

“Who knows. I’m only here to support him. Oh, I forgot about Clayton. All that about Brant calling me a poetry major got me distracted.” He starts typing into his phone. “Clay … ton … exclamation point … Where … the … hell … are … you … question mark,” he narrates as he types. “And
send
. There we go. I bet he’ll walk right through the door any second.”

CLAYTON

It all starts at the corner store.

I go to pick up some drinks and a couple other things we’re out of. I don’t want to be presumptuous or assume I’m bringing Dessie back to our place, but just in case we
do
hit it off, I want our apartment to be in a good state and adequately … equipped.

When I get up to the counter, the clerk asks me a question. I don’t catch it, leaning forward to read his lips better. He asks it again, then points at my pile of stuff. Is he asking for my ID? I pull out my wallet and show it to him. The clerk rolls his eyes, then asks me the same damn question.
I don’t know what the fuck he’s asking.
I point to my ears and shake my head; usually that gives them the message.

And that’s when the asshole behind me taps my shoulder with more aggression than you give a person you don’t know.

I turn, annoyed. It’s some chunky dude in a polo, the russet skin of his face wrinkling as he glares at me under a mess of sandy-brown hair. He’s got two buddies with him, each carrying a six-pack. This kid spits a question of his own at me.

And I read his lips perfectly:
“You deaf??”

No, he’s not actually asking me. He’s just being a little prick. I turn back to the clerk, ignoring the kid, then pull out my phone to type to the clerk, figuring it the best way to communicate.

The fucker behind me disagrees, grabbing my arm and spinning me around. His face crushed into a scowl, he waves his hands at my phone and spits more words and curses at me. I’m guessing he thinks that I am actually texting some buddy of mine and holding up the line deliberately.

I show my screen to the clerk while glaring at this dude, a second away from pushing a fist through his fucking face. Then, I return my attention to the clerk, whose attitude seems to have changed now that he knows I’m
actually
deaf. Whatever he was concerned with, he seems to not care anymore, ringing up and bagging the items. I pay for the goods, then swipe the bag off the counter.

And on my way out of the store, I push open the door with my back, facing the fucker that was behind me, and give him the finger.

People can be such pricks. Some don’t want to see the truth that’s right before their eyes; they’d rather see their own truths and live in a world full of things that agree with their own beliefs. No one wants a challenge. No one wants to learn anymore. Once they graduate school, they act like all their learning’s over with and, for the rest of their lives, the world has to bend to their limited understanding of it.

The worst part is, I wonder if I would be just as much of a prick as that dude behind me in line was … had I not lost my hearing. I wasn’t a good person as a snotty, fuck-head twelve-year-old. I was selfish. I was greedy. I was dishonest. I had no honor, no sense of justice, and little compassion for others.

And maybe, just maybe if I hadn’t lost my hearing and spent my high school years enjoying a lesson in humility, maybe
I’d
be the prick behind someone in line who says, “Hey, dipshit, you deaf?”

Hey, dipshit, you deaf?

Can you hear me?

Listen up, dumbass.

The fuck is wrong with you?

I don’t make it halfway home before something blunt and impolite clubs me over the head.

I stumble, the ground turning uneven suddenly and my feet becoming unsure of where to be placed. I turn too slow and watch the bony knuckles of some mystery attacker as they rush forth to marry and divorce my left cheekbone in one clumsy swing.

The pavement is next to meet my face. No matter how many times I blink, I keep seeing stars. It’s no joke; when you get hit in the face that hard, all you see is a fucking solar system, and somewhere through that mess of twisted galaxies and unnamed planets, you get flashes of the street you’re kissing, barely lit by a setting sun and an unhelpful streetlamp nearby.

I turn onto my back and lift my hands, expecting something else to hit me. When nothing does, I blink twenty more times until I realize there’s no one there.

I sit up and turn, catching sight of three figures as they disappear down the street.

Three to one? Hitting me from behind? What a dick move.

Furious suddenly, I scramble to my feet and shout after them, tearing down the road and determined to put my fist through each of their skulls.

But my left leg gives, a wicked cramp working its way into my hip joint, and I tumble over, collapsing and allowing the road itself to punch me yet again. When I try to rise, a whole new family of pain makes a home in my leg.

I shout out, cussing at the dumb fucks. I shout so loud I feel spit on my chin.

All of this shouting. All of this silence.

After some time, my skull reminds itself that I was bashed in the head a few times. Pain lances through my brain, somehow stinging my eyes. I bring a few fingers to my cheek, then pull them back.
Blood
. The fuckers split my cheek open with one lucky hit. He must’ve been wearing a ring or something.

I take a deep breath and get back to my feet. With a slight limp, I make my way back to the bags I’d abandoned at the spot I was attacked. One of them is toppled, the one with the drinks. Something clearly broke, a stream of dark liquid drawing itself across the pavement like long creepy fingers.

Fucking great.

I’m so pissed. And the more pissed I get, the more my cheek throbs, as if punishing me for my anger. I suck in air, then blow it all out, ignoring the ache that washes over my face.

I take home whatever I can salvage from the bags, the fuckers dripping the whole way. I’m fuming about the incident, refusing to feel sorry for myself or see myself as some victim.
Fuck that
. I keep picturing that prick from the store.
“Are you deaf??”
Even though I didn’t get a clear look at any of them, I know it was him and his buddies who attacked me.

They better hope they don’t go to Klangburg. If I ever see them on campus, the end of my fist will be the last glorious sight they enjoy before I blind them.

I check myself in the mirror before I leave the apartment, then let out a healthy “Fuck!” as I survey the damage. I wet a washcloth and run it over my face, caring for the wound on my cheek, which is just an inch below my eye. If the fucker hit me just a touch higher,
I’d
have been blinded. I wonder suddenly if I have a concussion. To be honest, I can’t say whether it was fist or weapon that hit me first.