The Jock and the Wallflower by Lisa Marie Davis Page A

a question, and anytime we were required to read an assignment out loud, I found myself captivated by Avery’s smooth voice and equally captivated by his undeniable (and damn sexy) talent with words.
    When it came to Avery, I had a serious crush/case of lust/desire to actually know more, but I didn’t fool myself. Avery Beckett hadn’t a clue who I was, he never would, and sadly, despite knowing that, I was willing to hang out at KPD’s alcohol-fueled, jock-infested party because I wanted a chance to ogle him from a distance.
    Oh yeah, I was a loser of the bona-fide variety and less than ten minutes after arriving, I was a loser flying solo. The moment Scarlett caught sight of Brent lingering on the other side of the overly crowded room, she left me with a kiss on the cheek and an order to have fun. “Mingle and hang out. Okay? You don’t have to drink. Just maybe drop your guard and you might have a pretty good time, darlin’.” She was off to flirt with Brent before I could respond to her advice, and watching her quickly disappear into the crowd of dancers and drinkers, I knew I wouldn’t see her again. Scarlett was on a mission: land Brent Logan. And me? I was a pitiful little fish out of water, and I really just wanted to go back to my dorm, where I should have remained in the first place, thank you very much. But I had promised Scarlett I would hang out for a least an hour, and I couldn’t break a promise I made to Scarlett, which meant I had an hour (fifty minutes!) to play Mr. Wallflower.
    Swallowing what little pride I had, I worked my way through the crowd, feeling more than a little nauseated by the rather pungent—and overpowering—stench of beer combined with other obviously cheap alcohol. It never failed. Just the smell of beer made me sick. It was a bitter reminder of a past I wanted to forget; a reminder of my father’s drunken rages and a sad reminder of my mother’s tragic inability to defend herself (and me) against verbal insults and flying fists that often left one of us in need of medical attention. Christ, would I ever forget? No, no, I knew there wasn’t any chance that I could or world forget my troubled childhood, but I wished I could escape the countless reminders. Especially now. College was supposedly a carefree time and let’s face it, a person couldn’t get through college without encountering drinkers. I shook my head as I finally found an unoccupied corner, where I leaned against the wall with a heavy sigh born from exhaustion and relief.
    I had maybe another forty minutes left before I could run for the hills (or the dorm room in my case), and I couldn’t wait.
    My eyes closed for a moment and I willed myself to relax. I struggled to ignore the smell, the sounds, the music that was unbearably loud; I could feel one hell of a headache on the horizon, and I prayed the minutes would pass damn quickly. Please God! I was starting to feel just a little claustrophobic standing there, and I cursed myself for it as the sound of loud laughter followed by a sudden squeak snapped my eyes open at the exact moment something icy cold splashed against my chest.
    The smell of beer assaulted my already hyperactive senses, and I jumped, unable to shrink away from the cold liquid that plastered my shirt to my chest.
    “Oh my God!” I looked up to see a girl standing in front of me, her eyes wide, a look of embarrassed horror on her face. “I’m sorry! I tripped and… God, I ruined your shirt….” She was on the verge of tears, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her and that had me forcing a smile as I tugged the soaked material away from my chest.
    “It’s fine. Really. It’s not a big deal.”
    “But your shirt….”
    “I was about to leave, so it’s fine. I swear. Don’t worry about it.”
    “Are you sure?” Her eyes were still wide and I nodded. “I really am sorry. I can pay for the dry cleaning.”
    “Believe me, that isn’t necessary.” I smiled at her again.