Page 74 of Palm South University: Season 3
“You’re sweet.” I watch him for a moment, waiting for him to make some excuse to walk away. “Guess now that you know I have a boyfriend, in your mind I’ve practically sprouted three heads and a dick now, huh?”
He chokes on a laugh, that damn dimple making an appearance again. “Not at all. I was actually going to ask if you would still be okay with a little company tonight. You can talk to me about him, if you want,” he offers with a shrug. “Or, I can talk your ear off with turtle facts.”
This time it’s me who nearly chokes. “I’m sorry?”
“Biology major,” he answers. “I’m doing a marine mammal and sea turtle rescue internship next summer, so I’ve been studying, upping my turtle game.”
I laugh, finally feeling marginally better and oddly thankful that Greg wandered into Ralph’s tonight. “Okay, you have my attention. Hit me with a turtle fact.”
And, so he does. For the rest of the night, we make easy conversation, first with his hilarious but fascinating knowledge of sea turtles and eventually we end up talking about our families, our majors, our love for pizza, our favorite songs and movies. I lose count of how many drinks we both have as well as how many laughs we share. All I know is that it feels good to sit in a bar with an attractive boy who can’t stop staring at me but is respectful enough not to make any moves since I have a boyfriend. It’s refreshing, and maybe some attention was all I needed, after all.
A loud commotion breaks the spell Greg has me under somewhere around midnight. We eye each other cautiously before abandoning our drinks at the bar and rushing outside. Landon is cursing and screaming, his buddies all gathered around him trying to calm him down. When Greg and I step around the first row of cars in the parking lot, we see why.
“Oh, my God.” I cover my mouth, trying to hide my smile and fight down the laugh I feel coming on.
“WHOEVER DID THIS IS DEAD, DO YOU HEAR ME?!” Landon screams, grabbing his friend’s beer bottle and hurling it across the parking lot. It hits the brick wall of Ralph’s and shatters, splinters of glass raining down on the sidewalk like a parade in his honor. “DEAD.”
“I wish I would have grabbed my phone off the bar,” I say to Greg, eyes wandering over Landon’s car. “I so need a picture of this.”
“Something tells me you’ll see one on social media in about two minutes,” he says, nodding to the group of girls who were playing pool earlier. They all have their phones out, giggling and snapping pictures before Landon sees them and roars for them to put their phones away. I can’t blame him for being mad, but even more than that, I want to know the genius behind the prank.
His entire car is covered in dildos.
And not just any kind of dildo — tiny, micro-penis dildos, all Saran Wrapped to his hood, his doors, the roof, the windows. It’s impossible to even get inside the car without breaking through the cellophane first, and thus breaking loose at least a hundred tiny, rubber dicks. The tires are shredded, the windshield busted, and nearly all the paint has been keyed up. And to top it all off? There’s a message, loud and clear, written in bright red paint on the hood.
Now the outside matches the inside. Go fuck yourself.
I’m still laughing when the police show up and Greg and I dip back inside Ralph’s, finding our place back at the bar and slipping easily back into the conversation we were holding before. The night is turning out to be much better than it started.
“We should take a picture,” he says about an hour after the dildo commotion, smacking his palms on the bar. “To commemorate one of the best Thanksgivings I’ve had in a long time.”
I chuckle. “A Turkey Day selfie, huh?”
“Absolutely.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, flipping the camera to face us before reaching down and grabbing the edge of my barstool. He pulls me closer to him, hand finding the small of my back as he holds the phone up. “Say turtle.”
I laugh, and he snaps the picture with my hand on his chest, my eyes staring up at him, mid-laugh. His smile is wide and lazy, both of us clearly a little intoxicated, but as we both look the picture over, I can’t help but think we look cute together.
“Are you allowed to be here?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I was going to post it,” he says, nodding toward the picture. My barstool is still touching his, our bodies brushing. “Can I tag you?”
It’s funny, how the exact thing I was going to do — the mission I had been on — ended up happening even after I’d dropped the notion. I had my goal set on coming in here and finding some poor sap to use to make Jarrett jealous, but I’d gotten so caught up just having fun with Greg, I’d dropped the initial thought.
Frowning, I realize I haven’t checked my phone in a while, and I turn, grabbing it off the bar and clicking the home screen.
No missed texts.
No missed calls.
My heart sinking, I drop the phone back to the bar with a sigh, turning back to Greg with what I’m sure is a pathetic smile. “You know what? Tag me.”
“You sure?” he asks, eyeing my phone before finding my gaze again.
“Positive.”
He watches me a moment more, his eyes flicking to my lips, but he swallows and tears his gaze away and back to his phone. I watch him type out a caption, draining the last of my vodka tonic as the loading bar fills on his phone, and then the screen re-loads and he grins.
“Posted.”