toward his earlobe. His nose has been broken at least once. That he’s older, that he has this legendary history—it makes me wonder what else hides in his past. Or maybe that’s just me looking for shadows where there aren’t any.
“No offense,” he says, “but it looks like you’ve had a helluva time.”
“Could say that.”
“Just did.” He switches off the TV and sets the ramen aside. Once again, I’m the object of a guy’s unexpected attention. What is it with tonight? Whatever it is, I could bottle it and make millions. “So, spill it.”
“I played piano at Yamatam’s. I met the girl I’m supposed to mentor, and then I met her boyfriend.”
“Too bad.”
“Hm?”
“You sound disappointed that he and your mentor chick are a thing.” He ducks his head in an aw, shucks way. He’s got sweetly floppy black hair that adds softness to brown eyes that never seem to rest. He’s agitated.
Suddenly that makes me agitated. I used to watch the world that way. Then again, so do guys high on coke.
I’m being ridiculous. Brandon is just the night watch guy. He’s supposed to be on the alert, no matter the cartoons and soup. Plus, he’s tall and built and wears his T-shirt like it was modeled to fit his body alone. He’s just plain hot.
“It was a teensy disappointment,” I say, ducking my head a little. “But there won’t be any avoiding him. The girl, Adelaide, is really good. She’s like Justin Timberlake onstage. Owns it . And I played in public for the first time—well, the first place that wasn’t a recital or audition, you know? No profs or families or whatever.”
“Just half drunk college kids and rowdy townies who like what they like. Did they like you?”
“Yeah.”
He offers a mock salute with an approving nod. “Congrats.”
“Thanks.”
“But . . .” he says, prompting.
“That same guy followed me around all night.”
“I’m good at dealing with assholes who think they can do whatever they want.” We’ve been joking around, so the severity of his tone is a surprise. Total dissonance.
I push a hunk of hair behind my ear. Again I fight the urge to follow his eyes as he scans the faces coming and going through the residence hall foyer.
“It wasn’t like that, though,” I say, feeling the need to defend Jude. He certainly wasn’t some Heineken-swilling frat guy. “All night, it was like a bunch of dares. He sat next to me while she performed. He was the one who goaded me to play. The whole time he skirted this line between sexy stranger and lame player.”
Brandon shrugs. “Wish I knew where that line is. I’d stay way clear of the lame player side.”
I find myself toying with the spork sticking out of his pot o’ ramen. “You do just fine.”
“Does that put me on the really sexy side? I could get used to that.”
“Pushing it,” I say. “Because, really, soup in September?”
“Don’t knock it. I wouldn’t be working this desk if I had money for real food.” Again, he surprises me. There’s genuine bitterness behind his words, and that bitterness has turned his wide smile into something closer to what the Joker would show off. “I mean, who can afford Saltines? Too rich for my blood.”
I laugh, then chide myself for jumping at threats that aren’t there. My adrenaline is doing my thinking for me, and that means not thinking at all.
I hold the cup in both hands and push it toward him like an offering. “Then partake of this delicious yet frugal meal. I wouldn’t want your gruel to get cold.”
He snickers and takes it from me. Our fingers touch in a half dozen places, and he thanks me. “What’s your last name, Keeley? I mean, I could look it up in the resident roster, but . . .”
“Then you’re back to creepy guy territory.”
“Back to?”
I touch my hair again, feeling caught out. “It’s Chambers. Keeley Chambers. Your turn. Where are you from?”
“Pensacola. You?”
“Baton Rouge.”
Maybe I hesitate too
“No offense,” he says, “but it looks like you’ve had a helluva time.”
“Could say that.”
“Just did.” He switches off the TV and sets the ramen aside. Once again, I’m the object of a guy’s unexpected attention. What is it with tonight? Whatever it is, I could bottle it and make millions. “So, spill it.”
“I played piano at Yamatam’s. I met the girl I’m supposed to mentor, and then I met her boyfriend.”
“Too bad.”
“Hm?”
“You sound disappointed that he and your mentor chick are a thing.” He ducks his head in an aw, shucks way. He’s got sweetly floppy black hair that adds softness to brown eyes that never seem to rest. He’s agitated.
Suddenly that makes me agitated. I used to watch the world that way. Then again, so do guys high on coke.
I’m being ridiculous. Brandon is just the night watch guy. He’s supposed to be on the alert, no matter the cartoons and soup. Plus, he’s tall and built and wears his T-shirt like it was modeled to fit his body alone. He’s just plain hot.
“It was a teensy disappointment,” I say, ducking my head a little. “But there won’t be any avoiding him. The girl, Adelaide, is really good. She’s like Justin Timberlake onstage. Owns it . And I played in public for the first time—well, the first place that wasn’t a recital or audition, you know? No profs or families or whatever.”
“Just half drunk college kids and rowdy townies who like what they like. Did they like you?”
“Yeah.”
He offers a mock salute with an approving nod. “Congrats.”
“Thanks.”
“But . . .” he says, prompting.
“That same guy followed me around all night.”
“I’m good at dealing with assholes who think they can do whatever they want.” We’ve been joking around, so the severity of his tone is a surprise. Total dissonance.
I push a hunk of hair behind my ear. Again I fight the urge to follow his eyes as he scans the faces coming and going through the residence hall foyer.
“It wasn’t like that, though,” I say, feeling the need to defend Jude. He certainly wasn’t some Heineken-swilling frat guy. “All night, it was like a bunch of dares. He sat next to me while she performed. He was the one who goaded me to play. The whole time he skirted this line between sexy stranger and lame player.”
Brandon shrugs. “Wish I knew where that line is. I’d stay way clear of the lame player side.”
I find myself toying with the spork sticking out of his pot o’ ramen. “You do just fine.”
“Does that put me on the really sexy side? I could get used to that.”
“Pushing it,” I say. “Because, really, soup in September?”
“Don’t knock it. I wouldn’t be working this desk if I had money for real food.” Again, he surprises me. There’s genuine bitterness behind his words, and that bitterness has turned his wide smile into something closer to what the Joker would show off. “I mean, who can afford Saltines? Too rich for my blood.”
I laugh, then chide myself for jumping at threats that aren’t there. My adrenaline is doing my thinking for me, and that means not thinking at all.
I hold the cup in both hands and push it toward him like an offering. “Then partake of this delicious yet frugal meal. I wouldn’t want your gruel to get cold.”
He snickers and takes it from me. Our fingers touch in a half dozen places, and he thanks me. “What’s your last name, Keeley? I mean, I could look it up in the resident roster, but . . .”
“Then you’re back to creepy guy territory.”
“Back to?”
I touch my hair again, feeling caught out. “It’s Chambers. Keeley Chambers. Your turn. Where are you from?”
“Pensacola. You?”
“Baton Rouge.”
Maybe I hesitate too
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