Screwdrivered
Page 25
Blonde. Boobs. Big boobs. Tall. Blonde. Big blonde with boobs. While I was contemplating his nuts, he’d been contemplating the size-four sweater on the size-six girl who had plastered herself to his side. Bursting with enthusiasm was the kindest way to describe her.
I tried to make a course correction, not easy when you’re midsaunter, and went right into the path of—
“This is getting just plain stupid, Clark,” I said, when I ran right into his elbow patch. He lowered his to-go box and glared at me—as well as he could, with two black eyes. Purple and gray bloomed on either side of his nose, hidden by a butterfly bandage and some tape. He was dressed a little less formally tonight, a T-shirt underneath his tweed jacket. Huh. Clark Casual.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, does it hurt a lot?” I asked, reaching up to—Wait, what the hell was I reaching up to do? Luckily, he dodged my hand.
“Please don’t touch, Vivian. One trip to the clinic is enough for one day, don’t you think?” He looked around. “What are you doing here?”
“Having dinner with some friends. You?”
“Just picking up some dinner myself,” he said, shuffling his dinner in his hands so he could push his glasses up on his nose. Which must have been habit, since he wasn’t wearing them. Due to his injury? He winced when he touched it, and almost dropped his pizza box. “I gotta go,” he muttered, and started for the door.
“Look, Clark. Stay. Let me buy you a drink. It’s the least I can do for breaking your nose.”
“In point of fact, it’s not actually broken. Just incredibly bruised,” he said.
I sighed. “Does it hurt?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Then drinks are on me. Come on,” I insisted, gently taking him by the elbow and steering him toward the table. Over his shoulder I glimpsed the cowboy and the boobs about to head out the front door. She was giggling. He was cocksure. He was also looking over his shoulder at me. And when he made eye contact, he grinned. Ass. And what a fine one it was . . .
Another missed opportunity. And I so rarely wore dresses. Ah, well.
“Everyone, this is Clark. Clark, this is everyone. Except you already know Jessica,” I announced, pulling an extra chair over to the table and plunking him down while taking my purse back from her. She raised an eyebrow as if to ask if I’d made any headway with the cowboy, and I shook my head.
“Clark! What happened to you?” Jessica exclaimed, whisking his pizza box out of his hands and depositing it on a neighboring table while she fussed over him. The people at the table said thank-you and started to open it up. I nabbed it right back and set it behind me.
“It’s fine, just a little accident. No big deal,” he said, catching my glance and now my questioning eyebrow. He shrugged, shaking hands all around and meeting everyone.
“It looks terrible, does it hurt?” Jessica asked, leaning over and raising her hand. Before I could tell her stop, and that he didn’t want anyone touching it, she softly touched his cheek, then patted him on the shoulder. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t tell her not to do it, he just let her.
So it was me he didn’t want touching him. Well, no big surprise there. After all, I was the one who’d socked him.
“It hurts some, but I’ve got some painkillers, so I’m all set,” he replied.
“Well, if you’ve got painkillers then let’s get you something soft to drink. I bet you drink Perrier, right, Clark?” I teased, waving over our waitress.
He rolled his eyes. “I live three blocks away, I think I’ll make it home okay.” Instead of Perrier he ordered, “Scotch. Water. Neat.”
My eyes widened. That was my drink. When the waitress asked if anyone else wanted another round, I told her I’d have the exact same thing. Clark shrugged out of his jacket and I got another glance of tanned arms. Not popping out of his T-shirt like a meathead, but muscular nonetheless. And speaking of his T-shirt, it was covered in letters and numbers. As I peered closer, I realized it was the—
“Drake equation! Nice to see a fellow math nerd,” Ryan exclaimed, reaching over for a fist bump. Looking cautious but pleased to be doing it, Clark fist bumped back. A tentative smile on his face, he appeared to relax a bit. As relaxed as someone with a butterfly bandage could be.
“What’s the Drake equation?” Caroline asked.
I said, “It’s an algebraic equation that calculates the possibility of not only the existence of alien life, but also postulates their ability to be radio-communicative.” I took a bite of my pizza. “Mmmm.”
I realized it was quiet at the table when I heard Clark let out a very small but still audible whimper. His nose must be hurting. I looked at the rest of the table, and saw all the girls smiling at me, while Ryan and Simon just looked impressed.
“What?” I asked. “I hate it when everyone assumes that because I have tits, I can’t recognize something as simple as the Drake equation.”
Did I enjoy changing people’s perceptions of me? Me, with the piercings and the tattoos? Yup. Did I hate that people made assumptions about me? Yup.
Just as I was about to share this little nugget of Viv insight with the table, Caroline jostled Clark while reaching for her purse just enough that he bumped into me, his face turning toward mine in apology.
His eyes met mine and I noticed that what I’d mistakenly thought were the same boring brown eyes as Tom, Dick, and Harry were instead the exact color of rich dark chocolate, flecked with gold and a hint of green. I’d never noticed them before, what with the dusty glasses and the lecturing me about the house.
Dark chocolate was supposed to be good for you, right?
But I didn’t want good for you. I wanted bad for you—a passionate tryst, feelings and desires and things that were dirty and naughty and taboo. I mean, except for that one thing that seemed to be so popular these days. No one, not even the cowboy, was getting anywhere near my—
“Back door?” Clark asked.
“Excuse me?” I spluttered, choking on my Scotch. How did he, wait, did I say—
“I left you a note on your back door, about coming by tomorrow. Are you all right?” he asked, as I continued to choke a bit. “You really shouldn’t order Scotch if you can’t handle it—but most people can’t drink it straight like this. Shall I get you some soda?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Just went down the wrong pipe, that’s all.” I grimaced, gulping down some water. “You left me a note?”
I tried to make a course correction, not easy when you’re midsaunter, and went right into the path of—
“This is getting just plain stupid, Clark,” I said, when I ran right into his elbow patch. He lowered his to-go box and glared at me—as well as he could, with two black eyes. Purple and gray bloomed on either side of his nose, hidden by a butterfly bandage and some tape. He was dressed a little less formally tonight, a T-shirt underneath his tweed jacket. Huh. Clark Casual.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, does it hurt a lot?” I asked, reaching up to—Wait, what the hell was I reaching up to do? Luckily, he dodged my hand.
“Please don’t touch, Vivian. One trip to the clinic is enough for one day, don’t you think?” He looked around. “What are you doing here?”
“Having dinner with some friends. You?”
“Just picking up some dinner myself,” he said, shuffling his dinner in his hands so he could push his glasses up on his nose. Which must have been habit, since he wasn’t wearing them. Due to his injury? He winced when he touched it, and almost dropped his pizza box. “I gotta go,” he muttered, and started for the door.
“Look, Clark. Stay. Let me buy you a drink. It’s the least I can do for breaking your nose.”
“In point of fact, it’s not actually broken. Just incredibly bruised,” he said.
I sighed. “Does it hurt?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Then drinks are on me. Come on,” I insisted, gently taking him by the elbow and steering him toward the table. Over his shoulder I glimpsed the cowboy and the boobs about to head out the front door. She was giggling. He was cocksure. He was also looking over his shoulder at me. And when he made eye contact, he grinned. Ass. And what a fine one it was . . .
Another missed opportunity. And I so rarely wore dresses. Ah, well.
“Everyone, this is Clark. Clark, this is everyone. Except you already know Jessica,” I announced, pulling an extra chair over to the table and plunking him down while taking my purse back from her. She raised an eyebrow as if to ask if I’d made any headway with the cowboy, and I shook my head.
“Clark! What happened to you?” Jessica exclaimed, whisking his pizza box out of his hands and depositing it on a neighboring table while she fussed over him. The people at the table said thank-you and started to open it up. I nabbed it right back and set it behind me.
“It’s fine, just a little accident. No big deal,” he said, catching my glance and now my questioning eyebrow. He shrugged, shaking hands all around and meeting everyone.
“It looks terrible, does it hurt?” Jessica asked, leaning over and raising her hand. Before I could tell her stop, and that he didn’t want anyone touching it, she softly touched his cheek, then patted him on the shoulder. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t tell her not to do it, he just let her.
So it was me he didn’t want touching him. Well, no big surprise there. After all, I was the one who’d socked him.
“It hurts some, but I’ve got some painkillers, so I’m all set,” he replied.
“Well, if you’ve got painkillers then let’s get you something soft to drink. I bet you drink Perrier, right, Clark?” I teased, waving over our waitress.
He rolled his eyes. “I live three blocks away, I think I’ll make it home okay.” Instead of Perrier he ordered, “Scotch. Water. Neat.”
My eyes widened. That was my drink. When the waitress asked if anyone else wanted another round, I told her I’d have the exact same thing. Clark shrugged out of his jacket and I got another glance of tanned arms. Not popping out of his T-shirt like a meathead, but muscular nonetheless. And speaking of his T-shirt, it was covered in letters and numbers. As I peered closer, I realized it was the—
“Drake equation! Nice to see a fellow math nerd,” Ryan exclaimed, reaching over for a fist bump. Looking cautious but pleased to be doing it, Clark fist bumped back. A tentative smile on his face, he appeared to relax a bit. As relaxed as someone with a butterfly bandage could be.
“What’s the Drake equation?” Caroline asked.
I said, “It’s an algebraic equation that calculates the possibility of not only the existence of alien life, but also postulates their ability to be radio-communicative.” I took a bite of my pizza. “Mmmm.”
I realized it was quiet at the table when I heard Clark let out a very small but still audible whimper. His nose must be hurting. I looked at the rest of the table, and saw all the girls smiling at me, while Ryan and Simon just looked impressed.
“What?” I asked. “I hate it when everyone assumes that because I have tits, I can’t recognize something as simple as the Drake equation.”
Did I enjoy changing people’s perceptions of me? Me, with the piercings and the tattoos? Yup. Did I hate that people made assumptions about me? Yup.
Just as I was about to share this little nugget of Viv insight with the table, Caroline jostled Clark while reaching for her purse just enough that he bumped into me, his face turning toward mine in apology.
His eyes met mine and I noticed that what I’d mistakenly thought were the same boring brown eyes as Tom, Dick, and Harry were instead the exact color of rich dark chocolate, flecked with gold and a hint of green. I’d never noticed them before, what with the dusty glasses and the lecturing me about the house.
Dark chocolate was supposed to be good for you, right?
But I didn’t want good for you. I wanted bad for you—a passionate tryst, feelings and desires and things that were dirty and naughty and taboo. I mean, except for that one thing that seemed to be so popular these days. No one, not even the cowboy, was getting anywhere near my—
“Back door?” Clark asked.
“Excuse me?” I spluttered, choking on my Scotch. How did he, wait, did I say—
“I left you a note on your back door, about coming by tomorrow. Are you all right?” he asked, as I continued to choke a bit. “You really shouldn’t order Scotch if you can’t handle it—but most people can’t drink it straight like this. Shall I get you some soda?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Just went down the wrong pipe, that’s all.” I grimaced, gulping down some water. “You left me a note?”
