Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky and find a sexy Star Wars quoting hookup of my own.
11
QUINN
Just hangout at the bar, he said.It’ll be fine, he said.
Thirty minutes and a shot of something red and fruity proves this was a lie. I’m wedged in between a couple of squealing woo girls who are guzzling margs like it’s last call and a guy in a Wildcats tee who hasn’t looked my way once. Scratch that. He asked me to pass him a napkin when one of his buddies tapped his beer bottle, creating a foam eruption to rival Mt. Vesuvius.
Who says college guys aren’t mature, amirite?
I sip my beer and roll my shoulders. Maybe frat boy gave me bad advice. After all, if he’s a closet nerd like me, he probably doesn’t have the first clue how to pick up a stranger in a bar.
For all I know, I could be taking advice from another woefully inept virgin.
But, no. He seemed... confident.
Doesn’t everyone behind the anonymity of a screen?
Whatever. Might as well order one more drink before calling it a night.
I haven’t seen Haley and Bryan since they disappeared on the dance floor, and chilling at the bar is losing its appeal. You know, since I have no one to talk to and probably look like the biggest loser on campus.
Make the first move. It’s the freaking twenty-first century!
I can practically hear Haley shouting the words at me, drowning out the loud bass from the overhead speakers.
God, I wish it was that easy. But after the disaster at Sig Chi, I’m not sure I’ve got the lady balls to make the first move again.
I signal the bartender, and he lifts his chin in acknowledgement. Judging by the number of shot glasses lined up before him, it’s going to be a minute, so I turn to watch the crowd.
On the far side of the bar, there’s a girl dancing on a table and I give her mental props because if I tried that crap, there’s zero doubt I’d face-plant on the hardwood floor and destroy years of orthodontic work.
Some people have all the luck.
You’ve got plenty of luck, Quinntastrophe. It’s just all bad.
Aaaand... now Noah’s in my head too.
Great. It’s just a matter of time until he and Hales get into the whole good angel-bad angel shtick and I’m left with a raging migraine.
Hard pass.
I shut out their voices—this ismynight, dammit—and focus on the plan.
Step one: Meet a cute guy.
Step two: Invite him back to my place.
Step three: Seduce the hell out of him and kiss my virginity goodbye.
My gaze skates over the crowd, landing on a familiar face with messy black hair, tortoiseshell glasses, and the kind of shy smile that invites deep conversation. Hope surges through me and when our eyes meet, I see the instant recognition hits him. His lips flatten and his hands go immediately to his groin, like he’s worried just the sight of me might cause irreparable harm to his cock.
He melts into the crowd without a backward glance.
So much for second chances.
“Try shaving your balls next time,” I grumble, flashbacks of the world’s biggest man-bush assaulting my brain.
