The charge of his gaze fixed on me zings through every nerve ending. Even though my limited vision and the bar’s dimlighting don’t allow me to see his face, I know his eyes are on me. The crackle in the inches between us confirms it. It hums in my ears like a siren song pulling me deeper into crush-drunk waters.
This is it!The way Miles leans close and how he keeps touching me telegraphs he’s feeling this as much as I am. Tonight I will transition from that “friend” he sometimes kisses to the woman who will, perhaps, invite him home with her. It’s been a while since I’ve had sex, but thanks to my erotic audios and the spicier books I read, I know more than just the general mechanics.
“We’ve not yet discussed your audio porn fetish. It’s almost too much to know someone as sweet as you may be a depraved little vixen.” He runs his fingertip up my bare arm.
Yep, this is happening.Fuck Garrett and his sanctimonious judgment that I’m pathetic. Men like Miles Calloway, with an entireRedditthread on the university about him being the hottest professor on campus, don’t flirt withpatheticwomen.
“I’m notthatsweet,” I say, lifting my glass to my lips and taking a long, slow drink in an impression of someone cool and aloof.
It’s all bluster. Internally, I am freaking out. In practice, I am as sweet as he teases, but in theory, I am depraved in the ways I’d let this man ruin me. Need prickles beneath my skin in anticipation of my daydreams becoming real. Since I took his arm, leaving behind Anker and Garrett before they headed out, Miles’s flirtation has amped up.
“Perhaps you should educate me then?” His fingers draw slow circles against my bicep.
“I…” The breath whooshes out of me.
As much as I’m channeling this temptress persona, I’m out of my depth. Even the preamble to our two tipsy make-out sessions didn’t ooze with this sexual chemistry. Not to mention, Miles is clear-headed. The scotch he nurses is technically his second anda half, since most of his second one currently lives on my nearly dry skirt.
“Calloway says you’re off to New York tomorrow,” Edward says, the ice of his drink clinking as he gestures with his glass. “I love the city in the fall. Are you going for business or pleasure?”
“Pleasure. I’ll be in town for the marathon,” I say, picking up my soda glass.
“You’rerunning the marathon?” He releases an incredulous laugh.
“Is that so unbelievable?” I tilt my head towards where he sits beside me.
“It’s not. It’s just… You’re… Umm…” he coughs and shifts in his seat, “…How does a blind person… Uh… Do you do it with a cane?”
Despite the annoyance now festering beneath my skin, I know he’s not trying to be rude. It’s clear he just doesn’t know. Most people don’t, unless they’re in community with disabled people, or every four years when the Paralympics are held. Then it seems like everyone is suddenly an expert on adaptive sports.
“Jenny’s brother is running the race, not her.” Miles loops his arm around my shoulder. “Our Jenny is more the Broadway show kind of athlete.”
“Oh. That makes more sense,” Edward says. “Wait… How doyoudo Broadway?”
Okay, maybe he is being rude. I narrow my gaze at him. No wonder Catherine complains about this guy and his insistence that good literature hasn’t been published since the seventeenth century.
“Here’s where the riffraff jetted off to,” a woman says, pulling the table’s attention towards her. Her posh English accent is shaded with playfulness. “You cads deserted me at a pageant for the dullest professor masquerading as a department mixer.”
“It’s every professor for themselves at those things,” Miles says, turning away from me and toward the voice.
Situations like this are always awkward. Non-visually impaired folks can follow who’s talking and recognize familiar faces. If I’ve not been around someone enough to imprint their voice into my auditory memory, I tend to be at a loss. Right now, I have no idea whose talking and what’s happening. Smiling, I sip my soda as the ping-pong conversation of familiar and unknown voices bounces around me.
“Where are my manners? Apologies. We’ve not met. Kayla O’Leary.”
The beat of silence at the table is interrupted by Miles clearing his throat. “This is Jenny… Jensen Larsen.”
“Sorry.” I cringe. “I didn’t realize you were addressing me.”
“Sorry… She’s blind,” Miles says.
Heat crawls up my neck. I’m not sure if he’s apologizing to Kayla, to me, or about me. Most of the time when we’ve hung out in a group setting Catherine, Anker, or Garrett are present, and can clue me in on the people landscape. This is the first time he’s witnessed this fun blind girl party trick.
I let out a nervous laugh. “I’m blind…. Technically, legally blind. It’s like permanent beer goggles… Minus the beer.”
“Ha! Funny…” She chuckles. “I was worried I’d failed you or something.”
“Jensen isn’t a student. She works for the disability office on campus,” Miles explains.
“She does look young enough to be a coed. Look at that baby face. You’ll have to share your secret with me.”
