to love or lust [mike schmidt AU]

ii.

ii.

[fumble]

          she know your number
                  she know your game
                            she put you under
                                            it's so insane

blood on the dance floor — michael jackson

| "Maybe it's because I'm pretty." |

MIKE.

It's like every ounce of anger that's in my body when I see her, surfaces above the slight alcoholic buzz I feel. My fury for her sobers me up in an instant. I have never confronted her for her constant complaints, and it's about time I do it—whether I am out here for a bet or not. She will hear every word that I have to say. I am sick and tired of her attitude, her constant complaining, and perhaps it's time I say something. I have fire on my tongue, ready to spew a string of colorful words to paint the picture of my pains I've had since she's moved in almost a year ago. But I have a bet to think about, one that my friends will have me follow through with. I have to get rid of the scowl I have on my face before we engage in any sort of conversation. I attempt a half-smile in hopes I look approachable and worth a civilized conversation, but my pursed lips and furrowed brows give away my clear disdain.

This may just be the first bet I lose. But I'll be damned if I don't try.

Sol, who's busy finding her keys in her beige tote bag, has the back of her head full of jet-black curls facing me. I have to get her attention somehow. And it's quite awkward, the air tense and thick, because I know that she knows I'm there, standing behind her at my door like an idiot. I haven't even moved a muscle or made any sort of noise. It's not until my friends, who're no doubt crowding around the door and looking through my peephole to watch this all go down, hiss at me to speak up until it's too late.

I ball my fists.

"Hey."

It doesn't even sound like I tried to be nice. I sound like I'm scolding the girl with my greeting. My friends are behind my door, groaning and complaining for me to be nicer and less hostile.

Sol pulls her keys out of her bag, then drops her hands to her sides. She's heard me. Her shoulders visibly drop.

I stand there and wait for the inevitable glare I'll be met with. And, before I do, I steal a glance at her ass (something I'd much rather face than her signature scowl)... and damn. The guys weren't kidding when they said she was wearing the shortest shorts imaginable. I lift my gaze quickly once she turns to face me.

That's when I notice the second thing the guys mentioned to me prior to seeing her—her lack of a bra underneath her gray cropped tee. Jesus.

"What." she says, while giving me a once-over. Her response, neither a question nor a polite response to my greeting, sounds less like a question, but more like a demand of sorts. She's unamused, straight-faced, and bored; everything about me makes her glare deepen. Those perfectly painted brows knit closer together when I struggle to respond. I'm surprised she's stuck around this long for me to speak. This might just be the longest stare-off we've had. And I don't think I'm winning.