Good Guy

Part Eleven

He's holding my hand! He's holding my freaking hand! Cleo mentally panicked as she allowed Scotch to lead her behind the school. She had no idea where they were going, or even if it was safe to go where they were going, but her brain was too busy frying to contemplate this. They came to the back of the university, an isolated jungle of buildings still under renovation. It was always nearly deserted after school let out, and Cleo wouldn't have allowed herself to go if she were with somebody other than Scotch. But it didn't mean that she'd let Scotch do anything to her or with her.

Yep. Uhuh, the little uncooked part of her brain agreed sarcastically. You're letting the guy hold your hand.

Keep quiet and fry already! the scorched side of her brain commanded. It's not like he's a stranger or anything. He does his laundry with my washing machine, for Pete's sake! And gives me his leftover pizza, and gets me to school, and...

"Wow." Cleo's thoughts tapered as they reached the very back of the renovations lot and came upon a single-story building. Cemented steps nearly overrun with creeping vines and unswept leaves led to five adjacent classrooms, all open in front. The walls needed TLC and a fresh coat of green paint. The wide windows were missing a few panes here and there. It was like finding a magical, hidden dimension within the school. "What is this place? I didn't even know this was here."

"This is where they hold the summer classes," Scotch said, dropping her hand and going up the steps. Cleo's little fangirl heart wailed in protest. But it wasn't like she could do anything, especially when he was busy holding the door open for her. "The dressmaking ones, to be exact."

"Scotch?" a voice called out from behind a free-standing cabinet, before Cleo could really take a look around after stepping into the room. "Scotch Wilkins? Is that you, Man?"

The voice was nasally and accented, and brought a mischievous smile to Scotch's face. "No, it ain't! It's your mother!"

Cleo gaped as a student emerged from behind the rolling cabinet, wearing a dark grey button-up and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. The shirt was only buttoned half-way, as if imitating the disco style of the seventies, and a tape measure, tucked beneath the collar, draped over his shoulders. He was wiry for his height, which wasn't even all that tall.

"Scotch, my man!" the student greeted, quick to offer a high five. "What's up, Dude? Who's this little bunny?"

"Cleo Hilard," she said. Scotch's friend seemed nice enough. She could tell by his clothes, fake accent and comedic gangsta vibe that he was quite the eccentric. But as always, who was she to judge? So long as he was nice to Scotch and not hiding a body in that cabinet of his, then she'd make the effort to get along.

"Ken Morrison, but you can call me Mo." Ken eyed her from head to toe, but not in the 'undressing with my eyeballs' kind of way. It was more like a 'let's see what I have to work with' way. Cleo suddenly felt like a window mannequin. "Are you volunteering for the fashion show? Signing up for classes this early in the year?"

"We're here to take you up on that favor you owe me, Mo," Scotch cut in, saving Cleo from confessing that she had no clue why she was there and it was all Scotch's idea. "She needs a dress for the acquaintance party. You have a few lying around, don't you?"

'Dress' and 'party' seemed to be the right words, for Mo's reaction was to jerk his head Scotch's way, then jerk it back to her, then back to Scotch, and again to her. It was like watching somebody trying to catch up to a ping-pong match. Comical as it was, Cleo couldn't help but feel embarrassed.

She didn't know just what Mo thought about one of his friends bringing a girl over and practically demanding that he dress her. Then the sly grin that suddenly sneaked onto Mo's lips answered that question. 'Embarrassed' turned into 'mortified' when it became obvious that Mo thought something more was going on, which it definitely was not. "Say no more, I've got you covered."