Two

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The cracked leather seats of my twenty-year-old Suburban are blistering, a result of all-day exposure to the Texas sun. The skin that peeks out from under my practice gear—which is more than what is actually covered—sizzles at the contact, but I welcome the feeling. It's better than feeling nothing, I conclude, so even pain has become a welcome part of my life.

I rest my head against the headrest and allow my eyes to drift closed, my face to relax, my body to deflate against the seat. Keeping up a certain appearance is hard work, but it's the only option, and because of that I'm more than willing to put in the work.

After a few soothing breaths I slide my key into the ignition and turn and....

Nothing.

With a groan I rotate the key back toward me, then crank it forward once more. This time I hear a click, but then more silence.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" I shout, thankful my voice is trapped within the confines of my vehicle.

Over and over I twist the key, hoping to hear the engine turn over, but it never does, and as I bang my palms against the faded steering wheel I let out a primal cry of anguish.

"Why me?" I cry, my voice breaking under the strain. Tears don't escape my eyes, though at a time like this I almost wish they would, but I cried all the tears I had all those years ago, and I haven't shed a single one since.

"Fucking fuck!" I scream, lifting my eyes to scan the parking lot around me. I must've sat with my eyes closed for longer than I thought because only a few cars remain, none of them any I recognize as belonging to my teammates.

Not that I would likely ask any of them for a ride—the less they know about me the better.

I could walk, but that would take hours, and my body is spent from the three grueling hours of practice I just went through. The bus is always an option, a shitty option, but it would do—though I know the next one won't come by here until well after dark.

I curse myself under my breath for deciding to move to off-campus student housing instead of staying in the dorms like I had originally planned. I had wanted more solitude, to distance myself from university life, literally and figuratively, but now that seems like the dumbest idea I've ever had.

I push my way back out into the stale, humid air, and kick at my tire. "Stupid piece of shit," I mutter, quieter this time knowing any passerby may overhear me. Not that there are many people lingering outside of the gym right now, but still.

With a huff I prop my hip against the closed door and pull my bottom lip between my teeth, gnawing as I ponder my next move.

From a few spots over I hear the creak of a door, and I look over to see a familiar face tossing a backpack into the backseat of an old Ford truck.

Well, not quite a familiar face, but one I recognize nonetheless.

I know him as '4B', my across-the-hall neighbor. I've never met the guy, never held a conversation with him—hell, I don't even know his name. He lives alone like me, at least it seems that way, and he's quiet and keeps to himself. The same way I do.

"Hey!" I holler, the word stumbling from my mouth before I even realize what I'm doing. By some miracle I catch his attention, and he looks up at me over the bed of his truck, his dark brows furrowing inward. "Hey, uh—shit—can you wait a sec?!"

I don't stop to see if he does, but I don't hear his engine turning over so it seems that he is at least willing to hear me out. I lean into my car and yank my bag toward me, slinging it over my shoulder and hustling over to where he is waiting, his inked arms cross over his toned chest, his chiseled jaw clenched and stiff.

"Hey," I huff, quieter this time as I stop in front of him, his tall frame hovering over mine by almost a foot. His deep chocolate eyes are down turned and menacing, his body language intimidating, but I'm not phased. "Sorry to, uh, bother you. I, we don't know each other, not really, but you live across the hall from me." I pause and swallow, trying to get my words under control. I'm not the type to turn into a bumbling idiot in front of an attractive guy, or anyone really, but today has really shaped up to be abnormal, so this seems par for the course. "My car broke down. I was wondering, if you're heading home, if I could get a ride by chance?"

It must seem pretty dumb that I would much rather ask a complete stranger for a ride instead of one of my teammates, but at this point in my life I find it much easier to deal with strangers than my so-called friends.

He's silent for a while, and I watch as his eyes land on the obnoxiously-large white bow tied around my high pony. They narrow at the sight, then follow a couple loose tendrils of dark hair to my face. His jaw visibly tenses, likely due to the glitter smeared across my cheekbones. His eyes continue downward, not-so-subtly tracing over the outline of my c-cups through my pink sports bra, his gaze then gliding over my bare stomach and small spandex shorts before jumping back up to my face, his nostrils flaring.

His scrutiny is slightly unnerving, but I can only imagine what a guy like him thinks of a girl like me. Or at least, the girl he thinks I am.

"Get in," he finally says, his voice deep and gruff. A shiver rolls down my bare spine but I blame the sudden gust of wind that came from the north.

With just those two words he opens the cab and slides in, the driver's door slamming behind him. I lug my bag into the backseat next to his before pulling the passenger door open and heaving myself inside.

He watches me out of the corner of his eye as he starts the truck, but as it roars to life his gaze snaps to the windshield, his eyes remaining fixed on the road as he begins to drive.

He grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles begin to turn white. He looks nervous or angry or something along those lines, but I'm unsure if it has anything to do with me, or if that's just how he is. The few times I've seen him in passing he's always had the same look on his face, mysterious and guarded, a look that could scare people into leaving him alone. I tried that once, but it didn't have the intended effect, so I had to switch tactics.

I never realized before how attractive he is, though this is the longest period of time we've ever occupied the same space, so it's no wonder I hadn't noticed before. His hair is a brownish blonde, cut short on the sides but long on top, the smooth strands flopped over to one side. A soft expanse of stubble lines his angular jaw. His arms are covered with tattoos, mostly of the American-Traditional variety, the colors bright and vivid against his creamy skin.

I'm not usually much for ogling, I haven't paid close attention to a guy in a long time, but it's only fair after the way he sized me up in the parking lot.

I pull my bow from my hair and let the shoulder-length waves hang free, bunching the fabric in my fist. My movements catch his attention and he turns to look at me, the expression on his face never wavering from that of sheer indifference.

"I'm Ryah, by the way," I interject, breaking the silence. "Ryah Ryan. I live in 4A."

He blinks quick and arches a brow, the corner of his mouth turning up into the faintest of smiles before it disappears.

"Ryah...Ryan?" He asks incredulously, the influx in his tone showing humor.

"Yeah," I say with a chuckle. "My parents were real assholes." I make it sound like a joke, but it couldn't be closer to the truth.

He nods but doesn't say another word, and before I know it we've arrived at the apartment complex, his truck idling in a spot near the front.

"Well, thanks a lot for the ride...." I purposefully drift off, my way of fishing for his name without coming right out and asking.

"Halston."

"Halston," I repeat as I hop from the truck. I grab my bag and dip my chin in his direction before hurrying inside and up the stairs, more than ready to lock myself in my room and take a break from the charade that is my life.

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