Walking Disaster

It was all about
presentation.
    Pigeon, though. It would take far more than false advertising to bag her on my couch. At this point, the strategy was to take her one step at a time. If I focused on the end result, the process
could easily be fucked up. She noticed things. She was farther from naive than I was; light-years away. This operation was nothing less than precarious.
    I was in my bedroom sorting dirty laundry when I heard the front door open. Shepley usually listened for America’s car to pull in so he could greet her at the door.
    Pussy.
    Murmuring, and then the closing of Shepley’s door was my signal. I walked into the front room, and there she sat: glasses, her hair all piled on top of her head, and what might have been
pajamas. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d been molding in the bottom of her laundry hamper.
    It was so hard not to bust into laughter. Never once had a female come to my apartment dressed like that. My front door had seen jean skirts, dresses, even a see-through tube dress over a string
bikini. A handful of times, spackled-on makeup and glitter lotion. Never pajamas.
    Her appearance immediately explained why she’d so easily agreed to come over. She was going to try to nauseate me into leaving her alone. If she didn’t look absolutely sexy like
that, it might have worked, but her skin was impeccable, and the lack of makeup and the frames of her glasses just made her eye color stand out even more.
    “It’s about time you showed up,” I said, falling onto the couch.
    At first she seemed proud of her idea, but as we talked and I remained impervious, it was clear that she knew her plan had failed. The less she smiled, the more I had to stop myself from
grinning from ear to ear. She was so much fun. I just couldn’t get over it.
    Shepley and America joined us ten minutes later. Abby was flustered, and I was damn near light-headed. Our conversation had gone from her doubting that I could write a simple paper to her
questioning my penchant for fighting. I kind of liked talking to her about normal stuff. It was preferable to the awkward task of asking her to leave once I bagged her. She didn’t understand
me, and I kind of wanted her to, even though I seemed to piss her off.
    “What are you, the Karate Kid? Where did you learn to fight?”
    Shepley and America seemed to be embarrassed for Abby. I don’t know why; I sure as hell didn’t mind. Just because I didn’t talk about my childhood much didn’t mean I was
ashamed.
    “I had a dad with a drinking problem and a bad temper, and four older brothers that carried the asshole gene.”
    “Oh,” she said simply. Her cheeks turned red, and at that moment, I felt a twinge in my chest. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it bugged me. “Don’t be embarrassed,
Pidge. Dad quit drinking. The brothers grew up.”
    “I’m not embarrassed.” Her body language didn’t match her words. I struggled to think of something to change the subject, and then her sexy, frumpy look came to mind. Her
embarrassment was immediately replaced by irritation, something I was far more comfortable with.
    America suggested watching TV. The last thing I wanted to do was to be in a room with Abby but unable to talk to her. I stood. “You hungry, Pidge?”
    “I already ate.”
    America’s eyebrows pulled in. “No, you haven’t. Oh . . . er . . . that’s right. I forgot. You grabbed a . . . pizza? Before we left.”
    Abby was embarrassed again, but her anger quickly covered it. Learning her emotional pattern didn’t take long.
    I opened the door, trying to keep my voice casual. I’d never been so eager to get a girl alone—especially to
not
have sex with her. “C’mon. You’ve gotta be
hungry.”
    Her shoulders relaxed a bit. “Where are you going?”
    “Wherever you want. We can hit a pizza place.” I inwardly cringed. That might have been too eager.
    She looked down at her sweatpants. “I’m not really dressed.”
    She had no idea how beautiful she was. That made her even more appealing. “You look fine. Let’s go, I’m starvin’.”
    Once she was on the back of my Harley, I could finally think straight again. My thoughts were usually more relaxed on my bike. Abby’s legs had my hips in a vise grip, but that was oddly
relaxing, too. Almost a relief.
    This weird sensation I felt around her was disorienting. I didn’t like it, but then again it reminded me that she was around, so it was as comforting as it was