In the Open

"Did you even listen to me?"

"Absolutely not."

Those are the only words I've spoken or thought of since Nick has explained to me what the 'favor' is.

Absolutely.

Not.

"Come on! Don't be such a prude and do me a solid."

He says this as if I'm merely lending him a dollar. This, however, would be like lending him a thousand.

"'Do you a solid'? Who even says that anymore, first of all? And second of all, why on earth do you think I would ever do that, let alone for you?"

"It's a simple thing! All you'll have to do is wear a short dress and accompany me and my friends to this club."

"Are you hearing yourself? I think you've lost the little amount of brain cells that you actually had."

What is his problem? He actually thinks that I would dress as a slut just to get him and his posse into a night club?

"Why would I even need to do that? They won't let me in just because I wear a short dress. And even if I were considering doing you this favor -which I am not- what would I get out of all of this?"

He looks at me intensely for a moment, before sighing and running a hand through his already tousled hair.

A beam of sunlight shines through the window, and falls directly onto his brown locks, creating golden, shimmering strands.

I wonder how it would feel to run my hands through it. Would it be smooth and soft, like silk? Or would it feel rough and gangly, like yarn? Maybe it would feel like a mix between the two-

"Did you even listen to me?"

My eyes snap to Nick, who is tapping his foot and looking at me with irritated and impatient eyes.

I honestly didn't realize that he was talking, too focused on the aesthetic feeling I got while looking at his sunlit hair.

"Sorry- uh, will you repeat what you said?"

This time, my eyes steer clear of his hair or any other traits that might capture my undivided attention.

"I said that we have an I.D card of a woman who works there, and we simply need you to pose as her. A short dress is the standard uniform there, so if you wear that and flash them the card, they'll let you in, no doubt. And they'll let us in once you say that we're friends."

"Do I even want to know how you got that I.D card?"

"No, you don't. So, what do you say?"

His explanation makes perfect sense, but I'm still not going to do it. Not unless the rewards are greater than the sacrifices.

What are the sacrifices, you ask?

My dignity, and possibly getting caught, which would ruin my life.

"You still have yet to answer my question. What would I be getting out of this? Hypothetically speaking, of course."

"You'd get to have an amazing night with me and a few of my buddies. And plus, I'll be indebted to you, and you can ask me for a favor in return."

For some reason, that gives me the urge to say yes. Being able to ask Nick for something at any point in time, knowing that he can't refuse, just brings a giddy, stupid smile to my face.

"Okay, that sounds fair. But, why can't you just ask one of the many girls that you are most likely in regular contact with?"

It's a simple question, but from the way Nick's eyebrows furrow, you'd think that I asked him to start reciting the first few hundred digits of pi.

Finally, he seems as if he has an answer in his head, and he looks up to me with a small smirk that I wish so badly to smack off his face.

It irks me when he does it. The side of his pink lips just quirk up, accentuating the small dimple under his eye, and showcasing the smoothness of his mouth. It seriously looks like a pillow, perfectly plush with no imperfections.

Curse him and his perfect self.

"Those girls don't have the brains or capability of passing off as anything more than girls looking for a good time. Pulling off the role of a mature bartender would be hard for any of them." He chuckles at his own words, finding humor in his offensive comment.

I on the other hand, fight the urge to grab his arm and twist it behind his back in a very painful way.

If he thinks so lowly of these girls, then why does he jump into bed with them as soon as he gets the chance? Why does he insult them thereafter? Is his view and opinion of women really that low?

I glare at him, turning more against him with every word I think in my head.

"You're so infuriating. Why do you even hook up with those girls if you think so little of them?"

He stares at me for a few long seconds, scanning my anger flushed cheeks and squinted, rage filled eyes.

"Girls are disposable. Why does it matter what I think of them? They get themselves into these situations; I don't force it."

I take in a deep breath, stifling all the anger within me.

It just gets me so mad. The way he just uses them, connects with them for one moment, and then throws them to the curb the next is just so maddening. Sickening, even.

They have feelings. They cry tears and bleed blood. They're human. But he acts as if they're mere objects for him to use when ready. It's not fair. No one deserves to be treated like they don't matter.

"I'm sorry, but I still don't know if I can do this for you. I mean. I seem to be losing a lot more than gaining here."

He is silent for a moment, and I glance around the room distractedly, waiting for his response.

The section above the fireplace is stacked with awards and medals -all Amelia's. My mom and dad made me keep mine in my closet, because they didn't want them to get damaged or accidentally knocked over.

Now, as I can easily see the pristine shine of the golden medals and glossy boards, it's obvious that they get polished and dusted to perfection every day. Each one is like a trophy for them.

They probably spend more time with those awards than they do with me. It's sad that I'm slightly jealous of all those shiny achievements.

"Please."

My head whips in his direction faster than lightning. His face is impassive, but his eyes are pleading. I've never seen a side of this guy look so...vulnerable. As if he not only wants this, but needs it as well.

My heart constricts in my chest, and I can feel my reluctance dissolving like sugar in coffee.

"Okay." My voice is nearly a whisper; it's softness caresses the silent air, coaxing Nick's mouth into a genuine smile.

"Thanks," He shrugs his shoulders, faking nonchalance. "But I gotta run. I'll be here to get you at nine."

Then he walks out the door as if nothing in this room mattered at all. But it did to me. No matter how impassive Nick is, I can read him like an open book. And even when he acts like he doesn't care about something, the way his shoulders relax slightly and the way his eyes glimmer the tiniest bit, show me that he does.

I head to my room with light, feathery steps, and head to the shower, preparing for the night to come.