Maxed Steel by M.J. Fields
Ego Check
Mila
“You have gotto be kidding me,” I grumble as the sign I have hoisted up over my head, splashed with the hot pink words, “Women Who Lead, Read,” comes crashing down on me.
Not at all surprising.
“What is it?” Lindsey, my roommate, asks as she looks around for the cause of my outburst. No doubt worried that our little demonstration is being targeted by some anti-feminist group of frat boys.
“It’s all good,” I say, attempting to right the sign as I duck behind the others in this pathetic group of eight females brave enough to man—or, should I say, woman—the quad on move-in day here at JU.
Because hell no will I tell her that the cause of my outburst is the boy in a man’s body, walking toward us. Dirty blond, tussled, movie star hair; blue eyes no doubt dancing in amusement because he always seems so … amused, covered in aviators; shit-ass perma-grin spread across his smug face that is covered in a dusting of scruff, hiding those dimples that give off an air of innocence.
Total bullshit, too.
The six-foot, probably close to two hundred pounds of lean muscles, all disgustingly defined, as currently showcased by his white tee hugging … all that, with the backpack slung over his bulging, broad shoulder is far from innocent.
He’s Max Steel.
He’s all sorts of grown up.
And he’s my enemy … even though he doesn’t know it, not yet.
Peering over Sandra’s shoulder, I see him stop, his chest expands with a breath, and then releases it as he turns and smiles. Then … then he walks toward us.
I want to run, but he would certainly see that.
I want to crawl under Sandra’s … flouncy floor-length, earthy brown gauze skirt or whatever the hell she’s wearing, but the thought of her leg hair scratching my skin makes me … itchy.
“How much for a tee?” Max freaking Steel asks with an amused tone to his voice.
“They’re free, if you march with us,” Lindsey retorts.
I wanna pop her in the mouth just to shut her up.
He pushes his aviators off his eyes, and yes, they’re dancing. He winks—freaking winks—and says, “Moving in today.”
“We plan to be out here for a while.” Lindsey hoists her “Real Men Are Feminists” sign back up. “Come back and march, and we’ll—”
“Lindsey, sell him a freaking tee,” Sandra insists and is suddenly my favorite feminist ever.
“But—”
“Twenty-five bucks.” Sandra steps forward, leaving me exposed to the elements, meaning Max Steel, who legit strains his thick neck to look at me.
What the hell?I think as I scowl at him then look around to see if any of the girls are seeing this crap. That’s when I realize I’m the only person with a sign still held over my head.
He chuckles and points at me, and I am totally ready to give him more shit back than he could even imagine dishing out. “Please tell me you have one of those left.”
That’s when I realize he’s pointing at my shirt that says, “I’m too clumsy to live amongst fragile masculinity”. But he hasn’t a damn clue who I am. I mean, why would he? I dropped twenty pounds, and my teenage acne has cleared up, but still …
He continues, “That would be perfect for my mom.”
“So, you’re saying your mom is clumsy? Isn’t that a bit degrading?” Tanya, the leader of this little group, quips.
“Not at all. My mom is a highly intelligent woman who also has a sense of humor.”
“It’s the kind of shirt a woman buys for herself,” Tanya retorts.
He lifts a shoulder, amusement lacing his voice as he says, “Or a man who knows the woman well enough that he’s sure it would be perfect.”
He’s not backing down, and neither is Tanya. I just want him to go away before he’s given a chance to get a closer look at me, and maybe …
“Screw this.” I grab a tee off the table and toss it at him. Then I turn my back to him.
“Thanks, um …?” he says this like he’s asking a question.
“Twenty-five bucks,” Sandra says.
“Keep the change.” I assume he gave her a hundred-dollar bill.
Tonya huffs, “Can’t keep giving in to the man, Mila.”
I whip my head around to see if he heard her use my name. Thankfully, he’s walking away.
I glare at her and snap, “How the hell was that giving in? I tossed one of twenty-five shirts you have left over; should help recoup the cost of two of them that are sitting here that you planned to give away.”
“That’s not what—”
“Look around, Tonya,” I cut her off. “No one else is coming out to join the demonstration. Geesh.”
“Oh, they’ll come.”
Half an hour later, all the tees are gone, but not one person has joined the demonstration. They all come to buy the shirt that “Max Steel gave to his mom.”
The Max factor is as alive today, as it has been since the day I first saw him when he walked into my freshman homeroom at Seashore Academy. Even with his little legal trouble our senior year, everybody loved Max, especially the ladies. But not this one. Nope, not me.
I despise him. The way he just gets his way all the time and every freaking thing he wants, it pisses me off.
I stop dead in my tracks when realization hits like a freight train. Holy freaking shit. No, scratch that. Holy fucking shit, Max Steel is at my school. God, I despise that son of a … clumsy feminist.
I. Despise. Him.
After depositing my sign into the nearest trash can, I hurry toward Pitcher Hall.