Of All the Stupid Things Read Online Free Page B

that day when he walked into the RTC. Although my back was to him, I could see him clearly in the mirror in front of me. I knew him vaguely from school, but then again it was hard not to.
I remember my surprise when he opened the door for some Down syndrome kids. Instead of averting his eyes to not look at them, Brent held out his hand and high-fived each one that passed by. One little girl with thick glasses couldn’t coordinate her hand well enough to slap Brent’s. He bent down and held his hand just a couple inches from hers. She slapped it hard. Brent held out his other hand. She slapped again, and he gave her a thumbs-up.
He straightened up to find Lola watching him with a pen in her mouth. Slowly she turned back to her magazine and spoke to him as if he were looking at her from the glossy pages.
“What is it with you and women, Staple?” she demanded.
Brent blushed and shrugged away her comment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. They’re good kids, that’s all.”
Lola snorted and flicked over to the next page.
Half amused, Brent shook his head as he took off his windbreaker and straightened his tight white T-shirt.
I reduced my speed.
Lola, eyes still on the magazine, took the pen out of her mouth and shook it at him. “You better watch it, young man. If I wasn’t thirty years too old for you…”
Brent laughed embarrassedly. “I don’t believe you’re thirty years older than me, Lola.”
Lola huffed. “See, there you go again, you charmer you. But you’re right. It’s more like thirty-five, but what’s five years?”
Brent shook his head again as he smiled wider. My pace reduced to almost walking speed.
“Well, you sure don’t look it.”
Lola whacked him on the shoulder with her magazine. “Lay off, will you? Give an old lady a break. I gotta get back to work.” And with that Lola grabbed her cigarettes and lighter and went outside.
I notched up my speed but kept an eye on Brent in the mirror as he headed for the free weights. Whitney Blaire called him the ultimate hottie and said she’d do anything to be seen with him. When I asked why she didn’t go after him, she laughed and said he wasn’t her type. She was right, though: Brent was hot. Seventeen, but looked twenty, amazing shoulder-length brown hair, bright green eyes, a sexy smile, and a body that wasn’t bulky but was so muscular there wasn’t an inch of fat on him. I noticed that bit as I watched him from across the room.
After finishing the miles, I headed over to the mats. I was rounding off something like twenty push-ups (the real ones, not those sissy girly ones on the knees) when I looked up. About thirty feet away, Brent was watching me with a weight resting against his chest. He smiled that sexy smile as our eyes met. Setting the weight back on the rack, he sat up.
I got to my feet and casually headed toward the free weights.
“Terri, is it?” he asked when I got closer.
“Tara,” I corrected and shook his hand, hard. He shook it again, testing my grip, and smiled more.
“Tara,” he said. “You mind spotting me on some heavier weights?”
And like that we were a couple. There was a comfort level with him that I hadn’t felt in a long time, hadn’t let myself feel—not since Dad. But with Brent, it felt right, natural; I trusted him. When I wasn’t with the girls, I was with Brent. We knew that training came first, but we got around that rule by doing it together. After a five-and-a-half-year absence from soccer, he got me to play goalie while he tried to bend a shot past me. Then three or four times a week he’d run with me early in the morning, five to eight miles depending on my schedule. There aren’t many guys who would regularly run long distances just because they liked the company. And he wasn’t intimidated that I was stronger than half the guys in school. In fact it turned him on.
Maybe that’s why it seems at least possible that there was something between him and Sanchez. Sanchez has that