He's caught somewhere between whittling a pattern on a stick with his knife and watching that arty fat girl spray-painting some pattern on a column when hears confident footsteps and looks up to see that unbelievably good-looking brunette chick from this morning stride right past him. She saunters over to the artist girl and is speaking to her as he looks her up and down. Very nice, he thinks. I'll have that one.

She seems cool, too – she's not going to grass on the artist girl, one of the few people around here besides him who wouldn't – and she's confident and friendly, hopping up onto the wall and saying boldly, "What's your name?" And she's clever and witty, he realises, as she goes on to say, "When you're a big-time artist I want to be able to say I knew you back in high school. Provided you're not in jail for vandalism."

He doesn't hear what the fat girl says (he guesses that she's a little overwhelmed by this impressive show of confidence) but he sees the brunette smile and then she says, "Kat."

Kat. Good name. Cool girl.

She's wearing a purple t-shirt which hangs slightly off her right shoulder, exposing black straps and an expanse of lightly tanned skin which looks soft and smooth and he just wants to run his tongue over it and leave marks up and down the rest of her body, which is probably just as soft and smooth . . . There are some good tits there, too, under that t-shirt – he's sure of it, and he's had enough experience to be able to tell.

Time to turn it up.

She catches him staring, just as he intended. God, she's a looker.

She stares right back. Wow.

"Mandella," she's saying as she holds his gaze, "who is Captain Intensity over there?"

He's not sure he likes that. He wants her to be stunned and silenced so that he can throw her onto the back of his bike and have his way without her being annoying. He doesn't want her to challenge him. He wants her to be impressed, like the other girls always are. He looks away, slightly irritated. The artist girl is talking, probably reeling out all of the stupid rumours about his cannibalism, but when he hears her speak again she doesn't sound shocked. Quite the contrary – she sighs, sounding bored. "Pur-lease," she says. "He's trying to act mysterious so he can get laid."

Wow, he thinks. This is new.

He hears her as she jumps down from the wall and says, "Watch." He looks up and she's striding towards him, and oh Lord what a walk that is – all hips and hair and defiant stare, and then she's standing just a few feet away, daring him, challenging him.

She has her hands on her hips and she's cocking her head slightly, eyebrows raised, waiting for him to give up, to look away. But he can't right now because he's kind of mesmerised, partly by how damned hot this girl is and partly by this streak of determination and confidence which just floors him. He's stopped breathing a little. He has never been so amazed by a girl before.

Part of him wants to beg for her number and part of him wants to run and hide from this sudden, almost irrepressible longing (he imagines her hair must feel so silky, her ass firm and round, her legs slender and strong . . .). But he ignores this rush and holds her gaze, just a bit longer, but by god if he doesn't get out of here and clear his head he's either going to jump her or jizz in his pants, neither of which would be conducive to getting her to want to know him. And he's shocked when he realises that he doesn't just mean in the biblical sense. He wants to find out what makes this girl tick.

Her eyes are dark, sparkling, and he wonders if up close they're the same shade of chocolate brown as he imagines them to be.

She's not going to break the stare. She's not struggling. He can tell because the artist girl mutters that they should go but she ignores it, sassy and gorgeous, staring him down, making him feel exhausted and he's barely holding on now.

If he walks away now she might think he's weak. But he has to, he can't keep going – for the first time ever he's been beaten. He'll find a way to make it up.

So he stands up with as much composure as he can muster, turns his back, and heads back towards the courtyard. His breathing returns and he pushes open the door of the men's. His thoughts run slowly, like treacle.

What a girl.