Explicit: A Novel

by Ava Harrison

  “You are doing it all wrong.”

  “And you’re an expert?” His left eyebrow rises.

  “I am.”

  “Wait, seriously?”

  “Well, I did live in Japan for six months.”

  He lifts a hand in the air. “Hold up. You lived in Japan? Come on, Lindsey. Tell me about it,” he begs.

  “I don’t think–”

  “Is it that hard to just put our shit aside? To stop hating me for one minute and just have fun?”

  I guess I have nothing to lose. “Fine,” I respond in a low voice, so low that he leans in and quirks up his brow.

  “Fine?”

  “Yes. Fine.”

  “Good.” He smiles broadly. “Now tell me how you ended up in Japan?”

  “Typical story . . . girl meets boy, boy’s a DJ, girl follows boy to Japan for a show. Boy dumps girl.” I shudder inwardly at the memory, ashamed of myself for being such an idiot to follow a boy to Japan. Pierce must sense my sullen mood because he makes another pitiful attempt of using chopsticks. I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to get me to laugh with his antics.

  It works. Despite my best efforts, I’m laughing again as he tries, unsuccessfully, to grab a crab tempura roll this time. It’s so hard to stop laughing, that he joins in and throws the chopstick on the table. Reaching across the table, he takes a roll with his fingers and dips into the soy sauce that sprays over the edge . . . and is now all over his white T-shirt.

  “Dammit, serves me right for deciding to impress you.”

  “There’s no reason to try to impress me.”

  “I just don’t want you to hate me,” he admits on a sigh.

  With each moment that passes, some of the tension that has built between us dissipates. “I never really hated you, Pierce. I just don’t like you.” I wink. Truth is I don’t like that he reminds me of a time before. That looking at Pierce is a constant reminder of what my life used to be. But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I scrunch my nose and sigh.

  “Pick up your chopsticks.”

  He cocks his head but doesn’t object. He holds them limply. None of his fingers are in the correct position.

  “Your index finger . . .” I reach my hand out. “It’s in the wrong position.” He looks down and then moves. “Um, no. Like this.” I pull the chopsticks from him, our fingers touching briefly. At the contact, his gaze meets mine and I inhale sharply. He thinks it’s from frustration, but it’s not. It’s the way he looks at me, the way his skin feels against mine. I shake my head.

  “Put your finger on top, bend at the knuckle, and then pinch the sticks together.” He follows my directions and it’s perfect. “Good. Try again.” He does and is rewarded by grabbing the spicy tuna and bringing it to his mouth. He groans as he swallows and I swear tingles run up my body.

  “When things are hard to get, it makes everything taste better.” He winks.

  And I know he’s not talking about lunch.

  “What’s for dessert?” The way his lips tip makes my knees weak.

  “I don’t eat dessert.” It’s lame, I know it, but I need to shut this conversation down. It’s going in a direction I can’t deal with. Dessert makes me think of all the wicked things . . .

  “Of course you do. Everyone does.”

  “Not everyone eats dessert.”

  “Fine. You’re right, not everyone does, but everyone wants it.” He winks again, and now I’m one hundred percent sure he’s talking about something entirely different. “What’s your favorite? What’s your guilty pleasure? Me, for example, I’d sell my soul for a dirty water dog.”

  My mouth drops open and I stifle a gag. “That is not dessert,” I exclaim with disgust.

  “Sure it is. You go out to dinner . . . you’re walking home and you see the food cart for the dirty water dog, suddenly you’re hungry again, so you get one . . . hence dessert. If it’s eaten after dinner, it’s dessert.”

  “I’m sorry but no. If I was walking down the street, hungry or not, I wouldn’t eat a nasty hot dog from an even nastier street vendor.”

  “So what’s your poison?”

  I blow out a huff and roll my eyes, not wanting to answer but knowing full well he won’t stop pestering me until I do. On a sigh, I tell him. “Macarons.”

  “Those little French things?”

  “Yes, those little French things.”

  “Gross. They taste like perfume.”

  “Says the guy who eats processed pieces of God knows what type of meat.”

  “Don’t forget the part where they sit in water all day.” He grins, and a small dimple peeks out from his right cheek, making him look young.

  “Disgusting, and not those ones. Yes, I like those, but my favorite are not the ‘perfume ones.’ I like the fun flavors.”

  “Fun flavors?” he asks, leaning into the table. His interest plays on every beautiful feature of his face.

  How can I think he looks beautiful? I hate him, right? Still staring at him, I remember he asked a question. Flavors. “Cotton candy and champagne.”

  “They make macarons that taste like champagne?” His eyes widen and he stares at me like I have grown three heads.

  “That, and then some,” I tease.

  “Details. I need details of these wondrous pieces of cake.”

  “Sara’s Bakery.”

  “Sara’s Bakery?” He lifts an eyebrow.

  “Yep.”

  “Is this piece of heaven here?”

  I’m not sure where he is going with this line of questioning, but the nervous energy zipping through my limbs makes me tingle.

  “Yep.” I shrug, trying to keep my emotions level.

  He scratches the scruff on his face and then motions to me.

  “We need to go sometime.”

  The implication hangs in the air, and strangely enough, it’s not so awful anymore and that thought is disturbing because I shouldn’t want to spend time with him.

  But I do.

  I’m sitting in the office of Polaris the next afternoon when I hear the door open. “Package for you.” Xavier walks in.

  “A package for me?”

  “That’s what Carson told me. So unless there is anyone else in Polaris named Lindsey Walker, I assume this is yours.” He chuckles.

  “Stop being a smart-ass.” I laugh back.

  I have no idea who would be sending me something, let alone why. I shuffle to the desk, rifling around until I find what I’m looking for: scissors. Slowly and carefully I cut through the tape, and then pull out a purple bag from the box. A purple cooler bag.

  What the . . .?

  I pull it open and reach my hand inside. Shuffling around, I find the plastic edge of whatever is being cooled. With one pull it’s out, and my mouth drops open. It’s a twelve pack of macarons, and not just any macarons, but from Sara’s Bakery.

  Pierce.

  Pierce did this.

  Attached to the plastic container is a card. He bought me the macaron of the month box. I’m a freaking member of the macaron of the month club.

  And a note: No one should go without dessert . . .

  He doesn’t need to sign his name, I know it’s him. Nor does he need to tell me what this means. The message comes in loud and clear.

  “Miss Lindsey?” Xavier’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “What’s that?”

  “Macarons, want some?”

  He scrunches his nose. “What are they?”

  “Little pieces of heaven,” I respond.

  “Well, in that case, yes.”

  “Great, come with me. Let’s see who else is around and we’ll have a macaron picnic.”

  “A picnic? Here?” Xavier looks at me as if I’m crazy, and I love the idea of a picnic even more now. These boys never do stuff like this. Things I take for granted, like eating macarons for no occasion at all other than a friend being funny.

  A friend . . .

  Is that what Pierce is? A friend? The idea doesn’t seem so horrible ri
ght now. Maybe we could be friends. Maybe.

  Once we find the other boys, we walk into the cafeteria. Grabbing plates and a knife, I set up shop and make everyone sit at a table in the cafeteria.

  “Why are you cutting them into fours?”

  “So we can all take a bite. Each macaron is a different flavor. How else are we going to have a macaron challenge?”

  “Yes, how else indeed?” I hear from behind me. Turning my head over my shoulder, I see Pierce walking toward us. “Having a food challenge without me? Lucky, that is so not cool.” His hands are on his hips, and he’s posing in an overdramatic way to pretend he’s angry.

  “Didn’t realize I had to invite you,” I say in a coy voice, which makes him roll his eyes at me. “And stop calling me that.”

  “No can do, Lucky. And well, seeing as I brought the—”

  “Thank you for that, by the way, but you didn’t have to.”

  “I know, but I wanted to.” His voice is sincere, and a series of butterflies take flight in my stomach at the sound.

  Feeling flustered and flushed by the feelings taking root inside me at seeing Pierce, I blurt out, “Now let’s start the voting. And I guess we can include you.”

  “Gee thanks.” He shakes his head in a huff, but I can see the dimple. He’s not fooling anyone.

  The first purple macaron is cut into four equal pieces. The boys devour their bites, but I only nibble. “Hey, I never got a taste,” Pierce exclaims.

  “Oops.” I smile innocently. “There’s none left. Maybe next time.”

  Before I know it, he’s leaning into me. Into my personal space, he’s so close I’m dizzy. Our gazes are locked. My breath comes out ragged and harsh from being this close to him. What is he doing?

  He answers my unspoken question by taking my hand in his. My heart hammers heavily in my chest as it lifts. The feel of his fingers on me is hot and heady, the memories that are imprinted on my mind resurfacing to the forefront of my brain. I remember everything.

  We stare at each other.

  Neither speaking.

  The seconds pass, but it feels like everything is on pause as I wait to see what he will do. The boys talking in the background is a steady buzz against the pounding in my chest.

  He lifts.

  Thud.

  Closer.

  Thud.

  His tongue juts out, and he swipes the tip of my finger where the cream from the filling has collected. Before I can think, he places it in his mouth and eats the rest.

  “Ewwwww,” rings out through the room. The sound of the boys gagging pulls me out of my haze.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Having dessert.” He winks. His emerald green eyes twinkling with mischief.

  He’s too close. Too damn close. I remember what his lips feel like against my skin. Decadent. Like the first bite of a macaron.

  Sinful.

  I need to get away.

  Without a second thought, I stand from the table before announcing, “I’m going to wash my hands.”

  There was no sleep to be had last night.

  None at all.

  The last two days with Pierce has left me all types of confused.

  On the one hand, I hate him. Okay, maybe not hate him, but dislike him immensely. He drives me insane. And yet, if I’m going to be truthful to myself, these last few days he wasn’t that bad. Yes, he’s a bit arrogant. And for sure he was a jerk in France, and if I’m being honest with myself, he’s always been kind of a jerk for as long as I’ve known him. Take yesterday, for example, he was different, and I’m having a hard time reconciling the two versions. When I used to hang around him at the club scene, I thought his arrogance was sexy. Now, I don’t. But what I do find sexy is someone who I can share a meal with, someone I can laugh with. Someone whose mind I enjoy just as much as his body.

  I never thought Pierce had more to him. But two days ago he was funny. And yesterday he was sweet, buying macarons. Shit. I can’t be thinking like this. Especially not now, not when I’m sure to bump into him at any minute.

  On the way to the rec room to eat lunch, I hear cheers from the gymnasium. Curious about what the ruckus is, I walk in and stop short at what I see. Pierce is trying to shoot a basket with his shirt over his face. What the hell is he doing?

  But holy wow.

  With the shirt lifted over his head, it’s not leaving much for the imagination. His abs are on full display, and if that weren’t enough, his V is begging to be licked. God, he’s hot. Why does he have to be so hot? It’s not okay. No human being should be that hot.

  A chorus of laughs, a round of cheers as he shoots and scores. The kids are going nuts. Jumping up and down and now, oh seriously? Now he’s completely showboating. Dancing around the court as if he just took a three-point buzzer beater to win the game.

  His crowd of boys goes wild and he loves every minute of being the center of attention. This is the sexiest thing I have ever seen. And the kids love him.

  After his final obnoxious dance move, I roll my eyes and am about to turn my back and storm out of the room, when he removes his shirt completely and runs toward the boys, lifting Toby up and cheering.

  And it’s like the world has stopped.

  I shake my head and turn around. I can’t watch this. Can’t allow this picture to melt my resolve of hatred. But they say curiosity killed that cat . . .

  I turn back around and look right over to where Pierce is playing with Toby. An unfamiliar feeling weaves its way through me, and I realize it’s a feeling I’ve never had in regard to Pierce before.

  Jealousy.

  I am jealous of Pierce Lancaster.

  I have been here for three months and haven’t gotten Toby to trust me, but here is the truth staring back at me. Even Toby is obsessed with Pierce. Toby who only likes Lynn, thinks Pierce walks on water. After only a few short weeks he’s gotten to them in a way I haven’t.

  Just as I’m mentally berating myself, he chooses this exact moment to look up at me. Damn it. I’m caught like a deer in headlights staring, and worse, I’m probably still drooling. Placing my hands on my hips, I meet his stare. He smiles. I frown. He waves. I seethe. When he laughs, I throw my hands up in the air and storm out the door.

  “Lindsey.”

  I hear his voice, but I refuse to stop. I try to pick up my pace, but I can’t. My damn leg won’t go any faster, and if I do, I’ll probably end up falling head first on the floor, and with Pierce rapidly approaching, nothing could be worse.

  “Wait, Lindsey.”

  I’m about to open the door to the rec room when he passes me on the right side quickly and opens the door for me.

  “After you,” he drawls.

  And I swear I hiss at him.

  “What’s up your ass? Don’t like a man to be chivalrous?”

  “Nope.”

  “So you do?”

  “Nope.”

  “That makes no sense. It’s either you do or you don’t.”

  I step through the door and look over my shoulder at him. “I do as long as it’s not you.”

  He chuckles, shakes his head, and falls into step with me. “I thought we moved past this.”

  “Just because I allowed you to take me to lunch and let you participate in my macaron eating contest, doesn’t mean we’re besties, Pierce,” I deadpan.

  “But it doesn’t mean we’re enemies,” he chides.

  “That’s debatable.”

  He holds his hands up. “You win.”

  “And you see I could do this all day.”

  “Oh, I can tell, that’s why I like you. You give as well as you can take. It’s refreshing.”

  I don’t respond. Instead, I walk to the refrigerator and grab my sandwich I made for lunch. Walking over to a table, I sit. Pierce takes the seat next to me. I glare at him. “Wasn’t sushi enough? Do I really have to endure your company yet again today?”

  His lips spread into the sexiest goddamn smile I’ve ever seen. It answers yes
, and there’s no way of changing his mind.

  God, why does he have to make me so confused? It’s awful that no matter how much I want to be indifferent to him, my body can’t help but react to him.

  I let out an annoyed groan. “Well, are you going to at least eat something or are you just going to stare?”

  “Stare.”

  “Fine, have it your way, but I’m not talking to you. So just go on staring . . .”

  “Oh, I will.”

  And he does. The whole meal, he doesn’t speak, he doesn’t eat, he just gives me a lopsided grin the entire time, and a part of me softens. Not a big part. But a small enough part that I’m worried. Because I can’t let myself warm to him. Because if I do, there’s no telling how much damage will come of it.

  The day has dragged incredibly slowly since my lunch with Pierce today. The problem is my mood swings are driving me insane and all I can do is dwell on them. I’m so damn confused and I’m starting to think I’m also a little insane.

  Hate him?

  Dislike him?

  Tolerate him?

  Like him?

  What the hell is going on with me? The four different emotions bounce around like a set of pool balls after you break. But the big question is, which one will the cue sink? With a shake of the head I stand from behind my desk and head out the door and walk into the rec room, my legs stop. What’s going on?

  There on the floor, sitting against the wall and only a few feet from the door, is Pierce, and next to him is Christopher. They appear deep in talk, fully engrossed.

  Not wanting to interrupt them, I quietly make my way to the storage room, trying my damnedest to not make a sound. Pierce’s gaze drifts over to me and our eyes lock.

  “Is everything okay?” I mouth and he nods yes, but not before he responds without any sound “fight with family.” That makes the blood in my body turn to ice. All of the kids have issues, but Christopher and Xavier more than most. That’s one of the reasons they’re friends, they understand each other and help each other out.

  Christopher’s head is down so he doesn’t see me pass. He’s talking into his hands, and muffled words pop through the silence. I can’t make them out, but what I can make out is that he’s hurting.