by Cassie Mae
“I must hide it really well around you.” Which is probably true. It’s hard to be bitter around Candace when it’s so much more fun to tease her.
“If that’s true, go into acting.” She finishes up another present, the pile next to her growing. I’d reach out and help, but she’d most likely smack my hand away.
“So,” I say, needing to change the subject. I’m not used to her being so complimentary, and it’s making me itchy—wanting to inch closer to her. Good thing there’s a pile of wrapping to keep me from doing that. “Did you conquer your fear of kids tonight?”
“A fear of one kid,” she corrects. “Demi did most of the work, though.”
“Give yourself a little credit. Those stickers were gold.”
“I was so worried about them, too!” she exclaims, then hurries and lowers her voice since Demi’s snoozing just a door away. “I wasn’t sure if they’d be too young for her.”
“She’s a sticker fanatic.” She started collecting when the grocery store down the street would hand them out at the register. Every time I had to do a milk run, I’d get one for her. Mom isn’t too thrilled with the obsession—every sticker has found itself on Dem’s wall and bed frame. Hey, it gives it character.
“Honestly, I thought for a second you were secretly making me tackle another fear tonight.”
My curiosity piques. “You don’t say. Which one?”
She nibbles the inside of that lip, and it drives my nervous system haywire.
“I thought you were going to ambush me with a party,” she mumbles into her flannel pajamas. The corner of my mouth picks up, and I lift my leg, resting my elbow on my knee.
“Level… blue?”
“Green.”
“Oh, so not so bad.”
“Pete…”
“Why don’t you throw one?”
“I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.” She plunges into the box with more gusto this time, grabbing the second to last gift—a pack of animal shaped earrings for Dem.
“It’s perfect timing.” I adjust again on the floor, my butt slowly inching toward her as the presents dwindle. “New Year’s Eve and all.”
“Yeah, and who would I invite?” She cocks her head like she’s got me, but that answer seems pretty damn obvious.
“Uh… your coworkers. Your art class. You know, the people you interact with.”
“And people would come?”
“It’s a party. In your massive house.”
“It’s just a guest house—” Her lips snap shut with the look I give her. We both know damn well that guest house can fit my apartment times five. “Okay… so I invite Troublemakers people.”
“And your art class.”
She suddenly sits straight up, her spine like a yard stick. “Zach.”
And with one word, my butt stops making its way across the room. Right… the guy she’s after. The guy I’m helping her get. How did I space him completely? I’m such a dumbass.
I clear my throat and scoot against my bed, pretending that was my intended destination all along. “Yeah. Could be good, you know. Midnight kiss.”
“A what?”
“Come on.” I roll my head toward her, crossing my arms. “You know what the New Year’s kiss is.”
“Yeah, but… do you think he’d want to kiss me?”
I don’t see why any guy wouldn’t want to kiss her, and my eyes drop to her lips and I imagine them underneath the lights at her guest house, confetti popping around her, her tongue running over the pink skin in anticipation for when the clock hits midnight.
“Sure.” The one word answer is so lackluster that I bet she doesn’t believe me.
She pushes the last gift next to the rest, the pile as organized as she is. I watch as she puts all the wrapping away, gathering up any extra pieces and setting them inside the box I kept the presents. Even though I sprayed half a can of air freshener in here earlier, the scent of her candied apple perfume hits me like a wave as she scoots up next to me.
Her eyes drop to my arm, and she reaches for my wrist. Her touch sends a flame up my arm, setting fire to my skin, like when kernels finally pop in the popcorn machine. Shit, I don’t think I’m breathing.
“Is there meaning to any of these?” she asks, boldly tracing the tattoos covering my forearm.
“Other than they’re cool and I like them?” I tease. My voice is kinda wobbly though. I’ve offered way too much about myself already tonight, and I’m worried more is about to come bursting out.
“Were you trying to be rebellious?” she says, her voice low and husky, and she has no clue how attractive she’s being which makes her all the more attractive.
“A bit.” I twist my arm so she can finish tracing the outline to the snake that finishes just below my inner elbow. It’s unbelievable—the sensation of her light touch. Her finger is on the colder side, causing each hair to stand on end and creating havoc in my chest, making my skin both colder and hotter at the same time. “I did get the lecture whenever I ‘wasted my money’ on the ink.”
“So you did it over and over?”
“When I had the chance.” I chuckle softly, my voicebox working overtime to function. I could easily fall asleep to this, but at the same time, I could see myself staying awake just to watch her all night.
She twists my arm back and forth, examining each tattoo. Her nose almost hits my skin when she tries to read the time on the tiny pocket watch that dangles at the edge of my wrist.
“Have you ever thought of this?”
“Getting a tattoo?” She snorts. “Uh, no.”
“I meant designing.” I bump my shoulder into hers. “You’d be good at it.”
“Such faith for someone who hasn’t seen much of my work.” She drops my arm, but I keep my hand upturned on her knee, resting it there, begging it not to twist and hold her no matter how much it wants to. Her lips stretch open wide for a long yawn, and I realize just how much it’s past her bedtime as well.
“You’re getting better at this staying up thing,” I tease.
“Hey, it’s a whole half hour past my usual breaking point.” She gives the door a tired look. “Do you think Maddie will be much longer? I want to set up my bed.”
“You’re sleeping up here, silly.” I reach behind my head and pat my mattress.
“And you’re sleeping…”
I pat the mattress a second time, just to watch her eyes grow ten times their normal size. I chuckle at her shock and bump her shoulder again. “Don’t worry. The couch is very comfortable.”
“You’d sleep on the couch.”
“Better than the floor.” As much as I’d like to stay in here with her, the carpet is so worn that it’ll be like sleeping on a boulder. With a sigh, I leave the warmth of her side and push to my feet. I extend a hand to her. “Want me to tuck you in?”
I’m teasing, and she knows it, but she slaps her hand in mine and says, “Yes, please. Bedtime story, too.”
I pull her to her feet and then shove her just hard enough to tip her onto the bed. She bounces on the mattress with a squeal that hits me square in the chest.
“Once upon a time there was a big pain in the ass who kept bugging everyone she worked with about tucking in their shirts.”
She grimaces and slides to the pillows. “I change my mind on the story.”
“You sure?” I smirk. “It’s a good one.”
She rolls her eyes, but there is amusement resting in her tired irises. “Goodnight, Pete.”
“You’re just gonna fall asleep while I wait for Maddie?”
“Yep.” She cuddles under my blankets, tucking in tightly. Her eyes drift shut.
I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine then.”
The tiniest of smiles perks at the edge of her mouth, and I watch the shadow from my lamp cast over her sleepy form. It’s amazing how tempting it is to climb in next to her but also how content I am to just let her be. She looks good in my space, like she belongs here. She’s a rich, uptight
mess, but she belongs in my world somehow.
I wonder if she feels that way about me. I’d like to think I’ve wriggled my way in somehow, too.
Not a minute later I get the okay from Maddie to come out of my room, and with all these rabid thoughts running loose in my head, I make a break for it, gathering all the presents I can. I set them up under the tree with the ones already there, and they are completely haphazard and clumsy, but there are presents, and that’s all that matters.
Demi’s gonna wake up thrilled. Mad’s gonna love the decals I got her. And Candace… Well, I hope Candace is just happy to be with me, even if I’m not the guy she really wants.
Candace
The weather has dropped to thirty degrees, and there is no doubt in my mind that Pete is still running around on that death machine.
I pull into the Troublemakers parking lot, my heater on full blast on my lower half. These holey jeans do nothing against the December air except invite it in.
With it being winter break, my art class doesn’t start up again until January, so the only way I can send invites is to spread them around social media.
So my profiles need some revamping.
After spending way too many hours deciding whether or not to even create the event, I realized that the moment I invite Zach, he might take a gander at my profile page. My pictures. And holy wow, they have my good girl reputation all over them.
Me with my 4.0 report card, pictures of perfectly arranged food on my parents’ china, posing in front of the Mormon temple in Illinois with the caption “Friday Night Out!”
He will take one look at that and think, “I knew it.” And I’ll never get that motorcycle ride he sort of promised, let alone a date.
I pull in next to the motorcycle I knew would be here and put my car in park. A happy flutter briefly overtakes the desire to erase all evidence of my good girl self when I take in the new bike cover I gave Pete for Christmas. His face was so darn cute when he tore the wrapping off. He let out this frustrated sigh and scrunched up his nose, his eyes pinching shut. He didn’t look at me once when he muttered, “I was joking about this, Candace.”
“I know,” I said, but I didn’t care. Gertrude needed some coverage in this weather, and I needed to express in some small way how grateful I was that he let me into his world for a bit. I’ve never been invited into anyone’s world, really, and I liked my visit.
After yanking the zipper up on my coat, I open my car door and brace for the rush of cold air. The wind nearly takes the door off its hinges, and I make a face, hoping it didn’t just tear up the car next to me. I quickly inspect, relieved it’s all good, no damage done, then force my door shut against the wind.
My hair whips to and fro, and I mutter censored curses under my breath. I spent longer than necessary on my curls this morning, making them look not so perfect, but messy perfect, if that makes any sense. It’s all moot now, anyway.
The cover slaps against the bike frame, the wind beating against it with a fury. I use my gloved hands to find the zipper on the thing and tug it open and off. Oh geez, it’s freaking twenty pounds, at least! I heft it to the hood of my car, using my front bumper as wind coverage, and let it drop with a heavy plop against the asphalt.
Okay, just a quick picture with Gertrude will up my bad girl points. I need to shed my coat for the full effect—or at least unzip it and leave it hanging open. One of my gifts to me this year was a black as night, off the shoulder top. My boobs look twice as big in this number, even with the slimming color. Probably because the tightness of the shirt pushes them together so much that my cleavage is out of this world.
I’m not comfortable in it. I prefer loose, flowy materials, sweaters, pastels, jeans without holes… But that Candace doesn’t get the guy. Or anyone for that matter.
Not to say Pete’s lessons aren’t doing their job. Oh, they are. Any time we’re scheduled together, there’s this excited and nervous buzz that pings me to life. I knew I was sheltered—which is putting it lightly—and he’s slowly pulling me out of my safety net while still making me feel safe. Though… a new fear may have just popped up on my list because of it. I don’t know if I’ll be able to conquer any more of them on my own. Never thought I’d need Pete in any capacity, but I do.
I won’t admit that to him, though.
I open my passenger door and pull out my tripod for my phone. I figured I’d do a couple of selfies and then a couple of shots as if someone is here with me. The friend barrel isn’t exactly full right now, since my coworkers are working or vacationing, I have no clue where my art classmates are, and it’s not like I can admit to anyone what I’m doing anyway.
Yeah, best to get this done without anyone seeing.
I set the tripod up and put my phone in the holder, turning on the camera. Hmm… fifteen shots should be enough. I leave five seconds between each picture and set the beginning timer to thirty seconds for me to prepare.
I take a deep breath and hold it in my cheeks, eyeing the employee parking lot to make sure I’m alone. Then I yank the zipper down and chuck the coat off before I lose my nerve.
Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygosh. If Pete finds me frozen against Gertrude, I would not be surprised. Every hair I possess stands on end, including the ones on my head. I feel like I’ve taken a dive into an electrified lake, my body frozen from the current. Forcing myself to move, I place my hand on Gertrude’s seat and try to pose like I studied before I came all the way across town to do this. Girls on motorcycles, how to pose with a bike, and bad girl photo ideas—that last search was helpful until I got to some… not so helpful ones.
I shake my head, letting the wind do with my hair what it pleases, and try to make my face imitate the ones I studied. No smiling, that’s for sure. Not that I could with how cold it is. My bottom lip juts out, and I try to do that pout thing, but it starts trembling, my teeth chattering behind them. At worst I probably look like a dead fish. At best, I look constipated.
Counting down in my head, I wait the fifteen shots, trying to switch it up between each one. In my ancient history as a girl, I did photoshoots with my mom, and the photographer always said to give subtle differences in each picture. My “subtle” at age twelve was switching the hand up on my hip to down by my side and sticking my tongue out.
Not much has changed.
After what I believe is the last picture, I find my muscles and rush for my coat, jamming my arms through the sleeves and defrosting almost instantly.
“Ahh,” I sigh through my teeth chatter. My gloves go back on, and I pluck the phone from its stand.
Oh no. Oh no no no. We have dead fish and constipated. Plus, in every photo, my… my… nipples are to a point. I slap a hand to my face, covering one eye while the other continues to look through photo after photo of nipple mania.
I can’t post these! My dad will see them. My aunts and uncles. My pastor.
I quickly delete, delete, delete, then head back to Gertrude. I’m going for the selfie and the open coat. It’s enough cleavage to say bad girl with enough smarts to say it’s freaking cold and I’m not taking off my coat for a darn picture.
My selfie skills are nearly non-existent. I gave up after scrutinizing every picture I took and have never felt the need to post a selfie when posting my art was so much more fun—and better looking.
I tilt the phone, going for the angle, but that shows way too much boob. I try another angle, but now Gertrude is hidden.
“Ugh!” I scream out into the empty parking lot. “Candace, why are you like this?” A bad girl would just take the darn photo. A bad girl wouldn’t have to use her best friend’s motorcycle to pose against. A bad girl would already have a date with the hot bad boy in her art class. Probably already kissed him, too.
And I just realized I think of Pete as my best friend, and that’s just sad. He thinks of me as a co-worker at the very most, I bet. A pupil maybe. An annoyance most likely.
Tears start to prickle against my eyes. No. I will not let
them fall. They’ll freeze to my cheeks and become permanent fixtures of my pathetic personality.
My butt flumps against the seat of Pete’s bike, and I stare at my legs, the ripped jeans showing more skin than I prefer, and I wish I didn’t have such an aversion to something as simple as clothing. I reach down, using my pastel pink gloves to pick at the material. I paid eighty dollars for these, thinking I’d wear them all the time now that I’m such a rebel. Now I wouldn’t mind if I never saw them again.
Maybe I shouldn’t have a party. It’s a less than a week out. Is that even enough time to extend invites? Get RSVPs? Wait… do I request RSVPs? Or is this a show up anytime with anyone they want? Am I supposed to have alcohol there? Because I don’t drink, I don’t know how to get drinks, and will I be responsible if people drive home drunk… Or will there be passed out people on my couch all night? Gosh, I don’t even know how to party right.
The wind picks up, and I shiver against it, grabbing my zipper and pulling it to my chin. I don’t care if there will be no cleavage shot. I don’t care that I’m wearing a baby blue coat with white fur fringe and pink gloves. I’m sitting on a motorcycle, and that should be enough right now, and I’m not leaving without a decent picture.
I hold the camera up, set my jaw, and then force a smile. I click before I overthink it.
“Should I leave you two alone?”
I whip around to Pete’s voice, and my smile is no longer forced. Embarrassed, but not forced.
“Hey, sorry.” I jump up from Gertrude and rush to get his cover. “I was just…”
“Taking selfies on my bike?” he offers. His chin is more scruffy today than usual, his eyes tired but friendly. He hops off the curb and stands next to me. His black coat sleeve presses with my baby blue.
“No,” I answer, even if that’s exactly what I was doing.
“Messing with my brakes?”
I blink, shocked he’d ever think that of me. But his mouth splits open in his usual tease, and I give him a good smack to the upper arm.
“Fine. I was trying to get a ‘bad girl’ picture for my profile. You know, before I start inviting people over for New Year’s Eve.”
