Brunette Two rolls her eyes. “You only think that because you’re all gah-gah for Tyler, but the truth’s the truth. Jett’s gonna cream him in the championship because he’s a better driver and, just saying, he’s better looking, too.”
They burst into giggles when one’s manicure catches the other’s eye, and they ramble on into some stupid conversation about the subtle nuances of blue-pink versus red-pink nail polish.
I ease off the couch, careful to not draw their attention, and dart toward the drink table, far away from the gossip and just out of sight of Gin’s infrequent well-check glances.
I grab a new cup of PJ and gulp some down, the fruity fire burning a trail down my throat. A chunk of pineapple peeks above the surface, and I grapple it with my fingers and pop it in my mouth. A gush of pure alcohol courses over my tongue when I chomp down.
“Easy. That’s some high-octane shit.” His voice is deep with a non-southern accent. I glance over my shoulder, mid-chew, at his hazel eyes, a little too close-set for my taste but handsome nonetheless, and spikey brown hair. A red racing emblem stares at me from the pocket of his polo.
“Good. Then I’m in the right place.” I swallow the rest from my cup, ladle in another full round, and turn to face him, my back pressed into the wall. The stability helps. The entire room fuzzes in and out of my vision.
“A girl who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to say it. I like it.” He props one arm on the wall beside me, leaning in and tilting his beer toward me.
There were a million guys like him at the parties back home. Smooth talkers with so-so looks who somehow thought they were God’s gift to the female species. I stare at the bottle he’s holding, choosing to ignore the gesture, and instead bring my cup back to my own lips for another swig. He really thinks I’m going to “cheers” him? On what—just being his perceived wonderful self? No, thanks.
He withdraws the bottle back to his chest and tilts his head, eyes narrowed. “You here alone?”
I glance over at Jett, who’s talking to his group with a bunch of animated hand gestures. “No, I’m here with a…a friend. And you are…” I wave my free hand, prompting him to reveal his name.
“Tyler.”
So, this is Tyler? Jett’s racing competition. His nemesis.
“So, you’re Tyler.” My words slur, tongue turning to lead, as I poke my finger into his chest. “I’ve heard about you.”
He smirks. “All good?”
The lights in the room turn from individual points of light into long gleaming trails. I blink a few times to stop the effect. It doesn’t work.
I step forward, leaning in so close the pungent sweetness of the beer on his breath lingers between us. “Hardly,” I whisper. “I’m here with Jett, and he…he doesn’t like you. Like, at all.”
At least that’s what I’ve heard.
Tyler doesn’t look stunned or angry. He laughs, and the throaty sound of it stirs a fire in my belly that shoots straight to my chest, drumming its way into my heart.
“Losers think about winners. But winners…” He pauses and thumbs back toward himself. “Winners think about winning.” Tyler laughs again and gives my shoulder a playful nudge, but the jarring movement sets off a tilt-a-whirl in my brain. The room spins, the lights blurring together in rainbowed arcs. The bass of the music pounds its rhythm in my temples. Too many cups of PJ and now a mammoth wave of swimmy-headed nausea bubbles in my gut.
“I don’t feel so good.”
Tyler gestures toward the door. “Fresh air?”
I nod with a quick glance back into the kitchen, but Jett’s disappeared from sight. A lump knits together in my throat, the only thing holding back the vomit at this point. The bile, mixed with a near-lethal dose of booze, sloshes in my belly, burning upwards into my esophagus.
Tyler helps me out the door, directing my stumbling feet, and sits me on the front steps. The spinning increases, the steps blurring together into a single piece, and I prop my head against the bannister, searching for stability.
“Cami!” Jett’s voice cuts through the darkness as he stomps down the stairs and squats by my side. “What are you doing out here?”
“She’s with me.” Tyler stands up, waving Jett off, then walks over and grabs my arm, his touch shooting chills over me. I wrench mine away.
Jett jumps to his feet, squaring off nose-to-nose with Tyler. “Like hell she is. She’s with me.”
My heart quadruples its pace. I’m with him. I want to latch onto his leg the way a little kid would, hugging it close to my body. Except that’s probably not a good idea since it appears he has several sets of legs, and I can’t tell which ones are real.
Damn alcohol.
“I’m warning you, Tyler.” Jett balls his fists against his thighs, lowering his voice to a near-growl. “Get the hell outta here. No one invited you to begin with.”
Tyler shrugs, holding his hands in the air. “Whatever. No big loss.” He backpedals down the steps, jumps in his car, and disappears down the road.
Before the gravel dust on the road settles, Jett stoops by my side. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? I turned around, and you were gone.”
“I didn’t think you’d notice.” My stomach lurches, and I wrap my arms around my middle to absorb the pain.
“I noticed, okay? Tyler’s not a good guy. He’d do anything to hurt me.”
“He wasn’t doing anything to you. He was talking to me.”
“Exactly.”
“How does that affect you?”
Jett deadpans, his nostrils flaring out. “This is a conversation for a different time. Not when you’re drunk. Now grab hold. I’m taking you upstairs.”
Jett wraps one arm around my back, one under my knees, and lifts me up. He carries me back inside and heads upstairs while I rest my head against his chest and let my fingers trace the outlines of his muscles through his shirt. I shouldn’t be touching him, but I can’t stop. The overwhelming desire and alcohol-fueled lack of inhibitions creates the perfect storm.
He sighs as his green eyes melt into mine. “Just so you know, it does affect me. You affect me, Cami.”
I wiggle backwards in his arms, pointing my finger in his face. “Why do you call me Cami?”
“Because CJ doesn’t fit you. It’s too hard, too abrupt. It doesn’t take into account all the things you keep hidden.” He smiles. “That, and I like the fact I’m the only one who calls you Cami. Would it be as special if everyone called you that?”
“No.” I grin, shaking my head, and press my cheek into his shirt. “You smell good. You usually smell like car exhaust and coconuts. Tonight, it’s different.”
“You’ve been smelling me?”
“Yeah.”
“What else have you noticed?”
“Lots of things.”
“Like?”
“Your chin dimple flattens out when you get mad. Out on the porch just now? Totally flat.” I pause, trying hard to keep my words from slurring together. “And your eyes get so green in the sun. Like deep jade nuggets. Oh, and I like it when you wear your jeans with the rip in the thigh ‘cause they make your butt look hot.”
Oh my God, why did I say that?
Jett laughs. “I’ll have to remember that.”
We come to a landing on the second floor, and Jett starts up another flight of steps. I glance around at the hallway’s blue walls to the door at the top of the stairs. “Where are we going?”
“To my room. You need to rest. You’re hammered.”
“Noooooo! I’m good.” I wave my hands erratically but have to stop when my head once again turns into a tilt-a-whirl. “Hey Jett…” I mumble.
“Yeah?”
“Do you like me?”
“Of course.”
“No, no, no. I mean do you like me like me?”
Jett frowns as he shifts his weight underneath me in order to grab the knob and swing open the door. “Cami, why don’t you—”
“Are you ever gonna k
iss me?”
Dear God, why did I ask that? Damn that stupid PJ to hell!
“What?” His eyes widen.
“Are…you…gonna…kiss…me?” I enunciate each word slowly, stabbing my finger at my mouth with each syllable. Please God, say this is a dream. That I’m not making a fool of myself. Still, the words pour out despite the crazy warning bells shrieking in my skull.
He pinches his lips tight and shakes his head. “Not tonight.”
Not tonight? Not tonight! The rejection washes over me like a red-hot flame. I wrestle myself from his arms, my jelly legs bending and flexing below me as my feet hit the carpet.
“Screw you, Jett Ramsey. Who needs you anyway? I should’ve listened…Rachel was right…you’re playing me like—” I stop and grab hold of the wall because the floor’s shaking. Everything’s shaking. The bile responds, burning in my throat, and I lurch toward the adjoined bathroom’s open door. “Oh God, I’m gonna throw up.”
I hug the porcelain and lose my supper and the reddish-colored hell juice. When I finish, I realize Jett is there, one hand on my back, the other holding my braid. He grabs a washcloth from the drawer, wets it, and holds it to my forehead, pulling me backward toward him. He rubs my arm, the silk from my blouse tickling my skin under his touch.
“I’ll take care of you.”
The anger leaves my body just as the alcohol did.
“I know you will, Jett.”
And then everything goes quiet.
Where the hell am I? And what’s that incessant buzzing noise? I pry open my eyes, the slivers of sunlight cutting through my pupils like knives, plunging straight into my brain.
The throbbing. Oh, the throbbing.
I fumble my hands beside me and find my phone buried in the soft folds of the cotton sheets. It buzzes against my skin, so I slide my finger over the screen and pull it to my ear, all without reopening my eyes to the blinding torture of day.
“Hello?” My parched mouth is dry and oddly sticky. Smacking my tongue against the roof of my mouth only exacerbates the effect.
“CJ. Thank God.”
“Gin?”
“You sound like day-old crap.”
“Ya think? What the hell happened last night? The last thing I remember…”
“Alcohol happened last night. A crap-ton of alcohol. You honestly don’t remember?”
“Most of it. The last thing was Jett carrying me upstairs and I asked him…Oh my God.”
“You asked him what?”
“Nothing.” I stumble from the bed, using my hands to brace myself against the wall. Jett’s bed in Jett’s room in Jett’s house. What in the hell am I doing here? And why do I remember asking him if he was going to kiss me?
Now I remember why getting drunk sucks. It’s all fun and games until you can’t walk straight or control your own actions. Like being shackled inside your own head and forced to watch yourself do and say stupid stuff at will. Not to mention the morning-after headache and embarrassment.
Note to self: Never drink again.
In the bathroom mirror, my reflection stares back at me—disheveled hair, smeared make-up, and puffy under-eye bags.
“You passed out on Jett’s bathroom floor. Both of y’all disappeared from the party, so Bo and I went upstairs to find you. Jett had your head in his lap. It was sweet.”
I’m so stupid.
Gin babbles on. After my throw-up session ended, Jett shut the party down and threw everyone out. Apparently, someone called Memaw, who, unlike most normal grandmothers, was thrilled I’d finally “cut loose.” Because I was sleeping (okay, passed out) in the safety of Jett’s house, Memaw had said she’d be by in the morning to pick me up.
I walk to the large triple windows in the bedroom overlooking the dunes and beyond that, the Atlantic. The packed driveway and roadside from last night is empty, no evidence in the daylight of the craptastic party that went down here a few hours ago.
“I don’t want to hear any more. I made an ass of myself.”
“I wish you could’ve seen Jett’s face when he was taking care of you, wiping your forehead with that cloth, holding your hair back. So, so sweet.”
That’s when it dawns on me. I’m in Jett’s bedroom, but where is he? There’s no note or anything. Maybe he had to go help at the docks since his dad’s out of town, or maybe he wants to avoid me this morning, afraid I’ll ask again for a kiss he so obviously doesn’t want to give.
CJ Ainsworth, the walking train wreck.
My face presses against the window as a Cabriolet pulls up to the front gate, heralded by three quick bleeps. “Memaw’s here. We’ll talk later.”
I grab my purse from the nightstand and dart down both staircases to the glass front door. The knob turns in my grasp and swings inward.
“What’s your hurry? Want some coffee?”
My heart plummets to my feet. Crap, he caught me. All I can think about is my reflection in the mirror this morning. Scary.
“I…I can’t. Memaw’s here.” The walk of shame would be much easier without him watching me, clumsy under the influence of a hurricane-sized hangover. His footsteps approach from behind, but I don’t turn around. Instead, my shoulders swallow my neck as I stare at the hardwood floors. “Thanks for helping me last night. See ya later,” I mumble, sprinting out the door and down the steps, never looking back and not allowing him a word about last night.
Memaw stares at me as I slide into the passenger seat, a smirk inching up her lips. “Must’ve been one hell of a night.”
“Can we get out of here, please?” I slam the door, shrinking against the seat and shielding my eyes from the murderous sun trying to hard-boil my brains. As Memaw pulls away, he’s there, standing on the porch, watching me leave.
Chapter Fifteen
Tink…Tink…Tink.
I sit up in my bed, the covers pulled tight around me. What’s that noise? Am I dreaming?
Tink…Tink. No, definitely real. Easing out from under the sheets, I tiptoe to my door and press my ear to the woodgrain when it happens again. Nope.
It’s coming from the window.
Tink…Tink…Tink.
I make it from door to window in three big leaps, unlatch the two brass locks, and slide the window open as another piece of pea gravel from the flowerbed pelts the siding.
The screen presses into my face as I squish closer to peer out below. Jett smiles up at me with a single white flower fisted in one hand and a palm-full of pebbles in the other. The moonlight gilds the messy spikes of his hair, lurching my heart into overdrive.
Nearly a dozen missed calls and texts sit unanswered on my phone because I couldn’t bring myself to face him and the embarrassing way I threw myself at him in a drunken rant. I’d asked him to kiss me. I sniffed his shirt and talked about how he smelled. A blaze ignites under my skin just remembering my slurred words and the way I’d clung to him after violently throwing up in the toilet.
And now he’s here, standing in the yard, forcing me to swallow the last crumbs of my pride as something inside melts like a marshmallow over an open fire.
“What are you doing?” My voice hovers barely above a whisper-yell so as not to wake Memaw, who’s sleeping upstairs in the bedroom above mine.
He drops the pebbles into the flowerbed, holds up one finger, then disappears from view. I squeeze the bottom tabs on the screen and slide it open, stretching out the open hole, my abdomen flattened against the sill. He’s nowhere to be seen, but the motion light in the parking slip under the house shines out through the privacy lattice, freckling the lawn in hexagonal patterns.
I dart to my bathroom mirror and flip on the light. Bed head’s an understatement. My braid isn’t so much a braid as it is a tangled mass of hair secured with an elastic band. More hair out than in. And then there’s the volcanic zit sprouted on the side of my nose. I clasp my palm across my mouth, breathe into it, and sniff. Ugh, stale breath.
A hairbrush, concealer, and mouthwash lay on the marble countert
op. All three are needed, but I only have time for one, so I loosen the mouthwash’s cap, take a swig, swish, spit, and then dash back to my window.
The curtains ripple in on themselves. The humid air assaults my face, the dampness clinging to my cheeks as I peer over the edge. A ladder is pushed against the house, and Jett’s halfway up.
“What are you doing here?”
A few rungs from the top, he pauses and smiles, genuine and familiar. “You wouldn’t pick up the phone or answer a text, and I needed to see you. To ask you something.”
“You could have just waited until tomorrow at work. Or maybe I would’ve answered…eventually…and you wouldn’t have to do crazy stuff, like sneak in houses with ladders.”
Jett snorts. “This from the girl who told me—and I quote—‘actions, not words.’”
I lean out on my elbows. “This from the boy who told me he didn’t have time to slow down?”
He climbs a few more rungs and leans in, his nose a mere fraction of an inch from mine, breath tickling my skin. “What can I say? You inspire me.”
His words race through my veins like fire, the tingly sensation swirling to my toes, which curl against the cold hardwood floor. He is so NOT what I wanted this summer, but he is everything I need. My embarrassment from earlier tears away like leaves in the wind, revealing an ache for something new.
For him.
I’m ready for him and anything he has to offer.
He darts one hand in the window and nods his head toward the ground. “Come on.”
Except that. I’m not ready for that.
Every muscle clenches. Me, go out the window with nothing between me and the ground but some tiny metal rungs? He’s insane. I gulp back the knot lodged in my throat and look at his hand, palm up and open. My eyes travel up his arm to his face.
I sigh and slip my hand in his. He squeezes it.
“I’m afraid I’ll fall.”
As Much As I Ever Could Page 12
