Kissing In Cars

by Sara Ney

  KISSING IN CARS

  Sara Ney

  Copyright © 2014 Sara Ney

  All the following work is owned and Copywrited by Sara L. Hassinger Ney and may not be duplicated or copied in any form.

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  MOLLY

  "The best feeling is when you look at him, and he's already staring. On second thought, that can be kind of creepy..." - Jenna, best friend.

  First off, I want to say how bored I am just sitting here.

  There are a million things that I could be doing right now (such as homework) but honestly I don't have the motivation. For the sake of argument, we'll call it a run of the mill case of boredom... and, for a good solid twenty minutes I've done nothing but stare at the large industrial clock on the wall, listening to the faint tick-tick-ticking sound.

  You know that saying "like watching paint dry?"

  Yeah. This is worse.

  This is like waiting for your second topcoat of nail polish to dry. You know, when you can't do anything but just sit there waiting and waving your hands in the air, trying to make wind because you need it dry now but don't want to smudge it.

  Time just isn't drying it fast enough but you have stuff to do...

  I shift in the stiff wooden chair, slouching down behind the table because my left butt cheek is beginning to fall asleep. Could I be any more uncomfortable? I mean, if they had these crappy chairs in the library explicitly to torture us, it is definitely working. It's 90 degrees outside, and not much better inside even with air conditioning (because the school is so old) and I'm wearing a short jean skirt today: a huge mistake with this humidity. No doubt my rear is going stick to the seat when I get up.

  Ugh. There's nothing worse than a sweating, sticky, skirt butt. Well, or shorts. Have you ever been in a car with leather seats on a hot day, and you stick to the seat? That's what my thighs feel like right now.

  It's so gross.

  The library is quiet, and because it's Friday no one else in study hall seemed to be focusing either. Ericka Pierce, a freshman sitting at the next table, is texting (which is, hello, strictly forbidden) under her Geometry book. The tapping from her phone is almost making me insane.

  Tap.

  Tap tap tap.

  Every so often she looks up at me. Frowns. Than starts feverishly texting again.

  And I'm over here like, 'Um, okay...'

  I literally cannot tune the sound out!

  In front of me is a hot pink 3-ring binder and thick AP European History textbook that was open to the chapter on Rome. Why am I taking AP European History my senior year? Dear lord, don't ask me why! I must have slipped into a coma the day we registered for classes, because:

  1. I hardly study at all for this class, and

  2. I have absolutely no interest at all in European History (sorry Europe).

  I tap my boring yellow number 2 pencil and blow the bangs out of my eyes from the side of my mouth, pull out a sheet of loose leaf paper, and start doodling.

  Heart.

  Star.

  Square box.

  My initials, M and W, which stands for Molly Wakefield. Then I write "Molly (Heart's) Boys". Unfortunately, there is no one particular boy I'm doodling about. My best friend Jenna says I have the worst luck because I'm too picky. I'm not sure what that is actually supposed to mean, considering my dating pool is basically a group hormonal high school boys who think it's funny to burp the alphabet. Example: Last week in biology this guy named Brad Bosner actually made a spit ball and blew it at the substitute. He's seventeen years old, for crying out loud - who does that?!

  So obviously, you can see what are my options are.

  Not. Good.

  I have no doubt "Spit ball Bosner" would take me on a date in a heartbeat, but do I want him to? Hell no. In my opinion, he's a good representation of what I had to work with.

  So no. I have nothing to doodle except hearts, boxes and my own initials.

  Here's the thing: I'm not at all unfortunate looking. I definitely lucked out in the looks department, and guys actually do find me really attractive. But let's be perfectly honest: guys aren't tripping over themselves to take me out. And I seem to have one other problem - the wrong guys find me attractive.

  I pat down my auburn hair, which my mom says I've been blessed with (if you want my opinion, auburn is just a fancy name for "almost red"). It's long, glossy, and hangs just past my shoulder blades and if I'm lucky it has a natural wave. Today I'm wearing it down, but normally I keep it pulled back in a ponytail because I'm lucky enough to have parents that bought me a Jeep Wrangler (thanks Mom and Dad) on my sixteenth birthday, and let's face it - it's easier to drive that thing without hair whipping in my face. So yeah, my hair is almost always in a ponytail.

  I have clear green eyes, a pert nose, and of course, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose.

  Beautiful? No.

  Pretty? Debatable.

  Cute, yes.

  At least, that's my opinion of myself.

  Once again, I hear the tap, tap, tapping from Ericka's phone. Seriously? Ugh. I want to lean over, smack the phone out of her hand and send it sailing across the library. Normally I don't have such intense thoughts about people, but this chick is pushing all my buttons and she doesn't even realize it - which is super annoying. Shaking my head in disgust, I lean back and put my hands behind my head, lacing my fingers together for support. My tan - and yeah, sweaty - legs are crossed under the table and as I point my toes to stretch I can feel my already short skirt hiking up my thighs.

  Eventually I lean down to unbuckle the adorable espadrille wedges on my feet, and as I do, the hair on the back of my neck prickles - I get the distinct feeling that I'm being watched.

  How cliché, right?

  Slowly I raise my eyes, covertly looking around without sitting up completely (kind of wishing I had a baseball cap on to conceal my own scrutiny) and sure enough, within seconds I've identified the source of my discomfort: there sitting across the library with his eyes locked on my legs is wicked Weston McGrath.

  I swallow a lump in my throat as he slowly does what has been described in my smutty teen novels as 'raking his gaze' up my seated torso. And even though he is lucky enough himself to be donning a ball cap (so obviously I can't see much of his face) I can see that he is chewing on his lower lip.

  It's excruciating.

  Infuriating.

  And so exciting.

  What the heck is he looking at me like that for?

  Watching him watch me is like.... like a train wreck that I can't peel my eyes from, and holy shit I would never admit to anyone, but he's giving me goose bumps. Major goose bumps, all over my legs and arms.

  P
anic: I wonder if he notices.

  Here's the thing: I've never actually met or talked to Weston, but let me tell you this: he has a terrible reputation. And by 'terrible' I basically just mean he's a real asshole, totally full of himself, has no respect for anyone - and of course, the quintessential label as a player.

  God do I hate that term.

  Player.

  How dumb.

  I mean, seriously... What does it even mean (before I get all Wikipedia on you)? The guy is what, eighteen years old? Let's be real here: how many relationships and people could he have even realistically slept with to be called that? Hey, be my guest and label a college aged guy a 'player' - at least he has the age to back it up.

  So while he's been given the label as one, I'm not sure if I actually believe it's true, skeptic that I tend to be. I myself tend to be the complete opposite, and will be lucky if I get a date this year to Prom, let alone to the movies, unless it's with some creep.

  But still, that thrill is there as he sits in his seat checking me out.

  Calling him a bad boy is sooo cliché, and makes me want to gag, but I guess it's a fair assessment. And sure, it's a tad harsh calling him an asshole (because in actuality he's a very popular guy); but Weston gets into more trouble (so I've heard) and dates more girls (again, this is hearsay) than anyone I've ever heard gossiped about. Not to mention, apparently he's a hardcore bad ass.

  Here's what I know:

  1. Apparently, last year his parents bought him a crotch rocket and he races it down a dead end road on the weekends (Well, I don't know this to be a fact exactly...).

  2. Last month when he turned 18, he got a tattoo covering his entire arm (a sleeve, they call it). I haven't seen it up close (obviously) but I've heard about it from plenty of people. How many kids in high school even have regular tattoos, let alone a whole arm full of them?

  3. Weston once got punched square between the eyes during a hockey game and never fell to the ice. His nose and eyes were black and blue for weeks.

  4. He never attends school functions. Not basketball games. Not dances. He doesn't join clubs. I don't even know if he has a job. Weston McGrath plays hockey and that. Is. It.

  5. He has never been seen with a date in public, and I use the term 'date' very loosely. Puck bunnies (i.e. Girls whose sole purpose in life is to sleep with a hockey player) are constantly hanging on him, but I don't think he's ever taken anyone out before. My guess is he's doing a whole lotta screwing and dumping.

  I mentioned my best friend Jenna before, and she just happens to be one of those girls fascinated by Weston. Unfortunately, I am forced to hear all sordid details about him from her whenever they cross paths. In fact, she never shuts up about it - like she's his personal factotum.

  The ironic part of all this? Jenna has a boyfriend (poor Alex Mitchell).

  Anyways, if she spots him anywhere, she will literally drive you crazy with her yammering on and on about Weston McGrath and how hot he is. I think if he ever approached her she'd toss her cookies on his black leather boots from all the built up anticipation and adoration.

  Pfft, black leather boots.

  I glance over at his feet.

  Yup, he's got 'em on.

  To be honest, he's scares me a little. I'm naturally a smiley, sunny person who gravitates towards happy people - like my bestie, for example: she's got such a cheery disposition that it's hard for me to ever have a bad day. Believe me when I say this: I've never seen Weston McGrath smile. But Molly, you're thinking - you just said you don't hang out with him! Well you and I both know you can tell when someone isn't normally a naturally, cheery person, you know?

  So, his scowl must be a permanent expression meant to scare the shit out of people.

  Or maybe it's tattooed on like the rest of him. Also, I wonder if maybe he's gotten his teeth bashed out from playing hockey...

  Weston's a forward on the team, and has been captain since freshman year which... is really incredible.

  Like I said, he's a bad ass.

  He still hasn't looked away and I feel the heat rising up my neck. Whenever I get nervous this hideous rash forms on my chest. It's really embarrassing, so I look away and sit up straight, clamping my legs together. The last thing I need is him trying to look up my skirt.

  Pervert.

  Really, is it hot in here?

  Ugh, suddenly I can barely stand it. And knowing that Weston McGrath is looking at me makes me all the more overheated. Abruptly, I am frantically trying to come up with a list of friends with pools in their backyards that I can immediately go jump in - yes, fully clothed.

  Like, I am that hot.

  I use all my self-control to not fan myself.

  Fumbling with my papers, I begin stuffing the doodles back inside my binder and slam it shut. Glancing up at the rusty old library clock, it says I have less than five minutes to sit here. How long he's been watching me. Should I look up? Oh my god what if he's still over there staring at me. I will die... a slow death.

  Well, okay.

  I'll die a 'less-than-five-minute' death because that's as long as we have to sit here before the bell rings.

  I take a chance and raise my eyes.

  Yup, there he is, staring at my face with his lips pulled into a smirk, the dark hair under his ball cap curling up slightly over his ears. The sleeves are cut off the bright blue A&F shirt he's wearing, and as he leans back lazily with his arms crossed, it draws attention to his biceps, which look... insanely ripped. Tall at 6'2 (I know this because I've seen his stats in the school athletic program - you know, the one they hand out before games).

  Tan skin.

  Broad shoulders.

  His face clearly hasn't been shaved today: a dark shadow along his jaw and upper lip are unmistakable, even from where I'm sitting. Dear lord is it...sexy.

  Really, Weston looks more like a man than most men, and less of an 18 year old boy.

  Nope. Calling him a boy would be wrong, wrong, wrong on so many levels...

  I wonder what he's thinking right now as I stare blatantly back, taking in the large black tattoo covering his entire right arm: it starts halfway up his forearm and stops at his shoulder. Maybe he's sitting there thinking I'm a goody-two-shoes.

  His eyes look black from here, and oh god, his lips are amazing.

  Torture.

  Chapter Two

  WESTON

  "Son, mark my words. Staring is the best and quickest way to get yourself kicked out of Victoria's Secret." - Brian McGrath

  The bell rings for the last period of the day to end, and I slide my books off the crappy library table. Geez, buy some new goddamn furniture already, I can't help thinking. Rolling my shoulders, I take a minute to stretch my upper body. I'm stiff and sore from slouching through the entire fifty minute study hall, and bruised from last nights practice; some dickhead on the other team checked me into the boards of the rink so hard I was up icing it most of last night.

  And it was only a scrimmage.

  Under the brim of my ball cap, I continue watching as Molly Wakefield tries to scoot her ass out of her chair - in that short jean skirt, it's pretty obvious she's trying not to give me a crotch shot.

  I watch her anyways, just in case she does. Hey, I'm always looking on the bright side of things.

  Damn, she's got a great pair of legs - ones I've tried not to appreciate the entire period because I have a shit ton of homework. I cannot afford any distractions; especially not my senior year, and not with my schedule.

  School.

  Hockey practice.

  Hockey games.

  Repeat.

  But seriously...her legs are fucking amazing. Long, tan and toned, Molly must have been overheating during this entire class period because there's a slight sheen to her skin that resembles an... afterglow.

  I can't take my eyes off her.

  Jesus Christ, what the hell am I talking about? Afterglow?

  I sound like a douchebag.

  She knows I'm watchin
g her, and yeah, it's completely obvious she's embarrassed. How do I know this, you're asking yourself? Well for one, she's avoided all eye contact with me for the entire class period, which is fifty minutes. Not to mention she's hustling out of here like her panties are on fire; which of course, makes me think of her in nothing but underwear.

  I'm visualizing a low rise thong.

  And here's another thing I keep asking myself: Why the fuck have I never noticed her before?

  Sure, I know who she is. I think everyone does: she's pretty, popular and her dad is on the school board. I've seen her in passing - like in the hallway - but I guess I've never stopped to really look at her. Oh that's right; girls are hanging on me all the time so I never have the chance.

  I trail out of the library behind Molly, taking in her features from her head to her fine ass. Her hair is loose and hanging halfway down her back, swaying gently as she walks. It's this really pretty color brown...not red and not brown. I don't know what the hell color it is, but I like it.

  A lot.

  Unexpectedly she turns and looks back at me. Our eyes connect but her stare remains impassive, which surprises me. I feel my eyebrows shoot up into my forehead because I don't often get blank stares from girls. Mostly when they look at me they're trying to appear sexy - licking their lips, batting their eyes, gushing uncontrollably - which drives me fucking nuts. I'm not entirely lead around by what's in my pants.

  I've got news for you ladies: Desperation is not an attractive quality.

  Molly disappears into the crowd, and I stop.

  Hesitating for the briefest of seconds, I finally turn in the opposite direction and head towards my locker.

  Chapter Three

  MOLLY

  "Don't flatter yourself buddy! I wasn't looking at you,

  I was checking out your truck." - Jenna

  "A few of us are going to the lake, you wanna come?" asks Jenna. We're standing at my locker where I'm both collecting my homework and shoving books into the tiny cramped space. I hold back some papers from falling out with my palm and quickly slam it shut.

  "Well... I hadn't really planned on it, no. My parents aren't home so I kind of wanted the house to myself for a few hours. You know how it is...." I shrug and stand there shifting my weight, wanting to hit the road. I mean seriously, is there anything better than having your parents out of the house? My mom, who has been a stay-at-home-mom since my brother was born, is usually home most afternoons. If she isn't home when I walk in the door, she's usually home shortly after.