Kissing In Cars

by Sara Ney

  Dear lord, I wonder what he's thinking.

  Weston is watching me watch him, his dark chocolate eyes are hooded as if he's gotten sleepy. His dark inky eyelashes are sinfully long for a guy.

  Minutes tick by.

  Slowly - aguishly - he runs his tongue several times over the cut on his lower lip before reaching up and removing the ear buds.

  I can't stand it. I have to ask.

  "So...?" What did you think my mind is screaming.

  He thinks for a heartbeat then gives me a non-committed "You're right. I've never heard it."

  Wait. What?

  That's it? After all that buildup? Okay, so obviously the buildup was only on my end. But in any case, I feel disappointment. Really Molly, what did you expect? He's a guy. And all this talk of kissing has me hot and bothered. For real, I wouldn't fight him off if he suddenly decided to ravish me with kisses. After all, I haven't been kissed in ages, and I've almost forgotten what it feels like. And I'm not really sure what to say at this point, so I just continue eating my half eaten meal, which has gotten cold during our conversation.

  I rack my ravaged brain for a safe topic. "So,Weston. How did the scrimmage go today?"

  There. Safe enough.

  His eyebrows shoot up. "You weren't there?" he says and stops chewing. Obviously he's surprised - I can tell by the look on his face.

  On second thought, maybe not such a safe topic...

  "I was working. But... I usually don't go to the games, no." I can see by his confused expression that this is a foreign concept. He tips his head to the side, like a cocker spaniel. A girl not following his every move? Shocking! "Why do you seem so surprised?"

  "Why not?" he asks. His plate is completely empty so he picks up his glass of water, picks out the straw and, tipping his head back, chugs it downs.

  I can't help but admire the muscles of his collar bone, and the smooth area of skin just visible above the 'V' neck of the raggedy tee shirt.

  He sets his glass down with a loud 'thunk' and the abrupt sound snaps me out of my perusal.

  "Why not what?" Earth to Molly.

  "Why do you usually not come to the games?"

  I shrug. "I just... don't. I just don't think they're that big a deal."

  Weston's dark eyes bore into me like I've just delivered an insult. I can tell he's fighting back a sarcastic remark because the muscles in his clenched jaw tick. "Not a big deal?"

  I study him for a moment. His nostrils flare.

  Testosterone much?

  "You want the truth? Here it is: I prefer watching the NHL."

  Weston snorts his obvious skepticism with a laugh.

  Setting my napkin on the table, I lean forward with my elbows on the table and point to his mouth. I'm about to go in for the kill. "So....did you get that gash in your lip from a high stick, or... did some left wing run interference when you tried to light the lamp?"

  Causally, I lean back and wait (and for you non hockey lovers, I just asked him if he got nailed by someone's stick while trying to score a goal).

  Weston blinks.

  Then he blinks again.

  Okay, at this point you're probably thinking to yourself, 'what's he gonna say, what's he gonna do!?' And you wouldn't be alone, because I'm wondering too. But here's the thing: I don't stick around to find out.

  ***

  An old actress from the 1900's named Mae West once said, "When a girl goes bad, men go right after her." I read that quote once in Cosmo magazine and loved it so much I tore the page out, pinning it to the only space in my room where I'm allowed to hang things: a large bulletin board next to my desk.

  On the weekends when Jenna and Tasha (or any of our other friends) aren't with their boyfriends, one thing we've always loved to do is sit and read old back issues of magazines. In fact, we've been doing this for so many years I happen keep a laundry basket of old magazines in the back of my closet (which my mom has tried to throw out on numerous occasions). You know how it is: you tear out the pages with great quotes and cute guys...

  To be honest, most times I read Cosmo (or any other magazine targeted towards, let's face it, woman in their 20's) very little applies to me. For example:

  1. I don't need 50 sex tips to drive a man wild, because, well, I'm not having it.

  2. I don't need to know how to wear hair extensions without looking like I have Barbie Doll hair.

  3. And I certainly don't need the boyfriend quizzes because as we all know, I don't have one.

  Anyways, the Mae West quote has been hanging on my pin board for months and months now, and sometimes when I'm doing my homework, I'll glance up and read it. There have even been times it's inspired me to go after things I want. Not necessarily guys, but other things too, like class officer (I'm vice-president). Basically that short, sassy sentence has taught me not to be such a wimp.

  So here I am, halfway to my car in the parking lot of Kyoto Grill, when Weston McGrath - the boy everyone claims is such a hard ass he won't even date - comes chasing out after me.

  Just like I suspected he would.

  Like I hoped he would.

  "Molly, stop! Where are you going?" he catches up and steps into stride beside me. I continue walking, my car just a few yards away.

  I let out the breath I've been holding. "Look, I didn't mean to insult you back there. I'm sorry."

  "Is that what this is all about?"

  Um, no actually, I got up purposely to see if you'd follow me.

  And you did.

  It's gotten dark out, and the parking lot lamps are glowing above us. Only several vehicles are present, one of them a lime green Kawasaki crotch rocket. "That must be yours, huh? I wouldn't have taken you for a green guy - blue seems to be more your color."

  "Yeah, well, I let my little sister pick out the color. I'm always getting a rash of shit about it from the guys, so. Yeah." He runs his tan fingers through his hair. All at once I'm aware of Weston in a completely different way: as a sensitive older brother.

  "How old is she?"

  "Are you trying to change the subject?"

  I laugh. "Yes. Are you going to let me?" Since I have no idea what to say, I start digging for my keys as we approach my Jeep. Weston walks over and leans his shoulder against it, watching me with his arms crossed. Glancing up, I wonder if he owns any shirts with sleeves. Under the lamp light, the contours of his jaw and the angles of his arms are more defined, and his eyes look black.

  Ugh, Weston is so handsome my heart beats fast within my chest.

  Only the sound of cars driving by fills the air. Then finally, those noises are joined by the jingle of my car keys.

  "My sisters' name is Kendall. She's eleven."

  "Has she ever been on that thing?"

  "Hell no, I'd never take her on it. Not that my parents would actually let me. Once she begged me to drive her around the cul-de-sac in our subdivision, but..." He shrugs. "Besides, I'd feel horrible if anything ever happened while she was on the back of it."

  "I don't blame you. Those things can be scary." And sexy as hell.

  "Yeah, they can be if the driver isn't careful. My parents made me take a class, so..." He shrugs again.

  "So you're a safe driver?"

  "More like a responsible driver. I've never had a passenger, and I'm not like some of those assholes that rev their engines. Bikes don't have to be so damn loud, you know." He pauses. "So you know I'm dying to ask..." Weston's sentence trails off, the low timber of his voice filling the air.

  I suppose I could pretend not to know what he's talking about - feigning ignorance happens to be a talent of mine; a craft honed through years of lying for my idiot brother (yes, Matthew paid me - I consider lying for him one of my first paying jobs). Weston wants to know where all that hockey jargon came from, and if I actually know what any of it means.

  Can't say I blame him.

  "You know, I kind of want to hear you ask..." I tease.

  ...Because the sound of your voice is giving me goose bum
ps and makes me tingle.

  I enjoy teasing him, and truthfully, I could very well stand and literally listen to him talk all night. Here in this dimly lit parking lot, it feels like we are the only two people. Maybe it's just me, but the air has a...a crackle, and it definitely feels intimate. Almost like... there's anticipation stirring the air around us.

  I rest my back against the door of the Jeep so we're leaning side-by-side and I gaze up at the pitch black sky, watching for a shooting star. River Glen is mostly rural - the town isn't even considered a suburb of Chicago, which is over an hour away - so on a clear night like tonight the sky is crystal clear and perfect for stargazing. No smog from the City to block the view.

  "Okay. I'll bite. Where the hell did that come from back there?"

  I turn my head to face him and laugh out loud. "Is Mr. Big Bad Hockey Captain impressed?"

  "Shit yeah."

  Good, the voices inside my head scream.

  "Hmm, well, since you asked so nice... my brother plays for Madison and... my cousin is Travis Locke. Of... the Bruins."

  The Bruins won the Stanley Cup last year - and in case you didn't know, the Stanley Cup is like the Super Bowl of Hockey.

  Weston lets out a low whistle and looks at me with a new kind of interest; shock, excitement, and little bit predatory. He shakes his head slowly. "How did I not know this?"

  I shrug. "Well, Matthew is five years older, so we would have only been freshman when he was a freshman at Madison. Technically he's a fifth year Senior now, so it's his last year playing."

  "I've actually heard of him. He's awesome. And Travis Locke is your cousin?" He lets out another whistle through those full lips. His eyes are brilliant. "Wow," he says slowly. "So... Wow. You actually know what you're talking about?" Unexpectedly he braces himself against the Jeep with both arms steadied against the cold metal on either side of my head. His face is bent mere inches from mine. Just a little closer Weston, come on... "Or do you just have a few things memorized for show?"

  "You still don't believe I know what I'm talking about?" I force the question out in a soft whisper, a lump forming as my throat as his face inches closer.

  He whispers back, "Maybe I just don't think you're the type."

  Gasp! How dare he use my own words against me?! Outrageous!

  I'm giddy.

  The gauntlet has been thrown, the challenge accepted. I draw my next sentence out slowly. "Oh really...and what type am I?"

  Weston draws closer still, and now I can feel his breath on my face.

  It's warm and minty. Funny, I don't remember him chewing on a mint...

  He is so close that as my eyes scan his face, I notice a small scar in the corner of his left eyebrow... one on the bridge of his nose... another on his chin. Stubble darkens his jaw; instinctively my hands want to cradle the hard lines of his face. He's making me want push him up against the light post and maul him. In a parking lot.

  I inhale. He smells like soap and after shave.

  Weston cocks his eyebrow and chews on his lower lip in thought. I see the wheels turning in his head. "Okay. What are the walls surrounding the ice rink called?"

  I roll my eyes and look off into the distance. "Pfft. Please, don't insult me. They're called the boards."

  He gives an undignified snort. "All right, that was beginners luck. Anyone could've gotten that one."

  "Beginners luck? Really, Weston?" I sass him. "If you're going to discount my answer, then why did you ask?"

  He eyes roam my face and land on my lips as he says, "Change on the fly."

  My legs are a little wobbly now, like jelly, but I manage to roll my eyes again and sigh. "Substituting a player during the game." Is that my voice shaking? I can't tell but I pray that it's not.

  We stay this way, Weston hovering over me, his large capable hands framing my head on the cold metal of my car. The only sound between us is our labored breathing. It's like he can't make his mind up about whether to go all the way or pull back. And I...have never wanted a kiss so bad in my entire life.

  But something is holding him back and his face backs away slowly.

  Finally, Weston whispers "Damn."

  Yeah, exactly.

  Damn.

  Chapter Eight

  MOLLY

  "Shut. Up. You can quote me on that." - Jenna

  "Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute - start over. Are you telling me Weston McGrath sat and ate a meal with you? And you didn't pass out and die? OMG I would have choked and died right there on the spot. Fainted dead away." Jenna is sitting at my desk, straddling the chair and staring holes into me with her intensity. On my way home from dinner, she was my first phone call as I left the parking lot.

  And, of course, she insisted on coming straight over.

  She pounced on me as soon as I walked into the house, and hasn't stopped talking since.

  I shift uncomfortably under her scrutiny (I'm not good with all the attention on me). "Well I almost did, so what does that tell you."

  "Okay, so you're sitting there enjoying your noodles, when....." Jenna doesn't let up, waving her hand in the air in a way that means 'go on.' She wants me to relive every detail. Over and over. Honestly, I've told her all this already.

  Every... wonderful... delicious... detail.

  But being the good friend that I am, I indulge her.

  Again.

  "So. I'm sitting there and when I look up, there he is."

  "Shut up."

  "Yes." (Very dramatic. She is loving this.) "Then he walks over and asks if he can sit down. He said, and I quote 'Mind if I keep you company?' And who am I to deny him?"

  "As if you would!"

  "So then I forgot I had my iPod on -"

  "Was he a jerk?" Jenna interrupts, leaning forward, tipping the chair up on its front legs. I bite my lip and gaze at it nervously. She is so going to fall, or the chair legs are going to break off.

  "No. He was..." Dreamy. "Nice. It was pleasant."

  "Ew. Nice is boring. Was he coming on to you? Did he flirt?"

  "Nice isn't boring, Jenna. We had fun." Actually, I wanted to climb into his lap.

  "You know what Molly? I live for this shit. The least you can do is humor me for crying out loud. Give me something! Anything! Don't use words like 'nice' and 'fun!" She throws her arms in the air, exasperated.

  My phone beeps.

  Picking it up, a number pops up onto my screen that I don't recognize, but I immediately know who it's from.

  I think my heart just stopped.

  212-555-9083: are you coming to my game this week?

  How on earth did Weston get my number!? I look up at Jenna, who is staring at me expectantly.

  I swallow hard.

  "Why do you look like you just crapped your pants?" she asks crassly. Hey, I didn't say she was my classiest friend.

  "Er...." And suddenly, Jenna is jumping - no, tripping - off of the chair and is bouncing on the bed next to me. The chair actually falls and hits the desk, toppling unceremoniously and landing on its side. She snatches my phone up and begins shrieking.

  "Holy shit! Holy Shit Molly! Weston McGrath has the hots for you! For you, my best friend!" She clutches the phone to her chest and squeals.

  Loudly.

  "Shhh, shhhh! Oh my god, be quiet will you?" I'm hissing at her now, but she could care less. She carries on like One Direction has just walked into the room. I keep shushing her. "Jenna, shut up before my parents hear you."

  "You have to respond." She gasps. "Put 'hell yeah baby' and then -"

  I start laughing because she's actually being serious.

  She is always making me laugh. "Give me the damn phone back you freak." I sit there, biting my lip. Wait. What do I want to say? After thinking about it for a few more seconds and swatting Jenna away several times, I start typing.

  Me: I would consider it...but I don't even know who this is :(

  There. That sounds flirty but not too enthusiastic.

  "Why did you
put that?!" Jenna shouts, flapping her arms in exasperation. "You should just tell him you're going! Ugh, you're so going to ruin this, I just know it." She accuses, pacing around my room like a caged tiger.

  My phone dings again.

  212-555-9083: you know who this is.

  Me: i do? weird. i don't recognize this number

  212-555-9083: you come to my game and ill score a goal for you.

  Me: (rolling my eyes) one goal? i *might* get out of bed for a hat trick

  "Oh my god, why would you say that?! What's a hat trick? You are such a weirdo! Program him into your phone already, would you? This is driving me nuts!"

  "You are driving me nuts," I say to her. My stomach is in knots and my hands are actually sweating. Sweating if you can believe it. Ugh, gross. "A hat trick is a hockey term, Jenna. It means one person scores 3 goals in one game."

  Duh.

  I am so nervous. I click on Weston's phone number, quickly adding him to my Contacts.

  About fifteen torturous minutes goes by before he responds. Doesn't he know how rude it is to keep a girl waiting like that?

  Weston: ill see what i can do

  Well then.

  Chapter Nine

  WESTON

  "If you weren't such a douche, maybe you'd score off the ice too." - Random Jackass

  I can't help but wonder if she'll show up.

  So far, after scanning the crowd like a whipped puppy I haven't caught sight of her. And believe me, I've been watching.

  Taking a few minutes to remove my helmet, I am standing in the sin-bin (otherwise known as the Penalty Box) for hooking an opposing player with my stick. The reprieve is only two minutes, but it's giving me back the energy that I need to get back in the game.

  My hair is sticking to my forehead from the sweat dripping down my forehead, and there is blood on my tongue. The gash in the corner of my mouth must have torn when my opponent elbowed me in the chin; the same player who was talking trash during the face-off at the beginning of the game.