And look at that: no bra. How convenient. She must shop at the same can’t-wear-a-bra-with-this store as Savannah.
My eyes roll back on an unimpressed sigh. I can’t take anymore; it’s like watching live porn. Not that I’ve ever watched porn, but I’m guessing I’m not far off.
I cast a sidelong glance at Kingston, and am about to tell him I’m leaving just as Ms. Flasher chooses him.
It was bound to happen—any girl with eyes would choose Kingston. I’m surprised it took this long.
“Kiiingston,” she purrs, eating him up with a look of pure lust. “I dare you to come over here and kiss the hell outta me.”
His eyes flicker to mine, question and worry swimming in their depths. “Echo, I can’t take a shot. I can’t drink and have your parents smell it on me—or worse, drive.”
“You’re absolutely right.” I hitch my shoulders, as though the dull sting inside me isn’t quickly building to paralyzing levels. I want to say to him, “You don’t have to do either. It’s a stupid game—not mandatory.” But even more so, I want him to refuse on his own. Why would he do that, though, after wanting to play the game in the first place?
“Echo?” He nudges me, the pleading in his eyes almost enough to persuade me to rescue him, like he’s begging me to.
But then I think of the times when I know my eyes have asked the same of him—Rescue me, Kingston. Say something, anything, to save me from feeling like a smitten little fool of a girl who misread your signals—only to have him ignore it.
So I put up my guard, like he’s been training me over and over to do, and answer him hollowly. “Guess you better go kiss the hell outta her then.”
“Let’s go, Hawthorne! You’re holding up the game!” Clay prods loudly. “Hell, you’ve fucked half the town already. What’s a kiss matter?”
“I’m sorry,” Kingston whispers to me.
Sorry for what? Is he sorry he’s just been accused of having slept with half the town, that he has to kiss her, or both?
He stands and takes slow steps toward the girl. She’s waiting impatiently with a huge smile on her face, needlessly pushing her chest out. We’ve all already seen ‘em, dumbass.
I don’t know what he’s sorry for, nor do I know whether he kisses her deeply and slowly, running his hands through her hair, or hard and fast—because I’m out the door and hightailing it to my truck before he even makes it all the way to her.
Chapter 17
“Echo, wait!”
Guess that answers one question. He must’ve kissed her hard and fast if he’s running after me so soon.
“Christ, Echo, would you just bloody stop?” I hear his steps pounding on the pavement, doubling mine, his voice sounding closer now.
He’s going to catch me…and then what do I say? “Why the hell does it feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut?” “Do I want you so badly because I can’t have you?” “Is this yearning for you that continues to creep up on me, no matter how many times I tell myself we can’t be anything more than friends, even real?”
I’m at my truck, but I don’t jump in. I stand frozen, facing the door, keys in hand. And the resentment, confusion, and pain coursing through my entire body turn into something fiery and intoxicating as he comes to stand right behind me.
He’s panting in deep, husky breaths that ruffle my hair and singe my neck.
“Will you turn around and look at me, please?”
“Did you kiss her?”
Why this one kiss, among what I assume are countless others he’s had in this town, bothers me so much, I don’t know. But it does.
“Turn around and ask me to my face. Then I’ll answer you.”
I don a mask of indifference (or so I hope), and turn slowly around to face him.
His eyes are a deep, smoldering gray as he moves closer, forcing me back against the side of my truck. He braces his arms on either side of my head, trapping me in the cage of his massive frame. And then he lowers his face so our lips are too close, our breaths mingling.
I’m imprisoned in his gaze, his scent, and his powerful body looming over mine. And there’s not a slice of fear in me—only the need for answers as to what’s happening between us, and whether it’s only me feeling it this time.
“Now, then,” he says in a low, gravelly voice. “Ask me again.”
I lick my lips, gulping down any second-guessing. “Did you kiss her?”
“No.”
No? While I very much like that answer, is that all he has to say?
His eyes remain trained on mine as the silence between us lingers. If I leaned forward, just an inch, our lips would touch. I’d finally know how his feel, taste…if it’s really all I’ve imagined it would be, or just a need to quench my curiosity.
“Kingston, I—”
“I know, Love, me too. God damn it,” he growls, suddenly grabbing his hair with both hands. “Me. Too. Fuck!”
I don’t even know everything I was about to say, or am feeling, so I certainly don’t understand exactly what’s going on with him right now. I’ve never seen him like this: pacing, angry…like a caged beast.
“Get in your truck and drive home,” he orders. “I’ll follow you.”
“But—”
“No.” He stops pacing and drops his head and shoulders, rubbing hard at the back of his neck. “Please don’t say anything else. Just get in your truck and go.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
I do as he begs, using the drive time to replay the scene in my head. And by the time I pull into my driveway, I no longer feel rejected or bewildered. I have clarity, and finally understand what just passed between us.
I’m not alone in this battle of craved push and forbidden pull.
“Echo Victoria Kelly.”
My father’s booming voice stops me right outside his bedroom door.
“Yes, sir?”
“Did you have a nice time?”
Um. Never in a million years would that have been my guess as to what he’d say next.
“Honestly?”
“Always, young lady.”
“No, not really.”
He laughs. Laughs. “I’m glad to hear it. And Kingston—was that him pulling in the driveway behind you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Either of you drink?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s good. No more parties for you—especially ones hosted by a male junior in college. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gotta love small towns; I’m sure he knew I was there before I even walked through the door. And he knew who was throwing it! I was there, even asked, and didn’t manage to nail down that piece of information.
“Good night, Echo. Good night, Kingston.”
He’s behind me now, unable to hide those heavy-booted footsteps from my dad.
“Good night, sir,” Kingston clips before walking right past me, straight to his room.
~~~~~
It’s Savannah’s incessant texting that wakes me. I roll over and read her messages, but don’t reply. I have nothing to say to her yet.
But when I notice the time, I’m shocked into a sitting position. I slept in pretty late. It had taken me a while to finally fall asleep—after I may have purposely stayed up for a bit, hoping Kingston would come talk to me.
But he hadn’t. Beyond that, though, I don’t remember it being a restless night.
I throw on a robe over my pajamas and head downstairs to apologize for missing breakfast, only to find the house quiet and empty. But there’s a plate of covered food and a note from my mom on the counter.
Sammy’s Boy Scout trip’s today. Be back late tonight. Dinner in fridge, just heat it up. Love, Mom.
That’s right: Sammy’s troop has a hike and campfire-awards thing today, which must leave me with the house to myself since there are no sounds of Kingston stirring anywhere. The twinge of disappointment this brings also no longer surprises me.
Guess I’ll work on my r
outine. Definitely won’t be calling Savannah to hang out.
I grab a piece of toast off the plate, then head back upstairs to take a shower. And since I have the place to myself, I turn on some music; “Here” by Alessia Cara is up first. Yes, I can relate to these lyrics.
My head’s tilted back, eyes closed as I rinse the conditioner from my hair, when it hits me: The song I hear now—”Dare You to Move” by Switchfoot—isn’t part of the playlist I chose.
He’s here. And his song choice isn’t just a clever play off the game from last night. It’s so much bigger than that.
I turn off the water and wrap a towel around my head, then put my robe on slowly, biding my time in deciding on my response.
He’s right on the other side of the door, waiting in my room. I can feel him. There’s no music now, either; it’s total silence for our stand-off. He’s dared me to move—to open the door and meet him in the middle.
I don’t open it yet, though, gathering my thoughts and composure before removing the safety of the wooden barricade.
“I have a robe on.” No idea why that’s what I squeak out.
“I know,” he answers simply.
“I’m not doing...I mean—”
“Ah, Love, not at all. Only a fool would rush through the best part: the dance.”
I smile at his metaphorical and meaningful choice of words as he continues.
“I have an idea. Once you come out here and agree to it, I’ll leave you to dress.”
I crack open the door and peek through, my hand clutching my robe closed even though I’ve already tied it in a double knot. Just in case.
He gives me a devilish yet friendly smile, beckoning me to come all the way out with a crook of his finger.
Lord, have mercy. That single gesture has my mind zig-zagging between right and wrong, shy and emboldened—all fragmenting until the pieces swirl together in one big, hazy circle.
“Echo, come here. I have no intention of pouncing on you the minute your parents leave the house that they’ve graciously opened to me.” He winks.
His smoldering eyes contradict his words, as does the hard bob of his Adam’s apple, but he’s telling the truth; I can feel, and trust, the honesty between us.
I step out and lift my chin. “There, I moved. Dare accepted, and completed. Now what?” I manage to sound confident and unaffected, even though I’m a fluttering mess inside.
“Now, I’d like to ask that you spend the day with me—show me what this off-roading is all about.”
“I…can do that.”
And I can. I need to. It’s time for me to prove to myself that I’m perfectly capable of spending time with my amorous next-room neighbor without things being strained or awkward. Because let’s face it: Neither of us is going anywhere anytime soon, so we have to get past the prohibited elephant in the room. I’d rather learn how to douse the flame he ignites within me with just a look than have to avoid him altogether. I’m not willing to sacrifice all the other things he brings out in me, too: zest, laughter…an easy happiness.
“Smashing!” He stops at my door. “I’ll see you downstairs. And bring a jacket—looks like it might rain.”
~~~~~
Might rain? Yeah, and we might return to find the house having floated away in the torrential downpour we’re currently driving through.
“Motherfucker!” Kingston shouts when his truck’s tires slam back down to the ground. His grin is wide, eyes bright. “I’ve been missing out!”
“Um…did you just say motherfucker?” I die laughing, not only because it’s a big reaction to waste on off-roading, but because nothing he says can really seem out of place when mixed with his enticing accent.
He looks at me and winks.
“Don’t look at me! Watch the road!” Panic laces my every word, and I point at the windshield. “Just keep your eyes straight ahead, before you ram us into a tree.”
“I thought American girls liked a dirty mouth,” he says, jerking the wheel a hard right and splattering mud all over my window.
My palm is sweaty, fingers clinging so tightly to the “Oh shit” handle that my knuckles are sore. “Don’t think you’ve been in the States long enough to judge all us girls.”
“Perhaps,” is all he says as the truck bounces up and down over fallen tree branches, throwing my strapped-in body around like a crash test dummy.
I’ve been off-roading once before, with Clay and Sebastian, but it wasn’t raining or muddy. And now, with the storm taking a short break but still brewing over us and this truck knocking me around so hard that my adrenaline is not only pumping but my face aches from the smile that refuses to falter, it’s a lot different—in more ways than one. I’m fairly confident we’re going to tip over at any time, but I haven’t asked him to slow down or turn around once.
“Ah, here we go!” Kingston’s voice carries an unsettling excitement, and when I follow his gaze, my entire body stiffens.
“No!” I’m shouting, despite my growing smile. “No way! We’ll flip! Or get stuck at the bottom! Or, I don’t know…die!”
He revs the engine, rattling us around even more as he speeds up and heads for a giant rock-covered hill with who knows what waiting on the other side.
Now I have the dirty mouth. “Oh, fuck!” I lower my head, afraid to watch, but one of his hands leaves the wheel to raise it back up.
“I’ve got you,” he tells me, his eyes sincere.
I’d mention, again, how I’d prefer his eyes on the road and both hands on the wheel, but I’m okay with us flipping or wrecking…as long as he’s looking at me like this when we do.
And rather than placing the hand touching me back on the steering wheel, where his other is nearly bending the metal circle with his deadly grip, he places it in mine. And I still don’t comment on the side of safety, or stop him. I clutch his hand tightly in mine as we jostle around the cab while climbing the hill, my eyes now wide open.
When we smack down at the bottom, his hand leaves mine to control the wheel. There’s an idea, I think, snickering to myself.
After several pushes on the gas, where I can hear the tires uselessly spinning faster and faster but he obviously can’t, he gives me a look of humored desperation.
“We seem to be stuck.”
I stare at him, “Ya think?” on the tip of my tongue. But I never say it, because we both just end up laughing.
“So,” he says between attempts to catch his breath, “you’re the off-roading expert. What do you suggest we do now?”
“We could wait out the rest of the storm that’s coming, like a couple of pansies, or…” I open my door, sucking in the fresh, damp air. “Make a break for it while we can and find something to put under the tires for traction. Come on.”
I jump out.
And land flat on my ass.
Kingston gets out and walks over, not landing in the mud on his ass. He stands over me, shaking his head and laughing wildly.
I try to get up several times, each one unsuccessful albeit an undeniable source of amusement for him. Since there’s apparently no way I can gain my footing in the mud, I finally just give up, lying flat on my back and doing what any humiliated girl would do: flap my arms and legs to start making the best damn mud angel in the world.
Chapter 18
“I can’t go in the house like this,” I grumble. I’m caked in now-hardened mud, sitting on my raincoat and trying not to touch anything so I don’t ruin his new truck.
“I can carry you,” he chuckles. “I’ll just take off my boots before I go inside.”
Eventually, when he’d stopped laughing, Kingston had helped me to my feet…managing to keep himself upright the entire time. Oh, I’d tried to pull him down and force him to make mud angels with me, but I’d failed. So I’m not about to be defeated, once again, by letting him carry me inside! I do have some dignity left…somewhere under all this mess.
“I’ve got it.” I get out of the truck, clumps of dried earth breaking off wi
th my movements, and start to march around to the side of the house. “You go ahead inside.”
My plan is to strip down to my bra and panties on the back patio and cover myself quickly with my raincoat—which is exactly what I’m starting to do, one shoe and sock off, when a blast of freezing-cold water hits my back.
“What the—!” I shriek, making the mistake of turning around and giving him a wide-open target to spray with the hose. “Have you lost your mind!?” I use one hand to block my face, and move toward him in hopes of snagging the hose away.
“This will be much easier if you stand still,” he laughs, continuing to douse me.
“Kingston,” I start, realizing I don’t know his middle name or whether he even has one, “Hawthorne! I am going to kill you!”
“Almost done,” he replies calmly, as though he’s just watering flowers or something.
Oh, forget it. I give up and start spinning slowly, actually helping him finish the job. It’s too late to do anything else at this point. It’s not like I’d be able to wrestle the hose from him.
“You do realize I’m an even bigger mess now? The added bonus of me dripping through the house? Great idea.”
He doesn’t reply as he walks over and turns off the water. He then just stands there, frozen in place and gawking at me.
“What? We gonna wait until I drip-dry?”
With a sensuous gleam in his eyes and satisfaction playing at the corners of his mouth, he raises both hands, holds up all ten fingers, and winks.
What the…?
I let my gaze follow to where his has lowered, looking down at myself. My soaked shirt, no longer covered in mud, is now completely see-through. And my lacy yellow bra is doing nothing to conceal my erect nipples.
The water was cold—only reason, I tell myself.
I can feel a blush warm my face and neck, my pulse throbbing in certain unmentionable locations. Part of me—the one that didn’t exist until Kingston arrived—wants to stand here, let him look his fill, and wait out his next move, reveling in the anticipation.
But logical Echo, who knows what can and cannot be, wins. Which is why she decides to lighten things up with a sarcastic remark.
Filthy Foreign Exchange Page 13
