by Mariah Dietz
“What? I can’t help but fall for you. You keep tripping me with that smile.”
“Oh, that one was so bad,” I tell him, fighting to stop my smile from spreading.
“Let me borrow a kiss. I promise I’ll give it back with interest.” He steps forward, and I swallow my laughter as I take a step back.
“You’re full of pickup lines, aren’t you?”
“Do you know what my shirt’s made out of?”
I take another step back, my heel hitting the wall.
Oh boy.
“Boyfriend material,” he tells me, standing too close for comfort.
I thank my lucky stars when Lincoln appears next to the guy, his eyebrows drawn like he’s bored. Mr. Pickup line doesn’t acknowledge him, so Lincoln loudly clears his throat. The sound has Polo twisting. “Oh. My bad,” he says.
Lincoln nods. “Yup.”
The stranger chuckles like he’s undeterred, but sags back a bit, his gaze still on my cleavage.
I look at Lincoln, silently begging him not to leave. “Have you seen Poppy?” I ask him.
Lincoln closes the distance between us, shutting Polo out of my vision. “You just keep needing to be saved tonight.”
Indignation has me planting a hand on my hip, ready to repel his words. His dark and obnoxiously perfect tousled hair teases my fingers, and his eyes are filled with alcohol-induced interest as he slides his hand against my waist, wrapping around my hip so his fingertips rest on butt. My hand and anger fall, along with any pride and sense as I stop breathing. My head’s spinning like I’ve had too much to drink as I realize I could get far drunker on Lincoln than any substance.
His eyes close, and my lungs feel like I’ve just belly flopped. His lips are hot, dancing across my collarbone, leaving a trail that has me shivering though I’m too warm.
His other hand connects with the left side of my waist, pulling me closer to him. “Pretend you’re enjoying this,” he growls, grazing my ear with his teeth.
He’s doing this for show. An attempt to deter Polo. It doesn’t help me breathe any easier. I lift my hands, gripping his shoulders, and he sweeps his lips up the column of my neck, stopping below my ear.
5
Lincoln Beckett has just proven I won’t be dying from a heart attack anytime soon.
“You’re really making me work for it, aren’t you, Lawson?”
I can hardly formulate a coherent thought, much less a sentence.
Someone laughs. The sound too forced and loud to be casual, drawing my attention back to the ogre wearing a polo. He grins, like he knows this is a sham and expects me to call out the farce.
This is ridiculous.
This is stupid.
This is Lincoln!
Shit!
Rule number five of why I can’t date Lincoln: I won’t date anyone who makes me turn into a shy prude who forgets how to kiss. I want to be with someone who makes me feel empowered, strong, sexy, and when Lincoln is around, I don’t feel any of that.
“You’re killin’ me here, Lawson,” he whispers, then straightens.
The quick rhythm of my heart has me light-headed, and his kiss has left me dazed. I start to look in the direction of the ogre again, but Lincoln grabs my hand and tugs me toward the door.
One of my flip-flops nearly comes clean off, getting stuck on something sticky on the floor. I pull my hand free, struggling to get my shoe back on as others step dangerously close to my toes.
A black tennis shoe with dark gray sides boxes in my foot, and I nervously glance up, already aware I’m going to find Lincoln. He grins. It’s easy, almost lazy like he didn’t just try giving me a hickey—at a party my brother is also at.
I slide my toes between the small piece of rubber that separates my toes and take a quick look around the house, hoping I catch sight of Poppy before we take the remaining steps to the door.
Rain plays a soft symphony outside, hitting everything like it’s a target. The air is cold—drawing more attention to how warm my entire neck is from where Lincoln falsely marked me.
“Where’s Poppy?” he says.
Emotions and confusion have me clearing my throat, attempting to suppress each of them. I glance back at the house, tucking some of my blonde hair back behind an ear. “Talking to someone.”
“Rugby player?”
“Yup.” I slowly turn my gaze to Lincoln but can only keep his stare for a second before looking away. I pretend the group of guys wearing sheets is interesting. Like them posing and talking each other up is actually fascinating.
“Well, here’s a little insight: the first rule of attending a frat party is knowing who your scapegoat is going to be.”
“My scapegoat?”
Lincoln nods. “When you get attention from someone you’re not interested in, your scapegoat swoops in and plays your boyfriend to get you off the hook.”
I knew it was fake and that he was only pawing at me for show, but the way he dismissively moves on like it didn’t matter to him at all stings. “I didn’t need a scapegoat. Things were fine.”
“You looked like a deer caught in the headlights.”
“I would have been fine.” My words sound more defensive than I intended.
He pulls his head back, his eyes growing round. “Did I hit a pressure point?”
I raise a hand in the direction of the front door. “You guys have to stop. I already talked to Pax. You guys do you, I do me.”
The left side of Lincoln’s lips tip into a grin that has a dimple flashing. “Oh, yeah?”
“You guys are being ridiculous. I was the only sober person in that goddamn house.”
“Since when did little Lawson develop such a potty mouth?”
I growl. Or maybe I shriek, I’m not sure how to describe the sound that climbs out of my throat, expressing my frustration.
“Hey, President!” a girl calls, her tone flirty, airy—the complete opposite of mine. He looks—of course he looks. I’m coming across as an errant child throwing a temper tantrum, not sexy or confident in the least. My heart beats painfully in my chest, regret tangling with frustration. Rule six as to why I can’t be with Lincoln: I don’t know how to be myself around him.
“What’s up?” he calls.
“You coming inside?”
I don’t turn around to face the girl. I don’t need to add force to the avalanche already crashing down around me, burying me in doubts.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be in soon.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” She giggles.
I roll my eyes.
Lincoln smirks. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, that was something. You should probably sit down. You’re going to be dizzy after that eye roll.”
I shake my head, tempted to roll my eyes again. “Who giggles like that?”
His smirk doesn’t lessen. “Like what?”
“Like that!” I swing my arm toward the house again for emphasis. “And more importantly, why in the hell do guys find it sexy? Because it’s not. It is so not.”
“Then, what is sexy?”
“Not that!”
He chuckles, and the jealousy in me disguised as anger and offense spreads. “She was just laughing.”
“She was not just laughing. That was basically her saying come screw me in the bathroom.”
He doesn’t refute my words, his calm demeanor serving to make mine a chaotic storm I work to suppress by taking a deep breath through my mouth and blowing it out my nose, something Poppy’s mother tells her clients to do when they call her emergency line and are worked up over something.
“I’m surprised it bothers you so much.”
“Says the guy who tried to give me a hickey because I was having a conversation with a dude.”
“You really aren’t going to give me any credit for saving you, are you?”
“No!” I cry.
He shrugs. “Give it a couple of weeks on campus, and you’ll realize I did you a favor.”
He has no idea how wrong he is. I’ll likely be distracted, working to remember every single second and detail of those few minutes. The way his cologne infiltrated my thoughts, the heat of his lips before the scent reached my nose, and how cold my skin felt when he’d worked his way higher on my jaw, like each cell was crying out for him to return.
Lincoln didn’t save me. He’s likely ruined me.
He chuckles again.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because I can practically hear your thoughts screaming ‘fuck off’ at me.”
“I’m not…” I release a deep breath, trying to find my footing. I’m in a no-win situation. Admit that’s not what I was thinking and risk exposing my jealousy and insecurities that surround him like the Great Wall of China, or allow him to think that’s true, and I’m a moody bitch. “I just don’t understand why guys think it’s cute when girls act giggly and dumb.”
“Was she acting dumb? She spoke in complete sentences. Addressed me by name. Were you expecting her to speak in Latin? Recite the Declaration of Independence?”
I sigh.
Touché.
“Okay, look,” I say, pointing to where the group of guys dressed with sheets as togas are standing in a semi-circle, a couple of girls off to the side of them dressed in jeans and tank tops, their hair curled. They look like girls from my high school. Girls I’d be friends with. They talk to each other, occasionally stealing glances at the guys. It’s obvious one of them or maybe both like a guy in the group. “Those girls have been talking to each other since we came out here, obviously trying to catch their attention, and the guys haven’t talked to them once. But, watch this,” I say, as two girls with bleach blonde hair wearing bikinis walk by and wave, giggling when the guys call out for them to stop and giggling louder when they make a lude remark. “Boobs and giggles walk into the picture, and they suddenly toga boys realize they’re not the only ones out here.”
“I doubt the giggles did anything. I’m pretty sure that was all boobs and asses.”
“You see my point.”
“But, why are you mad at the guys. Be mad at the girls.”
“Because you guys don’t pay attention unless a girl walks in looking and acting like that.”
Lincoln tilts his head. “Were you giggling when that guy inside talked to you?”
I pause too long.
He smiles. It’s a victorious smile, one that makes his eyes shine and both dimples become prominent distractions. “My point exactly.”
I shake my head, my thoughts churning too slowly with his close proximity and my confusion for how this night has gone.
“I thought you were just looking for a good time, anyway?” he asks.
“I am.” I nod too vigorously.
“Then, don’t worry about it or, you could try it.”
“What? Looking like that? No, thank you.”
He rolls his shoulders with a casual shrug. I notice he doesn’t wince this time. Last year, there were a couple of months where every time I saw him, he’d wince when he moved. It was slight—so much so it didn’t feel okay asking about it. “There are no rules or dress codes at these parties.”
“As a girl, I have an entire list of rules I have to abide by that you’re unaware of.”
Lincoln pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and a bright orange lighter. One of the cheap Zippo lighters like the ones Margaret, Pax, and I would pick up at the grocery store as kids simply to try and light them. I never did become adept at using them, but Lincoln has no problem getting it to light with a quick zing of his thumb.
His face glows a warm orange that should be unattractive because I hate cigarettes. I hate the way they smell. I hate the way they look. But right now, dammit if I don’t find it warming every inch of my skin.
“Fuck the rules,” he says.
6
“Hey, hey! There’s my girl!” Mom calls as I make my way into the kitchen. It’s Friday morning—or what’s left of the morning—and the skies have cleared, unlike my thoughts, which are thickly overcast with memories of last night. My skin still remembers Lincoln’s touch, and the farther the hours stretch, the more annoyed I’ve become that I didn’t take every opportunity to play the role he provided.
“What are you doing home?” I ask.
“I’m working from home today,” she says. “You getting ready for class?”
I shake my head. “No classes on Fridays.”
“Lucky duck,” she says. “When you get dressed, I need to take your picture.” She’s already dressed in a pair of jeans and a black sweater with her jean jacket on and a chunky red necklace, sipping what I’m conservatively betting is her fifth cup of coffee.
“For what?” I grumble, making my way to the fridge in search of leftovers.
A slight wince flashes across her face before she pushes a strand of wavy russet hair behind her ear. “Your first day of school picture.”
“It passed.”
“I know.” Her eyes turn downcast like they do when she discusses her weight and wishes she were forty pounds lighter—something she’s eternally uncomfortable with, though my mom’s beauty is so far beyond a dress size. I instantly regret giving her a hard time. “I’m sorry. I didn’t forget. I had to be at the school early.”
“I’m just giving you a hard time. Can we do it Monday? I don’t want to wash my hair.” It’s true what they say about parents taking fewer pictures of their kids as they have more, our walls will attest to it. For every three pictures of Maggie, there’s a picture of Paxton, and for every five pictures of him, you’ll find one of me. I know it wasn’t intentional. Mom and Dad both work but strive to be there for us. When I played softball, they attended nearly every game, and when I sold Girl Scout cookies, Mom volunteered to walk in the rain with me. Dad even finagled his way into meeting the board chair of the local aquarium, which is how I got my volunteer position with the zoologist team.
“I have to leave here at five in the morning for a conference on Monday.”
“And it sounds like I’m going to be washing my hair today.” I grab a casserole dish filled with chicken and rice from the fridge.
Mom laughs. “If you can get ready by four, that would be best. Pax and his friends are coming for dinner tonight, and if I can bribe you with helping me, we can spend some quality one on one time, talking about your first week at college. I’ll be in your debt for at least twenty-four hours.”
“Pax and his friends?” I stop shoveling leftovers onto my plate and look at my mom.
“Since Pax made team captain, he wants to start having dinners so the team can bond. Apparently, he forgot the detail about not knowing how to cook, and he’s so excited about this year…”
“You’re a softy,” is what I say, when I really want to tell her this is a horrible, terrible, awful idea. Seeing Lincoln right now with my nerves so frayed is guaranteed to be trouble.
She smiles. “So, we have a deal?”
“Thirty-six hours and a pedicure.”
“Deal.”
“No. Wait. You accepted way too soon.”
Her grin is salacious. “I know. I was going to offer a week.”
“You’re cruel.”
She laughs. “And you call me a softy. Are you working today?”
I return to filling my plate as I nod. “I need to leave for the aquarium soon. Think you can take the picture before I leave? By the way, how many are coming? And where’s everyone going to sit?”
Mom shrugs. “I don’t know. Pax told me he’d send a head count last night, but he never sent it. I’m going to head to the store while you shower, and I’ll call him on the way.”
“Maybe I’ll go to Poppy’s after work.”
“Only if you take me with you.” She grins. Mom’s lips are always tilted upward—an eternal optimist who finds humor in every situation. “Seriously, though. You can’t leave me. Invite her over.”
“There won’t be any room. Their egos will fill ever
y square inch of this place.”
She cracks a smile. “Be nice. You know how hard he worked for this. And you should be here. You know your support means a lot to your brother.”
“You just want help with dishes.”
“I’d be willing to throw in a manicure. I’ve seen your nails. They would thank me for it.”
I glance at my short, bare nails as I retrieve my plate of food from the microwave. “It’s the salt water. It eats the polish.”
“At least they’d look pretty for a couple of days.”
“You’re lucky I like you.”
She kisses my cheek. “I like you, too, kiddo.”
I show up to the Northwest Aquarium of Science fifteen minutes before my shift begins. I’ve been volunteering four days a week here for the past three years to gain knowledge and to pad my resume, so that come graduation, I will hopefully have an easier time finding a job as a cetologist. I trade my tennis shoes for the heavy all-terrain boots I wear when I’m doing feedings like I’ve been scheduled for today. My boots have a permanent fish-stench and feel like led weights as I tie them around my calves.
“Hey, Rae!” Jordan calls, her voice chipper as she makes a beeline to the mini fridge and pulls out a sandwich and smoothie.
“You okay?” I ask, watching her fingers tremble as she tears open the sandwich. Her dark hair brushes her shoulders in soft waves, and her dark blue-gray eyes are bright.
“Yeah,” she says around a bite. Jordan’s been volunteering here for over a year, since transferring to Brighton. She’s a year older than me, studying marine biology, and has a passion for sea turtles that is unrivaled.
“Are you on feedings, or are you off?”
She points a finger at me as she finishes half her sandwich. “I’m with you.” She flashes a wide smile, filling me with relief. Working with Jordan is easy and fun. We talk about animals, about science, school, the weather, Florida—everything that doesn’t relate to Lincoln. “I’ve just got to get some food into me really fast.”
“It’s busy today,” I say, putting on a blue fleece jacket with the aquarium’s name embroidered on the right breast with a couple of sea otters playing in the letters. Hannah steps in from the front observation area, her bottled blonde hair pulled up into a high pony.
