Escape In You

by Rachel Schurig

  Her eyes rake up and down his figure. His blue jeans are artfully faded—they’re the kind I can just tell cost a fortune—and his white button-down shirt is untucked, with the top three buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of his tanned chest. His blond hair is a little long and carefully mussed with about half a gallon of product. I can tell Ellie’s mentally cataloguing all of these things and coming to the same conclusion I already have. Rich snob. Full of himself. Move on.

  “Is this your house?” Ellie asks.

  He blinks, seeming surprised. “It is. I’m Preston Barkley.”

  Ellie holds his gaze for a moment before rolling her eyes and taking my elbow. “Nice to meet you, Preston.” From the emphasis she puts on his name I can pretty much guess what she’s thinking. “But we need to find our friends. Come on, Zoe.”

  “Hey,” he calls, but Ellie ignores him, nudging me toward the door. I peek back and see the guy in black approach him.

  “Burn, man,” the guy says, laughter in his voice. “Sounds like she wasn’t too interested in the Barkley charm.” Before I can get a good look at his face, Ellie pulls me through the kitchen door.

  “I’m thinking maybe you were right about this not being our scene,” she mumbles. “I feel like we’re in some kind of John Hughes movie, and we’re playing the kids from the wrong side of the tracks. Who are these people?”

  “Rich ones. There’s a reason we don’t go to parties like this, Ells.”

  She makes a face. “But Hunter said he’d be here. I thought we’d run into the whole crowd.”

  I look around the packed living room. A few couples are dancing in the middle of the room, but, for the most part, everyone is just standing around with drinks in their hands. “Maybe they showed and decided it was lame. You were pretty late picking me up.”

  Just then, a pair of familiar arms wraps around my waist and Hunter kisses my neck. “Looking for me, gorgeous?”

  I laugh and push him off of me. “We were, actually.”

  “Ellie,” Hunter says, releasing me and turning to Ellie with a stern expression. He crosses his arms. “What is this I hear about you beating the shit out of some sorority girl?”

  Ellie laughs and hugs him. “I would hardly call it beating the shit out of her. I barely grazed her.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, right. I know you better than that.”

  “Where the hell is everyone?” She looks over his shoulder. “We were starting to get worried that you guys bailed.”

  “Nah,” he says, taking my hand. “We’ve just commandeered the basement. It’s a little bit less of a Gap commercial down there. Come on.”

  I follow him, relaxing for the first time since we arrived. I have a beer in my hand, and I’m about to join my friends. Things are looking up.

  As the three of us walk through the basement door, I think I catch a glimpse of the guy in black from the kitchen. He’s leaning against the wall in the living room, steps from where we’d found Hunter, watching me. But then I turn onto the staircase and he disappears from my sight.

  Chapter Two

  Zoe

  “This is more like it,” Ellie says, leaning her head against my knees, her back to the couch where I’m sitting. “I told you it wouldn’t be lame.”

  I look down at her lazy smile and laugh. “You’re baked.”

  She nods. “Yup. Why aren’t you?”

  I hold up the bottle of vodka I had happily received from Hunter. “I’m enjoying my spirits.”

  She laughs. “You’re such a dork.”

  “Hey, pass that over here,” Hunter says from the floor beside Ellie. He’s lying flat on his back, enjoying the effects of the pot they’d just smoked. “I knew I shouldn’t have given it to you. You always hog the vodka.”

  “Shut up, Hunter,” I say and take a swig. The familiar feeling of fire making its way down my throat calms me further. “You can’t drink lying down like that. You’ll spill.”

  “Will not,” he mutters as he closes his eyes.

  “Sure.” I take another gulp and look around the room. The basement is bigger than my entire house and includes an honest-to-God movie theater, a billiards room, and this rec room, where Hunter led us after finding us upstairs. Shouts and drunken laughter spill out of the billiards room next to us and we can still hear the pounding music and cacophony of voices from upstairs, but this room is much more chill. The lights are dimmed, and most everyone in the room shared that joint with Ellie and Hunter and is now relaxed into fairly quiet conversations. I know many of the people in here, a lot of whom are friends of Ellie’s and Hunter’s that we’ve partied with before.

  Ellie slides her head off my knee and lowers herself to the carpet until she, too, is lying flat on her back. “Zoe, you have to try this.”

  “Try what? Lying down? I know how to lie down, Ells. It’s not exactly rocket science.”

  “No, this carpet, man,” Hunter says, his voice low and relaxed. “You have to try this carpet.”

  “Yeah, the carpet,” Ellie says, nodding her head lazily. “You have to try this carpet. It’s ridiculously soft. Like, better than my bed.”

  Hunter makes a contented sound of agreement. “It’s really…plush.”

  For some reason that makes Ellie giggle, and soon they’re both cackling at my feet. I roll my eyes. “You guys are such lightweights.”

  “In their defense,” says someone right next to me, “that carpet is really fucking comfortable.”

  The guy in black has joined me on the couch and is almost touching me, he’s sitting so close. The tangle of tattoos on his arms distracts me for a moment before I get my first good look at his face.

  I draw in a sharp breath—I can't help it. I’m staring at the most beautiful man I have ever seen. He has longish brown hair liberally sprinkled with natural gold highlights, and it’s all in a pleasing, tousled mess. I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through that hair, to mess it up even further. It looks soft. He has strikingly dark brown eyes framed with the thickest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a guy. His eyes seem to flash with some kind of dark amusement, and my heart beats faster. A muscle pulses in his jaw when he swallows—God, I love a guy with a strong jawline—and I want to place my lips there, right at that pulse, and kiss him.

  “You okay, Zoe?” he asks, and there’s that amusement in his eyes again.

  “How’d you know my name?” I ask, and I’m pleased that my voice is steady. There’s no sense in letting him know just how much I like what I see—though I’m afraid he somehow knows exactly what I’ve been thinking. Something in the way he’s looking at me makes me blush. And I never blush.

  “I make it a point to find out information that might be of interest to me.”

  His voice is low and raspy and touches something deep within my core, but I force out a laugh.

  “Does that kind of line usually work for you?”

  He shrugs, grinning. “To be honest, yeah. It does.”

  My laugh is sincere this time. “Well, at least you are honest.”

  He leans back into the couch, stretching his arm across the back of the cushion so that it just grazes my shoulder. I shiver a little and hope he doesn’t notice. A quick glance around tells me we shouldn’t be interrupted. Hunter appears to have moved off while I was distracted by the sex god—I’m pretty sure I can make out his voice across the room, urging someone else to come down and feel the carpet. Ellie has dozed off. I’m not surprised—that’s her usual reaction to pot and one of the reasons I don't often join in when she partakes. I don't come to parties to sleep.

  I smile at the sex god. Flirting with hot guys, on the other hand, is one of the best reasons to come to a party.

  “I’m at a bit of a disadvantage here.” I inch my knee closer to his.

  “How so?”

  “You know my name, and I don’t know yours.”

  He holds my gaze for a minute, and my heart thumps. “Maybe I’d rather be a man of mystery.”

  I wrink
le my nose. “Seriously, dude. You have to stop with the lines. It’s just not doing it for me.”

  He leans in, and his face is inches from mine. “What would do it for you?”

  “An actual conversation.” I refuse to fall under his spell. But there’s something dangerous about this guy, something that makes me want to abandon sense and close the gap that separates us.

  He watches my face for a minute before his eyebrows come together in an expression I can’t quite read. “I don’t do so good with conversations.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He surprises me by pausing before he answers, as if he’s actually thinking about it. “I just think it’s easier not to talk, for the most part. People usually just tell you what you want to hear anyway. What’s the point?”

  God, wasn’t that the truth. “Yeah,” I say. “I get that.”

  We’re both quiet for a minute, but it isn’t necessarily an uncomfortable silence. It feels natural, easy, to just sit here with him while the party carries on around us.

  “So your friends up there,” I say, pointing at the ceiling. “What’s their deal?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like that Stef girl. Is she always like that?”

  The guy makes a face. “Stef is exactly what you think she is—a spoiled little brat who likes to run her mouth. And she’s definitely not my friend.”

  “But Preston is?”

  “I guess so. We grew up together.”

  Another strike against the sex god. He grew up with Preston, meaning he had more than likely grown up in this neighborhood, or one like it. So he’s a rich boy. Definitely not my scene. And there’s that reluctance to tell me his name.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he says.

  “I doubt that.” How could he know that I’m considering dropping the whole talking thing and just making out with him for a while? No way anything more serious is going to happen. I don't date, not anymore—it’s too complicated. And I certainly don’t date guys who run with the likes of Stef and Preston. Plus, I have a feeling a guy like this isn’t really the dating type—just like me.

  Making out is simple enough though. And not a bad way to spend a few hazy, vodka-fueled hours at a party. Particularly when the guy looks as good as this one does. I lean in a little, allowing the side of my breast to brush up against his arm. “Maybe you were right,” I murmur and bat my eyes at him. “Maybe it is easier not to talk.”

  He looks down at me, his lips parting slightly. I’m close enough now that I could easily reach up and trail my tongue across those lips or along that impressive jawline. But his next words stop me cold.

  “I don’t know, Zoe. You’ve intrigued me with this conversation idea. I’m thinking it might do it for me too.”

  I purse my lips, surprised. I was sure he’d jump at the chance to avoid talking.

  “So.” He leans back again and gives me a lazy smile. “What should we talk about?”

  “We could start with your name.” I’m debating whether I should just get up and leave him here. My friend Everett is across the room, talking to a guy I know a little through Hunter. Surely they’d be more appropriate company.

  “Do you want my real name, or my fake name?” He winks.

  I narrow my eyes, not really in the mood for cute. “What do you think?”

  “Well, you see, the thing is that most people don’t call me by my real name. In fact, most people don’t even know my real name. So if I give you that, it’s kind of saying something, you know? It takes us past the point of general acquaintances at a party. It makes us something more.” He waggles his eyebrows at me.

  I’m not sure whether I’m annoyed or intrigued by this. I thought I wanted to flirt with him, but this feels too much like a game. Or your impression of him is just colored because now you know he probably has money.

  “Let’s start with your fake name,” I say, deciding to play along. “Maybe we can work up to your real name. I’m not sure I’m ready for that level of commitment just yet.”

  He nods. “Fair enough. Everyone calls me Jet.”

  I stare at him. “Jet? Are you kidding?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. Jet is really my nickname.”

  “Why?”

  He furrows his brow. “You know, it’s been so long I’m not really sure. Everyone has called me Jet ever since like, Little League. Something to do with my base running skills. Oh, and the fact that my initials are J.E.T.” At my skeptical look he cocks his head. “What? You don’t like it?”

  “Not particularly.”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, Zoe, this is fun.”

  “What is?” I ask, feeling defensive.

  “Talking to a girl who has no desire to please me. It’s refreshing.”

  “You’re pretty damn full of yourself.”

  He points at me. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. You couldn’t give a shit about what I think, could you?”

  “I don’t see why I would.”

  His face darkens. “I don’t see why you would either. Why anyone would.” He inhales sharply, sounding almost pained. “Yet, somehow, they do. Or, at least, the ladies do.”

  I don’t like that look. It makes me feel sad, which is just ridiculous, since I barely know him and what I do know I’m not even sure I like. I try to lighten the mood by shoving his shoulder. “Oh, yeah, I’m so sure you’re complaining about all the women who are just dying to please you.”

  He shoots me that same amused grin. “Are you volunteering?”

  “Not even remotely, buddy.”

  “It’s Jet,” he says.

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I refuse to call you that.”

  “Well, now we’re at an impasse. You refuse to call me by my nickname yet you’re not ready for my real name either. The only other option is for you to make up your own name for me. Either way, it implies a certain level of intimacy, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know you well enough to give you a nickname.” I think for a moment. “Unless you like the sound of Cocky Ass.”

  He pretends to think about that. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, then. I guess we are at an impasse.” I’m actually starting to enjoy myself. He may be cocky, but it’s been ages since I’ve actually flirted with a guy like this. When I hook up at parties the talking phase doesn’t usually last this long.

  “I think I have a solution,” he says, holding up a finger in triumph. “Taylor!”

  “Why would I call you Taylor?”

  “Because it’s my last name.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “Okay. Taylor it is.”

  He holds out his hand to shake mine. His skin is warm against my palm, his grip firm. I have a sudden urge to feel his hand curled around the back of my neck, and I release his fingers before my palm starts to sweat.

  “So, Zoe,” Taylor says, his gaze flicking down to my legs before meeting my eyes once more. “What’s your story?”

  “My story?”

  He nods. “Yeah. What do you do? Who do you know? What do you like? Your story.”

  If only my story really were that simple—a collection of answers to meaningless questions. I look down at my hands. A weight fills my stomach as I consider how I would answer if I could be honest. If I could actually tell him—or anyone—my real story.

  “You okay?”

  I look up and realize he’s watching my face closely. I force a smile and nod. “Maybe too much vodka.” I hold up the bottle, glad for the excuse. From the look on his face I’m not sure he bought it, so I hurry to answer his original question. “I’m a student at MCC.” I peek at him from the corner of my eye for any reaction to the name of the local community college. If he grew up in this neighborhood I’ll bet he’s one of the kids who goes to an actual university.

  When he only nods, I go on. “I’m not working right now, so I’m taking classes all summer.” I leave out the reason for my unemployment. I can imagine how
he’d react to that—talk about putting a damper on our flirting.

  “What are you studying at MCC?”

  More details I don’t want to get into. “This was my first year. I haven’t really decided on a major yet.”

  He looks concerned. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.” I blush again. I’m too exposed to this guy. I don't want him asking questions about why I waited so long to enroll in classes. But his face relaxes.

  “Good. When you said it was your first year I was worried you were a teenager for a minute there.”

  “Why would it matter if I was a teenager?” I ask, a flirtatious note in my voice. He only grins at me, a purely wicked grin, and my face grows hotter.

  “What about you?” I ask, embarrassed by my reaction. “What’s your story?”

  “I work at the body shop in town. We mostly do repairs, but sometimes we get some refurbs to do, which is what I really prefer.”

  That isn’t the answer I expected. “School?”

  He shakes his head. “Never really saw the point.”

  “So you live here all year?” It doesn’t make sense. Why hadn’t I ever come across him if he wasn’t away at school all year?

  “All four miserable seasons.”

  “They’re not all miserable. Spring is nice.”

  “Whatever. Spring lasts about two minutes. It goes from cold as hell to hot as balls around here.”

  I have to laugh at that. “I was just thinking that tonight. That spring went way too fast.” I pause. “I wasn’t ready for summer.”

  “Me either,” he says, his voice soft. I look over at him. He’s staring at the ground. He looks about a million miles away. I wonder what it is about summer that he doesn't like, but I don't press. I know what it feels like to dread something as inevitable as the change of season.

  “Zoe?” Ellie mumbles from the carpet. “Are you still up there?”

  “I’m here, Ells,” I answer and look down at her. Never opening her eyes, she smiles. In a minute she’s snoring again.

  “Can I have a sip of that?” Taylor points at the bottle in my hand. I’d almost forgotten it was there. I take a swig before passing it to him, wiping my mouth on the back of my arm as the warmth fills my belly.