My heart is hammering in my chest as I yank on a pair of fitted black Bermuda shorts and a yellow racerback tank top. Walking out of my room, I stop in the bathroom down the hall and let my hair down out of its bun. I wet my fingers and comb them through the mane of tangled waves. Quickly I brush my teeth and dab on some Chapstick before deciding I look as good as I’m going to.
I leave a note on the kitchen table for Mom just in case she gets up and decides to check on me, then head out the door, car keys in hand.
Kyle – Friday, 11:30 PM
The last time I got this plastered was at the Sigma Nu Lifeguard Bros & Surfer Hoes party back in April. Jared’s parents are out of town this weekend, and his older brother Greg kindly supplied the alcohol that’s now sloshing through my bloodstream at a concentration I can guarantee far exceeds the legal limit for operating a vehicle.
Les and I just won the championship round of beer pong, and I’m now taking a much needed timeout on the sectional sofa in the family room amid masses of other sweaty bodies. I look up in time to see Taylor Rich weaving through the crowd toward me, looking hot in a denim miniskirt and tube top. She was in my grade in school; we fucked around some junior year before she started dating Devin Greeley. Word has it they broke up a couple of months ago, and judging from the seductive look she’s giving me I’d say she’s back on the prowl. She’s been batting her eyes at me all night, and now she seems to be zeroing in for the kill.
“Hey Kyle,” she says as she sits down next to me, so close our thighs touch.
“What’s up, Taylor?” I say, lifting my ball cap to plow my fingers back through my hair, which is matted to my forehead with perspiration.
“That was an impressive game of beer pong,” she says, leaning back beside me and propping her elbow on the back of the sofa. She’s gazing at me with half-lidded bedroom eyes as she not-so-subtly pushes her tits forward.
“Thanks,” I reply, leaning forward slightly, testing the waters. “I saw you play earlier. You’re not so bad yourself.”
She beams, clearly overjoyed I noticed. “Just one of my many talents,” she purrs as she flips her hair back over her shoulder. Her body is now angled toward mine in a way that’s just begging for me to touch her. I think back, trying to remember if Taylor was any good at kissing…or anything else. My brain is too muddled to recall much of anything specific, however.
“Oh yeah?” I say as I move my hand just enough to touch her bare thigh. I lower my voice. “I guess I’m the kind of guy who has to see it to believe it.” Taylor arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow and leans the rest of the way in, until her face is just a fraction of an inch from mine.
“Let me show you then,” she says huskily. She offers me a coy smile before rolling her eyes upward, indicating the bedrooms located on the floor above us.
I grin back, questioning whether to stand up and follow her, when suddenly someone calls my name. I glance over Taylor’s shoulder to see Josh Harbaugh standing there holding up a blue plastic cup.
“Dude, you’ve gotta try this,” he says. “Shit is lethal!” He crashes down next to us on the couch, and Taylor quickly scoots over away from Josh, all but crawling into my lap. A look of disgust mars her meticulously groomed features.
I’m not easily distracted from the prospect of getting some, but Josh’s persistence has me taking the cup from him to try a taste. I’m to a point where all alcohol tastes the same – the only difference with this particular concoction is its immediate effect on my already considerable buzz. For a moment the racket of the music and partygoers around me is replaced by a high-pitched droning in my ears, and everything blurs into a hazy streak of color and light.
As soon as I’ve returned to my senses I hand the cup back to Josh. “Goddamn, what the hell is that?” I ask, using the back of my arm to wipe my mouth.
“I know, right?!” he exclaims. “We need to figure out how to make these.”
I open my mouth to disagree with him, but something makes me glance up; I’m surprised to see a familiar face hovering in the doorway. Tawny. My mind spins in reverse – didn’t I text her a while ago? I fumble around in my pocket to pull out my phone, but I don’t see any new text messages. Maybe I’m seeing things…
When I look back up Tawny’s eyes are locked on mine; her poker-faced expression isn’t giving anything away. My mind shifts gears to catch up, and I realize I still have my hand on Taylor’s leg. Meanwhile, Taylor’s eyeing me wearily, her eyes cutting between me and Paul Donahue, who’s leering at her suggestively – he must be my runner-up in terms of conquests for tonight.
Quickly I withdraw my hand and stretch my arms over my head, leaning away from Taylor. “Shit, I’m beat,” I murmur as if to no one in particular—that’s all it takes for Taylor to shove off the couch and move on to option number two. Unperturbed, I glance back up at Tawny, but she’s no longer looking at me – her attention has shifted to Mason Frye, who appears to be offering her a drink.
I brace my hands on my knees as I rise slowly from the couch, careful not to make any sudden moves. My head is still spinning a little when I take a step forward in their direction.
Tawny looks fucking amazing tonight. Her hair cascades in coppery chestnut waves around her shoulders, framing her heart shaped face. Her shorts ride low on her slender hips, and her tank top is just slightly too short, showing off a ribbon of lightly tanned skin around her waist. She’s standing up perfectly straight, taking on the regal air of a dancer, but she seems almost too rigid. Her hand is wrapped around her purse strap so tightly her knuckles are turning white.
Mason holds up a bottle of Corona, but Tawny shakes her head, granting him an apologetic close-lipped smile. She takes a step backward as if she’s going to turn around and walk away, but I break through the crowd just in time. She freezes when she sees me and bites her lip as she gazes at me questioningly, like she isn’t sure if I’ll recognize her.
Tawny – Friday, 11:45 PM
On the drive here I replayed in my mind the memory of Kyle beaming up at me at Frank’s the other day, and the way he’d asked for my phone number. By the time I parked in the crowded street outside Jared’s house, I’d even gone as far as entertaining the notion that he might have invited me here because he actually liked me in that way. My fantasy was quickly laid to rest, however, the moment I walked in the room and saw him fondling Taylor Rich in the corner nook of the sectional. Now he’s swaggering toward me with a smug grin on his face, and I feel naïve and silly for ever even thinking Kyle might return my feelings.
Even in his clearly intoxicated state he manages to look gorgeous – his disheveled appearance just makes his handsomeness seem that much more off-the-cuff and effortless. He’s wearing a red t-shirt that showcases the muscular curve of his biceps, and his lips are twisted into a diabolical grin as he approaches me.
“You came!” he says, then startles me by throwing his arms around me and bundling me up against his chest. Mostly he smells like alcohol, but beneath that I can make out the musky fragrance of his deodorant. My head begins to spin, and I slump against him, unwilling to trust my legs to support my full weight.
Kyle pulls back but keeps his hands wrapped around my shoulders. He drops his gaze to my feet, and I watch incredulously as his eyes roam leisurely from my toes all the way back up to my face. When he looks back at me, licking his lips with an appreciative gleam in his light brown eyes, I can feel myself blushing at the same time I’m vaguely offended at his clear display of chauvinism. I swallow, allowing myself a second to calm my nerves, then roll my shoulders back in an air of false confidence. “Are you objectifying me, Kyle Freeman?” I ask, cocking one eyebrow at him.
For a moment he simply stares at me blankly, but then he lets go of my shoulders and begins to laugh. He laughs so hard I can see tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, and I draw myself up to my full height and cross my arms over my chest, feeling both annoyed and slightly embarrassed. “What?” I say. “I’m a lady, not just so
me piece of meat.”
He stops laughing as he wipes the moisture from his eyes, but his smile remains. “Oh trust me, Tawny Read. I may be drunk, but I am perfectly aware you aren’t a piece of meat.” He leans closer so his lips are nearly touching my ear and says lowly, “You do look beautiful tonight, though.” He draws back and winks at me before whirling around and catching my hand in his own. “Come on,” he says over his shoulder. “Let’s get you a drink.”
Everything about what just happened has me feeling hopelessly off balance. All I can do is stumble along behind him.
Saturday, 1:45 AM
I think it’s safe to say I’ve never been what you might call a serial partygoer. The sensory overload brought on by the loud music and frenetically disinhibited crowd is almost too much to bear. It’s been two hours since I got here, and honestly I can’t believe I’ve lasted this long. I spent the first hour tripping along after Kyle, who held my hand for almost the entire time we were together. It may sound sweet, but actually it felt a little like I was his kid sister and he was showing me off.
Sometime a little before one Kyle yelled in my ear (I’m pretty sure he thought he was whispering) that he needed to use the bathroom, and I was quickly swept up by Mason Frye and Brandon McIntyre, who roped me into a game of Bullshit with three other people. Up to that point I’d gotten away with nursing the same beer the entire night – each time Kyle asked me if I needed another drink I just lifted my bottle and indicated I’d just gotten one. It seemed to keep him happy anyway.
This, however, was a horse of a different color. How do you only pretend to drink during an actual drinking game? The answer to that is, you can’t. Which is why it’s a blessing I actually rock at this game.
I’ve just managed to kick all their butts while staying pretty well sober myself when Brandon’s girlfriend walks over and sits down in Brandon’s lap. “God, Kyle is so drunk,” she says as she sags against him, clearly not too well off herself. I shuffle the deck of cards and pretend not to be interested in what she has to say. “He’s basically passed out in the front room,” she continues.
Brandon rubs her back as he replies, “He’ll be okay. He always pulls through.”
Idly I wonder how typical this is for Kyle. Granted, I haven’t seen him in over a year, but in high school he always seemed a touch more dignified, like he was a cut above the hedonistic masses who only lived to party. I’d seen him tipsy a couple of times at football tailgates, but never the sloppy, falling-down drunk other guys in our class tended to favor.
I complete one last shuffle, arching the cards into a bridge and letting them fall back into a neat stack before replacing them in the center of the dining room table. I scoot my chair back and rise to my feet, then stride purposefully into the front room. Since most of the crowd is confined to the back of the house, Kyle is alone, slumped back against the sofa. His hat lies beside him, and his dark hair falls forward over his forehead.
I approach him slowly, feeling a bit gun-shy. As soon as I’m standing over him, I reach out and touch his shoulder. When he doesn’t stir, I begin to panic a little. I try again, squeezing this time, and I stumble backward in surprise and relief when his head jerks up. He looks around, bewildered, before his eyes land on me. For a moment he simply gapes at me, but then his eyelids roll shut again and he hangs his head in his hands.
I lower myself down beside him on the couch. “Let’s get you home, okay?” I say softly. He nods, and I hold out my hands, offering him a boost. He loops his arm around my neck, and I hook mine around his side, gripping the spot on his flank where his ribs his firm obliques. I grab his hat with my free hand.
It’s slow going helping him out to the white Civic that was a hand-me-down from my sister. I stagger under his weight as I struggle to unlock the door on the passenger side. Kyle is awake, but he isn’t exactly alert.
Once he’s tucked safely inside, I go around to the driver’s side and climb in behind the wheel. I start the engine and shift into reverse, but I wait to speak until I’m pointed south on the road that leads back toward town.
“You’ll have to remind me where your house is,” I say, glancing over at Kyle. He seems slightly more wakeful now; his elbow is propped up against the window, and he’s using his right hand to massage his temple.
He lets out a drawn-out exhale before he replies. “I can’t go back to my house.” His voice is gravelly, as if he hasn’t used it in several days. I wait for him to offer some sort of explanation, but he doesn’t. He just continues to stare out the window.
“Why not?” I ask finally.
“I just can’t,” he says. His impassive tone isn’t giving anything away.
I chew on the inside of my cheek and tap my thumbs nervously against the steering wheel. Now I have a dilemma… Where do I take him? I can’t let him sleep at my parents’ house – how would I ever explain a drunk person passed out on our sofa?
Unsure what to do, I keep driving – all the way through the deserted streets of the tiny downtown area and on south in the general direction of my house. Just before reaching Water Canyon Road I veer off to the east, down a rutted dirt road I’ve ridden my horse Queenie on more times than I can count. I keep driving until the road dead ends at a concrete abutment facing the Sonoma Mountain Ridge, then shift into park and cut the ignition.
I sit tensed, leaning forward and gazing out at the black expanse of sky – the stars are out in full force tonight, and for a moment their beauty takes my breath away.
A minute later I let my head fall back against the headrest and turn to my right. Kyle has his head tilted back as well, but I can’t tell whether his eyes are open or not. I’ve almost decided he’s fallen asleep when he speaks up.
“Thanks for the ride.” He doesn’t look at me. His voice is so low I wonder if I even heard him correctly.
“I don’t know where to take you,” I remind him quietly.
…Silence…
I sigh as I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Leaning back again I allow my mind to drift. I imagine how different this moment might be if I was one of those really confident, sexy girls – the type Kyle typically goes for. Would we be making out right now? Or even…having sex? I shiver at the not-entirely-unpleasant thought, then immediately feel guilty for mentally taking advantage of daydream-Kyle. Doesn’t change the fact I wish I could be that other girl for just one night – if not tonight then someday.
“Tawny…” The sound of his voice catches me off-guard. I chance a sidelong glance at him – he’s turned toward me now, his eyes burning with something I can’t quite identify. When I twist to face him fully he looks as if he’s full of about a thousand and one things he wants to say. I wait, my breathing shallow and my heart rate rapid.
Finally he clears his throat and says, “Sorry – you don’t have to sit here with me like this. I just don’t feel like going home. You can take me to Les’s though.”
I twitch my lips to the side, unsure what to think. After a moment I face forward again and turn the key to start the engine.
Saturday, 2:45 AM
The ride to Les’s parents’ house is quiet. They live in a cookie cutter subdivision in the center of town, in a two story American Foursquare with blue vinyl siding. The enormity of Les’s family is evident from the number of vehicles in the driveway – one for each of his parents and four siblings.
I stop on the curb opposite the house and keep the car idling. “Do you need any help getting in?” I ask.
“No, I can make it,” he says. He looks at me, then flips my world upside down when he leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
“You’re good, Tawny,” he whispers. Then he pulls away and slips out the door. I watch as he crosses the street, walking a slightly crooked line across the lawn to the front door. He lets himself in without looking back.
I drive home, my insides in a state of turmoil. It isn’t until close to five I finally drift off to sleep.
Chapter 3 – Moving Day
; Friday & Saturday, August 12 & 13
Tawny – Friday, 5:00 PM
“Do you really need to take all these puzzles with you?” Rhiannon peers into a cardboard box stuffed with jigsaw puzzles I pulled out from beneath my bed – most of them I haven’t worked in years.
“I like puzzles,” I reply defensively.
“Yeah, but your dorm isn’t gonna have a lot of storage space. And you’ll probably be too busy to be doing puzzles all the time.”
“Fine, leave them,” I say with a shrug. Apart from my clothes and books, it really doesn’t make much of a difference to me what stays and what goes. The last few weeks of summer have flown by, and it’s hard to believe it’s already time for me to move – orientation starts on Monday, classes the Monday after that, but I’m moving into my dorm room tomorrow so I can get settled. There’s a U-Haul trailer hitched to the back of Dad’s Tacoma outside, and my box-filled room is nearly unrecognizable. It’s all a little surreal.
A guffaw rings out from across the room, and we both turn to look at Blake, my soon-to-be brother-in-law. He and my sister are getting married next spring on the northern shore of Lake Tahoe; I’m the maid of honor in their wedding.
“Get a load of this guy,” he says, still laughing as he picks his way between the boxes with one of my old yearbooks balanced in the palm of his hand.
Rhiannon rolls her eyes. “I’m so glad I brought you along to help,” she says. “You getting a lot done over there?”
He grins, dismissing her sarcasm with a wave of his hand. “Seriously, check out this dude’s picture.” He turns the book around and jabs his finger at a photo of a boy I recognize from a couple of grades above me. He’s standing with a saxophone suspended around his neck, a pained smile on his face. The best part, though, is the billowing clouds of red vapor that surround him, apparently added by the photographer for dramatic effect.
Forever With You (Silver State Series) Page 2
