Flirting With Love

by Clara Stone

  I pull out of the garage and head toward Blake’s. I turn off the music and let the silence surround me with its clarity. Normally, the peacefulness helps me think, making me feel like I can take on anything, but this time, Dad’s words come rushing forward. “The one from the run-down part of town.”

  I turn left, pulling into the suburb where Blake lives. She might be from a run-down part of town, but there’s never been anyone classier than Blake, both inside and out. As I drive down her street, I study the area. Bikes lay on the lawns and sidewalks, unkempt landscaping adorns most houses with grass over a foot tall, and loud music thumps from somewhere. I pull up to the curb in front her house and really look at it for the first time since I brought her and Vicki home. It’s well-kept for an older house, with pale yellow paint that’s somewhat chipped and landscaping that’s a little messy around the edges. But it’s a nice home.

  Sure, it’s nowhere close to the million-dollar houses that grace our neighborhood, but I can honestly call Blake’s place a home. The warmth that radiates from it is nothing like the pristine, cold environment I live in. I turn off the car and slip out, heading toward her porch. Before I knock on the door, though, it swings open. I take a slow, cautious step inside. Furniture is overturned, and there are pieces of broken glass and ceramic lying on the floor.

  I bite back a snarl. What the hell happened?

  Anger and concern mingle inside me. I close the front door and call out, “Hello? Blake? Ms. Voss?” But nobody answers.

  I notice the kitchen light is off, so I head upstairs toward Blake’s room. By the time I reach it, I’m panting slightly, both from the run up and the emotions that are making it hard to breathe. I hear muffled cries coming from the spare bedroom—the second one on the left.

  “Vicki.” Blake’s voice seeps through. “We need to report this to—”

  “No, please,” Vicki pleads. “He’ll kill me. Or worse, hurt you.”

  That does it. I open the door and step inside. My entrance startles both girls, but it’s Blake who moves first. She jumps up and shields Vicki, using her own body as a barrier. When she sees it’s me, she relaxes.

  “Blake.” I step toward her, but she looks away, returning her attention to Vicki.

  “Get some sleep,” she says. She then goes on to help her climb into the bed and pulls the covers over her, tucking her in.

  Giving them a moment, I head back out to the living room. I start to pick up the furniture and the broken pieces of lamp. Blake comes into view just as I dump the ceramic bits into the trash.

  I look up at her. She has her hands wrapped around her middle, her shoulders slumped down, but her eyes blaze with anger. I take a step toward her and she freezes, like she forgot I was here.

  “Hudson?” Her eyebrows rise. “I’m sorry; I can’t go to the movies.”

  I shove my hands into the pockets of my trousers, because I don’t know what else to do. “Don’t worry about it.”

  I look away, and then back at her. She’s chewing on her lower lip, like she wants to say something. We’re still kinda new to this relationship, so I want to make sure I don’t do something to mess it up again. Oddly, I think things were easier when we were pretending—as much as I hated that too.

  “Maybe—”

  “Stay,” she blurts. “My mom’s out with her co-workers and won’t be home for another hour or two.”

  I don’t need to be asked twice. “Okay.”

  “Umm . . . want something to drink?” she asks.

  I shake my head. I’m too enthralled by the simple look she has going on—a pair of jeans, with calf high boots and a pink tank covered by a short, brown leather jacket. Her long brunette hair is pulled into a ponytail, with a few strands coming off the tie. It almost looks like she put it up in a hurry.

  “TV?” I ask, plopping down on the couch, hoping to distract myself. I want to ask her what the hell happened, why her living room looked like a tornado hit it and why her door was open, but I resist. That’s how I got into trouble before, prying where she didn’t want me to.

  “Yeah, sure,” she says, disappearing into the kitchen. I hear shuffling and the slam of the microwave, followed by . . .

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  I flip through the channels, but find nothing to watch. I mean, nothing.

  “You’re still channel surfing . . . ?” Blake asks a few minutes later, climbing in next to me. She sets a bowl of popcorn on the arm of the sofa and pulls a 49er blanket over us. She smiles, placing the bowl in her lap. “Want some?”

  I take a few and toss them into my mouth.

  Eventually, we settle on Seinfeld, watching the show on low volume.

  “Thank you for staying,” Blake says suddenly.

  I mute the TV and turn to look at her, placing my arm over the crown of the couch. “Want to talk about it?”

  She pauses, looking down at her hands, then back at me. “It’s not my story to tell.”

  I nod, my gaze flicking to the traces of broken vase I missed. “Is there anything I can do? I do know a person or two in law enforcement. I’m sure—”

  “I think, for now, she’s safe. As long as she doesn’t go back there.”

  I watch her carefully. She doesn’t look nervous, but something—maybe the way she doesn’t fully smile, or the way she has her shoulders slumped—tells me there’s more to the story. “Are you safe?”

  Her eyes widen.

  Her response makes me cringe. That’s what she did last time, right before she kicked me out. Now that we’ve taken our relationship further, though, I’m really hoping she’ll let me in. Really, really hoping. I scoot forward and place my hand on her cheek. There’s nothing I want to do more than keep her out of harm’s way. “I know you want to protect your friend, Blake. But it should never be at the cost of your own safety. And seeing how this asshole didn’t care about breaking and entering your home, your safe place, I’m starting to think you aren’t. And that doesn’t sit right with me.”

  She places her hand over mine. “It’s not like that.”

  “Then help me understand, firecracker.” I glance over her to take in the surroundings. I cleaned up most of the damage, but the remnants of violence still linger. “Tell me how you can go to sleep at night knowing that someone could come kicking down your front door. How will you stop this guy when he comes barreling into your room?”

  “Hudson,” she breathes. I don’t know if it’s because she’s about to tell me to fuck off, or if it’s out of frustration. She pulls my hand from her cheek and places it in her lap, holding it. “It . . . will you trust me?”

  “I do trust you.” I squeeze her hand. “It’s the situation you’re in that I don’t trust.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” she fires back.

  “Well, it does to me,” I say. I let out a frustrated groan. “Why can’t you see that I need you to be safe?”

  She studies me, my eyes, my reaction. “I do. I do see it,” she says quietly, looking away.

  I run my free hand through my hair and sigh. She looks up at me. “I like you, Blake. I like you more than I should.”

  Her eyebrows crease in the middle, and a frown etches her beautiful lips. Damn it all to Hell. I’m not going to hide and try to wonder what could be. After the conversation with Dad earlier, and finding her home broken into, my mind is swimming. What if I never saw Blake again? What if something happened to her, and I didn’t get a chance to tell her how I feel?

  Insecurity rears its ugly head when she doesn’t respond. I suck in a big breath, like that’s supposed to give me strength. “Say something. Please.”

  She searches my eyes again, boring into them like she’s really trying to study me. “You and me. It doesn’t make sense. You’re so out of my league. I mean, look at me, nothing but ordinary and simple.”

  “You’re perfection to me, firecracker. Flaws and all.” There’s never been anything more beautiful, both inside and out, than she is.

  Her lips part
and the scowl from earlier disappears, replaced by a questioning look. “But—”

  “Blake. I like you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here, dating you, wanting to spend time with you. And don’t even bother pointing out what others might think. I care about you, Blake. And I deeply, truly care about what you think of me. That’s it. Isn’t that enough?”

  She’s chewing on her bottom lip, and her eyes get glossy. I want to know why she’s crying. Did I say something wrong? I play back everything I’ve said in the last five minutes, and I can’t think of a single thing that I’d want to take back.

  She looks up, her eyes big and shimmering with tears. “Kiss me.”

  A wide grin splits my face. I cup my hand around the back of her neck and bring her lips to mine, more than happy to comply.

  I SERIOUSLY HAVE no flipping clue why those words slipped out of my mouth. He has that effect on me. Everything Hudson says feels genuine. All my life, I’ve been surrounded by people, guys especially, who broke my trust over and over again. That’s why I hesitate when Hudson tells me he likes me. Really, really likes me. Being let down so often, it takes that much longer to rebuild, to put the pieces back together and trust again. It’s that much more fragile.

  But with Hudson, like everything else, it feels different. My head keeps telling me to keep it simple, to keep my distance and armor, but my heart’s fighting hard. And it’s too late to take my words back, anyway. I want him to kiss me.

  His smile turns into a grin, and he reaches for me, cupping his hand around the back of my neck and pulling me to him, stopping when the only space between us is our breath. I close my eyes and lightly touch his lips with mine in a way we’ve never done. Kisses between us have always been nothing short of passionate and hungry. And I like that. But this time, it’s gentle and faint, but still absolutely amazing. He leans forward and returns the feather light kiss—once, twice, three times. It sends shivers down my spine. I’ve never wanted anyone more than I want him. I’ve never let my heart be as defenseless as it is right now.

  “What are you doing to me, Hudson?” My voice is heavy with the type of longing I’ve only read about in Jane Austen books. The kind that has the power to consume me, if I let it.

  His mouth curls up. “I can assure you, firecracker. Whatever I’m doing to you is nothing in comparison to what you do to me.”

  His hand snakes up and tugs at my hair, pulling it out of its ponytail. The strands fall in heavy waves down my back and over my shoulders. He threads his fingers through them. I melt as his warm fingertips massage my skull. His breath fans across my mouth, and the anticipation of feeling his lips against mine again does me in.

  “I’ve always wanted to do this,” he whispers.

  I force my eyes open, and I can’t help the retort that follows. “Since we’ve already kissed, I’m guessing you’re referring to the head massage?”

  “Yes.” His voice comes out gruff and low. “And this.”

  The sliver of distance between our mouths is gone, and his lips touch mine softly, and yet still careless, wild. Holy hell, I may as well have caught fire. My fingers hesitate for only a moment before they dive into his silky brown hair.

  The kiss is soft and hard, rewarding and punishing all at the same time. I’ve never felt like this. Hudson is perfect in every way. Even the way he kisses me. It’s just too much. I pull back and lean my forehead against his. I’m breathing hard. He’s breathing harder. We stay this way for a long moment before he finally breaks the silence.

  “Go to Prom with me.”

  “What?” I open my eyes, my forehead still against his. I know he’s smiling, because his eyes have that brightness in them.

  “I want to take you to Prom.”

  “But, I thought . . .” What am I thinking? I can’t form words or thoughts into coherent strings, so I say the first thing I think makes sense. “Aren’t you taking someone else? Surely there’s a girl from school—”

  His grip on my head loosens, his eyes showing me his hurt and bafflement.

  Okay, so maybe that didn’t make as much sense as I thought it did in my head.

  “You really think that I’d kiss you, ask you out, and tell you how much I care about you, if I was with someone?”

  No. Of course not. That’s so not what I meant. But kissing him just left me so . . . I groan, irritated. With myself.

  “Is that what you think of me, Blake?” The crushed, stricken look on his face is the same one people use to grieve the death of their favorite pet.

  Say something. “N-no. That’s so not what I meant.”

  He raises his eyebrow questioningly, but the pain doesn’t fade from his eyes.

  “It just came out wrong.” I try to backtrack. “I—kissing you, I just kinda fall into some abyss . . . I’m all confused. Not about you kissing me while you have a girlfriend, though. I know you don’t have a girlfriend. Or, at least, I think I know . . .”

  This time, both of his eyebrows rise, but there’s a hint of amusement about them. I sound like an idiot. Perfect. Just freaking perfect. I groan again, covering my face with my hands and dragging them down my cheeks as I gulp in a huge breath.

  “Let me start over again. Hudson, I’d love to go to Prom with you.”

  There. That wasn’t so bad. Now, if only I could take the last minute and a half back, so that I could have lived in blissful Wonderland after that charming kiss.

  But all my worry is for nothing. He pulls me to him, so that I’m sitting across his lap, and kisses me again. Slow, soft, and as greedy as before.

  “Where have you been all my life, Blake Voss?” he murmurs against my lips.

  Right here. Waiting for you, it seems.

  Our mouths are once again dancing against each other. But that’s all we do—kiss until we are both exhausted and fall asleep.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I wake to a kink in my neck, my lips sour and dry as sand. But what has me startled and nearly jumping out of my skin is the fact that I’m sleeping on someone, their hands holding me tight against them. Before I have a full-on panic attack, though, my lungs fill with a scent I’m starting to become addicted to.

  Hudson.

  My cheeks heat as I remember the delicious way we spent last night. I’m tingling from his warmth and don’t want to move, but slowly, reluctantly, I unwrap myself and slip out of his embrace. He stirs a little, but doesn’t wake.

  I want to touch the slight stubble that’s grown along his jaw overnight, but I don’t. I don’t want to wake him up yet. He looks so cute and vulnerable, and not so put together. Even his hair is disheveled. I smile, pulling my bottom lip into my mouth. This version of Hudson stirs something inside me, wanting me to think and do things I never thought I would at this stage of my life.

  Shaking my head, I shuffle my way into the kitchen, needing a drink. I don’t know how I missed all the noise earlier, but a utensil rattling against a bowl startles me. I spin on my heels, my hand to my chest.

  “Holy shit!” I yelp. “Mom!”

  She’s gazing at me, strong and piercing. I squirm. Wanting not to be under her scrutiny, I turn around and reach for a glass on the counter. I fill it with water from the tap and slowly let it trickle down my throat, trying to ignore the burn of her gaze in the back of my head. I’m sure she saw Hudson and me sleeping together in a heap of tangles. Mortifying to the umpteenth power. Her stare seems to seep into my back, inch by inch, penetrating, hot, and fierce. I know what she’s thinking.

  I sigh. “Nothing happened, Mom. I . . . we . . .” I can’t even get the words out. I sigh again. “He was going to leave once you came home, and we just kinda fell asleep.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” she replies.

  I turn around and face her, my head tilted to the side. “You didn’t have to. The way you’re looking at me . . . hey, wait a minute . . . you didn’t wake me up? So, in a way, it’s your—”

  “Don’t even try to finish that sentence, Blake. Besides, I know you’re responsible,
and I know nothing happened.” She waves her hand at me, indicating the fact that I’m still fully clothed, including my boots. “But that doesn’t mean I’m happy about finding my daughter sleeping in some guy’s arms on my couch.” She sighs, standing and picking up her bowl. She walks to the sink, placing it in the bottom before laying her hand over my cheek. “At least tell me that, hypothetically speaking . . . if you two were fooling around—not last night, of course—that you’re being safe?”

  I groan, not in annoyance, but in embarrassment. I know she isn’t just talking about sex. “Moooom,” I draw out her name in a whisper. “Can we not talk about this right now?”

  “Baby,” she says, letting her hand drop. “I trust your judgment, but . . . you’re different around him. You’re . . . you’re not . . .” She walks back to where her jacket hangs from one of the kitchen chairs and pulls it on. “You’ve just never brought a boy home, let alone fallen asleep with one.”

  My cheeks burst with heat. She does have a point.

  “Look,” she says, grabbing her handbag. “I don’t mind you having a little fun. Hell, I did too, before I met your douchebag of a father, but I want you protected, okay? I don’t want you to hurry into a relationship and get pregnant at a young age.” Like I did. Her unspoken words linger in the air.

  I press my lips together, unsure what to say to that. This is beyond awkward.

  “Just say ‘okay, Mom, I agree with you. You’re absolutely right.’ ” She gives me a smile, like she’s attempting to make light of a situation I know scares her more than anything else. “You know that I’ll support you no matter what, but I want the decision to be yours. Yours alone. Not his. Not because everyone else is doing it. Do you hear me?” Her emotional control slips away a little more with each sentence.

  I walk over and throw my arms around her. “I love you sooo much, Mom.”

  “And I love you, baby.”

  Then she pulls away, heading toward the back door. She touches her lips with her hand and blows me a kiss before disappearing through the door and shutting it behind her.