by Clara Stone
Vincent grabs a wire cutter from the toolbox. “That’s plenty of time.”
He curls wires at the base of what will be a fancy podium. Lisa provided specific instructions on how she wanted things to look for our senior fundraiser—from the colors, to the shape of the stage, to the decor. It’s no wonder that teachers flail over her, and boys—including Heath—seem taken by her. She’s more than just our cheer captain. She’s our student body president and a visionary of sorts.
“Can I help?” I ask again, and he throws a glance at me.
“Can you grab a pair of pliers from the toolbox?” His voice is curt.
“Yes!” I jump off the stool and crouch next to the metal box. Rummaging through it, I find two different kinds. Holding one in each hand, I ask, “Flat nose or long nose?”
He looks at me like I’ve sprouted two heads.
“What?” I shrug one of my shoulders. “I’m not as dumb as I look.”
“I see that,” he says, reaching for the flat-nosed ones and getting back to the task at hand.
I smile, allowing my gaze to travel his facial features, taking in his scrunched eyebrows, the way he bites his lower lip, and the muscle popping under his bruised cheekbone. A fresh dose of guilt bursts from the pit of my stomach. Not very many people stand tall when Heath’s in his protective-caveman mode.
Shaking my head, I make a mental note to talk to Heath. And soon.
“Are you pissed at me?” I blurt, settling back onto my bar stool.
Vincent looks up, and tilts his head to the side. “No, why would I be?”
I look at my hands in my lap and lace my fingers together. “Because of that bruise on your cheek.”
“I’m not in the habit of blaming people for something they didn’t do. Now, the ass that punched me—”
“You don’t know anything about him,” I snap, my protectiveness over Heath replacing my guilt.
His eyes darken, and he scowls before he looks away. He goes back to twisting the wire with the pliers.
Heath can be overwhelming at times, but he’s a good guy. Unlike some of the guys at school, he doesn’t go around flaunting his wealthy status, or his looks, or his list of conquests. And I know he’s got a long list of those. Sure, he acts like he’s a turd at times, but he’s secretly got a big, soft heart. I shouldn’t be surprised that Vincent doesn’t get Heath. Most people don’t.
I sigh and soften my voice, trying a different approach. “Iceman . . . he’s just protective. Very protective. Obviously.”
Vincent doesn’t say anything as he continues with his work. I study him. His jeans are snug, tight enough to showcase the lower body of a hard-working boy. No, more like man. The black, graphic tee pulls across his wide shoulders, defining the shape of his chest beneath the thin cotton. The hems of his short sleeves land perfectly over his flexing, lean biceps. And his brown eyes are untamable and dark. He looks like he just walked off a magazine ad selling super-masculine products, like construction trucks, or power tools, or pool products.
His bruised cheek still looks raw and swollen. He has every right to be pissed at Heath, but I wonder if Heath would’ve acted the way he had if it weren’t for me. Guilt and anger churn inside me. My chin tucked, I adjust my seat, thinking of all the times Heath could’ve gone caveman, but didn’t. And now that I need Vincent’s help to get the senior fundraiser completed, he has the gall to nearly ruin it for me?
I’m glad Vincent’s still willing to help.
A small smile forms at the corners of his mouth, and he glances toward me. “I get it. No need to apologize.”
Heat radiates along the back of my neck, creeping into my cheeks; I’d been caught ogling. “Huh?”
“You were apologizing for Iceman’s behavior.” He places his right forearm lazily over his knee, the pliers still in hand.
“I was not,” I say, crossing my arms under my chest. Because, if I were, I’d be condemning Heath before Vincent. And I can’t get myself to do that. “But, let’s say I was . . .” I look up through my lashes. “Will you accept my apology?”
“Why does it matter so much to you?” He looks genuinely interested in knowing my reason. Either that or he likes tilting his head to the side.
“Um . . .” Flustered, I try to come up with an excuse. It’s weird having to tell someone about my connection with Heath. So I don’t. “You’re sporting a purple cheek because of me.”
“Damn, this thing is being a real bitch.” A new voice startles me, making my shoulders jerk up to my ears.
I twist to the left and find Rock struggling to pull some kind of chain from a ball of iron. His face turns cherry red, and his right leg pushes against the iron as he continues to curse like a sailor.
“What the hell are you doing, Rock?” Vincent pushes to his feet and heads toward his brother. I watch as the two try to pry the chain from the stubborn ball of metal.
It’s easy to see the resemblance between them. If I ignore Vincent’s hard muscles, the tattoos, and mere inches of height difference, they’re practically twins. The Gallo brothers are quite the sight. It’s like going to school with the Hemsworth brothers. And I, for one, am not missing a beat of that gorgeousness.
I wonder if Vincent is as much a player as Rock. I shake my head. With a body like his—the perfect combination of roughness on his model-like bone structure, and those tattoos—how could he not be?
Clearing my throat, I change the subject, forcing my question onto Rock. “So, did you finish Mr. Hill’s History assignment?”
“Nah,” he replies. “I’m waiting for inspiration to hit.”
“Yeah?” I cock an eyebrow.
He shrugs and wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. “Yeah, you can’t just turn on creative genius like that.” He snaps his fingers. “You have to be in the right kind of mood.”
Vincent shakes his head.
I smirk. “Yeah? And what kind of mood is that?”
“The kind that lights his ass on fire for waiting ‘til the last minute.” Vincent howls with laughter, tugging harder on the chain. It snaps in his hands. “Shit.” He yanks his right hand back and sucks on the side of his palm, then pulls it out to assess.
My eyes go wide. “Oh my God.” I dash to the first aid station, grab the box with the supplies, and rush back to Vincent.
I take out the gauze, alcohol swabs, and antibiotic cream before grabbing his hand.
He flinches.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
I work methodically, cleaning the cut before applying the antibiotic and wrapping the gauze around his hand several times.
“I hope this isn’t too tight. I want to make sure the bleeding stops, but not . . .” I look up to find Vincent staring at me. “What?”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier, in the cafeteria . . . before Heath . . . you know.” I let go of his hand and he lets it fall on his lap. “I know I was being a dick, and I shouldn’t have . . .”
Before things can get any more awkward, I push myself up. “Don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have asked about the reason for your community service.” I head toward the first aid station and put the kit back in its place. I take the stylus next to the iPad that’s attached to the wall and update the log with the items I used. I look at the clock on the wall, and turn to face Vincent and Rock. “I need to head to cheer practice.”
“Listen,” Vincent says, rubbing the back of his head uncomfortably. “I’m not good at apologizing, but I shouldn’t have called you a stuck-up bitch.”
I don’t say anything, because, well, he shouldn’t have said that.
“Can I make it up to you? I mean, you could have left me to bleed after all, and you didn’t.”
Rock throws a wrench in the toolbox with a loud clatter of metal on metal. “Damn straight. She should have left you to die after that insult.”
I roll my eyes. I pick up my bag and shoulder it, heading out the door. “You guys are crazy.”
�
��So, can I?” Vincent asks.
I stop and pivot around. “Just help me get this project done on time and we’ll call it even, okay?”
He nods.
ACE HAS FREAKING IGNORED me for the past two days. And, like one girl drama isn’t enough to blow my fucking mind, Lisa is out to convince me that I need to make our relationship official—that I need to present her with a promise ring to make both our families happy. She’s insane if she thinks I’m going to go against my one and only rule when it comes to relationships—never ever let my heart be owned by anyone.
Only one girl is worth breaking that rule for. And she isn’t her.
Then why don’t you break it off with her, idiot? I know exactly why, and it has nothing to do with the fact our families will shit bricks when I do finally end it. It’s because every time I start to do it, she looks at me with those gray eyes, and I find myself swallowing the words back. What can I say? I have a sweet spot for gray eyes. I should have known better and stayed the hell away from her. Because, God knows, Ace has used that trick on me one too many times.
I stumble up the walkway to Ace’s house, stopping in front of her double window. Its white shutters are pushed open. What the hell? It’s freezing out; why does she have the windows open? The inside mesh and a spattering of rose bushes beneath her window are the only things keeping intruders out of her room. I walk up to the window, feeling a slight buzz in my head. One of the rose branches grazes the cloth by my ankle as I edge around the bushes. I mumble a string of colorful profanities under my breath.
Ignoring the thorns scratching through my pants, I lean against the mesh and call out in a low pitch, my voice slurring, “Accce.”
She stirs, but her eyes don’t open. Her brows pinch together in the middle, like she’s annoyed with something. My eyes rake the length of her body, taking in every detail of her sleeping form. She’s in her checkered, pink PJs and a curve-hugging tank top. Her nearly bleach-blonde hair flairs around her head, cascading over her chest. She’s always been beautiful, but there’s something about the way she’s lying, the way her lips are parted . . . it’s like . . . I can’t quite form words for what I’m feeling. My head spins and a small flutter kicks it way to the surface.
I shake my head, cursing the shots I’d consumed before coming over.
I’m totally being creepy, staring at her while she’s asleep. Awesome.
“Ace!” I yell, a little louder than I should.
She jerks up to a sitting position, her hands blocking like someone just threw a rock at her. Her head turns to me, and she jumps out of bed, grabbing the bat next to the nightstand.
I chuckle.
When we were kids, I’d freaked out at seeing a dead garden snake in my room. To this day, I still have no idea how it made it up there. My brave girl had picked it up and buried it so I would set foot back in my room. It wasn’t until later that I’d found out she too had a fear of snakes, but she’d wanted to be my protector. And now, seeing her take careful steps toward the window, half-scared and half-brave, it makes me proud.
“Let me in, Smalls.” The endearment fits her perfectly.
She lowers her arms and squints. Her eyes widen in realization.
“Heath?” she calls, like she isn’t sure if I’m real or not.
For some reason, that puts a smile on my face.
You’re being creepy again. Stop it.
She pulls on her robe, slips her feet into her slippers, and shuffles over to me. “What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice groggy and low from sleep and . . . sexy? God, how much did I drink?
“Let me in,” I repeat.
“Hold on.”
I hear a few clicks and creaks as Ace unlatches the window mesh. Impatient, I tap my foot on the soft flowerbed under my shoes.
“Come on,” she finally says, pushing the mesh panel aside.
Using my hand for leverage, I swing my feet over the windowsill and slide into her room. “Why do you have your windows open when it’s freezing outside?”
She shrugs. “I got hot and needed some cold air.”
I arch an eyebrow.
Ignoring me, she asks, “What are you doing here at . . .” She yawns and looks at the Hello Kitty clock on her nightstand—I’d given her that for her ninth birthday. “Three eighteen in the middle of the night?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” I respond coolly.
She falls back on her bed and the robe parts a little where her tank has risen, making her belly button peek. “And this couldn’t wait . . .” She yawns again, covering her mouth with her hand this time. “Until tomorrow?”
Yeah, maybe. But I’d also wanted to see her and make her understand I’d only wanted to protect her. I don’t like that she’s pissed at me for doing what I promised all those years ago.
She pushes up on her elbows and narrows her eyes. “Well?” she says.
“Can I crash here tonight?”
That gets her attention. She rolls off the bed and is standing before me in two seconds, all traces of sleep gone. Her eyes dart from one side of my face to the other, studying me. I look back at her, staring into her beautiful grays. Her lips part and she looks scared.
“What’s wrong? Heath, did something happen? D-did something happen at home?”
There have been times when I’ve come to Ace to escape the OCD controlling of my father. I have to be the best at everything. Best in school, best in sports, best in shape, hell, I even have to have the best-looking girlfriend. Sometimes, it’s just overwhelming to be around him, like I’ve been buried alive. But Ace is always there to help me get back to the happy side of my world.
“No, no. It’s nothing like that.” I reach over to press her blonde hair between my fingers—soft and smooth. I have the urge to rub my nose into it. “I’m just—”
“Drunk! Heath, are you drunk?” she says, her voice laced with anger. “Did you drive here?” She walks back to the window and peers out—probably to find my car.
I shake my head.
“I don’t see your Jeep.” She pushes away from the window and pivots, her hands on her hips.
I really want a hug.
“I swear to God, Heath.” Her finger waggles in front of her body, and I fight back a giggle. “If you—”
“No.” I cut her off and grab her finger, staring at it. It’s mesmerizing. Her nails are painted blue and white—our school colors.
Her shoulders slump in relief. “How did you get here, then?” she says, shrugging out of my grip.
She walks to her tiny dresser and rummages through the top drawer.
I follow behind like a lost puppy, my footing a little tipsy. “Designated driver,” I say simply.
She scoops up a hair tie and pulls her hair through it. “So, what do you want to talk about?” She brushes the remaining hair off her face.
That’s another thing I love about Ace. She doesn’t care if she has morning breath, or if she isn’t wearing makeup. She’s confident in her looks and doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks. Especially around me.
“You know I’d do anything to protect you,” I say, sighing heavily. “That I can’t stand it when you’re pissed at me.” I take a step toward her and falter. She reaches forward and grabs a hold of my arm, securing her other one around my waist.
I wrap my arms around her and kiss her forehead. “You’re my best friend, Smalls.” I push back, putting just the right amount of space between us so I can study her face. “My only best friend. So, can you just tell me what I need to do to make you un-pissed at me?”
She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and blinks twice. “What are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about?” I glare at her with a you’ve-gotta-be kidding-stare. Letting go of her, I thrust my fingers into my hair and exhale a deep breath. Was I just being paranoid? “You didn’t wait for me to pick you up like usual. Then, when I saw you before second period, you turned around and walked the other way, like you hadn’t seen me. Yo
u didn’t show up to lunch, but I found you laughing with Vincent. And then, you disappeared right after cheer practice. You did that yesterday, too.”
She bites the inside of her cheek, like she’s trying to stop herself from laughing. Then, when she can’t hold it together, she throws herself on her bed and laughs, covering her mouth. The sound of her voice fills the room around me. I find myself smiling and soon, I’m on the bed too, laughing alongside her.
After a few minutes, she wipes the tears from under her eyes and says, “God, Heath. Could you be any more thick? I wasn’t ignoring you. I have a shitload of stuff I need to get done before the fundraiser in three months. Plus, I had to work after cheer practice.”
I perch up on my elbow and turn to face her. I grab a hold of the hand lying on her stomach and lace my fingers through hers. She smiles up at me; her cheeks are pink from laughing.
God, she’s beautiful.
“Why would I want to ignore you, anyway?” she asks, honestly curious.
My eyes drop to our laced fingers. “Because you looked pissed after I punched Vincent.”
She sits up and lets our hands pull apart. I feel the loss of her skin immediately. Today, the loss hits me with more intensity than before. Am I really that drunk? Or is it just that Ace and I have never had a fight that lasted more than a few hours, and this time, it had lasted over forty-eight.
“Heath, you should know by now, there’s nothing in the world that would keep me away from you.” She tucks some lingering curls behind her ear. “Yeah, I was pissed you punched Vince—”
“He deserved it; he shoved you.”
Her eyes widen, like I’d just told her that bunnies were soul-eating monsters sent to devour kids. “Vincent didn’t shove me!”
Okay, now I’m really confused. “Don’t try to defend him.”
She rolls her eyes. “I am not defending him. He said something. I pulled away. And because I was so talented, looking to make a fool of myself, I fell on my butt.”
“What did he say?” I growl, unable to concentrate on anything else she said.
