by Tina Ferraro
I felt my eyebrows jack up. The homecoming dance? That was sure random.
He braked and handed some bills to the plump, motherly-looking BK employee.
“Why would I be thinking about the homecoming dance?” I asked the back of his head.
“Well,” he said, his face still turned away, “you've got that dress—”
“Do you want ketchup?” the server asked.
Jared nodded.
“Salt?” she asked.
Jared threw me a questioning look.
I shrugged. The food was unimportant to me. What I wanted to know was why he'd brought up the dance. It almost sounded like he was going to ask me to be his date or something. Which would be totally weird.
He handed me the bag, and I caught his eye. “So you were saying about my dress?”
He put the car in gear. “Just that you've got it, and the homecoming dance is coming up,” he said, and drove. “I thought it would be good if your mother was in a better place so you could concentrate on getting a date or whatever.”
I held my breath, hoping that Jared would fill the void with some sort of explanation. But it didn't work. He just pulled into a parking space and grabbed his Whopper from the bag.
“A date,” I said, feeling oddly deflated. “With who?”
“I don't know.” His voice was small. “That's your business.”
That was it? Everything inside me tightened. I knew I had no right to feel disappointed or irritated, but since when did feelings make sense?
“I suppose it could help to rub Rascal's nose in it,” I said, bringing up the one name I knew would get a rise from him. “I mean, showing him that my dress and I don't need his refund, anyway.”
He frowned, and little lines furrowed in his brow. “How would he know you were wearing it? Did he see the dress?”
“He's heard about it.”
“From who?”
“From me.”
Jared's gaze whipped toward mine. “You two have talked about the dress?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“I didn't want to let him completely off the hook.” When he didn't respond, I poked him in the bicep. “Do you have a problem with that?”
He shook his head. “I'm surprised he didn't mention it.”
I let his words sink in. Then I laughed. “To you?”
“Yeah, to me. And the other guys. At billiards.”
“Billiards?”
“You know, shooting pool. We're in a league at a coffeehouse on Moorpark. Have been for over a year. And it seems like every tournament, it comes down to him against me. And believe me, the guy shoots his mouth off about everything.”
Confusion and disappointment tumbled into my strange mix of feelings. “So that's where the rivalry came up? So this thing between you … it's about playing pool?”
“Yeah. But it doesn't matter how it started.”
And here I'd been stupid enough to start to think that maybe, just maybe, the tension between them had something to do with me.
“You know, Nic, I was surprised last June, when you were suddenly without a date. Since I'd driven you to all those stores and everything, and I didn't have anything lined up myself. I could have, you know, stepped up.”
And been my pity date?
The mortification was once again descending. How fast could I get away from this car?
I clutched the door handle.
“Where are you going?”
I turned back to him, trying to compose myself, to somehow bring this back to business. “I'm going to walk home. And put the rest of the flyers in mailboxes along the way.”
“What?” Honest-to-God confusion clung to his words. “Nic? Did I say something wrong?”
I cranked the door open. “See ya.”
“What's wrong?”
Something snapped inside me. I knew I was overreacting, but I couldn't stop myself. All the embarrassment I'd suffered with him piled up—the free car rides, the printing, the manual labor he'd “donated” today. It was all charity.
“Maybe I don't need your pity, Jared McCreary! Or your big brother act. Just do me a favor and stop helping me out.”
He swore under his breath and grabbed my forearm. Not hard enough to hurt me, but certainly enough to indicate his confusion. “Don't go,” he said, his voice cracking.
I shook free, jumped out (leaving my lunch, but oh well), and slammed the door. My face felt as hot as the blood rushing through my veins.
Pounding the pavement in the direction of my house, I paused whenever I could get my thoughts together enough to open a mailbox and jam a flyer in. But mostly my senses were filled with the roar of Jared's V-8 as he crept along behind me.
“Come on!” he yelled through his open passenger window. “Nic, this is stupid!”
My own house was suddenly within sight. I wanted to run inside, fall down on my bed, and beat my fists into my pillow. Jared and Rascal's rivalry was about pool. Jared felt sorry for me—I was poor and dateless and he thought he should have been my mercy date.
I picked up my pace. Until he let out a frustrated growl and his tires screeched on by me.
Good.
Good! Just what I'd wanted. Right?
Then how come I felt like I couldn't breathe or swallow?
I watched, in a sort of muddied stupor, as the Camaro's taillights raced down my street. Until they stopped and went bright red right in front of my house.
After an endless moment, the car lurched forward and pulled in against the curb, behind a dark green minivan.
Jared jumped out and headed for my lawn.
Obviously to wait for me.
I picked up speed and made it to our property. But what I saw did not immediately compute: not one, but two guys on my front walk. Snarling at each other. Feet spread, chests aligned, barely enough space between them for me to attempt some heroic stay of execution.
“I told you,” Jared spat at Rascal, his mouth pulled tight against his teeth. “She's off-limits.”
Rascal shuffled his body weight on my front walk and grunted out a laugh. “Yeah? She told Kylie you're not even her boyfriend.”
What in the world was Rascal even doing here?
Rascal must have felt my presence, because without tearing his gaze from Jared's, he called out to me. “Hey, Nicolette! Your bodyguard here seems to have a problem with me being on your property!”
I dropped the flyers in a pile on the lawn and moved in closer. “Jared was just leaving, actually,” I informed them both.
Rascal forced a laugh, then body-slammed Jared, whose face went all blotchy with anger. He swung out, his fist connecting with Rascal's nose, making a sickening crunching sound.
Ack! My hands slapped to my own nose with a cringe.
I braced for an explosion of blood. But Rascal just cradled his nose with one hand, and advanced on Jared with the other. “I'll kill you, McCreary!”
“Guys!” I screamed, jumping up and down, like that was going to make a difference. “Guys! Stop it! Before some neighbor calls the police or something!”
Rascal threw a punch, but the pain probably threw off his aim, because Jared ducked away easily. Then Jared responded with a right hook. Which skimmed the top of Rascal's head, knocking him to the ground.
I dove to Rascal's side on the pavement, scraping my knee, and threw myself over his chest. Then I glared up at Jared, a dare probably shimmering in my eyes. I wanted this fight over before someone really got hurt. “Jared, enough!”
“Nic,” he said, wiping sweat and dirt off his forehead, his voice softening. “Nic.”
“Just … go!” I cried. Beneath me, Rascal was scrambling to get up.
Jared's jaw knotted as if he had something more to say but was chewing the words to keep them inside. He shrugged and turned toward his car.
I squirmed around over Rascal. Whose face was mere inches from mine. Wow. “You okay?”
“I will be. After I kill him.”
/> “Forget about that,” I said, pulling back.
He sat up, touching the side of his nose. He winced. “You got any ice?”
“Sure.” I found my way to my feet.
“And a nice soft couch or someplace to rest my head?”
My brain scrambled. Mom would ground me for life if I brought a guy in when she wasn't home. Especially when that guy was the culprit behind the refrigerator list. But she'd also taught me to be kind and compassionate … and he was hurt.
“Yeah, sure,” I said, and fished inside my purse for my keys.
We staggered toward the door. I got it open and helped him through.
“You're probably wondering why I came by here today,” he said, leaning on me as if his legs might be injured too.
I nodded. Understatement of the Year.
“I wanted to talk to you about helping Jared and me put things right before the homecoming game so I don't get suspended.”
My face must have reflected my total shock, because a slow smile crept over his face.
“And if you believe that, Nicolette, I've got some farmland to sell you in downtown L.A.”
•
Once inside, I left Rascal on the living room couch and headed for the kitchen to grab a bag of ice and a couple of sodas. Plus, I wanted to make sure he didn't get anywhere near the Top Ten list.
The phone rang as I walked past it. A crazy voice in my head suggested it was Kylie, checking up on her guy. (Ha!) Or Jared, demanding that I throw Rascal out. (Double ha!)
I answered and was fall-on-my-face shocked to hear the snotty voice of my father's wife. “Your father,” she said, in clipped tones. “Is he with you?”
“No,” I said, then summoned a Caffeine-worthy flip tone. “Why, is he missing?”
“Not missing. Just not home. I came home from work early and thought I'd surprise the two of them.”
“He probably took her to the park. Did you try his cell?”
“Of course,” she huffed. “He appears to have it off. So I figured maybe he was on some secret mission. Like down in Thurman Oaks, giving you more money.”
I stiffened. Did she know how to hit where it hurt, or what?
Murderous thoughts zipped through my head. But only briefly, because at that moment my life was too interesting to waste any more brain cells on her.
“Once you find my father and Autumn, have him call me so I know everything's all right,” I said, and hung up before she had the chance to respond.
I made my way back to the living room, placed the sodas on the coffee table, and sat down next to Rascal. Leaving plenty of space between us, but close enough to pass him the ice bag for his nose.
“Will you hold it for me?” he asked, reaching for my hand.
I let out a laugh—sounding nervous, probably— and scooted closer. His hand guided mine with the ice bag to his nose.
“So,” I said, feeling the need to put some emotional distance between us, “how does Kylie feel about you coming by here today?”
“I wouldn't know,” he responded, nasal but clear-toned. “Wouldn't she have to be my girlfriend for her opinion to matter?”
Hope floated up from somewhere deep inside me. “You mean she's not?”
His gaze dropped.
Which was great, since I was suddenly smiling so big I almost ripped the corners of my mouth. “What— what happened?”
“Oh, Nicolette,” he said, sort of pretending to sob. “I'm too choked up to talk about it.”
I waited until he met my eye. A smile erupted on his face. Boyish. Playful.
I let mine free, too.
“Okay,” he said, and laughed. “Here's the thing.
Cherry told Harrison about Kylie cornering you yesterday. About being some kind of peacemakers between McCreary and me. I got pretty mad, had it out with her, she slammed the phone down, and that's been about it.”
“So, you broke up?”
“I guess. Besides, she's been getting pretty possessive lately, telling me what to do and stuff. And when I want something from her …,” he said, and his voice went all smooth and silky, “suddenly she doesn't consider us all that serious. Can't have it both ways, you know?”
Hmmm … no, I didn't know. But that wasn't my problem.
“So since I had nothing going on today, I thought I'd come by your house, see what you were up to. See if it's true that you and McCreary really are just friends. And if I could take you out for ice cream or something.”
Take me out? Like on a date? Was that a choir of heavenly angels I heard singing?
But wait.
Circuit overload! I'd only had mere seconds to process that Rascal and Kylie had been unhappy, had probably broken up, and that he'd decided to move on.
To me.
This would require hours, maybe days, of discussion with Alison and staring into space. But I had to say something now, to appear as an active inhabitant of planet Earth. So I forced out: “I'm surprised you even knew where I lived.”
“I dropped you off that day in the rain. And anyway, here we are, just you, me, and my misshapen nose,” he said, and angled his head so his gaze was like a laser beam into mine.
I laughed. “How is your nose? Feeling any better?”
He lowered the ice bag and rested it on the coffee table. “A little better,” he said. “The ice helped. But I'm thinking your lips would be even better.”
Uh—my what? I was near utter speechlessness.
“Kiss it,” he said. “Come on.”
A laugh bubbled up inside me. Not that anything was funny.
“My nose,” he said. “Or my mouth.” He leaned in toward me, his lips targeting a bull's-eye for mine.
My mind spun wildly. There were a hundred reasons, a thousand reasons, to stop him. “Don't do it,” I even heard myself say. “Don't kiss me.”
“Okay,” he said, but kept inching closer.
Liar that he was.
That he'd been.
That he'd always be.
I knew I should turn away, run, do something.
But was it so wrong to be selfish? Just this once? I'd waited and waited for this kiss, I'd paid my dues. I'd earned it.
Then, with nothing but breath between our mouths, Rascal suddenly paused. Hovered. Hesitated.
The quiet before the storm? Second thoughts?
As abruptly as he'd stopped, he plowed forward, his mouth capturing mine. Cool lips, pressing hard.
Surrounded by a clean, masculine scent. His body squishing me back against the arm of the couch, his heart picking up speed.
“Rascal,” I murmured, to my own embarrassment.
I put a wide-fingered hand on his neck and pushed into him, the way the girls did on The O.C. and in all the really good movies. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was inexperienced and immature.
Then a sharp tug on the clasp of my shorts told me he thought me anything but.
“Hey!” I shouted.
He stopped, then pulled back and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “What?”
I just shot him a look.
“Okay,” he answered with a lazy smile. “Why don't you fill me in on the rules?”
“The rules?”
“Yeah, what I need to say or do.”
I tensed, a little voice in the back of my head warning me I wasn't going to like where he was going. So I froze. Said absolutely nothing. Waited for him to continue.
“I'll do whatever it takes.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Can you go back in time and take me to your junior prom?”
A smile touched his mouth. “If I could, Nicolette. It's not like I had a great time.”
My breath went shallow. “You … you regret how it turned out?”
“You know, I do. I let you down and ended up bored half to death.”
Wow. Just like in my fantasies, Rascal was actually admitting he'd made a mistake! But funny, while the moment was indeed sweet, I'd been expecting cotton-candy sweet, instead of
what I got, sort of red Twizzlers sweet.
“You and I,” I said, “would have had an incredible time.” Probably. At least, I thought so.
“Especially afterward, right?” he asked, all low and familiar.
“Well—”
He silenced me with a finger to my lips.
I puckered my lips and kissed it. Simply because I could.
A grin touched his mouth; then his voice went all sexy. “We may not be able to go back in time,” he said, “but there's no reason to waste any more. We can have the after-party right now.”
“Now?”
“Sure. We're into each other. McCreary's history, Kylie's out of the picture. No one's home. What's stopping us from taking our relationship to the next level?”
I covered a laugh. “The fact that we hardly know each other?”
He let out a tired sigh, leaned back on the sofa, lacing his fingers behind his head, and looked me dead in the eye. “This is the best way I can think of to get to know each other better.”
I twisted my ring.
I'm not real proud of this, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't consider his offer for a millisecond. I mean, Rascal-and-me. It was what I'd been wanting more than anything.
But then I got real. Any relationship that started in bed—or on the couch—would be pretty lame. Mom didn't even need to have a saying or a plaque for me to know the wisdom on that one.
And the bottom line? I had a sneaking suspicion Rascal didn't want me (my heart, my soul, my undying devotion) as much as the physical me. (Though that realization almost made me feel good, in a twisted way.)
Still, I had to know for sure.
“Rascal, what if I said I wouldn't be ready for anything like that for a while? That I just wanted to be your girlfriend and take things slowly?”
He shrugged. “If that's what you want. But I promise, if you give me a chance, it won't take you long to pick up speed.”
“Why's that?” I asked, biting back a smile.
“Well, you're used to a guy like McCreary. Who probably has no moves. You just don't realize right now what you're missing.”
Use the beautiful pink material as a shroud after you die from complete and utter humiliation.
