by Kim Roshell
He studies my face, eventually connecting our gazes. I don’t blink. I can’t. If I do, I may do something regrettable like break down and flood his Jeep with my tears. I can’t fall apart now, not when I’m finally back to being me. Mostly, anyway. Only way I’ll escape unscathed will be by convincing Whit that I’m right—that I’ve been right since the beginning.
“Take me home.”
“Baby . . .” Eyes still locked with mine, Whit’s body slowly drifts in my direction.
“Please, Whit. I can’t fight with you.”
He freezes time with his stare, rendering me immobile save for the fitful beating of my heart. My lungs seize, desperate for one good breath before he blinks. With a terse shake of his head, he seems to think better of whatever is churning in his brain as he straightens, swallows his argument. Starts the Jeep, shifts in into reverse.
Finally. I get the win.
Winning sucks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
What will you fight for?
—Granddaddy
Whit
“Hey, don’t get your hackles up. I don’t blame you for fallin’ for Simone, bro. Milk has done that girl’s body a whole lotta good.”
Truth. “I’m not falling for her, Coop. I just—”
“Lose sleep ‘cause of her?”
“No.” Yes
“Blow tests ‘cause of her?”
“No.” The struggle is real, though.
“Dumped Ash—”
“Hey, I didn’t dump Ashley, she broke things off with me.”
“Haven’t heard you cryin’ in your pillow.”
“And you won’t. Ain’t you the one who said our split was a good thing?”
“Yep. Still think so, ‘specially now.”
“‘Because you think I’m falling for Simone?”
“‘Cause you’ve stopped bein’ so damn uptight for a change, chasin’ some goal every minute. Life won’t always go the way you want, includin’ what you think is an ideal relationship. And for the record, I don’t think you’re fallin’ for Simone.”
“Get outta my room, Cooper.”
“Not everyone thinks like Mama.”
“I’m aware.” I’m out of patience, too. “Look, I tried, okay? She don’t want anything to do with me. I’m done fighting. Simone and me? We ain’t happening, Coop. Deal with it. I am.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Simone
Must-Do List—preferably before turning 18
4) See Leann
“Is it really that damn hard for you to respond even once?”
What. The. Heck?
On the heels of a very long day with way too many surprises after way too little sleep, following what I thought was a painful final parting between me and the angry boy seething in front of me, Whit’s language and tone are majorly unappreciated.
“You knew my plans today.”
“Meanin’ those plans where you meet some stranger lookin’ to weasel back in your life now that your pockets are fuller?” Whit fumes, irritation evident as he shakes his phone in front of my face. “Yeah, knew that, hence all the unanswered calls and texts. Last we spoke ‘bout those plans, you said you’d be meetin’ said stranger at Tate’s. You didn’t. I checked.”
“Lower your voice!”
No way am I letting Mr. Angry Pants inside to finish this rant. I peek over my shoulder, verify Aunt Katie isn’t eavesdropping, pull the door closed behind me. My toes curl away from the cold concrete as soon as I step out, barefooted.
Music blares from inside Whit’s Jeep, parked midway down the drive. An unexpected gust of chilly night air activates instant goose bumps to rise all over my exposed skin as I step around him and do this weird hobble/hop thing down the driveway. I round on him as soon as I’m a safe enough distance away from possibly being overheard, ready to give him a piece of my mind.
“Have any idea how worried I’ve been?” he snaps, stealing my moment.
My jaw goes slack.
Indignation paints Whit’s face a brilliant shade of red. Hair in total chaos, finger-wide indentations sculpted through the front, I can’t recall a time where I’ve seen this apoplectic, fire-breathing definition of disheveled. Light hits him in just the right spot, illuminating the vein throbbing angrily on the side of his neck. His chest heaves dangerously close to hyperventilation, the worn fabric of the purple and gold LSU t-shirt straining around his torso.
Am I missing something? Of course, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he’s angry. What baffles me is, why? I thought I made it pretty darn clear last night when he finally dropped me off. Far as I’m concerned, our attempted friendship circled the drain the moment he walked out of his kitchen.
“I told you I had it handled.”
“You had it—” He laughs. “That’s rich, Simone, ‘cause I distinctly recall you sayin’ you’d be at Tate’s—a place where somebody could provide the cops an accurate description of what you were wearin’ the last time anyone saw you alive.”
Eh, I did tell him that. Only, I had an epiphany later—he was right. Having Leann meet me at Tate’s would’ve been a bad idea. Too close to my home, which is the one place my biological connection will never be invited.
Between Aunt Katie and my court-appointed advisor, I’ve had years of mental preparation for the day I’ll actually receive a significant portion of my trust. What I hadn’t considered is how Leann, or any other number of strangers looking for free handouts have had years to do the same. Anyone watching the news around the time of the accident knows Eric and Elizabeth Bruckner left an adopted heir when they died. I’ll have to be on my P’s and Q’s, minding the vultures circling my house.
Since riding the bus scares me microscopically less than riding in cars, I walked to the nearest bus stop, let it deliver me into the city. I’d already wasted a perfectly good sundae while waiting in a back booth inside a McDonald’s by the time Leann’s cab rolled into the parking lot. Thankfully, I hadn’t named a place beforehand, so it only cost me a little extra on the fare. Something told me Leann would arrive, miraculously short on cash when it came time to pay the driver. She didn’t prove me wrong.
Any worry I had about recognizing her after so many years faded as soon as she stepped out the car. Everything about her looked exactly the same, right down to the black stretch pants and a cherry red crop top skimming the underside of her breasts. Five-inch silver stilettos that have seen way too many miles smacked more hooker than remorseful mother she’s claimed to be.
Hadn’t. Changed. A bit.
Thank God I didn’t get her fashion sense.
What I did inherit from Leann is this head of thick, unruly hair. Hers chemically straightened, brushes the tops of her shoulders, whereas mine falls beyond my shoulder blades in its natural state and below the bottom of my bra strap when I flat iron. Had everything gone as planned, the lackluster, straw-like texture I saw would be the finished results, if I let Ms. Christie apply the relaxer Aunt Katie’s been vetoing until I’m legally old enough to vote.
Went ahead, scratched that silly goal off my list.
“Hello?”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Cowboy. There was no reason for worry.”
He blinks. Makes this weird noise—a clicky-moan thing that sounds lodged in the back of his throat. Threading his fingers behind his head, he squeezes his eyes shut. Even in the dark, I can see his face turning a frightening shade of crimson. I look my fill as he tips his chin skyward, affording me a perfect view of the strained cords bracketing his throat. The underside of his jaw covered with day-old scruff adds to his overall hotness, which sucks because Whit Devereaux cannot continue being hot to me after last night.
As if he’s read my thoughts, he lets out a hoarse laugh. “Happen to think I have damn good reason, Honey Bee.”
“Not if you knew what I was doing. Anyway, Leann wanted money. Big shock, right? I mean, she started out saying all the right things, if you wanna call it that. How sorry she i
s for not taking better care of me, how she wishes she could turn the hands of time. But get this, I have a sister! That was news. Apparently she lives in California with her dad. Her name’s Carson. Cool, huh?”
“Yeah, cool. Now, tell me about the part when you told Miss Katie where you were and with whom. Better yet, don’t bother lyin’ again. I know you didn’t,” he seethes, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, “by the way you skirted that door. If anything had happened to you, Simone . . .” he trails off, visibly shaken.
Cripes. I really did scare him. Amazing concept, possessing this ability to incite such strong emotion in a boy who scarcely spared me a passing glance only a few months ago. An emotion I’m rather intimate with, oozes from every one of his pores in the form of sweat. Not, like, stinky boy sweat that reeks of dirty laundry or funk de’ la locker room. This scent is clean, yet anxious.
Fear.
“Nothing happened, okay? I’m fine,” I assure him. I set my palm to his chest, inwardly willing him to calm down. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t lie. I truly had planned on meeting Leann at Tate’s, but once I really thought about what you said, I didn’t want her knowing where I work, either. So, we met at the McDonald’s on Beecher instead. I made sure we were perfectly visible the whole time. I sat there, let her tell me all her woe stories, how her bills have bills, blah, blah, blah. She never did get around to asking anything about me or what my life is like. Closest she came was telling me how lucky I am that those people didn’t leave me without enough ends to be set for life—her words, not mine.”
His look of disgust reflects my feelings perfectly.
”Don’t plan on meetin’ with her again,” he demands, and I’d take offense at his tone, if not for how he moves in so close, I feel the enticing warmth of his breath on my face. He releases the stranglehold he has on the back of his neck, placing both of his hands on my waist.
“I don’t,” I stutter in time with my pulse. “I made it pretty clear I won’t be writing any checks in her name. I mean, sure I wanna do something for Carson, hopefully meet her one day. Maybe help her dad with her college fund, or something, but that’s—”
Whit silences the rest of my rambling. With his lips.
My knees buckle upon impact.
He pulls me right back in, locking his arm firmly around my waist. The full-on contact—from lips to thighs with no space to spare—elicits a shameful gasp from me. A soft, low moan slips inside my mouth along with his tongue. The faint taste of spearmint mixes with the cherry tang from the licorice I’d popped in my mouth right before I answered the door. Should be gross, but it isn’t.
Seems Whit feels the same. His oral exploration is wholly invasive. The tip of his tongue traces the roof of my mouth, causing shivers to stampede along the length of my spine. Another small groan of approval rumbles in his throat as he skims his fingers over my hip. Up, up, up until they settle over the pulse throbbing in my neck, his thumb steadying my chin.
I revel in the sensation of the light scrape of his teeth against my gums as he readjusts our positions. This isn’t like our kiss in the closet. It’s something else. More. Far more forceful, yet sweeter than anything I could have imagined. Lord, help me. I’ve never wanted to be so close to anyone.
I slide my arms around his neck, breaking his hold on my chin so I can twine my fingers in the silky hairs of his nape. Do what I wanted to do last night, tracing his lower lip with my tongue. Tease the softness with my teeth. Lift on my toes, arch my back. Press us closer. My body glows from the friction, the feel of his thunderous heartbeat turning me on like a light switch.
This time it’s me who groans.
Without warning, Whit lifts his head, breaking the connection. His hold around my waist, however, doesn’t ease in the least. If anything, it cinches tighter.
“Oh, man,” he mutters on ragged breaths, then buries his faces in my hair. “That wasn’t s’posed to be better. You weren’t supposed to . . . oh, man.”
“I’m sorry.” I have no idea what I’m apologizing for, or why for that matter. Just sounds like the right thing to say. Because I truly am sorry that he stopped. “I’ve been trying really hard, and—”
“Stop.” His lips brand my scalp. Some sort of magnetic energy exudes from his whole body, zapping the rest of my sentence. “We’ve both wanted that kiss more than air since we left that closet, Simone, and you know it. I get you’re still hurtin’ after last night. I can’t even really blame you. Tomorrow you can go back to pretendin’ you don’t know me, if that’s what you want. But tonight? I need this, okay? Tonight, we’re together.”
His tone brooks no room for argument, not that he’ll get one. For two years, I’ve fought every tingle, every flutter, every anything that has reminded me Whit isn’t mine. What he’s offering is a once in a lifetime opportunity, one too irresistible to deny.
Just for tonight.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Pencils, erasers. You’ll need ‘em both in life.
—Granddaddy
Whit
“Ashley, honey, leave those plates. I’ll get them.”
“I don’t mind helping, Ms. Rebecca.”
“No, I insist. You and Whitney visit awhile before service. Go on, now.”
“Can I go wit’ ‘em, Mama?” my sister begs, enthusiasm lifting her butt halfway out the seat.
“No, you may not, young lady. You’ve monopolized enough of Ashley’s time. I’m sure your brother has missed her.”
“I missed you too, babe” Ashley murmurs, unmindful that the presumptuous endearment didn’t come from my lips.
Had Chirp directed that question my way, she’d know I give her request two resounding thumbs up.
I bite my tongue.
Ashley tosses her freshly trimmed hair over her shoulder like she’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial. Smiles prettily at me for the thousandth time since we sat down to eat. True story, she looks amazing in a crisp white, sleeveless blouse that’s enhancing the sun-kissed hue she acquired over break. Paired with a blue skirt that rises to mid-thigh when she sits and silver heels that do amazing things for her calves, the outfit alone is worthy of the two or three looks I’ve returned.
My errant attention hasn’t gone unnoticed. Innocent observations, notwithstanding, I’m clearly sending the wrong message. Ashley rewards my current lapse in good judgment with a flirtatious bat of her lashes, then smiles bright enough to blind everyone at the table.
What I wouldn’t give, just this once, to have something stronger in my water glass. I gulp the contents, then suck an ice cube between my teeth, masking my grimace when Coop, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet, mouths, “Thought you broke up?”
A moot point to the females in this room.
Chirp flops back in her chair, harrumphs. Meanwhile, my ex-girlfriend eases gracefully back into hers. Somehow, she’s managed to edge closer to me, looking the picture of serenity after enjoying a serving of Mama’s pot roast and mashed potatoes that I normally love, but can barely stomach this evening. In a surprising show of affection, she runs her fingers through my still damp hair, which triggers Mama’s equally nuclear smile.
Something tells me I’m in for a long evening.
How I’m supposed to survive whatever antics these two have plotted is anyone’s guess. Practice was grueling. A night of broken sleep didn’t make life better. Still have two tests to study for later. Add the unsettling news today about Simone’s piss-poor choice for a prom date, and I’m the walking definition of irritated.
Gossip of the Day: Douchebag asked Simone to prom.
She. Said. Yes.
No one to blame but myself for this evening’s turn of events, I guess. Ashley’s been dogging my steps for the past two days, trying to corral me into a private conversation. Baseball practice has provided a legitimate excuse for putting her off in the evenings. Ryan runs interference at school. His outright glee at keeping Ashley and me apart has become an official sport for him. Not sure I’ve se
en him this happy in a long time.
But tonight, she caught me. Wednesdays are usually reserved for her girl time with Simone while we’re at church. I assumed (yeah, yeah, Granddaddy warned me early on about where assumptions lead) she’d be otherwise entertained. Finding her setting our table definitely added a point in her column. Then, another when Mama invited her to sit with us during service later, same as she does on most Sunday mornings.
Did, until the breakup.
Of course, she accepted.
“But she hasn’t had a chance to play Barbies with me yet, Mama. By the time Daddy quits talkin’, it’ll be too late.”
“I’ll assume Ashley’s eager to spend time with you, too. She’ll come back this weekend, play as much as you want,” Mama promises.
Ashley nods.
Why don’t assumptions work the same way for females?
Gotta hand it to Mama, she don’t go down without a fight. Bet she orchestrated this entire conversation while I was in the shower. She knows Ashley and I are on the outs. Told her myself when I finally spoke to her over breakfast the other morning after she “reminded” me of the importance of appearances in our family. As if that blow she delivered to the solar plexus the night before wasn’t devastating enough.
I turn my focus back on Ashley. For now, she’s easier to deal with. “Ain’t this usually your Girl’s Night?”
“Normally, yeah, but Dina’s kid is sick. Simone covered her shift.”
“Oh! Bring Simone back with you this weekend, Ashley. She played Barbies with me while you were gone. She’s good at it! Tell her, Whit.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Damn.
—Every guy who’s ever found himself in this predicament.
Whit
“So, you guys, like, hung out over break?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s . . . great,” Ashley gushes.
Her reaction wouldn’t be nearly this cool if she had all the details. The abbreviated version I offered—okay, the butchered, piecemeal account, but I can’t exactly throw Simone under the bus without at least a head’s up, can I?—included my brief “wellness check” (in case her aunt wasn’t home and she needed something. No, I didn’t mention the time I stopped by), meeting Mark (not the brunch part or the zoo outing), and the spontaneous visit when she entertained Chirp while Coop and I tackled yard work.
