I hug my arms around myself. “No one hurt me. They just bumped into me and made me spill my drink. It’s not a big deal, and I don’t know why you’re acting like it is. You don’t even like me.”
He shrugs, not arguing. “I don’t hate you or anything.”
I’m unsure whether to be offended or not. After the crappy night I’ve been having, I decide to go with the latter.
“Look, what happened, happened,” I say. “At this point, I just want to let it go and go home.”
His pierced brow teases upward. “Retiring from your partying days already?”
I give an obvious glance at his shirt I’m wearing. “I think it might be time to read the signs and accept that I don’t belong here.”
He studies me meticulously, and again, his intense eyes make it complicated to hold still. “Why did you come tonight, Zhara? I know we’re not friends, and I don’t know you very well, but we’ve gone to school together for a while now, and I’ve never once thought you looked like the kind of girl who’d suddenly decide they wanted to spend the weekends getting stupid-ass drunk.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and fix my eyes on the tile floor. “I didn’t come here to get stupid … ass drunk. I just …” I stop myself, too embarrassed to admit the truth aloud.
“Just what?” he presses in such a determined way that I wonder if he’ll ever give up until I answer him.
Maybe I could just tell him, like how I told him stuff while we were standing in the living room. He doesn’t know me well enough to judge me too harshly. And even if he did, I don’t know him well enough to care.
“I don’t know … I guess I just wanted to see what this”—I motion at the door—“was all about.” I give a half-shrug. “I’ve spent my entire life working toward getting into a good college because that’s what everyone expects me to do. That’s it. There’s been nothing else.”
“But it’s not what you want?”
I shake my head then shrug, confused. “I honestly don’t know what I want anymore.”
“I think a lot of people don’t,” he says with a shrug.
“Yeah, but a lot of people try new stuff and attempt to figure out what they want. I just stick to schoolwork and whatever else is comfortable because that’s what I’ve done my whole life.”
“But, doesn’t it work for you? I mean, you get straight As and shit, so you have to like it a little, right?”
Frustration festers inside me. “That’s the thing. Everyone thinks I love school and being good. And yeah, I’m good at studying and turning in papers on time, but I don’t love doing it, and I don’t love being good every single waking hour of every single day.” I blow out a breath and let my head fall back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. “I just want to stop worrying about everything and have some fun. All my friends have these crazy summer plans, and all I’m doing is taking summer courses online so I can graduate high school early. But that’s not what I really want to do.”
“What do you want to do then?”
“I don’t know. But coming to this party … This was me trying to find out. I thought maybe if I tried a bunch of new things, I'd find something I liked doing. But I'm starting to second-guess my decision."
“Of course you are,” he says matter-of-factly. “You’ve been here for less than an hour and have already gotten a drink spilled on you, lost your shirt, and now you’re talking about your life in a bathroom with the asshole who treated you like shit when you tried to come into his house. Seriously, you should’ve kicked him in the balls for being such a dick.”
I lift my head to see his expression. “You think I should’ve kicked you in the … balls?”
“Maybe.” His eyes sparkle with amusement, and he almost doesn’t look as intimidating as he usually does. “That all depends.”
“On what?”
“On how hard you can kick.”
“I don’t know,” I tell him truthfully. “I’ve never kicked anyone before.”
His gaze dips down to my long, somewhat gangly legs. “I’m guessing not that hard.”
I reach out and playfully shove him. “Hey, my legs may be skinny, but they’re strong enough to hold up another person on the pyramid.”
He chuckles, and the haunted look in his eyes momentarily dissipates. But the look swiftly vanishes as he frowns. "Right. You're a cheerleader," he says as if just remembering a disturbing fact about me.
“Not all cheerleaders are the same,” I tell him, remembering what he said to Taylor when we were trying to get into his house. “And you shouldn’t judge like that.”
“I’m not judging,” he insists, even though he clearly was. “I was just thinking.”
“About?”
“About how involved I want to get with this.”
My brows knit. “Get involved with what?”
He rubs his jawline, studying me instead of answering.
I shift my weight and scratch my arm, nervous and humming with restless energy. Why is he looking at me like that? Like he can’t decide whether he likes me or loathes me?
“Okay, here’s the deal.” He seems in pain, as if he’s just decided to hand over his life to me. “I’m going to help you, but only if we do things my way.”
Wait. Huh? Did I miss something?
“Help me with what?”
He backs for the door, stuffing his hands into the back pocket of his jeans. “With your mission.”
Mission? What an odd word choice.
“What mission?” Is he drunk or something? “I never said anything about a mission or about needing your help with anything.” Did I?
“So what if you didn’t say it? It’s pretty clear you’re going through some sort of life-changing crisis—or whatever you want to call it—and that you want to become a different person. But you have no clue what you’re doing.”
I feel so exposed right now. Not only did he see through my shield, but he smashed it completely apart. And after only five minutes of talking to me. Am I that transparent? If so, then why hasn’t anyone ever said anything to me?
“Okay, maybe you’re right,” I say. “Maybe I am going through some life-changing crisis. But, how are you going to help me?”
His eyes light up like he has the most brilliant idea ever, and I secretly kind of hope he does. “By making a list.”
My elation plummets. “A list? That’s your brilliant plan?”
“It is a brilliant fucking plan, but only if you do one thing.”
“And what’s that?” I ask warily.
He grins wickedly. “Let me make the list.”
I swiftly shake my head. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
He feigns hurt, pressing his hand against his chest. “Why not? Don’t you trust me?”
I shrug, offering him an apologetic look. “Sorry, but up until today, I think we’ve exchanged maybe ten words to each other.”
“I guess I see your point.” He removes his hand from the door handle and crosses his arms. “All right, go ahead and ask me stuff.”
“About what?”
“About me. That way, you can get to know me.”
I blink at him. Is he for real?
“I’m being serious,” he says, noting my skepticism.
I rack my mind for something I’ve wanted to know about him, but I draw a blank.
“What’s your favorite color?” I sputter out the first thing that pops into my mind.
He blinks at me in surprise. "That's the question you want to ask? After I just gave you free rein to ask me whatever you want?"
“A favorite color says a lot about someone,” I reply lamely.
“It says nothing about a person at all. And most people don’t even have a favorite color.” Shaking his head in disbelief, he reaches for the doorknob again. “I’m going to go get a pen and paper, then I’m going to make a list of questions you should ask me. And then, after I’ve answered them, we’ll make the other list.”
Shock seeps throug
h my body. How did we go from him not wanting me at his party to him wanting to help me with my life-changing crises? Benton is rarely nice to anyone, so why is he suddenly being nice to me?
Before I can ask him, he pulls on the door to leave.
But the door doesn’t budge.
“Shit.” He jiggles the doorknob then pounds his fist against the door. “Yo, anyone out there?”
The thudding music is his only response.
Sighing, he turns around, looking a bit remorseful. “So, I may have broken the lock when I picked it.”
“What?” I move up beside him to examine the doorknob. “What’d you pick it with?”
“A screwdriver,” he says. “I left it outside on the floor.”
Panic starts to set in, but my mind instantly shifts gears, going into problem-solving mode. "I'll just text Taylor and tell her to come help us." I fish my phone out of my back pocket then frown at the blank screen. "Crap, my battery's dead." I put the phone back into my pocket. "Please say you have yours on you."
He pats his pockets then shakes his head. “Not on me.”
Great.
“So, now what do we do?” I ask.
He shrugs. “We wait until someone finds us.”
And just like that, I find myself locked in the bathroom with Benton.
Zhara
“Maybe we could try screaming?” I suggest after ten minutes of watching Benton try to pick the lock with a hairpin. “Someone might hear us.”
“You can try to”—he shifts his weight to kneel on the floor then wiggles the pin in the lock—“but I doubt anyone’s going to hear you over the music.”
Maybe he’s right, but my optimistic side goes into power mode.
“All right, I’m going to scream, so cover your ears,” I warn. When he makes no move to do so, I open my mouth and shout. “Someone, help us!”
Laughter bursts from Benton's lips and the hairpin falls from his hand.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, frowning at him.
He shakes his head, collapsing onto the floor, his entire body shaking with laughter.
I nudge his leg with my foot, but not very hard. “Come on; tell me why you’re laughing at me before I …” I can’t figure out what kind of threat to make, which only makes him laugh harder. “Fine. Don’t tell me.” I turn around, ready to go hang out near the toilet, which is about the farthest I can get away from him right now.
“Zhara, wait.” He kneels up, catches the back of my shirt, and tows me back to him. “I’m not trying to laugh at you. It’s just that your scream … it was so … Well, it was like trying to watch a cute, little bunny scream.”
I open my mouth to protest but decide to tease him back because he’s smiling and has a really nice smile. “So, you think bunnies are cute?”
He half shrugs. “Yeah. So what?”
I don’t know how to respond. How can the guy who has a reputation for getting into fights, throwing the craziest parties, and sleeping around just admit that fact so simply?
“Don’t you?” he teases with a grin as he picks up the hairpin he dropped.
I smile at him. “You should smile more often. It’s a good look for you.”
His smile instantly falters, and that haunted look in his eyes returns times ten. Without saying a word, he goes back to picking the lock, seeming more determined than before.
I rack my brain, trying to figure out what I said wrong. He doesn’t like the fact that he was smiling? Why? Is being a bad boy that important to him? Doubtful. There has to be more to it than that.
I hop onto the counter and silently watch him fiddle with the lock until he gets so peeved off he snaps the hairpin in two.
“Feel better?” I ask after his tizzy tantrum is over.
He glares at me. “You know, I liked it better when you were sweet and shy and afraid of me.”
“Oh.” My mouth sinks into a frown. He liked me better before I showed my true colors? Before I showed the real me?
He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, okay?” He looks at me then grows more frustrated. “Zhara, I’m sorry. Please just stop looking at me like that.”
Looking at him like what?
I glance behind me at my reflection in the mirror, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. My eyes are bloodshot, my hair’s a mess, and I have a little bit of a scowl on my face. Other than that, I look pretty much like I always do.
“I’d stop looking at you like that,” I say, turning back to him, “if I knew what you were talking about.”
“Nothing. Never mind.” He shakes his head, seeming disappointed about something. “Let’s just work on your list.”
“We’re still doing that?” I ask in surprise.
He scooches me over and opens the drawer below the mirror. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“Because you got mad at me.”
He glances up from digging around in the drawer, his intense eyes locking on mine. “I didn’t get mad at you. I was mad at myself.”
That only deepens my confusion. He was mad at himself? For what? Smiling? I want to ask but worry he’ll get upset again.
“What are you looking for?” I ask instead, changing the subject.
“Something to write with.” He pulls out a tube of lipstick and slides the cap off. “This’ll work.”
I hop off the counter and move out of the way as he nudges me aside. “Why do you have lipstick in your bathroom?”
He opens another drawer. “Who knows? A girl probably left it here or something.”
“Or maybe a guy,” I say absentmindedly. “Some guys wear lipstick.”
He glances up at me again. “You’re a lot weirder than I thought you’d be.” My lips part, but he holds up a finger, shushing me. “That’s not a bad thing, so don’t jut out your lip and sulk.”
“I don’t jut out my lip.” But I smash my lips together just to be sure.
“Yeah, you do.” He returns his attention back to the drawer, grabs a small, flimsy notebook, and plops down on the floor. Then he gets situated, leaning against the cupboard below the sink and poising the lipstick like a pen. “Now, where to start?”
I sink down on the floor beside him and crisscross my legs. “Maybe with something simple and not too crazy.”
His marginally tolerant gaze lifts to mine. “So, what? You want me to write: do your homework?”
“No.” I give him my best annoyed look, but I don’t think I do it correctly because he looks like he’s about to laugh. “I’m just saying that you might have to ease me into this, especially after this whole party thing.”
He considers what I said. “Or, maybe I should just make you do something really crazy right off the bat? Do it nice and quick. You know, like ripping off a Band-Aid.”
“That’s a terrible reference.” I rub my arm, remembering the last Band-Aid I pulled off and how it tore out my arm hair. “Ripping them off hurts.”
“I’m not going to put anything on here that’ll get you hurt, I promise.” The intensity in his eyes makes me believe him. But I’m still really nervous about the list in general.
“Please just don’t put anything too wild on there. Or embarrassing. Or stuff that I have to do in public.”
He stares at me contemplatively while bringing the tube of lipstick to his mouth, like it’s a pen he’s going to chew on. Then he realizes what he’s doing and quickly moves it away from his face.
“Okay,” he starts. “We’re going to play a little game that will help you figure this out.”
“Okay …?” I answer warily. “How do we play?”
“I’m going to ask you a question, and you answer really quickly,” he explains then points a finger at me. “No thinking about it, okay? Just say the first thing that comes to mind.”
I nervously gulp. “I think I can do that.”
“Good.” He drags out a pause. “What’s one thing you wish you could do?”
“Get my first kiss,” I say without thin
king, then my eyes pop wide.
Crap. Did I just say that aloud?
He rubs his hand over his mouth, probably laughing at me. “That’s the one thing you wish you could do?”
“I don’t know … It’s just what came out of my mouth.” I feel like an idiot. “Can we do that again so I can give a better answer?”
He lowers his hand, shaking his head. “No way. You’ve already had too much time to think about your answer.”
I blow out a sigh. “Okay, fine. You can write that down on the list, I guess.”
He pauses, deliberating with a bit of curiosity and a bit of amusement on his face. “Or we could just do it now?”
My brows dip. “Do what?”
His lips twitch as he fights back a smile.
“Do what?” I ask again.
“Kiss.”
“You’re offering to kiss me?”
He bites his lip, struggling not to smile. “Sure. Why not?”
I pick at my fingernails. “I don’t mean for this to sound rude, but I don’t think I want my first kiss to be with a guy who doesn’t want to kiss me.”
Amusement glimmers in his eyes. “Who said I don’t want to kiss you?”
I eye him over with doubt. “You’re saying you do?”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”
My confusions doubles. “But … why?”
He shrugs. “Because you need a first kiss, and I’d be more than happy to kiss you.”
Benton wants to kiss me? Me, Zhara, the quiet, shy, goody-two-shoes, and apparently know-it-all?
“If you don’t want to, we don’t have to,” he says, seeming a little self-conscious.
I fidget nervously, unsure of what to do. On the one hand, I'm terrified out of my mind, but on the other hand, I want to be kissed. And kissing Benton doesn't seem too bad. It would get my first kiss out of the way, and maybe then Taylor wouldn't feel like she can't talk to me about guy stuff.
"Okay, let's do it." My voice is as quiet as a mouse and nearly gets lost in the booming music outside the door. But Benton must hear me because he wets his lips with his tongue and scoots closer to me.
Discovering Benton Page 4
