Cross My Heart

by Katie Klein

  “Free night,” he says, blowing it off. He changes the subject. “So . . . pizza any good?”

  I glance at the restaurant. “You know. More of the same.”

  “Wanna spice things up a bit?”

  I watch him, examining his features for any traces of sarcasm. I’m not entirely certain I’m ready for Parker’s idea of “spicing things up,” whatever it may entail. “Are you serious?” I ask, hesitating.

  “You know, that’s not very polite. Here I am, offering to show you a good time and you have the nerve to ask questions?”

  I laugh, but it’s light and nervous. “Does this spice have anything to do with Mattie Silver or Ethan Frome?” I ask, wondering if he wants to know how I really feel about that broken pickle dish.

  “Not unless you want it to. I was thinking more along the lines of Parker Whalen and Jaden McEntyre.”

  Just the two of us.

  My heart flutters, skipping a beat, and I can feel the pink slithering up my neck and to my ears. The rational, level-headed part of me insists I say: “No thanks. I have to get home.” The other part . . . the more reckless side of me (which I usually don’t have any trouble suppressing) is completely intrigued by this devilishly handsome bad boy.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “A late-night cruise.”

  “On your bike?” I ask, disbelieving.

  He eyes me strangely. “Yeah, that’s kind of the idea.”

  “But it’s freezing!”

  “Could be colder,” he reasons. “Besides, cold is good. It reminds you you’re alive.”

  I shake my head. “On your bike? With you?” I ask again.

  “Yeah.”

  Fiery red warning signs flash before my eyes. No. This is not a good idea. Not only Parker Whalen . . . but Parker Whalen and his bike. If my parents find out they’ll kill me. If Blake finds out he’ll kill Parker. Daniel . . . Savannah. . . . if I hop onto this motorcycle and ride away with Parker Whalen and someone finds out about it, I will be so completely screwed.

  He dives into his backpack and removes a spare helmet, holding it out to me. A peace offering. I proffered Sun Chips. He’s providing a getaway.

  My eyes narrow. Of all the sneaky. . . . “You planned this.” My arms cross, defensive.

  “You’re not scared, are you?” he taunts, head tipped sideways, a smile tugging at his lips.

  “I’m not scared,” I mutter, half under my breath. Still, I don’t reach out and take it.

  “A quick ride.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Don’t worry: I can’t be seen with you any more than you can be seen with me. It’s late. It’s dark. The helmets will hide us. It doesn’t get much safer than this.”

  I frown. Parker can’t be seen with me? Or doesn’t want to be seen with me? I bite into my lower lip. Jesus, Jaden, does it really matter?

  A flicker of understanding crosses his face. “Ah. I see.”

  “What?”

  “I just remembered who I’m talking to, is all. You know, the Jaden McEntyre everyone knows: safe, boring, not stepping out of her comfort zone. . . .”

  “I’m not in a comfort zone.” Anger stirs in my hollow gut, and I feel the weight of his stare. There’s nothing left to rouse me to my senses.

  A low wind sweeps through. I shiver as he smiles wickedly. “Prove it.”

  I turn on my heel, open my car door, and shut off the engine. I lock the doors, cram my keys into my purse, then snatch the helmet from him, frowning.

  Whether I’m in a comfort zone or not, I realize, snapping the strap beneath my chin, this feels entirely too comfortable: in a careless, irresponsible sort of way. Parker cranks his bike, revs the engine a few times. It rumbles, raging. Ready. Without thinking, I swing my leg over the seat and climb on, like I’m some kind of professional. Like I do this every day of the week.

  Careless, irresponsible, reckless—sure. But as Parker backs us up and pulls out of the nearly empty parking lot and into the street—my arms wrapped tightly around his broad chest, feeling the heat from his body as it warms mine—I’m thinking of another word: completely and undeniably . . . liberating.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Admit it,” Parker teases, nudging me with his elbow. “You had a great time.”

  “Whatever.” My pulse races, still operating on a high.

  He leans in, moving closer to me, his eyes liquid black and voice smoldering. “You know, for someone who supposedly has all her morals in check, you cave awfully fast to peer pressure.”

  “Shut up.” But I nearly choke on the words, breathless, his eyes burning into mine.

  “Say it: you had a great time.”

  “No.”

  He reaches across the console and pinches my side, tickling me into submission. “Say it!” I can hear the smile in his voice, even as I squeal and squirm away from him, grabbing his cold fingers and holding them tightly in mine, laughing. “No!”

  I don’t let go right away. I hold on to him until the car is completely still except for my thundering heartbeat and accelerated breathing. We remain intertwined, heat passing between us. When I finally realize what’s happening, I release him and jerk my hand back.

  “You should get out more often,” he says, quieter. “You need to live a little. You’re too safe.”

  “What’s so bad about being safe?” I ask, feigning offense.

  “Nothing, but you’re missing out on a lot don’t you think?”

  I gaze at the stars through the windshield of my car. Though our ride barely lasted twenty minutes, I climbed off the bike with my fingers frozen and unable to feel my toes. It was amazing, actually, riding through town . . . the roads empty and traffic lights blinking red and yellow. Most everyone was at home. Many were asleep, or approaching it, and I could imagine the grumbles as we drove by, the sound of the engine roaring past, fading. It’s like we were the only ones left—awake and alive.

  The parking lot is vacant. Even the neon Papa Guido’s sign is shut off for the night. We are really, and truly, alone.

  I let go of a sigh. “My family thinks I’m a control freak,” I confess.

  Parker positions his hands closer to the vents, warming them. He looks over at me, eyebrows knitting together. “Why?”

  “I’m just, kind of obsessive, I guess.”

  “About what?”

  “Harvard, my schoolwork, my causes.” I shift in my seat. The dry air parches my throat, leaving my mouth dry and sticky. I turn the heater down a notch. “I mean, you saw it. I went ballistic because I forgot one meeting.”

  “That was you going ballistic?”

  I toss him a dirty look.

  “There are worse things to obsess about,” he points out.

  I swallow hard. “Yeah, but you’re so right, you know? I’m boring . . . and predictable. And yes, I’m safe. Everyone and everything around me is safe. My decisions are completely calculated.”

  “That’s not entirely true. Because tonight—that was pretty unpredictable. I didn’t think you’d go for it. Peer pressure and all.”

  “Yeah, well, I shouldn’t have,” I tell him, expression serious. “If my parents find out I rode around town on the back of a motorcycle with you they’ll freak out. I’ll be grounded forever.” The moment I say them aloud, I immediately regret the words. I bite into my lower lip, wishing I could take them back, gathering them, and tucking them neatly back inside. What is it about Parker Whalen that makes me so direct?

  He pauses only a beat before asking: “What are they more concerned about? Me or the motorcycle?”

  Our eyes meet. “Honestly?”

  “Honestly.”

  And here we go again. I breathe a sigh. “You. But that’s because I don’t think they know you ride a motorcycle,” I explain. “And because they don’t know you, obviously.”

  He turns his head away, nodding.

  “You know, people say an awful lot about you behind your back. I wish you’d at least come out
and clear up some of the rumors. They’re annoying.”

  “People believe what they want to believe. That’s not something you can change, whether you want to or not.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, you thought you knew me, and you didn’t.”

  “I do know you. You’re safe and boring.”

  “Tonight I was unpredictable.”

  He gives a rogue smile. “We all have our moments.”

  I laugh curtly, and my heart flips nervously because I’m here, and I’m with Parker, and we’re alone, and I’m feeling things I don’t think I’m supposed to be feeling. I turn in my seat, facing him. “Come on, Parker. Who are you?”

  “What do you mean?” he asks, eyes narrowing. The shift is slight, but it changes his entire demeanor. It’s like I’ve made him nervous or something, caught him off guard.

  I shrug casually. “I just wanna know who you are.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I feel so transparent around you,” I confess. “I feel like you have me all figured out. Like you know everything about me and it drives me insane. And forgive me, but the only thing I know about you I had to sneak around to find out. Just give me something to go on. Anything.”

  He adjusts positions, making himself more comfortable in the cramped cab of my tiny Civic. “Like what?”

  “Like. . . .” I trail off, thinking. “What’s your favorite color?”

  He snorts. “That is so elementary. I have to be defined by a color?”

  “Yes.”

  He rolls his eyes and exhales slowly. Then he pauses for a few moments, thinking, fidgeting with the worn cuff of his jacket sleeve. “Black,” he finally answers.

  “I could’ve guessed that.”

  “So why didn’t you?” he asks, casting a sideways glance.

  “Because I wanted to hear it from you. Where are you from?” I continue.

  He hesitates a moment before answering. “Michigan,” he mutters.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Does anyone really know why they’re here?” he counters.

  “Parker.”

  He sighs. “It’s, um. . . . It’s kind of a long story.”

  “I have time.”

  “Okay. Well. I’m, um, here because my parents got divorced. I lived with my mom for a while. But a few years ago she started dating this guy . . . total asshole. There were some problems . . . and they sent me to live with my dad, who I hadn’t seen in years, and who didn’t want to deal with me.”

  A pang of sadness twists in my chest, but I can’t stop. I have to keep asking questions as long as Parker is open to answering them. Based on previous experience, he can slip away from me at any moment. There are never any guarantees with Parker. No reason to believe he’ll ever open up like this again. I have to know the truth.

  “Were you kicked out of school?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I was caught with some guys, and there was marijuana in the car.”

  “So those rumors are true? About the drugs?”

  “Which rumor?”

  “You had a drug problem.”

  He shrugs. “I did drugs occasionally. I didn’t see it as a problem, really. I mean, I wasn’t an addict.” He shakes his head. “I was lucky that day. Because the guys I was with? We were dealing. And none of them ratted me out.”

  I suck in a breath, staring blankly into space. Doing drugs and selling them are two entirely different things. This is a game-changer. I hesitate, unsure if I should go on. If I want to go on. “Why were you selling them?”

  “The thrill. The rush. Because I was tired of being broke. Because I couldn’t afford a car and I needed something to drive. Why does anyone do anything?”

  “Do you sell them now?” I press.

  “No.”

  “Do you do them now?”

  “No.”

  I eye him carefully, wondering if I should believe him. “Are you lying?”

  “I don’t lie,” he states, matter of fact.

  I sit back. “That’s stupid. Everyone lies.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a waste of time. The more lies you tell the more stories you have to remember. Believe me: it’s easier to just be honest.”

  I think about this for a moment before continuing, mildly surprised, because until we started working together, I didn’t have much reason to lie, either. “Okay. So . . . what’s it like . . . living with your dad?” I finally ask.

  He hesitates for a moment. “It sucks. We don’t get along at all. Basically he stays in his space and I stay in mine. His moods are like . . . ,” he trails off. “I don’t know. They’re totally unpredictable. Some days he gets pissed if I’m not home. Other days he doesn’t care. Sometimes I get hassle for going out. Sometimes he doesn’t even notice. It gets confusing, actually.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. Because I am. Because I don’t know what else to say. Because I know this doesn’t change things—that it doesn’t matter—but it’s the best I can do.

  “Don’t be,” he replies with a shrug. “I’m leaving in a few months, anyway.”

  I feel an irrational pang of resentment. He sounds so sure of himself, so positive that, when the time comes, he’ll be able to walk away from everything, still whole somehow. “Where are you going?”

  “You already know the answer to that,” he reminds me, a sliver of amusement in his eyes.

  I sigh and rest my elbow on the console, closing the space between us. His body spray mixes with night air. It’s intoxicating, sweet, and I let myself breathe it in. To be moved by it. “‘As far away as possible’ is not a locale, Parker. I don’t know why you won’t apply to college,” I muse. “It’s the perfect out.”

  He snorts. “I got my motorcycle with drug money, Jade. How the hell would I pay for college?”

  I sit up, spouting off every good solution I can think of. “Well, for one you could go to a state school. Two, you could apply for scholarships. Three, you could do work study, or get a part-time job off campus. . . .”

  “You don’t happen to volunteer as some sort of life coach on the side, do you?” he teases.

  “Like I have time for that,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “And don’t try to change the subject. I’m serious, Parker. You’re smart. You owe it to yourself to go to college and make a better life for yourself.”

  “Easy for you to say. Your parents can afford to send you to an Ivy League school.”

  “I applied for scholarships to help out. And the only reason my parents can pay for Harvard is because I have two older brothers who bailed on higher education,” I inform him.

  Both of my brothers went to work for my dad as soon as they graduated high school. While my mom wanted them to at least try for a two-year degree, both claimed college wasn’t for them; they could do better learning from Dad and continuing his company when he retired. “There’ll always be a need for new construction,” Daniel said. By default, I get everything hoarded away in my parents’ college savings account for us kids. This makes getting into Harvard vital. In terms of education, I’m all my parents have left.

  “You know,” I continue after a few, quiet moments. “The grass isn’t always greener . . .”

  “You don’t know anything about my life,” Parker says, his tone sharp. “Maybe sometimes the grass is greener.”

  “So you’re just gonna run away? You’ll have to get a job. You’ll have to find a place to live.” My tone rises instinctively, angry, even though I’m not trying to start a fight. I just can’t understand why Parker is going to throw away everything he’s worked for when it’s so obvious he cares.

  “And you think I haven’t figured all of that out? I might not be a control freak, but I do have a plan.”

  The words smart, stinging. “That’s a low blow,” I accuse.

  He looks away for a moment, staring out the window, and a heavy silence falls between us. Then . . . he turns back . . . our eyes meet . . . and he smiles at me.
It’s both sweet and mysterious—a very beautiful smile, actually. My lips part and heart flutters, slowly beginning to thaw. My mind rebels and my anger simmers, dissipating. I turn my face away, hating him for doing this to me, for having this kind of control over me. And the thing is, he probably doesn’t even realize what he’s doing to me every time he stares at me like that.

  “Hey.” He reaches over and tucks my hair behind my ear for me, tracing my jaw line with the back of his hand. I shiver, a series of tingles working through my spine. He pulls my chin toward him. His fingers are warm now, gentle, and for a moment my heart stops beating. I suck in a breath and hold it, surges of electricity pulsing where our skin meets.

  “I love that you’re concerned about me, Jade, but I am not a project.”

  I swallow hard as he releases me. “I didn’t say you were.” I nearly choke on the words, willing myself to breathe.

  “Really? Because it’s starting to look like it.” His tone is light as he says this, almost teasing—as if mocking me for caring about him. “And I wasn’t calling you a control freak,” he continues. “I just think you have enough to worry about without adding me to the list.”

  “I don’t make lists,” I say, frowning.

  He smiles again, and I find myself sinking under its weight. “You know, that actually surprises me.”

  I reach forward to turn the heat back up. The green digits on my clock drift closer to midnight. I check my cell phone to be sure.

  “When’s curfew?” he asks.

  “Fifteen minutes.” I sit back, staring into the darkness outside my window. “Did you see the moon?”

  “I did,” he says, nodding.

  “Do you think we’ll actually see the sun tomorrow?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know you do.” He reaches for the door handle, pulling on it. “Thanks for letting me borrow your heater,” he says, grinning at me.

  I crack a small smile. “Thanks for stalking me,” I return.

  Parker pushes the door open and climbs out. Cold air rushes inside. I shiver. He bends down, leaning his arm against my roof, peering in. “Maybe I can stalk you again sometime.”