by Sara Ney
***
Abby: Guess where I am…
Cecelia: Please tell me you’re in the basement of a fraternity house doing body shots…
Abby: GUH! Seriously. Why would you say that? You just ruined my fun.
Cecelia: Blah blah blah, stop keeping me in suspense.
Abby: We took a road trip to the Dells, and now we’re all holed up in this rental cabin, getting changed into our pajamas, then watching movies.
Cecelia: And might I ask—who is WE?????
Abby: You know. The gang… Weston, Molly, a few guys from the team. Caleb…
Cecelia: I can see you blushing from here.
Abby: Ugh, I am! I can’t help it. I feel like this is my very first crush…
Cecelia:…and what a wonderful feeling that is! Now go dazzle him with your brand of Abby awkward…
CHAPTER 12
Abby
“Jenna, where are the pajamas I put in here?” As I ask, I continue digging through my suitcase, which I’ve ransacked twice already.
No pajamas.
“Oh. You mean those hideous thermal bottoms and giant man shirt? They’re gone.” She emerges from the bathroom and leans against the doorframe, toothbrush poised at her bottom molars. “No freaking way am I letting you out there in that getup. Not with Caleb here, not when we’re trying to get you laid.”
She watches me and works the toothbrush back and forth.
Brush, brush, brush.
“Oh. My. God. Jenna, why would you do this to me? Why?” I try not to shriek, really I do, but unfortunately for me (and whoever is sleeping in the next room) my voice comes out breathlessly high pitched and scandalized. “This isn’t a beauty pageant. We’re camping.”
“This isn’t camping, you yuppie.” The brat snorts at me, shaking her lavender ponytail. “I’m sure you think you’re perfectly adorable in man jams, but it ain’t happening. The clothes are gone. Poof! I smothered them in hot dog juice and fed them to the raccoons.”
Brush, brush, brush.
I take a deep breath, count to five in my head, and mutter through clenched teeth, “Remind me again why I haven’t tried to asphyxiate you in your sleep yet?
The toothbrush stops moving, and Jenna lets it sit in her mouth while she talks around it. “Why are you fighting me on this? Molly and Cecelia were never half as argumentative when I was helping them.” She disappears for a few seconds to spit in the sink, then returns. “Your problem is those hideous—and I do mean hideous—thermal pants, that for the life of me I can’t fathom why you would bring along… and ends with the most asexual shirt you own. One that even your dad wouldn’t wear.”
I fold my arms across my chest and pout. “It is my dad’s.”
Jenna stops brushing and points the foaming toothbrush in my direction, dripping toothpaste bubbles on the carpet. “Exactly! That’s my point. And how tall is your dad, exactly?”
Tall. My dad is really tall.
Which means his tee shirts are really big.
I purse my lips and stare down into the suitcase laid out on the bed, shrugging, and avoid her contemptuous stare.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You will wear something I brought for you. Knowing you like I do—since I’m the resident stylist—I forbid you to go out there in that.” She gives my jeans and well-worn sweatshirt a disdainful glance, disappointment written all over her sharp features, which have only been exaggerated by makeup. “While everyone else is chilling in their cute comfies, you want to wear your dad’s hand-me-downs? No.”
And as if she hadn’t delivered that proclamation dramatically enough, she adds a shiver that racks her thin body, totally repulsed. “Not happening.”
“Whatever,” I scoff, refusing to hear any more lecturing, and stalk to the door, giving the handle a good, pissed-off yank.
Peering outside, I give pause when I catch sight of Molly entering the kitchen completely decked out in pale pink yoga bottoms, sparkly rhinestones running up each leg, and a cute coordinating tank top. Ugh, totally adorable. Moments later, Shelby rounds the corner from her bedroom and catches sight of me.
She too is sporting a coordinating set—heather gray leggings and a slouchy, off-the-shoulder gray cotton shirt that says #NOFILTER across the front in big, sparkly sequin letters.
Crap.
Shelby looks me up and down, dismissing me before flipping her long, platinum-blonde ponytail over one shoulder. “Hurry and change. Jeez, slowpoke—we’re picking the movie in, like, five minutes! The guys are in charge of the popcorn.”
I don’t have the guts to tell her this is what I want to wear, because I don’t feel comfortable prancing around in actual girly loungewear in front of real-life, breathing boys.
I jerk my head in a nod, disappear back into my shared bedroom, and slam the door shut. I turn to face Jenna, whose cocky smirk threatens to make my blood boil, even as she points a bright yellow fingernail toward a small pile of neatly folded clothes at the foot of the double bed.
You can bet no spooning will be taking place tonight—no, sir.
Freaking. Jenna.
~ Caleb ~
“Sit down anywhere, bro. Pick a spot, we’re starting the movie. Cubby, man, pass Showtime something to eat. Give him the popcorn.”
I stand in the arched doorway of the great room under a bulky log barn beam, stuffing my hands into the warmth of my hoodie, uncomfortable with the dynamics as I debate my options. For the most part, everyone here is a couple. Molly is basically lying on top of McGrath, who is massaging her shoulders in a huge recliner. Shelby, Blaze, Stephan Randolph and his girlfriend, Chelsea, are sprawled out on the floor.
Cubby has claimed the other red leather recliner, arms behind his head and already half asleep, while four more people are lounging on the massive sectional sofa.
In addition, various snacks, soda, water, and beer are set out on the large coffee table that’s been shoved to the side of the space.
So, I can sequester myself and sit on the floor at the outskirts of the room, or grow a pair of balls and sit next to Abby, who has the only other space available beside her on the couch.
What a coincidence.
“Sit your ass down already, Showtime. We’re watching The Mighty Ducks,” Miles Turner informs me from his spot on the couch. His fuck buddy, Angelica, is on the floor in front of him, leaning back between his spread legs. She watches me intently from under her exotic Filipina eyelashes, beautiful predatory gaze alive with interest.
Christ.
“Cop a squat or go sit by Abby. She promises not to bite too hard, and there’s plenty of room on the couch,” that girl Jenna calls out from across the room. My eyes—and everyone else’s—go wide as I search Jenna out on the floor and find her wiggling her eyebrows my way.
She’s got brass balls, that one.
I can’t decide if I like that about her.
Abby, for her part, is snuggled up on the end of the sectional, elbow on the armrest, and watching me with wary eyes and a tentative smile. And I don’t blame her; this whole situation with our friends trying to force us together is embarrassing.
I feel twelve—like I’m in goddamn middle school all over again—only back then I would have bolted out of the house and sworn never to attend another party again.
My feet stay rooted to the ground, uncertainty making me pause.
“Don’t be shy. Go sit down.”
I nod once, acknowledging Jenna’s remark, and hesitantly begin weaving myself gracelessly through the room—stepping over lounging bodies and tripping on a blanket—toward Abby, with her eyes wide and lips parted in surprise.
Her long, shiny hair is in a loose, messy braid thing, cascading over her bare left shoulder, her smooth legs extending from a pair of bright white lace boxer shorts as she sits cross-legged on the couch. She’s tugging at the hem of a gauzy white tank top as if it’s too tight, even though it’s, uh, flowy.
As she scoots closer to the arm of the couch to make room for me, I dr
op onto the beige corduroy furniture with an “Oomph,” quickly taking note of Abby’s visible cleavage, the delicate smell of her perfume, the sneak-peaks of skin in her crochet top, and, well… her.
My dick stiffens, and I quickly adjust myself and my gym shorts.
Shit. This is gonna suck.
I give her a nod in greeting, spread my legs to get comfortable, and sink lower into the broken-in cushions, clasping my hands in front of me on my lap to cover my boner, even though what I could really use right now is a pillow.
“Showtime, heads up,” Cubby says, pitching me a beer from the cooler like he’s lobbing a football through the air. I catch it easily, tap on the top before twisting the can cap off, and toss the cap behind the couch before taking a swig. I struggle with the urge to pound it all down in one breath when Shelby jumps up and clicks off all the lights.
~ Abby ~
I can hardly breathe when the lights go off. Caleb is sitting so close, and I’m wearing so… little.
His head is tipped back, and I hungrily observe the thick cords in his neck work as he swallows from his beer bottle. It’s obvious he hasn’t shaved in a few days, the stubble on his neck and chin casting a dark shadow over his already seemingly unhappy features.
He lowers the bottle and wipes his mouth, casting a quick glance over at me, his eyes flickering down over my chest, and I swear I hear him grunt grumpily.
As soon as the lights are turned off and the movie begins, my body is on high alert. Every tiny movement, from his shallow breathing and occasional discontented grumbling, to the heat his imposing body is emitting—sends a tide pool of awareness through my nerve endings, and I’m unable to concentrate on the big screen television in front of us.
Self-conscious in what I consider skimpy shorts and a sheer top, I feel his dark eyes on me, lingering on my legs and arms from under the brim of that ever-present ball cap.
His enormous bear-sized palms rest on his steely, athletic thighs, and every so often he runs them up and down the length of his athletic pants, like they’re sweaty and he’s trying to dry them off.
Feeling him regard me now under that gray brim of his hat, I take a deep breath and angle my head to face him. Trust me, it takes every ounce of courage I possess to turn toward him. Every bit of nerve. This small act that might be so frivolous to some—but not to me. To me it’s an act of bravery.
What I want to do is get up and run. Run out of the room, out of the cabin, and go home. Because I’m scared. Scared shitless, pardon my French.
Having been caught staring, Caleb jerks his jet-black eyes back to the television, and he feigns interest while casually letting his hands—the ones so tensely resting on his knees—idly slide to the couch on either side of his legs, palms flat on the cushions.
Inches from my legs.
Inches from my bare skin.
His chest heaves in and out like his breathing is labored, and I automatically wonder if:
1. He’s as nervous as I am.
2. He’s as out of practice as I am. And by “out of practice,” I mean inexperienced.
3. He’s trying to make a move but doesn’t know how.
The thought softens my resolve and I coax myself into motion.
My arms, which have been crossed in self-preservation during the movie so no one can see my breasts, now slowly lower, uncrossing themselves of their own volition.
I gingerly finger the hem of Jenna’s lace sleep shorts, and from my peripheral view, watch as Caleb’s solid fingers begin gently massaging the corduroy couch cushion. Slow, slight circles with the tips of his fingers. The sight of those fingers tensely stroking the fabric is kind of driving me insane as I imagine them on my skin—can’t help but imagine them on my skin—when all he’s doing is stroking the couch, for crying out loud.
I hold my breath and exhale before letting my own hands slide down from my bare knees, limply thumping down onto the corduroy fabric next to Caleb’s.
Our hands are so close—almost touching—and from the corner of my eye, I can see and feel Caleb’s fingers inch closer to mine, tap-tap-tapping nervously on the fabric, as if debating, before closing the space between our hands and sliding his hand, inch-by-inch, over mine.
I let out the breath I’d been holding with a sigh.
His hand is warm, and coarse, and I can feel rough callouses on my knuckles as he skims them with the pads of his fingers. His feather-light touch isn’t soft, but is almost enough to make me sigh again—and I would have, were our immature friends not present.
He holds perfectly still, gauging my reaction and breathing deeply, stoically staring at the TV in a trance.
With my heart fluttering in rapid palpitations within my chest, I flip my palm over, giving Caleb leave to trail his fingers over the sensitive pads of my palm.
He obliges.
He obliges, and I fight the urge to tip my head back and lean it against the back of the couch in a euphoric haze. I bite my lower lip and glance around the room at our friends; they are none the wiser.
Seriously though, it takes every ounce of willpower not to shout, A boy is touching me. Caleb is touching me! Caleb. Is. Touching. Me.
Idly, his index finger continues torturing me with its lazy little circles, until finally, I bridge our connection and lace my fingers through his, blushing when his body visibly relaxes next to me. His broad, tense shoulders sag as he gently squeezes my hand.
We sit like this for the next half hour or so, holding hands, his thumb absentmindedly stroking mine, while The Mighty Ducks plays up on the big screen. Caleb’s teammates criticize the film’s depiction of hockey, and how it is inaccurately being portrayed.
“What!” Miles shouts at the screen. “I call bullshit. That is not how a foul is called.”
“Duh, it’s Hollywood, dipshit.” Weston throws a Dorito at Miles from his spot in the recliner where he’s snuggling with Molly. “Calm down.” He gets a few snickers. “Rookie beyotch.”
Beside me, Caleb quietly chuckles, giving my hand another squeeze. “Come on, McGrath. You can’t throw down a cop movie reference during The Mighty Ducks. Not cool.”
He chuckles at his own remark, and in the dark, someone coughs.
I turn my head in shock and gape at him. “Was that a… were you laughing? Did you just make a… a joke?”
He shakes his head, his firm lips drawn in a straight line, but it’s his eyes that give him away.
“Seriously. You thought that was funny?” I whisper, giving my head a shake in mock disappointment, and he gives my hand another squeeze. “Of all the things you could laugh at, you choose that.”
“Hey. What are you two whispering about over there,” someone asks from out of the semi-darkened room, the only light being cast by the movie and the moonlight.
Suddenly the lights flip on, and Stephan—one of the hockey players I hardly know at all—stands by the outlet, staring over at the couch. It takes me a second to realize who he’s gawking at, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Me.
Caleb.
Us.
Holding hands like two fifth graders under the jungle gym on the playground.
“Well, well, well, Showtime does know how to make a move. And here I was beginning to think you were homosexual. Check it out, guys.” He points at us like he’s just discovered a rare breed of animal, his laughing eyes wide with wonder. “Watch out, you two.” He laughs at us. “Don’t get carried away over there—that’s where babies come from.”
Caleb’s grasp on my hand tightens.
Blaze rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up, would you, Randolph? And turn the damn lights off and sit your ass back down.” I hear him mutter “idiot” before the room is dark again, and at the same time I hear Stephan’s girlfriend, Chelsea, ask him what he was even turning the light on for to begin with.
“I wanted to catch someone doing something nasty.” I hear him laugh.
“Ugh, you really are an idiot,” Chelsea hisses at him angrily from the
ir spot on the floor. “You’re so embarrassing sometimes.”
Stephan scoffs, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It doesn’t embarrass you to be seen with me when I’m winning trophies, so why don’t you stop nagging me.”
I watch as Chelsea pushes herself up on her elbows and glares down at Stephan, who’s lying flat on his back. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she all but screeches.
Oh boy.
He shrugs on the floor. “Take it however you want.”
“I’m not such a nag when I’m blowing your tiny dick, am I, douche?” Chelsea spits out as she scuttles to a stand. She doesn’t even scan the room before storming out. Her departure is punctuated by the front door being pulled open, then slammed shut, the floral grapevine wreath swinging back and forth.
“Yikes,” Cubby says from his spot on the recliner, and he bites down on an entire handful of chips. He crunches noisily in the dark. “You know they have special pumps for small dicks, Randolph? It’s called a cock pump. You should look into it.”
“Shut up, Cubby,” Stephan shoots back.
“Um… dude. Aren’t you going to follow her?” Weston asks tentatively.
“Fuck that shit. Chelsea’s been a bitch all week,” Stephan responds but contradicts himself by rising to his feet.
“Okay. But was it really necessary to call her out in front of everyone? That was kind of harsh…”
Stephan stares at Weston with narrowed eyes. “What the fuck, McGrath?” He rudely flicks his gaze at Molly and dismisses her. “It’s not on me that you’re a domesticated little pussy.”
Oh… shit.
Abruptly, Caleb drops my hand and pulls himself to a stand. He leans over and hauls me to my feet. “We’re out of here,” he announces to the room, tugging me gently behind him, across the living room and toward the patio door. “Come on, Abby.”