by Allie Gail
“Did you find Jake?” I holler to her through the door. “Is he in there?”
“Shane Becker! You let me out of here right now! I mean it!”
Scoping out my surroundings, I’m pleased to find that there are no teachers in sight. So I brace my feet and put all my weight against the door. She’s pushing against it hard, and the skinny little twerp is surprisingly stronger than she looks.
“Nope. I don’t think so. How do you like it in there?”
“Let me out!”
“I didn’t hear you say please.”
Blam! Blam! Blam!
There are thuds coming from the bottom of the door. Apparently she’s kicking it now. “You are going to be in so much trouble!”
“I’m sorry, couldn’t quite hear you. What was that?” I grin at Craig, who’s just arrived on the scene and is doubled over in hysterics.
“Open this door! I’m not kidding! You are going to be sorry!”
“I can’t. It seems to be stuck or something. Don’t worry, I’ll go get the maintenance dude.”
Blam! Blam! Blam!
“You just wait ’til I get my hands on you!”
“Just be sure you wash ’em first,” I advise. “It’s nasty in there.”
We’re attracting quite a crowd by now. Everyone starts laughing when her muffled voice comes through the solid door: “Gross! I’m serious – let me out right now! It stinks in here!”
Stephanie struts over to throw in her two cents, as usual. “Oh my God, you’re so immature! Let her out of there, Shane.”
“Why? You jealous, Ste-fanny?”
Unable to resist drawing attention to herself, Stephanie leans closer to the door and calls out, “Hey, Mel. Is anyone else in there with you?”
There’s a moment of silence and then, “Oh my God, I hope not!”
This brings on another round of raucous laughter from the onlookers.
“Maybe you can find a boyfriend while you’re in there,” I suggest loudly. “There might be one guy at this school desperate enough.” Hamming it up for the crowd, I shake my head and announce theatrically, “But I doubt it!”
Blam! Blam! Blam!
The icing on the cake arrives in the form of Jake Hoffman, who yells, “Hey Melanie, see if you can find the quarter I dropped in there yesterday.”
The pounding stops temporarily. “What? Who is that?”
Oh boy, is she ever going to be mad!
“What’s she doin’ in there in the first place?” someone else wants to know.
More suggestions ring out. “Why don’t you ask the Tidy Bowl man for help?”
“How about cleaning the urinals while you’re in there!”
“Yeah, and refill the paper towels!”
“You’re not using up all the toilet paper, are you?”
“Be sure and put the seat up when you’re done!”
“Hey guys, Mr. Gordon’s comin’!” someone hisses.
Stepping away from the door, I hear a loud thud as Melanie chooses that exact moment to throw her full weight against it. If I thought the laughter was rowdy before, that was nothing compared to the hysterical roar that follows when she comes spilling out into the hallway on her hands and knees.
And then I see Mr. Gordon’s tall head weaving through the crowd and I know I’m probably about to get a week’s worth of detention for this.
But it doesn’t matter. Whatever punishment is handed to me, I can’t say it wasn’t worth it.
~ Chapter Seven ~
Well, this is one heck of a hot mess I’ve gotten myself into, isn’t it?
Clearly I should stick to writing sex scenes in my novels and just forget about trying to experience them firsthand. What a disaster! I know he’s never going to let me live this down. Of all the men in this great big world, why did it have to be that particular one to wake my dormant libido? Is this some cosmic joke on me or what?
And how is it fair that such a major douchebag could turn out to be so hot?
He saunters back in through the front door carrying a duffel bag and stands there looking at me expectantly. “Which one?”
“Huh?”
“Which bedroom do you want me to take?”
“How about neither. How about I direct you to the nearest Motel 6. I hear they let animals stay for free.”
“Let me rephrase that for you, peaches. Which bedroom are you using?”
Sighing, I reluctantly tell him, “I took the one on the left.”
His mouth curves salaciously upward. “You’ve been sleeping in my bed, have you? Naughty girl.”
Something deep inside me flutters like mad when I hear him confirm what I already suspected. Trying to disregard the unwelcome sensation, I snap, “Do you want me to switch rooms?”
“No, that’s okay. I kinda like the idea of you curled up between my sheets.” Brushing past me, he pauses long enough to whisper, “In fact, I encourage you to do whatever you like between my sheets. Feel free to take that in whatever way strikes your fancy.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” My response is sarcastic, but the tight clench between my thighs is hard to ignore. I can’t believe my body is responding to him like this, even knowing who he is. Damn double-crossing hormones.
Following him, I stand in the doorway and watch suspiciously as he tosses the duffel bag on Leah’s bed. He unzips it and starts rummaging around inside. The fluid movement of his bare, muscular arms is mesmerizing enough that I find it hard to tear my eyes away. Couldn’t he at least put his shirt back on?
“So. How’s the literary world, Kristine Lane?”
I start from my reverie. “You know about that?”
“I heard you were a writer, yes. It’s not exactly a secret, you know. Are you here working on a book?”
“I was.” I’m hoping he reads the underlying censure in my reply.
“I’ll try not to be too much of a distraction.”
There’s that smile again. Actually it’s more of a smirk, a sly indication that he intends to become as much of a distraction as possible.
Heaven help me, he's doing a good job already.
Clearing my raspy throat, I ask, “And what have you been up to these past…uh, how long has it been? Nine years? Ten?”
“Oh, this and that. Worked for a drug cartel for a while. Spent a lot of time dodging warrants. Just bullshit stuff, you know – assault and battery, money laundering, mail fraud. Served six years in federal prison. You know, the usual.”
Whoa.
Slowly, cautiously, I take a step back.
Noticing my alarm, he chuckles softly. “I’m kidding, Melanie.”
“Oh.” I press a hand against my thudding heart. “Oh, thank God. You had me worried there for a second.”
“Did I? I figured that was the sort of thing you would have expected.”
“Why would you think that?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you took every opportunity to remind me what a loser I was.”
“Oh, now wait a second. Are we really going to play the blame game here? Because if I remember correctly, you weren’t exactly a saint!” I take a breath and mentally count to ten. It’s getting late and I’d rather not get sucked into an argument, so I try once again to be civil. “Okay, so you’re not an ex-con. That much we’ve established. What do you really do, then?”
“I have a veterinary practice in Franklin, Tennessee.”
“You’re an animal doctor?” Huh. Now that’s not something I would have guessed. Torturing small animals, yes. Healing them, not so much. Actually I’m not sure what I would have pictured. A repo man maybe? Pool cleaner? Definitely not something involving a degree in medicine.
“That’s what a veterinarian is, yes.”
“Shouldn’t you be there now?” I ask pointedly.
“I moved some appointments up and got as much done yesterday as I could. My partner can handle the overflow until I get back.”
“What if someone has an em
ergency?”
“Like I said, my partner is taking care of things. He knows what he’s doing. Dr. Stewart’s been a vet for twelve years.” Dropping a handful of clothes on the bed, he strolls closer to me and says with a grin, “If I didn’t know better, I might think you were trying to get rid of me.”
I huff a surly laugh. “Is it working?”
“I’m not going anywhere, Felony.”
“I really wish you’d stop calling me that.”
“Sorry. Old habits die hard.” One hand leisurely drops down to pop open the snap of his jeans.
I take another step back, almost tripping over my own feet in the process. “Uh. What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m about to jump in the shower. Care to join me?”
Yes, I most certainly would.
“No, I most certainly would not!”
“You sure?” Cocking his head, he eyes me up and down with a look that’s positively indecent. “Call me crazy, but I got the distinct impression that you enjoy getting wet.”
“I can get wet just fine without your help, thank you very much.”
“Mm. I bet you can.” Reaching up, he trails a finger lightly down my cheek and I feel goosebumps spring up across the back of my neck. “Suppose you show me?”
Oh my God, I’m a butterfly's whisper away from taking him up on that offer. What is wrong with me? Flustered, I continue to back away until I’m standing in the doorway of the bedroom but he somehow manages to stay flush with me, matching me step for step.
“I don’t think so, sporto.”
“Then I hope you won’t mind if I borrow that image to play with. If you aren’t going to keep me company in there, I’ll need something to reflect on while I…soap up.”
“Be my guest.” I shrug nonchalantly, even though the mental picture of him soaping his naked body is weakening my resolve.
“I intend to. And I'd appreciate it if you didn’t disturb me in the morning. I have a feeling I’ll be up, if you’ll pardon the pun, rather late tonight and I’d like to sleep in. Pleasant dreams, Felony.”
With that, he shuts the door right in my face.
8th grade
Stephanie and I are comparing our new schedules on the first day of school when who should come slinking down the hallway but Shane the Pain and his equally disgusting minion, Craig. Too bad their families didn’t get transferred to Brazil over the summer. Frankly, I’m surprised either of those two goons managed to pass seventh grade.
Come to think of it, I don’t know how they managed to get past kindergarten. You'd think a person would have to possess an IQ above single digits to figure out how to stay in the lines when coloring.
“’Sup, hookers.” Smirking, the Pain slows his pace as he and his shadow approach us. “Lookin’ for a street corner to hang out on?”
Lowering my schedule, I narrow my eyes and shoot him the dirtiest look I can muster. “You again. Terrific. I was hoping you got caught in an undertow or something.”
The insult is wasted because he doesn’t appear to even hear it. Instead his eyes are glued to my pink Hello Kitty t-shirt. What the heck is he staring at? Self-consciously I look down, wondering if I spilled something down the front of it.
Elbowing Craig in the ribs, Shane grins lewdly. “Damn, girl – what’d you do, hide your morning grapefruit in your bra?”
What?!
“No!” Mortified, I fold my arms just beneath my chest. While it’s true I had a growth spurt over the summer, I didn’t think it was as noticeable as all that. And they most certainly didn’t get that big! I look desperately to Stephanie for backup, but she doesn’t seem to know what to say either.
“Somebody musta fed you a lotta carrots then. ’Cause…wow. That’s some major boobage you got goin’ on there.”
“Aw man, she’s prob’ly stuffing,” Craig suggests, even though the whole time he has his eyes trained on Hello Kitty’s ears as well.
“I am not!” God, could these two be any more obnoxious? Right now I'm wishing I had a sweater to put on, but it’s still August and ninety degrees outside.
“Guess I won’t be able to call you Mosquito Bite anymore, will I?” He finally lifts his gaze to meet mine, and I’m surprised to see that his eyes are actually quite pretty. Darker than I expected. A glossy shade of brown that’s almost black.
Funny how I never noticed that before. Maybe because I never really paid that much attention to what his face looks like up close.
Eww, am I actually standing here thinking about Shane Becker’s eyes? Barf in a Birkenstock! Who cares what he looks like? He’s a walking, talking maggot!
“Maybe we should start calling her Dolly Parton instead,” Craig is snickering.
“This from someone whose face could stop traffic,” I scoff back. “As a matter of fact, I think it did. Head on.”
Stephanie finally decides to speak up. Better late than never, I suppose. “Why don’t you go bother someone else? Nobody here is interested in your ignorant opinions.”
“Was I talking to you, Ste-fanny?”
“Hey, we were just pointing out the obvious.” Shoving both hands in the pockets of his ratty jeans, Shane cocks an eyebrow and gives me a deliberately innocent look. “Sorry if the truth hurts, Dolly.”
“Well, the truth is you’re a pig,” I inform him.
“Both of you,” Stephanie adds.
“Takes one to know one, lard-ass,” Craig calls cheerfully over his shoulder as they turn their backs on us and continue on their merry way.
I’m not sure which one of us he’s referring to, but since neither of us is fat I decide it isn’t worth worrying about.
“Those two are so gonna end up in prison,” Stephanie predicts. “And when it happens, I’m gonna be the first one there on visiting day laughing in their faces.”
“Are they really that big?” I ask, straightening my shirt and looking down anxiously. “Tell me the truth. I want to know.” All this time I thought they looked good, was proud of them even, but now those two dimwits have me wondering if I’m some kind of big-boobied circus freak.
“No. I mean, they’re bigger than they were last year, yeah, but it’s not like that’s a bad thing. Don’t listen to them. You look fine.”
“Swear?”
“I swear.”
“Really, they’re not too big?”
“Are you kidding me? No, for the last time they’re not too big!” she reassures me, laughing at my paranoia. “You’re not gonna start obsessing about this, are you? I promise, cross my heart, you have no reason to be insecure. You’re gorgeous. Anyway, look at it like this – they’re pretty much the same size as mine.”
“Why didn’t they say anything to you, then?”
“Um, probably because they’re about as bright as an underground cave at midnight. Duh.” Linking her arm in mine, she says, “Come on, let’s get to homeroom.”
We have to pass by the goon squad to get to our room, and I avoid looking in their direction. They just want attention and I won't give them the satisfaction of knowing how much they bug me.
But to my dismay, just as we walk past they both burst into song. If you can even call it that. All I hear is two horrible, earsplitting voices belting out some painfully off-key Broadway tune. And before I know it, just about everyone in the entire school is being treated to a really sucky rendition of Hello Dolly: The Musical.
One of these days I’m going to murder Shane Becker.
I'm not even kidding. So help me God, I'm going to kill him.
In fifth period, Kim Barlow passes me a note that says Craig Masterson told me at lunch that he likes you.
Ugh. Maybe if I cry and beg, I can convince my parents to move to Brazil.
~ Chapter Eight ~
Ironically, even after a long night of tossing and turning, I manage to roll out of bed before the source of my insomnia is up and stirring.
Maybe she had trouble sleeping as well.
The house is quiet enough to hear
a pin drop, so I switch on the TV to drown out the silence. I want to check the weather, anyway. The news is both bad and good – the hurricane has strengthened to a strong category two, but the latest forecast now has it heading in a more westerly direction. We might not get a direct hit after all. Still, the eastern side of the storm always carries the highest potential for tornadoes so we need to be prepared in the event of bad weather.
I’m scrounging around in the kitchen looking for coffee fifteen minutes later when Melanie comes sashaying in. Apparently she’s just showered because her hair is still wet, and when she breezes past me to snag a Pepsi from the fridge I get a quick whiff of whatever fruity-scented shampoo she used. Or maybe it’s lotion or something, I don’t know. All I know is, she smells damn good. Good enough to eat.
If I’m not mistaken, that ambition was number four on the list I made somewhere around tenth grade. Things I Want To Do To Melanie Lane. Manufactured and stored only in my mind, of course, because I would just as soon have slept on the railroad tracks before I’d ever confess that I was secretly crushing on her.
“Good morning.” Figure I might as well break the ice first. As usual.
“Morning.” Popping the top on the soda, she eyes me warily while taking a sip. Through the yellow tank top she’s wearing, I can vaguely make out the contours of her bra, which brings last night’s intoxicating image back into my head. Both of them.
Down, boy. It’s way too early for this.
“Where do you keep the coffee?” I ask, reluctantly pulling my eyes away from the delectable curves that I want to bury my face in.
“I don’t,” she responds coolly.
“What, you mean you’re out?”
“No. I never had any. I don’t typically drink coffee.”
“You don’t drink coffee?” I thought all writers were addicted to coffee. Not sure why, it just seems to fit the profile. Isn’t it kind of a stereotype that authors like to write in coffee shops?
“Is there an echo in here? No, I don’t drink coffee. Unless it's covered with whipped cream and made by a barista.” With a defiant lift of her chin, she adds, “Should’ve brought your own. I’m not responsible for supplying you with your Maxwell House or whatever.”