by Layla Hagen
He narrows his eyes. "You think my father did this?"
"He didn't?"
"No, Dani. He didn't." He runs a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it. "Trust me, if he ever attempts to, he's a dead man."
"So, why are you looking this way? You did get into trouble with...someone."
"That's my problem," he says flatly.
I lower my eyes to the uneaten crust of my pizza slice. Damon's phone buzzes.
"Aren't you going to stop that thing?" I ask.
"No. That's Anna, asking if I want to buy her lunch."
He gave her his number. I feel a pang of something gripping me. With dread, I realize it might be jealousy. "Why don't you? Anna is beautiful."
"Not my type." He groans, winking at me. “I don’t even know how she got my number.”
I stare at him. "She's everyone's type."
"Do I look like everyone to you?"
"No," I tease. "You're special. Don't all bad boys think they’re special to everyone?"
"I'm not interested in being special to everyone. I want to be special to someone. That’d be enough for me."
"That's a hell of a statement for a guy."
He laughs softly. It's a surprisingly melodic sound. "It's your fault. I don't usually wear my heart on my sleeve. You make me feel too comfortable around you. When you don't insult me."
Comfortable. What's that supposed to mean? That's the kind of word you use to describe fluffy pajamas you love wearing on lazy days, but wouldn't be caught dead wearing outside the house.
"Do you keep in touch with your friends back home?" I inquire.
"I didn't have too many close friends. Mom was one of my best friends."
"Oh," I say before I can stop myself. "It must have been rough, what with her illness and all..."
"It was challenging because she could hardly move on her own." He hesitates, his fingers twitching. His chest rises and falls in slow, uneven beats, as if breathing has suddenly become a chore. I study every line on his face; the way his brow furrows in what he'd like to pass off as concentration, when it is, in fact, an effort to withhold tears. "We managed. A neighbor helped us a lot, looked after her when I was at school and work."
"You worked?" The concept of work is foreign to me. I volunteer often, but I haven't worked one day of my life.
"Had to," he says in a clipped tone. "Mom's benefits barely covered our basic needs."
"And you also had time for math contests and such? That's impressive."
He shrugs. "School was important to Mom. I wanted her to be happy."
I lie on my back next to him, watching the clouds.
"What was she like? Tell me. What was her favorite food? Music?"
"She listened to eighties hits, mostly. She loved lasagna. After she got sick, she couldn't cook by herself. It took me about two years to get that damn lasagna right." His voice is a tad uneven. "No one's asked me about her. It's like everyone wants me to forget she existed."
"I suppose they think it would be easier for you."
"And you don't?"
"I don't know," I admit. "Does it hurt talking about her?"
"Not with you. I liked taking care of her. It was such an integral part of my life. And now that she's gone, I feel lost."
Many people feel lost at our age, but for very different reasons. He was forced to mature earlier, to take care of someone else, and now that she's gone, he doesn't know how to fight the loneliness. I wish I could show him he's not alone, but what can someone who only knows loneliness teach him about driving his away? He looks so desperately lonely that it hurts me. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see his lips curl upward in a smug smile. Before I can read too much into his smile, though, another thought takes hold of me: those are some beautiful lips.
"You're not all that bad for a rich girl," he says.
This snaps me out of my daydreaming. Or, well, lip-dreaming. "You say it like I should take it as a compliment."
"It is a compliment. You're a breath of fresh air." He shifts on his side, facing me.
"So are you. You're different from everyone I know."
"Is it because I'm devastatingly good-looking?" he says mischievously.
I roll my eyes at him. "It's because you are extremely modest. We should go back. You know, hanging around with me is going to ruin your reputation."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You didn’t notice the way people looked at us last Friday? Or today in the cafeteria?"
"So what?" His eyes widen, and he grins. "You're ashamed people might see you with me?"
I gasp slightly. "That's not true."
"You're afraid they'll think we were secretly making out," he teases.
"They will not think that." Heat surges in my cheeks.
"Hazel seems to think exactly that."
I can't be blushing. I can't be blushing. Damon eyes one of my cheeks and then the other. His grin widens. Of course, I'm blushing.
"You'd like to make out with me? You just have to say it. I assure you I'm a perfectly good kisser." He leans into me, his eyes scanning me playfully. Does he know what he's doing to me with his dark green eyes and his annoyingly beautiful lips? He, who must have touched tens of other lips with his, and toyed with as many hearts? My heart beats so fast I legitimately fear I might faint. He's just joking, Dani.
"Not every female around wants to kiss you." How I muster the wits to say the next words, I'll never know. "You're not as good-looking as you think."
"But you admit I'm good-looking?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't deny it," he says.
"Please, go work your charm on someone else who is more experienced with these games. I'm not."
He pulls back. "What do you mean?"
"We have to go." I take my plate and jump to my feet. He catches up with me on the stairs, grabbing my arm.
"You've never been kissed?" he asks.
I debate lying for a second, but I've never been any good at it. "No, I haven't. Go ahead. Laugh."
He's not laughing. "Why?" he seems genuinely confused, and I almost laugh. He reminds me so much of James right now, who is always completely bewildered by the fact that no guy is into me.
"I don't think I'm anyone's type here at school," I explain.
"Figures. I knew most here are idiots; I didn't realize just how much."
The implication in his words fills me with warmth and relief: that there is something wrong with them. Not with me.
"So, no one was lucky enough to taste your lips," he says, and then does something that petrifies me. He runs his thumb over my upper lip, then my lower one. My thighs involuntarily press themselves together as heat billows between them. A whiff of breath rushes through my lips.
"We should go to class," I murmur.
"Sure." A smile plays on his lips all the way to the class. We attract stares, just as I predicted. This time, he does notice them. Leaning into me, Damon says, "You were right. They are looking at us, but I was right, too."
"What do you mean?"
"They’re convinced we spent the entire break making out. And if you continue to blush so deliciously, I'll wish we had."
***
Tuesday, I give in and ask Damon for help with Trig. He agrees instantly, and we decide to study on the rooftop, which is slowly becoming our designated meeting place. Hazel was supposed to study with us, but she came up with an excuse at the last moment. I suspect she wants us to be alone.
When we take a break from the exercises, I listen to Damon rant about how awful California is for five minutes before I can’t stand it anymore and interrupt him. "Why don't you focus on the fact that you are awesome at Trig?" I want to push him to see his strengths and play with them. It has an immediate effect on him; he straightens his shoulders as if a weight has been lifted. Unfortunately, this also makes the lines of his toned chest much more visible, which means I'll pay zero attention to Trig.
"Focusing on me is boring," he says with confidence.
"Let's focus on you." He pushes the books away, propping himself on an elbow, his green eyes scanning me intensely. "Tell me about you."
I swallow hard, peeling my eyes away from his body. I’m not used to talking about myself, not even with Hazel or James; though for some reason, opening myself up in front of Damon seems less daunting. “I’m more of a listener."
“Do things differently for a change." Leaning in to me, he whips my breath away. "I've told you enough about me. I want to know more about you. I'm listening."
Under his watchful gaze, words tumble out of my mouth without effort. “I like ice cream and chocolate. Christmas is my favorite holiday. I want to try bungee jumping on my birthday."
“See? That wasn't so hard." He pushes himself up on his forearms. “What's your favorite color?"
“Why do you want to know that?" I ask suspiciously.
“So I can paint a mental picture of you in a bikini." It takes a few seconds for his words to sink in. When they do, there is nowhere to hide. I cover my arms, hoping I can hide the goose bumps on them, but I'm not fooling him. In fact, he relishes what he's doing to me, a grin cracking on his face. “Or maybe I want to buy you something in your favorite color. You'll never know if you don't tell me."
“I have two. White and red, but I don't wear red much. It feels like drawing attention to myself."
"So what?" His eyes widen all of a sudden.
"I don't feel comfortable when people look at me. I don't like being the center of attention."
"How about when I look at you?" He wiggles his eyebrows in an exaggerated move.
"I—well, I..." My words come out jumbled, so I decide it's best to shut my mouth. I now understand why the word ‘crush’ is so popular to describe these butterflies rumbling inside me. The feeling crushes everything in its way—including my ability to think. Let's hope it won't break my heart, too.
"I think you should put yourself in the center of attention,” Damon says. “Look at me; I do it all the time."
Drumming my fingers on the tiles, I can't help snapping, "You're the center of attention because you're a jerk to everyone."
"Not to you." He wiggles his eyebrows again, fixing me with his eyes.
"You have to stop doing this."
"What?" His tone is a little too innocent.
"You know what." My throat goes dry as my eyes wander to his lips. "Let's get back to Trig."
***
One and a half weeks later, Damon texts me to meet him in front of his locker before going to the first class. He waits for me propped against the metal door, wearing a smug look and keeping his hands behind his back.
"What are you doing?” I ask. “The class started already."
"We're late anyway, another minute won't hurt. I want to give you a present."
"Oh." I readjust the strap of my backpack on my shoulder, looking down and trying to keep the excitement from showing. No use. It runs like a current from my toes all the way up to my ears, and I grin like an idiot. "Why did you get me a present?"
"Because it's Valentine's Day. What did you get me?"
"I—didn’t..." Words fail me as I try to make sense of all this. Why should I have bought him a present? It's not like we're dating...Are we? Alarm flits in my mind until he grins.
"I'm kidding. I just bought it yesterday and didn't want to wait to give it to you."
"What is it?" I make a mental note to find a way to get back at him for fooling me. Though I won't deny, the thought of dating him, even if it was an illusion, was wonderful. On second thought, I should get back at him for not making the dream last longer. Or making it real.
"I'll only show it if you promise you’ll use it."
"Pfff..." I try to play cool, though I'm dying to see what he got me. "No. You'll give it to me anyway because you'll look like an idiot carrying whatever that girly thing is."
"Fair point. Well, if you won't wear it willingly, I'll make you wear it." He moves his hand, revealing a bright red scarf. It's beautiful, made of smooth silk.
There are a thousand more appropriate reactions, but all I can come up with is, “Why?"
“Because sometimes it's good to push past something that makes you uncomfortable. Will you wear this?"
"Yeah, sure. It's gorgeous. Thanks."
He steps up to me, swinging the scarf over my head, letting it fall over my hair, electrifying it in the process. I raise my hand to smooth it, and meet Damon's. The split-second our fingers touch, the current of excitement from earlier turns into a full-on fire.
"Let me do it." His voice is breathy and uneven as he pats my hair, which only makes it worse, but I'm not about to complain. I hold my breath when he arranges the scarf around my neck, watching him run his tongue over his lower lip then nip at it with his teeth. I’m painfully aware of the heat in my cheeks, but hopefully my flush will go unnoticed next to the bright red fabric. "There you go. Happy Valentine's Day, Dani."
He throws one last look my way before opening the door to the classroom, and I'm a goner.
Chapter Eight: Dani
The next evening, I go out to dinner with James and Parker. My family’s driver, Paul, takes me to the steak restaurant I go to with James every once in a while.
The two men await me inside the restaurant, already sitting at a table. They both smile when they see me. Given how busy they are, I’m beyond happy they made time to eat dinner with me.
“Hello, cousin,” Parker says as I approach them, grinning from ear to ear. His thick British accent is music to my ears. “Long time, no see.”
“She’ll be all yours in the fall when she moves to England,” James says.
“Can’t wait,” Parker and I say at the same time.
The waitress arrives and asks us what we want to drink. She sizes up both men, pushing her chest out and fluttering her eyelids. She’s ridiculous, but I can’t really blame her. James and Parker are both stunning. Each of them has a devastating effect on women. When they’re next to each other? It’s just too much awesomeness. Ridiculously flirty behavior is accepted.
After the waitress brings our drinks, Parker asks, “How are prom preparations going?”
I choke on my soda, eying him to see if he’s pulling my leg or not. Nope, it’s a serious question. But I suppose he thinks this subject is a hit with senior girls. Chuckling, I say, “I can’t believe I’m having dinner with two men, and prom is brought up. It’s still months away.”
“Well, when we were in boarding school,” Parker says, pointing to James and himself, “that was all girls talked about in senior year. Granted, a long time’s passed since then, so maybe things have changed.”
“We’re not that old,” James says. Turning to me, he adds, “You were thinking about not going at some point.”
“I think I’ll go.” As I say the words, Damon’s green eyes pop into my mind. What is wrong with me? “Hazel and I will go shopping for dresses in about a month or so.”
“I can join you if you need a second opinion,” James says. My brother must love me very much if he’s willing to endure hours of shopping to spend time with me.
“You’ll get bored to death,” I tell him earnestly, though I secretly wish for him to join Hazel and me.
“I can tag along,” Parker offers. “James and I can talk about business while you and your friend try out dresses.”
I could hug both of them right now. “That sounds great.”
“Now, why don’t we order?” Parker asks. “I’m famished.”
I don’t even glance at the menu. “We recommend the house steak.”
“Yeah, it’s our favorite. We eat it every time,” James adds.
“Nah,” Parker says. “I only eat steak back home. Americans overcook the meat.”
“Parker, this is a steak restaurant,” I clarify.
“They must have other stuff, too.” Parker inspects the menu with such concentration, you’d think it was a balance sheet.
James looks at him as if Parker grew a seco
nd head. “I really don’t think a Brit can comment on food.”
“Those are all clichés,” Parker says, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Bad food—”
“Worse weather,” I offer. The three of us burst out laughing. A warm feeling spreads through me. It lasts for the entire evening, while we sit through a main course and two desserts.
This is what family time should feel like.
Chapter Nine: Dani
If I could describe the rest of the week using one word only, it would be dazzling. I gravitate toward Damon because his presence has the inexplicable effect of sending me into a happy zone. We have an unspoken agreement to meet on the rooftop every day for lunch. He still ignores everyone, and snaps at teachers at least twice a day, which earned him another trip to the principal. But when it's just the two of us on the roof, he changes. He jokes and laughs...and flirts.
Or at least, I think he does. I've never been flirted with, so I can't be sure he's not just making fun of me. At any rate, I’m enjoying it. Damon is the only person, aside from James and Hazel, who sees me. Also, he is smart. A plus that seems unfair, as Hazel says, for someone blessed already with good looks.
"I can't believe you’re so good at this stuff," I tell him the next Tuesday when we study Trig again. Hazel did join us this time, but she took off earlier because her parents are picking her up. They're starting their two-week trip today.
"It's not that hard."
"At what other subjects are you ridiculously good?"
"Physics and computer science."
I groan. "So, you're a numbers guy. Remind me to introduce you to my brother."
"I also like reading."
I look at him cautiously. "Now you're just making fun of me."
"I am not," he says indignantly. "Try me."
"What's your favorite book?"
"I, Robot."
I scoff. "That's not literature."
"Now, don't go all Dickens on me. I never said I liked fancy books. I just like reading," he says. I squirm, and he laughs. "You look like you're about to confess a deadly sin."
"How do you know?"
"You are so easy to read."