by L. A. Rose
“I didn’t, not really.” Something in this conversation is hurting him. I can see it in the way the easy smile becomes a little less easy, the glint in his eyes dulling. “We only spoke once. I was a couple grades above you. And I guess I decided I’d rather have you know me as the person I am now—not the person I was in high school.”
I hold up three fingers, squinting at them.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking to see if I’m blind,” I say. “That’s the only way I wouldn’t have noticed you in high school.”
He laughs, but it fades quickly. “I was…different in high school.”
“Tell me about the one time we talked,” I say. I don’t remember ever being heavily sedated in high school, but I had to be in order to forget those green eyes.
He opens his mouth, and for a second his jaw is set, the muscles in his shoulders steeled as if he’s gathering his strength. Whatever this is, it’s difficult for him.
I surprise myself by leaning forward and kissing him.
It’s not a sexy, full-on kiss like the ones he’s given me. It’s more like the one we had in Psych lab, a clumsy, light kiss, the only one I know how to initiate. Then I realize what I’m doing and all the blood in my body shoots to the vessels in my face. I jerk back.
He doesn’t say, “Uterus hijacking your mouth again?” with his wry smile. He looks at me with something raw. “Cleo…”
“I’m sorry—” I start.
His expression flickers. “You never need to apologize for kissing me.”
Maybe it’s the heightened adrenaline from the fact that we’re fifty feet aboveground, but my body is screaming to leap on him and keep doing the thing I won’t have to apologize for. I’ve never felt this way before. Some sex worm has climbed inside my head and has its hands on the controls. Do worms have hands? Maybe sex worms do. “You just looked like…whatever you were about to say was going to hurt you. And I guess apparently kissing is how I shut someone up. Except my sister. I want her to shut up pretty much all the time and I haven’t kissed her yet.”
The sexy, confident grin has returned to his face, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “So what you’re saying is that I should keep saying things that make you want to shut me up. What are your least favorite topics?”
“Hmm.” I tap my chin in mock thought. “Spiders, the weather, my sister...”
“So I should tell you about that time that it rained spiders all over your sister?”
I giggle and pelt him with a green bean. I’m genuinely curious about the one time we talked in high school, and the reason why he made me believe we’d never met before, but more than that, I don’t want him to have to bring up something that hurts him. I’m surprised at how much I don’t want that.
Mostly, I’m surprised at how wrong I was about Adrian. He’s not just a gorgeous playboy with a cocky smile and an empty head.
There are people who genuinely want to know about people’s pasts because they care and they want to help. Then there are people who drag others through the darkest parts of themselves, solely out of curiosity. I try, as much as possible, to be in the first category.
“It worked.”
I surface from my thoughts and blink at Adrian. He’s leaning forward, his glass of champagne dangling from his fingers. “You forgot about your fear of heights.”
As if to sync up with his words, the Ferris wheel groans and cranks back to life.
~8~
ADRIAN
“Shit yeah!” she hollers, pumping one fist like she’s trying to punch a bird out of the sky. “Sweet ground, prepare to be united with my pining feet.”
“That was poetic.” I slide the champagne bottle back into my bag, trying not to show how affected I am. By her. This. The moment we just shared.
She winks at me. “I’m a writer.”
The Ferris wheel cranks back to earth, and the ride operator grins creepily at us as we exit. He has three teeth and an eye patch, and I get the sense that I’m being congratulated on having presumably just had sex on a Ferris wheel by a pirate in disguise. In any case, I slip him a fifty.
Cleo reaches down and pats the dirt. “Hello, ground. I missed you so much. Let’s never break up like that again.”
“Your new boyfriend dirt is probably covered in a thin layer of vomit,” I observe, and she shrieks, yanking her hands back.
“Dirt! How could you have betrayed me like that!”
This is why she was so popular in high school. She was always hilarious—so much so that people teased her, saying that’s where her name came from. She was never funny in the dry, acerbic way that most teenagers try to achieve. She yelled and flailed and laughed and was never anything but utterly genuine.
I buy her a cone of cotton candy, mostly so she’ll have something to be distracted with so I can stare at her. She’s never been what most guys would consider a ten. She’s hot, yeah, long legs and amazingly luscious up top, but she has a kid’s nose, wild hair, tiny misplacements—the freckles, the too-light eyelashes, the plump lower lip that gives her a slightly pouty look. But on her, every flaw becomes a beautiful thing, because they all come together to make her Cleo.
I look up and her eyes are on me, just above the cotton candy. She’s seen me looking.
“I’m sorry I thought you just wanted me to be another notch on your bedpost,” she says, her mouth hidden by a mass of spun sugar. “I don’t think that’s the case anymore.”
“It never was.” There’s an ache in my chest, just under my breastbone. I want to grab her and bury my face in her hair. I’ve been wanting that for years.
“You had a thing for me in high school,” she muses, biting off a strip of cotton candy.
‘A thing’ comes about as close to describing what I feel for her as ‘a bunch of stuff’ describes the universe, but I just nod.
“And that’s why you’ve been trying so hard to get me to go out with you.” Nearby, the carousel starts turning, splashing lights across her face.
I nod again. “The idea of letting you go after running into you again sort of felt like giving the universe the middle finger.”
“You believe in fate?” She tilts her head to the side, like a cocker spaniel.
I shove my hands in my pockets. “I believe that you owe the world to take advantage of the opportunities you’re given.”
“All right.” She pulls at the cotton candy thoughtfully and grins. “We didn’t talk in high school, so how does the real me compare to the fantasy girl? I hear reality can be somewhat of a letdown.”
I almost laugh out loud. Instead, I pull her close, tear off a bite of cotton candy, and press our lips together. She shivers—from the sweetness or my lips, I don’t know, but I hope it’s the latter. I let us melt into each other for a few seconds before pulling back. “Fantasy Cleo isn’t even in the same stratosphere as real Cleo.”
“You’re good,” she murmurs, and I hear the river of suspicion running through her words. She still sees me as the Sex King. There’s still a part of her that thinks I’m playing.
“I’m not feeding you a line or making this up.” I cup her shoulders gently. “I’m being very, very real with you, Cleo. And believe me when I say that being real scares me.”
“The man behind the legend,” she says quietly.
“The legend’s just smoke and mirrors and words. There’s nothing of substance to it.” I shake my head. “There’s just the man.”
“Adrian.” Her voice is kind and a little sad. “You’re not who I thought you were. And I’m glad I was wrong. But I have to be honest with you—since you’re being honest with me. We would never work. For reasons that have nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me.”
A knife shoots straight through my heart. She sees it go in and winces.
“I want us to be friends, all right?” She rests a hand on my arm. “And I definitely want you to keep helping us out with the book. I’ve never written like I did after last night.”
There’s uncertainty in her words. She’s torn, not entirely believing what she’s saying. I latch on to that with the desperateness of a drowning man, but on the outside, I let my cocky grin slide over my face, using it to mask what’s inside, the way I always have.
“Then I better make this the best night of your life.”
~9~
CLEO
He drives us into the city. I have no idea where he’s taking me. All I know is that, since he kissed me, every particle of my body has transformed into a nerve ending that sizzles whenever he touches me.
There is a mild, civil debate going on between my brain and my uterus.
Uterus: “SLEEP WITH HIM, YOU SKANK.”
Brain: “Are you insane? You just told him you don’t want a relationship with him. Jumping into bed with him miiiight constitute mixed signals, don’t you think?”
Uterus: “Wah wah, mixed signals, wah wah, I think I’m so much better because I’m located in the head instead of the crotch. Sleep with him.”
Brain: “This isn’t about organ location. This is about common decency.”
Uterus: “I have news for you, bucko. The crotch gets all the good stuff. Mm-mm.”
Brain: “Yes, well, the crotch is also where the pee comes out.”
Uterus: “The pee is worth it. Trust me.”
Brain: “This conversation is idiotic. We’re not sleeping with him. Period. It would be moronic on multiple levels.”
Uterus: “SCREW HIS BRAINS OUT.”
Brain: “Now that is just uncalled for.”
Heart: “Sleep with him.”
Uterus and Brain: “What was that?”
Heart: “I think we should sleep with him, maybe, or just kiss him some more, because it would be nice and I like him—”
Uterus: “GO AWAY. NO ONE ASKED YOU.”
Brain: “Yes, you really have no relevancy in this situation, so please fuck directly off.”
Uterus: “Hate that bitch. Anyway. Here’s some brainy justification for ya. We told him we would do anything he wanted tonight, right? One night with his high school sweetheart. That basically implies sex. And there’s nothing wrong with a one night stand. Normal people have one night stands all the time. Don’t you want to be a normal person?”
“I want to be normal,” I mumble.
“Huh?” Adrian glances at me, the headlights from an oncoming car sliding over his face.
“Oh! Nothing. I mean, I was talking to my internal organs, not you.” And then I wince. The shit that comes out of my mouth around this guy.
I may be the most socially awkward twenty-two-year-old on the planet, but he hasn’t judged me yet. His only reaction to my word vomit is an affectionate chuckle. I can’t help but be comfortable around him.
And relieved, now that everything’s out on the table. I don’t blame him for trying so hard to get with his high school crush. Every guy wants that. And it makes sense. The only way a guy like him would chase a girl like me is if he had some high school fantasy on the backburner that still needed fulfilling.
The weird thing was—I really wasn’t too opposed to the idea of being…fulfilled.
The wicked part of me hisses in my ear that I should take advantage of this, that this opportunity might not come again. The rest of me screams the real reason why I shouldn’t sleep with him. The fact that I’m—
“You’re beautiful, Cleo,” Adrian says.
My head whizzes around like that one girl’s in The Exorcist. “What?”
“I just wanted to say it.” His knuckles tighten minutely on the wheel.
Is Adrian a mind-reader? Oh, God. If he is, I’m opening the door of this car right now and splattering myself on the highway. If you can hear this, blink twice and bark like a dog, I think at him loudly, but no barking ensues. Phew.
We drive through the city. Boston is only about half an hour away from Statham, and yet it’s so easy to stay trapped in the college bubble that I only venture out into the city every few weeks. Eventually, though, a huge dome slides into view, and I realize where he’s taking me.
“There’s no game tonight, Adrian. It’s like eleven,” I say quickly as he pulls into a lot next to Fenway Park.
“Good thing, too,” he says, opening the door and flashing me a grin. “I don’t think you’d want people watching what we’re about to do.
He wants to fuck me in Fenway Park.
Just the thought reduces Lower Cleo to rubble. I’m sweating bullets, wondering what I should do. The sane part of me demands that I stay in the car. Unfortunately, the sane part of me has been relegated to my left pinky toenail, the only part of me not currently consumed with desire for the Sex King.
“I’m sure there’ll be guards,” I say weakly, stepping out onto the pavement.
“You let me take care of that.” He rounds the car and takes my hand. “I have to make this the best night of your life, remember?”
And there goes the toenail.
He leads me toward the doors. They’re locked, as I expected. And as Adrian releases the handle, a flashlight beam falls over his shoulders. What is it with law enforcement and their determination to keep me from orgasming?
Although—I’m so pent up at this point, I can’t guarantee my orgasm wouldn’t endanger public safety. The detonation zone could be miles wide.
“What are you two doing?” comes a gruff male voice. I resist the urge to spin around and say, “Each other, hopefully!”
“Nothing,” says Adrian, pulling a wad of cash out of his pocket. My eyes widen as he slips it to the guard. “We were never here.”
The guard hesitates for a millisecond, then reaches over and unlocks the door.
“You’re rich,” I say to Adrian as we step inside. It’s a fact, not a question. “Are you one of those moody billionaires who secretly wants to tie me up and whip me or whatever?”
His hand brushes the back of my neck. “Are you one of those mousy secretaries who secretly wants to be tied up and whipped?”
A shiver runs through me. “I’m definitely not mousy.”
“Then I’ll just have to find out what else it is that you secretly want me to do.” His tone is dark and eight different kinds of sexy. I’m starting to think I would let Adrian make love to me on a lawnmower in a blizzard.
It’s just one night, right?
He leads me out into the stadium. I gasp. In Boston, it’s hard to find a wide-open enough space to get a good look at the night sky, but Fenway Park is set up like a stage for the stars. Even through the light pollution and the haze, they’re brilliant. I look around slowly—the moonlight is enough illumination to see the thousands of stadium seats, the baseball field stretching out like a huge emerald jewel set into the earth. It’s like the ghost of all the screaming energy that’s here during the day has invaded this place at night, too, making it hum.
“Gorgeous,” I mutter.
“I agree,” he says, looking directly at me.
Any second now, he’s going to lean over and…I try to relax my muscles. I can do this. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a woman, damn it!
“Now’s your chance,” he says.
He…wants me to make the move? Well, I can do that. Probably. Sweat erupts all over my face and my stupid mouth blurts out, “I’m a virgin.”
It’s hard being this sexy all the time.
Shock crosses his face, and he opens his mouth, but I cut him off. Apparently divulging my deepest secrets at random times is what I do around the Sex King. Soon he’ll know that I peed on fellow little leaguer Todd Baker’s mouth guard when I was twelve years old because he called me a ho. “I know. I know! I had a boyfriend for three years, right? So why the heck am I a virgin, right?”
I give a casual, charming laugh. What a
ctually comes out is the maniacal witch’s chuckle from The Wizard of Oz. Go figure.
“Cleo—” he starts.
“You have to understand why I stayed with him. I loved him. I loved him hard, Adrian. He was the first person I ever met who understood that I was a real human being, not just the ditzy girl who liked to make people laugh. I figured I could make it work—I wanted to make it work—despite the fact that…”
I swallow.
“He never wanted to have sex. Eric, I mean. At first I figured he was just the waiting type, and he would want to eventually, but…nope. I mean, lots of people have celibate relationships! I researched it! We did some other stuff, but he never really seemed into that either, and eventually I just…”
The last part is too depressing to say aloud, so I mostly mouth it.
“What?” he asks.
“Eventually I just drghhghhh.”
“I can’t understand you.”
“Eventually I just decided I wasn’t pretty enough for a guy to want to have sex with me, so I stopped trying,” I shout. Fenway Park offers a helpful echo. My face burns, and I stare at the ground. Fenway Park is a good enough place to bury myself alive as any. Maybe Adrian has a shovel in his car.
“First of all,” his low voice comes, “I wasn’t going to suggest we have sex.”
I nod and smile and contemplate removing all the skin from my body with a potato peeler.
“Second of all,” he says, stepping closer, “I don’t know why your ex didn’t want to have sex with you, Cleo, but there’s no way it was because of how you look. That’s just flat out impossible. You are mind-blowingly beautiful.”
There’s something pleading and soft in his eyes. It’s too tender and I can’t handle it. I clear my throat. “So, if you didn’t bring me in here to bang me silly, why, exactly?”
He smiles a smile that I’m pretty sure is the eighth deadly sin. “To go streaking at Fenway Park.”
“Ha, ha,” I say. “Ha. Wait. You’re serious?”
“Deadly.”
Any tiny flame of sexual confidence that I’d been cultivating, blowing on frantically like a starving hiker in the forest trying to start a fire, poofs into nothingness. “You remembered me saying that? That’s I never planned on achieving. Like becoming an astronaut. Or sleeping with James Franco.”