by Tasha Ivey
“We’re not starting that out too well.”
His eyes fall to our linked hands, and he releases me. “That was all your fault. I have to warn you now, though. I’ve been honest with you about what I want, so from now on, don’t start anything you don’t want me to finish.”
“Seriously? I touched your hand. How is that anything remotely sexual?” Still, though, his threat echoes down into the deepest parts of me, the ominous promise awakening my senses.
He smirks. “I’ve watched you brush your teeth. Everything you do is sexual, especially to a man who is severely lacking in that department. Put your seatbelt on.”
“You’re kidding, right?” The jeep lurches forward as soon as the belt clicks into place. “What about Allison?”
“I’ve been too busy, and I haven’t been in the mood to deal with her. I haven’t seen her since the night of my birthday. And before you ask, no, I don’t have anyone else lined up. So just so you know what you’re dealing with, it’s been . . .” He trails off, thinking. “About two months. Touching my elbow, at this point, probably wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Two months. That means, on the night of his party, it had been about five weeks since he’d last had sex. And he still didn’t bang Allison. Nor did he take advantage of me, when he easily could have. I guess the whole deal with his mom was tripping him out more than I realized.
“I know what you’re thinking. It all works properly, to that I can attest every morning.” He waves me off, continuing before I can reply. “But in addition to everything I’ve just told you, I respect you and what you want. You don’t have to worry about me trying anything with you, not unless you give me the green light. Got it? The hot tub wouldn’t have ever happened had I known about your ex using you.”
I don’t know what makes me say it. I feel this incredible need to push his buttons just because he told me he won’t be making a move on me. I’m not sure if I’m trying to prove him wrong or trying to prove my intentions wrong, but nonetheless, I love the look on his face when these words slip from my lips. “I’m glad you didn’t find out about Tanner until the next morning . . . after the hot tub and after you got out of bed naked.”
When the low growl sounds from his chest, I know he’s glad, too.
IT TAKES US a while to get through Tuscaloosa amid the thick evening traffic, probably seeming longer now that Wes is trying to keep from having any conversation with me. Right after my earlier comment, he cranked up the radio, drowning out any possibility of any further button pushing from me.
He sings along quietly, the soft rasp of his voice barely audible above the shrill of the electric guitar. But of course he sings well. He’s one of those guys. The ones that all the girls fawned over in high school and, now, in college. They couldn’t look unattractive if they tried, they never have a hair out of place unless it’s on purpose, and success comes as natural as their undeniable charm. Guys like him excel at everything, and if they don’t, they excel at making you think they do.
Those guys didn’t think I was in their league then, but now that I’ve chiseled a few curves onto my slight frame and started wearing makeup and clothes that actually fit, they’ve taken notice. The only problem is that guys like that don’t like to be challenged. They don’t like the truth thrown in their perfectly rugged faces. They like the lies delivered with a sweet little bow, especially when the truth has potential to mar their seemingly flawless image. They’re drawn in by my appearance, but the moment I open my big mouth, I’m seen as a threat. And I’m okay with that because I feel the same way about them. They may be pretty to look at, but what’s in their narcissistic little hearts is a turn-off.
That’s why Wes is such a paradox. He looks—and sometimes acts—the part of one of those guys, but he throws curveball after curveball, shattering that preconceived idea of him. I mean, seriously, his confidence borders on the verge of being self-righteous, but he can be very sweet and selfless at the same time. Broody and serious can quickly turn into playful and adventurous. He has a seemingly high-profile job, and probably makes a ton of money, but he walks out of the building, peels out of his jacket and tie, and jumps into a jeep instead of an expensive sports car that screams “Look at me!” I may never figure him out.
Noticing our surroundings, I quickly realize that my time with him is nearing an end. The campus is only a few more minutes away. “Uh, I know this sounds a little weird, and if you have something you need to do, I’ll understand, but can we go grab some dinner first? Or if you have some shopping to do, I can ride along. Or I can even go back to work with you if you left too early because of me.”
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t want to go home?” He flashes his eyes to me and then back to the road.
“I, uh . . . I don’t much like being home alone.”
“You gonna tell me why?” he asks, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Does someone there bother you?”
I pick my hand up, about to slap at his arm, when I remember his earlier threat and drop it back into my lap. “Oh, nothing like that. It’s just something that happened a few years ago. I was home alone and someone broke in. The guy saw me, so I went and hid in my parents’ closet and called the police.”
“God, did he come after you?”
I shake my head. “No, but I thought he had. Luckily, and also sadly, the person that found me there was only my dad, but I didn’t know it until I smacked him in the face with the cordless phone. The police caught the guy and he ended up in jail, but still . . . it freaks me out to be home alone. I know. I’m a big baby.”
“No, you’re not.” He flips on his blinker. “I need to stop for gas. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Okay.” My eyes flick over to the gas gauge. Hmm, half a tank. He’s stalling. For me.
I sit in silence, allowing that to sink in, while he stands at the pump. Hearing his voice, I look over my shoulder to find him with his phone to his ear. I guess he could’ve just needed to make a private business call, and he wasn’t stalling for my benefit at all.
Just as I’m turning to face forward again, I notice a flash of color against the dark interior. Pink. I twist around in my seat to look for the source, and I find it in the back floorboard. It’s a stuffed elephant like a child would have, the soft pink is dulled by a haze of dirt. The green polka-dotted ribbon around its neck is frayed at the loose ends. There’s even a little hole at the end of the elephant’s trunk where the stuffing is peeking out. It reminds me of the stuffed dog—aptly named “Puppy”—that I used to carry when I was little. My mom couldn’t ever keep it clean or sewn together.
The realization hits me. The elephant belongs to a little girl.
I know that Makenna told me he was married at one point, and his wife lost the baby, but if she knew he’s had more kids since then, she sure didn’t mention it. And I don’t think that’s knowledge that Makenna would keep to herself.
I have to wrap my head around this. I know he’s clearly not into relationships, but that doesn’t include sex. So that brings me to the possible number of women he’s had sex with. Considering that few women would likely stay with him very long without a chance of a commitment, I’m guessing that there’s quite a revolving door at times. A high number of women significantly increases the odds of getting one of them pregnant. Possibly more than one.
Which begs the question . . . how many kids does this guy have? And why am I not totally flipping out right now?
Sure, he’s twenty-six years old. He should be having kids now, right? Granted, he should be married first, but not everyone believes as I do. I hope that I’m having kids by the time I’m his age, so I can’t really say anything about that. I’ve always wanted a house full of them. Kids have always been a part of my grand plan, which is to finish college, teach elementary school, get married, and have kids. I want my life filled with children at both work and home. I adore them. Their blissful innocence. Their easy smiles and laughter. The curiosity and wonder in their bright eyes
. Even their sticky little fingers.
I’m all for having kids.
But something about him having kids doesn’t sit well with me. I know I don’t know him very well, but I would think that would be something that his family would embrace, make known to the whole world. I know that when my parents are finally grandparents, they’ll make sure every total stranger they come across knows it. But I’ve been to his parents’ house. There isn’t a basket of toys. There aren’t juice boxes in the fridge or sippy cups or bottles in the cabinet. No signs of children whatsoever.
So maybe, just maybe . . . this child—or children—is a secret that no one in his family knows about. Maybe his parents are super traditional and would frown on him having a child out of wedlock. That makes me sad for both him and the little girl.
I can imagine her having the same features as Wes. Bright blue eyes that can look right through to your soul and mousy brown hair, fine and soft like most little girls. I can imagine her lying against his shoulder as he rocks her to sleep. Despite how hardened and gruff he can be, I’ve seen his softer, more caring side. I bet he’s a great dad.
He jumps back in the jeep and does a double take. “What’s with the dreamy smile? You look weird.”
Thanks for bursting that bubble for me. “Nothing.”
“Okaaay . . .” he drawls. “I called Shane, and I don’t think Makenna will be home tonight, since she doesn’t have class tomorrow. Would it make you feel better if you stay at my place? I can drop you by your dorm on my way to work tomorrow morning.”
“No, that’s okay. I have a ton of homework that’s due by Friday, and I don’t have clean clothes. I really need to shower.” Judging by the way his throat is working, I probably shouldn’t mention showers in front of him.
“Uh.” He flounders for a second before recovering. “I can take you by there and let you get everything you need. You can work on your homework and, uh, everything else you need to do at my place. If you want to. Just throwing it out there as an option, so you don’t have to be alone. No pressure.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
I try to stop the smirk from forming, but I’ve never been good at hiding my feelings. “I guess you didn’t expect me to take you up on it? You can take it back, you know. I’ll be fine at home.”
He shakes his head back and forth and laughs. “No, I knew you’d eventually agree, but I thought you’d be more stubborn about it. From what I’ve gathered from you so far, you never miss a good opportunity to be stubborn, so that tells me you really are afraid to be home alone.”
I shrug. “A little.”
“Yeah, uh-huh. Let’s go get your stuff.”
A mere five minutes later, I’m leading him into the residence hall. I tried to convince him he didn’t need to come up with me, but I’m beginning to think he’s just as stubborn as I am. As always, I hit the stairs. It may be four flights, but it’s usually the only exercise I get, so I make myself take them. Except I don’t normally have Wes’ eyes trained on my butt the entire time.
“God, I love these stairs.”
I look back, scowling. Well, at least I try to. Falling up stairs happens to be my specialty, so when I nearly stumble, I decide to let it go. When you have legs as short as mine, to climb steps, you have to lift them a little higher than most people. Forget that for one second, and bam. Faceplant.
“Wesley Baxter, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think that was flirting. And I swore you told me you weren’t going to be doing any of that. Or looking at my ass.” I finally reach the landing and turn, waiting for him to catch up.
He seems completely unaffected. Not flushed or winded at all. Jerk. “I wasn’t flirting. I was just saying that I thought they were nice stairs. And to be fair, I can’t help but look when you put it in my direct line of sight. All I usually see of you is the top of your head.”
“Short joke. Yeah, I’ve heard ‘em all.” I yank the keys from my pocket and slip them into the knob. “Come on in and stay close. Wouldn’t want you to make a wrong turn and get lost.”
He snorts and follows me inside. As soon as I show him the kitchen, dining area, and living room, I expect him to settle onto the couch to wait like most guys would, maybe even turn the television on to pass the time. But not Wes. He follows me toward the bedrooms.
“What are you doing?” I ask, disturbed at the thought of him seeing my room. Did I have any panties lying around? Any dirty clothes in the floor? Acne cream on the nightstand? I can’t remember.
“I want to see your room.” He takes a wide step left into Makenna’s room. “This is definitely Makenna’s room. All girly and fuzzy and . . . pink.”
“Yes, she does love pink. Why don’t you go turn the TV on? I think we have a few sports channels. I’ll only be a minute.”
He takes two slow steps toward me with a devious grin spreading languidly across his lips. I take one step back in retreat, bumping into my closed door.
“What’s in your room that you don’t want me to see, Callie?”
“Nothing. It’s just . . . weird. I don’t want you in there. There’s no telling what’s been left out because I wasn’t expecting company.”
He continues to get closer until the wall of his chest presses into me. He dips his head down so that his face is only a few inches from mine, causing my heart to hammer wildly in my chest. I think he’s going to kiss me. I steel myself for it, waiting for the moment his mouth descends on mine. But I realize it’s all a ruse when I’m falling through my door. He distracted me just long enough to slip a hand past me to turn the doorknob. Luckily, he grabs my waist with one arm before I fall back into my desk.
His laughter echoes through the room, and I shove away from him, nearly stumbling into my desk anyway. The right guy should make you fall a little, but clearly the wrong guy makes you literally fall. I quickly scan my room for anything embarrassing, but I don’t come up with anything immediately. Thank God. I’m usually a neat person, and I like everything nicely organized, but Makenna had me leaving in such a rush that I just wasn’t sure how I left it.
Of course, my books and binders are still scattered on the end of my bed, which is all wrinkled from when I jumped on Makenna earlier. Aside from that, everything seems as it should be. “Don’t touch anything. I mean it.”
He draws an imaginary “x” over his heart. “Scouts honor.”
“Were you even a scout?” I shove all of my books back in my bag and set it by the door.
“Nope. But that doesn’t mean I can’t keep a promise.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind. Stay here. You’re not coming with me into my closet, and I’m standing firm on that.”
He holds his hands up in resignation. “Yes, ma’am.”
I nod and step inside, pulling a duffel bag from the top shelf. I’m suddenly stumped, though. What do I wear? I’m sleeping over at Wes’ house. Why did I agree to that? Remembering the morning after his birthday, I think of the black running shorts and Breaking Benjamin t-shirt I had on when he told me I looked good. Definitely not wearing that. Nope. Nuh-uh. Not going down that road again.
Instead, I throw in some jeans and a touristy Panama Beach t-shirt. To sleep in, I grab some yoga pants and a sunny yellow racer-back tank, and of course, I add the black shorts and band t-shirt, just in case. You never know when you might need an extra set of clothes. I’m only being practical.
When I come back out, I find Wes lying down, practically dwarfing my twin sized bed. I drop my bag beside his legs. “What the hell are you doing?”
He unfolds his hands draped across his chest and wiggles his fingers at me. “Not touching anything. Your bed is surprisingly comfortable, and it smells good. Like your hair.”
“Hmm.” I have nothing else to say. I can feel heat creeping up into my cheeks, so I turn toward my dresser, trying to figure out how I’ll get my panties and bra out without him seeing anything. I look back over my shoulder to my bag, then to him, then into my drawer. I co
uld just walk back to the bed and bring the bag back over here, but what the hell. He deserves some payback for making me think he was going to kiss me.
Instead of opting for the more sensible cotton variety of underwear, I decide on what will have the most impact. The most bang for my proverbial buck. I won’t be as comfortable, but it’s a small price to pay. I dig to the back of the drawer and strike gold. I bought this set at Victoria’s Secret because I fell in love with it, but I haven’t ever worn it. It’s lingerie that requires a very sexy occasion, and I haven’t felt the need to break it out yet. I think shock value trumps sexy today.
“Hey, put these in my bag, will you?” I toss the wad of lace at him. “I have to get my stuff from the bathroom.”
He catches them deftly, not realizing what it is he’s catching until it all unfurls in his hands. “Sure, uh . . . sure.”
“Thanks.” I wait for him to blush. To stare into his hands as if the lace is burning into his skin, but aside from his momentary stammer, he recovers coolly.
He holds them up inspecting the sheer, black fabric, both trimmed in fire red satin. “Well, color me surprised. As tight as you wear your jeans, I had you pegged for a thong kind of girl.”
I groan and storm off, calling to him from my bathroom. “Just put them in my bag, jackass.”
He can so easily get to me, even though guys rarely do. I think so much like them that I don’t usually fall prey to their games, but Wes . . . he keeps me off kilter, and it pisses me off. Especially when I can’t beat him at his own game. I’m not used to that. To think that I actually thought throwing sexy underwear in his face would get him. This is the guy that watched me strip, shower, and dress, all from his bed, and he never flinched. Yeah, he admitted later that it messed with his head a little, but I need that outward proof. That sure sign that he’s flustered, for even a second.
But like he said, I’m stubborn. I won’t give up. I’m going to make that stone exterior crack. Even rock eventually gives way under enough pressure.