Apparently Ryan can’t take the silence because she asks, “When do you go back to Las Vegas?”
“Tomorrow.”
“What are you doing for the rest of the day? Have anyone to visit?”
“No one,” I curtly answer. No way in hell am I going to say hello to my mom. She hasn’t earned the right to see me.
“Then do something with me.”
I turn toward her ready to say I have things to do, when I see a hint of sadness in her eyes. Ever since I’ve known Ryan, she’s been the quirky, hot girl who has never let anything get her down.
Even when I “saved” her in the bar from that douche, she brushed it off as nothing. Happy and peppy, that’s Ryan Collier.
Rory once said that Ryan masked her emotions from the world, appearing stronger than she really was. And since then, I’ve watched her from the sidelines. And right now? I can see it.
But the girl sitting beside me, wearing my button-up shirt, her hair a tangled mess with last night’s makeup smeared over her eyes . . . she shows a sense of vulnerability, like she’s not just looking for company, but she needs company right now.
Knowing I should say no, I say, “What did you have in mind?”
Chapter Four
RYAN
Eleven years old . . .
“What do you think, Mom?” I do a quick spin, showing off my new purple Juicy Couture track suit I picked specifically for my first day of sixth grade. Dad took me back-to-school shopping and let me get whatever I wanted, and I knew right away what was going to be my first purchase: this track suit. It’s a little tight, but I still have some baby fat to lose. That’s what Dad says. So I figured I have some growing to do this year and when I do, this will fit perfectly. It works for now and is so cool. I saw in People magazine the other day that Lindsay Lohan wore one. It was fate.
I love shopping with Dad, because not only does he let me get whatever I want, he always makes me feel good about myself.
Got new white Pumas to wear, a new white tank top for underneath that is shorter than I thought, but I’m making it work, and I curled the ends of my hair I spent all summer trying to dye with lemon juice so it wasn’t a mousy brown. Mom wasn’t happy, but it’s blonde and that’s all I care about, even if it looks a little brassy. That’s okay.
Looking up from the book in her hand, Mom puts out her cigarette in a muffin she didn’t finish and gives me a once-over. I hold my arms out to the side so she can see everything, practically beaming from head to toe.
By far my best back-to-school outfit to date.
“What the hell are you wearing? Your gut is hanging out.”
I quickly slap my arms to my side and look at my belly that seems to be larger than all the other girls I go to school with. Dad says it will go away when I stretch out. Mom thinks it’s from not playing a sport. She’s constantly making me work out when Dad is not around.
“Um, it’s because my hands were up. I’ll make sure to keep them down at my side all day.”
She motions to my mid-section. “That top is too tight, and it’s going to keep riding up. Put on something a little more flattering.”
“But, Mom, it’s an ensemble. I can’t wear the jacket without the pants.”
“Then take the pants off too.”
I bite my bottom lip and look at my outfit. I don’t want to take it off. This is my chance to make a good impression, a fresh start at a new school. If I walk into school wearing this fancy track suit, everyone is going to think I’m cool.
This year I want to be cool. I want friends. I want girls to want to hang out with me, invite me over to their house . . . have slumber parties.
I have a plan to make that happen.
And wearing this track suit is task number one.
Gathering all the courage I can muster, I say, “Dad said he thought I looked nice, so I’m going to wear it.”
That garners a large eye-roll from my mom and then a shake of her head just as my dad comes flying into the kitchen wearing his standard suit and carrying his designer briefcase. He looks me up and down, presses a kiss against my cheek, and says, “Looking gorgeous, boo bear. That color really makes the blue in your eyes pop.”
I want to stick my tongue out at Mom, tell her I told you so, but I refrain. I’m a mature eleven-year-old now, heading into sixth grade. I need to act like one.
“Thanks, Daddy.” I pull down on my top and head to the fridge where I grab an apple and some carrot sticks I put in a baggy last night. It’s a new day. I’m going to stay away from the junk food my mom buys, and I’m going to start fresh.
I’ve got my track suit, my awesome shoes, and my hair is blonde and beautiful. I’m going to blow all these sixth graders out of the water.
Chapter Five
RYAN
“What’s taking you so damn long?” Colby asks from the other side of the door as I finish up putting on mascara. I step back from the mirror and take in my appearance.
Hair blown straight. Highlights on point. Makeup fresh and natural despite how much I have on. Cute jeans, cuter heels, and a blue crop top that makes my eyes look impossibly blue. I suck in my stomach and turn to the side. Looks like those pancakes weren’t the best idea this morning.
Should I change? I don’t have anything else to wear really besides Colby’s dress shirt from last night, and that’s not going to look good.
“Ryan, come on.”
“Just putting on the last touches.” I twist my lips to the side, check out my backside, and concede that this will have to do. I’ll do an extra workout tomorrow.
“Last touches of what?” he asks, completely annoyed.
I swing the door open and walk into the living room where he’s sitting. When he looks at me, I hold my breath, waiting for his reaction.
He stands from the couch, turns off the TV, and tosses the remote to the side. “Let’s go.”
He pockets his phone and grabs the keys to his rental car before opening the door and gesturing me to follow him.
No comment on my outfit, no second glance, and not even a widening of his eyes. Ouch. Okay. It doesn’t matter what Colby Brooks thinks anyway.
I pick up my purse and follow him out the door and down the stairs. We’re on the second floor of the hotel so we don’t bother taking the elevator.
“You don’t have to walk so fast, you know,” I say, trying to catch up to him in my heels.
“It’s past noon. If you want to go up Pikes Peak, we have to move our asses.”
“Well, you’re only as fast as your weakest link, and your weakest link right now is wearing heels.”
Colby turns toward me, takes in my shoes, and rolls his eyes. No wonder Rory had such a hard time reading this guy when they were dating; he’s so hot and cold. “Why are you dressed up?”
“This isn’t dressed up. This is how I’m normally put together.”
He grunts something I can’t make out and leads me to a black SUV with black leather interior. It’s a really nice rental car, the type of car I could see Colby owning.
“Nice car,” I say, hopping in.
I barely get my seatbelt on before Colby is pulling out of the parking spot and driving toward the mountains. His knuckles are white, his body tense, as he keeps his eyes focused on the road in front of him, his jaw ticking every once in a while.
What’s his deal?
“You know, if you’re going to be pissed the entire time, just take me back to the hotel and I’ll be on my way. I’d rather not spend my afternoon with someone who barely wants to talk to me.”
He grips the steering wheel even tighter and doesn’t say a word.
Oookay.
“Colby, I’m serious, take me back to the hotel if you’re going to act like this.”
“Just shut up, Ryan. Okay?”
Excuse me? My eyes bug out as my jaw falls open. Did he tell me to shut up?
“Uh, care to rephrase that?” I fold my arms across my chest. I learned a long time ago never to t
ake shit from anyone, and even though Colby is a bit of a mystery when it comes to his erratic emotions, there is no way in hell I’m going to take crap from him.
“Can you just be quiet?” He presses his hand to his forehead.
“What the hell is your problem?”
He let’s out a long exhale, his nostrils flaring as his forearms flex from his grip on the steering wheel, but he doesn’t say a word.
“Colby.”
Nothing.
I poke his arm. “Colby, what the hell—”
“I don’t want you thinking this is a date, okay?”
I sit back, shocked, slightly insulted, and a whole lot of embarrassed.
Meekly, I say, “I know it’s not a date.”
Why would he think I thought this was a date? What does he really think of me? My boyfriend broke up with me three days ago, so I’m going to cling to the next guy who crosses my path?
I can feel myself start to cower with humiliation, and my cheeks are probably flaming red.
“Why would you think that?”
He turns right onto Highway 24 and heads toward Woodland Park.
“I don’t know,” he finally answers. “You took forever to get ready and you’re wearing heels. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”
“This is how I always get ready.”
“We’re just hanging out, Ryan.”
“So, doesn’t mean I can’t look nice.” I bite my bottom lip. What’s the big deal? “And thanks for making me feel like an idiot. Of course I know this isn’t a date, Colby. I just . . . I just wanted . . . I wanted to forget about work, about men, about the fact that my best friend just got married, and I’m not even close to that stage in my life. I wanted to take a moment to breathe, and you couldn’t even give me that. Instead you decide to humiliate me.”
The tension in his bulky shoulders eases somewhat. “I didn’t mean to humiliate you. I didn’t want to give off the wrong impression, you know since our little run-in this morning.”
“Believe me, I do not have, and I will not get the wrong impression here. It’s crystal clear. I'm not going to jump you because I don't have a boyfriend anymore." Does he really think that poorly of me?
“That’s not what I meant, Ryan.”
“Whatever, Colby. Just drive.”
I stare out the window, hating that I’m trapped in this godforsaken car with the most unpredictably moody man on the planet. I remember the phone calls from Rory when Colby was having one of his moments. I know what he’s like, I hate that he embarrassed me in the process.
And why is that embarrassing?
If I really think about it, why am I embarrassed?
Because you walked out of the bathroom looking like you’re about to throw yourself at a man.
My mom’s voice rings through my head. I squeeze my eyes shut and wrap my arms over my exposed skin, hiding it from Colby’s view. I should have worn something different. What was I thinking?
Letting out a long breath, I say, “I’m sorry.”
The car slows down as we stop at a red light. Colby directs his attention toward me when he asks, “Why the hell are you sorry?”
I shrug. “Maybe because I should have worn something more sensible.”
“Jesus,” Colby mutters and then starts driving again only to pull off on the side of the road and put the car in park. He turns toward me and says, “Do you always apologize to guys when you weren’t the one who needed to apologize?”
“No.” I shake my head.
I’m usually super stubborn, but for some reason, it felt like the right thing to do with Colby. He’s a friend, and I don’t want him to think I’m acting differently because of my breakup . . . or the loneliness I feel in the pit of my stomach.
“You don’t need to apologize.” Colby tips my chin up so I’m forced to look him in his dark, almost sinister eyes. “I’m sorry I was a dick. I’m just . . . fuck, I’m a little high-strung, okay?”
“High-strung? How so?”
He shakes his head and puts the car back on the road in one swift movement. “We don’t need to get into that.”
“What do you want to get into then?”
He pushes his hand through his hair, pulling on the short strands right before the smallest of smirks crosses his face. “Want to play a game?”
“Ooo.” I turn my body toward him. “Color me intrigued. What did you have in mind?”
“Twenty-one questions . . . the dirty version.”
“Dirty version?”
He nods. “It’s what the guys and I play over the com when we have a long flight. Keeps us awake and alert. I’ve been running out of material, so I’m hoping you can provide some new material.”
“How does it work?”
He smiles widely, his mood drastically changing in seconds. Hmm . . . interesting. I am actually really surprised. Colby is a very intense man, so this sudden change is a little confusing, and . . . appreciated.
People can change.
“I’ll start. I’ll think of something dirty and you start asking questions. In the regular version, you can ask person, place, or thing. For this version of the game, you ask person, position, or toy.”
Oh, I freaking like this. I’m going to own him in this game.
I rub my hands together. “Game on, Brooks.”
* * *
For the record, Colby Brooks is a dirty motherfucker.
Don’t let the all-American charm fool you. He is dirty, and honestly? I’m shocked. When he said dirty, I didn’t think he meant . . . that dirty. I’m learning new terms from him and spending a little longer than I wished trying to come up with something to impress him. He’s guessed my answers in ten questions and under. How is that possible?
“Two more questions,” he says, wiggling his fingers at me. We’re almost to the top of Pikes Peak, the drive going faster than expected. It usually takes an hour or so to drive to the top, but it’s felt like fifteen minutes at most.
And I hate to admit it, but Colby has me stumped on this one.
It’s a position, meant for two people but multiples can join in, and it’s one of his favorites.
That last answer has my mind whirling.
I tap my chin, trying not to think of a naked Colby performing sexual positions, but I have to be honest, my mind has gone there on multiple occasions. It’s hard not to after I saw him in his boxer briefs this morning, his bulge prominent.
So prominent.
“Uh . . . does it involve any chains?”
“If you want it to.”
“Gah, that’s such an infuriating answer. That gives me no hint at all.”
He shrugs, so much confidence pouring out of him as he rounds a sharp corner of the mountain. You would think the state of Colorado would require guardrails on these roads, but nope. They send you up here and say, “Have fun.”
“One more question.”
At this point I’ve given up. I have no idea.
“Can you perform it with clothes on and still get off?”
“Can’t you perform any sexual position with clothes on? It’s called dry humping.”
“I know what dry humping is, Colby,” I deadpan. “Just tell me the damn answer.”
“Do you give up?”
I toss my hands in the air out of frustration. “Yes, I give up.”
He shakes his head and says, “Missionary. It was missionary, Ryan.”
“What?” I shout louder than expected, all his answers floating around in my head, adding up to be exactly that, missionary. “You tricked me.”
“How?” He chuckles.
Feeling flustered, I say, “Because you worked me up with all your strange sex toys and positions and knowledge of porn stars that the simplest answer escaped me.”
“It’s how you play the game. Sorry, sweetheart.”
Did I mention I like playful Colby? He’s a good time. When he finally lets loose, lowers the military in him for a brief second and lives, he’s fun to
be around.
“Fine, my turn.”
“Okay, do you have one?”
“Yup.”
“Person, position, or toy.”
“Toy.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Does it vibrate?”
“No.”
“Do you hold it?”
I think about it. “Yeah, you can.”
“Is it peach colored?”
“No.”
“Gray?”
I pause and slowly turn my head toward him as I drag out the word, “Yeeessss.”
His smile grows. “Does it have three boobs?”
I throw my hands in the air and then smack the dashboard. “What the hell, Colby?”
He’s laughing hysterically now as we pull into the parking lot of the visitor’s center at the top of Pikes Peak. How the hell does he know?
“Answer the question.”
Grinding my teeth, I stew as I say, “Yes.”
“Is it an Area 51 Love Doll?” He puts the car in park and turns toward me. “Come on, is it?”
I cross my arms over my chest and stare out the window opposite of him. “I hate you.”
“Admit it.” He pokes my arm. “Just say it, say I got it right.”
“You’re cheating.”
“How the hell am I cheating?”
“I don’t know.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “Some Jedi mind trick bullshit they taught you in flight school.”
That garners a huge belly laugh from him. I exit the car, not wanting to listen to him gloat. I straighten out my jeans and take in the uneven ground of the dirt parking area. I really am not wearing the right clothes. Not to mention it’s freezing up here. I’m acting as if this is my first time on top of a mountain.
Rounding the front of the car, Colby locks up and then pockets his keys. “You realize flight school wasn’t anything like Star Wars, right?”
“As if you would tell me if it was.”
“That is true.” He rocks on his heels and takes in my outfit, this time, his eyes linger much longer than earlier. He comes up beside me and drapes his arm over my shoulder. “Let’s get you something warm to wear.” Oh God. This version of Colby—funny, dirty . . . kind—is a little lethal. Luckily I’m not going to see him after today. But seriously? Having his arm around my shoulders right now? It’s warming every inch of my body.
The Left Side of Perfect Page 4