by Ryan, Lexi
She presses her hand to my chest, and my breath catches as I wait for her to close the distance—those final inches between our lips.
Instead, she shoves me hard. “Out!”
I stumble before catching my balance. “What the hell?”
“I don’t want your pity kiss, East.” She’s avoiding my eyes, but I don’t miss the hurt that flashes across her face.
“It wouldn’t be—”
She squeezes her eyes shut. “Just go.”
“Easton? You up here?” Jake’s voice. Fuuuuuck. Not now.
Shay steps around me and opens the door.
“What’s he doing up there?” Carter calls from the stairs. “Shay? That rich asshole with you?”
Jake pokes his head around the doorframe. “You two decent?”
Shay rolls her eyes. “Come in, Jake.”
Jake’s all smiles with a side of drunken stumble as he comes into the room. “There’s the guest of honor. What are you two doing up here?”
“Telling secrets and braiding each other’s hair.” Shay’s smile is tight. “What else?”
Jake chuckles. Unlike Carter, he’s completely clueless about my attraction to Shay. He grabs the empty beer from my hand. “You need more!”
Carter rushes into the room. “What’s going on in here?”
“I found him,” Jake says, slinging his arm around my shoulders and leading me out of the room.
I look back at Shay, but she’s busy scanning the books on her bookshelf. Could she truly not feel this thing between us? Pity kiss? The fuck? How could she even think that was what I was offering?
“You okay?” Carter asks her. “What were you two doing?”
Jake and I are already at the stairs when I hear her say, “We were fucking, Carter. Doing the dirty with the door open and my brothers downstairs. Can’t you tell? I’m going to turn up pregnant with Easton’s love child any day now.”
“You’re not funny,” Carter says, but I can hear the tension leave his voice. The typical Shay smartass response was possibly the only one that would put his mind at ease.
When I turn back to them, she’s pushed Carter out of her room and is closing the door after him.
Never been kissed. I can hardly wrap my brain around it.
Shay
I can’t focus on my book, but I can’t sleep either. Who could with the party roaring downstairs?
I roll over and bury my face in a pillow, muffling my frustrated scream. I can’t believe I told Easton I’ve never been kissed. I could’ve lied. He never would’ve known. But the worst part is that I also admitted to having a crush on one of my brothers’ friends. I won’t make the same mistake if he asks about that again. Sometimes we have to lie to protect ourselves, and I know better than to leave my heart unguarded against Easton Connor.
I clutch a second pillow to my chest, my skin all tingly with memories of him in my room—standing so close and passing the beer to me while we traded secrets. His body so close as he touched his forehead to mine and asked if I wanted him to kiss me.
Could it hurt to close my eyes and let myself imagine what it would’ve been like? I’m totally unworthy, and he’s a fucking football star—now a first-round NFL draft pick—but it would hardly be the first time I’ve indulged such a fantasy. In an alternate reality, I could have accepted that kiss. I imagine myself as the tall, thin beauty my mom was at my age, and I imagine him as just Easton—the boy who patched up my knee when I fell off my bike and who told me jokes when I was sad. In that alternate reality, it wouldn’t have been a pity kiss at all but something he wanted as much as I did.
He wouldn’t have asked with words. He would’ve asked with the slow descent of his mouth to mine, and I wouldn’t have pulled away. He would’ve tasted like beer and been gentle, and I would’ve been a naturally good kisser. So good, he would’ve groaned into my mouth like the heroes in romance novels do.
I flip over in bed again, whimpering in frustration.
My bedroom door clicks, and I stare at it in the darkness. Is Carter checking on me? I don’t know why he’s suddenly so worried about me and Easton being alone together. Probably because I got boobs. Finally.
“Shay? You awake?” The husky whisper is a tripwire in my stomach, causing all my internal organs to detonate before clumsily righting themselves.
I roll to my side, watching the door as I hold the pillow to my chest. “Yeah. Everything okay?”
The sliver of hallway light grows as East steps into the room. “Could I sit in here with you?”
Oh, shit. I know that tone in his voice—the subtle tremor of anxiety that sometimes hits East so hard he can’t function. I would do anything to make it better, but luckily, it doesn’t take much. I scoot to the opposite side of the mattress and pat the bed beside me.
Easton releases a long breath, and the light shrinks again to nothing as he shuts the door behind him. He lies down on his back on top of the covers. “Sorry,” he whispers.
I put my hand on his chest, right on top of his racing heart. “I’m here. It’s fine.”
He places a hand on top of mine. “Thank you.”
Gone are the days of self-deprecation for these spells of anxiety. The first time I witnessed one of his attacks, he was a junior in high school and it was the night before he was supposed to take the SATs. I found him in the corner of our basement, shivering and sweating. It freaked me out to see him so panicked. He couldn’t catch his breath and his skin was so hot that I thought he had a fever. I had no idea what to do, so I just sat down beside him and held his hand. Eventually, he calmed enough to tell me it was an anxiety attack, and not his first. School was always a trigger for him—especially anything that made him feel like he might lose a chance to play football.
After that night, it wasn’t uncommon for him to seek me out during the tough moments. For whatever reason, I’ve always been able to calm him. He told me he was comforted to have me beside him whenever he had to suffer through a full-blown attack.
“Just breathe.” I scoot closer, keeping my hand on his chest under his.
I hear him fighting to control his breathing, and his heartbeat slows incrementally. “Thank you.”
“Try to sleep, East. Everything seems worse in the middle of the night.” I stay close, willing my calm to seep into him until the steady, even beat under my hand lulls me to sleep.
I fade in and out of consciousness, dreaming of our drinking game, of our conversation from earlier, my brain replaying and rewriting the words as his grip on my hand loosens.
And when the words I needed earlier tonight register in my brain, I don’t know if they’re from this Easton or from my dream.
“It wouldn’t have been a pity kiss.”
Easton: Thank you for last night. You are the literal chill to my crazy.
I clutch my phone in my hand as I read and reread the text. I fell asleep next to Easton, but when I woke, the morning sun slanting through the curtains, he was gone. I thought I’d find him downstairs with the rest of the hungover crew, but apparently he had to drive back to Jackson Harbor before anyone was up.
I didn’t expect to hear anything from him until the next time he came home but . . . he texted. I try not to let it mean more than it does.
Me: You’re not crazy. You have a lot on your shoulders. It’s understandable that your anxiety would flare up.
Easton: It’s easier to manage it when you’re there.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Does he have any idea what words like this do to me? The hope they give?
Easton: Do you think your parents would let you finish high school in L.A.? I’d give you room and board in exchange for your chilling effect in my life.
Me: Oh, absolutely. Let me just go tell Dad. He’ll be totally cool with his only daughter moving to L.A. to live with and serve a pro football player.
Easton: Serve? Please don’t say it that way to your dad. I like my face as it is.
Me: Say it like what?
Ea
ston: Like I’m buying sexual favors.
Me: I think we’ve established I’m not the girl for THAT job.
Easton: I’m saying I wouldn’t want to pay you.
Me: If you did, you’d demand a refund. Because, if you recall our conversation, I’m CLUELESS.
Easton: No. I don’t want to pay for your sexual favors for the same reason you don’t want a pity kiss.
My cheeks are on fire. Luckily, I’m alone in my bedroom and no one can see my awkward nerves at having this conversation with Easton. Is this a conversation, or is it . . . flirting? I stare at the screen while trying to decide how to reply. His next text comes through before I can.
Easton: Will you come see my new place when I get settled?
Yes! Yes! Yes! I don’t trust myself to reply. I’m trying to be cool, but my insides have zero chill when Easton is pouring on the attention like this.
Easton: I’m not sure how I’m supposed to start this new life without my rock to ground me when my crazy comes out.
Me: Talking to your doctor about a prescription might be a start. And you know I’m not joking.
Easton: I know. I just don’t want to need it.
Me: There’s no shame in it.
Easton: Thank you. For that. For everything.
I reread those words over and over, my heart swelling so big there’s no room for me to draw breath into my lungs. Maybe I’ll never have Easton the way I wish I could, but at least I have this. Whatever it is.
My brothers are lounging in the family room, barely awake and worshipping their coffee mugs, and the kitchen is clean, the counters sparkling. There’s no sign of the dirty cups and beer bottles I expected to find littering the main floor. Instead, the only evidence of last night’s celebration is the three black trash bags piled by the garage door.
“You all got to work early,” I say to the boys.
Jake rubs his eyes. “Not us. East felt bad about leaving us with the mess, so he cleaned before he left.”
“Nice.”
“Is it just me, or has he been acting weird since the draft?” Jake asks.
Carter squeezes his eyes shut. “He’s acting like he doesn’t want to go. Which is ridiculous.”
“It’s just a lot. I think he’s still processing,” I say.
Carter frowns at me. “Since when are you two besties?”
“We’re not besties. I’m just a good listener.”
Carter grunts and mumbles something about how I’d better be “listening and nothing more,” and my cheeks heat.
I don’t want to pay for your sexual favors for the same reason you don’t want a pity kiss.
Maybe that just means he doesn’t want to pay for sex. Maybe I’m being a naive girl with a crush to think it means he wants me.
Shay
December 31st, eight months later
Easton’s home.
I’ve never felt shy around him, but tonight I watch him play cards at the kitchen table with my brothers and feel weird about saying a simple hello. The sound of laughter and clinking of beer bottles fills my family’s vacation cabin. A fire roars in the living room. As far as New Year’s Eve parties go, this one is pretty tame. My brothers and a handful of their friends from school, Easton, and as of ten minutes ago . . . me. I’m standing just outside the kitchen, fidgeting with my purse, and wondering if I should have come at all. I don’t think anyone’s noticed I’m here. I’m sure Easton hasn’t, not when there’s a girl with big boobs, blond hair, and a tiny waist standing behind him and giggle-whispering in his ear.
I don’t know why the idea of being in the same room as him is making my heart race. I haven’t seen him since draft night, when he gave me my first shot of tequila and fell asleep next to me, but we text sometimes. Well, my brothers text him all the time, and I’m in that loop, but sometimes he checks in with me. A message on my eighteenth birthday, a check-in at midterms, a goofy story about a guy on his team. Nothing profound or incredibly meaningful, but every time I get a message from him that isn’t also sent to my brothers, hope swells so big in my chest that I can hardly breathe.
Everything and nothing has changed since he left. His whole life is different. He’s living in L.A. and wrapping up his first season in the NFL. He even dated an underwear model for a few weeks last fall. But I’m still the same girl he fell asleep next to. The one who’s never been kissed and can’t get over her childhood crush, even though she knows he’s entirely out of her league.
It’s twenty minutes until midnight, but I’m suddenly too tired and too self-conscious to announce my arrival. I slip up the stairs and head to my bedroom, changing into flannel pajamas before sliding into bed and cracking open Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. I’ve already read it three times, but there’s something about returning to a favorite that is as comforting as a well-worn blanket.
It’s not long before I hear the sounds of everyone downstairs counting down to the new year. I wonder if Easton’s kissing that pretty blond girl. I wish I didn’t care.
I close my book, roll to my back, and stare at the ceiling. I could have gone to a party with kids from my high school tonight. There’s a cute boy in my honors English class that asked if I’d be there. His name is Steve, and the way he smiled when he said he hoped to see me made me blush. But I came here instead, and I don’t even bother lying to myself about why. I wanted to see Easton.
There’s a knock on my door, and I roll my eyes. I bet one of my brothers is checking to see if this room is empty so he can hook up with someone. “I’m in here,” I say, not bothering to hide my annoyance.
The door cracks. “That’s what I was hoping.”
Easton. My heart sprints, stumbles, falls flat on its face.
He steps into my room, grinning, and shuts the door behind him. “Why weren’t you downstairs?”
Because I realized I’ll never be pretty enough, and I hated myself for thinking that way. Even if it’s true. I sit up in bed and lean against the headboard. “I didn’t want to be around so many people.”
This is a ridiculous explanation when I could have stayed home tonight, but he nods as if it makes perfect sense. “I kind of feel the same. Do you mind if I hide in here with you?”
“Won’t your date be disappointed?”
He arches a brow. “My date?”
I’m making a fool of myself. “The blond girl who was rubbing herself all over you?”
He lifts his chin. “Ah. I think her name’s Sasha, but I’m not interested. I’d rather hang out with you . . . if you don’t care?” The question is laced with enough doubt that the shield around my clumsy heart falls.
I swallow and will my pulse to slow. I don’t want to be so desperate for his attention, but here I am. “Sure. I’m just reading.”
Grinning, he crosses the room and studies the books on my shelf before grabbing my copy of The Stand.
“King,” I say, nodding. “Good choice.”
Easton toes off his tennis shoes and stretches out in bed beside me—him on top of the covers, me beneath, just like on draft night when he was having an anxiety attack. He opens his book and I open mine.
“Happy New Year, Short Stack,” he says softly.
The old nickname makes me smile. “Happy New Year.”
I wake up to the feel of a calloused hand on my stomach, fingertips sweeping underneath my shorts. My body is awake—every nerve ending at full attention—but my mind is foggy and I have to blink into the darkness a few times before I remember where I am and who I’m with.
Easton.
Easton is touching me.
His fingers sweep across the waistband of my panties, and I gasp, arching instinctively. I must’ve fallen asleep while reading. The lights are off and he’s spooning me, his front flush to my back, and when I shift, the hard length of him presses along my ass. “Easton?” My thighs clench, and it’s all I can do not to tuck my hips and lead that hand to where I want it—where I’ve imagined it a thousand times before. “Are you awake
?”
He moans into my neck and grips my hip, holding me against him.
The instinct to arch into his touch is so strong, but I have to know if this is real. “Easton?” My mind is foggy from sleep, but my body is more alert than ever. Every inch of my skin is aware of every movement he makes.
Suddenly he releases my hip and pulls away. My body goes cold everywhere he was touching me. “Shay?”
I drag in a ragged breath. Shit, shit, shit. “Yeah?”
“Fuck. I’m sorry. I was dreaming and . . .” I hear his swallow in the darkness.
I roll to face him, but I can barely make out his silhouette in the inky blackness. “What were you dreaming about?”
He releases a raspy chuckle. “Isn’t that obvious?”
I bite my bottom lip. “So who were you dreaming about, then?”
He lifts his hand to my face, tracing the line of my jaw. I wish I could see his eyes, his expression, anything that might hint at his thoughts. “I thought that might be obvious too,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. You fell asleep, and I didn’t want to leave, but I never meant to—”
“It’s fine,” I blurt. Please don’t stop. Please don’t tell me you don’t want this.
His hand stills on my jaw. “It’s not. Touching you while you’re sleeping. That’s . . . It’s not cool.”
“I . . . liked it.”
He’s silent for a long beat. Is he sorry I stole his easy out, or is he reconsidering his decision to throw the brakes on what we started in our sleep? “Yeah?”
“Do you want to . . .” I swallow hard. I want his hands on me again. I would trade all my pride for the relief of his touch. “Do you want to keep going?” As soon as the question is out, I wish I could snatch it back. Too needy, too desperate.
His fingers slip from my jaw and run down my neck—so slowly that the speed of the touch itself is a seduction. Rough fingertips graze my collarbone, and I bite back a moan. I never would’ve imagined my collarbone could be an erogenous zone. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”