Flirting With Love

by Clara Stone

  And, for the first time since they started arguing, both Hudson and Hope look at me, their expressions laced with surprise. Then Hudson’s eyes soften. He walks toward me and stops, just short of a foot away. I look up. He towers over me, his gaze doing that thing that makes my stomach bubble and my knees go wobbly, even when sitting down.

  Ah. Damn it, Blake. Get your shit together.

  “I’m sorry, firecracker.”

  I’M SORRY? I’M freaking sorry? That’s all I have to say?

  I run my fingers through my hair. God, I’m such an idiot. I got so caught up in the banter with Hope that I completely excluded Blake from the conversation. I’m such an ass.

  “I mean, look at you two. It’s like you’re dogs and cats. Look at the distance between you!” Hope says, waving her hand at the empty space separating Blake and I, a scowl on her face. “You, Hudson, being the dog, of course,” she continues, pushing my buttons and ignoring Blake’s outburst completely.

  But I refuse to take the bait a second time. I refuse to make Blake feel like she’s unimportant. And I refuse to kiss her just because my annoying, big-mouthed best friend wants me to. If I’m going to kiss Blake, it’s going to be because I want to, because I feel the need to press my mouth to hers and show her how much I appreciate her. Prank be damned.

  Sure, Blake and I started this little charade as a prank. A game. Flirting with love. But what’s between us now is something more. With every other girl—as Hope so nicely pointed out—I’d have been in a full-on make out session by now. But with Blake, I can’t. The first three times we kissed, pre-prank, showed me just what kissing Blake could really mean. It isn’t just about locking lips and satisfying an itch. It’s special.

  With Blake, I zone out of everything except the need to connect with her, kiss her, because I want to know her. I touch her because I want to feel her warm, smooth skin against my cold, calloused hands. It’s not about satisfying me; I want to satisfy her. I want her to feel special, to feel like she matters.

  “Oh, for God’s sake—”

  “Shut it, Hope,” I say, not taking my eyes off Blake. Her eyebrows are pinched together, in anger, frustration, or something else? “I’m not going to kiss Blake just because I need to prove something to you.”

  “Fine. I need a popcorn refill anyway,” she says. The thump of her stomping gets lighter and lighter as she disappears down the hall.

  When I know she’s out of hearing range, I say, “I really am sorry. It’s just . . . Hope can be so . . .”

  “Pushy?” Blake offers, getting to her feet.

  I nod.

  “Her heart is in the right place, though.” Blake looks down, letting her hair fall forward.

  “Hey,” I say, pushing the wayward strands back behind her ear. She glances up through her lashes. “What’s going on in that mind of yours?”

  She bites her lower lip, and her eyes crinkle at the edges. “Maybe we should tell her?”

  “Tell her what?” I really don’t like where this is going. Because, if I admit to Hope that Blake and I aren’t together, then . . . then it’s all over. And it can’t be. I need more time.

  “That . . . maybe . . .” She lets out a shaky breath.

  My heart beats an octave faster, like it wants to keep away from the words I don’t want to her say. I can’t hear her say it, so I do the only thing I can think of. I cup her cheek. She leans into it, her eyes closing. I know this should all be simple, harmless flirting, but I also know there’s more to this craziness.

  “Blake,” I say.

  Her eyes open, and I beg her silently to let me kiss her. Not because I need to prove something to someone else, but because I need to prove to myself that she likes me as much as I like her. I need proof that this might be more than just pretend, more than merely playing with our hearts.

  She doesn’t respond. But, like our very first kiss, she presses her mouth to mine, pushing up on her toes to reach me. My hands automatically wrap around her waist, and I pull her up to my height, her feet stretched high as our heads come to the same level. Her hands wrap around my neck in a death grip as her mouth moves against mine. This, unlike the last three times, is far more intense. Far more needy. There’s no gentleness to it.

  I walk with her, backward, until my legs hit the soft covers of my bed and I flop down on it, taking her with me. She adjusts herself so that her thighs are nestled on either side of my hips, her mouth moving hungrily across mine.

  Her arms loosen around my neck, and I start to feel the panic rise higher, ready to burst out, wanting her to stay, to continue letting me live in this bliss for another second. Another minute. Another day.

  But God knows, if she wants to stop, I will. To my surprise, her hands thread through my hair, and she tugs at it in a jerking motion.

  I smile into her mouth, pulling her lower lip into mine, sucking on it. I grab hold of her shoulders and press her down, needing the space between us to be sealed in a tight vice. No matter what happens tomorrow, I know everything I needed to from this one kiss. She likes me. Hell, she more than likes me.

  An involuntary groan escapes my lips when I feel her move, sliding up and down over me.

  Oh, blissful fuck.

  I’m stuck between wanting to stop her completely, and helping her take that hard, fast ride on me. Instead, I settle for an appreciative, throaty groan that vibrates from my chest.

  “Hmm . . .” she says. “Hudson . . .”

  My name from her lips, in this state, in this situation, is the most erotic sound I’ve ever heard.

  “Hudson,” she says again, like she’s frustrated.

  I want to respond. I want to say, “Yes,” or sing the alphabet, or just outright cuss. Anything. Something. But I’m incapable of speech or movement. The only thing I manage to do is kiss her back, gulping her moans and breath into me like they’re a substitute for oxygen.

  My hands snake up and under her shirt, feeling her skin. It’s soft, and warm, and . . . fuck, it’s soft.

  We both still, breathing hard, as her pager blazes to life, shattering the moment. It continues to ring, but we don’t pull apart. Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go. When she stays on my lap, hope spurs.

  Thank the Cupid’s assistant.

  I bring my mouth back toward hers, but before I touch those lips, her pager starts humming again. Blake sighs. “I should get it.”

  Nonono. “Okay,” I say slowly, hesitantly letting her go.

  She hops off and heads for her school bag. I roll back toward my bed and grab a pillow, placing it over my lap. Just because she could feel how hard I was, doesn’t mean I need to show her the tent in my shorts.

  I turn my attention back to Blake. Her hand is over her mouth, and her head shakes.

  All previous thoughts evaporate with the efficiency of a cold shower, and I’m up and on my feet, walking toward her. “What’s wrong?”

  She looks up at me, concern etching every corner of her face. God, she’s expressive. “Vicki. She’s in trouble. Again.”

  I don’t think twice, because I know how important Vicki is to Blake. I grab her bag, and then her hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “Let me drive you home.”

  She nods. As we head down the stairs, Hope is walking back up, a small smirk on her lips. “Well, it’s about Goddamn—what’s wrong?” Her smile fades, replaced by a grim expression.

  “I need to go home,” Blake answers over her shoulder as we walk past. “I’m sorry.”

  “No. Don’t be,” Hope calls after us. “Just be careful. Whatever it is.” Her voice trails down the stairs as we hurry to get into my Jags.

  Twenty minutes later, we’re parked in front of Blake’s home. She doesn’t wait for me to get the door this time, swinging it open on her own as she jumps out. She shoves it closed, takes two steps forward, and pauses. Then she pivots and comes back, her head poking through the open window. “About tonight—”

  I shake my head. I don’t want to talk about it now, in a rush. We
need to talk, no doubt. But not tonight. “Go take care of Vicki. We’ll talk later. Promise.”

  She presses her lips together like she wants to say something. But then she simply pushes off the door and runs away, never once looking back.

  I sit in the car, waiting. Something about leaving like this just doesn’t feel right. Reluctantly, I put Jags in drive and pull away. All the while, knowing something is about to happen.

  MY HEART HASN’T slowed down, my lips are sore from kissing, and my body is so alive and coiled tight, I’m ready to burst. But I know the second I walk through the door, everything I’m feeling right now will be in the past, and I don’t want it to be. Does that make me a shitty person? Yes. Do I feel guilty about it? No. Yes. I don’t know.

  I sigh, turning the knob to the front door and heading inside without looking back. If I turn, I’ll just want to go to him. And right now, he’s not the one that needs me.

  Vicki is curled up on the sofa, her head tucked into her chest like a person trying to avoid getting kicked in the gut and face.

  Guilt. It rushes through me like a tornado. How cold am I to even consider putting myself before Vicki? Without a word, I rush over, sliding in next to her. I wrap myself around her, like I’m soothing a child. Her body shakes in response, and she finally uncurls from her cocoon. We stay there for a long time. I know she needs this time to recover from whatever has happened.

  After a while, she sniffles and pushes up to a sitting position. I do the same. Her eyes are downcast, but I can see the toll today has taken on her. Her face is streaked with tears, her eyes puffy and dark.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to call you, but I have no one else,” she says in a pleading voice.

  “Hush.” I run my hand over her hair. “You know I’m here for you. No matter when or where I am.”

  “But you said you had plans with Hudson and Hope . . .”

  My heart breaks. How could I have been so selfish, thinking that coming in here would ruin my evening, when my friend, who I promised to protect, is in so much pain?

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you needed me.”

  She wipes the free-flowing tears off her cheeks and shakes her head.

  “Want to tell me what happened?”

  “Trey.” Her voice trembles when she says his name. “He wants me to stay away from you.”

  Anger flares inside me, and my hand stills over her hair. “Did he hurt you?”

  She shakes her head again, but I know otherwise, especially with the new bruise over her collarbone screaming at me.

  “No. With his probation, he can’t risk having people notice him.”

  I grunt. “Why can’t—”

  “No.” She and I have had this conversation one too many times. I might not have met Trey personally, because Vicki insisted that’s one thing she can’t let me risk, but I know him from all the conversations we’ve had over the past few years.

  I let out a deep sigh. I can’t talk to her like this. “Ice cream?”

  One side of her mouth tilts up. I have an unhealthy addiction to the frozen delicacy. Some people turn to alcohol, others to cleaning. Me? I turn to ice cream.

  I help her up, and we make our way to the kitchen. For as long as I can remember, I’ve found comfort in this room. Maybe because this is where Mom always went when she wanted to escape from my dad, or maybe because this is the place I’ve found her most happy, cooking. But either way, the kitchen has always been my safe place, and it doesn’t hurt that there’s a refrigerator, which, luckily, has a carton with two scoops of ice cream left in it.

  Ah. The love of my life. Come hither.

  Vicki is sitting across from me, mute as, well, a mime, but without all the expressions and hand gestures. I scoop the ice cream into two bowls and hunt for amazing toppings to add. We both deserve special treatment after the kind of evening we’ve had. Though, Vicki’s has been much worse; mine’s only been . . . interesting, to say the least.

  Once again, I lost all sorts of inhibitions where Hudson is concerned, losing complete control of my human-ness. I can’t believe I just up and attacked him. Again. And then . . . then, there was that single moment of weakness, when he pressed me down onto him and I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe . . .

  My face heats up. That isn’t something I should be thinking about. I shake my head. I need to be here for Vicki. She’s my priority. She needs me.

  “Vicki . . .” I say, sliding over the bowl of vanilla ice cream piled high with Reese’s peanut butter cups, a Butterfinger, a drizzle of caramel, and topped with whipped cream. She looks at it, then at me, tears brimming in her eyes.

  “Eat,” I say, digging into mine without a second thought.

  “Don’t, Blake,” she says, obviously aware of what I was about to say.

  “I can’t—”

  “Then don’t,” she snaps, her earlier pleading shoved aside.

  I pull my bottom lip into my mouth, biting it hard, feeling my pulse thrum against my skin. If I was like everyone else, I would’ve let her be. But I’m not. I can’t just stand by and watch her do this to herself. She needs to know that she deserves better, and in the process, if I get snapped at, it’s okay. It’s worth it.

  “I can take care of myself, Blake,” she says, once again pleading for me to understand. “Can’t you trust me?”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but your sadistic stepbrother . . .” I sigh, frustrated, wanting and willing her to understand. “I don’t trust him.”

  She looks down at the bowl in front of her, and her grip tightens around it. “I’m safe until I turn eighteen.”

  “Are you seriously shitting me right now, Vicki?” I demand. “He might not sexually assault you, but he’s physically and mentally abusing you, and don’t even lie to me about those new bruises.”

  She looks up and opens her mouth. I raise my eyebrow, challenging her. When she shuts it again, I say, “Please, Vicki. I’ll go with you to report him.”

  “And then what?” she cries. “I go into foster care until I turn eighteen and face God knows what kind of family?”

  “It’ll be better than your current situation,” I reply, wanting her to see reason.

  “No.” She shakes her head. “No no no. I can’t—”

  “I know, with everything you’ve been through, that it’s hard for you to imagine there are people out there that care.” I sigh and walk around the table to wrap my arms around her, pulling her into a hug. “Change can be hard, Vicki. But sometimes, it’s the only way you’ll ever be free of your past. It’s the only way for you to free yourself.”

  She shakes her head again. “I know his moods, Blake.”

  I push back from the hug and look at her. Her gaze is downward for another long second before she lifts her chin.

  “I know when to back off,” she mumbles. “I know I’m safe until I’m eighteen. I know I’m safe.”

  “I don’t . . . I . . .” I’m so lost for words. I mean, how the hell do I convince someone that isn’t willing to listen? But before I can say anything else, a rap on the door cuts our conversation short.

  “I’ll get it,” Vicki says, without missing a beat. She walks backward, like she couldn’t be happier for the interruption.

  Blake

  Before —– 1999

  I hear voices coming from the front door. Vicki’s, and a voice that makes my body thrums with excitement. He came back? I quicken my steps toward the living room, licking my fingers to get rid of the leftover ice cream sticking to them.

  Vicki is heading back to the kitchen, her eyes cast downward. I know that growing up with a stepfamily of abusive assholes changes people, and I can’t blame her for feeling intimidated by any man she comes face-to-face with, but this is Hudson. A boy I know for a fact is nothing at all like the men in her life, or mine. So watching her hands shake as she closes the distance between us makes me even more frustrated with my inability to help her.

  “I’m going to go home,�
� she whispers, pulling me into a hug.

  “Don’t,” I say, hugging her tighter. “Don’t go back to your place. I can ask Hudson to—”

  She pulls back and holds me at arm’s length. In my peripheral vision, I see Hudson waiting patiently by the door. He knows Vicki doesn’t like being around him, but he’s never once asked me what’s up with her. I know he’s come close several times, but he never follows through with his curiosity.

  “Thank you for the talk,” Vicki says, ignoring my request for her to stay here tonight. “Everything will be fine. You have fun. Okay?”

  She walks past Hudson without a single glance at him, her arms wrapped around her waist. I follow behind her, wanting to stop her. But the words don’t come quick enough, and I watch her run across the street toward her house.

  Hudson’s warm fingers slide into mine, and I squeeze, leaning my head into his shoulder and drawing strength from him. I’m curious to find out what he’s doing here, why he came back. But first, I need comfort food.

  Without a word, I turn around, pulling Hudson into the house with me. Closing the door, I drag him into the kitchen, leaving him standing near the center island as I go digging in the fridge for the ingredients to make more ice cream, pulling out the milk carton before I rummage through the cabinets for Ziploc bags and rock salt.

  I pour the milk, vanilla extract, and sugar into a quart-sized bag, and the rock salt into the gallon-sized one.

  “What are you making?” Hudson asks, coming around to my side.

  Shake, shake, shake.

  I juggle the milk, checking to make sure the Ziploc is sealed tightly before placing it into the bag with the rock salt. “Ice cream.”

  “Ice cream?” he asks.

  I nod, sealing the gallon bag, and look at him, shrugging. “I’m in the mood for ice cream.”

  “And you make it at home?” he asks, poking at the bag.

  “Stop!” I swat at his hand. “If you and I are going to continue with this relationship, know this, golden boy.” I wave my finger at him. “No one, I mean, no one, touches my ice cream. Kapish?”