by A. J. Pine
Dee nods but doesn’t take her eyes off of what she’s doing. “I’ll second that,” she says.
I turn back to Jess, who’s wearing a perma-grin.
“Nerdy and ridiculously sweet,” I tell her, knowing that Jess and Adam first became friends over their mutual love of crappy hospital coffee.
She beams. “I know, right? And it’s fucking sexy too,” she whispers.
“Hey, Carson,” Spock yells over our whispers and giggles.
“What’s up, Nolan? Good to see ya.”
And then I’m pulling Jess and Spock over to the couch. But Spock tugs his hand from my grip.
“I think I’m going to hang out on the balcony,” he says. “I’ve got this song half done I want to work on, and you guys clearly need some alone time.”
I look at Jess’s hand gripped firmly in mine, and I can’t stop bouncing like a little girl on Christmas morning.
“I don’t even know why you’re here,” I say to Jess. “But I guess I kind of missed you.”
Spock leans in for a quick kiss. “Thank you,” I tell him, and he grins before retreating into the kitchen and out the back door.
Jess and I collapse onto the couch, and she gives me a pointed look.
“What?” I ask.
She crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes even more than they already were.
“Three days, Adler. You’re in town three days, and I still haven’t seen you. So I’m taking matters into my own hands. Adam’s not coaching today. I don’t start summer school for another week. So here I am.”
I shrink back against the arm of the couch. It’s not like I’ve been avoiding her, not intentionally at least.
“Shit,” I say. “I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . .” I pause for a moment to collect myself. Jess knows I wouldn’t take any bullshit from her, so I owe her the same respect. “I guess it’s just hard seeing people who . . . I mean seeing people after . . .”
She puts her hand on mine, her withering look replaced with soft eyes and a sad smile.
“The last time you saw me was the day of Wyatt’s memorial,” Jess says. “I get it, honey. I remind you of shit you don’t want reminders of. So I’m ripping off the Band-Aid. Cold turkey. I’ve got you in town for ten weeks, and I’m not about to squander that. So hate what I remind you of today, and tomorrow you can just—I don’t know—hate that humidity does great things to my hair?”
Jess does a ridiculous imitation of something akin to a L’Oréal shampoo commercial, replete with the slow motion swishing of her hair back and forth in front of her face, side to side over her shoulders. Then she pulls a ponytail holder off her wrist and throws her hair into a ponytail—quintessential Jess.
“Fuck. Who am I kidding?” she asks. “If my hair gets any frizzier, I’m going to have to drive home just so my do can sit shotgun. This humidity is killing me.”
I instinctively comb my fingers through my own short hair.
“You could cut it all off,” I say. “Beat humidity at its own game.”
“And dye it blue?”
I shake my head. “I think green, for you. Goes better with your coloring.”
Jess laughs. “When I’m ready to chop it all off, I’ll let you know. For now I’m just going to complain.”
I shrug. “Suit yourself.”
Jess’s face grows serious and she puts her hand on my knee.
“You seem like you’re doing okay,” she says. “I’ve been worried.”
“Oh, how the tables have turned,” I say, and blow out a long breath.
Jess scoots closer to me and leans her head on my shoulder. I guess she’s now huggie and leanie.
“Hey,” she starts. “It’s not like everything is suddenly perfect for me and Adam, you know? I have my moments. The more serious we get, the more scared I become.” Jess straightens to look at me again. “He said he wants to marry me someday, Zoe.”
I laugh at her somber expression. “Last I heard, when a guy you love says that to you, it’s usually a good thing.”
She backhands me on the shoulder.
“I know it’s a good thing. But now all that stuff that made me push him away last year—wanting a future with him, which means a family—you know we might not be able to have kids of our own.” I open my mouth to argue, but she stops me. “I know we have options—surrogacy, adoption—I get it. Adam gets it, and I’m not saying I’m ungrateful for how amazing he is or that he’s willing to explore these options with me. I’m just saying I’m scared. And it’s okay to be scared. I get that now.”
Ah, I think. I see where this is going.
“You were there for me when I didn’t get it,” Jess says. “And you’re still here for me now. I just want you to know it’s okay to let someone be there for you for a change. That’s all.”
I raise a brow. “That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m still getting used to this, Jess,” I say. “All nurturing and getting into other people’s business and shit.”
She narrows her eyes. “It’s called being a friend, and I’m getting damn fucking good at it if I do say so myself.”
I hop up from the couch and grab her hand.
“You’re right,” I say. “I’m just giving you shit. And now I’m going to set your mind at ease, prove to you that I’m okay.”
Jess follows me through the kitchen to the balcony door. Outside, Spock sits with his back to us, strumming his guitar for a few bars, then stopping to write something on his notepad.
“How long is he staying?” she asks.
I swallow back any doubt and prepare for whatever reaction my best friend will have to the news.
“All summer,” I say matter-of-factly. “And before you judge or tell me it’s too fast or whatever, he’s not staying to be with me. I brought him into Old Town on Saturday to show him where I was going to be working, and they knew him. He’d played there before, and they needed a summer music teacher to fill a slot that had just gone vacant. He left the tour, and his band already replaced him, and he wasn’t sure what he was going to do—”
Jess covers my mouth with her hand.
“Can I say something now?” she asks.
I nod.
“I’m going to remove my hand now, and you’re going to stay quiet, right?”
I roll my eyes but nod again, and she removes her hand.
“You’re a big girl, Zoe Adler. And I trust you to make good decisions. And that guy out there? If you think he’s a good decision, then I’m happy for you.”
Only when my shoulders relax do I realize how tense they were to begin with. I’m not one for needing the approval of others, but Jess is different. What she thinks matters more than anyone else—and I kind of didn’t realize that until a few seconds ago.
“He’s a good decision,” I say. Probably the only one I’ve made in a long time.
“You know the door’s not soundproof, right?”
Spock’s voice startles me enough that I yelp and then double over in peals of laughter. Jess isn’t far behind. We run back through the kitchen like giddy teenagers, almost bulldozing Dee and Adam as they exit the studio.
I sidestep Dee and catch myself against the arm of the couch while Adam welcomes near demolition as he traps Jess in his arms.
“Whoa there, Speed Racer. What’s the rush?”
We’re both still giggling, and neither of us bothers to explain. When Jess catches her breath, she changes the subject to Adam.
“Let’s see! Let’s see!”
Adam wears his green Easton basketball jersey, so there’s nothing covering Dee’s latest creation other than ointment and some Saran wrap, and I wonder if he planned on getting the tattoo all along.
Jess stands on her toes to get eye level with Adam’s shoulder, and he preens while his girl grins from ear to ear, nodding in approval.
“You like?” he asks.
Jess gives him an eager nod. “I love.”
And that’s all the warning we get. Adam pulls Jess into a kiss so fast, I don’t even think to look away. And once I’m watching, I can’t look away. Because they’re it—the real deal. He’s seen her at her worst and loved her anyway.
I peek back toward the balcony door, and there it is again, that twinge of doubt. Aside from the memorial and my possible over-the-top worry at his absence Saturday night, all Spock has ever seen is Zoe at her best. The Zoe Show.
What would he think if he saw the guilt? If he knew I wasn’t exactly as Jess described me—someone who makes good decisions. Come to think of it, how would Jess’s view of me change if she knew Wyatt may have lived if I intervened?
I place my palm over the phone that hides in my pocket, the text from Zach still there waiting. Unanswered.
Yeah. When it comes to me, the show beats the real deal every time.
Chapter Fourteen
“That was—a day,” Spock says. “But I’m kind of glad Jess and Adam hung around for dinner. It’s nice to get to know your world.” He collapses onto the bed next to me.
My pencil jolts across the sketchpad, creating a rogue line where seconds ago there was nothing at all.
“Shit,” he says. “Sorry about that.”
I drop the pad and pencil on the floor. On any other day I’d be pissed at someone messing up my drawing. But how can I be angry when there was nothing to mess up in the first place?
“No big deal,” I say. “Wasn’t feeling it.”
That’s only half the truth. I’m not feeling anything when it comes to my art. Every time I put pencil to paper for anything other than a tattoo, I come up blank. The last time I drew just for me was the night Wyatt died. Now when I sit down to draw, Wyatt’s face is the only thing I see. I’d draw it if I wasn’t so afraid of what I’d see in his eyes if they stared back at me.
I smile and climb over Spock, straddling him where he sits.
“Nice outfit,” he says, his voice suddenly hoarse.
I look down at my attire—nothing but my tank and underwear. Then my eyes meet his again, and I see nothing but dark blue need. I’m happy to dive into their depths, to bury everything else but my need for him.
“Wore it especially for you,” I tease, and I lean down to kiss him. Spock kisses me back, but I feel his restraint, so I back away.
“What?” I ask. “Am I wearing too much?” I start to lift my tank, but he stops me.
He eyes me up and down, then whacks his head lightly against the wall behind him.
“We’re not running out of time or anything,” he says. “Just—I don’t know—talk to me for a minute. Tell me how you’re doing.”
Despite the nice erection I can feel through his shorts, I groan and roll off of him and onto my back.
“You too, huh? Checking up on me?”
Spock slides down so he’s lying next to me. He lays a hand on my stomach, hesitant, and when I don’t push him away, he slides the hem of my tank up just an inch, enough to trace small circles on my skin.
“Not fair,” I say. “I’m trying to be angry with you.”
He grins. “I know. And I’m trying to get to know you. Remember? We’re doing this thing backward. I figure now that we’re living together, I get to ask you a few questions, make sure we’re compatible.”
I snort. “I like you. You like me. Sex is decent. I call that a win. What’s with all the talking?”
He slides a finger under the hem of my panties. Teasing—always teasing. I squirm.
“Decent?” he asks, that finger dipping an inch lower, just barely touching—fuck. He stops, and I squirm again.
“Fine,” I say, my aggravation buried in the breathlessness of my voice. “It’s good. Really fucking good, okay? Now less talking and more touching?”
He chuckles. “How about a game?”
I nod and lick my dry lips. “I like games.”
He slides his hand back out of my panties and palms me.
“Jesus,” he says, and I can hear the falter in his resolve as he feels the wet cotton between my legs. Then he clears his throat. Dammit. Game’s back on.
“I ask you a question,” he starts. “And if you answer honestly and completely—that means no simple yes or no responses—then you get a prize.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I like prizes.”
He gives me one long stroke on top of my underwear, and I swear I might lose it right here. Then he’s back at the seam, where cotton meets skin.
“I’ll start easy,” he says. “Favorite color.”
I let out a soft laugh. “All of them.”
He raises his brows and thinks for a second before saying, “I believe you.” And he sneaks under the hem again. This time he doesn’t tease. One finger slides down my crease, slow and deliberate, plunging inside at the same delicious, agonizing pace.
“Shit,” I hiss, doing my best to play along with him when all I want to do is ride his goddam hand until I finish.
“Favorite food?” he asks, his finger still inside me like it lives there, and yes—I wish it did.
“Fried pickles,” I manage to whisper, and a second finger joins the first. This time I can’t hold back, and I writhe against him, urge him in farther, though I know he’s buried down to the last knuckle. “Open your eyes.”
I do as I’m told, and when his eyes lock on mine, I see so much more than need, but I don’t let myself put a label on it, don’t allow myself to call it what I want it to be. I just let him hold me there with his gaze, his fingers inside me, and another question on his lips.
“Biggest dream,” he says, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything sexier than his voice right now—in command yet not hiding his desire. I reach toward his shorts, but he shakes his head. “We’re just doing you right now,” he tells me. “I’m having enough fun watching you. I can wait my turn.” He gives one small pump of his fingers to remind me what my turn entails, and my hands fist my sheet as if it could give me purchase. “Biggest dream,” he repeats.
“Graphic novel artist,” I blurt out amidst panting breaths, and his fingers slide out, all the way up, and he gives my clit a firm swirl.
My back arches without warning, as if my body is acting independent of any coherent thought—not that I have a single one.
“Biggest fear.”
And I realize how unfair this game actually is. Because I’ll tell him anything—anything not to stop. But I guess he deserves some truth after all.
I swallow against the dryness in my throat and try to catch my breath enough to speak.
“That I’m not the girl you think I am. That soon you’ll figure out I’m more of a mess than I let on. That it doesn’t matter how much I love someone—I’ll just end up hurting them in the end.”
I say this all without taking my eyes off him, and he never looks away. I’m honest as hell and expect immediate gratification. But instead Spock kisses me. Just like his hands, his lips are strong, slow, and deliberate.
“We’re all a mess,” he says. “Stop trying to hide from me, Zoe.”
His tongue plunges past my parted lips, and I’m kissing him back—fierce and relentless. “Please,” is all I say, and I hope he understands. I need my prize—the only way to wipe away what I just said lies in his hands. Literally.
He rubs me again, and my arms drape around his neck. He kisses my lips, my jaw, and down my neck. Next is the skin above my breast, just outside the tank top, and then he’s flicking his tongue against the fabric, nudging my piercing below.
“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers again as he keeps kissing down until his mouth finds where his hand has been. With one lap of his tongue, I let out a moan. His fingers dip back inside while his tongue swirls against me.
And I.
Am.
A goner.
If this is the price I have to pay for honesty, I gu
ess it’s more affordable than I thought.
Chapter Fifteen
“You pull off Smurfette well.” This is Patrick’s greeting when we walk into Old Town for our first day of classes. “And you,” he says, eying Spock. “Pull off everything well.”
I giggle as my hand flies to my hair, and I tuck my bangs behind my ears.
“Thanks. Yeah, I’m due for a touch-up. It’s fading.”
Spock kisses me quickly and heads back toward the music room. “See you for lunch?” he asks, and I nod.
“Happy first day,” I say, and he pauses for a second and grins.
“Yeah. It is.”
Patrick taps his lip as Spock walks away. “You a natural blond?” he asks, and I nod. “Let it fade, dollface. I bet the real you is even more gorgeous.”
If I wasn’t trying to make a good first impression, I’d roll my eyes. Because what the hell? Has this guy been talking to Spock with his moratorium on body art?
“Thanks,” I say, though I’m not sure that was actually a compliment.
His arm hooks into mine, and he guides me toward the room I hung out in yesterday. My easels are all set up, and I assume he wants to give me a few extra minutes to prepare even though I set up everything yesterday, but that’s when I see the occupied stool and on it, a young girl.
“Have a good first day, Smurfette,” Patrick whispers, and then backs out of the room.
Okay. No big deal. I’ve never worked with kids before, but I’m pretty much a surrogate mom to everyone I know. So this should be cake, right? Right.
So why are my palms clammy? I wipe them on my skirt, ignoring the butterflies in my belly I get as I approach the girl.
“Hey,” I say, dragging an empty stool next to hers. “I’m Zoe. Looks like I’m your art teacher this summer.”
The girl looks about seven or eight, her light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sun-kissed blond highlights frame her face—the natural kind kids get from spending all their summertime outside. I’m taken aback for a second by a vision of Wyatt, how his hair did the same thing from all his time in the sun. I have to look away from her sweet, earnest eyes and collect myself. I hop up and grab a charcoal pencil from another easel so we both have one, squeezing my eyes shut so all I see are splotches of color instead of my brother’s face. When I sit back down, I’m able to look at her again.