What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 7)

by Lexi Buchanan

  “Eternity’s not so bad. Some things are worth waiting for. I’ve found that time goes irrationally slow for those things until one day—bam—you find yourself on a cross-country road trip.”

  “You still haven’t told me what your job is. Are you a philosopher?”

  “Like a Plato?”

  “Something like that.”

  Blue looks down at his watch and lets out a frustrated sigh. Buzz kill.

  “Need to be somewhere?”

  “Unfortunately, work needs me for a few hours.”

  “You could blow them off.”

  He laughs and it’s contagious. “I would love to, but they’ll know I’m blowing them off to spend the evening with a beautiful girl.”

  “How would they know that? Do you work for the NSA?”

  “They’ve got eyes everywhere,” he says, nodding his head.

  “Are you a spy?”

  “Would I be able to tell you if I were?”

  “You were doing so well until you hit that cliché—” Then, like running into a brick wall, “You said I was beautiful.”

  “Huh?” he asks with a raised brow.

  “You called me beautiful.” My heel digs into the dirt.

  He shakes his head. “Don’t act like it’s uncommon.”

  I push my hair behind my ear. It’s a nervous thing. “I’ve been called beautiful my whole life—”

  “For a reason.”

  “But sometimes, it’s just unexpected. Like the rest of the world is just lying or something.”

  I’ve spent the entire afternoon staring at him like some kind of an obsessed creep, and it never really crossed my mind that he was thinking the same things about me.

  Blue reaches around me and grabs his phone off the table. “Here, give me your number, and we’ll hang later.”

  Maybe I’ll tease him. Now entering child mode…

  “Who says I want to do that?”

  “Playing hard to get?”

  “I’m certainly not easy.” That’s definitely not the way I intended that to roll off my tongue.

  “Good. I’m not a fan of easy.” He grins, nodding his head.

  “How do you like crazy?” I bite into my lip.

  “Oh.” He puts his hand to his chest. “I love crazy.”

  I reach for his phone, taking it out of his hands without express permission. I dial my number and put it into his contacts under the name Crazy. I hand the phone back to him. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  “Never.” There’s sincerity in his voice even as his eyes are glued to his watch. “I’m running late though, so…”

  “Goodbye, Blue.”

  His face lights up and he presses his lips against my cheek. Unlike his hands, they’re soft. “Not goodbye, Charlie,” he whispers in my ear, and then pulls back and turns around to walk away. He doesn’t need confirmation because he knows he’s got me exactly where he wants me. Wanting more.

  He walks away as the sun sets behind us. The light shines in between food trucks, casting shadows onto the midway. He has my number, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever see him again. The unknown can’t wipe this smile off my face, though. I’m not in love—that would be stupid—but I’ve got that feeling in my gut that you get when you meet someone and somehow know they’re going to change your life forever.

  Also, the way his ass moves in those jeans certainly doesn’t hurt.

  Chapter Two

  It’s been a few hours since Blue went off to work. I’ve spent the previous hour strolling through the animal barns, petting horses, and plotting to steal a donkey. I wasn’t sure which animals were going to be slaughtered for food, and which were going to go on to live long, happy lives, so there was a brief moment spent pondering a life of veganism followed by a long, drawn-out affair with a cheeseburger.

  It’s a quarter till ten and my phone has yet to ring. I would settle for a text. A young carnie, maybe seventeen years old, hollers at me to come win a bear. In my experience, I would have better luck winning a marathon. And those odds aren’t great, either. He’s running that game where you have to throw the ball and knock over three canisters. I lie to him and tell him I’ll come back after I find my boyfriend. That’s a lie on two levels. I don’t have a boyfriend, and I’m definitely not coming back. I’ll make it a point to avoid Game Street for the rest of the evening.

  The crowd grows thicker as the heat finally comes down to habitable levels. Most everyone has long forgotten the war from earlier when the sun was leading a full on assault. I haven’t forgotten. The damage has already been done to my hair and clammy skin.

  The screams of ride-goers and the sound of questionably assembled carnival rides boom through the fairgrounds. A big-footed clown walks past me with a fistful of balloons and a wide smile of sadism.

  A clown called IT.

  Another glance at my phone and my stomach sinks. Should have known better, I guess. I decide to return to my initial premise of being a solo riding bitch. The bumper cars are out of the question—I couldn’t steer one of those bastards if my life depended on it. And let’s be real, in that magnetic arena, it’s always life or death. The cages are also out of the question. They’re basically just an inferior version of the Zipper, built for those who feel the need to always be in control. The last time I rode one of those things, I felt the furthest thing from control as a bolt ricocheted off the metal cage with every flip.

  The Zipper is something special. It’s basically the closest you can get to the thrill of riding a roller coaster without setting foot in an amusement park, even if the only thing it and roller coasters have in common is the total forfeiture of control. In the cages, you have that bar that sometimes tells the damn thing to stop flipping. No such thing exists when you’re in the trenches of the Zipper.

  So just when I’ve decided to make my way to the Zipper, it seems fate has other plans.

  “Charlie!” a familiar voice calls out.

  We all have those moments where our head is telling us Don’t turn around, but nobody ever listens because we always fucking turn around.

  “Hey, Dylan,” I say, feigning enthusiasm. It’s not like I’m on bad terms with my ex, but we’re definitely in the awkward post-breakup stage. He was going to stay here, and I was going to college. We decided it was best to end things because of the distance. Neither of us knew at the time that I wouldn’t actually be going anywhere. That was well before I became the parent in the household.

  Dylan stands about eight inches taller than me—seven if he ever took off those damn heeled boots. He’s a classic case of a small-town guy—the kind you could live next door to anywhere. Out there in the real world, in that mythical place called a big city, he would probably be a seven out of ten. Here in our own little world, he’s an eleven. Getting lost in those emerald-green eyes and unkempt hair has never been difficult. I loved him for many reasons, but I see no point in lying—I was pulled in for the shallowest of reasons.

  He’s standing in front of the Ferris wheel. His friends, Joey and Tyson, stand beside him drinking whiskey out of lemonade cups. They’re all practically wearing the same outfit, which is to say their wardrobes don’t extend beyond jeans, plaid shirts and plain tees. They’re all brown-haired, Midwest country boys. Dylan is the tallest of the bunch. Joey and Tyson stand a few inches shorter than him. Dylan wears a green plaid shirt, rolled up to the crook of his elbow. The other two boys have theirs thrown over their shoulders. Why they even brought them on an evening this hot is a question for which there are no logical answers.

  And then Dylan comes running up to me.

  “Hey,” he pants. “I haven’t seen you since Summer’s graduation party.”

  “I’ve been busy.” A total lie. Lucky for me he never caught on to that thing I do when I lie. Running my hand through my hair as we speak.

  “How’s your mom?” He’s always been sincere and polite, unless he’s drunk.

  “She’s better. I’m hoping she goes back to work soon.”<
br />
  “That’s good. She was always my favorite teacher.”

  I laugh, not because it’s funny, but because he’s also always been a suck up. Everybody in a twenty mile radius knows his actual favorite teacher was Mrs. Berry, who doesn’t teach anymore after being caught screwing the running back. She was young, beautiful, and stupid. But weren’t we all?

  “Yeah, whatever,” I say. “How are you doing?”

  “Baby, you know I’m always good.” The edges of his lips pinch. “Been working at Pete’s shop.”

  Dylan has always been good with cars, which from personal experience, was no surprise because he was always good with his hands.

  He stands on the tip of his boots and peers behind me, then to the side. “I see you’re here by yourself.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.” I punch him lightly above his pecs. They’re firmer than the last time I noticed them—which was in his parents’ barn right after we had broken up. “I see you’ve been working out.”

  He flexes his arms and a mountain of red plaid forms where his biceps should be. “I try.”

  “That’s good, but—”

  “Let’s ride the Ferris wheel.”

  I could slap the shit out of him. “Have you lost your damn mind?” I already know the answer. He obviously has.

  He grabs me by the arm and pulls me toward the line. And I use the word line sparingly, since there are a whopping four people in it.

  “Absolutely not.” I stand firm on my decision.

  “Come on. For old times’ sake?”

  His grip loosens on my arm and I break free from him. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I get on that God-forsaken thing.”

  Don’t ask me to explain it, because I probably can’t, but I’ll try anyway. The Ferris wheel is the scariest fucking ride in the world. For one, you’re not strapped in. For two, God forbid you adjust any part of your body to get comfortable because you then face five-to-one odds of smashing your brains against the ground. Gruesome image? Consider it my obligatory public service announcement.

  But here I am, on top of this death trap for the first time in two years. Coincidentally, it’s only the second time in my life I’ve been up here. Both times sitting beside Dylan. I’m not sure if he wants to reminisce or revel in my agony. Both are torture. Even though I’m not going away to college as planned, there won’t be a reconnecting. Not right now at least. As much as I love him, I need to experience something new. Something dangerous.

  Something like Blue.

  I try not to look down, but it’s a natural reflex. My stomach instantly turns. Staring danger in the face isn’t something we ever intend to do. It just happens. The neon glow from the Zipper across the midway taunts me.

  Dylan looks at me with his amused face—a devious, judging smile telling me I should just man up. Unfortunately for him, that would involve growing balls. I bet that would knock that smile right off his smug face.

  “You’re an ass,” I scold him.

  He shrugs his shoulder. “You miss it, don’t ya?” He looks out into the distance.

  I see an opening, a fleeting chance for confirmation that we couldn’t get back together. I’m not leaving on schedule, but someday, I’ll get away from this place. “Would you ever leave this town, Dylan?”

  “Why would I ever wanna leave?” He shakes his head. “It’s got everything I’ll ever need in life. I’ve got friends, family, and enough booze to last a lifetime.”

  “Well, you know me. I couldn’t live in this town forever.”

  “Sure you could.”

  No, I really couldn’t.

  He scoots closer, wrapping his arm around my back. See? He’s smug, and I bet he thinks I wouldn’t notice. Never mind we spent four years together.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. My palm tightens around the safety bar as the seat rocks to his adjustment.

  He pulls me closer with his arm. “Getting comfortable.”

  “Well, don’t get too comfortable.”

  Then it begins. The wheel is fully loaded, like a twenty shot revolver, and we begin cycling around the circle of death. Each bullet is ready to fire, sending us all to our deaths. I grip the bar tighter. As our seat comes around to the bottom of the wheel, I catch Joey and Tyson drunkenly cheering us on.

  “Kiss her!” Joey screams out.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Dylan give them a thumbs up. “Don’t even think about it,” I say, hopefully putting that situation to rest.

  Or so I thought.

  His palm massages my side. “Relax,” he says, followed by a sly grin.

  I look him dead in the eye. “No.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Near certain death has a way of making me sweat.”

  “That’s probably the heat,” he points out, resting his hand on my leg. “I like it when you sweat.”

  “Shut up, Dylan.”

  He bites into his lip. Shit. That was always the last straw before I was lying on my back on his parents’ basement couch.

  “Wanna make me?”

  I don’t respond. Then, without warning, his lips are pressed to mine with the speed of Clark Kent. Yeah, it feels good but our seat begins rocking like a boat in Jaws. I push him off me, which doesn’t help our life-threatening situation.

  “What are you doing?”

  He shrugs his shoulders again. “Just saying goodbye.”

  “Most people say goodbye with their mouths.”

  His eyes roll toward the top of his head, then he lights up with that damn smile. “That’s what I was doing.”

  I throw my hands up. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He lowers his hand to his jeans and begins to adjust himself.

  Oh, my God.

  We’re close to the bottom of the wheel again and from behind us, Tyson yells, “Rock that boat! Rock it!”

  I throw my middle finger up at him. It’s a sign of love. Dylan’s still adjusting himself, and at this point, I’m not sure if he’s doing it for pleasure or comfort.

  “Could you quit playing with yourself?”

  The ride comes to a halt. It’s time to get off this damn spinning wheel of hell. I crane my head and look behind us to see that they’re unloading backward. A mother and son hop out of their seats and exit. And we’re next.

  I look back to Dylan and mercilessly slap his dick.

  “Ow,” he yelps. “What the hell?”

  “Put that thing away before you end up in prison.”

  “I’m trying. Why don’t you try having a dick?”

  “Oh, I would love to have one.”

  If I did have a penis, I’m almost positive my list of sexual partners would be more than one.

  It’s our turn to exit the ride. I raise the bar and hop off onto the platform, leaving Dylan behind. I have no intention of going down with his sinking ship. But he’s the worst ship captain in the world because he jumps off and wraps his arm around me. His erection is pressed against my back. He’s a fugitive taking refuge behind me and using my body as a human shield.

  So romantic, just like the old times. Joey and Tyson look on in amusement, sipping away at their whiskey. They’re not bright enough to know what’s really going on and probably assume that Dylan and I have hitched our wagons back together.

  My ex-boyfriend and I push through the metal gate. Once we’re back on solid ground, I pull away from him, leaving the tent in his pants wide open. Joey throws his fist to his mouth and his face turns cherry red as he fights to hold back the laughter.

  “Dickzilla!” Tyson yells as he mimics the famed reptile. “Argh.”

  I turn around and step toward Dylan, getting close enough so the heat of my body teases him. I look into his eyes and go in for a kiss–on his right cheek.

  “You’re teasin’ me,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “Something like that,” I say and turn to walk away, making the most of the way my jean shorts curve around my ass.

  “Somed
ay,” he hollers, “you’ll be mine again.”

  Someday. I’ve heard that a lot today.

  Chapter Three

  Fifteen minutes before the fair is set to close, I find myself standing in line for the Zipper. In front of me are about ten teens, presumably out well past their curfew. The sign on the gate reads ‘No Singel Riders,’ misspelled and all. And here I am alone and ready to wrestle my single riding ass into one of those cages. I’m the last person in line so I’m hoping to get a free pass.

  The line begins moving as they load the delinquents into the cages two by two. Two carnies—one on the left and one on the right, each doing their job of latching their respective cages shut. The carnie who stands the furthest away from me has a nice little bubble butt. Can’t say much for the rest of the package as his back is turned to me. Certainly couldn’t be worse than the toothless meth head on my side. I consider switching lines out of concern that he would incompetently secure me in his allegedly high state. But, hey, danger’s part of the game.

  It’s my turn. I push the gate open and dart for the cage without making eye contact with the carnie. I multitask between shutting the cage myself and grabbing my seat belt. It would seem that I’ve succeeded in averting that stupid rule.

  “No single riders,” I hear him say.

  I try to think quickly for an appropriate response as the rugged carnie opens my cage and gives me a disapproving glare.

  “Nobody has to know,” I say with a toss of my shoulder.

  “I could lose my job,” he huffs.

  “Well,” I say and rub the back of my neck. “Why don’t you ride with me?” My hand caresses the seat beside me, inviting him in. And yes, I’m embarrassed by my own behavior.

  “No, ma’am.” His hand grabs the cage and rattles it. “Don’t trust these things.”

  That’s promising. I purse my lips. “Please?”