… Right?
I mean, if you look at it through his eyes, I guess I sort of am a witch.
(Ouch!)
So … as a truce (to stop getting “Witchy Woman” blasted at me) (and also because, uh, I wanted to) I made Shane cookies. My plan was to sneak them into the boys’ locker room while Shane was at hockey practice so he could (happily) discover them right after a tiring workout.
So, that’s what I’m doing. Only—gah! I round the corner in the empty locker room and—whoa! I discover the room is not empty. Shane is at his locker, having just gotten out of the shower.
He’s naked!
With a yelp, I try to escape, but he blocks my way (naked!!)
“Are those for me?” he asks (naked).
I close my eyes. “Could you maybe put a towel on?”
He grins at my flaming cheeks. “I could, but it wouldn’t be as fun.”
“Okay, well, these were for you. But I can’t give them to you now.”
“Why?”
“Because they were supposed to be a peace-offering.”
He moans playfully grabbing his towel and wrapping it around his waist. “Happy now?”
Um, he’s still (gorgeously) bare-chested, so I’m still in La-La Land.
“Here,” I hand him the plate of cookies and try to scurry away, but he grabs my arm, dropping his towel in the process—not on purpose, but still, he didn’t make a move to pick it up—or stop it from falling, since one of his hands has my plate of cookies and the other has my arm.
“You aren’t even going to look at me?” he asks with a grin. “This is your chance—to see Remington naked.”
“Here, you can even take a picture,” he says, finally letting go of my arm, but only to grab my phone. He quickly takes a picture of himself holding my cookies and smiling huge—totally naked (!!!) though he didn’t actually get any of his embarrassing parts in the picture—just the beautiful ones (his glorious bare-chest and heart-stopping smile). But still, you can almost tell he’s naked in the picture. Almost. (Sooo close.)
I (fake) glare at the picture, (though in reality ogle it), and exclaim, “Hey, I could get in a lot of trouble for that.”
He chuckles, “You could get in a lot of trouble being in here—sexually harassing me.”
Groan!
Trying to sound mad rather than mortified, I grumble, “So much for a peace-offering.”
As I stomp out of the boy’s locker room, that is.
Man, what is happening to me? Suddenly I’m always thinking about Shane Shade. Dreaming about him.
—and now having seen him naked?
I really don’t see the dreams stopping.
CHAPTER 28
To my discomfort, though not complete dismay, Blake shows up to my play practice after school.
“You still need me, right?” he says.
Grudgingly, I nod. I’m mad at him to the point that I want to strangle him, but I can’t get anyone else to take his spot in the play and I’m now desperate. It’s my freakin’ senior project. I’ve been working on it all year, and now this—my lead is a total wad. Sure would have been nice to know that a few months ago. (Well, years ago actually.)
Blake says, “Okay, I’ll be in your play … and I’ll be awesome in it—for you. But let’s get this straight—the whole time I’ve been working on this play, it’s been for you. It’s not my senior project, and I wouldn’t be caught dead on the stage for anyone but you—my girlfriend.”
I wince at the word.
Noticing my wince, he goes on anyway, “You’ll forgive me eventually … right? I mean, you need me for your play, and I need you period. I love you Bethany, and I know you love me. So let’s just work this out, okay? Forgive me. Give me a second chance.”
“I really can’t.”
“Look, you’re not going to be able to find anyone else to take my spot—you realize that by now, don’t you? We won’t call it getting back together, since I know that will rub you the wrong way. We’ll call it a trial reconciliation—and you can make the terms.”
With a groan, I tentatively agree. Not because I want to, but because I feel desperate. Not only about the play, but I need a distraction from my demented thoughts of Shane. (Seeing him naked was not good for my plans to stop dreaming about him!) (Holy smokes!) I need to stay away from the dude—physically and mentally. I mean, he still plays “Witchy Woman” every time he sees me. That’s not good, of course—him thinking I’m a total witch. (Grr!)
But besides that, he’s trouble. Especially to my troubled heart. I can’t let a troubled “bad-boy” into my angst-y, agitated heart. I need to find it peace and comfort … not a bad-boy. Especially not one that thinks I’m a witch. Duh.
So, my steamy dreams about him have to stop. Pronto. So, fine. I’ll use Blake. He’s blackmailing me anyway, so ha! The joke is on him. I need him to be in my play. That seems to be a given. So I just toss him a bone. Just agree to give things with him a half-hearted (guarded) try until the play’s finale … then I’ll re-evaluate. And probably dump his cheating butt-face for good. But sure, I’ll (tentatively) give him until then … because really, what do I have to lose? Just my pride and mangled heart, but those have already been shattered anyway. So what’s another few weeks? At least I’ll have my senior project completed and finally out of the way—and hopefully I’ll manage to avoid Shane. And stop dreaming about him.
“No kissing,” I blurt out to Blake as my number one term to our “trial reconciliation.”
“Then there has to be lots of hand-holding,” he counters. “And you have to start answering my texts again.”
“You can’t kiss Sabrina anymore.”
He glances up at the ceiling, then gives me a withering look. “That goes without saying, Bethany. I really want this to work—us to get back together. I’m not messing around. And I only kissed her that one time—because you hurt me so bad.”
I ground out, “You kissed her twice.”
He winces, ducking his head. “You hurt me twice.”
His voice goes all soft and apologetic, “Bethany, I wasn’t used to being hurt by you. You were the one person I always felt was on my side. The one person I could count on. And then I found out you were writing romantic books about my total enemy. How do you think that made me feel?”
Guilt crashes through me. Big time. I grimace. “Not good.”
“Yeah, not good,” he says softly. Then he kisses me, soft and lingering.
For a moment I let him—out of habit. I go all mushy and feel conflicted, bad that I had betrayed him.
But then I push him away, remembering he had cheated on me. And hurt me on purpose. I don’t want to have a boyfriend like that. Admittedly, I had done my share in our break-up, no doubt about it, but that really does not mean I want to get back together with this cheater that has paid off everyone that I’ve tried to hire to take his spot in my play. I don’t want a boyfriend that is manipulative and a bully. No freakin’ way.
So, I quickly push him away … to his blatant shock.
But come on!
I may have used to overlook his controlling manipulative ways. But no more. Now that we’ve been broken up (and I’ve been cheated on) I remember those experiences with him I’d let slide in the past. They’d happened all through our relationship. But back then they’d just been little blips on my anxious radar. They’d niggled in the back of my mind, but I’d pushed them away, because I loved Blake and couldn’t believe he could really be so mean (so controlling!) on purpose. But now all those experiences are swirling in my brain, gurgling up to the surface. Because you know what? I’ve now I had this eye-opening new experience with him—him flat-out being a total bully. It’s like a neon sign going off in my brain: No! This is NOT what you want!!
Blake’s eyebrows lower as he eyes the distance I put between us. The dude is used to getting his way. Especially from me.
“I said no kissing,” I remind him.
“Right. I’m just used to�
�”
“—getting your way,” I finish for him.
“No. Used to us being ‘us.’ And you being the way you used to be.”
“What? A pushover?”
“No—nice.”
“Well, I don’t feel like being ‘nice,’ Blake. You cheated on me.”
“Well, maybe I don’t feel like being ‘nice’ either, Bethany. Maybe I won’t be in your play after all.”
“Fine. Don’t be in it, Blake. Be exactly the way I’ve finally been realizing you are. Give me that proof, Blake. You’re a mean bully—a brutal jerk if you don’t get your way.”
He winces. “That’s what you think of me?”
“That’s what you’ve been showing me, Blake. You’re right. I need you for the play. You keep saying you love me—yet all you’ve been doing is bullying me.”
He squints his eyes. But then he says huskily, “Okay, let’s practice.”
My heart slams against my chest with a strange mixture of shock and relief. “Really?”
“I’m not a bully, Bethany. I just—I want you to forgive me, but I have no idea how to make you do it.”
“You being in the play doesn’t automatically mean I forgive you,” I warn him.
He flinches, but slowly nods. “Okay. I get that.” He says softly, “But … I’ll still be in your play.”
He stares into my eyes. “Bethany, I love you. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove that to you.”
“Well, blackmailing me won’t do it.”
“Then what will?” he asks.
With a sigh I answer honestly, “I have no idea.”
CHAPTER 29
Whoever lived in our duplex before us had a vegetable garden. There’s a huge pumpkin growing in it that my dad has become obsessed with. He wants to make a pie out of it. But the pumpkin is growing at the very back of our property line, right by the fence. The other side of the fence is a field that stoner kids from our school like to hang out in on Friday nights.
“They get drunk had have tomato fights with the vegetables from the garden,” aunt Jenny warned daddy. “Don’t get so attached to your pumpkin—it’s bound to get squashed.”
Daddy built a bunch of (scary) scarecrows and posted them as guards out all along the back fence. Then at random times during Friday nights he would join the scarecrows (with a bat). Since it was dark out there, no one could tell dad from the scarecrows. It actually kept the rowdy kids away—since they didn’t actually want to get into a tangle with a crazy guy with a bat. They just wanted a place to get wasted and be idiots.
But one night my dad was sick. While I was in the kitchen he told me, “Bethany, will you go take this thermos of hot chocolate out to my scarecrow?”
A chill crawled down my spine.
When I looked over at him, suddenly truly worried about his fever and the effect it was having on his brain, he laughed. “I hired the kid next door to stand guard for me tonight.”
I froze.
All the hairs on my arm stood on end.
“Shane?” I squeaked out.
Dad nodded. “He’s a big guy. He’ll scare anyone off, don’t you think?”
“Or join them for a beer,” I muttered, though I was still having trouble breathing for some reason. I cleared my throat, “He’s maybe not exactly trustworthy, dad.”
“I don’t know. He seems like a decent kid. And I’m paying him a bit. He’ll be trustworthy.”
I bit my lip, so not going to point out that mom had always said he was trouble.
Poor dad. So trusting of people. Even big scary guys that played “Witchy Woman” at me every chance given. Of course dad didn’t know about that. And would probably have it out with Shane if he knew. He’d be all, “My daughter is not a witch. She’s the nicest girl on the face of the planet.”
He’s, you know, a dad.
Instead of bringing up mom, or songs, I sigh and dutifully do as he requested, bring his scarecrow out a thermos of hot chocolate.
Shane looks shocked when he sees me trudge out to him. “Thanks,” he says as I hand him the hot chocolate.
“You’re welcome, scarecrow.”
He gives me a sardonic smirk. “I guess your dad thinks I’m scary too.”
“I never said you were scary.”
He edges closer to me and I lurch away from him with a yelp.
He breathes out a laugh—like his point is proven … which I guess it is.
Okay, I’m a bit scared of the guy.
He gets my heart fluttering like crazy if he is just in the same room as me—I’m not used to that. Plus, he gets in fights and does impulsive things. And, you know, I’ve seen him (spectacularly) naked. And I have dreams about him. Steamy dreams. Yet he blasts “Witchy Woman” at me, and kind of smirks whenever he sees me, and my deceased mother always warned me against him and said he was trouble with a capital “T.” Put all that conflicted, convoluted stuff together and you have a train-wreck to my heart.
… and, yeah, me a bit scared.
Sue me.
“Well, goodnight,” I tell him, backing away, and trying not to picture him as he was in the photo of him I deleted from my phone, but will forever be etched into my (yearning) brain. (Especially in my dreams.)
He calls after me, “Remington would do this, right? Be a scarecrow for the cheerleader’s sick dad?”
My heart explodes.
I freeze, but slowly I turn back to him. “Yeah, but Remington wouldn’t have made-out with Macy Smith right before it.”
Shane chokes a laugh, “Yeah, but Remington actually gets to kiss the cheerleader—on occasion. And the cheerleader doesn’t hold hands with a dirt-wad.”
“Goodnight Scarecrow.”
“Goodnight cute little stalker.”
I freeze for a moment, then stiffly keep walking.
Yes, I saw him making out with Macy tonight.
… and admitted it to him. (Face-palm.)
But what I didn’t tell him was that seeing the kiss made my heart weep.
(I told you I’m a train-wreck, right?)
CHAPTER 30
Saturday night Blake finagled me into going to a party with him. He pretty much dragged me there telling me, “Come on, it’s at Fuller’s house. It’ll be epic.”
I really, really didn’t want to go, and I told Blake this many, many times. But he held the play and our agreement over my head—like he has all week. He took my hand and said, “We’re in a trial reconciliation, remember?”
If I hadn’t been called a stalker by Shane last night and been lulled to sleep with the song “Witchy Woman” played seductively low, like Shane wanted me to fall asleep to it—and dream of him—(which I did)—then I probably would have put up more of a fight with Blake. But since I’d stood outside under the stars with a row of scary scarecrows last night and been called a “stalker.” Well …
Fine—a party.
However, when we get to Fuller’s party, the first person I run into is Shane. Well, I don’t actually run into him. My eyes just do. They go straight to him, like a magnet.
But—oh man!
He’s with Trisha.
No, no, no! That’s not good!
My heart fills with worry and sinks like a brick.
I quickly turn away from him before he catches me staring (and once again teases me about being a stalker). But man, how my heart aches seeing him with Trisha again. It’s like a dark cloud of despair crashing over me, and I shudder with the chilling haunting thoughts of how things turned out with him the last time he got tangled up with her. I’d much rather see him with Macy than Trisha! (But really I’d much more prefer not seeing him with anyone, ever—except me) (in my dreams).
“I’m going to go outside—get some air,” I tell Blake.
“I’ll go with you,” Blake says.
“No, that’s okay. Enjoy your friends—and the party. It’s not really my scene—you know that.”
He grunts. “I just want to be with you,” he says.
Then you shouldn’t have forced me to come to a party you knew I didn’t want to come to. I don’t say this aloud. But I think it (loudly).
“Give me some space, Blake.”
He narrows his eyes. “I’m doing your play, I’m not kissing anyone—I’m being your puppet, Bethany. Stop jerking me around.”
“Space, Blake,” I tell him and head for the nearest exit.
I can feel his eyes following me, but I don’t look back. I wasn’t kidding about needing air. I feel suffocated, and I really don’t like being around drunk people. It depresses me. So did the sight of Shane with Trisha.
I wander down to the docks. My breathing place.
As I’m staring up at the stars someone sits down beside me.
Fireworks burst through me—it’s Shane!
He’s alone. No Trisha in sight.
He whispers unnecessarily near my ear, his warm breath heating up my cheek and neck (and, okay, my entire body). He whispers, “Why are you out here? Why aren’t you at the major epic be-there-or-die party?”
I scoot away from him a bit, though I really don’t want to. Not at all. I liked the feel of his warmth and intoxicating closeness. But that’s disturbing. He’s trouble, my mom’s voice keeps telling me. But face it, I don’t really need the reminder—I’d just seen him with Trisha.
Taking another little scoot away from him I answer truthfully, “It’s not really my scene.”
Fuller’s parties are supposedly all “epic.” It’s a gospel fact around our school. But I’m really not a partier. At all. I used to just go to all the “big” parties because Blake was into that scene: Partying with the popular people, his friends. And I’d get dragged along because it was expected of me. I did what my boyfriend wanted. Never thought to do otherwise, actually. (I have issues.) (Duh.)
But I don’t think Shane knows Blake and I are broken-up, pretty much. I’m pretty sure Blake is telling everyone we’re back together, and so far I’ve just let it slide. My mantra being: Just make it until the play. Just make it until the play.
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