Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK

by Betsy St. Amant

  Like she was my mother.

  I opened my eyes and gave Wes a firm nod before I could change my mind. “Do me one favor?”

  “What’s that?” Wes tilted his head to one side, his dark hair falling across his forehead.

  I reached for the closet branch of the oak and took a deep breath. “Catch me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The stars twinkled above my head through the open roof as the Jeep glided down the two-lane country highway, away from Crooked Hollow. I took a deep breath of the night air and felt myself relax for the first time in days. “I’m glad I came.”

  “Me, too. You looked like you were about to crack.” Wes adjusted his rearview mirror then sent me a quick glance. “You sure you’re all right, PK?”

  My worries over Wes not having called me all weekend faded away at the concern in his voice. “I’m fine now.” Especially since I’d successfully climbed down the tree and not broken my neck.

  I hesitantly moved my hand to the console, and Wes twined his fingers through mine. I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes, listening to the melody of the open road, the night air, the hum of distant traffic.

  The click of a blinker.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as Wes turned off the highway onto a tree-lined side street.

  He flashed me a smile. “It’s a surprise.”

  “When did you have time to plan a surprise? Thirty minutes ago you didn’t even know if I was coming with you.” I held on to the roll bar as he made another sharp turn to the left, this time onto a gravel road barely wide enough for one car, much less two.

  “I figured you would.”

  I squinted at him. “A little cocky, are we?”

  “Just roll with it, PK. Everything doesn’t always have to be scheduled.”

  Or black and white, if your name was Wes Keegan.

  He maneuvered the Jeep around a series of potholes and finally pulled over to the side. An open pasture, covered in autumn’s tall grass, spread for miles. The sky, away from streetlights and the city’s glare, seemed blacker than ink.

  “Come on.” He opened his door and climbed out, and I followed suit, trying not to notice how he didn’t open mine for me—again. I shut the door behind me and stood silently, drinking in the unobstructed view of the stars. It felt good to get away. Sometimes a girl just needed a moment of peace. Away from English teachers, overprotective, distant fathers, stacks of schoolbooks two feet high …

  Away from her own conscience.

  Wes joined me after a moment, his arms laden with a folded blanket and a picnic basket. “Hungry?”

  Wes, with a picnic basket? Somewhere especially warm must have frozen over. I crossed my arms over my chest and grinned. “Hey, Yogi Bear called. He wants his basket back.”

  “Funny. You hungry or not?”

  “Aren’t I always?” I followed him to a flat patch of ground several yards away from the Jeep. I’d take a moonlight picnic for two over his opening the door for me any day. “I’m starved, actually. I sort of bailed on dinner.”

  “Don’t blame you.” He shook out the blanket and set the basket on top then motioned for me to have a seat. The night air chilled my arms, and he tossed another, lighter blanket my way. “Here, it’s colder out than I’d realized.”

  I draped the quilt around my shoulders and watched, fascinated, as Wes brought out paper plates and several containers from the wooden basket. Who’d have thought this guy had even one romantic bone in his body, much less an entire skeletal structure? After fixing two plates with grapes, sliced strawberries, and cheese squares, he handed me a wine glass. “And for the finishing touch.” He uncorked a bottle of red wine and poured us each a glass.

  A full glass.

  I stared at the burgundy liquid and started to shake my head before I even spoke. “No thanks. I’m good.”

  “It’s just wine, Addison.”

  “And last time I checked, I wasn’t twenty-one. Neither are you.”

  “I’m old enough to vote; I should be old enough to drink.” He took a sip then set the glass on the edge of the blanket away from his plate. “It’s relaxing. Takes the edge off.”

  “Takes the edge off what? Your sense of balance? Your judgment?”

  “Don’t make this a big deal, PK. If you don’t want any, fine. Just don’t give me grief, okay?”

  “Okay.” I bit into a strawberry, not wanting to ruin the night he’d obviously made great effort toward. Besides, as long as he only had one glass, he should be fine to drive me home. I wasn’t against taking the keys from him later if need be. Maybe there were some things in my life lately I felt unsure about, but riding around with a drunk driver wasn’t one of them.

  He leaned back on his elbows, popping a cube of cheese into his mouth. “You’re not the only one having a rough night. Or having father issues.”

  “Oh yeah? So what’d your dad do? Date your old school principal?” I crossed my legs Indian-style, turning slightly to face him.

  Wes snorted. “Hardly.” He reached for his glass, taking a sip of the wine and swirling it around absently. “He yells a lot. Stupid stuff.”

  I shrugged. “Parents yell. It seems common. Not everyone is as quiet as my dad.” And not everyone was me, who hardly ever gave cause for yelling. Weird combo.

  Pretty boring one, too.

  “Oh yeah? Well, is this common?” Wes rolled up his sleeves and revealed a bruise the size of a fist on his arm.

  A chill crept over my body that had nothing to do with the breeze. Mr. Keegan? No way. Yet that kind of bruise didn’t come from misjudging a door frame or edge of the counter.

  Wes must have read my train of thought as he rolled his sleeve down. “Yeah, sweet ol’ parishioner Mr. Keegan. There’s more where these came from, when he’s drunk.” He shook his head. “Appearances are deceiving, Addison. Remember that.”

  Drunk?

  Suddenly it all made brutal sense. The glazed-over look in Mr. Keegan’s eyes every Sunday. The rearranging of the contents in his basket before he approached my father and me at Crooked Hollow Grocery. The abundance of breath mints.

  Finally, I found my voice, and it sounded shaky even to my own ears. “Then why don’t you just leave?” I huddled into my blanket, unable to look away from the patch of sleeve covering proof that I was more sheltered than I’d ever realized.

  “And go back to my mom, who tossed me here? Said she was sick of me? No thanks. I can handle myself.” Wes took a long sip from his glass, his eyes stony.

  “Then why not get a job and move out?”

  He shot me a “be real” glance over the rim. “This is Crooked Hollow. Businesses aren’t exactly desperate for help. And if it’s freezing out or raining, I have to borrow the Jeep when my dad’s passed out on the couch with a twelve-pack.” He looked away, up at the stars pricking the onyx sky. “Besides, do you really think I’d make enough for my own place shoving mochas across the counter at Got Beans? Or retrieving gutter balls from the bowling alley?”

  Not even close. He must have felt as trapped as I often did, just in a more literal sense. I was sixteen—well, almost seventeen. No one expected me to be on my own. After all, I was a junior in high school—I was supposed to live at home, have a curfew, complain about doing homework. But Wes was legal age. He was out in the real world, free to live his own life—just stuck.

  Maybe that’s where the bird tattoo came in.

  Compassion built a solid tower in my chest. I always knew there was more to Wes than initial impressions. If Marta could have heard the pain in his voice, she’d have regretted ever saying anything negative against him.

  I studied his profile, heart clenching. “I don’t know what to say.” Here I was with the perfect opportunity to witness to Wes, to say something encouraging, something to prompt him toward God, toward church, toward changing his current pattern of misbehavior. Something to make him want to be good.

  But I had nothing.

  God, what
do I do? What do I say? But the halfhearted prayer stuck in my throat. Just like in my bedroom at home, my prayers didn’t seem to make it past the first layer of the atmosphere.

  “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have dumped that on you.” Wes tossed his empty glass in the picnic basket and scooted closer to me on the blanket. “I wanted you to relax, not stress you out.”

  “I’m not stressed.” Just hurt for him. I wanted to say that but didn’t know how to cross the barrier that still somehow seemed etched between us. I couldn’t figure Wes out. One minute he was a lighthearted, witty man playing the piano at Got Beans for my ears only, and the next he was a sullen, angry guy with a the-world-hates-me-sized chip on his shoulder. Where did the real Wes live? It had to be somewhere between those two extremes—somewhere next to where the romantic, picnic-planning Wes resided.

  “Enough about me.” Wes brushed my hair back from my face, his fingers lightly skimming my cheekbone. “Where did we leave off in your driveway the other night?” He grinned and leaned in for a kiss.

  You mean the night when you never agreed to call me and left me waiting all weekend? I wanted to ask, but his lips were already covering mine. The question forgotten, I kissed him back, lost in the enchantment of his spicy leather scent, in the calloused brush of his fingers, in the tantalizing contradiction of cold air and warm breath.

  Then his kiss became more urgent, and I might not have even noticed if he hadn’t started pushing me back on the blanket. “Wait a second.” I jerked my head to the side, breaking contact.

  “It’s more comfortable down here.” Wes tugged at my elbow, and I reluctantly fell down beside him on the blanket. He kissed me again, his hand cupping my shoulder, his knuckles weaving gentle patterns against the tight muscles of my neck, and I forgot my hesitations. My mind blurred in and out, thoughts grasping and fading like a radio trying to tune. How did I go from never-been-kissed to this? What had I been missing? Yet somehow I instinctively knew that if I hadn’t been kissing Wes specifically, it wouldn’t have been nearly as amazing.

  I got so lost in the haze of kissing that it took a moment before I realized Wes’s hand had left my arm and now prodded at the button of my jeans. No, no, no. Yes. No. My body and mind fought a battle as I batted his hand away then allowed him to try again. No. Yes.

  No. My purity ring suddenly weighed like a boulder on my finger, and with great effort, I broke our kiss and sat up.

  Wes stayed reclined on one elbow, a smile on his face but something darker and void of humor in his eyes. “What’s the matter, PK?”

  All of Marta’s warnings about being on the same page with each other swam in my mind, and I struggled for breath, struggled to find a clear thought, something I could hold on to. “I’m a virgin.” Oh wow, that totally wasn’t what I meant to say.

  Cheeks flaming, I wrapped my fingers around my ring, the cold metal biting into my flesh.

  “I sort of figured that. It’s not a problem, don’t worry.” Wes sat up beside me, his hands massaging my shoulders that moments ago had been so relaxed. Now they were knotted with tension, and I shrugged away.

  His smile disappeared. “Come on, Addison. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal?” I edged away from him, far enough to turn and look him steadily in the eyes. Gone was the flush of embarrassment and in its place, anger. How dare he ignore me all weekend then try this? And act like casual sex was completely normal? What was wrong with him? “It’s a huge deal.” I’m not Sonya. But he knew that. It was more than obvious, especially now. My stomach dipped and churned. “Unlike some people, I don’t take sex lightly.”

  “What makes you think I do? And besides, do you even have a reason, or is it just like with all the other forbidden fruits you don’t have answers for?” Wes challenged. “Because your dad said not to … because your church youth group says it’s bad …” His voice trailed off as his expectant gaze waited for my answer.

  One I still didn’t have.

  Still, I didn’t like the glint in his eye, the one that looked like a cross between amusement and mocking. Who was he to judge? I lifted my chin. “Maybe that’s exactly why.”

  Frustration laced his tone. “You sound real sure.”

  I was sure. Sort of. I mean, something had made me sit up, made me throw on the brakes and say no—and not just to him, but to the alcohol as well. But what was it? My own conscience? God? Common sense?

  Why did I suddenly not know the answers to all the questions I grew up reciting?

  “Everyone is a virgin at some point, Addison. That’s got to change eventually. Why not with me, tonight? I did this for you. For us.” Wes gestured to the spread around us, and a sense of understanding sunk in. Wes had gone to a lot of trouble, and he wanted to be with me. Me. Addison Blakely, PK. Not to mention he was hurting over his dad. Upset. Broken. My heart caved a little.

  But not that much.

  “I can’t.” I pressed my lips together, now raw and swollen. What had felt so good, so right moments ago suddenly just burned. I closed my eyes briefly, taking a steadying breath. When I opened them, Wes shook his head in disappointment.

  “So that’s that? You’re sure?”

  I nodded, and he sighed then began to pack up the basket. I remained still, unable to speak, refusing to allow him even one more minute to try and change my mind.

  Because I still wasn’t entirely convinced he couldn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  School comes really early in the morning when you toss and turn all night, reliving and rewriting the past.

  I stood on the front lawn of Crooked Hollow High, a contraband cup of hot mocha in my hand, shivering as the late-autumn air lifted my hair from my scarf and blew wisps across my face. Good. Maybe it would hide my bloodshot eyes. I shivered but stood my ground, knowing I couldn’t take my coffee into the school and refusing to dump even a drop of caffeine into the trash can. Taking another long sip, I ignored the chill and let my inside grow toasty warm while my cheeks chafed in the cold.

  “Addison, come inside.” Marta bounced on the balls of her feet, rubbing her arms briskly in an effort to keep warm. “Everyone has forgotten about yesterday’s talent-show rehearsal. I am sure of it.”

  “Your accent thickens when you lie.” I stubbornly drank another swig, wishing I still had half a cup left to stall with. After yesterday’s embarrassment with my father and Ms. Hawthorne replaying in my mind, and the disastrous evening with Wes tugging at my heart, I just wanted to curl up in a ball and hide. Process. Try to make sense of what was swirling around my brain.

  She swatted at my arm. “I am not lying.”

  “Then use contractions.”

  Marta’s brow puckered in confusion.

  “You said ‘I am’ instead of ‘I’m.’ “I brandished my coffee toward her. “Americans use contractions.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms over her chest. “How about this one? You’re crazy.”

  Great, not only was I being a jerk to my best friend, but now my mocha was gone, and I hadn’t even savored the last sip. I tossed the empty cup into a trash can and eyed the school, feeling as if the weary building with its dirty glass-window eyes stared right back. Peering into me, seeing my secrets. Knowing what’d I’d almost done last night.

  What I’d wanted to do.

  I shivered again, this time not from the cold.

  Marta’s stance softened, her arms slipping to hang at her sides. “What happened? I get the idea you are upset about more than just your father showing up at school yesterday.”

  I let her lack of contraction pass that time and offered a shrug instead. I didn’t want to lie to her. None of this was her fault. But what could I say? I hated to admit Marta was right, that Wes and I were most definitely not on the same page when it came to expectations, and that after he’d rolled up the picnic blanket and stuffed it in the backseat of the Jeep, he hadn’t said another word the entire drive back to my house. Had I failed his test? We
re we over? The thought made my stomach churn with disappointment, yet how could I want to stay with someone who asked things of me I couldn’t give—wouldn’t give?—and then pouted over it? Not one of Wes’s best moments.

  And definitely not one of my mine.

  Still, I couldn’t make myself let go. I kept picturing the hurt radiating from his features as he talked about his family, a layer of pain he probably didn’t even realize he showed. Wes Keegan, vulnerable? Historic moment.

  So why did he have to ruin it by changing the subject so abruptly—and physically?

  “Is it Wes?” Marta’s prodding voice penetrated my shield, reading my mind. I rolled in my lower lip and nodded. She shuffled a few steps closer, lowering her voice even though we were the only two idiots willing to stand outside in the cold before the warning bell. “Did you see him last night?”

  Tears welled in my throat and I coughed, trying to clear the dam. “I snuck out.” Saying the words out loud made the guilt roll in like tidal waves, and I couldn’t believe I’d been lucky enough to get back inside the house without my dad realizing. After sneaking in once again through the window (and trust me, getting down that tree with help was much easier than getting back up solo), I’d checked on him, and there he sat dozing in front of the TV, his Bible open on his lap like any other night. Seeing the open Bible brought equal measures of guilt and bitterness, and I still had no idea why the contradiction. Guilt, I expected. Resentment? Not so much.

  “Did something … happen?” Marta’s hesitant question spoke volumes louder than her quiet tone.

  My chest warmed under my sweater, and I fought the crimson stain I knew had to be rising up my cheeks. “Almost. But no.”

  Marta tugged the hem of her shirt farther over the top of her jeans, and I realized for the first time she wasn’t even wearing a jacket. Yet there she stood with me, discussing my love life in what felt like subzero temps, without a single complaint. Man, this was so screwed up. I didn’t deserve her. My dad didn’t deserve me treating him with such disrespect for his rules. And I didn’t deserve the drama he and Ms. Hawthorne were doling out in my life.