Sweet Spot

by Goode, Ella

  I want to both kick him and kiss him at the same time.

  Instead I dig into the waffles he made me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Booker

  “Tell me about the art show,” invites my mom. “How many pieces did you show? Was it your first exhibition?”

  “It was my third exhibition and I had five pieces,” answers Carrie between waffle bites.

  “Third? Where were the first two? When were the first two?” I thought I knew everything about Carrie, but she’s been slipping off to art shows without me.

  “You were gone at tournaments,” she explains. Her feelings aren’t hurt, but I’m still mad at myself. That said, I won’t be missing any more in the future. I’ll be glued to Carrie’s side from now until they’re shoveling dirt onto my casket.

  “Did you buy any of Carrie’s paintings, Booker? I have a perfect place in the living room for one. We can take down the watercolor of the lily pond and put hers up,” Mom suggests.

  I open my mouth to proclaim proudly that I bought every single one of Carrie’s paintings when Carrie says, “No. I sold out the show before he could buy a single thing.” She turns to me and beams. “I’m actually so happy you didn’t buy anything. It means that people are really resonating with my art. It wouldn’t feel the same if you were the one who bought it.”

  A prick of guilt skitters down my spine. “What do you mean? I resonate with your art. Am I not a person?”

  “Booker, dear, she means unbiased people. People who don’t know and care about her but love her work. We all want that.” Mom pats Carrie’s hand. “Still, I would love a piece. I don’t care what the subject matter is, but I would like to commission a work.”

  Carrie melts. “I would love to do that, Mrs. Peters.”

  “I’d like to commission something, too,” I say.

  Carrie ignores me. “Are you sure you don’t have an idea of what you would like? You said you wanted to replace a landscape?”

  “Why don’t you come to the living room and see the space yourself? Maybe it will inspire you,” Mom suggests. Carrie thinks this is a great idea, and the two leave. I dig out my phone and call the curator of the exhibition.

  “Hey, this is Booker Peters. I bought the Carrie Montlain art lot. When did you say that was going to be delivered?”

  “We are just crating it for you, sir. It should arrive on Wednesday or Thursday.”

  “What time?” I can’t have Carrie here when her work arrives.

  “We can’t know, sir. It depends on the weather and other deliveries.”

  Feeling desperate, I use my dad’s best tool: money. “I’ll pay to have it delivered at a set time.”

  “Sir, we cannot modify the delivery orders at this time. If you wanted to make other arrangements, you should have contacted us before the art left the loading dock.”

  “Fuck!” I hiss, hanging up the phone.

  “What’s wrong?” Carrie appears in the doorway of the kitchen with my mom over her shoulder.

  “Nothing. Stubbed my toe,” I lie. “Come on. Let's get to school. We need to swing by your place first? Your mom is probably wondering where you are.”

  “She knows I’m here.”

  “She misses you, though. Isn’t that right, Mom? You miss me when I’m gone for more than a day?” I try to telegraph silently to my mother that I need some back-up here. Thankfully she catches on.

  “I do miss you when you’re gone for even a half an hour. I’ll be heartbroken when you go to college.”

  “You said you were renting an apartment across from the campus,” I remind her. I think she’s joking, but who knows. I wouldn’t put it past her to show up at college with some cookies in a tin and an envelope full of cash. She’s a good mom. If I tell her what I did, I think she’ll help me.

  “I'll still miss you.” She pats my cheek. “Go on and be good.”

  The last bit is a warning that she knows something is up but since Carrie is here, I can’t confess. I cast a wild glance in my girl’s direction, but her only emotion seems to be slight confusion as to why I’m kicking her out so fast. I’ll make it up to her, but first I need to square away this delivery thing. All I really need to do is keep her away from my house this week. Then I’ll need to hide the paintings. Where, though, I’m not sure. I can’t put them in some storage place because the heat or humidity might damage them. I can’t hang them on the wall, either, because then she’d see them. I can’t have her thinking her work isn’t appreciated. I mean, fuck, I appreciate them, and that should be enough, but I guess I kind of see her point.

  “Are you mad about something?” Carrie’s small voice breaks through my thoughts.

  I give her a tight smile. “Nothing. What do I have to be mad about? Good weekend. Great fucking weekend, in fact. Just not excited about going back to school. Ready for that to be over, aren’t you?”

  She nods slowly. “I guess I am.”

  “We should have a party this weekend,” I suggest to take her mind off my suddenly foul mood.

  “We?”

  “You and I,” I confirm and hurry her to the car. “We’ll have it at Dean’s place.”

  “Why not here?”

  “I don’t have parties here.”

  “You have them here all the time,” she argues.

  I gun the engine. Lying is hard. You’re always being tripped up by dumb stuff. “Parties you never came to.”

  “I don’t go to Dean’s house either.”

  “Dean’s place is better. It’s farther out in the country, and the cops are less likely to bust us.”

  “Dean’s dad is the sheriff.”

  “Exactly. Exactly.” I promise myself to never lie again once I get out of this predicament.

  Chapter Twenty

  Carrie

  My finger hovers over the submit button. Mrs. MacIntosh wrote me a killer letter of recommendation. When I admitted to her the other day that I was thinking about applying to a few art schools, she’d gotten excited. From that point on she was all about it. She even made some calls to some colleagues of hers on my behalf. Applying to these schools didn’t mean I had to actually go. I’m more seeing what is out there, and to be honest I wanted to see if I would even get accepted.

  I finally hit the button, sending it out into the universe. I wonder how Booker is going to react when he finds out I actually applied to an art school. I might wait to tell him. He’s been weird this week. I’m trying not to let it get to me, but I can’t help it. Something is off with him, and I can’t help but feel as though it has something to do with me. It’s almost as though he’s trying to avoid me but not entirely.

  I’m starting to feel pathetic. I asked him if I could stay the night at his house both Monday and Tuesday. But he came up with a stupid reason why I shouldn’t. Something along the line that my grandparents and mom likely miss me. So I stopped asking, and he hasn't suggested it. I don’t understand how he can go from wanting to be with me constantly to trying to avoid me in certain ways.

  Did I do something wrong? We haven't done much past heavy petting this past week. He still picks me up and takes me to school. Then after he takes me to work. He even comes back to take me home at the end of the night. But he seems distracted.

  One second I think he’s super into me saying he loves me and then the next he’s trying to get away from me. I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. I’m noticing most of the avoiding is when it comes to his house. It must have something to do with his dad. Maybe it has something to do with the argument they had when I was there. That has to be it. I know it can't be because of his friends. He practically broadcasted it to the entire school that we were together. His PDA gets a bit out of hand sometimes. He even pushed Mick off the seat next to me in the lunchroom, a weird growl coming from him that had everyone laughing their asses off.

  That only leaves his father. I’m sure he doesn’t think I’m good enough for Booker. Tears burn in my eyes. Luckily, the bell rings, ending the sch
ool day. I grab my stuff, exiting the classroom. I glance around but don’t see Booker anywhere. He’s normally at the door even before the bell rings.

  “Are you all going to the party tonight?” Ethan asks, leaning up against his locker, talking to Logan.

  “Yeah. But why the hell are we doing it at Dean’s? Booker’s place is ten times better. Plus his mom makes us all cookies.”

  “I don’t know. Booker begged Dean to have it out at his place.” I turn my head, letting my hair block my face as I pass by them. It only makes my suspicion grow. I spot Booker the second I exit the side door to the student parking lot. He’s got his phone to his ear talking to someone.

  “That’s perfect. I’ll meet you there,” he says, ending the call. When he turns his eyes widen like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Sorry, Care-bear. My call ran long.” He leans down and brushes his mouth against mine.

  That’s another thing. Every time his phone rings, he jumps and proceeds to take the call in the other room. I really should be seeing the signs in front of my face. I keep ignoring them because I once misjudged him so wrongly about his past and the girls I thought he dated. He’s such a gentleman to me that I truly cannot see him cheating on me. But everything seems to be pointing toward that.

  “Not going to kiss me back?” He pulls me in closer, his hands going to my ass. He lifts me off my feet. I have to wrap my arms around his neck out of habit. This time when he kisses me I kiss him back. I moan into his mouth. My fingers dig into his hair.

  “Booker.” I breathe his name. His cock digs into me.

  “Love when you say my name all needy.”

  “I am needy. Let’s go back to my house. No one will be there,” I suggest.

  “Can’t. Told my mom I’d help her with some stuff.” He puts me back on my feet. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him we could be quick. Instead I nod and head to the other side of the car to get in. He beats me, opening the door for me.

  “I thought you worked tonight anyway? We’re hitting the party after.”

  “Grams gave me the night off. She hired a new girl.” I didn’t think we needed another person, but Grams said we did. That I should be enjoying my last year in high school. Normally I would protest, but I thought I’d get more time with Booker. Not so sure that’s the case since he’s trying to ditch me at every turn lately.

  “You want me to drop you at your house then?” he offers.

  “You don’t need help with whatever you’re doing for your mom?”

  “No. I’m good.” I hate that I even asked. And that he’s made me this way.

  “Take me home,” I say, gazing out the window. He reaches over, tangling his fingers with mine as he pulls out of the parking lot. It doesn't take long before we’re at my place. “Thanks for the ride.”

  I get out, taking off toward the front door. Booker calls after me. I unlock the door quickly, slipping inside and turning the lock before he makes it to the door.

  “What the hell?” He bangs on the door.

  “Just go,” I shout. I hear him mutter a few curse words.

  “This isn't over. I’ll be back and you will open this door one way or another.” I can see the look of determination on his face through the peephole before he gets back into his car and takes off.

  I grab the key to Grams’ car. She and Grandpa must have ridden together today. I decide that I’m going to get to the bottom of whatever is going on with Booker. I’ll go have a peek for myself. If Booker wants to be all shady and sneaky, then I can do the same.

  I know one thing, though. Love really does make you do crazy things, and I love Booker more than anything else in this world. I pray he doesn't destroy my heart.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Booker

  “These are pretty. I would’ve bought them all, too,” declares Dean. He slaps me on the back after we finish hanging the last painting. “You know, we should use this place as a party pad. Instead of drinking at my place or yours, this can be home base. There’s a fridge and a patio and a bathroom plus two bedrooms for some private time.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

  “Dean’s got a point.” Tommy swings his frame over the back of the sofa we carried up and hands Dean a beer. “I don’t know why we didn’t think of this sooner. When we have the strippers over, we just need to move this.” He kicks his feet at the wooden coffee table laden with three different pizzas.

  “No strippers.” I snag a slice of pepperoni and catch a beer from Logan. “No rust on you,” I tell the reliever who hasn’t pitched since July.

  Mick, our catcher, shakes his head when Logan holds up another beer. “Can’t. I’ve got practice later today.” He’s the only one on our team that doubles as a football player. He grabs his own piece of pizza. “Think you should tell her,” he says after he washes the pizza down with a half quart of milk.

  “No way,” Tommy says. He’s not book bright, but he’s quick on his feet. “If she said she wouldn’t like it if you bought all the paintings then you’re doing the right thing by hiding it. Now that I’ve solved this problem, let’s backtrack to the no strippers thing. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Carrie doesn’t like it. In fact, she wasn’t going to go out with me until I explained that no one really cared about the strippers.”

  “I care about them,” Dean interjects. “I care about them quite a bit. I helped your mom make cookies with them once. That’s how much I care about them. If your dad isn’t paying their bills, how are they feeding their kids?”

  “They have kids?” Mick asks.

  We all wait for Dean’s response.

  “Yeah, a couple of them,” he says. “Sherry has a five-year-old. She got pregnant in high school and the guy wanted her to get the big A but she said no because she doesn’t believe in that, and Nina is actually married. She has two kids. Marco is five, and Emma is two.”

  “Well” is the only response I have at this moment. I’m not sure what to do with this new information. I know the strippers bother Carrie, so I can’t be hiring them to take their clothes off, but maybe they can work at The Sugar Factory or garden around the house. I’ll have to talk to Carrie and my mom and see what they think. First, though, I need to figure out what to do with the art. “That’s some food for thought, but can we circle back to the issue at hand?” I ask. “I can’t rent this apartment forever. Carrie already thinks I’m hiding something from her.” She was pissed when she ran into her house and locked me out. I’m hoping a bit of time calms her down some. I hate not being on the same page with her. This past week has been hell not knowing when these painting would show up finally.

  “You are hiding something from her.” Mick waves his hand around the room. “About five somethings. And are you seriously saying that you aren't going to buy more of her art? I know you. Hell, we all know you. What you’re really asking is how long can you carry this out.”

  “And the answer is?” I say.

  “I’m with Mick. You need to come clean,” Dean says. “Honesty is the best policy.”

  Logan shakes his head. “Sharing things with people that aren’t meant to be shared only results in hurt feelings. Keep it to yourself but don’t buy more art unless absolutely necessary.”

  I figured that Logan would come down on my side. After all, he’s kept his feelings toward Renoir to himself for years because she has a boyfriend, and he never wanted to be the kind of guy who would ruin someone’s life for his own pleasure. Had Renoir ever shown one sign of being unhappy, he would have rushed in and swooped her up without hesitation.

  “Logan and Tommy say no while Dean and Mick say yes on confessing.” I tally up the votes.

  “You’re the tie-breaker,” Tommy points out. He leans forward, elbows on knees, the beer bottle dangling between his fingers. The rest of the guys eye me speculatively.

  “If I knew, would you all be here having pizza and beer?” I scrub my hands down my face.

  “Yes? Because you love us and piz
za and beer is your way of showing your feelings,” Tommy declares.

  “And strippers!” Dean chirps. “Strippers are the way you should always express your thanks for us being great friends.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake, Dean.” I slam my beer bottle on the table. “Enough with the strippers. I’ll make sure Dad hires them for your birthday, but I won’t be there.”

  “I wouldn’t want you there anyway. You’re not a hot young thing taking your clothes off and grinding in my lap.”

  “Hey, don’t cut down ol’ Book like that.” Mick smirks. “He can take off his clothes and grind on your lap if that’s what you really want.”

  “I will not, you asshole.” I throw my empty bottle at his head. The catcher has no problem snatching it out of the air.

  “I wonder how the market is for male strippers,” Dean muses. “I don’t think I’d mind taking off my clothes for women in exchange for money. It seems like some easy coin. I could get that Celica and have it wrapped in electric blue vinyl with a white wing on the side.” He stretches his hand across an imaginary door panel. “How many gigs would I have to book?”

  “Isn’t that a question you should ask Sherry and Nina and not us?” suggests Mick.

  “I’m changing my mind,” Logan says suddenly.

  “About what? Strippers?” Dean says.

  “No.” Logan shakes his head. He turns to me, a serious expression on his face. “Tell Carrie. Be honest with her; otherwise you might lose her, and that would be worse than coming clean.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Carrie

  I sit outside of some fancy condos wondering why Booker is here. He turned down freaking sex to rush over here, so there must be something special inside this place. Oh, this place actually does look like somewhere he’d really be helping his mom. I pull out my cell phone and give her a call. She answers after one ring.