by Kim Roshell
She stiffens again. Drops her chin, hides her face in the crook of my neck. Her soft curls brush the underside of my chin.
“What do you mean?”
“Fine, I’ll play. Has any other guy gotten this far with you?”
She burrows closer.
Jesus.
"Are you asking because of what Ashley said? Because he didn’t.” She swallows audibly. “Leann came in, and he didn’t have time to—”
“Shhh.” Rage over what that sick bastard did to her is just the extinguisher my sex-craving body needs. “Anything he did to you was wrong, baby. You have to know that.” I feel her nod. “But, no, I mean anyone else. Willingly?”
This time, I feel the near imperceptible shake of her head.
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
What a trip. I’m happy for what this means, while wishing the opposite. Being wrong might’ve changed some things.
No.
We’re going to wait. She deserves better. Simone is special. I want to be the guy who shows her how much.
“One day we’ll take this further. I mean, I hope, anyway, but not tonight. That cool?”
With a nod, she releases a gush of warm air over my chest.
“Which one?”
“Both,” she whispers.
I adore this girl.
“Won’t regret it, I promise.”
I feel her smile. “That sure of yourself?”
The possibility of having a chance to make good on it makes my heart pound. I press my lips to the top of her head, hug her tighter. “Honestly? Yeah, but mostly because I know more than anything, I wanna make you happy. However you’ll let me.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Agreed.” Burying my nose deeper into her curls, I breathe in my favorite scent. Smile. “So, I can call you my girlfriend now.”
To my utter surprise, she shakes her head.
“That a no?”
She nods.
“Why the hell not?”
“We’ll be out of school in less than two weeks, Cowboy. After that there’s college. You’ll be gone.”
“No, after that, there’s summer, when I’ll be here. With you. Being Whit—your boyfriend.”
“And then you’ll leave.”
“And I’ll still be your boyfriend, who will come home for breaks and holidays and summers. Yeah, the distance will suck. Fact, I’ll crazy miss you. Count every second until we can FaceTime or Skype.”
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Hope they’re wrong, otherwise I don’t know how I’ll survive after the first week. I’m damn near hyperventilating just talking about it.
“Weekends visits are possible, too. Word ‘round these parts is you have a hookup on airfare. You can come to me for next to nothing. We can make us work, Simone. I know it.”
“What about Ashley?”
What about her?
The retort is on the tip of my tongue. I have enough sense not to voice the question while I have a near-naked Simone wiggling in my lap.
Especially not while I have a near-naked Simone wiggling in my lap.
I really should go check myself into Brentwood. “I’ll tell her. She should hear it from me. Personally, I’ll shout it from the rooftop. But if it’ll make you feel better, we’ll keep things low key ‘til after graduation.”
“How about we table this until after graduation?”
“Nope.”
“Yes, Whit,” she counters, still grossly unaware of how hearing my name pass through her lips affects me like a drug in my veins. “Think about it, you’ve said yourself people like to cause trouble. Ashley hates me, I get that. Doesn’t mean I wanna make everything worse for her. She’s going through enough.”
Simone gives the spot right below my earlobe a sharp nip, then soothes the pain with her tongue. I’d think the action rather deliberate, if we hadn’t just established her innocence.
For now, I’ll resign myself to not having my way on the matter, concentrating instead on corralling my still erratic pulse.
“You’re not playing fair, Honey Bee.”
“Sorry.” She does it again.
Must not be that innocent. “Two weeks,” I warn.
She nods.
“Better say yes.”
She nods.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Simone
Breakfast Blend.
I love that smell. The welcoming scent tickles my nose, rousing me from sleep. An appreciative groan slips from my lips, echoed by the guy behind me.
I love this morning.
I am the happiest chick.
I need to pee something fierce, but moving means interrupting this bliss. I ignore the wails coming from my bladder, snuggle deeper inside the tangle of heavy limbs wrapped around my waist.
Not precisely sure how we ended up this way. Whit drifted off sometime during The Perfect Storm, his head resting on my lap. Like a creeper, I watched him sleep, marveling at the way his chest rose and fell in synchronicity with his silent breaths. There are a few strategically placed throw pillows preventing the rest of the limbs’ owner from full-body contact with mine, but it’s all good.
After separate showers, his considerably longer than mine, we met back here in the den, me covered in the ugliest sweats I own—by request—him, redressed in his partially dried slacks I was too nervous to throw in the dryer and the wife-beater I wasn’t.
We talked long into the night about anything and everything that came to mind. Whit confessed Ashley probably has an inkling about us after his no-show at the hotel, said she knew he was coming here. He also confirmed what I already knew, how she’s harbored hope they’ll get back together.
He promises there’s no chance of it happening.
I don’t know how true that is. We’re probably signing on for a train wreck, entertaining the possibility of taking our relationship to the next level, but I want to believe him. Trust that our freedom to dream is enough. Maybe we’ll be together. Celebrate milestones, have our own song. Maybe one day he’ll catch up, feel for me what I feel for him.
But if all we ever have is this moment?
Then, I claim it as mine.
Something that feels very much like a certain boy’s nose nuzzles its way into the bird’s nest in the back of my head.
“Don’t ever switch conditioners,” he murmurs low, his voice husky.
Hello, morning!
Probably scare the poor boy to death, showing all my teeth like this.
“No worries there. My hair acts a kinked-up fool with anything else.”
He chuckles. “Good to know. Any chance I can sweet-talk you into spendin’ time with me later? We can drive over to the Heights, eat. Catch a movie, if you ain’t too tired.”
We shouldn’t, but know what? I want to.
I glance at the clock over the mantle. “Can I let you know around noon? Aunt Katie’s coming home today. I need to make sure she doesn’t have plans.”
“Besides having a talk with my darling niece about boy/girl sleepovers? I got nothing.”
I’m pretty sure Whit just swore under his breath.
“I thought you made that coffee,” I whisper.
“That woman’s gonna hate me forever.”
“No, not forever. You slept with those pillows in the right place, so only the next century, or so.” Aunt Katie replies, proving that supersonic hearing is very possible.
“Thank you, God,” Whit mutters into my hair. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“S’okay. She doesn’t sound as mad as the time I lost one of her diamond earrings after I wore them without permission.”
“Why don’t both of you c’mon in here. We’ll chat about just how mad I am.”
Double crap. “Then again, maybe you should go.”
Whit presses a soft kiss on the back of my neck, sending a rush of pleasant tingles down my spine. He sits up, reaches over me, and grabs his discarded wife-beater from the floor. “Leave you here to take a
ll the heat? Ain’t doin’ that, babe,” he chides, pulling the shirt over his head.
“Right answer, Whit. That may have knocked a year or two off that century.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he calls over his shoulder, grinning that perfect grin of his while smoothing down his adorable bed-head. With unexpected swiftness, he turns, tucks his hand under my arms, bringing me to my feet as though I’m feather-light.
“Three things,” he whispers. “First, I know what you’re thinkin’, and I lift more weight carryin’ our groceries from the car, so quit frettin’. Second, no matter what she says, I like and respect your auntie. Third, and most important, I might add, I wouldn’t change a thing. Wakin’ up with you in my arms? Totally worth it.”
Did I really tell this sexy boy he has to wait two whole weeks for me to say yes?
Stupid me. I deserve whatever punishment Aunt Katie doles out.
“Let’s go face the music.”
Gratefully, we’ll live to see another day since Aunt Katie’s not in a killing mood. Thirty minutes of embarrassing questions later, (among the tamer, she asked Whit for a detailed explanation of proper condom usage and if he’s ever tested positive for an STD) my uber-cool aunt forbade anymore sleepovers before I turn eighteen. After I turn eighteen, she still won’t endorse them, though she acknowledges there isn’t much she can do to stop them from happening short of quitting her job.
We gave our word, swore we wouldn’t rush crossing over any lines. There was also a promise we’d use protection (apparently Whit’s answer on the subject passed muster) should we cave to temptation, thereby voiding previously stated promise.
Another reason she may have went a little easy on us is because, unless we have a ghost who wears men’s green-toed dress socks, she hosted a boy/girl sleepover of her own.
Mark tips into view, car keys clutched tight in his fist just as I’m heading to the door. Shirt untucked, bed-hair rivaling Whit’s, shoes in his other hand, he looks so guilty. Poor guy. He might’ve slipped out unnoticed had the doorbell not rang. I stop, cross my arms, biting back a smile. I’m too happy to give him grief. Not even the initial awkwardness that seized me when we first met can rear its ugly head.
I blow him a kiss, startling him. One of his shoes slips from his fingers. I laugh as he glares down at his runaway loafer.
“Busted, huh?”
He offers the same contrite expression Whit gave Aunt Katie, softening my heart. So much in fact, I surprise both of us with another spontaneous display of affection, slipping my arm around his waist for a quick hug once he standing next to me.
“You think? Aunt Katie’s working on her second cup. Better hurry while there’s still a little coffee left.”
He lets the other shoe join its mate, heads for the kitchen.
Which leaves me without a witness since I imagine whoever that is standing on our doorstep next to Ashley will likely corroborate her version of the story, whatever happens once I open this door.
I could walk away, go back in the kitchen. Aunt Katie already knows everything that has transpired between Ashley and me, knows we’re on the outs. Why open the door to what is bound to end badly after having opted to let Whit and me live another day? Isn’t that like sparing us, only to toss us to the wolves?
But, I can’t avoid this forever. Irreparable damage aside, I love Ashley. Whit wants to be the one who tells her about us, but Ashley and I go too far back for cowardice. The running has to stop.
Besides, she knows Whit’s here. His Jeep’s in the drive.
I pull up my big girl panties, brace for impact, then turn the knob. Two sets of red-rimmed eyes flare in anger as they latch on to me.
Neither take a swing. Yet.
“We’re here for my son.”
Mrs. Devereaux’s tone is sharp as a shank, cutting through my happy heart with ease. I’m scared to look down for fear of seeing two slabs pulsating in front of my feet. In a single scathing glance, she assesses my ratty sleepwear, shaking her head as though the mere sight of me has somehow tainted her pristine bloodline.
Ashley dismisses me altogether, her glassy-eyed gaze focused on some point over my shoulder.
I speak to her anyway. “Aunt Katie’s home. We fell asleep. Nothing happened.”
Lie.
Ashley knows it, too. No real surprise. The girl knows me better than a once favorited, dog-eared book.
Tears streak down her face. She still won’t look at me. “You don’t even matter right now, Simone. Where’s Whit?”
“Right here.”
Ashley bum rushes past me, launching herself, arms raised, at her intended target. Whit catches her with ease—very Johnny and Baby, only no one is smiling—settling her quivering body against his chest as she dissolves into hysterical sobs. The split-second relief I felt at being rescued vanishes.
What the—?
“Hey,” he says, softly. He circles his other arm around her waist. Draws her closer as her cries grow louder. Massages the back of her neck.
I tamp down something that feels way too much like jealousy, but seriously—What. The. Heck?
“Mama? Why ain’t you at church?”
This woman is probably cursing me into the deepest pits of Hell for doing something wicked to her son, but she hides it well.
She lifts her chin, clears her throat. “We’ve tried reaching you by phone all morning, Whitney.”
“Left it in the glovebox. What’s goin’ on?”
That’s what I’d like to know. I mean, I know the obvious. Finding out Whit was here last night instead of wrapped around Ashley at the hotel has to feel like a betrayal after the way she so eloquently expressed her displeasure over my presence in his life. But both of them in tears? Really?
“We’ll discuss this elsewhere.”
The frost emanating from this woman’s tone alone is enough to make me want to shove him out the door, but to my surprise, Whit doesn’t budge. He doesn’t seem too compelled to comply, but he’s not exactly pushing Ashley away, either.
“Hello, I’m Kate, Simone’s aunt.”
Oh, thank God, the cavalry arrives.
Aunt Katie extends her free hand in greeting, as Mark introduces himself, doing the same. Unlike the icy dismissal I received mere moments ago, Mrs. Devereaux offers both of them a polite, albeit stiff handshake, then digs around in her purse. Pulls out a dainty handkerchief, dabs the corners of her eyes.
“Rebecca Devereaux. Please forgive our visit at such an early hour. My son wasn’t where any of us expected. Ashley suggested on a whim we might try here.”
A whim. Right.
“No forgiveness, necessary. Would you like to come in? Have coffee? Tea?”
“Oh, no, thank you. We’d best be on our way. Whitney, please gather your things.”
“What’s goin’ on, Mama? Ashley, honey, calm down, tell me what this is all about?”
Honey.
“I can’t . . . I . . .” she whimpers, hugging him tighter. “It’s bad.”
“Alright. Shhh. Whatever it is, jus’ tell me.”
“Last night, there was an accident . . . on Damaris Road.”
“O—kay?”
“David Moss was driving. Ryan was riding in the backseat,” she says, every word punctuated with a sob. “He got ejected.”
He what?
Ryan what?
“Shit! Which hospital is he at?”
Ashley shakes her head. “He . . . didn’t make it.”
My heart stops. My lungs spasm. A blood rush fills my ears with white noise. Or maybe that’s the sound of my heart breaking.
“Come again?” he chokes.
“He died, Whit.”
“That ain’t possible. He . . . can’t . . .”
“They thi—think he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.”
Ryan. Dead? That makes no sense. Ryan is the most alive person I’ve ever met. I’ve seen that boy tumble off his roof, practicing parkour for the very first time. What about all the cars he’s tot
aled? Every single time, he walked away totally unscathed. The one night he rides with someone other than Whit, and that’s it?
“He wouldn’t do that.” If I live for another hundred years, I won’t forget the anguish on Whit’s face as he stares down at Ashley in shock. “He wouldn’t . . .”
Do I even try going to him? Say something? Apologize?
My subconscious must have the answer because somehow, I’ve crossed the distance from the door to his side, the pads of my fingers touching his arm. Goosebumps cover his skin. The fine dark hairs that usually lay smooth, stand on end like he stuck a fork in a socket.
I slide my fingers higher, add pressure.
He pulls away, my fingers left touching nothing but air.
Intentional? Unintentional? I’m not sure.
Not until I reach out again, a mere half an inch away from touching his shoulder. He shifts, the movement slight, yet enough so the gap is widened.
Then, in case I didn’t catch his unspoken back off, he lowers his forehead, bringing it to rest on top of Ashley’s head.
Bile churns in my belly until it tidal waves into my throat. I swallow a millisecond before it spills over, the sickening, acrid burn lingering on the back of my tongue.
A chill sweeps through my body. Whit’s pulled away because he knows. This is my fault, and he knows it. He was here. With me. Had he not been here with me, Ryan wouldn’t be . . . Ryan’s dead? The guy unanimously picked as Most Likely to Live a Century?
I may not have been in the car this time, but I’m still responsible.
This happened because of me.
How many more people will die because of me?
—too fast on the curve—
—the only one—
This isn’t real. It can’t be real.
“It’s my fault,” Whit rasps, the three small words barely eked out past his vocal cords.
“No, Whitney, this was not your fault. This whole thing was a terrible, terrible accident.”
Apparently, our floor has special teleportation powers because Mrs. Devereaux, too, has materialized to Whit’s side. Unlike mine, he allows her touch, letting her edge him away from Ashley so she can look him directly in the eyes. He shudders when she smooths his brows with her thumbs.
His eyes, swollen with unshed tears, narrow. “It’s my fault,” he repeats.