Focus on Me
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Also by Megan Erickson
Trust the Focus
Focus on Me
Megan Erickson
InterMix Books, New York
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
FOCUS ON ME
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2015 by Megan Erickson.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19463-2
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / July
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Penguin Random House is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.
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Contents
Also by Megan Erickson
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
About the Author
Prologue
Riley Sorenson,
Is that your real name? Riley Sorenson? I really like it. Suits you. Okay, that was probably a really bad way to start an e-mail and you most likely get a lot of creepy people contacting you. Let me start over. My name is Landry Jacobs (which isn’t nearly as cool of a name as Riley Sorenson, just saying), and this is going to seem really weird to write to you about this. But my therapist said I need to start closing chapters and opening up new ones.
I guess this e-mail is a little bit of both.
See, I had a crush on my best friend forever. But he’s a guy. And I like guys. I mean, I like girls, too, but I want to kiss guys. Anyway, my guy friend was straight (or so I thought— hold on, I’m getting to that) and I made up a fake boyfriend so I didn’t have to date other guys.
And well . . . you were the fake boyfriend. I found your picture online and you have a nice face (excellent bone structure) and I thought, what the hell? And I called you Jud and showed my friend Justin pictures of you.
And it was all fine until Justin told me he likes guys too, as in, wants to kiss guys, and in particular wanted to kiss me. And then I had to confess you were fake so I could finally kiss the boy of my dreams.
So . . . that’s it. Here’s a picture of us.
{Picture}
That’s what Justin does. He takes pictures. He’s good, right? Anyway, I wanted to say I’m sorry. Even though you didn’t know that all this was going on, it just feels weird that I used your picture and pretended we were a couple.
And I thought . . . well, I thought everyone can always use a friend. So, hi. I’m Landry and I like art and tattoos and hot guys. Want to be my pen pal?
—L
Chapter One
I tongued the toothpick in my mouth, squeezing it into the small gap between my front teeth before shoving it into the corner of my mouth.
Leaning against the rack stocked with beef jerky and peanuts, I crossed my arms over my chest. I could have been out of here by now if this fucking gas station outside of Las Vegas in the Nevada desert took credit cards at the pump. Instead I was stuck in this shack, surrounded by overprocessed snack food, waiting in line to pay for my gas before I continued my cross-country trek.
I was heading home. To North Carolina.
Because I’d done what I always did when things got tough—I’d quit. I chalked up “failing out of college” on Colin Hartman’s fail list. A list which was getting a little too long.
I sighed, letting out a slow exhale. The guy in front of me at the counter wore tight jeans, some fancy boots that looked anything but functional, and a blue button-down shirt. Like clothes on a catwalk or something. I didn’t know shit about fashion, but even I could tell Catwalk had money and class. I had a little of the former and not much of the latter.
“Look, kid, I can’t have you loitering here.” The older man behind the counter scratched his beard, his eyes hard and judgmental.
“I’m sorry.” Catwalk’s back was to me so I couldn’t see his face. But when he talked, his voice shook and his left hand lowered to grip his thigh. His fingertips turned white at the pressure. “But the truck driver I was riding with told me there was a bus stop here.”
I stared at the back of Catwalk’s head as the fluorescent lights overhead shone on his thick brown hair. It was a deep, rich brown. I’d never seen hair that color, and I wondered if he dyed it.
The man behind the counter—his name tag said “Jack”—pointed outside and my gaze followed to a rusted bench. “There used to be a bus service that came here years ago, but not no more.”
Catwalk made a sound in the back of his throat like a whimper.
I straightened, and my elbow knocked a bag of peanuts to the floor. The smack as it hit the stained tile was loud in the small space. I picked it up and put it back on the shelf. When I raised my gaze, Catwalk had turned to look at me. And my breath froze in my lungs.
So Catwalk didn’t just have the clothes. He had the fucking face, too.
And goddamn, what a face.
The square jaw. The high cheekbones. The full lips and the wide, deep-set eyes. Perfectly arched eyebrows.
Fuck me running, Catwalk was model-gorgeous.
He blinked long lashes over brown eyes, studying my face for a minute. I self-consciously rubbed my hand over the stubble along my jaw. His gaze dipped for a minute to my hand, then he turned back around to Jack.
“Look, I can call a cab or—”
“Ain’t no cabs around here—”
“Or wait for another truck, or—”
“I told you I don’t want you loitering here—”
And that’s when I opened my mouth. “I’ll give him a ride.”
Catwalk twisted at the hip, his mouth open, his brows furrowed. I stared at those brown eyes and swallowed.
“Great!” Jack said, smacking his palm on the counter. “There ya go, kid. Now you have a ride.”
Catwalk hadn’t moved. He blinked at me a couple times, then slowly closed his mouth.
Well shit, couldn’t back out now. I pulled my wallet out of the back pocket of my jeans and gestured to the counter. Catwalk took a small step to the side, watching me as I stepped up to pay for my gas. I could feel his gaze on the side of my face as I
handed over the money to fill up my Jeep.
And then with a nod to Jack, I turned to Catwalk. “Ready to go?”
His lower lip hitched, twice, like he wanted to bite it but resisted. “How do I know you’re not a serial killer or something?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jack groaned.
I shot him a glare. He rolled his eyes and sat down on a stool, flipping open a magazine with a girl in a bikini on the front. Not my type of magazine.
I turned back to Catwalk. “You can check my Jeep for heads. But other than that, I guess you’re just going to have to take my word for it that I have no plans to kill you and dismember your body and leave pieces scattered in the woods.”
His left hand gripped his thigh again, in what I could already see was Catwalk’s nervous gesture. Damn, I was noticing a lot about him. He was probably straight as an arrow, too. Although those jeans were pretty damn tight.
“That was a pretty specific list of all the things you’re not going to do to me.”
I opened my mouth to snap back until I saw a small twitch at the corner of his lips, like the beginning of a smile. He was putting me on, the hot little fucker. I cocked my head. “How do I know you’re not a serial killer?”
His gaze roamed my arms and chest and then his eyes met mine again. “I think I’d have a hard time overpowering you.”
We were about the same height, but I definitely had the weight advantage in muscle. Actually, Catwalk looked downright skinny. I pointed a finger at him. “Never underestimate the thinner guys, man. They can be scrappy.”
That twitch turned into a twist until a grin cut through the nervousness. A beautiful, sexy grin. “Okay.”
My gaze shot to his. “What?”
He nodded, his face set like he’d made a decision. “Okay, I . . . I’d like to ride with you.”
“Great.” I shoved my wallet back in my pocket. “Let’s go, then.”
I started walking, and I knew he was following me from the sound of his steps. The bell over the door rang as I opened it and again when it slammed shut behind us. I was more aware of the condition of my beat-up green Jeep, which I called Butch, now that I had Catwalk with me. And were there about five more rust spots on it than when I walked into that convenience store?
I glanced over my shoulder at Catwalk, wondering if he was looking at my poor Butch with horror, but his eyes were on the road, his gaze pensive.
He had a black leather duffel with two straps, which he held over his shoulder with his fingers like a suit jacket. A messenger bag slapped against his hip as he walked, the shoulder strap crossing his chest. I motioned to his bags with my chin. “That all you got?”
He sucked in a breath and his nod was jerky. “Yeah.”
I shrugged. “All right, just throw it in the back with my shit.”
He opened up the passenger door and tossed his duffel into the backseat. Then he slid into the car, set his messenger bag at his feet, and clicked his seat belt in place. As I got settled in the driver’s seat, my eyes were drawn to his hands. They were thin and bony, veins visible. They were almost delicate, which seemed odd on a man. I had always been into guys that looked more like me. Broad and muscular. Chest hair was a plus.
But Catwalk . . . he was almost pretty. He had the kind of face that if one feature was changed slightly—thinner lips, weaker chin, narrow eyes—it would have thrown everything off and made him ugly.
The way he was put together, though . . . he had a face I couldn’t look away from. But I had to, because I had to drive, and I didn’t want him to think I was a creepy serial killer.
I turned the key and pressed the clutch so that Butch rumbled to life. I turned to my passenger, who sat still and silent, staring straight ahead at the windshield.
I turned down the radio, which was blaring a country music station. “What’s your name?”
He turned to me, that grin playing at his lips. “My name is Riley. And I’m a Pisces.”
I squinted an eye at him. “You’re a what now?”
“Pisces,” he said with a laugh. “The zodiac sign?”
I grunted. “I’m Colin. And I’m ready to hit the road.”
He leaned forward, a little in my space. “When’s your birthday?”
“May second.” I wondered how old he was. I was twenty-one, and he didn’t look much older than me.
His eyes gleamed. “A Taurus, then.”
“That bull thing.”
“Yeah, that.” His eyes stayed on me, studying me until I wanted to squirm.
“You ready to hit the road now, Riley ‘I’m a Pisces’?”
Riley nodded. So I put Butch in gear and took off down the road.
We sat in silence for about a half hour, the only sound the dull roar of Butch’s engine and country music softly lilting from the speakers. Well, one speaker because the one on Riley’s side was blown out. He stared out the passenger’s-side window the whole time. I snuck glances at his profile, still not able to believe I had a guy who looked like this in my Jeep. I was a gay hick from the South who was headed right back where I came from. I wasn’t really depressed about it or anything. Hell, that was what I’d come to expect from myself.
It was what it was. I’d help my parents at their restaurant, which is what I should have done in the first place rather than waste three years in California trying to be something I wasn’t.
My parents didn’t even seem surprised when I told them back in March that I couldn’t hack it. That at the end of the semester, when I made the biannual cross-country trek with Butch, it’d be for the last time. So here I was, blinking behind my aviator sunglasses as the May sun beat down on the black road stretched out in front me, disappearing into the blurry horizon.
“Where ya headed?” I asked Catwalk . . . er, Riley. Whatever.
He didn’t move. Not even a twitch to acknowledge that he heard me.
I frowned. “Riley?” He still didn’t move, so I took my hand off of the gearshift and touched the back of his hand.
He gasped and flinched, jerking his hand away from my touch. His eyes were wide as he stared at me. I tried not to act alarmed at his weird reaction. I held up my hand in a no harm gesture. “Hey, sorry, Ri. Called your name a couple of times and didn’t think you heard me. You okay?”
His mouth formed an O as he blew out a breath and relaxed his shoulders. “Sorry about that.”
“S’cool. Where were ya just then?”
He waved a hand. “Just . . . thinking.”
I cleared my throat. “So where ya heading?”
He paused, then squinted at me. “Where are you heading?”
I barked out a laugh. “I’m driving all the way home to North Carolina, Catwalk.”
His brows furrowed. “What did you just call me?”
I froze and my foot stuttered on the gas pedal. He was totally gonna think I was a serial killer. “Um . . .”
“Did you just call me Catwalk?”
I shook my head. “Nope, totally did not just call you that.”
“You totally did.”
I stuck my finger in my ear and wiggled it. “You need to get your hearing checked. Making shit up over there.”
A grin slashed across his face, quick and sharp, and then he threw back his head and laughed. When he lowered his head again, his brown eyes were warm and wet. “You’re so full of crap.”
I threw up my hand and let it smack down onto the gearshift. “I think you look like you walked off a catwalk with those fancy clothes, okay?”
He didn’t say anything for a minute, and I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. His face was soft, his eyes studying me. “You think I look like I just walked off a catwalk?”
I huffed an annoyed breath. “You don’t have to make a big deal about it. I nickname people, is all. Came up with that one in the gas station.”
“You think I look like I just walked off a catwalk,” he repeated, this time not as a question but as a statement.
I bit my
tongue and nodded. If this guy was straight, he might ask me to drop him off by the side of the road. I waited for his next response.
“Guess I should take that as a compliment?” he said next.
“You can take that any way you want to.”
“Compliment, then.” He was teasing now; I could hear it in his tone.
I glanced over at him, and his full lips were twisted into a sexy smirk.
My cock twitched, and I jerked my head away. No, no way. He was Catwalk and probably straight and I was Colin the fuck-up and no way was anything going to happen. I gripped the steering wheel with both hands, thinking about NFL statistics while I told my libido to shut the hell down.
Riley didn’t say anything else, instead returning to stare silently out of the passenger’s-side window.
An hour of silence later, I realized he still hadn’t told me where he was heading.
And I didn’t ask again.
***
Hey Landry,
Well, I did it. I got out. I terminated my contract and I walked away with my head up. I told Trinity to sell all my clothes. I don’t need all that designer stuff anymore. And now I’m . . . well, I’m hitching rides. I can hear you in my head yelling at me, so calm down. I can take care of myself. I’m a big boy. I want to get this list done and I hate buses.
Right now I’m in a loud Jeep with this cute Southern boy. He said he’s from North Carolina. Oh Lord, Landry babe. You should hear his sweet little accent. Kinda gets me hard, which is awkward because he’s guaranteed straight as an arrow.
Here’s a picture of him. I snuck it with my phone.
{Picture}
See? Cute, right? His eyes are killing me. These pale blues under long dark lashes. Don’t tell Justin I’m sending you pictures of hot guys. He might come after me with a baseball bat.
How are you guys? I love the picture of you two that you sent in your last e-mail. Nice new Winnebago!
So anyway, I’ll see how long Colin lets me tag along in his Jeep. He . . . called me Catwalk. He doesn’t know . . . well, he doesn’t know. And he came up with that on his own because of my clothes. I thought for a minute he might have been flirting, but . . . nah.