Red: Burning Desire (Spectrum Series Book 7)

by Allison White

  “Make room.” I smile before getting on the back of it, looping my arms around her. Immediately, I am enveloped in vanilla and Marlboro cigarettes.

  She says, “Hold on, prep,” before we zoom out of the parking lot.

  ***

  I’ve never ridden shotgun on a motorcycle, which is a lot faster than I expect, but then again, I’ve never met anyone like Red before. The ride is filled with sharp twists, hard turns, and deafening loud purrs of the engine. I feel queasy for a good few minutes before I tighten my grip and smell her a little deeper, as creepy as it is. I don’t know why, but her scent calms me more than gripping her tighter. Plus, she smells like a goddamn angel who rolled around in a field of vanilla and cigarettes.

  One thing I notice is how easy riding comes to her. How her body is never tense but constantly relaxed. How at ease she breathes with each crazy, wide turn. She has a relationship with the vehicle, that much I can tell. I bet she has a name for it, but I’ll never tease her about it because she’ll probably stab me in the eye with a spork and promptly tell me to fuck off.

  We slow down in front of a row of stores. The sun has dipped a little, and people are out walking with friends to the nearest bar or enjoying a night stroll in the park across the street. “All right, we’re here,” she announces, hitting the kick stand with her heel. We jerk a little, and she whips around with a smirk. “You can stop praying for your mommy now,” she teases.

  “I was not praying for my mommy.” I stick my tongue out at her.

  “Sorry! I meant your silver spoon.” She deftly stands up and perches her pierced eyebrow, igniting a staring challenge, and boy do I stare. I stare at her pursed lips that are naturally reddish. I stare at her eyes and how they’re glowing slightly under the colors in the sky. And I stare at her tongue peeking out of her lips.

  Scared I might do something insane, I break and blink rapidly as I get off, but not as gracefully as her. She laughs that pretty laugh again, and I blush as I stumble a bit onto the curb. “Sorry I’m not an expert at dismounting a motorcycle like you.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” she says ominously before hopping onto the sidewalk and swinging open the door to a store and sauntering in without any second glance toward me, hips swaying and all. Clucking my tongue against my cheek at her confidence, I hop onto the sidewalk and follow after her. I catch sight of the neon sign that states the place is Jim’s Arcade.

  The second I walk inside, I am bombarded by strobe lights that nearly blind me and zaps and pings coming from the arcade machines. A bunch of kids, fresh from school, scream at their friends on the games or scrape up earned tickets from the floor. Or steal them. To my immediate left is a ginger-headed teenaged boy in a black uniform who looks like he’s two seconds away from slitting his own throat in boredom. I think he’s going to stop me and ask to pay to enter the arcade, but he looks away like he doesn’t want to bother and sighs. I feel bad for him. But at least he doesn’t have a difficult task.

  I step inside further on the lookout for Red but come up empty. I’m about to go to the back of the arcade when I spot a sign above a set of stairs going down: Pool Hall (18+).

  On the lower level of the arcade is one massive area of pool tables, poker tables, and smoke, which Red is most likely contributing to. Most of the pool tables are in use by burly guys with belly guts and a few younger ones, maybe from the college. I spot her in the back of the room, hunched over with a cue stick aimed at a purple ball. My heart thumps as I get closer to her, bypassing a few big guys cheering over their own game.

  “Never took you for a pool player,” I say, leaning against the table.

  “We can’t all get our thrills from riding around on yachts,” she jokes in that husky voice of hers, taking her shot. The ball sinks into the pocket, and she smirks to herself, proud.

  “I don’t do that,” I say, and she glances at me. I smirk. “I also pay people to golf for me while I sit in a gold cart and scratch my pet lion, Robert under the chin.”

  She actually breaks out in a bashful smile. “Robert, huh?” Her pierced brow sinks low, and her pink tongue plays with her silver lip ring. I dig my right hand in my khaki pants pocket.

  “Yeah. I could let you babysit him while I get a portrait done for one of my many mansions. Treat him right and I’ll pass your name around the golf club,” I continue to joke, and she’s laughing now.

  “Don’t spoil me too much, Richie Rich,” she says, eyes gleaming.

  “Oh, why not, Old Sport? I have all the riches in the world. Why not relinquish them to you?” I wink at her, and she surprisingly gets my Great Gatsby reference as she scoffs after taking a shot and raising that pierced brow at me.

  “So you’re Jay Gatsby now? No longer a frat boy?” she muses.

  I lean with my hands against the pool table, looking her straight in the eyes. “I can be whatever you want me to be.” My voice is low, and I cock my head to the side. I watch as her lips tip upward and her brows stitch together in a little knot. Her expression is puzzled, and the other half is unreadable. I can’t tell if she’s falling for my charm or is gearing up to laugh in my face.

  Finally, she draws back—I hadn’t noticed she’d leaned in too—and bends down. “How ’bout we pause being cheesy and get started on the story of us, hmm?” She takes her shot and makes it effortlessly. She is really good…at pool and looking so sexy while playing it.

  “I can do that too, I guess.” I swing my backpack onto the table. One of the balls shifts down, and she shoots me an icy glare. “Sorry,” I apologize, but she just rolls her eyes in annoyance and moves along the illuminated pool table. I fish out my spiral notebook and a black ballpoint pen. I drop the bag onto the ground, resting against a leg of the table. “Okay. First things first: what’s the story about?”

  She shrugs. “I have no idea. I don’t write stories, prep.”

  “Neither do I,” I defend.

  “What if the girl can, like, travel or something?” she suggests in a low voice like she’s embarrassed.

  “That’s a good idea,” I tell her and watch a smile tug at her lips for a quarter of a second before it plunges into a thin line. I smile and let it rest on my face as I make a thought bubble. “What if she can travel to another world through…a portal, maybe?”

  She shakes her head, twisting her cue stick. “That’s lame. Through a cigarette.”

  I don’t see the logistics of that, but world-traveling isn’t exactly existential in our current times, so it doesn’t matter. And she gives me this “duh” look that makes me chuckle and her smile, but it lasts a little longer this time.

  “Got it.” I jot the idea down. “What are our characters’ names?”

  “Dunno.” She stops walking and pushes her hand through her mass of golden curls. The neon lights down here promoting beer and half-naked girls make her glow in red and pink and yellow. The colors against her creamy, fair skin make her look like a bad-ass fallen angel, in her tight black pants and leather jacket. Her eyes shift over to me, and I abruptly look at the colors lighting the rim of the pool table.

  I dare a look at her, and thankfully, she’s lining up for another shot. “Magenta and…” She shrugs, hitting and striking a shot. “You pick the dude’s name.”

  “Okay…” I write down Magenta as she takes a shot. She curses—I guess she missed it—and I look at her. She’s standing, running her fingers through her messy blonde hair. The neon lights plays tricks with my eyes again, giving her a bent halo in the dim lighting. And then she’s bent over again. Levi jeans loose around her slim waist; ripped black shirt rising enough to show a sliver of her creamy, neon skin. My jaw rocks back and forth as I imagine dirty, dirty things.

  Chapter Eight

  She pops a cigarette in her mouth, then lights it.

  “Come up with a name yet?” she asks around the cigarette in the corner of her full mouth. When she doesn’t get an immediate answer, as my head is too busy thinking of the colors on her exposed skin, she loo
ks over her shoulder.

  I snap my attention to the notebook. “Um, yeah. I was thinking Ethan, maybe?”

  Please don’t tell me she caught me staring, please, please—

  “Whatever.” She squints and takes the shot. It sinks in the pocket, of course, and she takes a large puff with a smile. I stare. For some reason, watching her smoke and smile and play pool is satisfyingly…beautiful. She’s in her element, and I’m the lucky guy who gets to be in her vicinity, watching her. I sound like such a creep, but I can’t even control it. “Now, the story should start off with Magenta doing something incredibly badass.”

  “Maybe saving puppies for a charity?” I suggest with a teasing smile. I look over my shoulder and find her scowling at me, but it’s adorable with her lips pursed and pierced eyebrow raised.

  “Or she’s just finished knocking some guy out for trying to grope her or something, because guys suck, no offense—”

  “None taken, I think—” I begin unsurely.

  “And she steps out for a smoke,” she continues, unbothered by the interruption. “And she teleports to this awesome world where beer is free and Trump isn’t alive. ’Cause of the cigs, remember?” She points at me, and I nod, hiding my smile the best I can. She waves a hand around as she speaks. “Anyway, she’s auto racing and walking around, tits out because she, you know, can, when she sees him—”

  “And it’s love at first sight?” I ask, smirking.

  “No. Shit no.” She looks wildly offended and takes a large puff. She blows out skillfully. “She saves his ass after he almost gets raped by douches—”

  “Thought it was a perfect world. Why would there be douche rapists?” I question her idea.

  She rolls her eyes at her continuity error and my pointing it out. “They got there by being dick-weebs. Jumped on my—her—ride there or some shit.” She grabs a can of beer that was resting on the ledge of the table, pops it open, and takes a long swig. Then she looks at me expectantly. Flushed in the face, I jot her ideas down and nod.

  “And then…?” I ask, looking to her.

  Setting the empty can down—wow, I am very impressed—she shrugs, wiping her mouth with the back of her leather fingerless glove. “What?”

  I chuckle. “What moves the story along?” I ask. She just looks at me blankly, and I laugh some more. “Red, what happens to them?”

  “Something has to happen to ’em?” She looks confused and pissed off.

  “It wouldn’t be a story without some sort of conflict.”

  She pauses, and her face twists. “Dude’s almost got raped. That isn’t enough conflict?”

  “No,” I say, “it got them to meet. But what draws him to her and vice versa?”

  “She’s fucking awesome, and he’s cute-ish and smells good, so she sticks around him.” She stops from sinking a red ball. “Plus he has good quality hair, and she kind of digs hair over everything.” She moves to shoot the red ball when she pauses and cracks a wicked smirk. “And jawlines. They’re in now, right? Yeah. Throw that in there.”

  My stomach twists as I think, Is she talking about us in real life?

  I consciously run a hand over my jaw. “I’m not a computer, you know. I jotted everything down, but I’m not the greatest writer. In fact, I suck. I’m gonna need your help with the writing.”

  “Thought you were so creative I should have been the one jumping to be your partner,” she says, recalling what I told her in English. But I wasn’t telling the whole truth. I was just trying to get us to pair up. I may be skilled when it comes to art like painting and making little cartoon drawings, but it stops there, right in front of a computer and an empty Word document.

  “I thought we were supposed to do this together.” I turn this around on her. She pinches her cigarette between her fingers, as if to keep them from pinching my neck. Instead of murdering me, however, she takes a few deep breaths before squashing it in an ashtray embedded in the table. Then she looks at me intensely. Hard.

  “I’ll do most of the writing—” she says.

  “Thank—”

  “If you make this shot,” she finishes with a smirk that makes it hard to breathe.

  “What?” I raise my brows, and she raises hers to mock me. My lips fall into a thin line as she chuckles, head tilted back ever so slightly. Her neck looks amorous under the soft glow of purple on the wall behind her. I want to kiss it.

  “Make this shot and I’ll do most of the writing.” She pushes the cue stick in my chest. “I once got a chance to be published in some magazine when I was sixteen for a shit story I wrote.”

  “Really?” The shock I feel seeps into my words before I can stop it. I just never expected to hear that from her. I wonder what the story was about. How did they find out about it? I want to know so much more and a lot more about her in general. She’s such an interesting person. I swear, it’s the siren in her. I get closer to her, smiling from ear to ear.

  “Ah, ah.” She wags a finger, thrusting the stick at me again. “Make the shot and I help you out big time. Go on now.” She drops the pool stick, and I instinctively drop the notebook and catch it. She grabs the notebook and pen before they hit the ground, and as I gawk at her killer reflexes, she throws her head back in laughter and stands at the head of the table. She nods to the scattered balls with a knowing smirk.

  Devious little thing.

  “Come on, preppy.” She’s wielding a devilish smile. “Take your shot.”

  “Fine.” I walk over to the edge of the table and chew my bottom lip. I may be athletic, but that doesn’t mean I’m good at this sport in particular.

  Funny story: My father had a pool table in the basement of our house. One day a girl I was crushing on came over, along with a few of my friends. I lost a bet that would make her take off her top because I lost a game of pool. Twice. Safe to say I had no friends for a week after that.

  “Let’s see what you got, pretty boy,” Red goads with a teasing smile. She tugs at her lips, lowers her head, and watches me as I bend to the table. I feel hot under her intense, fixated gaze and flash a wink and a smile at her as I line the stick up with a blue ball behind the white one. She makes a grunting noise, making me rethink my position, choice of ball—everything.

  “Stop it,” I whine, straightening with a pout.

  “Oh, hush! Do whatever. Just don’t puss out,” she says.

  “I wasn’t gonna puss out,” I mumble under my breath, but she must have heard it, because she chuckles and tells me to hurry up. After telling her to hold her horses, I take a few deep breaths.

  Make it, make it, make it…

  I draw the stick back and take my shot…

  It bounces off the lining, completely missing any and all holes.

  “Damn it!” I let my head fall against the table. It’s soft under my forehead and gives me safe coverage from her mocking laughter. But when I peek a glance at her, it’s worth it.

  “Who saw that coming?” She chuckles as she sidles up next to me.

  “You’re evil,” I tell her, narrowing my eyes.

  She just grins. “Tell me something I haven’t heard before.”

  “Okay.” I turn to her, dropping my voice a notch. “You’re extremely beautiful.”

  …Whoa.

  She looks confused too, brows stitched together, lips pursed, and eyes a glossy blue. A few moments of silence passes, each worse than the last. How will she respond? I totally did not just say that. God knows she’s testy already, and I just tested her. Big time. “Are you always this flirty?” she finally says after a moment, moving away from me, almost like she’s angry.

  But I block her, push her hair behind her ear—I just couldn’t resist any longer—and say, “You should be reminded every second of every day.” My voice is raspy.

  Her face softens but looks conflicted. For a brief moment, her mouth pushes open, and her cheeks light with a dusty-rose color. “Shut up and get to outlining while I play,” she mutters with annoyance, pushing past me for
cibly. I smile in spite of her hostility, because, for however long I’ve known her, she did it. I freaking made her do it.

  Blush.

  ***

  Later on, when she drops me off at the house, the second I step off the bike she speeds away into the darkness. Maybe she’s in a rush to get home before it gets too unsafe to be out by herself, though I doubt she wouldn’t be able to take care of herself, or she just couldn’t get away from me soon enough. I become over-analytical as I watch her speed down the corner, her flaring engine rippling in the air.

  “‘You’re extremely beautiful’?” I murmur to myself, wondering how stupid I can be as I walk to the porch. There are some Solo cups hidden in the grass from the party a few days ago. I focus on them rather than the fact that I am such a dork. I have to or I’ll kill myself wondering when the hell I started chasing girls. It’s usually the other way around. And if I am chasing, it doesn’t take this long or this much effort.

  But a voice in me tells me she’s worth the chase. I hope the voice is right, because my ego is taking a helluva beating.

  I’m so caught up in my thoughts, I almost don’t notice the box. It’s relatively small and wrapped in white paper, with a red bow tied neatly at the top. I bend and pick it up thinking it must be for one of the guys. But I pick up the tag attached to the bow and find my name written in the most neat and pretty cursive handwriting.

  As I use my key to get inside and head straight to my room, I wonder who it could be from. It doesn’t say, just my name with a little heart beside it.

  “Christmas come early this year?” Ty asks, briskly walking into the room as I plop onto my bed. He rummages through his study desk, in the pursuit of who knows what, and I think on his question.