Fourteen
I have no idea how long we’ve been kissing. Five minutes? Forty? Sam’s like a drug, kissing me higher and higher until nothing and no one matters anymore. Three times, he’s tried to apologize for taking advantage of me. Three times, I’ve shut him up with one of the deep kisses I learned by copying him.
I never want to come down from where he’s taking me.
Eventually, Sam slides me off his car and tries to lead me to the picnic table. One too many jagged rocks bite into my bare feet when he sets me down in the gravel, ending that plan. Instead, he scoops me up, says something about needing to buy me flip-flops, and wedges us into the front seat of his car.
I almost laugh when he reaches for the lever to lower the seat and we fall backward, but coherent thought vanishes the second he pulls me down on top of him. Soon, we’ll need to stop kissing long enough to talk about why we can’t do this. Soon, but not now. Not when Sam’s tongue is exploring my mouth, and his hands are in places I’ve never been touched before.
“This feels so good,” he whispers between kisses.
“Understatement.”
He chuckles against my lips, then kisses me even more deeply.
The sun is high and hot by the time I pull away. The long-sleeve shirt and jeans I have on cling to my skin in a hundred wrong ways until all I want is to rip them off.
Sam runs his hands through my short hair and watches me for several long minutes. Eventually, he says, “Talk to me, Sarah. Tell me what happened back there.”
The way he’s watching me kills my buzz. Like he knows just how close to crumbling I still am. I squeeze them shut and lean in, desperate to feel his lips again, wanting that high.
“No,” he says. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong. I’ve known you for a long time and I’ve never seen you that freaked out.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I just want to forget.”
“Is everything okay? I mean…” He hesitates, tracing one of the thin scars on the back of my hand. “Is everything as okay as it can be, considering?”
My mouth drops open. He knows. I can hear it in his voice, see it in the way he looks at my hand. For years, I’ve wondered how he could be James’s friend and not know what goes on in our house. All the bruises and cuts and broken bones…only an idiot with no knowledge of our tree-less yard and stair-less house would believe all the stories our father told the doctors.
“You knew?”
Sam looks away. “Not that your brother would ever admit it, but I suspected.”
The quiet voice in the back of my head that’s been whispering this is too good to be true gets a lot louder when I realize what he’s saying. “So, wait,” I say, my anger rising. “Is that why you’re doing this? You feel sorry for me?”
“Hell no! I told you—I’ve wanted this to happen for a long time. And if it means I can help keep you safe, even better.”
The hot way he looks at me is nearly my undoing. I manage a weak, “Oh.”
Luckily, he suggests we sit at the picnic table to get some air. I wince just thinking about the thirty yards of gravel I’ll have to cross to get there when he squats in front of me. “C’mon. I’ll give you a ride over.”
No one’s ever offered to give me a piggy-back ride before. It’s something normal parents give their kids, or even better, boyfriends give their girlfriends. Something I’ve never thought I would actually experience for myself.
When we’re settled, him on the table and me sitting in front of him, he takes my hand into his and traces each of my fingers and the lines of my palm. Neither of us says anything for a long time, just content to be close and enjoy the sunshine.
“So if we can’t talk about your father, maybe you can elaborate on the ‘other girls’ thing?” he asks after awhile. “I hope you don’t mean what I think you mean.”
“My brother says you’ve been with a lot of girls at Leslie’s parties.” Realizing I sound like a jealous girlfriend—not that I’m his girlfriend—I quickly backtrack. “It’s okay if you have. I mean, I’m not reading anything into this.”
“Wow,” he says, then shakes his head. “Until last night, I’ve spent every party wandering around by myself. The girls that hang out at Leslie’s aren’t exactly my type.”
I attempt to hide my relief and the flare of giddiness over the prospect that I might be Sam Donavon’s type, but the grin on Sam’s face tells me I’ve failed. I can feel us dancing around the inevitable. Heart-to-heart talk in the kitchen or not, I know my brother will go after Sam. “I don’t think I’m worth how mad he’s going to be when he—”
Sam cuts me off with one of those intense looks that make my heart stumble. “If I didn’t think you were worth it, we wouldn’t be here right now. That’s why I came over this morning—to tell your brother to go to hell if he has a problem with this.” He frowns and touches the strand of hair that’s fallen into my face. “I should’ve just blurted it out before he took off.”
Had Sam said anything about last night, there would’ve been a brawl on my front lawn. The police would’ve been called for sure. “We can’t tell James. I mean, not that there’s anything to tell,” I add immediately, “but if there is…?” I look at him, unable to keep the hope out of my voice.
“There is.” But his frown deepens and his hand falls away. “Unless you don’t want to be with me?”
“No, that’s not it at all,” I say. “I just don’t want him to kill you.”
He blinks at me for a few moments, then laughs. “Won’t happen.”
“Don’t underestimate him.”
His smile turns cocky. I love it. “I’ve been able to take James since we were kids. You’re going to have to trust me when I say we’re safe.”
While I’d like to trust him, I’ve lived with James and our father long enough to know the difference between fighting for pride and fighting because you’re terrified of losing something you love. I’d bet my life on my brother in a fight like that. “Please,” I say and press my body against his. “Keep this secret for me.”
He turns his face into my cheek and breathes me in. “Fine, but it’s taken me long enough to get here, so you’re going to have to let me savor whatever time I get.”
“Deal.”
He grins and kisses me. No preamble, no pausing, no warming into it. My finger hooks around the thin ball chain I’ve seen peeking out from beneath the collar of his t-shirt for as long as I can remember. His breath catches. Slowly, without breaking our kiss, I slide the chain out until two dog tags swing free and into my palm. Only then do I pull away to read the name.
“Joe Donavon?”
“My dad. He died when I was twelve.”
What do I say to that? Somehow “I’m sorry for your loss” doesn’t feel like near enough when I’ve spent the last hour kissing the guy. Plus, I have no idea what kind of dad Sam had. If he was like mine, Sam’s probably relieved. If he wasn’t, I have no idea how he feels. I try to imagine James dying. No one matters to me as much as James.
While I struggle to come up with the right thing to say, he watches me with a half-amused, half-disappointed smile curling the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “He was great and I miss him, but that was a long time ago. I’m okay.”
I can’t make myself drop the dog tags. There’s an energy pulsing through them that reminds me of a heartbeat, or maybe I’m just feeling Sam’s heart pounding in his chest. Whatever the case, dropping them will feel like I’m dropping something important. I’m still clutching them when his warm hand closes around mine and he leans in to kiss me again.
Eventually, he pulls away and glances at my bare feet. The reminder of how fast we left my house hangs heavy in the air. I open my mouth to apologize again, but he shakes his head.
“Let’s buy you some shoes.”
Reluctantly, I let go of his father’s dog tags.