The direct route toward my car is through other people’s yards, so I don’t deviate. As I race by, dogs go insane and lights pop on. Once I get caught between a furious beagle and a fence. I make for the kiddie trampoline in the corner of the yard and hope I’m still aerodynamic enough to execute this vault. With one hard bounce I go airborne and land on the other side in someone’s vegetable patch. Tomatoes explode all over me, turning the soil to a pulpy mess. Filthy, I scramble to my feet. More lights come on but I’m already running again.
By the time I slide into my car and take off, I can barely breathe. I drive like a mile and a half and finally have to pull over because I’m shaking so hard. As it turns out, being intrepid is terrifying. I have the funds to pay someone to investigate, but since I didn’t grow up wealthy, I’m uneasy about trusting others with my secrets. I mean, if they’re willing to do shady stuff for hire, wouldn’t they spill my secrets to anyone who offered more money?
Common sense dictates that since tonight was such a colossal failure, I should go home immediately. With my luck, this would be the one night that my dad wants to bond with me. If he’s already been informed that I’m staying at Emma’s, he won’t expect me home. That means my arrival will herald a problem, like I argued with my friend, and so he’ll want to talk about it over hot cups of tea, specifically why I look like marinara-spattered hell.
Though I hate myself for coming to this conclusion, there’s only one safe place for me to go. I’m not crazy enough to sleep in my car. While Renton’s relatively safe, there’s also some drugs and crime, and I can’t drive all night. My mind made up, I head over to Clay’s. Funny, it used to be Nathan’s house to me, but now, in my heart, he’s the extra.
When I pull down the alley, I spot Clay on the swing with one leg propped up and the other lazily kicking off. I park out back and circle to the front. If Nathan’s in bed, I don’t want to bother him, or more accurately, I prefer to avoid him. The swing stops moving as I climb the front steps to the porch.
“What’re you—oh shit. Is that blood? Did that—”
“No, it’s tomato juice. And he’s too busy to bother me. But I do need a favor.”
“Name it,” he says.
“First, I’d like to borrow your shower. I also need a place to crash. Please don’t ask why, I won’t tell you.”
A long sigh escapes him as he surveys me. “Are you okay?”
“More or less.” It’s not a comprehensive answer, as I’m tired, sore, and dispirited.
“You’re trying to drive me nuts, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t tell me anything, then you show up looking like this and that just jolts my imagination into overdrive.”
Like 90 percent of me is absurdly glad that he’s worried. I know it’s petty, but I’m happy he cares, even if he doesn’t want to be with me. It’s not even that I resent that decision. Clay’s love for his brother is what defines him, and I couldn’t be happy if he felt guilty about our relationship. That’s why I told him the truth in the first place; he needed to understand my … unique situation and make an informed choice.
I offer a tired half smile. “Yes, that’s my whole master plan. I ran half a mile and fell in a veggie patch just so you’d wonder what the hell is up with me.”
This startles a laugh out of him, and by moonlight that’s so beautiful, my heart aches. How the hell did I fall for Clay? When…? I can’t even put a finger on the exact moment it happened, and that bothers me. I draw in an unsteady breath and then he reaches for me.
“We’re not getting back together,” he whispers. “This is … first aid. Because I feel like I might die if I don’t get to be close to you for a minute.”
His arms envelop me, and I push on his chest at first, not because of our it’s complicated relationship status, but because I’ll get him dirty. He ignores my feeble protest and I stop because I don’t really want him to let go. His cheek rests on my hair, rubbing tenderly back and forth. The heat of him scorches me from head to toe. At first, he offered security in a world that made no sense, but now he’s like my sun and stars combined.
“First aid can save your life.” My voice is muffled by his chest.
I hate that I’m not allowed to love him, now that I have a better idea what that means. Though I’m only a few months older, I feel like I’ve matured enough for a couple of years. Slowly I slip my arms around his waist and close my eyes, just letting the warmth soak in. The pain of failure recedes, making me regret my own stupidity a little less.
At least I didn’t get caught. It could’ve been worse.
“You can’t let me kiss you,” he says then.
“Am I the gatekeeper?” Since my toes curled at the low, husky way he said that, I’m probably not the best person for the job.
“It can’t be me. I’m not thinking straight right now.”
“Why not?” I manage to ask.
“Because you’re so close.” But he doesn’t let go. In fact, his hands glide down my back in a hungry stroke that tells me he knows exactly how good it feels.
As much as I don’t want him to regret this, I also don’t want to stop. Just being close to Clay sets off all kinds of fireworks inside me; my nerves are blazing like a zillion Roman candles, all sparks and incandescent yearning. I tip my head back just enough, and my mouth is so close to his chin. He just needs to dip his head a little—
And he does.
Oh, God, he’s kissing me, but we can’t, and it’s so good. My fingers dig into his back, his shoulders, as his mouth works on mine. The hot press of his lips, the rough scrape of his jaw against my cheek. He tastes like tea and lemon and hope, so much sweetness that I think I might die when he finally pulls his mouth away and sets it on my throat. I don’t know if he’s trying to stop or if he wants to drive me crazy. Then he bites, just a little.
“You didn’t stop me.”
I can’t breathe, let alone respond, and then he’s pulling me on top of him in the swing. I straddle him like I did once before, and we’re kissing more, deeper, longer. His hands frame my hips, holding me just so, and it feels so good I can’t stop moving. It doesn’t matter that I’m dirty or that we’re out in public, more or less. I don’t even care. He kisses my throat, my jaw, my ears, as I fall into him completely, grinding until all I can think about is—
“Yes,” he whispers.
And I unravel. It’s happened before, but I was alone then, tentative and fumbling. Afterward, I snuggle in his arms, unable to speak.
Where do we go from here?