Crash

“Dammit, Lucy,” he groaned, using my full name for the first time in a long time. “It’s taking every last ounce of willpower I have to keep from throwing you down on the table and doing everything to you I’ve played out in my mind a thousand times,” he said, waving his hands from me to the table to the sky. “But you’re better than that. You deserve better than that. You don’t deserve to be one of those girls screwed on your parents’ kitchen table. You deserve so much more than that,” he said, challenging me with his eyes. “So leave that robe in place and don’t tempt me again.”

I felt embarrassed and rejected, but special and flattered at the same time. It was a very confusing mix of emotions. “Sorry,” I said again, shooting him an awkward grin as I started to climb the stairs.

“Hey,” he grabbed my hand, “don’t apologize. I want you in every way a man could want a woman. I just don’t want to screw this thing up, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m in unchartered territory here, Luce. I need a little help.” His fingers curved through mine.

“Me, too,” I replied.

“Yeah, I suppose you are.” He squeezed my hand before letting it go. “I’ll help you out then, too. Now go get that sexy ass dress on so I can dance with you all night.”

“Fine, bossy,” I said, making my way up the stairs. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be down in five.”

“Oh, and Luce,” he called out, snapping his fingers. I looked back at him from the top of the stairs. “When it comes to underwear selection,”—his eyes were gleaming—“you get an A.”

As if I needed another confirmation, men were impossible creatures. Grinning tightly at him, I cinched my robe tighter. “And when it comes to underwear removal, you get a sucks ass.”

“Ooo, Luce,” he said, grabbing the banister, “now that was a good one. Hanging around me has vastly improved your comedic delivery. Learning through osmosis, I suppose.”

I plunked a hand on my hip. “How can someone who knows what osmosis is be flunking all their classes?” Jude was not dummy, but his grades reflected otherwise.

“Unequivocal talent, baby,” he answered, grinning like the devil, “unequivocal talent.”

I’d just slid my last earring in when I heard the familiar sound of tires crunching over gravel.

“Luce,” Jude’s voice carried up the stairs, “you expecting company?”

Grabbing my vintage cardigan from the bed, I rushed out of my bedroom, now hearing the familiar sound of the garage door retracting.

“It’s my parents,” I said, hurrying down the stairs.

Jude’s forehead lined. “And they don’t know I’m the one taking you to homecoming?”

Pausing at the end of the stairs, I shook my head.

“And because I’m so good at guessing, I’d say they don’t even know we go to the same school, do they?” he asked, trying to play it off like it was nothing, but to me, it felt like the worst kind of betrayal.

I shook my head again, not able to look at him.

“All right, what’s my exit strategy?” he asked, looking around the room. “Front door, back door, or window?” He wasn’t smiling, he was serious. Something broke inside my heart.

“No exit strategy,” I said, taking his hand and walking across the living room. “I’d like to introduce my date to my parents.”

“This ought to be good.”

“Yeah,” I said with sarcasm, “it’ll be a blast.”

“Any advice?” he said, shouldering up beside me in the kitchen doorway.

“Yeah,” I said, watching the garage door twist open. “Buckle up.”

“Who the hell’s car is in the—” Mom came to an abrupt halt in the doorway. So abruptly dad bounced off of her.

“Dad, Mom,” I cleared my throat, putting on a face that said everything was normal, “you’re home early.”

“Your dad wasn’t feeling well,” she said in a clipped tone, leveling me with a glare.

I cleared my throat. “You remember Jude.”

Stepping into the kitchen, she gave Jude that look. The same one she’d given him the first day she’d met him. The one that said go back to whatever hole you came out of. “One has a tough time forgetting the face of a felon led off your property in handcuffs.”

That flash of temper was begging to be taken off its chain.

“What are you doing here?”

Jude stepped forward. “Taking Luce to homecoming, ma’am.”

“No,” she said, “you most certainly are not. Where are your friends, by the way?” she went on, looking over his shoulder like she expected to find them lounging in the living room. “Are they in the backseat, waiting to burn the rest of my daughter’s hair off? Or are they waiting in the school parking lot, ready to douse her in a gallon of gasoline again?”

Jude winced, looking down.

“Mom,” I warned, “those guys were not Jude’s friends. And cut out the parenting act, it’s too little too late.”

“Don’t you dare talk to me that way, Lucille!” Mom shouted, pointing at me. “You are grounded until the day you move out of this house for lying to your father and me.” She could really wield her index finger as a weapon. “And yes, those were”—she glared at him—“are his friends. You chose not to look at the police reports I’ve seen. Those boys and Jude committed their first crime together years ago. Drug dealing, wasn’t it?” she said, not as a question to be confirmed or denied. “Jude and the rest of those drains on society at that boys’ home need to all be locked up and have the key thrown away. They don’t deserve to take good, hard working girls with futures to homecoming dances.”