Текст книги "Delilah: The Making of Red"
Автор книги: Jessica Sorensen
Соавторы: Jessica Sorensen
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Chapter 3 She-Devil
Later that night, as I’m sitting in front of the television, debating whether I want to watch late-night reruns and keep folding laundry or go to bed, I hear the sound of music from next door. This isn’t out of the ordinary. At least one of the houses in the neighborhood usually has a party during the weekend.
But this sounds like it’s coming from next door, which doesn’t really happen. Before Dylan’s parents moved in, an elderly couple used to live there until they got sick of the noise and headed to Florida. And I rarely hear anything from Dylan’s parents, except for maybe yelling.
Not wanting to be a stalker again, I try to resist the urge to look outside. But eventually it becomes too much, and I get up from the couch and pad over to the window. The driveway is packed with cars, along with the front of the house, and people are standing outside, laughing and smoking and drinking out of plastic cups. It’s a full-blown party, topped off with a guy dancing in the front yard, high off his ass, and a blond girl wearing a leather dress, shaking her hips to the beat of the music on top of a car.
I’m about to look away, figuring I’ll take Bryant’s advice and steer away from any potential self-destructive behavior, when Dylan appears beside the guy smoking the joint. Dylan says something that makes the guy laugh, then he offers him the joint. He takes the joint and puts it up to his lips, inhaling slowly and deeply. I’m completely mesmerized watching his lips, the way he presses them tightly together when he pulls the joint out of his mouth. When he releases the smoke from his lungs, his tongue slips out and he licks lips.
I wish I was the one licking his lips. If I were my mother, I’d get out of my sweats and go over there. Put on a leather dress like the girl on the car and laugh and touch his arm until he came home with me.
But I’m not my mother.
I’m just Delilah.
So instead I just stare out the window, a little longer than I should, and he ends up glancing up at me. Because I left the light on in the kitchen, it lights the house just enough that he can see me.
I contemplate whether to duck and hide and prove that I’m a stalker, or just wave and shrug it off. What would Poison Ivy do? I lift my hand and wave at him, mustering up the best half smile that I can, then I start to turn around, but he holds up his finger like he wants me to wait. I pause as he hands the joint to the lanky guy then hops over the fence into my yard. He keeps his eyes on me as he makes his way up the sidewalk to my front steps, only looking away when he gets close enough to the front door that he can’t see me anymore.
I back off the couch as he knocks and quickly run over to the laundry basket on the couch, rummaging through until I find a pair of my shorts and put them on. Then I tug the elastic out of my hair, shaking it out a little bit before running my fingers through it.
I move so fast that I have to catch my breath before I answer the door and forget to mentally prepare myself. When I catch sight of him, my heart slams so hard in my chest it actually hurts, and I almost fall to the floor, my knees shaking. I’m pretty sure he notices my reaction, but if he does, he doesn’t say anything.
“Hey,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning against the railing, looking all relaxed and sexy in his jeans and pinstriped shirt, the sleeves pushed up so I can see his tattoos and lean arms. “What are you doing?”
“Watching TV and folding laundry,” I say, not realizing how lame it sounds until it actually leaves my mouth.
His lips quirk. “Sounds like a night full of possibilities.”
I try to make a joke and salvage the start of a conversation. “If by possibilities you mean staying up and watching Jay Leno crack jokes while I binge on popcorn, then yeah, the possibilities are endless.” I try to mimic the smile my mom makes every time she’s trying to be cute. “In fact, I might even get really daring and stay up past midnight.”
“Wow, staying up past midnight,” he says, pressing his hand against his chest. “How very adventurous of you.”
“What can I say. I like to live life on the wild side.”
“I bet you do.” His gaze flickers up and down my body and I feel something inside me lift. Then he glances over my shoulder and asks, “Is your mom home?”
My expression falters, and whatever was inside me that was lifting crashes. But as if he senses my disappointment, he adds, “I was just wondering if you were good to come over to the party, or if the parental was going to get in the way.”
I love that he calls her “the parental,” not “my hot sexy sister” or the many other things she’s been called that in no way imply that she’s a mother.
“Actually, she’s at work until three,” I tell him, the lifting sensation rising again, and I feel like I’m about to float away into the sunset.
He glances at the watch. “So you’re good to hang for at least a few hours, right?”
I nod, telling myself to settle down and not be a dork by getting overly excited. “Yep, I’m cool.” It’s so not cool to say you’re cool, but thankfully Dylan seems to find my dorkiness mildly adorable.
He grins at me and then motions me to follow him as he steps down the stairway. I shut the door behind me and follow him down the sidewalk, staying just behind him until we reach the fence. There he jumps over, and then gives me his hand to help me over. I hesitate, staring at his hand, offered to me. Me.
Finally, I take his hand, slipping my fingers through his. The contact of his skin is amazing, creates heat that’s more powerful than the hot summer air flowing around us. His touch is what authors write about. What women dream about. What singers sing about.
And even though I didn’t know it at the time, the moment he took my hand, he owned me, which would seem amazing, except for owning someone and loving someone aren’t the same thing.
He doesn’t let go of my hand after he helps me over the fence. I think he must like holding it. Either that, or he’s forgotten that he has it. I don’t say anything as I follow him across the small strip of lawn on the other side of the fence until we reach the side of the car where the girl is dancing. I realize I know her. Nikki, a girl I go to school with. The way she moves is enthralling, and everyone is watching her. It’s not like she’s the greatest dancer. In fact, I’m sure I’m better. But she’s like my mother, drawing in attention as if she were casting a magic spell over everyone.
I only look away from her when Dylan takes the joint from the lanky guy’s hand and takes a hit as he introduces me. “Landon, this is Delilah.”
Up close and in the light from the porch, I can see his face, and I realize that I know him.
I say, “Yeah, I know. We go to school together.”
He’s stoned, eyes bloodshot and ringed with red, so it takes him a moment to place me. But eventually recognition clicks. “Oh yeah, you had Mr. Melson for fourth, right?”
“And you always sat at the back and got lectured for drawing and not taking notes,” I say, feeling my pulse pound as Dylan grazes his finger along the inside of my wrist.
“And you always got in trouble for being late,” Landon says with a small smile.
I try not to shudder as Dylan’s finger makes his way up my forearm. I want to look at him, see what’s in his eyes, but I’m almost afraid to look. “What can I say,” I tell Landon, tensing when Dylan hands me the joint. “I like to make an entrance.” I stare down at the joint in my hand. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?
I’ve never smoked pot before and I think about just handing it back, but everyone’s looking at me, waiting for me to take a hit—Dylan is waiting for me to take a hit. I don’t want to disappoint him, so I put it up to my lips and inhale just like I saw him do earlier.
But the smoke stings and unable to hold it in, I let out a sharp choking cough that makes me feel ridiculous, especially when a few people laugh at me. Dylan doesn’t, though. As I’m hacking my lungs out, Dylan takes the joint from my hand and gives it back to Landon. Then he swings his arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer to him, kissing the side of my head.
I no longer feel ridiculous.
In fact, I feel like the exact opposite.
I feel like Odette.
And he is Prince Siegfried.
I look up at him and he smiles down at me, moving me with him as he steps forward. “Come on, gorgeous, let’s go get you a drink.”
A smile spreads across my face as I walk with him, squeezing past two cars in the driveway and onto the front yard. He takes me inside his house that’s full of people dancing and drinking.
“It’s my birthday,” he shouts over the music.
“Well, happy birthday then,” I shout back, and he smiles again at me.
As we make our way through his house, I find myself noticing how much his eyes light up when he talks and how much they darken when he looks at me, not in a bad way, but in an I-notice-you way. It makes me happy and nervous at the same time, because no one has ever looked at me like that. By the time we reach the kitchen, I’m sweating and jittery inside, so when he hands me the drink, I devour it, hoping to calm my nerves. But it’s vodka, and I choke on the fiery burn of it.
“Shit.” I cough, throwing the plastic cup like it’s made of poison.
He kicks the cup out of the way and steps closer to me, restraining a grin as he pats me on the back. “Are you okay?”
I nod, biting back a gag. “Super.” I cough, pressing my hand to my chest as I stand back up. “I’m sorry. I thought it was water.”
“Do you want me to get you a water so you can wash it down?” he asks, watching me, his eyes always locked on me, unlike a lot of people who usually look through me when they talk to me, like I barely exist. At least that’s what it feels like.
I shake my head. “No, I’m good now. I promise.”
He nods and then scoots a few liquor bottles out of the way so he can hop on the counter, where he sits and lets his legs dangle over the edge. “So, other than dancing down the driveway and staying up all night and getting freaky with your laundry, what else do you like to do?” He flashes me a grin, and I nearly melt into a puddle right there on the kitchen floor for the crowd to tramp through.
“That’s about it, really,” I admit, scooting closer to him as people pack their way into the already crowded kitchen. “I’m actually pretty boring.”
“I doubt that.” His eyes fill with want. “In fact, aren’t redheads supposed to be wild and fun?”
I self-consciously touch my hair, wishing that were true, wishing I could say yes, wishing I could be that for him. “I think that’s blondes.”
He shakes his hand, his gaze devouring me. “No way. It’s definitely redheads.” He considers something. “Blondes are known for being airheads.”
I snort a laugh. “Well, my mom’s a blonde, and she’s no spacier than I am.”
He considers something for a moment. “Your mom’s a beautiful woman,” he says, and it feels like a knife has entered my chest. He leans forward and touches the side of my head with his fingers. “You look just like her except for the hair.”
“Thanks,” I say, a little confused. “Wait, that was a compliment, right?”
He laughs as he hops off the counter. “It was, but since that wasn’t completely clear, here’s another one for you.” He inches toward me, and I have to tip my head up to meet his eyes. Even though there are people around us, it feels like we’re the only ones in the room.
We stand there for an eternity. He’s eyeing my lips, and I’m struggling to breathe. Then I stop breathing altogether as he reaches forward and grazes his thumb across my bottom lip. “You have the most beautiful lips I’ve ever seen.”
I want to say thank you, but I’m speechless, and the feeling only amplifies when he leans in like he’s going to kiss me. But that can’t be right, because gorgeous guys never want to kiss me.
But he does. It’s just a slight brush of our lips, but it’s enough for fireworks to shoot off inside my body. Enough for me to crumble into his arms. I lose myself in that kiss, and when he pulls away he takes a piece of me with him, one I’ll never get back.
With his attention focused solely on me, he licks his lips with his tongue like he’s savoring the aftertaste of me, then he takes my hand.
“You promised you’d dance for me.” Then he leads me to the living room as the song switches to a slow one, but with a deafening bass that vibrates the windows. Everyone starts dancing, and it makes it hard for him to get us to the center of the living room, but eventually we make it.
Then he watches me, expecting me to dance just for him. And I want to give it to him, be the swan and mesmerize him, especially with how he’s looking at me. But there are so many people around and not enough room and I’m a little nervous.
“You want me to dance for you here?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.
He nods. “I do.”
I glance around at the crowd. “I’m not sure if I can do that here.”
Something flickers in his eyes, something I’ve never seen before, and it makes me hug myself tighter. “You’re not going to dance for me?” he asks.
“I want to,” I say quickly. “But there’s not enough room.” I inch toward him. “A rain check, though.”
For a brief instant I think he’s going to reject me, but then he smiles again. “You owe me a dance still.” Then he grabs hold of my waist and pulls me to him. I hook my arms around his neck, feeling myself smile. Then we move to the beat, our eyes fixed on each other, our bodies aligned perfectly. Even though there are a lot of people grinding to the music and moving around us, no one seems to touch us. It’s like we’re protected by this bubble, and I feel powerful, no longer invisible but standing in the spotlight. He makes me feel that way just by looking at me, like I’m not just Delilah, but someone else. Someone who deserves to be standing center stage.
That’s how we remain until the next song, moving to the rhythm, our bubble around us, eyes glued to each other, the crowd vanishing the closer we get.
Dylan leans in and his breath touches my cheek as he asks, “So on a scale of one to ten, how lame is this party?”
I slant back to look him in the eyes, but keep my hands on his shoulders, making sure I don’t put too much room between us. “It’s not lame at all. In fact, it’s pretty fun.”
He wavers, like he doesn’t agree. “It’s not the best one I’ve put together. In fact, in Alpine, I was known for my parties.”
“You lived in Alpine before this?” I ask and he nods. “What did you do there besides throw parties?”
He studies me closely. “I’m not sure I can trust you with that answer yet.”
“Why? Is it like a secret or something?” I ask.
He wavers again. “Or something.”
I’m not sure how to respond. “Well, what do you do now, or is that a secret, too?”
He looks annoyed by my persistent questioning, but it swiftly vanishes as he says, “I’ll tell you what. The next time we hang out together, on a real date, I’ll tell you some of my secrets, Delilah Peirce.”
At the time, I felt so happy about what he said, as if he cared enough about me to tell me his secrets, as if I had some sort of power over him. But if I had looked closer, hadn’t been so blinded by the need to be seen, I would have seen that he had the control.
But I didn’t see it like that and just kept dancing with him in a daze, engrossed by everything he did or said, like his looks and words were made of gold—maybe even worth more, because he made me feel like I was worth more.
Then Nikki showed up wearing her black leather dress that reminded me a lot of the black-feathered costume Odile wore in Swan Lake.
“Mind if I cut in?” she asks, tightening her arms at her side to create more cleavage.
Dylan snubs her. “No thanks, Nikki. I’m already dancing with Delilah.”
I smile sweetly at her and I nearly feel the burn of her death glare as she starts to back away. “Well, maybe later, then. After little Miss Sweet-and-Innocent goes to bed,” she says without looking at me, putting me in my place like a true she-devil.
Still, he ignores her and keeps his hands on my hips, swaying us to the music, and she finally walks away. We continue to dance and talk about lighter things, like our favorite food, color, band, car. We do this for hours, and every time he smiles or laughs at something I say, I feel my stomach somersault and feel myself never wanting the night to end.
But it does, and by the time I have to go home, I feel like I’m floating. Dylan walks me to my door. He brushes his lips across mine. And then he stays there until I’m safely inside and lock the door.
It’s a perfect night. Everything is so perfect and I dance my way back to my room, feeling as though I just got a leading part. But then I look out the window just before I go to bed and see Dylan standing in the driveway talking to the she-devil herself, laughing as she touches his arm and leans in to whisper something in his ear. I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just talking and friendly touching, but as I lay in bed, hurting and on the verge of crying, I realize that tonight meant everything to me.
And that was a dangerous way to think, because I was already letting myself drown in Dylan and there was so much farther to sink. So many more tears. Heartache. Disappointment.
Pain.
Chapter 4 Maneater
It takes me some time to let the whole Nikki thing go. It’s not like I say anything to Dylan about it, but every time we talk, I can’t help but wonder if he hooked up with her that night, if he looked at her like he looked at me. Made her feel special like he makes me feel every day.
We haven’t gone on an official date yet, so I still don’t know his secrets. I do start spending a lot of time out in the front yard, though. Dance class has ended for the summer, so there’s not a lot of stuff to do. But I keep busy, reading out in the front yard, tanning out in the front yard, even going as far as mowing the lawn, just so I can watch Dylan work on his car, occasionally checking out his ass and anything else I can get my eyes on.
The amazing thing is, he always comes up and talks to me. Every day for two weeks straight. A lot of our conversations are centered around the car he’s working on. Even though I have no interest in cars, I nod and pretend that I’m superinterested in everything he says, so he’ll keep on talking to me and hopefully like me. He also asks me a lot of questions, like my likes and dislikes, where I’m from, what I do for fun. He doesn’t try to kiss me again, though, and I find myself missing the touch of his lips and the feelings the kiss stirred inside me.
“There’s no way that could be true,” I say after a very long conversation about music and concerts as we stand beside the fence. “You really saw Unwritten Law play?”
He nods as he wipes his greasy hands on a rag. “Yeah, three years ago.” He tosses the rag on the ground. “They’re even better live.”
I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I’d been mowing the lawn when he finally came out of the house, and so I’m sweaty and gross, but I didn’t want to walk away, afraid I’d miss the chance to talk to him if I did. “I think most bands are,” I say. “At least more powerful. Well, except for heavy metal bands, but I can’t stand that music anyway.”
He nods in agreement. “Yeah, that’s probably my least favorite, too.”
“It’s such a shame that you still can’t watch old rock bands play like Lynyrd Skynyrd,” I say. “Now that would be something to see.”
“You seriously listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd?” he asks, making his way back to the fence after collecting a bottle of water from the cooler beside the car.
I nod, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yeah, I listen to a lot of classic rock actually, but that might be because my mom’s been branding it into my head since I was five.”
He angles his head to the side as his gaze quickly skims to the front door of my house just behind me. “Your mom seems like an interesting woman,” he says.
I try not to react, even though I want to shout at him that she’s a true maneater. “Yeah, I guess.”
He leans against the fence, the muscles of his lean arms rippling as he crosses them on top of the metal post. “What does she do for a living?” he asks.
“She works at a bar,” I reply agitated. “Why?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know… I just see her coming and going with a lot of men.”
“That’s because she sleeps with a new one every day.” It sort of just slips out, but I don’t want to take it back. In fact, I’m hoping it repulses him.
He arches a brow at me, looking more interested than he did before, which means I epically failed. “Really?” He considers something for a moment and keeps glancing at my house like my mom’s going to walk out in her underwear, which probably wouldn’t be the first time.
I press my lips together, hating how interested he is in her. “Well, I’m sure if you hit on her, she’d probably sleep with you too,” I say spitefully.
He glances at me with a questioning look on his face. “You think so?”
Anger simmers under my skin. “Maybe. She likes her guys young.”
His gaze bores into me. “And you’d be okay with that?”
“If you slept with my mother?” I ask. “You can do whatever you want.” I hate my mother right now. Hate that she’s so pretty. Hate that she likes to sleep with guys more than she likes her daughter, because I know right now if Dylan hit on her, she’d snatch him up, use him, then spit him back out.
Which is exactly what I want to do, except for the spitting-out part. I’d want to keep him.
He stares at me for a few moments longer, and then his intense gaze softens as he almost looks pleased. “You want to go somewhere with me?”
My jaw nearly drops. What the hell? How do we go from asking questions about my mother to asking me out on a date finally? Still, I say, “Where?”
He stands up straight, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Me and a couple of friends are going to go down to the fair in Jackson to ride the rides and hang out. I’m sure it’s going to be pretty lame, but we could make it fun.” He winks at me and grins, dimples appearing, and my heart skips a beat.
“Sure, that sounds fun,” I say in a calm voice, despite my giddiness.
“Does it?” He bites back his amusement as he starts to walk back to his house. “Alright then, Red, I’ll pick you up at eight.”
My brows knit. “Red?”
He suppresses a grin as he steps back toward me and extends his arm. I stop breathing, terrified and excited as he hooks his finger around a strand of my hair. “Yeah, your hair.” He ravels it around his finger, tightly, pulling on it just enough that it sort of makes my scalp sting. “Red is actually my favorite color… I plan on painting my car red and everything.” He tugs on my hair a little bit harder, watching my reaction with fascination. “In fact, I think I’m going to call you that from now on.”
I’m not sure I agree with his nickname for me, because I can’t help but think of the Marvel comic book character Red Sonja, who was a redhead and an amazingly beautiful temptress who rocked a bikini, and none of that begins to describe me—well, except for my red hair.
He releases my hair and tucks his hands in the pockets of his loose-fitting jeans. “I’ll pick you up at eight,” he says, and then turns away and goes back to his tools scattered on the driveway in front of his car.
I watch him bend over, rubbing my head where he pulled on my hair, butterflies fluttering in my stomach. It has to be a date.
I’m going on my first date.
I’m practically bouncing as I enter the living room. My mom must notice my overly happy attitude, too, because she immediately gets this weird look when she glances up from painting her toenails on the sofa. “Maneater” by Hall & Oates is playing from the stereo, and there’s some sort of soap opera on the television, but the volume is turned down.
“What do you look so happy about?” she asks as she brushes the nail polish across her toenail.
I flop down on the sofa that’s across from the one she’s sitting on, grab a pillow, and place it on my lap. “A guy asked me out.”
She glances up at me. “You mean the one that’s been the cause of you over-mowing my front lawn.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I feign dumb, not because I’m afraid she’ll tease me or tell me he’s too old for me. But because I’m afraid she’ll steal him.
“Sure you don’t.” She shakes her head, smiling as she twists the nail polish lid back on. “So he finally asked you out?”
“Yes,” I tell her, hugging the pillow against my chest.
She muses over this. “He’s quite the catch. I’m proud of you, Delilah.” I feel this ping of pride as she says it, and the sun feels a little brighter, like I’m not standing in her shadow. Then she turns on the sofa, props her feet up on the coffee table in front of her, and pats the spot on the sofa next to her. “Come sit by me so we can talk.”
I sigh, get up, and cross the room, sitting down beside her. “Please tell me you’re not going to give me a sex talk, because I already know how that works.”
She raises her eyebrows at me with curiosity. “How well do you know?”
For some reason, I feel ashamed as I admit the truth. “Not that well.” My cheeks heat. “I mean, I’m still a virgin.”
She looks me over, like she’s trying to weigh if that fact has anything to do with my looks or not. I’m not sure what she decides, but when she looks away, she reaches for her purse on the table. She unzips it, reaches in, and takes something out. “Take this with you.” She hands me what’s in her hand.
I stare down at the condom. “Mom, I don’t think—”
“You may not think anything’s going to happen,” she interrupts me. “But you’re a beautiful girl, Delilah, and if you decide to use that beauty, I want to make sure you have control over the situation.” She stands up and walks awkwardly toward the hallway because her toenails are still drying. “Don’t ever leave it up to the guy to make decisions for you,” she calls over her shoulder, exiting the room.
As much as I was jealous of my mother, she had an excellent point. One I wish I would have listened to on a deeper level, taken it as a subtle warning not just to protect myself from sex, but to protect myself from getting hurt, lost, losing myself.
It’s funny, but it was one of the last real conversations we had that really meant anything. As the years went by we drifted, and when I left, she never came looking for me. I wonder if she’ll ever find out that I died. Or when or if my body is discovered, I’ll just end up as another insignificant and unidentified Jane Doe.
