Текст книги "Four Years Later"

Автор книги: Monica Murphy

Соавторы: Monica Murphy
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“He goes through a ton of girls; he likes to party and drink and smoke pot. Like, all the time.” Kari winces. “He’s so not the type of guy I picture you with, that’s for sure.”

“Why, because he’s good-looking and I’m not?” I know I’m on the defensive, but I can’t help myself.

“I never said that.” She reaches out to test the curling iron and finds it hot enough to her liking. “Turn around.”

I do as she asks, trying to calm the bubble of anger threatening to grow inside of me. “What did you mean, then?”

“You’re sweet and nice and he’s … not. At least from what I’ve heard.” She takes a chunk of hair from the back of my head and winds it around the curling iron, waiting a few beats before she slowly undoes it, showing me the result in a hand mirror. It falls in a perfect curl. “He is super hot, though, you lucky girl. His body is amazing.”

My cheeks heat. It is. Everything about Owen is amazing. “He’s really nice.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” She curls another piece, then another, and we both remain quiet for a few minutes, me chewing over what Kari said. I shouldn’t think anything could come out of this between Owen and me. Kari is right. We have nothing in common, and he’s definitely not my type … not that I have a type.

But I want a type.

“When he looks at me it’s like he wants to—do stuff to me,” I admit, my voice low.

“Ha, I’m definitely sure about that.” Kari slowly shakes her head, releasing another perfect curl. I could never make my hair look this good. I always screw up the back. “Watch out, Chelsea. I know you don’t have a lot of experience with guys. I just don’t want him to take advantage of you.”

“He won’t. I trust him.” I do, surprisingly enough. I only started working with him a couple of weeks ago, but I do trust him.

Men can never be trusted. They all want only one thing. Your body. And once they possess that, they toss you aside like yesterday’s trash.

Mom’s words ring through my head and I try to banish them, but it’s no use. The familiar anxiety fills me and I try to focus on anything else but the hatred my mom has toward all males in this universe.

No wonder I thought I wanted to become a lesbian. My man-hating, turn-around-and-forgive-my-dad-for-anything mom would make any girl consider turning.

“Just … keep your clothes on. This is your first date with him, after all.” Kari’s gaze meets mine in the mirror. “Right?”

My first real date ever, not that I’m going to confess that. “Yes. Definitely. We haven’t done anything beyond the tutoring lesson stuff.” Well, I’ve been at his house. And in his bedroom. I’ve actually spent a lot of time with him but never like this, on an official date and all.

“Call me if you need anything. And I mean anything. I’ll be home all night.” She moves to my right side, curling my hair with quick precision, like she’s a pro. “Your hair looks awesome.”

“And you didn’t want to curl it,” I remind her, keeping my gaze on my reflection in the mirror. Kari’s right. My hair looks pretty fabulous. “It does look good.”

“I have skills, what can I say? Plus, I have sisters. Lots of practice.” She sets the curling iron on the counter and turns it off. “Turn and face me.”

I do as she asks, letting her fluff out my hair so it falls past my shoulders in luxurious, perfect waves. “He’d better not drive you anywhere on a motorcycle or anything. Losing these curls would be a tragedy,” Kari says. She grabs a can of hair spray and takes the cap off. “Close your eyes.”

She sprays my hair for what feels like five minutes but was really only about ten seconds. “Not too much,” I warn her. What if Owen wants to touch my hair and it’s all sticky and stiff? Talk about ruining the mood.

“What? You want lover boy to run his fingers through your pretty hair?” I open my eyes to see her set the hair spray on the counter. She pulls open her makeup drawer, contemplating the contents within. “Can I do your makeup?”

“I have a little bit on already. Some mascara,” I answer. “And my lip gloss is in my purse.”

She gives me a look. One that says “you’ve got to be kidding.” “That you say ‘my lip gloss’ like it’s the only one you own scares me.”

“It is the only one I own. You know this.” I don’t wear a lot of makeup and I don’t have the money to buy a bunch of stuff, so I don’t waste it. I have one great L’Oréal lip gloss I bought at Target a year ago and I use it sparingly.

“You’re a travesty to all women, especially ones who would die to go on a date with Owen Maguire. He’s, like, the hottest man alive. And he’s only a sophomore. We have many years of him on campus still.” She digs through her drawer, pulling out all sorts of mysterious stuff. “I’m doing your makeup. I’ll do a really smoky eye and then keep the rest of your face relatively clean. We’ll slick your lips with that special singular lip gloss you own, and then he’ll want to kiss it all off when he sees you.”

My cheeks grow so hot they must be blazing pink. Kari laughs when she sees my face and shakes her head. “You won’t need any blush if you keep that up.”

I could punch her for giving me grief. Instead, I let her work her magic. Applying what feels like layer after layer of way-too-dark shadow on my eyes, then nearly poking my eyes out with the mascara wand. She won’t let me look at my reflection until she’s done and I wait in fidgety anticipation, both excited to see the result and afraid I’ll look absolutely ridiculous.

It’s a chance I don’t mind taking. I want to look beautiful for Owen. Like a sophisticated woman who knows exactly what she’s doing versus the naïve, silly girl I really am.

He already pretty much knows the real you and despite it all, he still asked you out.

I’m totally ignoring the naggy voice inside my head.

“Okay. I’m done.” Kari steps back from me, assessing her work with a shrewd eye. “Wow, you look gorgeous if I do say so myself.”

“Can I see?” She grabs my shoulders and turns me this way and that, totally checking me over. “Please?”

“Yes.” She turns me toward the mirror slowly. “See what the makeup master did.”

I stare at my reflection, shocked that I’m staring back at myself. I look so different. Not overly made up or crazy-looking but definitely … older. My skin is flawless. The eye shadow I feared was too dark actually accentuates my blue eyes, making them look brighter and giving them a smoky, sexy glow.

“Wow,” I whisper.

She nudges my shoulder with hers. “I know, right? Your eyes really pop.”

“They do.” I turn to the right, then to the left. I wonder what Owen will think. Will he like it? Some guys don’t like makeup. “Thank you, Kari. You did a great job.”

“You’re welcome. Are you going to change?”

I shake my head, embarrassment making my cheeks redden again. “He asked that I keep the sweater on.”

She laughs, sweeping all the cosmetics she used back into the drawer before she slams it shut. “Why am I not surprised? I’m sure the sweater distracted him. Well, more like your bra did.”

I roll my eyes but laugh with her. She’s right. I know the bra distracted him.

And I’m hopeful I can distract him some more.

CHAPTER 10

Chelsea

His eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he came to my apartment to pick me up. The look on Owen’s face alone was worth the drill Kari had put me through as she remade my face. Not that she’d asked too many outrageous questions or anything like that. I just … it’s hard talking about Owen and me and what we share.

First, there’s not much to tell. Second, whatever is going on between us feels so fresh and special and new, I really don’t want to talk about it.

I’m still trying to figure it all out.

We’re quiet on the ride over to the restaurant, the air within the confines of his relatively new and surprisingly clean car filled with some sort of foreign tension that I’m pretty sure is sexual. I may be a virgin and horribly inexperienced with guys, but I’m no idiot.

I’m ultra aware of him and how he looks, what he smells like, how he moves. The subtlest shift of his body as he settles in the driver’s seat, the tension in his arms, how his big hands grip the steering wheel. The thick muscles in his thighs draw my attention and I can easily imagine reaching out and resting my hand there. Slowly curling it around so that my fingers rest on the inside of his thigh …

Yeah. Being with him makes me want to be bold. Makes me want to do things I’ve never, ever considered doing before. It’s exhilarating.

It’s also really scary.

He didn’t change clothes. He’s still in the same outfit he wore to our earlier session and I’m glad. I like the way he looks in the plaid flannel, the stretch of white cotton across his broad chest. I like even more how he casts the occasional glance in my direction, smiling in that self-assured way of his. That smile says everything is going to be just fine. That I’m in more-than-capable hands.

I believe him.

“I think you’ll like the food here,” he tells me as we enter the restaurant.

“Oh, I’ve been here before,” I say, glancing around the Mongolian barbeque place. The décor is simple, the dining room big, and usually it’s packed wall to wall with people. But it’s a Monday night, so it’s not as busy as usual.

“You have?” He shakes his head. “Why am I not surprised? I can’t impress you no matter how hard I try.”

He’s trying to impress me? “I like to come here with my roommate. It’s cheap and the food is delicious.”

“Do you make your own sauce or do you follow the menu?”

Huh? Sometimes Owen asks really weird questions. “Um, I always follow the menu.”

“Of course you do.” He smiles down at me and I tilt my head back, offering him a tiny smile in return. He’s so ridiculously good-looking that I tend to get a little lost when I’m with him. So lost that we stare at each other for a while, until the guy standing behind us clears his throat to indicate we should get moving.

“Sorry,” I mumble at the middle-aged man as we step forward, my apology making Owen chuckle.

We both grab our bowls and go down the buffet line, preparing our meals until we stop in front of the sauce station, my shoulder bumping against his arm. It’s like falling into a wall of muscle, he’s so solid.

I study the menu of various sauces, my gaze snagging on the recipe I always stick with. A few scoops of soy, another couple of teriyaki … and I always bypass the spicy stuff since I’m a total wimp.

I’m also totally boring. I never venture out of the familiar. Ever. I keep to myself. I read, I study, I do my homework, I hang with Kari when I can, and I work, work, work.

“Live a little,” he says, bending down so his voice is right at my ear. A shiver moves down my spine. He’s so close I can almost imagine his lips grazing my skin. “Don’t follow the recipe. Just throw in a bunch of different ingredients and see what happens.”

I wrinkle my nose. “What if I hate it?”

“Trust me. You won’t hate it.” He reaches past me and grabs the ladle that’s in the garlic oil, scooping it up and dumping it in my bowl.

“But—that wasn’t on the menu,” I say, a little shocked that he’d take such liberties with my food.

He laughs and then dumps two scoops of the garlic oil on top of the ingredients overflowing his bowl. “I know. We’re gonna get a little crazy tonight, Chels. I gotta warn you.”

“What if I’m allergic to garlic?”

Owen turns to look at me, his green eyes open wide. “You aren’t … are you?”

Slowly I shake my head, smiling a little. “No, I’m not.”

He blows out a harsh breath. “You scared me for a second.”

I doubt anything scares him. “But now I’m going to have garlic breath.”

“No big deal. So will I.” He grabs the ladle in the soy sauce and adds it to his bowl. “When I kiss you later, it won’t really matter, right? We’ll both have garlic breath.”

My heart skips three beats, I swear. He says he’s going to kiss me so casually. Like it’s no big deal. It might not be for him, but for me …

It’s a huge deal. Like major. When I’m comparing a kiss from Owen Maguire to the measly few boys I’ve kissed in my life, I know without a doubt this is going to be different. The way I feel about Owen is different. Cody Curtis attacked me and it had been awful.

A kiss from Owen is going to be the complete opposite of awful. As long as I’m not awful either …

I start tossing a variety of ingredients into my bowl just like he does, my mind going over what he said again and again. Worry dances in my stomach. Anticipation is such a killer. “So you plan on … kissing me tonight?”

He lavishes on the homemade teriyaki sauce, scoop after scoop, until all the vegetables and meat and noodles are swimming in it. “I have lots of plans for you tonight.”

His voice is full of so much rich promise I feel slightly dizzy. I follow Owen to the giant barbeque griddle, where the cook takes each of our bowls and tosses them on the round surface, separating my ingredients from Owen’s with a large metal cooking utensil that looks like a sword.

This is usually my favorite part of the process, but I can’t focus tonight. I’m too aware of the boy standing next to me. The things he just said. It’s as if he’s purposely trying to unnerve me, keep me on edge, and I wish I knew what he was thinking. I’m a logical person. I like facts and figures. Yet what’s happening between us is completely illogical.

And I can hardly wrap my brain around it.

He turns toward me, dipping his head and lowering his voice. “Can I confess something to you?”

I brace myself. “Um, sure.”

Glancing up, he looks around, like he’s making sure no one’s listening. Considering there’s no one near us at the moment and the cook can probably only hear the sizzle of the food on the gas grill, it’s kind of funny. “I used to like coming here when I was high as hell. The food always tasted a lot better.”

Ah, a drug reference. I almost forgot the rumors I’ve heard that Owen Maguire was once a major pothead. I’m pretty positive that the one night I went to his house to help him study he was high, but I can’t be sure. As if I’d know. I have no experience with drugs whatsoever. Mom and Dad both completely sheltered me. “Do you still get high?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs, avoiding my gaze.

Disappointment settles over me and I try my best not to judge. “Don’t they drug test you to be on the football team?”

He sends me a look. “There are ways to get around that, Chels. Trust me.”

I’m incredulous. I can’t believe he would admit such a thing. “I’m surprised you would risk it. Here you are working so hard to get your grades up to get back onto the team and then you admit you still spark up the occasional joint?”

“I never said I was perfect, you know?” He stares off into the distance, his jaw hard, his gaze dark. “I have my issues. Sometimes getting high helps me forget.”

“Temporarily,” I add. “You can’t run away from your problems, you know.” Listen to me, offering advice when I love running away from my own problems.

Well, it’s more like I avoid them. Pretend they don’t exist. Problems like my father.

He doesn’t say anything and I’m afraid I’ve made Owen mad. Whatever, since I’m not too happy with him at the moment anyway. His admission reminds me how different we really are. I’m the good girl, the straight arrow who never does anything wrong. The girl that learned it’s best to remain good after witnessing the demise of her very, very bad father.

Owen is a bad boy. I’ve turned into the total cliché. The innocent, naïve girl who’s fallen for the guy who smokes pot and plays football and can barely keep up his grades.

“Here you go.” The cook hands over our bowls and we go to the register to pay, Owen taking care of everything. I stand behind him, declining when he asks if I want a soda.

I want to run and hide. My appetite has left me, and that never, ever happens when I come here.

When we finally sit at a small table near the back of the restaurant, Owen leans toward me, his expression earnest and full of regret. “Hey, I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I just … I’m trying to be better. It’s hard, you know?”

No, not really, but I’m not going to hold it against him. “Apology accepted,” I say, grabbing my fork and stabbing it into the steaming-hot bowl of food. “I have no business judging. I’m only … watching out for you.”

“I know.” He sighs. “You sound like my sister.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“A good thing.” His gaze meets mine, warm and green, and I forget everything else. He’s all I can focus on. “You’d like her.”

“Tell me about her.” I’d rather direct the conversation so he does all the talking and I do all the listening.

I don’t want him to ask personal questions. The last person I want to talk about is Dad. Or Mom, for that matter.

“Fable is five years older than me. She’s married and she just had a baby.”

Such an unusual name, Fable. Makes me wish I knew the story behind it. Because you know there’s a story. “Right. I saw the picture and you told me about the baby. Is it a girl or a boy?”

“A girl. Her name is Autumn.”

“Ah, that’s so sweet.”

We talk as we devour our food, my appetite back in full force once I caught a whiff of the delicious, mouth-watering scent wafting up from my bowl. Owen tells me about growing up here, that his sister means everything to him, and the influence her husband had on his early teen years.

He doesn’t mention his parents once. He doesn’t seem to even know who his dad is, but what about his mom? Where is she in this picture? Did she ditch her children? Was she always working? She’s a mystery, and I find it weird that he never talks about her.

Of course, I never talk about my father, so who am I to question him? Our first date isn’t the place for me to divulge to Owen all about the convicted felon who just so happens to be the man who raised me.

“What about you?” he asks, knocking me out of my thoughts. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Uh-oh. Here come the personal questions. “No,” I say, shaking my head.

“You’re an only child?”

“Yes.”

He studies me, his gaze narrow, trying to figure me out, I’m sure. “You don’t like talking about your family?”

I shrug. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Hey. I get it,” he says softly, then takes a sip of his soda.

And that’s it. He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask for more. I almost want to collapse with relief. He makes me feel so wonderfully normal.

“So you never did tell me how it was,” Owen says as he pushes his empty bowl away from him. For someone who’s as fit as he is, he can certainly pack it away.

“How what was?” I’m stuffed. I did my best to finish everything but as usual, my eyes were bigger than my stomach and my bowl is still practically half full.

“Your dinner. With the magical, crazy I’ve-never-tried-this-before sauce.” He smiles.

“Oh.” Crap. I almost hate admitting how delicious it was. “It was all right.”

“Uh-huh. You didn’t finish it.” He nods toward my bowl.

“I’m full. I guess I don’t have a big appetite like you do.” I wave my hand toward his very empty bowl.

“Hmm.” He snatches up my bowl and takes a bite that consists mostly of noodles. The look of pleasure that crosses his face is unmistakable. “Damn, this is good. Better than mine.”

“Give me a break. I pretty much copied you.” I roll my eyes.

He laughs and continues to eat my dinner. Where does it all go? “Maybe you have the special touch. Because this shit is amazing.”

I watch, enraptured with everything about him. He laughs and talks and eats like he doesn’t have a care in the world, but I know that’s somewhat of a façade. What Owen wants all of the world to see. There’s more beneath the surface. I can sense it, have seen glimmers of it, though he’s pretty secretive.

But then again, so am I.

My gaze drops to his lips, and I see the tiny bit of mushroom clinging to the corner. “You have something right there. On the corner of your mouth.” I point right at his face and he smirks, a sexy glow lighting his eyes as he studies me.

“Yeah? Maybe you should lick it off, then,” he suggests.

Now I’m really shocked. “Are you serious?”

He tilts his head. Doesn’t bother removing the bit of vegetable hanging off his lip and I swear it’s taunting me. Just begging me to lean over the small table and lick the corner of his mouth. “What do you think?” he asks.

“No. You’re definitely not serious.” There’s just … no way.

“What if I told you yes, I was?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

Owen

Well, she should believe me because I’m dead-ass serious. We’ve been going in circles all night. Dinner was good, though it got tense at one point with the pot talk. But that quickly became a non-issue and I actually talked to her. Told her a little about my private life, and I never do that. I’m not one to open up, especially with girls.

She hardly said anything. I’d try to ask her a question and she’d deflect it with another. Or she’d give me those bogus one-word answers. I thought I was secretive. This girl won’t give an inch, no matter how subtle my questions, or how blatant. No information about her family, where she’s from, nothing. I figured out she’s from the Bay Area and that’s about it.

I want to know more.

We’ve been flirting, having fun. I like giving her shit for going out on a limb and breaking a rule here and there. She’s so damn orderly and in control, she needs to learn how to let loose. Be free. I might be a little too free sometimes, but that’s better than being so rigid you don’t know how to enjoy life.

I think Chelsea’s been on such a tight schedule of studying, working, then studying some more, she doesn’t know how to relax. And I want to help her. I want her to relax.

With me.

Since I know there’s no way in hell Chelsea’s going to lick my freaking face in the middle of a restaurant, I’m ready to go. Take her for a drive and kiss her in the quiet confines of my car. Wade’s home tonight and has a few friends with him. I bet Des is there, too. They’re probably drunk as fuck or worse, high as kites.

Forget that shit. I need to avoid it.

I grab a napkin and wipe the mushroom off my face, ending that little discussion. I’m over it. It’s time to kick this date into the next level. “You ready to go?”

Chelsea nods and tosses her napkin on the table before she stands, her purse slung over her bare shoulder since that sexy-as-hell sweater slipped again. She did something to her hair between the time I saw her at school and picking her up at her place. Gorgeous waves that fall past her shoulders tempt me to run my fingers through her silky hair. Cup the back of her neck and draw her in close. So close our lips are almost touching but not quite. I want to breathe her breath, anticipate the kiss for long, trembling seconds before I finally move in and close the deal.

I have never been patient. If I’m interested in a girl, I go for it. There’s no holding back. But with Chelsea, I’m taking it slow. I’m afraid I’ll scare her.

More than anything, I’m scared I’ll somehow fuck it up. I … like her. A lot. I actually want to spend time with her, and that’s not normal for me.

At all.

I follow her out of the restaurant, resting my hand on her lower back when we walk outside. She’s warm, even through the thick fabric of her sweater, and I slip my hand down slightly, wishing I could slide it over her backside.

But I wait.

The night air is cold and misty; a high, thin fog has settled in, and little sparkles of moisture dot her hair by the time we end up at my car. I open the door for her, feeling all gentlemanly for once in my life, but then all thoughts of being a gentleman fade as I study her ass when she slides into the passenger seat.

Get it together, Maguire, I tell myself as I round the front of my car and open the driver’s door, slipping inside.

“Where to now?” she asks, chewing on her lip in that nervous way she has as she reaches for the seat belt.

“Can’t go to my place unless you want to deal with Wade, and most likely Des.” I start the car and let the engine idle. “They’re both there, and I’m sure other people are over, too.” They can’t ever be alone. Always got to turn everything into a party.

“Oh.” More chewing of the lip. Poor thing. I should probably kiss it and make it better. “My roommate’s home and I think she was having her new so-called boyfriend over, so that probably won’t work.”

“So-called boyfriend?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s a casual thing that I think she wants to make serious.”

“Ah.” Sounds familiar. I’ve been that guy not willing to make it serious.

I’ve never been in a real relationship, ever. Mom screwed me up in that regard. Though seeing Drew and Fable through the years made me realize that a solid love can last, I’m still full of doubt.

Insecurities. I’m a mess. What girl would really want to deal with me? What with my mommy issues and minor drug problem, I’m no prize.

“Since we can’t go home, want to go for a drive?” I ask her.

She turns her body toward mine, her scent wafting in the air, making me inhale as discreetly as possible. “Where to?”

Damn, she smells good. I could breathe her in all night. “I know a place that has a great view of the city. No one will bother us up there.” I might have parked in that very spot a few times in high school. Always taking a girl with me, it was somewhere private where we could make out and I could possibly get my hand up her shirt or in her panties. No worries about the cops coming by unless we happened to be up there past midnight.

I haven’t been to that spot in a couple of years. Once I graduated high school and got my own place, there was no need to sneak around. Why fool around in the backseat of a car when you can get busy and naked in the comfort of your own bed?

But I’m not getting busy and naked with Chelsea tonight. So I’m looking forward to this.

“Okay.” She runs her tongue over her lower lip, then smiles. “Let’s do it.”

I can read all sorts of things in her “let’s do it” statement but I ignore the urge. Instead I smile, reach out, and give her knee a gentle squeeze. “Let’s do it,” I murmur, making her cheeks flush as she turns away from me and stares out the passenger-side window.

I see the mysterious little smile that curves her lips, though. And I know without a doubt I am definitely kissing Chelsea before the night is through.