Calmly, Carefully, Completely
Page 11
“I was just about to call you. My dad got tickets for tomorrow night to the dance at the country club. Do you want to go with me?”
“She’s busy tomorrow,” someone calls from the end of the aisle. Pete comes toward us, his gait slow and ambling. His body is loose and relaxed, yet I know it’s not. Not really.
“Who’s he?” Chase asks.
Pete holds out his hand to shake. Chase looks at it like it’s dirty. Pete pulls his hand back and reaches for mine. I pull mine back and cross my arms beneath my breasts. “Chase, this is Pete.” I lean my head toward Chase. “Pete, this is Chase.”
“Nice to meet you,” Pete says.
“Chase and I go to school together,” I rush to say.
Pete smiles. “Lucky bastard,” he says.
Chase’s eyebrows draw together. He looks at me. “So, you’re busy tomorrow night?” he asks. He ignores Pete, which pisses me off. Pete’s been nothing but nice until now.
But there’s steel in Pete’s voice when he replies. “I told you she’s busy.”
Chase flexes his hand, balling it up into a fist. Pete still appears relaxed. But he’s not. He doesn’t need to posture to seem fierce the way that Chase does. He just is. And he’s so much more. “I’d like to hear that from her.”
“I’m—” I start to say.
But Pete puts his arm around me and says, “I’m taking the liberty of speaking for her.”
I look up at him. “Don’t speak for me,” I say. I lift his arm from around my shoulders. “Did you get everything you need?” I ask.
“Not yet,” he says slowly. His eyes dance across my face. “Why don’t I go finish my shopping?” he asks. He raises an eyebrow at me in question. I nod. He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear before he leaves.
“Who the hell is that?” Chase barks. He watches Pete’s prideful swagger all the way down the aisle until he disappears from sight. Chase looks down at me.
I shrug. “He’s a friend.”
“Since when do you have friends like that?” he asks. He steps toward me, and I step back, until my back is against the shelves behind me. I don’t like to be cornered, but Chase has no way of knowing that. I skitter to the side so that I’m not hemmed in.
“Friends like what?” I ask. I know he’s referring to the tattoos. Pete walks by the end of the aisle and waves at us, and then he winks at me. A grin tugs at my lips. I shrug again. “He’s really very nice.”
“Where did you meet him?”
I can tell the truth or I can lie. But then I hear Pete one aisle over as he starts to sing the lyrics to Elvis Presley’s “Jailhouse Rock.” I grin. I can’t help it. “He’s helping out at the camp this week,” I say instead of the truth. Well, it’s sort of the truth.
“Where’s he from?” Chase asks.
“New York City,” I say.
Pete’s song changes from Elvis to AC/DC’s “Jailbreak.” I laugh out loud this time. I can’t help it.
“Your dad’s all right with you hanging out with him?”
My dad is covered in tattoos, too, but most of his are hidden by his clothing. “He likes Pete,” I say. “I do, too.” Chase puts one arm on the shelf behind me and leans toward my body. I dodge him again, and he looks crossly at me. “Don’t box me in,” I warn.
He holds up both hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. But he still looks curious. “So, about tomorrow,” he says.
“I can’t,” I blurt out.
I think I hear a quickly hissed, “Yes!” from the other side of the aisle, but I can’t be sure.
Chase touches my elbow, and it makes my skin crawl. I pull my elbow back. “Don’t touch me,” I say.
Suddenly, Pete’s striding down the aisle toward us. His expression is thunderous, and I step in front of him so that he has to run into me instead of pummeling Chase like I’m guessing he wants to do. I lay a hand on his chest. “You ready to go?” I ask.
He looks down at me, his eyes asking if I’m all right. His hand lands on my waist and slides around my back, pulling me flush against him. He’s testing me. And I don’t want to fight him. I admit it. Chase makes my skin crawl, and Pete makes my skin tingle. It’s not an altogether pleasant sensation, but only because I can’t control it. He holds me close, one hand on the center of my back, and the other full of breath mints and assorted sundries. He steps toward Chase, and Pete and I are so close together that I have to step backward when he steps forward.
I repeat my question. “You get everything?”
He finally looks down at me. “I got everything I need,” he says. His tone is polite but clear and soft as butter.
I clear my throat and turn Pete toward the front of the store so we can pay for the items he’s collected. “I’ll see you, Chase,” I call back. He waves at me. I feel bad because Chase seems confused. He’s pulling out his phone as we walk away, and I’m already expecting for my dad to hear from his dad. I don’t care. If my dad had a problem with Pete, he certainly wouldn’t have sent me out with him.
Pete steps up to the counter and lays his items beside the register. He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and opens it up. I see a couple of foil wrappers in with his cash. Heat creeps up my face. He pays, then closes his wallet and shoves it back into his back pocket. He takes the bag from the clerk and thanks her.
As we walk out the front door, he twines his fingers with mine. I look up at him, blinking away the brightness of the sun. “You really need to learn to behave yourself,” I say. But I can’t bite back a laugh. I just can’t. “‘Jailhouse Rock’? Seriously?”
He shrugs, but he’s grinning too. “It seemed appropriate.”
I bark out a laugh so loud that I cover my mouth in embarrassment. “It was so inappropriate,” I say.
He sobers and looks at me after we get in the truck. “Who’s that guy to you?” he asks.
“He’s a friend,” I say with a shrug. “That’s all.”
“Why didn’t you tell him where I’m from?” he asks. He’s waiting with bated breath, I think.
“I did.”
He shakes his head. “You know what I mean.”
“He asked where you’re from. I said New York City. What more did you want me to tell him?”
“The truth would be a good start,” he mumbles.
“Jail is a place you stayed for a while, Pete. It’s not where you’re from.”
He snorts.
“That would be like the boys saying they live at Cast-A-Way Farms after staying for a week.”
“That’s not entirely accurate.” He rocks his head back and forth as if he’s weighing my words. Then his eyes narrow. “You didn’t let him touch you.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “I don’t let many people touch me.” I had better tell him the truth. “We went on a date once or twice,” I say.
“You’ve been on dates with him and you still don’t let him touch you?” He lifts his brow at me.
I nod, unsettled by his question.
“Good,” he says. He grins.
I start the truck and lay my right hand on the console between us, driving with my left. His injured arm comes up to settle beside mine and his pinkie crosses over mine, wrapping around it. It’s comfortable. It’s kind. It’s unsettling in a settling sort of way, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“Quit overthinking it,” he says, smiling out the window. He’s not even looking at me.
“Okay,” I say quietly. I settle back in my seat and scoot my hand closer to his.
My nerves are a mess by the time we get back to camp. Pete looks over at me and smiles. “Honey, we’re home,” he sings, grinning. But then he quickly sobers. He lowers his head, arching his neck, so he can look into my face. “You’re still overthinking it, aren’t you?” he asks softly.
I nod. I blink furiously to push back the tears. He’s so kind and he’s so sweet, but I’ve labored over this the whole way home. “I’m afraid I can’t be what you need for me to be,” I say quietly. “I just can’t.” I’ll never be normal. Never.
“You just met me,” he says. “How in the world could you know what I need?”
He lets go of my hand. I feel suddenly more alone than ever. I look into his eyes. “I really, really want to kiss you,” I say.
He grins. “Good.”
“But what if I can never do that?” Never do it without seeing his face in my mind instead of Pete’s?
Pete tangles his fingers with mine. “Does this feel all right?” he asks.
It wouldn’t have felt all right yesterday, but it’s suddenly all right today. “No.”
He jerks his hand back like I just scalded him.
“Wait.” I need to explain. “It doesn’t feel all right. It feels fabulous.”
His posture relaxes. “You scared me for a second.”
I reach for his hand and hold it tightly. “For me, this might be as close as I’ll ever get to ha**g s*x or that kiss I think I want from you.”
“Okay,” he says, grinning. I roll my eyes at him. His face softens. “I happen to like holding hands with you, dummy,” he says. “I like it a lot.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Probably more than I should.” He squeezes my hand. “So, if that’s all you’re ready for, I’m happy to do it. And just that.” He bends again, looking into my face. “I just met you yesterday. Do most men you meet want to get in your pants within twenty-four hours?”
I heave a sigh. He met me long before that, but, technically, he’s right.
“If so, you’ve been hanging out with the wrong types of men.” He lets my hand go and turns to open the truck door.
“Pete,” I call.
He looks over his shoulder at me, smiling. “Reagan,” he says, his tone mimicking mine. But he holds up a hand. “I know you want to sleep with me already, Reagan,” he says grinning. “But for God’s sake, I just met you yesterday. Give me some time to get to know you, will you?” He adjusts his clothing like I’ve undressed him with my eyes. “I’m more than a piece of meat.”
He’s still grinning, and I know he’s joking, but it suddenly hits me how silly I’m being. I’m letting my attraction to this man dictate my actions, and I’m putting up walls, tearing them down, and then building them up stronger. By the time the week is over, I’m going to be a damn fortress. But one thing’s for sure. If anyone can get past my walls and make me want him to be there, it’s Pete. Because I’m already halfway there.
Pete
Mr. Caster meets us at the truck when we get out, and he takes in my wrapped wrist with a solemn expression. But he regards the way Reagan looks at me with an even more solemn expression. “Everything go okay?” he asks, his gaze skittering between the two of us.
“Just a strain,” I say, holding up my arm so I can flex my fingers. I look around. The camp is devoid of kids. “Where is everyone?” he asks.
He jerks a thumb toward the pool. “Half the kids are at the pool. The other half is at the stable.”
“Is Link still cursing?” Reagan asks, wincing inside, I can tell.
“Your mother saved you when she dropped the f-bomb in front of him.” He smiles. He’s not angry at all.
Reagan laughs. “So glad I can count on her to save the day.”
“You can always count on your mother to curse more than you.” He looks at me. “Where are you stationed today? With Gonzo?”
I have no idea where I’m supposed to be. “Wherever you want me.” I hold out my hands waiting for his answer.
He nods his head toward the counselors’ cabins, which is where I’m staying. “Check in with Phil. I think he might be having group with some of the youth, and he might need solid adult presence to help him out.” I nod my head. I have never considered myself a solid adult, but my head swells at the thought that he does.
I look at Reagan and c**k my head to the side. I hope I look like an inquisitive puppy. Probably not, though. “Will I see you later?” I ask.
Her dad’s brow arches, and he looks almost…amused?
She nods at me, blushing a little as she looks at her dad from beneath lowered lashes.
I start off toward the ring of chairs in the middle of the counselors’ cabins. Phil stands up and gets a chair for me, putting me across from him on the other side of the ring. “How’s the wrist?” he asks as I settle down and lean forward, dangling my hands between my knees.
“Just strained,” I say. I don’t like that all the attention is suddenly on me.
He grins and winks at me. “Since you just got punched in the face by a girl—” He lets his gaze rake over the group. “—we were just talking about how many of the young men in the program come from homes where domestic violence is the norm.”
“Okay…” I say slowly. I don’t know what he wants me to contribute.
“Would you like to know how many?” he asks. He smiles at me in encouragement.
“I’d love to know,” I reply, because I assume it’s what he wants to hear.
Phil commands the group, “Please raise your hand if you experienced domestic violence in your home.” Six out of ten hands go up. “That might include violence against your mother, your father, your siblings. Or even your grandparents or foster parents.”
“She’s busy tomorrow,” someone calls from the end of the aisle. Pete comes toward us, his gait slow and ambling. His body is loose and relaxed, yet I know it’s not. Not really.
“Who’s he?” Chase asks.
Pete holds out his hand to shake. Chase looks at it like it’s dirty. Pete pulls his hand back and reaches for mine. I pull mine back and cross my arms beneath my breasts. “Chase, this is Pete.” I lean my head toward Chase. “Pete, this is Chase.”
“Nice to meet you,” Pete says.
“Chase and I go to school together,” I rush to say.
Pete smiles. “Lucky bastard,” he says.
Chase’s eyebrows draw together. He looks at me. “So, you’re busy tomorrow night?” he asks. He ignores Pete, which pisses me off. Pete’s been nothing but nice until now.
But there’s steel in Pete’s voice when he replies. “I told you she’s busy.”
Chase flexes his hand, balling it up into a fist. Pete still appears relaxed. But he’s not. He doesn’t need to posture to seem fierce the way that Chase does. He just is. And he’s so much more. “I’d like to hear that from her.”
“I’m—” I start to say.
But Pete puts his arm around me and says, “I’m taking the liberty of speaking for her.”
I look up at him. “Don’t speak for me,” I say. I lift his arm from around my shoulders. “Did you get everything you need?” I ask.
“Not yet,” he says slowly. His eyes dance across my face. “Why don’t I go finish my shopping?” he asks. He raises an eyebrow at me in question. I nod. He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear before he leaves.
“Who the hell is that?” Chase barks. He watches Pete’s prideful swagger all the way down the aisle until he disappears from sight. Chase looks down at me.
I shrug. “He’s a friend.”
“Since when do you have friends like that?” he asks. He steps toward me, and I step back, until my back is against the shelves behind me. I don’t like to be cornered, but Chase has no way of knowing that. I skitter to the side so that I’m not hemmed in.
“Friends like what?” I ask. I know he’s referring to the tattoos. Pete walks by the end of the aisle and waves at us, and then he winks at me. A grin tugs at my lips. I shrug again. “He’s really very nice.”
“Where did you meet him?”
I can tell the truth or I can lie. But then I hear Pete one aisle over as he starts to sing the lyrics to Elvis Presley’s “Jailhouse Rock.” I grin. I can’t help it. “He’s helping out at the camp this week,” I say instead of the truth. Well, it’s sort of the truth.
“Where’s he from?” Chase asks.
“New York City,” I say.
Pete’s song changes from Elvis to AC/DC’s “Jailbreak.” I laugh out loud this time. I can’t help it.
“Your dad’s all right with you hanging out with him?”
My dad is covered in tattoos, too, but most of his are hidden by his clothing. “He likes Pete,” I say. “I do, too.” Chase puts one arm on the shelf behind me and leans toward my body. I dodge him again, and he looks crossly at me. “Don’t box me in,” I warn.
He holds up both hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. But he still looks curious. “So, about tomorrow,” he says.
“I can’t,” I blurt out.
I think I hear a quickly hissed, “Yes!” from the other side of the aisle, but I can’t be sure.
Chase touches my elbow, and it makes my skin crawl. I pull my elbow back. “Don’t touch me,” I say.
Suddenly, Pete’s striding down the aisle toward us. His expression is thunderous, and I step in front of him so that he has to run into me instead of pummeling Chase like I’m guessing he wants to do. I lay a hand on his chest. “You ready to go?” I ask.
He looks down at me, his eyes asking if I’m all right. His hand lands on my waist and slides around my back, pulling me flush against him. He’s testing me. And I don’t want to fight him. I admit it. Chase makes my skin crawl, and Pete makes my skin tingle. It’s not an altogether pleasant sensation, but only because I can’t control it. He holds me close, one hand on the center of my back, and the other full of breath mints and assorted sundries. He steps toward Chase, and Pete and I are so close together that I have to step backward when he steps forward.
I repeat my question. “You get everything?”
He finally looks down at me. “I got everything I need,” he says. His tone is polite but clear and soft as butter.
I clear my throat and turn Pete toward the front of the store so we can pay for the items he’s collected. “I’ll see you, Chase,” I call back. He waves at me. I feel bad because Chase seems confused. He’s pulling out his phone as we walk away, and I’m already expecting for my dad to hear from his dad. I don’t care. If my dad had a problem with Pete, he certainly wouldn’t have sent me out with him.
Pete steps up to the counter and lays his items beside the register. He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and opens it up. I see a couple of foil wrappers in with his cash. Heat creeps up my face. He pays, then closes his wallet and shoves it back into his back pocket. He takes the bag from the clerk and thanks her.
As we walk out the front door, he twines his fingers with mine. I look up at him, blinking away the brightness of the sun. “You really need to learn to behave yourself,” I say. But I can’t bite back a laugh. I just can’t. “‘Jailhouse Rock’? Seriously?”
He shrugs, but he’s grinning too. “It seemed appropriate.”
I bark out a laugh so loud that I cover my mouth in embarrassment. “It was so inappropriate,” I say.
He sobers and looks at me after we get in the truck. “Who’s that guy to you?” he asks.
“He’s a friend,” I say with a shrug. “That’s all.”
“Why didn’t you tell him where I’m from?” he asks. He’s waiting with bated breath, I think.
“I did.”
He shakes his head. “You know what I mean.”
“He asked where you’re from. I said New York City. What more did you want me to tell him?”
“The truth would be a good start,” he mumbles.
“Jail is a place you stayed for a while, Pete. It’s not where you’re from.”
He snorts.
“That would be like the boys saying they live at Cast-A-Way Farms after staying for a week.”
“That’s not entirely accurate.” He rocks his head back and forth as if he’s weighing my words. Then his eyes narrow. “You didn’t let him touch you.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “I don’t let many people touch me.” I had better tell him the truth. “We went on a date once or twice,” I say.
“You’ve been on dates with him and you still don’t let him touch you?” He lifts his brow at me.
I nod, unsettled by his question.
“Good,” he says. He grins.
I start the truck and lay my right hand on the console between us, driving with my left. His injured arm comes up to settle beside mine and his pinkie crosses over mine, wrapping around it. It’s comfortable. It’s kind. It’s unsettling in a settling sort of way, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“Quit overthinking it,” he says, smiling out the window. He’s not even looking at me.
“Okay,” I say quietly. I settle back in my seat and scoot my hand closer to his.
My nerves are a mess by the time we get back to camp. Pete looks over at me and smiles. “Honey, we’re home,” he sings, grinning. But then he quickly sobers. He lowers his head, arching his neck, so he can look into my face. “You’re still overthinking it, aren’t you?” he asks softly.
I nod. I blink furiously to push back the tears. He’s so kind and he’s so sweet, but I’ve labored over this the whole way home. “I’m afraid I can’t be what you need for me to be,” I say quietly. “I just can’t.” I’ll never be normal. Never.
“You just met me,” he says. “How in the world could you know what I need?”
He lets go of my hand. I feel suddenly more alone than ever. I look into his eyes. “I really, really want to kiss you,” I say.
He grins. “Good.”
“But what if I can never do that?” Never do it without seeing his face in my mind instead of Pete’s?
Pete tangles his fingers with mine. “Does this feel all right?” he asks.
It wouldn’t have felt all right yesterday, but it’s suddenly all right today. “No.”
He jerks his hand back like I just scalded him.
“Wait.” I need to explain. “It doesn’t feel all right. It feels fabulous.”
His posture relaxes. “You scared me for a second.”
I reach for his hand and hold it tightly. “For me, this might be as close as I’ll ever get to ha**g s*x or that kiss I think I want from you.”
“Okay,” he says, grinning. I roll my eyes at him. His face softens. “I happen to like holding hands with you, dummy,” he says. “I like it a lot.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Probably more than I should.” He squeezes my hand. “So, if that’s all you’re ready for, I’m happy to do it. And just that.” He bends again, looking into my face. “I just met you yesterday. Do most men you meet want to get in your pants within twenty-four hours?”
I heave a sigh. He met me long before that, but, technically, he’s right.
“If so, you’ve been hanging out with the wrong types of men.” He lets my hand go and turns to open the truck door.
“Pete,” I call.
He looks over his shoulder at me, smiling. “Reagan,” he says, his tone mimicking mine. But he holds up a hand. “I know you want to sleep with me already, Reagan,” he says grinning. “But for God’s sake, I just met you yesterday. Give me some time to get to know you, will you?” He adjusts his clothing like I’ve undressed him with my eyes. “I’m more than a piece of meat.”
He’s still grinning, and I know he’s joking, but it suddenly hits me how silly I’m being. I’m letting my attraction to this man dictate my actions, and I’m putting up walls, tearing them down, and then building them up stronger. By the time the week is over, I’m going to be a damn fortress. But one thing’s for sure. If anyone can get past my walls and make me want him to be there, it’s Pete. Because I’m already halfway there.
Pete
Mr. Caster meets us at the truck when we get out, and he takes in my wrapped wrist with a solemn expression. But he regards the way Reagan looks at me with an even more solemn expression. “Everything go okay?” he asks, his gaze skittering between the two of us.
“Just a strain,” I say, holding up my arm so I can flex my fingers. I look around. The camp is devoid of kids. “Where is everyone?” he asks.
He jerks a thumb toward the pool. “Half the kids are at the pool. The other half is at the stable.”
“Is Link still cursing?” Reagan asks, wincing inside, I can tell.
“Your mother saved you when she dropped the f-bomb in front of him.” He smiles. He’s not angry at all.
Reagan laughs. “So glad I can count on her to save the day.”
“You can always count on your mother to curse more than you.” He looks at me. “Where are you stationed today? With Gonzo?”
I have no idea where I’m supposed to be. “Wherever you want me.” I hold out my hands waiting for his answer.
He nods his head toward the counselors’ cabins, which is where I’m staying. “Check in with Phil. I think he might be having group with some of the youth, and he might need solid adult presence to help him out.” I nod my head. I have never considered myself a solid adult, but my head swells at the thought that he does.
I look at Reagan and c**k my head to the side. I hope I look like an inquisitive puppy. Probably not, though. “Will I see you later?” I ask.
Her dad’s brow arches, and he looks almost…amused?
She nods at me, blushing a little as she looks at her dad from beneath lowered lashes.
I start off toward the ring of chairs in the middle of the counselors’ cabins. Phil stands up and gets a chair for me, putting me across from him on the other side of the ring. “How’s the wrist?” he asks as I settle down and lean forward, dangling my hands between my knees.
“Just strained,” I say. I don’t like that all the attention is suddenly on me.
He grins and winks at me. “Since you just got punched in the face by a girl—” He lets his gaze rake over the group. “—we were just talking about how many of the young men in the program come from homes where domestic violence is the norm.”
“Okay…” I say slowly. I don’t know what he wants me to contribute.
“Would you like to know how many?” he asks. He smiles at me in encouragement.
“I’d love to know,” I reply, because I assume it’s what he wants to hear.
Phil commands the group, “Please raise your hand if you experienced domestic violence in your home.” Six out of ten hands go up. “That might include violence against your mother, your father, your siblings. Or even your grandparents or foster parents.”
