Not So Nice Guy
Page 19
I hover in the shadows until he’s finished dancing with Bianca, and when he’s out of sight, I reluctantly retake my post.
It’s 8:00 PM. Surely this thing will wrap up soon. Don’t these kids have to be in bed by like 8:30 PM?
As if in response to my thoughts, the DJ suddenly switches the music from slow jams to techno, the overhead lights cut off, and flickering strobe lights take their place. The students go wild. The DJ (who, by the way, is just a dorky PTA dad) is jumping in the air, holding his headphones to his ear with one hand, and pumping the other one as hard as he can. He’s close to herniating a disk and he doesn’t care. For him, this is the final night of Coachella.
“How’re your toes?” Ian’s voice to my left makes me jump out of my skin and shout an incomprehensible syllable in surprise.
I recover quickly. “Were you just lurking there in the shadows, you creep?”
Technically, now that the lights have been cut, the entire room is shadowed.
The strobe lights are doing tricky things to my sight. Every other second is stolen from view so life looks like a stop-motion movie, and my brain’s reaction time is delayed as Ian reaches out to tug on one of my waves. I stand absolutely still, letting it happen and watching in wonder.
“What was it Logan said yesterday?” He has to lean in close so I can hear him over the techno. “Did you do something different with your hair? It looks great.”
“Then why have you been ignoring me all night?”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and I think it’s an effort to keep from touching me. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“You wore a suit.”
“You wore a dress.”
“We both look like we’re going to prom.”
“Did you enjoy your prom?”
He looks serious now and I have to look away.
“No. I had to do the thing where I went with friends because no one asked me, but by the end of the night everyone ditched me for boys. It sucked.”
“I wish I could have taken you.”
The idea is preposterous. I’ve seen young Ian in framed pictures at his house. There were no awkward teen years for him. You know how in Hollywood they cast 30-year-olds to play high schoolers? That was Ian, tall and strapping even at seventeen. Meanwhile I was teased mercilessly about anything and everything: wild red hair, elf-like stature, bony knees. How’s that for fair?
“I could make it up to you now,” he suggests, holding out his hand.
My heart tap dances against my rib cage.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
Why?!
“Because I’m like that silly mouse from the children’s story. If you give a Sam a dance, she’s bound to ask for a kiss. If you give her kiss, she’s going to want…”
My gaze locks with his and my heart plummets. There needs to be caution tape wrapped around his head because his eyes are heated and tempting and I definitely shouldn’t get any closer. My body goes haywire. At first, I’m panting and fanning my face. Then my mouth goes completely dry and goose bumps bloom across my skin.
“What?” he persists, stepping closer. “Tell me.”
“More.” The word rushes out on an exhalation. “I’d want more.”
10
S A M
Ian isn’t touching me, which means he’s not technically forcing me, but he’s calling the shots all the same. We’re walking quietly down the hall. My admission drags behind us like a third wheel. Our gigs as chaperones have ended. A new round of teachers relieved us and now it’s time to go home. I need to retrieve my purse, though, and Ian has insisted on accompanying me to my classroom.
His suit jacket is hanging on my shoulders. He offered it to me a few minutes ago when I was rubbing my hands up and down my arms to warm myself up. My little trick worked perfectly. I’m cloaked in eau de Ian, an intoxicating blend of spiced cologne and body wash. I tilt my head to the side and sniff as inconspicuously as possible. He still catches me.
“You’re weird.”
He says it like a compliment, and I don’t deny it.
He holds my classroom door open for me and I think he’s going to flip the light on, but he doesn’t. Moonlight filters in from the half-closed blinds. Just like in the cafeteria, the lighting is playing tricks on my brain. This setting is romantic and mysterious, full of tantalizing possibilities. I need to get out of here immediately.
“Oookay, so I’ll just grab my purse and then we can go. Here is my purse, and look, here are my keys.”
I think I’m gaining control of the situation by narrating my actions aloud, but Ian has his own plan.
He finds the latest edition of the Oak Hill Gazette sitting on my desk and turns it to face him.
“Oh! That’s nothing. Let’s go.”
It’s too late. He’s staring down at the front-page story and the accompanying photographs. It’s Phoebe’s piece, and that photo she snapped of me during the soccer game is front and center. The caption is something innocuous about me watching the game, but it doesn’t matter because the picture says a thousand words. At the bottom of the frame, the Freshman Four are tittering over Ian. The rest of the shot is taken up by me, scowling with jealousy. She focused on me rather excellently. It’s a great photo, and I’ll be forced to give her an A on the assignment.
“Were you not enjoying the game?” Ian asks innocently.
He’s fishing.
“Can’t remember. C’mon, let’s go.”
“It’s just that you look pretty upset, which is odd considering we had the lead through most of the game.”
He’s a dog with a bone. I have no choice but to lean over and inspect the picture, pretending to think back on it.
“Oh, yes.” I tap my finger against the page. “Now I remember—a grasshopper had just flown into the back of my throat. Nasty thing, really. Where did you park?”
He turns to me slowly and reaches up to touch my cheek. My thighs press together on instinct.
“You’re running out of reasons, Sam…reasons why we shouldn’t do this.”
“Is that supposed to be a riddle or something?”
Our eyes catch and a delicious sense of promise hangs in the air between us. I deflect, poorly.
“Bianca sure seemed happy to be in your arms earlier—think you’ll ask her out?”
He stands back to his full height, putting some distance between us. “You gave me no choice but to dance with her. You were ignoring me. I wanted to further test a theory.”
“And what was that?”
“Does Samantha Abrams have a crush on me?” His brow quirks. “Does she feel envy?”
“And what’d you discover?”
He steps closer so the tips of our shoes touch. His hands catch the lapels of his jacket where it sits on my shoulders and he tugs me toward him.
“My hypothesis was true. This picture confirms it.”
Our chests touch and the warmth of his skin sears me through our clothes. I tilt my head back, back, back until I’m looking right up at him. His thumb reaches up to drag along my bottom lip, and I have to tamp down the urge to draw it into my mouth. I need to know the answer to that age-old question: what does Ian Fletcher taste like?
His head tips forward another inch and I can feel his breath on my lips. It’s minty fresh. We’re going to kiss. This is going to be a moment I tell my grandchildren about. I will etch the details in stone and send it to the Smithsonian.
Instead, he smiles. “Let’s play a game.”
My hands, which I’d completely forgotten about, are gripping his hips. I’ve been pulling him flush against me for the last…oh, several thousand seconds. What little hussies my hands are.
“Fine.”
“The game is truth or kiss.”
I smirk. “Don’t you mean truth or dare? Are you that out of touch?”
“I’m rewriting the rules. I’ll ask you a question and if you don’t want to answer it…well, you can probably guess what you’ll have to do.”
Between the two of us, he’s the one in charge, the one dressed in black. Me? I’m suddenly sweating under this coat made for giants.
It’s 8:00 PM. Surely this thing will wrap up soon. Don’t these kids have to be in bed by like 8:30 PM?
As if in response to my thoughts, the DJ suddenly switches the music from slow jams to techno, the overhead lights cut off, and flickering strobe lights take their place. The students go wild. The DJ (who, by the way, is just a dorky PTA dad) is jumping in the air, holding his headphones to his ear with one hand, and pumping the other one as hard as he can. He’s close to herniating a disk and he doesn’t care. For him, this is the final night of Coachella.
“How’re your toes?” Ian’s voice to my left makes me jump out of my skin and shout an incomprehensible syllable in surprise.
I recover quickly. “Were you just lurking there in the shadows, you creep?”
Technically, now that the lights have been cut, the entire room is shadowed.
The strobe lights are doing tricky things to my sight. Every other second is stolen from view so life looks like a stop-motion movie, and my brain’s reaction time is delayed as Ian reaches out to tug on one of my waves. I stand absolutely still, letting it happen and watching in wonder.
“What was it Logan said yesterday?” He has to lean in close so I can hear him over the techno. “Did you do something different with your hair? It looks great.”
“Then why have you been ignoring me all night?”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and I think it’s an effort to keep from touching me. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“You wore a suit.”
“You wore a dress.”
“We both look like we’re going to prom.”
“Did you enjoy your prom?”
He looks serious now and I have to look away.
“No. I had to do the thing where I went with friends because no one asked me, but by the end of the night everyone ditched me for boys. It sucked.”
“I wish I could have taken you.”
The idea is preposterous. I’ve seen young Ian in framed pictures at his house. There were no awkward teen years for him. You know how in Hollywood they cast 30-year-olds to play high schoolers? That was Ian, tall and strapping even at seventeen. Meanwhile I was teased mercilessly about anything and everything: wild red hair, elf-like stature, bony knees. How’s that for fair?
“I could make it up to you now,” he suggests, holding out his hand.
My heart tap dances against my rib cage.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
Why?!
“Because I’m like that silly mouse from the children’s story. If you give a Sam a dance, she’s bound to ask for a kiss. If you give her kiss, she’s going to want…”
My gaze locks with his and my heart plummets. There needs to be caution tape wrapped around his head because his eyes are heated and tempting and I definitely shouldn’t get any closer. My body goes haywire. At first, I’m panting and fanning my face. Then my mouth goes completely dry and goose bumps bloom across my skin.
“What?” he persists, stepping closer. “Tell me.”
“More.” The word rushes out on an exhalation. “I’d want more.”
10
S A M
Ian isn’t touching me, which means he’s not technically forcing me, but he’s calling the shots all the same. We’re walking quietly down the hall. My admission drags behind us like a third wheel. Our gigs as chaperones have ended. A new round of teachers relieved us and now it’s time to go home. I need to retrieve my purse, though, and Ian has insisted on accompanying me to my classroom.
His suit jacket is hanging on my shoulders. He offered it to me a few minutes ago when I was rubbing my hands up and down my arms to warm myself up. My little trick worked perfectly. I’m cloaked in eau de Ian, an intoxicating blend of spiced cologne and body wash. I tilt my head to the side and sniff as inconspicuously as possible. He still catches me.
“You’re weird.”
He says it like a compliment, and I don’t deny it.
He holds my classroom door open for me and I think he’s going to flip the light on, but he doesn’t. Moonlight filters in from the half-closed blinds. Just like in the cafeteria, the lighting is playing tricks on my brain. This setting is romantic and mysterious, full of tantalizing possibilities. I need to get out of here immediately.
“Oookay, so I’ll just grab my purse and then we can go. Here is my purse, and look, here are my keys.”
I think I’m gaining control of the situation by narrating my actions aloud, but Ian has his own plan.
He finds the latest edition of the Oak Hill Gazette sitting on my desk and turns it to face him.
“Oh! That’s nothing. Let’s go.”
It’s too late. He’s staring down at the front-page story and the accompanying photographs. It’s Phoebe’s piece, and that photo she snapped of me during the soccer game is front and center. The caption is something innocuous about me watching the game, but it doesn’t matter because the picture says a thousand words. At the bottom of the frame, the Freshman Four are tittering over Ian. The rest of the shot is taken up by me, scowling with jealousy. She focused on me rather excellently. It’s a great photo, and I’ll be forced to give her an A on the assignment.
“Were you not enjoying the game?” Ian asks innocently.
He’s fishing.
“Can’t remember. C’mon, let’s go.”
“It’s just that you look pretty upset, which is odd considering we had the lead through most of the game.”
He’s a dog with a bone. I have no choice but to lean over and inspect the picture, pretending to think back on it.
“Oh, yes.” I tap my finger against the page. “Now I remember—a grasshopper had just flown into the back of my throat. Nasty thing, really. Where did you park?”
He turns to me slowly and reaches up to touch my cheek. My thighs press together on instinct.
“You’re running out of reasons, Sam…reasons why we shouldn’t do this.”
“Is that supposed to be a riddle or something?”
Our eyes catch and a delicious sense of promise hangs in the air between us. I deflect, poorly.
“Bianca sure seemed happy to be in your arms earlier—think you’ll ask her out?”
He stands back to his full height, putting some distance between us. “You gave me no choice but to dance with her. You were ignoring me. I wanted to further test a theory.”
“And what was that?”
“Does Samantha Abrams have a crush on me?” His brow quirks. “Does she feel envy?”
“And what’d you discover?”
He steps closer so the tips of our shoes touch. His hands catch the lapels of his jacket where it sits on my shoulders and he tugs me toward him.
“My hypothesis was true. This picture confirms it.”
Our chests touch and the warmth of his skin sears me through our clothes. I tilt my head back, back, back until I’m looking right up at him. His thumb reaches up to drag along my bottom lip, and I have to tamp down the urge to draw it into my mouth. I need to know the answer to that age-old question: what does Ian Fletcher taste like?
His head tips forward another inch and I can feel his breath on my lips. It’s minty fresh. We’re going to kiss. This is going to be a moment I tell my grandchildren about. I will etch the details in stone and send it to the Smithsonian.
Instead, he smiles. “Let’s play a game.”
My hands, which I’d completely forgotten about, are gripping his hips. I’ve been pulling him flush against me for the last…oh, several thousand seconds. What little hussies my hands are.
“Fine.”
“The game is truth or kiss.”
I smirk. “Don’t you mean truth or dare? Are you that out of touch?”
“I’m rewriting the rules. I’ll ask you a question and if you don’t want to answer it…well, you can probably guess what you’ll have to do.”
Between the two of us, he’s the one in charge, the one dressed in black. Me? I’m suddenly sweating under this coat made for giants.
