Punk 57
Page 60
“What?”
But he remains silent.
I touch his face, but he just shakes his head and looks away. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
Fine? A chill brushes across my skin.
What’s fine?
I sit in the front seat, pulling my hair over my shoulder and smoothing it down. After we finished, he climbed in the front and drove us out of the drive-in, while I stayed hidden in the back, getting dressed.
I chew on the corner of my mouth, worry setting in. The truck was definitely moving.
Anyone could’ve seen me climbing in before that, and everyone knows it’s his truck. Not to mention, he’s being quiet now, driving and not even looking at me.
Typical guy. Say all the things you need to get into her pants, but all those strong feelings and hot whispers fade when you get what you want, doesn’t it?
Whatever.
I fasten my seatbelt. The drive-in is behind us and the road ahead dark and empty. “I left my purse in Lyla’s car,” I say more to myself. “I’ll have to make up something for why I left and how I got home.”
“Well, good thing lying’s not hard for you.”
I shoot him a nasty look. But then I see him give me a joking smile, and I immediately relax a little.
Maybe I don’t need to lie at all. Just tell her I let Masen Laurent take me home. What could happen?
I catch sight of the screen on the radio, seeing the name of the song playing from the iPod, and break out in a smile, turning it up.
Masen glances over at me, probably wondering why I look happy. “What?”
I gesture to the radio where Eminem’s “Without Me” is playing. “I have a friend. He hates my taste in music,” I tell him. “I sent him this song once. It led to a life-long argument that still hasn’t been settled.”
“He?”
I lean back in my seat. “In elementary school, our teachers set us up as pen pals,” I explain. “When the school year ended, though, we just kept writing, and we haven’t stopped. He lives in Thunder Bay, but we’ve never met.”
Masen stares at the road ahead, his chest rising and falling steadily. He’s not jealous, is he? Misha and I aren’t like that.
“Do you tell him everything?” he asks, still not looking at me.
I narrow my eyes on him. Maybe he suspects Misha is important to me.
Or maybe he wonders if my pen pal is more important than him.
The truth is, Misha is irreplaceable. But even with him, I don’t say everything.
I turn my head to look at the window. “I tell him more than I tell anyone else.”
“Do you lie to him?”
“Yes,” I reply honestly. “He gets the version of me I want to be.”
For some reason, I feel no shame in admitting that to Masen. With my mom, my sister, my teachers, and my friends, I feel like I’m judged. Like there’s something I need to live up to.
Even with Misha, I feel guilt for never putting my money where my mouth is and hoping he never finds out how awful I can be sometimes. I want him to think the best of me.
But with Masen, I almost feel like nothing I could do could make him want me less. Like my imperfections entertain him, my issues complement his issues, and two negatives make a positive, and all that.
“Are you going to write to him and tell him about tonight?”
I turn to him, a slight smile on my face. “Probably. Would you care?”
He shakes his head, watching the road.
“You wouldn’t be jealous?”
“You’ll need your friends,” he replies.
I arch a brow. What the hell does that mean?
He pulls into my driveway and follows the circle around to the front door and stops. I unfasten my seatbelt and glance at his right hand sitting on his lap. Not even a half hour ago that hand was on my ass.
No one knows how this feels.
I close my eyes, feeling lonely now. Why is he being so distant? I’m not dumb enough to think we’re a couple now—I never have unrealistic expectations when it comes to people—but this is awkward. His vibe sucks, like tonight was a mistake or something, and it hurts a little.
Not that I’d ever admit that to him.
“Well…” I sigh, opening the door. “I guess I’ll see you.”
I climb out and slam the door behind me, walking toward my house. I hear another door slam shut, and I turn around to see Masen jogging toward me.
I stop.
He touches my face, coming in close and looking down at me.
“What’s his name?”
“Who?”
He hovers close, his lips an inch from mine. “Your pen pal.”
His breath lingers on my lips, and I open my mouth just a little in anticipation for him. God, he smells good.
“Misha,” I whisper.
He kisses me, his lips sinking into mine as I close my eyes.
“What was that?” he teases, nibbling my lips. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“Misha,” I gasp before diving into him and brushing his tongue with mine. I press my body into his, feeling the bulge in his jeans rubbing me.
He finally pulls away, breathless and turned on again, just like at the drive-in.
“Thank you.” He kisses me one last time on the lips and turns around, heading back to his truck.
What the hell?
I watch, confused again, as he starts the engine and drives away, his taillights glowing in the darkness as he pulls out onto the street.
I know him very little, but after every encounter, I feel like I know him less.
But he remains silent.
I touch his face, but he just shakes his head and looks away. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
Fine? A chill brushes across my skin.
What’s fine?
I sit in the front seat, pulling my hair over my shoulder and smoothing it down. After we finished, he climbed in the front and drove us out of the drive-in, while I stayed hidden in the back, getting dressed.
I chew on the corner of my mouth, worry setting in. The truck was definitely moving.
Anyone could’ve seen me climbing in before that, and everyone knows it’s his truck. Not to mention, he’s being quiet now, driving and not even looking at me.
Typical guy. Say all the things you need to get into her pants, but all those strong feelings and hot whispers fade when you get what you want, doesn’t it?
Whatever.
I fasten my seatbelt. The drive-in is behind us and the road ahead dark and empty. “I left my purse in Lyla’s car,” I say more to myself. “I’ll have to make up something for why I left and how I got home.”
“Well, good thing lying’s not hard for you.”
I shoot him a nasty look. But then I see him give me a joking smile, and I immediately relax a little.
Maybe I don’t need to lie at all. Just tell her I let Masen Laurent take me home. What could happen?
I catch sight of the screen on the radio, seeing the name of the song playing from the iPod, and break out in a smile, turning it up.
Masen glances over at me, probably wondering why I look happy. “What?”
I gesture to the radio where Eminem’s “Without Me” is playing. “I have a friend. He hates my taste in music,” I tell him. “I sent him this song once. It led to a life-long argument that still hasn’t been settled.”
“He?”
I lean back in my seat. “In elementary school, our teachers set us up as pen pals,” I explain. “When the school year ended, though, we just kept writing, and we haven’t stopped. He lives in Thunder Bay, but we’ve never met.”
Masen stares at the road ahead, his chest rising and falling steadily. He’s not jealous, is he? Misha and I aren’t like that.
“Do you tell him everything?” he asks, still not looking at me.
I narrow my eyes on him. Maybe he suspects Misha is important to me.
Or maybe he wonders if my pen pal is more important than him.
The truth is, Misha is irreplaceable. But even with him, I don’t say everything.
I turn my head to look at the window. “I tell him more than I tell anyone else.”
“Do you lie to him?”
“Yes,” I reply honestly. “He gets the version of me I want to be.”
For some reason, I feel no shame in admitting that to Masen. With my mom, my sister, my teachers, and my friends, I feel like I’m judged. Like there’s something I need to live up to.
Even with Misha, I feel guilt for never putting my money where my mouth is and hoping he never finds out how awful I can be sometimes. I want him to think the best of me.
But with Masen, I almost feel like nothing I could do could make him want me less. Like my imperfections entertain him, my issues complement his issues, and two negatives make a positive, and all that.
“Are you going to write to him and tell him about tonight?”
I turn to him, a slight smile on my face. “Probably. Would you care?”
He shakes his head, watching the road.
“You wouldn’t be jealous?”
“You’ll need your friends,” he replies.
I arch a brow. What the hell does that mean?
He pulls into my driveway and follows the circle around to the front door and stops. I unfasten my seatbelt and glance at his right hand sitting on his lap. Not even a half hour ago that hand was on my ass.
No one knows how this feels.
I close my eyes, feeling lonely now. Why is he being so distant? I’m not dumb enough to think we’re a couple now—I never have unrealistic expectations when it comes to people—but this is awkward. His vibe sucks, like tonight was a mistake or something, and it hurts a little.
Not that I’d ever admit that to him.
“Well…” I sigh, opening the door. “I guess I’ll see you.”
I climb out and slam the door behind me, walking toward my house. I hear another door slam shut, and I turn around to see Masen jogging toward me.
I stop.
He touches my face, coming in close and looking down at me.
“What’s his name?”
“Who?”
He hovers close, his lips an inch from mine. “Your pen pal.”
His breath lingers on my lips, and I open my mouth just a little in anticipation for him. God, he smells good.
“Misha,” I whisper.
He kisses me, his lips sinking into mine as I close my eyes.
“What was that?” he teases, nibbling my lips. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“Misha,” I gasp before diving into him and brushing his tongue with mine. I press my body into his, feeling the bulge in his jeans rubbing me.
He finally pulls away, breathless and turned on again, just like at the drive-in.
“Thank you.” He kisses me one last time on the lips and turns around, heading back to his truck.
What the hell?
I watch, confused again, as he starts the engine and drives away, his taillights glowing in the darkness as he pulls out onto the street.
I know him very little, but after every encounter, I feel like I know him less.
