Slow Burn (24 page)

Ugh.  I’m so sick.

******

Chapter 17

“Are you sure I look hot?  You’re not just saying that, right?”

Heather asks me this for the fiftieth time
, and each time she asks me, she blows her peanut butter and vodka breath in my face.  It smells weirdly delicious.

Hoping to finally appease her nerves, I slowly scan her from head to foot.  Her red blonde hair is down and flowing around her perfectly made up face, and the emerald green halter top she’s wearing makes the most of her 32A’s.  She’s wearing jeans,
because she looks good in them, and because she’s self-conscious of her pale chicken legs.  They are a little on the scrawny side, but I’d rather swallow my own tongue than tell her that.  She may seem like she has all the self-confidence in the world, but deep down, she’s a neurotic mass of insecurities.  I love that about her—I don’t know why.  That’s kind of sick, right?

“You look so hot,” I tell he
r, trying to think what a guy would say.  “Like, your body, and stuff.  Really sexy.”

“My body and stuff?”  She rolls her eyes at me.  “Thanks a lot, loser.”

She grandma-elbows me away from the mirror so she can check out her butt, forcing me to go to the bathroom to finish getting ready.

I don’t know about my outfi
t.  The breezy little plum dress with the cap sleeves seemed like a good choice, but that was before I put it on.  Does it make me look too cutesy?  Should I put my hair up, or leave it down?  Is my lipstick too dark?  I wonder what Johnny will think of this dress.  He’s never seen it before.  I think I will have to hit him if he punches me on the shoulder, and tells me I look sweet. 

So, i
f this treat-me-as-one-of-the-guys thing is some kind of ploy to make me crazy—it’s working.  I hate to admit it, but it’s true.  What does that say about me?  Do I only want what I can’t have?  Right now, I really want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Jule, this party is at the beach, right?”
Heather calls, interrupting my inner musings.

I sigh at my reflection in the mirror before heading back to the room. 
“It’s on a private beach in Bayside.  The guy, Mark, is super rich.  His grandfather invented some kind of little plastic thing that clips into motherboards.”

“Great, good for him.”  Heather smoothes down the front of her top, and looks up at me with anxious eyes.  “And you’re sure that Sloane will be there?”

“Pretty sure,” I reply with a shrug.  “When I asked her in class today, she made a sound that resembled a maybe.  Ben said she’d probably go.”

“Which one i
s Ben?  The one with the twin?”

“Ugh, no—that’s Jason and Ryan.  Ben is the one tha
t looks like that guy from that WB series that just ended?”

“Oh, yeah
, the blonde one.”  Heather laughs as she flops down on my bed.  “It’s hard to keep all your hot guys straight.”

“They’re not
my
hot guys,” I scoff, privately loving the idea of having a hot guy harem.  Yeah, but like I’d know what to do with them.

“Whatever,” Heather is saying, lazily kicking her sandaled feet in the air.  “Admit it—you’d rather
hang out with them than with a boring old lesbian like me.”

I look at her sharply, gauging her expression to see if she’s serious.  She’
s not looking at me, instead playing with my phone, scrolling through something—probably my texts because she’s nosy like that.

“Heather, I would love to hang out with you more often,” I announ
ce sincerely.  “You’re my best lesbian.  But you’re always hung over.”

I try
moderately hard to keep the judgmental tone out of my voice, but Heather rolls her eyes at me.  “I’m your only lesbian,” she retorts, choosing to ignore that last comment.

But I see my chance to do a segue here. 
“Speaking of being hung over…if you get drunk tonight, you’re not spending the night here.  Don’t give me that look, Heather Jones—I told you I’m not covering for you again.  If you get wasted, I’ll drop you off on your porch with a sticky note on your forehead, reading ‘Drunk girl—berate accordingly.’”

“Whatever, Mom.”  She tries to sound flippant, but I can tell she’
s annoyed by the way her feet kick faster in the air.  Put her on a bicycle, and she’d be flying.

“I’m serious.”  I give her a stern look, hands on my hips. 
“You really need to stop—”

“O
h, dear god,” Heather interrupts, sounding appalled.  She’s staring at the screen of my phone.  “Why is my brother sending you flirty little texts?”

I quickly reach for my phone, but she holds it away.  I’m no match for her long ape arms.
  “He’s just joking,” I say quickly.  Damn it, why didn’t I erase those stupid texts?

“Uh, no, he’
s not.  OMG, what a cornball.  ‘Every time I close my eyes, I see you face.’  What the hell?”

“I know!”  I bite my
lip super hard, then blurt out, “He just started texting me after we bumped into him at the mall that day.  Mostly, it’s been ‘hi, how are you,’ but every once in a while, he’ll start saying random things like that.  I don’t know if he’s drunk when he sends those texts, so I just ignore them.  So weird.”

“Weird?  It’s gross, and practically incestuous.”
Heather’s feet kick even faster, and she suddenly cackles.  “I am so going to tease him about this.  Oh, wait!  I gotta text him back…”  Her thumbs start moving over the screen in a series of lightning fast movements.  “’Robert, you dirty little freak.  I want to pop you in the oven and bake you like a pot pie…’”

I don’t know why, but she says this in a passably good British accent.  I’m laughing until she says, “And send!”
 

I lunge for her, shouting, “Nooo!”
  At the same time, Heather’s little kicky feet send one of her sandals hurtling in my direction.  It’s okay, though—I catch it with my face.

“You gave me a black eye,” I moan, gentl
y prodding my puffy left eye.  It’s really not that bad, but I like to make a production.

“I’m so sorry,” Heather says for the eleventh time, even though she’s stifling a laugh.  “You really need to put some ice on that.”

I glance at the little carousel clock on my dresser.  It’s almost ten.  “No time,” I say, grabbing my little black purse.  “They’ll be here soon.  Let’s wait outside—I don’t want my mom hassling them.”

We clomp down the stairs
like arthritic horses.  On the way out the door, I call a goodbye to Mom, who’s in the living room, falling asleep in front of the television.  She mumbles something in return.  I remember when she used to grill me mercilessly every time I left the house, but that was before she changed shifts at the hospital.  Nowadays, she’s too tired to even ask about school.  Why was I worried she’d hassle Johnny?  She’d barely notice if he stuck his tongue down my throat right in front of her.

Perfect timing
.  I’m locking the front door when a sleek black SUV pulls into the driveway.  Mack is behind the wheel, and Dean is in the passenger seat.  Johnny, Nick, Jason, and Ryan are all crammed in the back, which means—

“You’re going on someone’s lap, Juliet,
” Johnny says, not bothering to hide his wicked grin.  “Wouldn’t you rather it be mine?  Familiar territory and all.”

“I hear lots of girls are familiar with your territory, Johnny,” Ryan snickers obnoxiously, turning around in his seat to
leer at us.

“Hit him,”
Johnny orders Nick, who immediately smacks Ryan in the back of his head.

“Ow!” he howls, still cackling.

I exchange looks with Heather.  She grins and gives a little shrug before squeezing into the space between Johnny and Nick—but not before giving Johnny a meaningful glare.  He gives her his most charming repentant look in return.  It makes me want to bite him.  What a weird urge.

Sighing, I climb in and settle carefully into my ex-boyfriend’s lap.  Had I known about the seating arrangement, I would have never work such a short dress.  It’s awkward, familiar, and exciting all at once.
 

I try to perch myself delicately over Johnny’s knees, but he
grunts and wraps an arm around my waist, and settles me firmly against him.  I try to hold myself absolutely still, resisting the urge to snuggle back against his warm hard chest.

“Relax, Teeny,” he whispers in my ear, squeezing my bare leg.

It takes forty-five minutes to get to Bayside.  The guys up front start talking football, and Heather and Nick get into an animated discussion about their favorite movies.  Together in relative privacy, Johnny and I are stiff and strangely silent.  I can feel his racing heartbeat where my arm is pressed against his chest.  My own heart is clubbing so hard against my ribs, I’m afraid it might actually break through and escape my body, cartoon style.

If we were still together, Johnny wouldn’t hesitate to put his hands all over me, even in a car full of his friends.  But now…I know he’s restraining himself, trying to behave since I had asked him to give me space.
  I know this because it’s kind of hard not to notice how much he likes having me on his lap.

But then
I get angry all over again, thinking about him with Laundry Room Girl.  It pisses me off, and turns me on at the same time.  Why am I like that?  The more I hate him, the more I want him.  I don’t understand it, and it makes me feel ashamed of myself.  I’ve always been disgusted when girls I know took their cheating boyfriends back so quickly, then acted like they were more in love than ever.  I always swore to myself I would never be that weak and gullible, but look at me now.  I let Johnny control me, consume me—then I tell him to back off, and get mad when he listens.  But it’s hard to hold onto that anger when all I want to do right now is straddle his lap and kiss the hell out of him.

I sudde
nly wish Heather could hear my thoughts, so she could give me a good slap across the face.  I need it—and a cold shower.  I need to stop inhaling the sexy familiar scent of my ex-boyfriend’s cologne—the one I bought for him, actually.  I need to stop subtly wiggling against him because his breath becomes more and more ragged at each movement.

“
Don’t move,” he warns me in a harsh whisper.

I shift against him
in response, causing him to stifle a quiet groan.  I can’t contain the wicked smile that breaks onto my face.

“Shit
,” Johnny breathes in my ear.  “You’re killing me, Teeny.”

“Good
,” I murmur, not mentioning that I’m also torturing myself.

In response, he grips my hips tightly, holding me still.
  Ignoring him, I lean over and join Heather and Nick’s conversation about the scariest movies they’ve seen.

It’s a long
, long ride.

Mark Wilten’s house is a huge steel and glass nightmare on a private stretch of beach.  Cars are parked in roped off sections in the front of the house and in the empty lot besides it.  There are several men in dark windbreakers who seem to be directing incoming cars where to go.  Mack nearly runs one down when the guy gets in front of his SUV. 

Heather holds my hand tightly i
n hers as we follow the guys down a path along the side of the house.  Nerves and excitement turn her fingers ice cold.  I know it’s not anxiety over the party—you could drop Heather off anywhere in the world, and she’d make friends.  No, I think her nerves have to do with her possibly seeing Sloane again.  I’ve never seen her like this before, and it’s kind of freaking me out.  I squeeze her hand so hard she yelps.

We follow the walkway to the beach directly behind the ugly house.  It’s cooler here, with a breeze coming in over the crashin
g waves of the ocean.  I wish I had thought to bring a jacket.  There are three big bonfires blazing away on the beach, and groups of people are camped around them.  Music and laughter drift over to us in the sea-scented air.

I expected some kind of spring break orgy, but this party seems much more mellow than the one at Johnny and Dean’s house.  Kids are just kind of hanging out, sitting on fold out chairs, or sprawled on blankets in the sand.  Ther
e are coolers everywhere, and mostly everyone is holding a plastic red cup.

I quickly take note of what the other girls are wearing.  Quite a few of them have on skimpy bikini tops and shorts skirts; some gir
ls are dressed like me—none of them are wearing jeans, except for Heather.  She doesn’t seem to notice.

Our gro
up heads straight for the coolers.  Along the way, kids stare as us and whisper, “Leclare’s here!” in awed tones.  The boys take it all in stride.  They’re used to a certain level of celebrity as the undefeated Roaring Tigers.  Of course, the fact that they’re all hot probably contributes to the legend.

We
are definitely given the royal treatment from the boys manning the coolers.  They immediately recognize Johnny and Dean.  They ignore the girls waiting for their order to fanboy all over them.