Trouble from the Start (2 page)

“Isn't this party a little wild for you?” he asked. “Figured read-a-thons were more your style.”

“Guess you don't know everything,” I said.

“Oh, I know plenty, genius,” he said.

“I'm a few IQ points shy of being a genius. Your trying to goad me by referring to my intelligence is a little juvenile.”

One side of his mouth curled up into a grin and his gaze swept over me as though he was measuring me up for something that was definitely not childish. My stomach did this little tumble like I was back in gymnastics class—which I'd left behind during seventh grade when I'd shot up to a ridiculous height of five foot ten, well on my way to the six feet I'd finally top out at. Gymnasts are usually small, but then so are most guys in seventh grade. And eighth. And ninth. It wasn't until tenth that some started catching up to me. I hated towering over them.

“You're graduating first in the class, aren't you?” he asked, surprising me with what seemed like genuine admiration in his tone. That and his smile made it hard to hold on to my annoyance with him.

“Third.” The announcement had come a few weeks earlier. “Lin Chou and Rajesh Nahar are one and two.”

“You got robbed.”

Was he sticking up for me? It was kind of sweet, but I also knew that I hadn't gotten “robbed.”

“Not really. They're way smarter than I am.” Which he would know if he was in any of our advanced classes.
And I didn't mind coming in third. It meant that I didn't have to give a speech during the graduation ceremony, but my grades were still high enough that I could get into any state-funded college I wanted—and the one I wanted was in Austin. I'd been accepted a month ago. I couldn't wait until mid-August when I could head down there and be surrounded by people who cared about academics and grades as much as I did. I took another long swallow of the dreamsicle.

He narrowed his eyes. “You should go easy on that.”

“I'm not a novice to alcohol.”

“So that's not why you staggered earlier?”

“Just lost my balance.”

He brought a brown bottle up to his lips and gulped down beer. I hadn't even noticed he had one until that moment. When I realized I was transfixed by the way his throat worked as he swallowed, I lowered my gaze and noticed how his black T-shirt clung to a sculpted chest, washboard abs, and hard-as-rock biceps. Suddenly I felt warm. Why was I noticing these things? I couldn't deny that he
looked
hot, and while I'd come here hoping to catch a guy's attention, I just didn't want it to be some guy with whom I had absolutely nothing in common. I knew he'd been held back at least one year, so studying wasn't a priority for him like it was for me. Fletcher tossed his empty bottle back into a bush.

“Don't you care about the environment?” I scolded him.

“You're not one of
those
, are you?” he asked.

Ignoring his question, I walked over to the bushes, crouched, and tried to see into the darkness, but I suddenly felt light-headed and dropped to my butt.

Fletcher hunkered beside me, balancing on the balls of his feet, his forearms resting on his jean-clad thighs. How did he manage that? I'd bet money he'd already swigged down way more than I had. “You okay?”

“Yes, just—” I realized that I'd finished off my drink. Everything suddenly looked far away, like I was viewing it through a tunnel. The cup slipped from my fingers and onto the grass.

“You need some fresh air,” he said.

“We're outside,” I pointed out. “It doesn't get any fresher than that.”

His fingers folded around my elbow and I was struck by how large his hand was, how strong, how warm against my skin. With no effort at all, he helped me to my feet. “It's better by the lake.”

He curled his arm around my shoulders, pulled me in just a little, and I had this insane thought that we fit together like pieces of a puzzle. I liked his height compared to mine. He made me feel normal, when I often felt like a giant. He guided me over the uneven expanse of land that
led down to the lake. When we reached the bank, he didn't release his hold, and while I wouldn't admit it to him, I was grateful because suddenly nothing seemed solid beneath my feet.

I knew I'd had too much alcohol too fast on a too-empty stomach. Snacks weren't nearly as abundant around here as the drinks.

“Take a deep breath,” Fletcher ordered.

I did, and I could smell the brine of the lake, the sweetness of the wildflowers, the dankness of the dirt, and Fletcher. His was an earthy fragrance, nothing artificial, all male. With his arm around me, he was overpowering my senses, until he was almost the only thing I was aware of.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yeah.” There did seem to be more air here. I could hear the breeze stirring the leaves in the trees around us, feel it wafting over my skin. I turned slightly in his embrace until we were nearly facing each other. His nearness was making me dizzy. His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, and he settled my face into the crook of his shoulder. I had that same crazy faraway thought that we fit. I could hear his heart pounding—felt it thumping through his chest, sending tiny little shivers over my face.

“Don't drink if you can't handle your liquor,” he said, his voice low enough that it didn't disturb the chirping
crickets. “There is always some guy willing to take advantage.”

“Like you?” I asked.

“Exactly like me.”

I didn't know why I had this crazy thought that if he leaned down to kiss me, I wouldn't object. He had a reputation for being an amazing kisser. But he wasn't leaning in. Was I really so unappealing that even a guy with no standards wouldn't at least try? Still, I felt obligated to say, “Taking advantage of me would be stupid. My dad's a cop. He carries a gun.”

“I'm well aware.”

I thought I heard sadness, secrets, in his voice, but that made no sense. Nothing made sense. I was having a difficult time thinking, trying to remember why I was out here at the lake with Fletcher Thomas. The world was spinning, fast, so terribly fast, from his nearness, his scent, his warmth—

No, I realized with horror. Not from anything to do with him. From the vodka and whatever else had been mixed into the drinks. I shoved myself away from him and, to my everlasting mortification, I hurled.

Okay, so I'd lied earlier. I
was
a novice at drinking. I'd had a few sips of beer at other parties, but when your dad keeps a Breathalyzer kit in his car, it's not a good idea to come home in a state that might cause him to use it.

A large, warm hand came to rest lightly on my back. It traveled up my spine and down.

“Breathe deep.”

“Deeply,” I forced out through my tingling mouth.

“What?”

“Deeply. Adverbs follow verbs.”

“Seriously? You're giving me a grammar lesson in the middle of your barfing?”

With as much dignity as I could muster, I straightened. “I'm finished.”

And horrified that I'd made such a spectacle of myself in front of him.

“I'll give you a ride home,” he said.

Everything in me screamed, “Bad idea!”

Or maybe I was screaming it out loud because he said, “Look, I won't take advantage of you being drunk. Besides, your dad has a gun.”

With a wry smile, I peered over my shoulder at him. The world wasn't spinning as fast, but I still felt awful. I wanted to go home. I could probably find Kendall, talk her into leaving the party. Jeremy would take us to her house, and from there, I could walk past the six houses to mine. But why spoil her evening just because drinking too fast had spoiled mine?

“You've been drinking,” I pointed out. On second thought, so had Jeremy. I was going to have to call a cab.

“I'm fine to drive.”

Bad-boy Fletcher, not drunk? I didn't think so. I backed up a couple of steps. “Close your eyes and walk toward me in a straight line.”

“Any line I walk is going to look crooked to you, because you're the one who's drunk.”

That was probably true. Maybe. I was finding it hard to think coherently. And I didn't really want to explain arriving home in a cab. “Yeah, okay, I'd appreciate it.”

He gave me a long look and that corner of his mouth hitched up again. “So . . . are you a
novice
at riding a motorcycle?”

I considered lying, but I was past the point of thinking anything I did was going to impress him. Not that I wanted to. “It'll be my first time.”

His grin grew wider. “I like taking girls on their first ride.”

I flushed. I didn't want to think about how I was one of many he'd given a ride to. Besides he was just being nice because he knew I wasn't feeling well. It wasn't like he was interested in me or anything. I'd just hurled in front of him, after all.

As we walked toward the front of the house, I tried to fire off a text to Kendall to let her know I was leaving. It was easier than trying to find her. Or it should have been. My fingers kept hitting the wrong keys. Normally I could
text and walk at the same time. Not tonight. I staggered to a stop and started over.

“What are you doing?” Fletcher asked.

“I need to let Kendall know I'm heading home so she isn't looking for me later. Dang it! Stupid autocorrect.”

“Dang it?” He chuckled. “Such harsh language, Grandma. Give it here.”

He plucked my phone from me. In spite of the fact that his hands were much larger than mine, his fingers thicker, he didn't seem to have any trouble typing. I heard the
swoosh
of a message being sent. He handed the phone back to me and I glanced at the screen.

Hot guy giving me ride. Catch U l8r.

I released a tiny shriek. “That's not what I wanted to say. And you're so not hot.”

“It's eighty degrees out. Course I'm hot.”

His hand rested lightly on the nape of my neck, and he led me over to an assortment of coolers near the patio. Some guys standing nearby hooted, whistled, and gave him a thumbs-up.

“What'd you do?” I asked.

“What?” Fletcher asked.

I made a half-wave toward the guys. “They seem excited for you.”

“They're drunk idiots. They get excited about everything.”

Ignoring them, he reached into a cooler and handed me a bottle of water. As we continued on, I swished water around my mouth and spewed it out a couple of times before drinking. It was nice to get rid of any lingering aftertaste from my embarrassing performance by the lake. When we got to where his motorcycle waited, he took the bottle and dropped it into a nearby trash can.

“The environment thanks you,” I told him.

“Don't make a big deal out of it. It was right there.” Fletcher lifted the helmet off the seat and held it out to me.

“I can't wear that,” I said. “It's yours and if we crash—”

“We're not going to crash.” His voice held impatience, his hands not so much as he worked the helmet over my head and secured the chin strap. He straddled the bike and patted the area behind him. “Come on, Einstein. You can figure this part out.”

Yeah, I could. I settled in behind him. Reaching back, he took my hands and pulled my arms around him. He was so sturdy, all muscle and sinew. Not an ounce of fat. I really wished I wasn't noticing that. It made me sound breathless when I gave him my address.

“Got it,” he said. “Hold on tight.”

“Tightly,” I corrected.

“Whatever, Hemingway.” He fired up the bike and the
roar rumbled through me. He revved the engine, and I cringed with the realization so much power was beneath us. “Ready?” he yelled.

I tightened my hold, locked my fingers together so nothing could separate us, nodded, then realized he couldn't see that so I yelled, “Yeah!”

He took off, and I clung to him as though I'd never let him go. I heard his deep laughter echoing around me, felt the wind rushing over my face. The force of it sobered me. I figured this was why he liked giving girls their first ride, because it was at once both terrifying and exhilarating and caused them to hang on tighter. I was acutely aware of the scent of him filling my nostrils, the warmth of his skin seeping through his clothes.

As the world whizzed by, I snuggled more closely against him. It was hard to believe that I was
here
—on his bike. We were on the opposite ends of almost every spectrum known to man. Or at least every “Who's Your Perfect Match?” quiz I took in teen magazines. He would be at the bottom of the list. I wanted someone smart, motivated, nice—

I furrowed my brow. He'd been nice tonight, sticking around when I got sick, giving me a ride home. Straight home. We arrived long before I was ready to give up the experience of riding a bike.

Fletcher pulled into the driveway. I peeled myself away
from him, swung my leg back, and scrambled off the seat.

“Fun?” he asked.

I released a small laugh and smiled. “It was awesome.” Much steadier on my feet now, I unbuckled the helmet and held it out to him. He took it and set it down, then gently cradled my cheek with one hand and stroked my lower lip with his thumb.

“You've got a nice smile,” he said quietly, as though he was totally surprised by it.

Suddenly I was feeling dizzy again, but it had nothing to do with alcohol, and had everything to do with the way Fletcher was studying me as though he was going to be tested about every facet of my face Monday morning at school and would have to draw it from memory. I knew his reputation, knew girls fell over themselves if he snapped his fingers, and I wondered why he'd approached me tonight. Did he have a secret crush on me? Had he thought tonight might be his last chance to make a move? Was he going to kiss me? Did I want him to? Yes, yes I did.

He sat there so still, the engine rumbling. And the way he was looking at me . . . No guy had ever looked at me so intensely, with such a magnetic pull. Right then, I was pretty sure that he wanted to kiss me. That something special, magical was happening between us.