Trouble from the Start (7 page)

I knew that tone, knew it didn't bode well. Although I didn't see how anything could make this day worse. “What?”

“Fletcher just sat down two tables over, behind you.”

I swung my head, peering around the corner of the booth. Oh, yeah, there he was, sharing his table with a blonde and a brunette, shaking salt over his fries, smiling, winking, teasing.

“I'll meet you at the car,” I said to Kendall and Jeremy.

“Don't let him chase you out of here,” Kendall commanded with conviction in her voice. She was all about standing up for herself. It was a trait we shared.

“Oh, I'm not.” I slid out of the booth, grabbed my backpack and my soft drink. I headed for the door, but stopped when I got to Fletcher's table. Without ceremony or comment, I dumped my iced tea over his head.

Sputtering, he stood up so fast that he knocked over his chair. “What the f—”

Then his gaze landed on me, and his eyes widened. A corner of his mouth started to tilt up, but I wasn't in the mood to let him complete that sexy, conniving smile or refer to me as a brainchild or whatever.

“Jerk,” I snarled.

He narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips into a hard line.

“Based on your reputation,” I continued, “I figured you had experience, but since you apparently weren't aware that we
didn't
have sex Saturday night, let me make it clear for you now: We did not have sex. Look in your biology book, chapter thirteen, if you need a lesson on what sex involves so you'll recognize when it does happen.”

Then shifting the weight of my backpack, I stormed out of the almost silent B.S. I was shaking so badly, so much adrenaline rushing through my system, that I didn't know how I managed to keep my legs from buckling as I made my way to Jeremy's car. I felt better, but I was a long way from feeling like this was over.

Damn it. Avery knew about the bet.

As I stood there with tea dripping down my face, I couldn't help but admire her spunk, though.

With a steely glare, Kendall Jones walked by me, Jeremy Swanson right behind her. “Not cool, dude,” he said as he passed.

Did he think I didn't know that? I'd hoped that she wouldn't hear the rumors going around. I should have known better. There weren't a lot of secrets at our school, which was the reason I was very careful about what I revealed. I thought about going after Avery but now didn't seem like the right time or place. It would just make matters worse. I looked at Ronda and Vicki, the two girls who had asked to join me for lunch.

“I'll be back.” I grabbed a stack of napkins because I
knew the B.S. had electric hand dryers, then went into the bathroom and blotted up the sticky tea on my face and in my hair. She would drink sweet tea. Once my black T-shirt dried, no one would know about the incident. Who was I kidding? It would be all over school by the end of the day.

Grabbing hold of the sink, I leaned in toward the mirror. The bruises would be there for a while, but I wasn't sure where I was going to be if Avery told her dad about the bet—which she seemed mad enough to do. If she did, her dad would kick me out, and then where would I go? He might even tell Smiley to fire me before I'd had a chance to start work.

I had to talk to Avery before she spoke to her dad. She wouldn't call him, right? She'd wait until he got home? I'd just have to catch her before then. That wasn't going to be easy since we were on shortened days. After combing my fingers through my damp hair, I headed back out to the dining area. Ronda and Vicki were gone. So was my burger. Someone had cleared our table. The place was nearly empty, and all the students had vanished. I looked at my watch and cursed. I was going to be late to my next exam.

Saturday night, it had all seemed like an easy way to make some cash. Now it could cost me everything.

I was so tempted to skip school that afternoon. I didn't have to take a final but I did have to be there for roll call. I thought about checking in and telling the teacher I was sick, but I'd never skipped in my life. The thought of doing it now, just because of Fletcher, made me angrier.

So I stayed for the afternoon and ignored the whispers I heard around me, trying to convince myself that they didn't have anything to do with me. Why did people even care? Maybe they were just nervous about graduation or finals or not knowing what the future held, and it was easier to focus on gossip than the realities of what happened next.

I was so relieved when the bell rang. Three more days to go. Not that I was counting. Some guy whistled at me as I rushed out the door to the parking lot. I avoided everyone's
gazes. All I wanted to do was get home.

When I pulled Trooper into the driveway, I was disappointed to see that Fletcher's bike was already there. How had he gotten home before me? Probably skipped school after he ended up with my sweet tea on his head.

I entered through the front door and was assailed by the aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. I detoured into the kitchen, coming up short at the sight of Fletcher, wearing a milk mustache, sitting on a stool at the island counter.

“Avery!” Tyler shouted, nearly tumbling off the stool beside Fletcher to come around and give me a hug, leaving cookie crumbs on my jeans. When he'd first come to us, he hadn't known what a hug was, flinched anytime arms went up as though he expected to get hit. Now he gave the best hugs.

“Hey, hon,” Mom said. “Come join us for some warm cookies and milk.”

I shifted my attention back to Fletcher. He'd apparently taken a napkin to his mouth while I was distracted with Tyler. “No, thanks. I just wanted to let you know I was home.”

“As though I wouldn't know that with all the noise that old clunker makes,” she said with a smile.

But I wasn't in the mood for jokes. “Trooper gets me where I need to be.”

“Trooper?” Fletcher asked.

Ignoring him, I said, “I'm going for a run.”

Before Mom could get after me for my rudeness, I turned on my heel and headed through the doorway. I heard Tyler explaining to Fletcher that Trooper was the name I'd given my car. It seemed the bad boy was charming everyone in the family. I refused to admit that he'd looked adorable with the white mustache.

In my bedroom, I slung my backpack onto my bed. I was so tense that I could have screamed. I changed into shorts, a tank, and my running shoes. After pulling my hair back into a ponytail, I slipped on a Texas Astros cap. With my iPhone nestled in an armband, I tucked the earbuds into my ears and headed out through the front door.

Fletcher was standing near the garage and immediately began striding toward me. Guess he'd had his fill of cookies. “We need to talk.”

“I don't think so.” Normally I stretched out here. Should have done it on the deck or in the backyard. I started out at a jog.

Fletcher, in boots, loped beside me. “Come on.”

Reaching out, he grabbed my arm. I wrenched free, jerked the earbuds loose, and jogged in place. “Don't touch me.”

“Look, I know you're mad—”

“You don't know anything about me. Let's keep it that way.”

I headed off again, my feet pounding the pavement. I could hear the echo of Fletcher's biker boots thumping along beside me. I glanced over. “You are not running with me.”

“I want to explain.”

“There's nothing to explain. I know about the bet, I know what you told everyone. You think you're important, that you have something to prove. All you did was ruin my reputation. And for what? To be the big man of the hour? You're just small.” I lengthened my stride, quickened my pace, and left him in the dust.

I heard his steps slow and fade. I went faster, taking satisfaction in the knowledge that he couldn't keep up with me. I wanted as much distance between us as possible. I thought he'd been nice, looking after me at the party, offering me a ride. He'd just been using me to make money, to prove that no girl was immune to his charms. I felt like such an idiot.

I raced around a curve in the path that led through a stretch of green that intersected the neighborhood. Trees grew tall on either side, the branches forming an arbor that provided shade and warded off the sun. My parents were like the trees, always trying to protect me, but they couldn't protect me from everything. Sure, I could tell Dad
about the bet, then Fletcher would be gone, but I was a little old to be tattling, to be expecting my father to take care of matters that I could just as easily take care of.

I was graduating from high school, going to college. I could handle a few weeks of Fletcher underfoot. I didn't have to talk to him. I could be cool during meals, ignore him as we cleaned up after supper. He'd retreat to his apartment over the garage. I'd be in my room. I could make this work.

I circled back around and headed home. I nearly stumbled over my feet when I spotted Fletcher sitting on the steps leading to his apartment. So much for doing my cooldown in the driveway. The backyard would have to do. Habit had me slowing my steps as I went by the stairs. Anger had me ignoring him.

“I didn't tell anyone you slept with me,” he said.

Instinct told me to keep going. Instead I stopped dead in my tracks, wished I wasn't breathing so heavily, and glared at him. “That was the bet, and you collected.”

He turned his head slightly, and I wondered if my gaze could scorch him. “The bet was that you would leave with me,” he said. “You did. I can't help that some people think more happened.”

Hands on my hips, I took a step closer. “You didn't hint that something happened?”

“Nope.”

“Not even with a sly wink or a nudge? A little knowing smile?”

“No.”

He was looking at me through the slats in the railing, his gaze direct, honest.

“Then why are guys putting moves on me?”

“Who?”

“What?”

“Who's putting moves on you?” he asked tersely.

What was he upset about? I was the one whose reputation was in the toilet. “I don't know. Scooter. Rhys. Some guy named Josh who I've never even seen before. Girls are glaring at me. Everyone is whispering.”

He cursed. “I guess they just assumed . . . my reputation makes people think they know me, that they have some insight into what I would do.”

Was I guilty of that? Thinking I knew him when really all I knew was his reputation? “I know you're a jerk for not telling people the truth.”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters.” I swung around the railing and went up two steps. “You can emphasize to people that nothing happened.”

“They probably won't believe me.”

“Why? You also have a rep for being a liar?”

“Why do you care so much?”

“I don't want people believing something about me that's not true.”

“Would it be so bad if people thought you liked me?”

“But that's not what they think. They're convinced I hopped on your bike, then hopped into bed with you. That I have no standards.”

“Standards? Do you think I'm that far beneath you?”

“No, stop twisting this around. I'm talking about people—guys especially—thinking that I don't have enough respect for myself to believe that I deserve better than some guy who is just passing by. It's about respect. For me. For you, even. For a relationship. I want a guy to ask me out because he wants to get to know me. Because he likes me. Not because he thinks I'm an easy booty call.”

Fletcher studied me for a long moment, then nodded. “That's fair, so okay.”

Hands on my hips, I glowered. “Okay what?”

“I'll let it be known that nothing happened.”

With three days left of school, it might not make a difference. But maybe it would. “Thanks.”

The word came out hard and I didn't sound grateful in the least, but I was still upset, and I didn't quite trust that he couldn't have nipped this in the bud earlier.

He shook his head. “I can't believe you spilled your tea over my head.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I leaned my hip
against the railing. “I considered locking you in a choke hold.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, like you could do that.”

“I know self-defense.” My dad had made sure of it.

Silence eased in around us. My anger at Fletcher dissipated. Somewhat. “Why would you make a bet like that?”

“It's what guys do.”

“So juvenile.”

“Easy money.”

The anger sparked again. “I wasn't easy.”

I shoved myself away from the railing, started down—

Pain shot through my left calf, my leg folded. I grabbed the railing with one hand, my calf with the other. “Shoot!”

The stairs vibrated as Fletcher flew around me. “What's wrong?”

“Just a cramp.” Pressing my toes onto the step, I tried to stretch out the muscle. Not enough room. I shoved on Fletcher. “Move.”

“Sit.”

“Get outta—”

His hands came around my bare calf, choking back my words. He lifted my leg, giving me no choice except to drop down onto the step. “Fletcher—”

“Do you have to argue with me about everything?” he asked as he nimbly untied my sneaker. “You should have taken the time to cool down.”

“Which is what I was going to do when you stopped me.”

He tugged off my shoe, dropped it. It bounced before falling between the steps to the ground. He knelt. With just the right amount of pressure, he bent my foot back with one hand while the other gently massaged the knot in my muscle. His hands were large and warm. I almost moaned as the pain began to lessen. He must have felt the knot dissipating because he sat with my leg across his lap and began using both hands to knead the aching muscles. Then I had to bite back a moan of pleasure. It felt so good.

He took half a second to peel off my sock and toss it at me. I snatched it, stuffed it into a pocket, while his fingers returned to working their magic.

“It's okay now,” I felt obligated to admit.

“Give it another minute. It could cramp back up.”

I was willing to give it ten minutes, thirty, a hundred. I didn't usually notice guys' hands, but something about his was intriguing. Maybe it was the fact that they were caressing my skin with deliberate long strokes interlaced with little squeezes. Every now and then he would return his attention to my foot, bend it, stretch the muscle in my calf.

“You're good,” I said.

“Thought
you
thought I was a bad boy.”

“I meant that you're good at massaging.”

“Lot of practice.”

And that pretty much broke the spell he'd been weaving. I didn't want to think about all the girls he'd practiced on. I pulled my leg free. He seemed at once surprised and irritated. I stood. “It's fine now.”

He gave me a half-smile. “Just let me know if you need help working out another cramp.”

“I think I can manage it.”

I started down the stairs. He didn't try to stop me. I slipped under the steps and snagged my shoe. When I straightened, he was standing, watching me, and I was glad that he hadn't had a good view of my butt from where he was. “Thanks for the help with the cramp.”

It seemed like I was always thanking him.

“No problem. Like I said, anytime.”

“Weren't you supposed to meet Dad at Smiley's?”

“Yeah, I need to head over there, but I wanted to get this straightened out first.”

“Why? You'll make a bad impression with Smiley and make my dad mad.”

“I called to let them know I'd be a little late.”

I considered putting on my shoe so I wasn't lopsided, but let it go. “Why did you want to take care of this first?”

“Because your dad is a cop; he's observant. He would have known something was wrong between us, and there is no way I would have come out of the story looking good and still been welcome here.”

“I didn't think you really wanted to be here.”

Shrugging, he rubbed his hands on his jeans. “It's not so bad.”

“High praise indeed for the Watkins's hospitality.”

“I like it when you're not mad. The girls I'm usually with . . . they don't care about their reputations. Or they care but they care about being popular or desired or . . . they don't care about the things you do. You're different.”

Before I started to blush, I said, “Everyone's different. And you should go.”

“Yep.”

With an uneven stride, I walked to the gate. I felt his gaze on me the entire way. Now if I could just forget the way it had felt to have his hands on me.