A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(17)

His lip pulls up with sympathy, and he looks down before glancing back  at me with a sideways tilt of the head, raising the ball in his hand.  "Let's try a few," he says, walking back to the mound.

I kneel just as he taught me, and my legs shake a little at first, so I  adjust my knees more, giving myself a base. "I'm good," I say, pounding  the center of my glove and holding it out for his target.

Wes nods, then winds up for a pitch. He throws a changeup, and I know he  did it because he doesn't want me to get hurt catching anything faster.  The fighter in me wants to spit and tell him to give me the real stuff,  but the girl I am-the one that likes the way he looks at me-is okay  with the fact that he wants to protect me.

"That looked good," I say, throwing the ball back to him. His lips twist  into a crooked grin, and he tugs his hat low again before winding up  for another pitch. I praised him, and he liked it.         

     



 

I liked that.

He throws twenty more, and somewhere in the middle of it all, Taryn  walks down to the dugout to watch us. I saw her coming, but Wes doesn't  notice her until he finishes his last pitch. He seems to retreat into  his shell when she claps at his final throw.

"Thanks for helping me out, Joss. Sorry, I didn't mean to keep her," he  says, pulling the hat from his head with one hand and running his other  arm over his forehead and hair, wiping away the sweat. I get a little  lost in watching it and don't notice Taryn step next to my side.

"So you're a catcher now, huh?" There's a gleam in her eye and an inflection in her voice that's teasing me.

"He was working on some stuff. I saw my dad helping him," I say,  shrugging. I don't lie to Taryn well, so I swallow slowly and busy  myself with my own bag, zipping my glove away and looping it over my  shoulder.

"You know, I could maybe have some place I need to go. In fact, I think  maybe I do. Ugh, that's right. I just remembered … I can't give you a ride  home," she says as my back is to her. I twist up to look her in the  eye, ready to argue with her for ditching me or being impatient because I  wasn't ready and waiting for her outside the locker room. When my eyes  hit hers, though, I catch the soft hint of a smile on her tight lips  just as she winks.

"It's not like that," I sigh, standing and urging her to walk away with me.

"Sure it's not," she says. "Hey, Wes? I have somewhere I need to go, and I'm late. Think you can take Joss home?"

My eyes are wide on her as my back is to him. I mouth the word "bitch" and she winks at me again.

"Yeah, that's fine," he says. My eyes flutter closed because his response couldn't possibly have sounded less excited.

"Thanks," Taryn says, holding her phone out toward me and whispering for  me to text her later. I flip her off, and Wes catches me, which makes  my body rush with a mortifying heat.

I watch Taryn walk away, and Wes gets a few steps ahead of me before  pausing and looking back. "You ready? I have to take my brothers, but  I'll make them ride in the back," he says. He's talking logistics. Taryn  was playing matchmaker.

"You know what, it's okay. My house is close. I'll just walk," I say.  His brow pulls in as his head jerks back a little in response. A second  later, he steps back the few paces to me and tugs my bag from my  shoulder. I hold the straps tightly in protest, but he jerks them free,  throwing my bag on top of his as he walks toward his truck, leaving me  behind.

"Quit being stubborn," he says. "Just come on."

I let him get a few more steps ahead before I follow. His back muscles  could not be more perfect-the way they curve and dip and flex with every  motion he makes. His arm is bent through the straps of both of our  bags, and his hand is gripping them at his shoulder. He's godlike. And  I'm in a pair of cutoff sweatpants, the legs different lengths, and my  shirt is two sizes two big. The longer I walk behind him, the more  ridiculous I feel being paired with him, and the less I think he could  possibly be the scrawny kid from my youth.

As we step into the parking lot, his brothers are already waiting in the  cab of the truck. Seeing me, they both climb out, but I hold up my  hands and yell before they step into the bed.

"Seriously, I can ride in the back. It's fine," I say. I don't give them  a choice, instead just lifting my leg over one side and sliding my back  against the glass, getting comfortable.

Wes pauses at the back of the truck, sighing with a slight shake of his  head. He lifts our bags over the tailgate and pushes them to one corner  before walking to the driver's side. I cross my legs and fold the bottom  of my T-shirt around my cold hands, readying myself as the truck  rumbles to a start. I hear both doors close, and I start to shut my  eyes, embarrassed and angry at Taryn for putting me in this spot. Before  I shut down completely, though, I see Wes step from the other side of  the bed, climbing in to the space next to me. He turns to face the glass  behind us and knocks twice, letting his brothers know he's in. As he  twists back around, he stops to look me in the eye, his eyebrows high on  his forehead.

"Stub-born," he says, punctuating both parts of the word. I shrug, and wrap my hands tighter in my shirt.

Before we get to the main road away from campus, Wes leans forward and  tugs the thin long-sleeved shirt from over his head, turns to the side,  not giving me much choice as he pushes the fabric over my head. He rests  back against the window, crossing his arms at his chest after tugging  his hat low on his head.         

     



 

I sit there looking ridiculous for a few seconds with a scarf made of  his shirt looped around my throat. I give in quickly though as the wind  picks up, pushing my arms through. There are holes at the ends of both  sleeves, and I slide my thumbs through, making fists of what's left of  the material. As thin as it is, it's surprisingly warm. And it smells  exactly like him.

"Thank you," I squeak out, inhaling slowly so he doesn't catch me. I  pull my knees in and rest my head on them along with my folded arms. Wes  doesn't look at me, but he smirks and leans into my side.

"You're welcome," he says.

We ride in silence most of the way, and with every shift and adjustment  Wes makes of his body, he moves fractions of inches closer to me. At one  point, both of our hands are flat along the bed of the truck, bracing  our bodies for the impact of a bumpy road, and the jostling forces his  pinky finger to loop over mine. We both look down at the feel of our  touch and pull our hands away when we realize we're both aware.

There's a block left to go before we turn down my street, so I reach up  and tug the band from my hair, letting it come down in waves and blow in  the wind as we ride. I usually hate the way riding in a truck makes my  hair knotted and dry, but the urge to let it down in front of Wes was  stronger. I want to look soft for him-not the abrasive … stubborn girl  he's only gotten so far. It's a desperate move, though, and the second I  feel my hair fly loose in the breeze, I regret it, and pull it into my  hand, holding it at the base of my neck. I'm not the pretty girl. I'm  not ribbons and bows. I'm being stupid.

"I've been meaning to ask you," he says, pulling me out of my own head. "Would it be okay if maybe I called you sometime?"

My gut reaction is to tell him to grow a pair, to ask him why he'd want  to do that? My instincts are to shut down and ward him off because I'm  messy, and I have miles of issues, and I don't want to let myself like  him like that. But I'm holding my arms near my face, and his shirt is  warm and soft, and it smells nice, and as much as I shouldn't fall for  fleeting things like that, I can't help myself.

"I would probably answer," I say.

Fuck, it sounds flirty. I sound flirty, and I'm smiling and trying to  hide it behind my arms. I'm actually hiding my face. We're at my house,  and I know I should just give him his shirt back, but I don't want to do  that either. I want to keep it. I want to keep it forever, so I step  out of the truck quickly, grabbing my own bag and waving to his  brothers, careful not to look him in the eye. I walk fast, opening and  shutting my front door behind me, and then I let myself breathe.

"Was that Wes?" my father says, stepping out of the darkened kitchen  area, a cup in his hand that I've long learned is not coffee.

I nod, but look away, instead carrying my things past him toward my  room. He stops me before I can get far, though, lightly pressing his  hand on my shoulder and leaving it there until I meet his eyes.

"Leave that boy alone," he says before bringing his cup to his lips for a  taste. I watch him swallow, and I wait for his eyes to relax and  soften, but they never do. He lets me by and moves into the living room,  to the chair he likes to sit in at night to watch TV until he passes  out. He's not watching pitching videos tonight, it seems.