“Sorry,” I say, but all I can smell is coconuts and lime, and I look down at a sea of dark hair and “Laney?”
She looks up, adjusts her glasses. “I was going to do that whole arms-around-you-cover-your-eyes-guess-who thing, and it was supposed to be cute.” She rubs her head, looks up at me with her nose scrunched, and she doesn’t realize that without even trying, she’s the fucking cutest girl here with her tight black jeans, torn at the front, her tight gray top and leather jacket, and I want to fold her up, put her in my pocket and keep her for myself.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“I got someone to cover my shift. I wanted to celebrate with you.” She looks around. “I thought this was supposed to be small.”
I hook my finger in her belt loop and pull until she stumbles forward, her eyes wide. I love her like this—her body pressed into mine and her breaths shallow. I dip my head, speak into her ear. “It can be small… it can just be you and me and a bottle of whatever you want. This house has five rooms, and those rooms have locks.”
She steps back, bites her bottom lip, and fuck, I want to do the same. She says, “Anything but vodka.” And I’m taking her hand, taking a bottle of whiskey from the cooler and taking her upstairs and into the first available room. It reeks of beer and sex and it’s not at all romantic, but this isn’t a date, and really, it’s a Dumb Name party so it’s to be expected. Still, I open a window, strip the bed, and sit in the middle. After a moment, Laney follows my lead. I uncap the bottle, hand it to her. “You trying to get me wasted, Preston?”
Yes. “No.”
She takes a sip, passes it back. I decline.
“You not drinking with me?” she asks. Another sip.
“Someone needs to be sober to hold your hair when you puke.”
She spits out the drink, liquid leaking out of her mouth, and I laugh, wipe it away with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “You’re a hot mess already.”
Garray walks into the room—I forgot to lock the door—like he owns the place (whatever), and as soon as he sees Laney, he picks her up in a bear hug, giving zero fucks that he’s dripping wet, and she’s bone dry (for now), and she offers the world that sound. That reality-shifting, heart-stopping sound. She reaches for me, and I pull them apart, and now I’m wet because she’s holding onto me.
Garray looks between us, finishes on Lane. “Who’s the better kisser? Me or him?”
“Fuck off,” I snap.
Now Grace is here with two of her friends, and the room is way too fucking small for this. “What’s up, homewrecker?” she says to Lane. Then throws her drink in Lane’s face.
I move Laney behind me, get in Grace’s face. “What the fuck?”
“You need to leave,” Garray tells her. “Now!”
Grace doesn’t move, so Garray takes her by the shoulders, spins her around, forces her out of the room. “She’ll be out of the house in two minutes,” he assures.
I turn to Lane, her lips pursed, cheeks red. I say, “Sorry.”
She uses my sweatshirt to wipe her face. “What the hell, Luke?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t spoken to her since we broke up.”
“And what exactly did you tell her when you broke up with her?” she asks, her breaths heavy, her anger spiking.
I lift my chin. “The truth.”
“Which is?”
“That I was into you!”
Her eyes widen, her jaw drops, and then she sighs. “Well, I can’t be mad at you now.”
“Good. I don’t want you to be.”
She flops down on the bed, takes the bottle, and drinks way more than she should. “Do you feel different?”
“About?”
“About your new PB. I’m so proud of you. You’ve worked so hard, and it’s all paying off.”
My smile forms when hers does. “I still have to beat Coop—”
She covers my mouth with her hand. “Let’s not talk about him. Not tonight. Not ever again.”
Slowly, I pull her hand away. “What do you want to talk about?”
Her grin widens. “How hot you look tonight.”
“Are you hitting on me, Sanders?”
She takes another long swig, her eyes staying on mine. She nods.
I smirk.
Game on, Laney.
An hour later, I’m hauling her ass into a cab and telling the driver her address. While I didn’t even get to start my second beer, she’s slurring her words. Drunk Laney is Fun Laney. “Do you like?” she asks, throwing her feet over my legs. “The bootsh. Like?”
“Is she going to puke in my cab?” the driver asks, watching us in the rearview mirror.
Probably. “Nah, she’s good.” I squeeze her thighs, and she giggles into my arm. “She’s a tough one.”
“I am tough!” Laney announces. “Sticks and stones and fists and bones, right?”
I pat her crazy head and swear it, she purrs, moves closer to me. I don’t count the seconds, the minutes it takes to get to her house because whatever it is, it’s not long enough. I pay the cab driver when he gets us to Lane’s sans puke (yay) and I get her into her room, take off her “bootsh,” wait for her to dress in the bathroom and get her into her bed, safe and sound. I sit on the edge of the bed, look and smile down at her. Then I trace a finger across her forehead, move her bangs away from her eyes—eyes that drift shut at my touch. Her head lolls to the side and she sighs, licks her lips. “I love it when you do that,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“It’s as if you have to see me.” Her eyes meet mine. “Sometimes when you look at me…” She grasps my wrist, places my hand over her heart. “Do you feel it?” she asks, and I close my eyes, focus on the touch.
Five seconds.
Eight heartbeats.
“You make my heart race, Lucas.”
My eyes snap open. “Go on a date with me, Lane?”
“But—”
“But nothing. Don’t you think we’ve waited long enough?”
“Yeah,” she whispers. “I do.”
“Tuesday?”
She nods. “Tuesday.”
I kiss her forehead. “You need anything before I go?
She sits up. “Don’t you want to stay?”
“Of course I want to stay.” But I don’t trust myself with you, Lane. “But I shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, you should,” she says, nodding, her eyes wild. “You should also take off your t-shirt.”
I chuckle. “I can’t.”
“Why?” she whines. “Besides, it’s like, one in the morning. You have to get up in less than four hours, and by the time you walk home it’ll be, like, 6 am.”
“It’ll be ten minutes from now.”
“But I want you to stay with me.” She pouts, turns into a kid begging for candy. “Please?”
“Fine, but I’m not touching you.”
“Good. I don’t want you to touch me.” She giggles, flops back down on the bed. “But you have to be shirtless.”
“Lane,” I warn, slipping off my shoes and removing my belt.
She watches me strip down to my boxers, her bottom lip caught between her teeth and her eyes hazy, from the alcohol or lust—I’m not sure, but I’m not willing to risk it, to regret it.
I get into bed, as far away from her as possible because the slightest touch could set me off. But she doesn’t get the hint, she moves closer, her head on my chest, her breath warming my skin. Her hand flattens on my stomach, moves lower. Lower. “Lane,” I warn again.
She kisses my jaw, and I can’t catch my breath, and she says, “I said I didn’t want you touching me. I didn’t say anything about not wanting to touch you.” Her fingers move, trace the outline of my stomach muscles and I clench my fists at my sides, try not to get hard, but I don’t have control of my body, and my boxers are starting to feel really fucking tight. She kisses her way up my jaw to my ear. “I always get so turned on when I watch you race.”
“Oh my God,” I groan. “We shouldn’t—”
“Are you hard?” she cuts in and her hand skims my erection, answering her question. “You want me to take care of it?”
Fuck, yes. “No.” I grasp her wrist, stop her from moving. Then I shake my head, laugh at myself. “I can’t believe I’m saying this.”
“What?” she asks, the hurt in her voice unmistakable.
“As much as I want this, want you, I can’t do it like this. When we do it again, I want to have earned it. I want it to mean everything. I don’t want us to walk away with any regrets. From now on, I’m going to do it right.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
LUCAS
Tuesday comes, my stomach in knots, and I’m a fucking wreck—more than the thirteen-year-old version of me pre-non-first-date with Laney. But there’s so much more on the line now than there was then, and it needs to be perfect. I need to be perfect. She deserves nothing less.
I text Leo when I get in my truck, tell him I’m on my way to get Lane.
He responds: All systems go, Captain.
I knock on the front door instead of her bedroom. Brian answers, his arms crossed. “First official date…” he says. “Come in, son.” He opens the door wider, motions to the couch. I sit. “Lo, your date’s here!” he calls out.