Rage invades my body, and I push past the group of smokers lingering on the front steps. A girl yells “Excuse you,” but I ignore her as I focus on reaching the Chevelle before the tears break free. Tommy has never spoken to me like that before—I hate it when he drinks. And calling me a bitch in front of everyone? Unacceptable.
I slam the heavy door shut and start the engine, catching my reflection in the mirror hanging on my visor—it’s obvious I’m on the verge of tears. Damn, I wish I had a better poker face. I flip the visor back in place and press on the gas pedal.
Hard.
My car skids out on the gravel before hitting the pavement and taking off. I don’t know where I’m headed, but I sure as hell don’t want to go home. I check the time on my phone: 9:37 p.m. Where am I going to go at this hour? Normally, I’d go get lost in a bookstore to calm down—they’re like my sanctuary. But a quiet, peaceful bookstore is the last thing I need right now.
I brush a tear off my cheek as the fight loops around in my mind: You know you’d never leave me. Who the hell does he think he is? I know he was drunk, but he said it with such conviction. Like he really, truly believes that I’d never break up with him. Is that the only reason he was so indifferent about me moving almost four hundred miles away? Because no girl in her right mind would ever break up with him?
Maybe no girl would. Maybe I’m not in my right mind. I’m furious with him, sure, but even more so with myself. If I hadn’t been acting so crazy lately, none of this would’ve happened. And after our very public fight, I have no doubt every girl at the party is swarming around him like a hornets nest right now. Not that I blame them—it’s not like he isn’t extremely attractive, with his crystal-blue eyes, dark hair, and beautifully sculpted body—complete with a six pack. But it’s more like my brain knows he’s gorgeous, instead of my heart . . . or my body. I’ve barely had any contact with Mr. Slate and can’t even see straight when we’re in the same proximity. I’ve never felt that way around Tommy.
Or anyone for that matter.
The Cineplex comes into view, and I decide to pull into the crowded parking lot. Emily always makes fun of me when I go to the movies by myself, but it’s a great getaway. You don’t have to take any calls or texts, and you can just be invisible for two whole hours. I usually go in the morning when the theaters are empty, but tonight I don’t care. I’m desperate for a distraction. I need to be off the grid, and a movie sounds like the perfect escape.
After touching up any evidence of tears, I climb out of my car and head to the box office. The warm Arizona evening grazes my bare legs, and I take a deep breath, attempting to shake my mood. I feel a little self-conscious going to a movie by myself during peak hours—especially dressed this way. I know it’s shallow, but I really thought this outfit would help smooth things over with Tommy—drunk or not.
Boy, was I wrong.
As I approach the box office, a short stocky blond boy with black-rimmed glasses stands up, his eyes widening. “H-hi. How can I help you?”
He reminds me of a hobbit.
I scan the list of showings. “Yeah, can I get a ticket to Flesh Eaters Six?”
He stares at me slack-jawed for a few seconds before turning his attention to the computer. “That’s sold out, sorry.”
“Damn,” I whisper. I want bloody, mind-numbing gore right now.
“There’s some seats left for Love Spell: The Moon Rises.”
No way. The latest crazed teen series is so not what I need right now.
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It started ten minutes ago, but you’ve probably read the books, so you’d be fine.”
I’m annoyed at his assumption that I’ve read the corny, teen-love-fantasy books. I mean, yeah, I’ve read them—and maybe even loved them—but it’s still rude to assume. Frustrated with my bad mood and nowhere else to go, I mumble “Fine.”
He beams. “Great!”
I open my neon-pink clutch that matches my toenail polish perfectly and pay the boy $10.50.
“Just one ticket?”
“Yeah, why?” I say unable to stifle a bitter tone.
“You look like you’re on a date, that’s all,” he says.
“I’m meeting someone here,” I lie.
“But weren’t you trying to see Flesh Eaters Six? Is your date in there? I can go get him if you want.”
This night is a total disaster.
“Um, no, it’s cool. He hasn’t arrived yet, so I’ll just text him.”
“Okay. Just be sure you text him before you get into the theater. No texting allowed.”
“Got it, buddy,” I call over my shoulder as I walk into the Cineplex.
An old man in a wheelchair greets me as he takes my ticket and directs me toward my theater. My stomach twinges as I pass the concession stand, completely ignoring my must-have Watermelon Wedges candy.
When I arrive inside the darkened theater, I drag my fingers across the wall for guidance, hoping my eyes will adjust soon. I hate being the person blindly searching for a seat, knowing that everyone else’s eyes have already adjusted and can see you stumbling around like some kind of drunken fool.
I make the trek up the dimly lit aisle and scan the audience for an empty spot, but the theater is packed. So much for nonchalantly slipping into an aisle seat and feeling invisible tonight. The hobbit acted like there was plenty of room, but even the front row is filled. I finally spot one near the back row about ten seats in. Ugh. I’ll have to climb over people in this tight dress—all I can think about is my ass in their faces.
“Excuse me,” I whisper to the guy on the end. He looks annoyed until he glances up at me. His expression shifts from irritation to interest as he stands up to make way. The girl next to him shoots me a dirty look. I apologize to everyone I pass until I reach the empty seat, tugging at the hem of my dress as I sit. My phone vibrates through my clutch, and I let out a soft sigh, disregarding it.
After about ten seconds, the person on my left nudges me. Oh, please say I haven’t taken a saved seat. I dread the thought of climbing over everyone again. My eyes struggle to adjust as I squint in the darkness. It takes me a moment, but then he flashes that familiar, perfect grin.
A bolt of adrenaline sends shockwaves through me.
“Hey,” says Mr. Slate.
“Hey,” is all I can manage.
Holy hell!
Isn’t he supposed to be home studying? I knew he left out the part about his date. I look past him expecting to see The Blonde, but instead see a preteen girl engulfed in a bucket of popcorn.
“If you tell anyone that you saw me here, I’ll have to fail you,” he says, smiling.
“You’re here alone?” I ask.
He chuckles. “Yeah . . . seriously, please don’t tell anyone I came to see this movie. Say you saw me at Flesh Eaters Six or something.”
He’s still smiling with that damn twinkle in his eye that makes my body hum.
“You got it,” I say.
“I take it you’re here alone?”
“Yeah, I am.”
His eyes sweep over my dress, and tingles erupt through every part of my body—it’s as if his eyes can physically touch me.
“You look like you should be on some hot date,” he says.
I shrug. “That was the plan, but things changed.”
Our eyes hold for a moment longer, and he swallows.
“Teenage boys are so stupid,” he says in a low voice. “His loss.”
A flush of heat spreads over me, and I hope he can’t see my heart pounding through this snug dress.
He holds out a bag of candy. “Watermelon Wedge?”
A beaming smile escapes me. “Seriously? These are my favorite.”
He grins. “Really? Mine too. And let’s just keep that between us as well, okay?” He winks, and I think I am going to die of a heart attack.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I say, grabbing two Wedges.
We both turn our attention to the movie, but I can’t see anything on the screen. All I see is his profile through my peripheral view. And is it my imagination, or is he watching me, too?
Dream on, Kaley.
Minutes tick by, and I try to pay attention to the movie, but it’s impossible. This is way worse than math class—we are literally inches apart in a dark room. How am I expected to focus? My phone vibrates again, but I ignore it. I shift in my seat, crossing my legs toward him and try to steady my breathing. But when I carefully glance his way, I notice him gazing at my legs.
That sure as hell isn’t going to help my breathing.
Fiery heat seeps through places in my body that no one has ever touched. How is it possible he can touch me in a way I’ve never felt before—and with only his eyes? I imagine what his fingers are capable of . . . his tongue.
Our eyes lock and he offers me more Wedges. I shake my head, but neither of us break our stare. There’s no longer a twinkle in his eye—no hint of a smile. His eyes travel down my neck, leaving a trail of goose bumps in their path. They slide down my shoulder. Then arm.
I shiver.
“Are you cold?” he whispers, lifting his eyes back to mine.
“Hm?”
He grabs his jacket from behind him and hands it to me. “I always bring a jacket just in case. These theaters can be freezing. Especially in a dress like that, I imagine.” He looks embarrassed after mentioning my dress and turns his attention back to the screen.