Chapter 4 #2
The game is in full swing when I pull into the familiar lot.
I glance at the pool to my right, fond memories of my first leaps off the high dive pulling up the corners of my mouth.
I roll my car window up and shut off my engine, snagging a hair tie from my glove box before grabbing my drink and exiting the vehicle.
Rowan’s back is to me as I walk up, but a few of the guys playing with him glance my way, a couple bumping elbows and snickering to one another.
I climb up the small set of bleachers and pull my sunglasses from the front of my jumper, slipping them on so I can stare without it being quite so obvious.
It takes Rowan a few minutes to spot me, and he pauses his run across the court for a beat when he does.
I slip my flipflops off and rest them on the bottom bench, making a cushion for my heel as I cross my feet and hike the hem of my jumper up to sun my legs.
I twist my hair up with my tie, then lean back on my elbows before glancing to the two boys whispering not so quietly to each other to my right.
“Hi, boys,” I say, smiling as they both laugh nervously, their braces gleaming in the morning sun.
My guess is twelve, maybe thirteen. Their skateboards are propped against the side of the bleachers.
They’re probably waiting for Rowan and his friends to finish up so they can practice whatever tricks they think will impress the girls in their grade.
I remember the boys like them. I was impressed back then.
It takes more than a few tricks to get my attention now, though.
Apparently, it takes a twisted form of playing hard to get along with a full sleeve of tats and a trove of family drama.
“Hey.”
I swivel my head to the other side to meet the unfamiliar voice. The guy standing at the end of the bleachers flips open the top of his water bottle and immediately gulps down what I assume is water as his eyes linger on me.
“Hey,” I repeat.
He’s a good-looking guy, probably about Rowan’s age. Maybe younger. It’s hard to tell anymore, and Rowan wears his years a bit heavier than most. He’s lived what feels like more than the twenty-four years that he is.
“You watching your boyfriend or something?” The guy lifts a brow with his question, and I glance beyond his shoulder as a few other guys from the game begin to wander toward us for their break.
Rowan remains on the court, shooting jump shots that rattle the chains as they repeatedly sink through the hoop.
I shake my head as my gaze works its way back to my new friend.
“Nope. No boyfriend for me.”
His grin moves in swiftly, as does his quick laughter.
“Well, that’s good to know. You, uh. You like anything you see?” He quirks a brow again, taking another long drink when I don’t answer right away.
Is this guy for real? Is this what pick-up lines are now? The level of ick crawling over my skin is smothering, but I do like the way Rowan keeps glancing at us. There’s a protectiveness in his expression, one emphasized by the regular flex in his jaw.
“Oh, there’s a lot of things I like seeing out here . . .” I tip my chin, awaiting his name.
“Brady,” he says, just as a curled lock of hair slips over his forehead.
“Nice to meet you, Brady. I’m Saylor.” I pull my glasses from my eyes and reach forward with my other hand to shake his.
His grip is firm, though a bit sweaty. His gray athletic shirt is drenched with sweat, but it’s clear that he’s got a decent build underneath.
Maybe I should be open to a guy like him.
Perhaps an entire summer of Bradys. Flings that I can use to forget about the rules my mom is trying to enforce around my decisions about my future.
Summer fun to wash away memories of the boy I thought of as a best friend who ditched me to find himself and have a summer of hook-ups of his own.
A date night, perhaps, with Brady . . . to forget about the way my body teems with electricity at the mere thought of Rowan watching me from afar.
“I’d love to buy you dinner, maybe some drinks.”
I smirk, glancing back to Rowan for a second, just long enough to catch his eyes on me. He’s quit shooting, now, and is just standing in the center of the court with the ball tucked to his side as he watches me turn up the flirt with his friend.
“Well, I’d love dinner. But I’m not quite twenty-one, so drinks might be a little hard to manage.” I bat my lashes and brace myself for the inevitable question.
“How not quite twenty-one are you?” There’s an edge to Brady’s tone, and I think he may actually be suddenly worried I’m younger than I am.
“I’m eighteen. I leave for college in August,” I say, and his relief seems instant as his shoulders drop with a swift exhale.
“Dinner it is, then. Can I get your number?” He moves toward a small gym bag resting on the ground near the bleachers, but before he can pull out his phone or a pen, I slip my shoes back on my feet and stand.
“Rowan has my number. He’s practically my brother, so just tell him I said you can have it.” My lips pull into a puckered smile, and I let my fingertips graze along Brady’s shoulder as I walk around him.
“Sounds good, Saylor,” he says to my back. I glance over my shoulder with a smirk, but my gaze never reaches Brady at all. It stops at Rowan.
Playing games is not like me. None of the way I’ve acted or felt for the last week is like me.
But I’m tired of being whatever I have been for most of my life.
Complacent. Quiet. Willing to push my wishes to the side for whoever needs center stage at the time.
The good daughter who appreciates her single mom’s hard work and never mentions that she misses her dad.
The third wheel to the Anderson boys, the one who needs a babysitter.
Fuck that.
I might not be ready to break all of my good girl promises just yet, but this one? Where I pretend that I don’t want Rowan Anderson? I’m done faking that.
I make it back to the house before my phone buzzes in my center console with Rowan’s call. I sink back in the driver’s seat while idling in the driveway and enjoy the nice chill from the AC I finally got working.
“Hello, this is Saylor. Are you calling about the babysitting job I posted?” It’s hard to keep the innocent tone up, and I fight not to break into a laugh.
“Ha ha, very funny. No, I am not looking to babysit anyone.” Rowan doesn’t sound amused, which somehow pleases me more.
The sound of an engine revving in the background fills the line. Probably one of his friends’ trucks or cars. Rowan seems to have lost his.
“Okay. Then why are you calling?”
It’s quiet between us for a few seconds, so I clear my throat to prod him to respond.
“Hang on. I’m getting in the car,” he grunts.
“I’ll wait.” And I do. I take in the various sounds of his car's ignition engaging, his phone connection switching to his car's speakers as his engine rumbles to life. Even the way his car sounds is sexy.
“Brady fucking Campbell?” he finally spits out.
“Is that his last name?” I bite my knuckle, loving how irritated he is by this.
I don’t know that Caleb was ever truly jealous.
Even when it came to me flirting with his brother, which I’m still not entirely sure he noticed.
Caleb’s warning to me to be careful was more about his dislike for Rowan than any emotional connection to me.
It’s territorial. And maybe Rowan is being territorial too.
The difference is I’m not aiming for anything more than that, than to be wanted in a way that makes me feel alive. Beautiful. Sexy.
“Yeah, that’s his name. And no, he can’t have your phone number!”
I laugh out loud.
“I’m glad you find this funny,” he grumbles.
I hold my fist to my mouth, covering my smile.
“It’s a little funny. I mean, why can’t your little sister get to know your friends a little better? Maybe Brady and I will hit it off.”
“Like hell are you dating a guy like Brady fucking Campbell. All that dude is good for is a few hundred bucks every time I beat his ass on the court.” Rowan’s engine roars again, and I picture where he’s likely at, probably getting on the highway to head to his garage, which gives me an idea.
“Hey, did you mean what you said about my car? Do you really think you can get my AC working?”
What’s the worst that can happen here . . . my air gets fixed?
“Yeah, I can. Do you have time today to swing by the shop?”
I suck in my lower lip, giddy at the thought of pushing his buttons more in person. I shift my car into reverse and slowly back out of my driveway.
“On my way,” I say.
When he doesn’t respond immediately, I add, “Maybe Brady will stop by too?”
“No, he won’t,” he gripes. “Just get your ass here.”
Rowan ends the call, but not before letting a groan slip over the line, the kind that comes from deep inside, from living on the edge of something you want. And I intend to push him there.