23. ROXANNE
Chapter twenty-three
I hate him.
I listened to his footsteps fading away as he retreated upstairs, no doubt looking too damn pleased with himself.
… Still, I couldn’t stop myself from picturing him up there, all lean muscle and shitty smiles. Imagining the shine of sweat on his shirtless body as he made it up each step.
I pictured my tongue slowly tracing the grease stain on his chest, my greedy fingers exploring every ripple and ridge.
Would his hair slick back for three seconds before his curls bounce back like when he runs his hands through it? Were those biceps flexing as he shoved off those grease-stained jeans?
Jesus fucking Christ . What the hell is happening to me?
My forehead buzzes where his lips met my skin, and I press my fingertips to it, chasing the phantom of his kiss. I shouldn’t have allowed it, shouldn’t have told him he could have one, but why did denying him a real kiss suddenly feel like denying myself?
Ugh. I didn’t want to get sucked into those pretty blue eyes like everyone else.
It's too late. He has dragged my body under a riptide, leaving me drowning and gasping for air I can't catch.
With a shaky exhale, I attempt to calm my heart rate as I sit pulsating in his clothes in the darkness, the lights shutting off upstairs as he retires for the night, oblivious to the havoc he has wrought. Then I hear the shower turn on upstairs and think about what he looks like totally naked.
Strong shoulders, tan lines from skating, water dripping down smooth skin...
A strangled noise comes out of me and I thunk my head against the cushions. I squeeze my thighs together, trying in vain to ignore the flames raging through my veins. The intensity is too frightening.
I hate him.
I hate myself more.
I need an exorcism or something. These feelings are not fucking natural. This is the boy who undoubtedly had legions of groupies fawning over him. And now apparently I was president of said fanclub.
It almost felt selfish, like I was using him to distract myself from the gnawing pit of worry in my stomach over my mom. I would have used him, would have grabbed his belt, and pulled him back down to kiss me properly. But he was right.
I’m a sweaty, disgusting, emotional mess, and this was absolutely not the time to explore... whatever the hell this dangerous current that ran between us was. It should never be the time.
It will never be the time .
Then why couldn’t I stop looking at his fisted hand and wonder what it would feel like to hold it? I wanted to reach out and uncurl it, but that would be selfish, giving in to my baser urges when I need myself focused. I have enough shit to handle.
So I groaned, grinding my fists into my eye sockets, and sat in the dark living room, battling it out until the sky lightened. Which is why I bolted the second I saw the faintest glow of sunshine hit the blinds.
I scrawled a hasty note of thanks and left it on his coffee table. While I hunted for a pen in the kitchen, my gaze snagged on the calendar where there were a ton of red X’s marked many days in October, with “Be Back!” written in swirly script at the end of next week.
Wow, his parents really are gone a lot. For entire weeks it seems, over and over. No wonder he’s always on his own at night, with no one to rein in his dumb behavior and attitude.
I snort. Not that anyone could rein in Noah. He was gonna do what he wanted, when he wanted. Kinda like me and my newfound urge to rip his clothes off, apparently.
Sweet mercy . I thunk my head against his front door after that thought. Despite my own warnings, déjà vu flutters low as I picture that smile again. The one promising he’d find ways to chip through my walls.
Shithead .
It was too bad the reckless attraction couldn’t be taken away from distance alone, because even after that weekend, I could feel it everywhere I fucking went. Like a bad rash that wouldn’t go away. I thought it would leave my system after Mom returned from the hospital on Tuesday, no longer delirious but baking meatloaf and asking me if I wanted to watch Rocky IV.
Yeah, right. By Wednesday’s band practice, my little infatuation was worse than ever. He kept his shirt off the entire time while I watched his arms flex as he moved his fingers up and down the strings of his guitar. Shithead knew my weaknesses at this point.
Those muscles in his forearm and neck kept straining, and I sat there wondering the whole time if he’s always had those, until he commanded my attention, starting to sing in the microphone, signaling me to pick up my end and start drumming with my sticks.
Noah is no beefcake. He is lithe, with sharp collar bones and graceful wrists. Not an ounce of excess fat anywhere, every smooth plane and corded muscle etched as if Michelangelo himself had carved that guy from marble.
I hated him even more for it.
Of course, his hair's been doing that thing all week. You know, that perfect messy-but-not-really thing that perfectly frames his chiseled face and pouty lips. And those electric eyes turn from brooding rebel to charming scamp in the space of a heartbeat. I imagined tracing my hands over every ridge of his back, feeling his muscles shift under smooth skin—under my fingertips. I want to run over everything. Every muscle, every bone, every goddamn freckle.
I’m doomed.
Noah used to blend into the scenery, as unremarkable as a houseplant. Completely off my radar. Totally unsexy.
Now he's been hit with a sexy ray-gun and I'm noticing things I can't un-notice.
His arms. Sweet merciful cthulhu, his arms . They're not just limbs anymore—they're nicely shaped arms especially when bare and under the shitty garage lighting. What kind of dark magic is this? His mouth, too… Jesus . It looks especially pretty when he's chewing on a guitar pick or his bottom lip is dragging across that damn microphone.
I had gone off of the rails. I contemplated finding a shrink and telling them I had some latent psychosis episode. Maybe checking myself into an asylum until science found a cure for Cute Dumb Boy allergies or something.
Not even trying to imagine me in a straight jacket kept me from looking at him, couldn’t make me focus on my drum sticks in my hands or watch Daniel’s bass fills.
Nope, my needy eyes kept drifting back to the beads of sweat trailing his spine. I don’t know if anyone knows this, but when you’re the drummer, everyone is standing in front of you so… it’s kind of hard NOT to look at the lead singer’s back. I got the full view from behind.
By nighttime, the chaotic attraction still raged unchecked. Alone in my bed, I would replay that Friday night in my mind every time I shut my eyes, like counting sheep. The smolder in his eyes, the warmth of his lips on my skin. I would toss and turn and when I finally drifted off, he haunted even my dreams.
Shit, I was in so much trouble.
This had to stop. I couldn’t let myself keep obsessing over someone I hated. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t fucking shake him. Especially during our first period.
It was rough. Pure fucking torture.
He ate a small bag of Doritos, rolling the sleeves of his jacket up to showcase those beautiful forearms, veins flexing as he dug inside the bag, then sucked the orange dust slowly from his slender fingers. I was forced to watch it. How is anyone supposed to handle that scene mere feet away?
It’s Thursday and I’ve already snapped my third pencil this week from glancing his way. Right now I’m forced to see him across the cafeteria, head thrown back in laughter, Adam’s apple bobbing as he jokes with friends. I'm always looking his way—no matter how much I try to fight it.
I’m doomed. Utterly doomed. And he doesn’t even have a clue.
“Hellllo, earth to Roxanne! Am I talking to myself here?” Stephanie’s hand waves in front of my face, jolting me out of my Noah-induced drool fest.
“Sorry, what?” I blink, tearing my gaze away. “Oh yeah, costumes, Cry-Baby or whatever...”
“Were you even listening?” She huffs, her half-ponytail bouncing with indignation. “I was saying we should coordinate. Like cute baby-doll dresses, and we could be Allison and Wanda!”
“Yeah,” I say vaguely, eyes already drifting back toward Noah.
He choses that moment to run a hand through his pretty, dark hair, those two curls falling just so over his forehead, and I break the Funyun in my hand. His red jacket is draped over the table bench beside him, uncovering a tight white tank top that tucks into his jeans.
As he laughs with his friends, his lips part to flash a glimpse of straight, white teeth, and the long column of his throat works as he takes a sip of his Coke can. Want claws hot and low in my belly and I have to scoot closer to the edge of my seat to ease it.
Something I hate him a lot for cultivating.
“Okay, what is UP with you?” My friend plants her face firmly between my line of sight again, hands propped on her hips. “You’re totally spacey today.”
“Sorry, Steph. I'm distracted thinking about fractions. Big math test next period.” I offer a weak grin. I’m not convinced by that whopper, and neither is Stephanie judging by her deadpan stare.
“Uh huh.” She turns around and starts to follow my gaze across the cafeteria. “Distracted by Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome over there? Or maybe a different kind of big exam on your mind?”
My cheeks burn like hot asphalt. “What? No—I wasn’t looking at him!”
I cringe at the unnatural pitch of my denial.
“Mmhmm, sure.” She wiggles her eyebrows, unconvinced. “It’s cute that you think I can’t tell when you’re making bedroom eyes. And your drool says otherwise.”
I reach over the table and swat her shoulder as she dissolves into giggles. “Shut up! I do not drool.”
“Maybe not on the outside,” she says with a wink, then glances back over her shoulder. “Is something going on with you two? He looks extra steamy today... like he’s hunting for something.”
“Nothing is going on,” I blurt too quickly. “Absolutely nothing is going on. At all.”
She gives me a knowing look but thankfully lets it drop. “Can you pay attention to me for two seconds and tell me what you think about the costumes?”
“Oh, um...” I stall, eyes drifting back to Noah as his head shakes from another burst of laughter. The sound sends a little thrill through me.
Get. It. Together.
“Right, that. Sorry. I was actually thinking about dressing up as Elvira or Veronica Sawyer.”
“Veronica Sawyer? I love that movie, but isn’t that, like, a couple’s costume?” She tilts her head, giving me another one of her looks. “Are you and Noah going as a couple ?”
“What? No!” I sputter, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “We’re not… I mean we’re friends. Barely even that.”
My skin starts to prickle at the suggestion. As if I need any reminders about that kiss I almost let him have last week. I’m in over my head, but I don’t want to talk to my friend about any of it yet. I can’t take her little eyes turning hooded on me and the unspoken but soon to be verbal judgemental ‘ what are you doing ’ stare, because I don’t even know what I’m doing.
Shoving the memory aside roughly, I paste on a smile. “He and I definitely aren’t hanging out on Halloween. It’ll be you, me, and Tyler like always.”
We have traditions to uphold. Every Halloween for the past three years, the three of us have done the same thing: pile into my car in costume and sneak a flask of something strong into the Drive-Inn under my Levi jacket. Tyler always brings a huge bag of candy, and we’d sprawl out in the backseat, getting buzzed and high on sugar as horror movies play.
It’s our special night, and there’s no way I’d break tradition.
“Well if he does invite you to some totally rad party, you better invite me this time,” Stephanie says.
“Why doesn’t your super cool, also popular boyfriend take you?” I quirk an eyebrow.
Stephanie waves her hand at me. “Daniel’s going to some family party. Annoying but whatever. So promise you won’t abandon me for Noah’s posse if he asks you out that night—unless you’re bringing us as your plus twos.”
She holds out her pinky expectantly and I link mine with hers, sealing the deal.
“I promise.”
His world holds little appeal compared to getting drunk and throwing up candy with my best friends. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
But as my eyes drift inevitably back to Noah as if compelled by a tractor beam, I’m not so sure. He’s leaning against the wall now, his muscles bulging from the crossed hands under his armpits while mirth dances on his stupidly kissable lips. He looks like sin incarnate while laughing with his cronies, waiting for willing sacrifices to throw themselves at his feet.
As if sensing my creeper stare, his eyes collide with mine from across the crowded cafeteria, that smile sliding off his face. The sounds around us dim to distant static. And there it is again.
That weird tension.
Like he thinks we’re Michael and Star spotting each other in the concert crowd at the start of The Lost Boys . Our eyes play with each other, and when his mouth curls slowly into something heated, winking at me from across bobbing heads, my kneecaps dissolve underneath the table.
A literal fucking dreamy sigh comes out of me, and I tear my eyes away. This is way beyond simple attraction at this point.
I’m craving Noah with an almost primal need.
And I know I don’t imagine the way his eyes dart from mine to my lips when I’m drawn back to him, staying there as the front of my chest glows red hot. My hands are digging at my cardigan, my thumbs flexing wider holes into the button openings, the fine hairs soft against my fingertips as the situation worsens between my legs—
“Roxanne Wishmore, please report to the principal’s office immediately.”
I stretch open the hole until the threads snap, panic rising when the intercom douses my rising internal temperature. Stephanie shoots me a wide-eyed look, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth.
“The principal’s office? What did you do?”
“Nothing!” My hands tremble as I scrunch up my Funyun bag and shove it into my backpack, but it’s not the principal thing. No, it’s the aftermath of that stare. “At least I hope it’s nothing.”
Speaking of that stare, I glance back up at Noah. His sex god demeanor has evaporated, dark eyebrows knitted together now. Our eyes meet again and something protective and far sweeter than his usual look emerges in its place, keeping him hovering near the sidelines.
I can hear the question he’s thinking. I give a small shrug—I really have no idea what this is about. My summoning could be about anything from a forgotten library book to Kevin taking up two parking spaces.
“I’d better go, I’ll see you during gym,” I tell Steph before gathering the rest of my things. I throw my sandwich bag in the trash, my half-eaten lunch rolling in my stomach. Noah’s stare prickles between my shoulder blades long after I leave the table, which makes me feel brave enough to force on a smile.
My nerves—and backpack—jangle louder with each hurried step toward the main office, and I replay lunch on loop, equal parts embarrassed by and craving more of that staring match. How exactly am I supposed to sit in the office when my body is so warm? I’m supposed to be concentrating on the current crisis of the day, which currently presents far more unanswered questions.
The last time I’d been called into the school’s office was after Dad passed. They’d pushed some perky counselor on me, insisting I “talk out my feelings.” As if muted pastels and pamphlets were going to make me feel better about it and fix that gaping loss and horror.
I move past the secretary smiling at me from the front desk and reach the wooden office door, taking a few deep breaths before turning the knob. I mentally prepare myself to face the Principal and come up with any reason as to why I shouldn’t be in trouble for whatever I did or didn’t do. Only when I step inside, the room is empty.
I glance around until my gaze crashes into a figure standing off to the side.
Stomach, meet shoes.
It’s Mr. Hayes, one of the social workers from CPS who’s been checking in on me since my dad’s death. Seeing his face usually means one thing. It’s never a good one.
Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.
“Roxanne,” he smiles, walking closer toward the desk. “Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.”
I lower myself into the chair across from the Principal’s desk, every nerve already on high alert from the many dark vibes I’m getting from him. Hayes only makes appearances when there’s news about my mom. Last time he informed me about her month-long party session that ended with a hospital stay, which was already old news.
Him being here now means something new is up.
He clears his throat, shuffling some papers on the desk. When he finally looks down at me, his eyes shine with pity.
I fucking hate that look.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news...” he starts.
My heart begins to pound out a beat.
“We’ve received reports that your mother’s condition has deteriorated,” he continues gently. “That she’s no longer able to care for you properly.”
My throat closes up, but I quickly hide my emotions and school my features into my best ‘as if!’ face. “What? That’s ridiculous. My mom’s doing fine now.” I start to tap out SOS on my knee, watching as Hayes studies me with knowing eyes behind his glasses.
“Are you sure? No signs of mania or unstable behavior? No concerns about her ability to look after you and manage the household?”
I shake my head, my heart racing despite firmness. “None. Whoever told you that doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”
“I see,” he says plainly, not buying my rainbows and unicorns act. “Well, you're 18 now, Roxanne. Almost an adult. If you need any help, you only have to ask—”
“I don't need help,” I bit out, anger starting to seep through the cracks. My hands clench into fists at the side of my thighs. “Everything is under control. My mom and I just had breakfast together this morning.”
Another lie. I'd fed myself a strawberry Pop-Tart on the way to school this morning.
He holds my gaze before nodding reluctantly. “If you insist nothing is wrong, then there isn't much I can do. But please, if anything happens, don't hesitate to call. I only want to help.”
He slides his business card across the desk, and I take it even though I already have five shoved in my backpack. Anything to make this conversation end.
I wouldn’t call, of course. I’d figure out how to manage and handle this like everything else in my life—on my own, as I always did because you really can’t rely on anyone else to help you sort through your own shit. I only had seven months left in this place anyway. No way am I letting them take me from the only family I have left to toss me into some foster home to rot until I graduate.
Mr. Hayes sighs but doesn’t argue further. He tries to lay a reassuring hand on my shoulder as he leaves, but I dodge it and slump further in the chair.
I’m finally dismissed when Principal Phillips returns and tells me to go ahead and return to lunch. I can't possibly eat anything after this meeting.
I bolt out of that office, pretending nothing happened while I grip my backpack. God, I’m so tired. Everything keeps stacking on top of each other and rolling into this giant ball that keeps expanding in my chest.
With my head lowered, I speed-walk down the empty hallway, shoes squeaking on the checkered floors. I’m feeling pretty desperate to find solace in an abandoned corner where I can collect myself and reapply my happy disguise before facing anyone again. I need a huge roll of some positive mental duct tape.
Karma has other plans. Out of the corner of my eye, a lanky figure materializes, making my eyes round.
Fucking Harley. The last person I want to see right now, besides maybe Hitler or the person who discovered snakes. I pick up my pace a little, hoping I can brush past him, and make it quick enough to turn left down the other hallway, praying he won’t notice me in my cracked emotional state and ask me what’s wrong.
Then again, Harley could never read my emotions in the first place.
When was the last time I’d even thought about him? With everything going on it seems he’s barely crossed my mind. I guess trying to ignore Noah has pushed him out completely and taken all of my brain’s power now.
Harley's eyes clock me, and he starts to walk closer toward my side of the hall when a strong hand suddenly grasps my cardigan, yanking me sideways. Bare arms wrap around my torso, making me yelp in surprise, and I drop my hands to clutch forearms as my feet disappear from the ground.
I tilt my head back to see none other than Noah.
“Easy angel, it’s just me.” His grin flashes beautiful and terrible as always. A goddamn human playing vampire, and doing it way too well. Without waiting for a response he bundled us both through the nearby bathroom door, my backpack crushed between us as he kicks it shut.
He lowers me onto my feet and I wobble, catching my breath when I see the girls’ bathroom sign on the back of the door. His arm wraps around my waist again, pulling me along with him as he steps us backward.
The back of my neck grows red hot as I choke out, “What are you doing?”
Noah chuckles, those lips pressing gently against my ear, eliciting a soft gasp, though I can’t tell if it came from him or me.
“I'm checking up on you, obviously.” He keeps his arm wrapped around me as he hits a wall. “Harley’s outside the bathroom. Thought I’d save you the trouble of speaking to him.”
I roll my eyes. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Upstage Harley like that.”
“I don’t know. It started as a joke and then it was too funny to see his face turn red and eyebrows scrunched together.”
I try to look disapproving, but a smile breaks free. “That’s all?”
“Are you wishing for more of a reason?” he murmurs, his thumb starting to trace distracting circles over the middle of my belly that doesn’t help clear the lust-fog one bit.
“You don’t have to keep doing that, you know?” I say, though I make no effort to break free from his fingers continuing their exploration of my stomach. Why am I not moving?
“Keep doing what?”
“You don’t have to keep saving me,” I breathe out, stronger this time despite the hot blood racing in my veins. This feels so much different than any other time with Noah.
More dangerous .
“I know.” His hand splays across my lower stomach, his pinky just above my skirt's waistband. “But it’s fun. Don’t you kind of like it when I protect you?”
My mind knows exactly what he’s implying, what he’s trying to achieve here, and it’s screaming for me to pull away. Yet, I stay still. Motionless against him and in his arm. Doing absolutely nothing while my body gets tight and tense.
“Do you want me to stop?” His touch stills, waiting for my answer.
I bite my cheek and try to control my breathing, the air around us ringing in my ears. Did I want him to stop? My breath catching provides the answer as I stare back into his dark blue eyes.
“Are you trying to make another pass at me?” I tease, throwing some playfulness into the intensity of being cramped in the Bellpond High girls’ bathroom with Noah Jackson. I flash him a fleeting smile before glancing away, sweat forming at my back.
Did Phillips crank the school to 100 degrees after I left?
“Am I trying to make a pass?” Noah's free hand comes up to sweep my hair from the side of my neck, giving me more of his laugh against my ear. The sound is unfairly attractive coupled with the spice of his cologne. “What did the Principal want?”
“Oh, uh...” I blink, flustered. “I—it was nothing. Just a misunderstanding.”
Noah tilts his chin over my shoulder, one curly lock falling across his forehead. “That didn’t seem like nothing.”
“I promise that it was nothing important.” Don’t wrap your finger around it. “It was a routine checkup of some sort. Don’t worry about it.”
“I think you may be lying again.” He pauses, voice turning soft. “You don’t have to lie to me, Roxanne.”
My name has never sounded so sweet. The way those lips shape each syllable and his tongue hits the roof of his mouth on the last letter— Jesus , I’m needy. He could drain my neck right now if he wanted to.
Noah exhales deeply as he drops his hand from my waist and ushers me forward, breaking our contact. I pivot to face him, backing up until the edge of the sink presses into my back, needing some distance.
A muscle ticks in his cheek. Is he fighting the same battle I am?
His eyes fall down my body as he starts to approach me, and my hands fly behind me to grip the sink for dear life as he stalks me. A piece of me has been wanting all day for him to notice the corduroy skirt I'm wearing instead of my usual shorts, along with the black graphic tee underneath my cardigan.
It’s not for the fact that I’m wearing a skirt instead of shorts that I want him to say something. It’s the fact that it’s red.
Finally his gaze finds mine again. “Red really does look good on you.”
My heart quickens. “Thanks,” I manage, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
And Noah smirks.
And I need someone to stick a fork in me, because I'm done.
“Roxanne…” he murmurs, my name dripping like honey once again from his lips. Sweet, sinful honey. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”
I nod mutely. His stare drops to my lips and I wonder wildly if he can hear the blood my heart pounds throughout my body.
What do you do when the boy you swore was just a friend looks at you like that? Well, I can tell you that the temptation to confess what Hayes wanted nearly overwhelms me as he settles in front of me. To let someone else shoulder my burden, even for two seconds, sounded so...
No . I don't want to seem weak and pathetic to him. He got enough of that last night.
Clearing my throat, I grip the sink with both hands. “Really, I’m fine. It was a routine chat, that’s all.”
“I know something is bothering you.” He reaches out for a lock of my hair, the ends of his nails grazing along my neck as he takes it. “I wish you would let me see it.”
God… his touch and his words almost break me.
His finger continues lazily twisting my hair. “You don’t have to carry whatever it is alone.”
My entire body aches and he’s not even touching me. All of my nerves are sizzling and popping like sparklers. I’m all too hot, feeling the blood rush through every fucking vein, my fingers warming against the cool sink, wanting nothing more than for his hand to wander beneath my shirt just to touch and relieve my skin. I want my own fingers to reach up and claw into the meat on his arm, to trace the barb wire around his bicep. To feel his pulse beating against my skin.
Noah’s heavy eyes travel over me, like he can see every private thought.
“I like you when you’re like this,” he whispers, leaning forward until his lips touch my ear. “I can see you getting warmer. I like that. I like you hot.”
Fee-fi-fo-fum, how I wanted so much of him to touch me. Everywhere. Right now.
I roll my bottom lip between my teeth, nostrils flaring as I draw a shaky breath. “Please, Noah,” I whisper back, the plea escaping before I can stop it.
Please end this torture with a real kiss . Please give me a tiny taste of freedom from Bellpond’s walls, even for a second. Please show me what it could be like between us, if we let the sparks catch fire.
More than anything I want his mouth on mine at 12 PM on a Thursday—a real one this time—right here in the girls’ bathroom. Maybe more than I wanted out of Bellpond. Onion breath and consequences be damned.
“ Please, Noah ,” he mocks in my same tone, his head shifting slightly to the side, those blue eyes following suit.
Palms still braced on the sink, my thighs press together when his hands glide across my waist and he grasps the curved edge, caging me in. His bare arms brush my shoulders as he leans in, and whispers so deep in my ear I don’t think I can take it for another fucking second.
“Please, what?”
How does he do it? How does he make me feel so weak?
With heroic effort, I place my palm on his chest. “Please stop,” I order, proud of the steadiness in my tone. “You’re breaking one of our rules here.”
“What rule? Me touching you?” He leans further over the knife’s edge, using a hand to run his thumb along the side of my cardigan, slowly down to the edge. “Do you think I have bad intentions?”
My stomach somersaults right out of my body.
Oh my god.
I’m shaking, actually shaking. I—honest to God—audibly gulp. I gulp so fucking loud. So loud . So incredibly loud that something similar to a mortifying combination of a moan and squeak leaves my mouth when I part my lips for air.
“Right now, yes,” I whisper quickly, staying strong and keeping my eyes on him. “I don’t need your pity or special treatment or whatever this is. I can handle myself.”
“Pity?” He asks over my ear, then pulls away to look down at me. “That’s what you think I’m giving you right now?”
“I…” I search for the words to explain how I feel, but it’s hard when I only feel my heartbeat in every inch of my body. “I don’t need you to take care of me. I’m fine on my own, really. I don’t need you looking after me like I’m some damsel in distress.”
His eyes track every little involuntary movement my spasming muscles make. I feel them all over me, seeing through my pounding heart and the tense lines of my throat.
“I know you’re not weak.” He pulls at the button on my cardigan. “I never said that you were.”
“Then why are you always rushing to my rescue?”
His lips slide up on one side. “I know when you’re worried about something.”
Before I can scoff at his line, he slides my cardigan off my shoulders. It falls between my palms and the sink with a muted thud, and cool air hits the feverish skin of my arms and I sigh in relief.
His fingers trail up my arms, raising gooseflesh. “See? I’m not saving you. I want to take care of you. Make you feel good.”
What the hell is happening?
I straighten my posture, trying to project a confidence I don’t feel. “I’m fine. I can handle whatever happens—with my mom, school, Harley, life in general.”
“I’m not saying you can't.” He drops his hand back to the sink, but not backing away. “I'm saying it doesn’t hurt to have someone in your corner, looking out for you. Even the strongest among us need that sometimes.”
I know he’s being nice, but his attentiveness keeps playing games with my head, throwing me off-balance all the time. It tears me up, craving his support yet needing to prove my self-sufficiency. But the way he watches over me makes me feel suffocated, like I’m back under the scrutiny of the CPS agent.
“I appreciate the concern, but I’ve got this handled solo,” I say at the same time the bell rings overhead. “Now I really need to get to class.”
Not letting me argue more, the hair he brushes off my forehead puts my stomach through a meat grinder. As he pulls back with that illegal smirk and shakes his head at me, I somehow get my jelly legs moving again, pulling my cardigan back up and shoving past him out the bathroom door.
I don't expect it to happen, but he follows me. He falls right into a step beside me as we walk down the hallway rapidly filling up, and I death-grip my backpack straps as curious eyes glue to us. Noah Jackson strutting at my side is dangerously close to a PDA-filled date in public.
Those runaway thoughts make me grip my straps tighter, which Noah notices if his stupid grin is any indication.
“I’m not trying to interfere,” he murmurs as we near my classroom. “I want you to remember I’m here if you do need anything. Punching bag and all.”
“I know. And I want you to know that I do appreciate last weekend, but I really don't need your attention smothering me all the time. I'm a big girl.” We pause outside the doorway and I look up at him. “I’d say I’ll call you if I need to hit something, but something tells me you’d enjoy it too much.”
He laughs, the rich sound sending tingles down my neck. “I don’t want to smother you, and so you know, my intentions aren’t to look after you because you’re weak. I see you as more than strong enough to handle it all on your own.”
He leans in, warm breath fanning my ear as his knuckles brush up my arm. “I don’t pity you either. I pity myself for trying to keep my hands from exploring you and tasting what I’m sure would be an excellent mouth.”
My eyes shoot wide open, and not because the shrill bell rang again.
“I’ll see you later,” he says simply with a little wave before sauntering down the hallway. He doesn’t glance back at me, his tall frame disappearing into the surge of students.
I huff out an irritated breath. What a shithead, getting in my head like that.
I slip into class and take my seat at the back, but his words stay with me no matter how much I try to focus on the math quiz, my knee bouncing up and down so much that Trinity shushes me.
His comments followed me through the rest of the endless school day.
Excellent mouth.
My hands from exploring you.
Dickhead .
By the last bell, I couldn’t wait to throw my head into organizing vinyls at work, but even in my car with music blaring, his words are still there. Especially when a flash of black spray paint on a stop sign catches my eye as I near the record store. I slow to see that recognizable melting smiley face spray painted against the red metal. I wonder if leaving his mark here, so close to my work, means he did it on purpose to let me know I was on his mind.
A tiny, secret part of me likes that idea. Only a tiny part.
I did, in fact, smile when I stared at it.