Four Years Later

CHAPTER 9

Owen

I’m racking my brain for a subject. I don’t normally write poems. Well, I used to, when I wanted to be just like Drew Callahan when I grew up, but nothing—and no one—inspired the supposed poet inside of me, so I gave it up near the end of my freshman year in high school.

I still can’t believe what I said to her. It’s as if I took some sort of truth serum before I showed up and I can’t help but be honest with her. Not that I mind. It’s kind of nice, saying what I want and not playing any games. What’s going on between Chelsea and me isn’t all about sex or a one-time thing. It’s almost like we’re friends.

Right. I’m becoming friends with a girl I’d also really like to get naked with. That sweater she’s wearing is sexy as hell. It keeps slipping off her shoulder, revealing creamy pale skin and a lacy bra strap that just begs for my fingers to push it off. Kiss her there …

Shit.

“There must be something you want to write a poem about,” Chelsea says.

Glancing up, I find her watching me expectantly, her eyes sparkling, her smile infectious, and I smile back, feeling at a loss for words. I need a topic, and quick. And I’m thinking maybe she can provide it. “Tell me. What’s your middle name?”

She frowns. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Come on. Humor me.”

“Fine. It’s Rose.” She rolls her eyes. “I was named after my grandma.”

“Chelsea Rose.” The name rolls off my tongue easily. I like it.

“It’s lame, right?” She laughs, sounding uncomfortable, and I hate that. I don’t want her to feel that way around me. I wonder how many guys she’s gone out with.

I have a feeling the number is pretty small. That fact would normally send me running far, far away.

Instead, I’m sitting here thinking of all the things I could teach Chelsea. While we’re naked. In my bed.

“No, not at all,” I say. “I think it’s pretty.”

Her laughter dies. “Really?”

“Really,” I say firmly. Has no one ever showed her any sort of attention? She acts sort of starved for it sometimes. Not in a psycho-chick way, not even close. More like she’s a slowly blooming flower that grows brighter and even more beautiful the more you water it and talk to it …

Hmm. My brain is churning.

I think of Drew’s tattoo for Fable. How he always wrote her little poems, spelling out words with the first letter of the first line. Crazy, sappy shit that used to drive Fable wild. Like make her cry and kiss Drew and tell him how wonderful he was.

Memories flood me … the time I punched Drew in the mouth, one of my favorite memories ever. Not because I punched Drew, but because I became this angry, almost inhuman thing who could think of nothing but defending his sister. That I knew I could jump to her defense without thinking twice and be her hero pumped me up. Made me feel strong.

Made me feel like a man.

Plus, I mean, come on—it was pretty damn epic, flattening Drew Callahan to the ground with one punch. I know I had the advantage since he hadn’t expected it, but still. I told everyone at school I knocked him out. Maybe 15 percent of them believed it happened, and I’m being generous with that figure. Everyone was skeptical.

But I know the truth.

“You should probably get to work,” she says, not sounding too thrilled by the prospect. I’m starting to think we might be on the same page more than I first realized. She points at my backpack, which I set by my feet. “Did you bring your laptop?”

“Well, yeah.” I reach down and unzip my backpack, pulling out my laptop and opening it. I bring up a Word doc and stare at the blank screen, at that damn blinking cursor I always want to sock in the face since it feels like it’s taunting me, and I start to type. I come up with something totally stupid.

Real

Open

Sexy

Extra pretty

Frowning, I delete it all. That’s Drew’s specialty, not mine. Besides, Chelsea’s not that open with me. Not yet.

So I try a different approach.

Prickly with thorns, pretty little rose.

She’s shy. She’s pink. She belongs to no one.

I win her over with my touch.

Slow at first, my fingers gentle, searching as she opens …

Caressing her, I bring her close.

So close.

Until I’ve completely destroyed her.

Petals scattered everywhere, her beauty wrecked.

All by my hand.

And now she’s become everything.

To me.

“So? What did you write?”

Her voice breaks into my thoughts and I glance up, startled to find her watching me, her expression open and hopeful. She’s got her elbow propped on the edge of the table, her chin resting on her fist, and she looks freaking gorgeous. Her pretty blue eyes sparkle like a clear summer sky and … yep, I see a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I wonder how many there are. I wonder if she’d let me get close enough to count them.

“I really hope you came up with something good. You’ve been working on it for almost a half hour,” she says.

“I have?” I’m shocked as I glance down at the clock on my computer screen to see that she’s right. “Uh … yeah, I came up with something. It’s sort of rough, though. Like, it still needs a lot of work.” More like I need to change the entire thing.

The poem is about sex. As in, I’m talking about fingering Chelsea and making her come.

Jesus. What is wrong with me?

You want her. That’s what’s wrong with you.

“Can I read it?” She scoots her chair closer to mine, trying to catch a glimpse of the poem. I immediately slam the laptop shut and she rears back, her tempting mouth turned down in a frown. “Guess that’s a no.”

“It’s super rough.” I smile weakly and she stares at me, as if she’s attempting to penetrate my brain or something, and I hold her gaze. Trying my best to look completely neutral. “And sort of personal.”

“Oh.” She blinks and leans back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” I try to soften my rudeness by reaching out and grasping her hand in mine. Her fingers are slender and cold and I squeeze them, hoping I can warm them up. “I’m the one who should say sorry. It’s just … it’s a mess. I need to work on it some more.” Like trash it and start completely over.

“I bet it’s fine. Just add it to your portfolio. Don’t worry about it.” She tries to pull out of my grip but I won’t let her. “You have a printer, right?”

“Yeah, I have one.” This conversation has taken a strange turn. I just wrote about making Chelsea come and now we’re talking about printers and shit. I have to get this back on track. “Chelsea. Go out with me.”

“What?” Her jaw drops open and this time she does tug her hand out of mine, almost recoiling. Reminding me of that flower I described at the beginning of my poem. The one I had to gently coax open. “What do you mean?”

“Are you doing anything after this? Do you have to work later tonight?” I hate that stupid job she has at the diner. It makes me worry about her.

She slowly shakes her head. “No. I’m off tonight. Though I do have a paper I should start on.”

“When’s it due?” If she turns me down, I’m not asking her out again. A guy can take only so much humiliation, and I hadn’t been lying to Fable when I told her I thought I was beneath Chelsea. Her refusal would only prove my point.

“Right before Thanksgiving break,” she admits, and I chuckle.

“Chels. That’s weeks away,” I point out.

“I know. I just like to think ahead and be prepared.” Her voice drifts and she glances down, lifting that one bare shoulder, the one I’m dying to touch. Trace the pale pink lace of her bra, slip my finger beneath it and slowly tug the strap down her arm. “You think I’m a freak.”

“No, I think you’re kind of mean.” She lifts her head, her eyes so wide they look like they’re going to pop out of her head. “You’re leaving me hanging here, Chels. You want to do something with me tonight or what?”

“Oh.” She blinks at me again and leans back against her chair. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Yeah. I am.” My schedule is going straight to hell within the next few days. I’ll be back at work, back at practice, and back in action. I won’t have time for girls. For Chelsea.

Meaning I shouldn’t string her along and get her hopes up. But hell, sitting here, breathing in her scent, seeing her pretty face tell me everything she’s feeling and thinking, I know I have to do this. I want to do this.

I want to be with her. Even if it’s only for tonight, for a few hours. We don’t have to do anything. I have zero expectations. She’s not the type of girl who’ll put out. She has more respect for herself than that. I respect her, too.

But nothing says I can’t kiss her. I’m going to try my damnedest to taste those soft, pink lips of hers before the night is through. That’s a fucking promise.

“All right,” she says, her voice so soft I almost don’t hear her. “I’ll go out with you tonight.”

Relief floods me, and it takes everything within me not to reach out and tug her into my lap. “Want to go out to dinner?”

“Okay.”

“A movie?”

She shrugs. “Not really. I can hardly sit still through them.” When I don’t say anything she makes a funny little face. “I don’t like wasting time.”

“So going to a movie with me is wasting time?” I’m almost offended.

“Yes, when I could be spending those two-plus hours talking to you instead.” She smiles dreamily and fuck, that’s it. I’m done for.

“Hey, Chels?”

“Yes?”

“What you’re wearing right now? Wear it tonight.” Reaching out, I give in to my urge and draw my finger across her shoulder, trace the lacy bra strap. Her skin is so fucking soft. I wonder if she’s that soft all over. “I like it. A lot.”

A shiver moves through her. I feel it beneath my finger, and that little hint that my touch affects her kick-starts my heart. Makes it pump wildly in my chest.

Damn. I have got it so bad for this girl it’s scary.

Chelsea

“You’re going on a date,” Kari says, her voice flat, her expression full of utter disbelief.

“Yes. I am.” I tug a brush through my bone-straight hair, then toss it onto the counter, where it lands with a loud clatter. “And I totally hate my hair.”

“Why? It’s so pretty. Such a rich color and so thick.” Kari stands just behind me, that stunned, I-can’t-believe-you’re-going-out-with-someone look still on her face. “So you wear this sexy little sweater, show off some skin, and now you’re going on a date? With whom?”

I smile, wishing I could keep my secret to myself for as long as possible, but I know Kari is going to keep at me incessantly until I have no choice but to confess. She could convince just about anyone to reveal all their secrets. She should go work for the CIA or something, she’s that good. “It had nothing to do with the sweater.”

Okay, it probably did, though I don’t necessarily want to give the sweater that much credit in Owen asking me out on a date. Yeah, he liked it. And I liked it when he traced my bra strap, his finger moving beneath the lace to actually touch my skin.

I’d wanted to die, all over a too brief touch that had somehow set fire to my skin. I can still feel his finger on my shoulder, and it happened over an hour ago.

Which means I need to get a move on, because Owen will be here soon to pick me up for our date.

I’m so excited, I feel like I’m going to burst.

“Don’t act all mysterious, you little bitch.” Kari starts to laugh when I shoot her a dirty look. She loves getting a rise out of me, too. “Tell me who you’re going out with. And please don’t say it’s Tad.”

Grimacing, I shake my head. “No way. I haven’t seen him since that night at The District.”

“Lucky you! I’ve seen him a few times when I’ve been with Brad. He’s just as moody as ever,” Kari mutters.

I don’t even bother asking her for any more details. I really don’t care. The very last person I want to talk about is stupid, mean Tad. “Will you curl my hair for me, Kari? I want it to look pretty.”

“I told you, it already looks pretty,” she says as she moves around me so she can grab the curling iron that’s sitting on the counter, plug it in, and flick the switch on. “Stop holding out, Chelsea. I need to know who this mystery date is with.”

“You probably don’t know him.”

“You’re probably right.”

I give her a look in the mirror. “Don’t be mean.” I bet she thinks my date is a big, studious loser like me.

“I’m not. Just stating fact.” She shrugs, then grabs the brush I threw onto the counter and starts running it through my hair. “You sure you want me to curl it?”

“Yes.” Pressing my lips together, I grip the edge of the bathroom counter and count to three before I start my confession. “He’s one of the students I tutor.”

“Ooh, scandalous, babe! I thought you swore some oath or something. Like you had to sign in blood that you wouldn’t date your students.”

“Nothing like that.” It’s definitely frowned upon, though. Not that I’ll tell anyone beyond Kari that I’m going on a date with Owen. I mean, who else would care? “He’s a football player.”

Kari lifts a delicate brow. “Now we’re talking. What’s his name?”

“Um.” I squeeze the edge of the tile counter, the words sticking in my throat. He’s mine to savor and hold onto and keep quiet. Once I confess to Kari, it becomes public and real and … kind of weird. “His name is Owen Maguire.”

“What?” Kari’s screech hurts my ears and I wince, thankful she hadn’t started curling my hair yet. She probably would have burned me. “Are you freaking serious?”

I nod, my heart in my throat. I dread hearing what she’ll say next. It can’t be good.

“Everyone knows who Owen Maguire is. And he’s a total player, Chelsea.” The worry on Kari’s face is clear. “He’s got a horrible reputation.”

“Like what kind of reputation?” So dumb to ask that, but I have to know. I don’t want to, but it’s like a bad car wreck. You don’t want to stare but you can’t help yourself.

“He goes through a ton of girls; he likes to party and drink and smoke pot. Like, all the time.” Kari winces. “He’s so not the type of guy I picture you with, that’s for sure.”

“Why, because he’s good-looking and I’m not?” I know I’m on the defensive, but I can’t help myself.

“I never said that.” She reaches out to test the curling iron and finds it hot enough to her liking. “Turn around.”

I do as she asks, trying to calm the bubble of anger threatening to grow inside of me. “What did you mean, then?”

“You’re sweet and nice and he’s … not. At least from what I’ve heard.” She takes a chunk of hair from the back of my head and winds it around the curling iron, waiting a few beats before she slowly undoes it, showing me the result in a hand mirror. It falls in a perfect curl. “He is super hot, though, you lucky girl. His body is amazing.”

My cheeks heat. It is. Everything about Owen is amazing. “He’s really nice.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” She curls another piece, then another, and we both remain quiet for a few minutes, me chewing over what Kari said. I shouldn’t think anything could come out of this between Owen and me. Kari is right. We have nothing in common, and he’s definitely not my type … not that I have a type.

But I want a type.

“When he looks at me it’s like he wants to—do stuff to me,” I admit, my voice low.

“Ha, I’m definitely sure about that.” Kari slowly shakes her head, releasing another perfect curl. I could never make my hair look this good. I always screw up the back. “Watch out, Chelsea. I know you don’t have a lot of experience with guys. I just don’t want him to take advantage of you.”

“He won’t. I trust him.” I do, surprisingly enough. I only started working with him a couple of weeks ago, but I do trust him.

Men can never be trusted. They all want only one thing. Your body. And once they possess that, they toss you aside like yesterday’s trash.

Mom’s words ring through my head and I try to banish them, but it’s no use. The familiar anxiety fills me and I try to focus on anything else but the hatred my mom has toward all males in this universe.

No wonder I thought I wanted to become a lesbian. My man-hating, turn-around-and-forgive-my-dad-for-anything mom would make any girl consider turning.

“Just … keep your clothes on. This is your first date with him, after all.” Kari’s gaze meets mine in the mirror. “Right?”

My first real date ever, not that I’m going to confess that. “Yes. Definitely. We haven’t done anything beyond the tutoring lesson stuff.” Well, I’ve been at his house. And in his bedroom. I’ve actually spent a lot of time with him but never like this, on an official date and all.

“Call me if you need anything. And I mean anything. I’ll be home all night.” She moves to my right side, curling my hair with quick precision, like she’s a pro. “Your hair looks awesome.”

“And you didn’t want to curl it,” I remind her, keeping my gaze on my reflection in the mirror. Kari’s right. My hair looks pretty fabulous. “It does look good.”

“I have skills, what can I say? Plus, I have sisters. Lots of practice.” She sets the curling iron on the counter and turns it off. “Turn and face me.”

I do as she asks, letting her fluff out my hair so it falls past my shoulders in luxurious, perfect waves. “He’d better not drive you anywhere on a motorcycle or anything. Losing these curls would be a tragedy,” Kari says. She grabs a can of hair spray and takes the cap off. “Close your eyes.”

She sprays my hair for what feels like five minutes but was really only about ten seconds. “Not too much,” I warn her. What if Owen wants to touch my hair and it’s all sticky and stiff? Talk about ruining the mood.

“What? You want lover boy to run his fingers through your pretty hair?” I open my eyes to see her set the hair spray on the counter. She pulls open her makeup drawer, contemplating the contents within. “Can I do your makeup?”

“I have a little bit on already. Some mascara,” I answer. “And my lip gloss is in my purse.”

She gives me a look. One that says “you’ve got to be kidding.” “That you say ‘my lip gloss’ like it’s the only one you own scares me.”

“It is the only one I own. You know this.” I don’t wear a lot of makeup and I don’t have the money to buy a bunch of stuff, so I don’t waste it. I have one great L’Oréal lip gloss I bought at Target a year ago and I use it sparingly.

“You’re a travesty to all women, especially ones who would die to go on a date with Owen Maguire. He’s, like, the hottest man alive. And he’s only a sophomore. We have many years of him on campus still.” She digs through her drawer, pulling out all sorts of mysterious stuff. “I’m doing your makeup. I’ll do a really smoky eye and then keep the rest of your face relatively clean. We’ll slick your lips with that special singular lip gloss you own, and then he’ll want to kiss it all off when he sees you.”

My cheeks grow so hot they must be blazing pink. Kari laughs when she sees my face and shakes her head. “You won’t need any blush if you keep that up.”

I could punch her for giving me grief. Instead, I let her work her magic. Applying what feels like layer after layer of way-too-dark shadow on my eyes, then nearly poking my eyes out with the mascara wand. She won’t let me look at my reflection until she’s done and I wait in fidgety anticipation, both excited to see the result and afraid I’ll look absolutely ridiculous.

It’s a chance I don’t mind taking. I want to look beautiful for Owen. Like a sophisticated woman who knows exactly what she’s doing versus the naïve, silly girl I really am.

He already pretty much knows the real you and despite it all, he still asked you out.

I’m totally ignoring the naggy voice inside my head.

“Okay. I’m done.” Kari steps back from me, assessing her work with a shrewd eye. “Wow, you look gorgeous if I do say so myself.”

“Can I see?” She grabs my shoulders and turns me this way and that, totally checking me over. “Please?”

“Yes.” She turns me toward the mirror slowly. “See what the makeup master did.”

I stare at my reflection, shocked that I’m staring back at myself. I look so different. Not overly made up or crazy-looking but definitely … older. My skin is flawless. The eye shadow I feared was too dark actually accentuates my blue eyes, making them look brighter and giving them a smoky, sexy glow.

“Wow,” I whisper.

She nudges my shoulder with hers. “I know, right? Your eyes really pop.”

“They do.” I turn to the right, then to the left. I wonder what Owen will think. Will he like it? Some guys don’t like makeup. “Thank you, Kari. You did a great job.”

“You’re welcome. Are you going to change?”

I shake my head, embarrassment making my cheeks redden again. “He asked that I keep the sweater on.”

She laughs, sweeping all the cosmetics she used back into the drawer before she slams it shut. “Why am I not surprised? I’m sure the sweater distracted him. Well, more like your bra did.”

I roll my eyes but laugh with her. She’s right. I know the bra distracted him.

And I’m hopeful I can distract him some more.