1986: Why Can't This Be Love (Love in the 80s #7) (4 page)

The thrill of it all zinged through me, the excitement and the giddy anticipation lighting up my insides, and I yelled into the night, the stars catching the show from above.

Dylan’s stomach jumped against my fingers, and I knew by the feel of it that he was laughing.

It felt good and wild and young.

I
n my head
, I heard music, my mind mentally creating a movie soundtrack to go with the night. I did that, daydreaming to tunes I put together. I had a whole stack of cassette tapes I’d made just for dreaming. Movie soundtracks for my life. My family teased me mercilessly about it, but I didn’t care. Music made images and life stronger, adding an extra dimension of emotion to everything.

That was me all narrowed down, this girl who spent a lot of time lying on my bed staring at my walls. Posters—celebrities, musicians, and places I wanted to go—wallpapered my room, and I eyed them, fantasizing about hot guys, crazy adventures, and my future. Sometimes all at once.

Living the fantasy was so much better.

The bike roared up a hill, over a rough, bumpy path, slinging me against Dylan, before slowing. He maneuvered it into a clearing on top of the incline. The hill wasn’t massive, but it was tall enough to overlook a lit up building and the full parking lot beyond it. Trees, grass, and a dirt path surrounded us, trapping us together. Alone.

I hummed under my breath, the sound carrying into the night when Dylan cut off the engine.

He glanced at me, eyes bright. “What was that?”

I blushed.

“I know that song,” he added, smiling. “‘This Could be the Night’ by Loverboy ... am I right?”

“Possibly?”

The knowing look he gave me made me fess up.

“Okay, it is,” I admitted sheepishly. “It’s something I do. I take every moment in my life, and I put music to it. I have an entire pile of cassettes at home made just for that. The world would be a much better place, I think, if life was full of background music.”

“If it’s the tame stuff,” Dylan pointed out, kicking down the kickstand. “The harder stuff is more suited for rebellions.”

“Ah, I see.” I nodded thoughtfully. “Let me guess, you’re a heavy metal fan.”

He didn't deny it. “Hell, yeah. That shit’s harsh.”

Climbing off of the bike, he offered me his hand, helping me over.

We stood side by side, the stars shining above us, the lit up building glowing down below. The world smelled clean, the air brisk from the exiting winter, and I huddled under Dylan's jacket.

Music,
real
music, not the stuff in my head, arose from the building.

“That’s the Electric Connection,” Dylan informed me, gesturing at the place.

I’d heard of it, but had never had the opportunity to go. Like The Cube, it was a club, but those frequenting it had to be twenty-one and older.

Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach” floated on the breeze.

I hugged myself. My thoughts drifted to my sister, to the lie I’d told my mom about tonight.

“Bad choice in songs, huh?” Dylan asked.

“They wouldn’t have let me come if I’d told them the truth, and who’d blame them?” I glanced at him. “It sounds kind of crazy all laid out.”

Lifting my hand, I placed it against my ear, mimicking a phone. “Hey, Mom, so, don’t panic, but I totally got pawed by a bouncer at The Cube, and while trying to escape him, I kissed a total stranger in a photo booth. At this point, Lisa just left me, so I spent the next few hours with the guy I kissed while bowling. That was before I decided to call and see if it was okay to go out with him.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Oh, what do I know about him? Well, let’s see. He’s chivalrous. I know this because he got in a fight with a guy he didn’t know to protect a girl he
also
didn’t know. Oh, and he’s vandalized a car, but it was because the owner of the car is a dipshit. Also, he plays a mean game of bowling, likes heavy metal music, and has really nice eyes.”

Dylan hunched his shoulders. “You think I have nice eyes?”

I stared, dumbfounded. “That’s all you got from that?”

He grinned, rubbing his arms. “Dance with me?”

“What? Here? Now?”

“Just you and me.”

Down below, a new song played, Bryan Adam’s ‘Heaven’ leaking out over the night, replacing Madonna.

Dylan offered me his palm, but I ignored it. Facing him, I slid my arms around his waist, my cheek coming to rest against his chest. His skin, where it was bare, was cold, and along with the cologne and leather scent, smelled strangely of vanilla.

“You should have kept your jacket,” I murmured.

His arms circled me, drawing me in closer, his body swaying with the music. Everywhere his body touched me, my body came alive, a different kind of alive, something I’d never felt before. Even in my daydreams. It had a wicked, electrifying feel to it.

“How did you find this place?” I asked.

“Last time I visited my uncle, I met a group of friends up here to smoke a doobie.”

“A joint?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

When he chuckled, his chest vibrated against my ear, and I liked the way it felt, comfortable and warm. “Have you ever smoked a joint?” he asked.

“Uh ... no.”

Pulling me away gently, he twirled me, his eyes on my eyes, before tucking me close again. Street lights near the path and down below washed out our faces and bodies, transforming us into paper cutouts. I felt like we were standing on this fine line separating the real world from a black and white sketched version, like I was inside the A-ha “Take On Me” MTV music video staring at a guy crooking his animated finger at me from the pages of a comic book.

He was the guy, and I was the girl taking a chance on love.

“Do you have a girlfriend back home?” I asked suddenly, my throat seizing up on the question.

Dylan’s muscles tensed. “I did.”

I glanced up at him. “But not anymore.”

“No.” His gaze dropped, finding mine. His eyes were eerily dark and animal-like in the night. “What about you? You got a boyfriend I should know about?”

“No.”

He murmured under his breath, something that sounded suspiciously like, “Men are fools.”

Cupping my neck with his hand, he kneaded the muscles, and incredible, nerve-defying sensations flooded my body, waking me up, warming me.

My eyes swept closed.

“I’m eighteen,” Dylan revealed suddenly. “I’m at one of the inner city schools in Cleveland, but before that, I was at the alternative center. Considered too much trouble, I guess, for the traditional classroom. That’s the problem with the city. Social division is more prominent. If you live on any sort of government assistance, you’re suddenly trumped with the outcasts and criminals and shunned by the richies.”

My eyes flew open to find him peering down at me, his forehead creased. He seemed older somehow, jaded. “Why do you say that like it’s a warning?”

“Because girls like you don’t spend time with me the way you are right now unless we’re talking sex, and until tonight, I’d started to think maybe I was trying too hard at life. After everything that went down at home, the car I smashed … I don’t know. I started thinking maybe I should accept the lot I’ve been given. Go to trade school. Get a job in my neighborhood.”

We stopped dancing, our eyes locked. It should have been awkward, just staring, but it wasn’t. If I hadn’t plowed into him by accident and kissed him to hide from Corey, how would
I
have seen him? Like everyone else?

“You want to know the truth?” I asked. “If I hadn’t stumbled into you in the photo booth, if I’d just met you on the street, I doubt I would have said anything to you. Not because I thought lesser of you,” I rushed to say, “but because I would have been too afraid to.” I ducked my head. “I don’t really belong to any groups at my school. I guess if I did, it’d be the geeks. The academics.”

The photo booth at the bowling alley was magic. Throwing myself into it had opened up a whole new world for me, a place where it was okay to dance on top of a hill with a guy I’d probably never run into otherwise. It loosened my tongue where normally I would have stumbled over every word. It erased social boundaries and dissolved stereotypes, leaving two people attracted to each other. One night. Two strangers. A total awakening.

“You’re a beautiful girl,” Dylan said suddenly. “A really beautiful girl.

Staring up at him, heart thumping, I whispered, “Don’t tease me.”

There wasn’t anything seductive or charming about the way he said it. He was being honest, his voice ringing with truth. The words washed over me, warm and rich.

The hand at my neck slid into my hair, his fingers tugging at the strands. “I don’t tease.”

I believed him.

Leaning forward, he pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, the cool pressure gentle, before trailing the same soft kiss down the side of my face, the exploration ending at the corner of my mouth.

Every part of me was on fire, my body an instrument he fine-tuned. Music—fast, hard, and pounding—reverberated from the club, surrounding us in a desperate cocoon of rebellious sensations.

My hands found the hem of his shirt, my fingers playing with the fabric. His skin, when I got the courage to touch it, chilled me.

“You’re cold,” I murmured.

“I don’t feel cold,” he replied.

My fingers swept up his sides, over muscles and sinew, his shirt falling over my hands, shielding them from view. My touches weren’t practiced. They were hesitant.

“You’ve never done this before at all, have you? Like, none of it?” he asked. Breathing hard, Dylan gazed at my face, gauging my reaction.

I shook my head, the words I wanted to say too thick to fall out of my throat.

Reaching down, Dylan removed his shirt in one fell sweep, bunching the fabric up before throwing it onto his bike.

Taking my hands in his, he placed them against his chest, the muscles there much more prominent than I would have thought. He was built in a streetwise kind of way. Thin but not waifish. Tall but broad enough across the shoulders not to be considered lanky.

The confidence I lacked burned in his eyes.

“It’s your ball game,” he informed me. “You go as far as you want to and stop when you’re ready.”

Awkward embarrassment spiraled low and unsure in my gut.

“Look.” Dylan lifted my chin. “You can’t do this wrong. I promise. You want to stop, we’ll stop.”

Keeping my eyes locked on his, I went up on my toes, my hands pressing into his flesh. I nuzzled his neck, my tongue darting out, tentatively tasting his skin. It tasted salty, like the way my tears tasted after a good cry.

Dylan’s hands fell to my hips, gripping them, his long fingers splayed against the curve of my backside.

My tongue shot out again, tiny flicks I replaced with my lips.

Dylan groaned, his grip tightening, his thumbs hooking the belt loops on my denim skirt to pull me closer.

My hands explored his torso and back, kneading flesh and muscle, the strong feel of him so intimate against my fingers, the world felt like it was spinning.

Dylan thrust his hips forward gently, and a missile of sensation and need exploded inside of me. My head fell back, my neck arching. He took the opportunity to kiss my skin, his mouth warm and gentle, leaving a damp trail from my collarbone to my chin. Tasting me. Branding me.

I had to remind myself to breathe, my breaths coming in sharp, unsteady spurts.

The world was spinning faster and faster, as if it was suddenly going to shoot off of its axis and catapult us unhindered into space.

Shrugging off his jacket, I reached down and pulled my shirt up, removing it.

Dylan took it from me, throwing the sweater on top of his T-shirt, his fingers returning to grab the hem of my tank top, his eyes finding mine, silently asking for permission.

The gentle way he handled me, patient and caring, did it for me.

I nodded, and he pulled the shirt up and over my head, leaving nothing between us on top except my bra, a simple white number with very little padding.

Despite the thrill of being this open in front of a guy, uncertainty coiled like a snake waiting to strike within me.

I hugged myself.

Dylan paused, his gaze full of understanding. “This is okay,” he said. “It’s enough. The rest stays on.”

Tugging my arms apart, he touched my stomach tenderly, his finger circling my navel.

A giggle escaped, my stomach quivering against his hand.

Dylan smiled. “Ticklish?”

Splaying his hand across my middle, he watched me, his face sobering, his gaze darkening. The look he gave me was potent,
so
very potent and intense, I grabbed his face and kissed him to break the tension, my lips smoothing over his.

It was all the invitation he needed.

Gathering me in his arms, he kissed me back, his bare skin sliding against mine, cool on warm, intensifying everything. My body felt sensitive and raw, keyed up and excited. Nervous, too.

Cupping the back of my head, Dylan wrapped my hair around his fingers, tugging my head back, his tongue invading my mouth, claiming it, before breaking away to rain kisses down my neck and across my chest.