Sway (6 page)

Not exactly the truth. Remembering back, I was staring at her for two reasons. One, because something told me I should be. Turns out that feeling was right. And two—the less profound reason—because she was freakin’ hot. But nice to know my talent for lying hasn’t died.

She bites her lip and her eyes pool at the corners once again, not the reaction I anticipated. “My aunt gave me that coat, along with the robe you’re wearing. She had breast cancer a few years back—almost died from it. After a double mastectomy and two years on and off radiation, she barely made it out with her life.” She swipes at her bottom lashes and looks at me.

Something twists deep in my gut. “I’m sorry. If I had known…” There’s really nothing else to say. The girl has been through so much, and I go and criticize her coat. Crap on the bottom of a shoe is too kind to describe me right now.

She sniffs. “It’s okay. We’re all so grateful now. Since then, she’s become really involved in the Susan G. Komen foundation, which is a really big organization that supports cancer research. And since they’re known for the color pink…” She shrugs. “…I have a lot of pink in my closet. To support her. And all she’s been through. God rest her soul.”

I blink at her. And then huff some air. “You’re a con woman.”

She has the gall to look indignant, then adds to the drama by pressing fingertips to her eyes. “I beg your pardon? I just spill out my life’s worst tragedy so far, and you call me a con woman? Just because I like to wear the color pink in my precious aunt’s honor.” She actually grabs her chest and gasps.

I laugh. “You belong in jail.” I’m aware there’s a small chance I could be wrong about the whole acting thing, but I’ll take my chances. “Ten to twenty with no possibility of parole for laying it on too thick.”

She tries to stare me down, but gives up and rolls her eyes. A cute grin tilts her mouth, followed by a wince that lets me know her head still hurts. “What gave me away?”

I shake my head. “The fake tears didn’t help, but the “God rest her soul” pretty much sealed the deal.” The robe I’m wearing slips a notch, so I tighten it and cross my arms, aware that I look ridiculous. I don’t miss the way she glances at my chest, specifically at my eagle tattoo visible at the neckline. She looks like she wants to ask about it, but quickly changes her mind.

“Yeah, the moment that line came out I regretted it.” She regards me with a tilt of her head before that smile returns, and then holds out her hand. “I’m Kate.”

I reach for her hand, but all I can think is that she goes by Kate, not Kathryn. Kate…like the princess. Kate…the future queen. For the dumbest second, I find myself wishing my name was William. Sometimes I’m so lame, I want to punch my own self in the face. It’s a disease I’ve never been able to shake.

“I’m Caleb.”

“Well, Caleb.” She eyes my chest again, which suddenly grows uncomfortably warm. If I think she’s turned on by my rock-hard physique, she quickly kills that thought. “Mind if I ask why you’re
really
wearing my robe?”

Like I said—lame.

“Because, Kate,” I say, trying to sound as tough as standing here in pink ruffles will allow, “as much as I enjoyed taking care of you all night, there’s only so much vomit I’m comfortable wearing for more than an hour or so. Three hours ago, I located some detergent and what I assume passes for your washing machine. It’s the smallest thing I’ve ever seen and who stacks a dryer on top of a washer anyway? So a couple hours ago I threw them in, right before I collapsed on your sofa.”

Her face lost its color somewhere around the word
detergent
, then recovered it in a raging red rush by the time I made it to
dryer
. “I threw up on you?”

“It’s only one of many interesting things that happened.”

I hoped she might laugh it off, but she manages only a groan. “Do I want to hear this?”

I shrug. “You might not like hearing it, but I’m sure as heck gonna enjoy telling it.” I fill her in on the horrors of the past few hours, describing in gloriously evil detail the way she kissed me. I might have embellished a few points. Like her use of tongue and eagerly roaming hands. Hey, my life has been boring as of late, and the way I see it, the look on her face is the cheap entertainment I deserve.

Not fair, I know. And hardly chivalrous of me.

But then I keep expecting her to call me on it. To tell me to cut the crap. She never does. She also never smiles that sweet smile again. And even though I’ve only known her for a few short hours…

I find myself missing it.

Kate

“You Spin Me Right Round”

—Dead or Alive

T
he water runs in an icy stream, and I sit on the edge of the tub to test it with my fingers, letting it glide over my skin in a chilly cascade. Our water heater is ancient and nothing much happens. Nothing but cold, like the snow covering the ground on this late-November morning.

Slowly, it warms. It warms, and I close my eyes.

Five times. I threw up on him
five
times. And according to that long, horrifying account I just heard, he used up four towels to mop the grime off my hair and body, changed my sheets twice, and spent two uncomfortable hours curled up like a hibernating squirrel on my sofa built for two in the girliest robe I own. I didn’t mention the brown terry cloth one hanging in the back of my closet that I stole from my dad before leaving for college. Something told me this Caleb guy wouldn’t appreciate the humor.

Though he does seem kind. And caring. And sweet. And full of about a thousand pounds of BS with that load of crap story he just told about me shoving my tongue down his throat. And roving hands? Please. My hands haven’t roved—is that a word?—over anyone, ever. Hence the birthday trip to the bar that my friends insisted we take. Their mission: To make sure I stayed sober. Their other mission: To cure me of my twenty-one-year-old virginity. As if purity is a disease. Their accomplishment: To assure with complete certainty that I will never speak to any of them again, as long as I live.

From now on, I’m only speaking to Caleb. The tattooed, not-quite-as-scary-as-I-first-thought guy I don’t even know currently changing out of my pink robe in the living room. Not many guys that look like him would bring a girl home from a bar without taking advantage of her. Maybe an unfair assumption, but it’s my private one. But as for this particular hell-raiser-looking guy—he’s proven himself harmless. It’s for that reason alone that I’m not afraid of him. Maybe I should be, but my instincts are usually right.

And right now, they’re screaming that I need a shower.

I peel off my combination of sticky and crusty birthday dress and step out of it, vowing to burn the thing as soon as I exit the bathroom. It smells like a sewer. For that matter, so do I. Even Caleb in that ridiculous robe looked more dignified than I feel right now.

I sigh and reach into the cabinet for a towel as my mind grows certain of something: I will never again be able to put that pink robe on my body. Not after seeing the way Caleb what’s-his-name filled it out like a Greek god in a quest to conquer my living room. And conquer it he did. Filled the entire space with his intimidating, beautiful presence, no matter how I tried to act unaffected by the vision.

I can hear the slam of the dryer door coming from the other room. At this rate, he’ll be dressed long before me. That thought kicks me into motion—I don’t want him leaving before I have another chance to see him—and I spring into action. Shampoo. Razor. Shaving cream. Soap. After making sure it’s all lined up on the edge of the tub, I flip around for my toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. Squeezing a little out, I pop it in my mouth and begin to work some magic.

And that’s when I finally look up at my reflection in the mirror.

And scream.

“What is in my hair?”

Toothpaste sprays out of my mouth and onto the mirror, and the Greek god in the other room begins to cackle. I stare at myself in horror through the shower of white spots.

Oh yeah—and begin to envision ways to personally toss that laughing Adonis into a black temple of doom.

*

“Princess, where did you get this incredible record collection?” Caleb says when I step into the living room. After washing my hair twice because one time didn’t successfully remove all traces of last night’s dinner—grilled cheese and tomato soup, once a favorite of mine but a meal that has now spiraled into something I will never touch again even if starving children in Africa personally serve it to me—I threw on a sweatshirt and black yoga pants, ran a brush through my wavy hair, then made a mad dash for the door despite the drum still thudding a muted beat in my head. Twenty minutes had passed. Twenty long minutes that I was certain would find Caleb tired of waiting around and long gone.

I was wrong. Right now, he’s crouched down in front of my bookcase, flipping through my albums one by one. A few lay at his feet—which are expertly covered in the coolest biker boots I’ve ever seen, all studded and unlaced and scuffed enough to add to his already unassuming ruggedness—and it doesn’t escape my notice that he’s pulled out my favorites. Led Zepplin. Journey. Deftones. An old bubble-gum-pop Tiffany album that I can’t bring myself to part with. Yet this isn’t what keeps my mind stuck on pause, momentarily unable to process watching him as he reaches for vintage Madonna and brings it to his face. I can’t think, because…

Princess? Did he just call me princess?

Something warm and tingly travels through me, but I sure as heck don’t dwell on it. A lot of girls might turn to a pool of melted flesh and bones when a guy endears them with a nickname, but I’m not one of them.

“Princess, did you hear me?”

Okay, so maybe I am. My heart gives a little flip, which is nuts since I only met the guy an hour ago. He could be a serial killer for all I know. A serial killer who doesn’t kill, wound, or touch a hair on his victim’s head—even though said victim is knocked out and drugged seven ways from Sunday afternoon.

Clearly he’s not a serial killer.

“You know, I had those records alphabetized for a reason, and now you’ve messed them all up.” I snatch my
Like a Virgin
LP away with an irritation I don’t really feel, but it gives me back some of that dignity I just felt puddle round my bare feet. At least I think it does. I shove my chin up a notch for extra emphasis. There.

My attitude seems to amuse him, and he looks up at me with a barely legal grin that has surely made countless girls before me lose their good judgment. “I might not look like much,” he says, “but I did manage to learn my alphabet by my junior year in high school. Tell you what, if I have trouble with any of the letters, I’ll let you put them back for me. Deal?”

I give him a look, then hand the record back and sink to the floor to join him, trying and failing to conceal a smile. “Deal. But that doesn’t mean you can pull them all out—hey, slow down!” I’m sitting there with my mouth hanging open while, in a matter of seconds, a dozen more records have joined the pile. Just because I’m so accommodating doesn’t mean he should disrespect the system I have going here. After all, I didn’t spend an entire week last summer grouping these by name, genre, style, album color, male artists, female artists, release year, and Billboard best-sellers for nothing. It takes a lot of work—not to mention charts, graphs, and extensive case studies—to perfect an arrangement this intricate.

Kate, you are the classic description of OCD. People could do research on you.

Lucy’s description of me on the first day we met comes back to sock me in my fragile ego, and I straighten my shoulders. She was so not right.

I eye the albums, hoping his hands are clean.

“What I meant to say is, be careful not to bend them. I’ve been collecting this particular set for years, and I would hate to see any of them damaged.” They
look
clean.

“How long?”

I drag my eyes to his face. “How long what?”

Caleb’s amusement only grows, as does his smile. This boy is dangerous, and I’m pretty sure he knows it. “How long have you been collecting these?” He pulls an album out of the tight space it’s currently sitting in. It takes work to keep myself from gasping a little, but I’m the only person who’s
ever
touched that one. “Take Velvet Underground here…” He dangles the album in question from two fingers and the vinyl slips out of the sleeve a little. He doesn’t appear to notice. It’s all I can do not to scream and snatch it away. These are my babies. My life’s work. And he’s treating them like nothing but cheap lined plastic inside old musty cardboard. What an uninformed, perfect idiot. “How long have you had it?”

“Um…” The vinyl slips a little more, and my eyes go wide. “I bought it for my sixteenth birthday, so exactly five years.” My voice squeaks on that last word, and I feel my hand twitch by my side. If I could…just…grab it.

“And you’re how old now?” Caleb touches the edge of the black sphere—touches it!—and pushes it back inside with one finger.

“Twenty—” I clear my throat. “Twenty one yesterday.”