Carry Me Home

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Thanks to my incredible editor, Lauren Plude, who challenged me to make this book better; to my agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, for her constant belief in my writing; and to Grand Central’s “Team Forever,” who always manage to impress. Special thanks to Jennifer Blackwood, Jennifer Ryan, and Natalie Blitt, who read different incarnations of this draft and provided much-needed love notes and kicks in the pants.

To my patient, supportive family, thanks aren’t enough, but they’ll have to do. Especially to my mom for flying out to watch the kids while I fast-drafted, and to Matey, who at this point must wonder if he has a wife—I promise more date nights. J and B, your background chatter is my writing soundtrack. I love you both.

Lastly, and most importantly, to you, the reader, for giving me the opportunity to do the work I love best.

S
hoot me, I like sex. If I wait for true love before getting busy, I’ll be covered in cobwebs, and that’s bad news for someone with arachnophobia. Still, a Saturday-night hookup in a race-car bed drives to the edge of my boundaries. If John Boy doesn’t gear down soon, my mojo’s going to run out of fuel. Despite his name and questionable bedroom decor, the dude’s twenty—old enough to have figured out it’s not okay to crash your pelvis into a girl like a Formula 1 driver taking a turn too fast. This isn’t a race. There’s a lot to be said for slowing down, enjoying the scenery.

The mattress is lumpy, and I’m getting bored. High time to take the wheel. I lock my knees to his hips and roll.

And roll.

There we go. So much better with me on top. Now we’re getting somewhere. John Boy’s always a little slow, no different in the sack. Ouch! I squeak when my thigh bangs a car panel.
Mother f’er.
In the living room someone switches the music from Outkast to James Brown’s “Sex Machine.”

“Ahhhh, shit yeah. You like being on top? Takin’ me deep?”

John Boy’s a dirty talker. Wasn’t expecting that.

“I could stay inside your tight little cream pie forever.”

Cream?
You are under arrest for crimes against metaphors
.

“Unh-uh.” He grabs the back of my neck, his tongue plunging in my ear canal, going boldly deeper than any Q-tip has gone before. “You’ve wanted this bad, haven’t you?”

Not really. Despite those stellar arms—John’s a roofer when not kitesurfing or growing hydroponic weed in the spare bedroom—he’s only ever existed on the periphery of my radar. Tonight’s shindig was fine, with all the usual crowd, but no amount of PBR could rinse away the harsh taste of failure. I spent the morning slaving over a new storyboard and my fickle muse wandered away to watch
Full House
reruns. At this rate, my work-in-progress will be the world’s shortest graphic novel.

Finishing this project is important. I’m tired of always feeling like the fuck-up around my friends who go off to travel the world, or start kick-ass internships in Silicon Valley. I’m the one who hasn’t left town, still working at the same gig I had in college, cashiering at a natural-food store for a few cents above minimum wage.

I’d been two seconds from going home, knuckling back down on my illustrations, when John Boy called out to stay a little longer. His face made it clear what he wanted, and hey, sex gives me control when everything else in life spirals. His muscles are easy on the eyes, and that’s the nice thing about easy—it feels way better than difficult.

“Ah, shit, Sunny. You’re such a hot, nasty girl. This is the best.” He slaps the side of my ass. “The best ever.”

Ugh. Not even his ripped bod can excuse such verbal diarrhea. Are we having great sex? Nope. The worst? Nah. It’s hovering somewhere in the vicinity of average. Six out of ten.

“Sunny, you’re so amazing. It’s like—”

Five out of ten if he doesn’t shut up. “John Boy?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Don’t say another word. I’ve got this handled.” I grind harder until there’s a glimmer of a slow, pulsing ache. Improvement. I’m taking care of myself, but afterward he won’t have anything to complain about. It’s better this way. Good for me. Good for him. Gotta love a win-win. Keeping things on the surface is fun. I’m not single, just in a committed relationship with personal freedom.

John Boy smiles, or maybe he grimaces—hard to say. How can I focus on his arms when that grin resembles a chimpanzee’s? If I were to sketch him, that’s how I’d do it—all big, fleshy lips.

The bedroom door flies open, banging into the wall. We’re turned around on the mattress, so I’m the one facing the door while John Boy has his head pressed against the fender. Adrenaline surges through me while I duck, yanking down my tank top. My idea of good times doesn’t extend to displaying myself for random chicks. The girl’s stare is unfocused, and my next breath comes a little easier. Home free. She’s not going to remember any of this tomorrow. Most people here are trashed, have been drinking since noon.

“Hey, JB,” she slurs, aimlessly wandering to the middle of the room. “Have you seen my purse—”

John Boy rises up on his elbows and glares over the bedside. “Get the hell out, Amber.”

“Oh, sorry! Sorry!” The girl jumps back to the hall, leaving the door wide open.

Ugh. Whatever mood existed is stone-cold dead. I came upstairs to cash in on the promise of free and easy physical distraction. Do I get a refund?

John Boy braces my hips. “Forget about her, baby. I’m getting close. Keep bouncing on my dick like a bunny rabbit.” He reaches under my top and circles my navel. “Damn, girl, your belly button is fucking fresh.”

The hell? Bouncing bunnies? Belly buttons? Nope, sorry, all engines have powered down. I can’t bring myself to continue. No orgasm is worth the cost of my pride. I’m better off going home and doodling stick figures. Time to park this brief bad affair—an unfortunate but necessary turn of events. I’m about to climb off when a prickle courses down the furrow of my spine, a premonition or God, I don’t even know.

Another person stands in the hallway, silent as a ghost, their large frame hovering just outside the bedroom’s entrance. John Boy’s too stoned out of his gourd to notice anything. His eyes are closed and his mouth is slack—no doubt dreaming up his next cringe-worthy round of dirty talk.

The intruder’s gaze locks with mine beneath the rim of a low-set Giants cap.

The familiar vintage Volcom T-shirt.

Oh God…Unh-uh…No way…It can’t be.

Vans slip-ons.

Jesus Christopher.

That shaggy mop of almost-white blond hair…No guy retains that towhead color after the age of six.

Except one.

Tanner freaking Green.

He doesn’t budge. Is this an X-rated version of chicken?

I’m riveted by the intensity of his cool, impassive gaze, my skin overwarm and uncomfortable. Of all the freaking gin joints. Or in this particular case, one-night stands. My stomach clenches like the fist of an angry god. A guy this gorgeous should be impossible to hate. Except
impossible
is a word struck from my dictionary.

When did he get back to Santa Cruz? He’s a professional skateboarder on tour most of the year and recently won the Super Crown Championship.

He doesn’t look away. I don’t either. It’s like we’re facing off across a battlefield. Not sure who’s going to fire the first shot. Me or my mortal enemy since middle school.

Tanner and I have always played head games, and he’s a worthy adversary. Right now he’s got me at a severe disadvantage. No idea how to handle this. There are zero Emily Post etiquette tips for being caught half-naked, straddling a random guy at a party.

Tanner’s blink is slow, deliberate, as if
of course
he’d find me in this situation. He knows more than anyone about me, my mom, and where I come from. Rage rises through my chest. No way am I going to sit here shamefaced and powerless, waving a white flag. It’s time to roll out the heavy artillery.

The best defense is a strong offense. I’m not my mom—emotionally needy, insecure, and jumping from dysfunctional relationship to dysfunctional relationship to fill some insatiable hole inside. That’s not what this is, although that’s what Tanner’s going to think.

Like mother, like daughter.

Forget my intention to pull the plug on this substandard Saturday-night hookup. If anything, I double down harder, rock until heat laps my inner thighs. Antagonism and lust converge deep in my belly and swirl into evil inspiration. John Boy better buckle up and hang on, because it’s time to go Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Tanner’s pressed against the hallway wall. His rigid frame radiates something suspiciously close to desire. I’ve received enough admiring male looks in my day to know when I’m getting one. For eight years I’ve felt little toward this guy but shame and dislike, doing my best to ignore the other, deeper, more unsettling feeling.

Let him see that I’m not embarrassed about my life.

Not anymore.

I peel off my tank top, ignoring the appreciative groan beneath me. Bras are pointless, seeing as my boobs didn’t develop past the front of the alphabet. My next sound is one of fierce pleasure. Sure, there’s a little exaggerated drama packed into the high note, but honestly, everything’s altered. Maybe I’m drunker than I thought, because Tanner’s blatant voyeurism takes me from tepid to hot-hot-oh-my-God-there’s-a-meltdown-in-the-nuclear-reactor.

What the hell? The whole point of my little performance is to make him uncomfortable, to show that I’m not ashamed of my choices. It’s not meant to harden my nipples or cause a high-voltage surge through my limbs.

Still, I gyrate harder, unable to help myself, licking the seam of my lips as sweat sheens my chest. My back arches, far more than required. John Boy mutters a steady garble that’s mercifully too low for me to decipher, and the pulse intensifies into a building pressure between my legs. Tanner’s shaggy hair wings over his ears. God, those ears—a smidge stuck out. He’s all perfect proportions except on that front.

I mold my hands to my chest, cupping my breasts, and his eyes widen. The room is too dark to expose his irises, the same color as the sidewalk after a hard rain. When we first met, he was a total runt, slight as a blade of sour grass. He’s grown.

A lot.

His lips part, his innocent features anything but. An undeniable current passes between us. I shift to achieve better friction. My clit skims John Boy’s pubic bone. This is uncharted territory, but I’m not afraid of big bad wolves or Tanner Green’s disapproval. I like to live in the moment, but I’m safe, always use protection, get tested at Planned Parenthood every six months.

Since we were thirteen, Tanner has always frowned at my choices, but surprise, surprise, like all judgers, he’s a secret hypocrite. Here he is, getting hot while I do my thing, and likely hating himself for it. The tension is building, but that’s okay, because I’ve got the upper hand. I’m not powerless, not by a long shot. My inner muscles tighten in rhythm to my grinding.

Tanner’s hands clench into two fists that he slugs into his low-slung jeans pockets. The action stretches the denim over his groin, and the shadows give the illusion of a thick erection.

That’s all it takes for this crazy roller coaster I’m climbing to tip over the edge.

My mouth opens, but the orgasm tears through my body faster than the speed of sound. John Boy’s raspy groan startles me. Whoa. With my attention locked on Tanner, I forgot he was down there, which is wrong on so many levels. I close my eyes and press my hands over the lids so hard red and blue stars appear. Tanner’s gone when I open them again.

Some invisible line between Tanner and me has been crossed tonight. I always thought it was made from bold yellow caution tape, a clear no-go zone. Instead it turns out to have been drawn in pencil, able to be erased on a whim.

Who would have thought? Not me. Never in a million years.

“Whoa, Sunny…” John Boy says, panting.

“Shhhhhhh.” I squash my fingers to his damp lips. “There’s nothing more to say.” At least not to him. I need headspace and fast.

I climb off and quickly dress. After a few polite niceties, I’m out. Luckily, John Boy’s not expecting more. He knows my MO.

I love guys—for a night, a week, a month—but I always leave first.