Heat of the Moment (7 page)

“Hiiiii yourself,” Beckett says. He puts one arm up against the side of the door, blocking my view of the room. “Miss me already?” His eyes flick down to my chest, and I reach down and pull my dress back up.

“No,” I say haughtily. Goose bumps have broken out on my skin. “I'm here to see Derrick.”

“Derrick who?”

I roll my eyes. “Can you please just get him?”

“Fine.” He turns around and yells, “Derrick! You have a visitor!” He turns back to me and frowns. “Derrick?” he tries again. “Derrick?” He smiles. “Oh, right. He's not here.”

I take in a deep breath and resist the urge to scream. Why does he feel the need to mess with me like that? And for the second time today!

“You're not funny.” It wouldn't be worth it to yell at him. That's what he wants. He wants to see that he's getting some kind of reaction from me. He wants me to get all worked up and wild. Well! He has another thing coming. I am certainly capable of controlling myself.

“You're welcome to come in and wait.” He steps back and opens the door. “Of course, I'm not sure how long he's going to be.” He tilts his head, pretending to consider it. “Are you?”

“Yes, I know how long he's going to be,” I say. “He'll be here any minute. And if you think I'm going to come into your hotel room and wait with you, then you're crazy.” I look around wildly for someplace else to wait, but of course there isn't one. I'm in a hotel hallway.

But there's no way I'm going into that room. I sit down on the floor, trying not to think about how many disgusting feet have walked over this carpet. It actually looks pretty clean, but you can never tell what kind of hidden bacteria could be lurking under the surface. They're always doing investigative reports on the dangerous germs that are all over hotels. Not thinking about that now, though, la, la, la.

I pull my phone out and send Derrick a quick text, telling him I'm waiting for him outside his room. I make sure to say I'm outside. The last thing I want is for Derrick to think I'm inside with Beckett. Shudder.

“Letting him know you're here?” Beckett asks conversationally. He slides down the wall until he's sitting right next to me.

“No,” I lie.

“Okay.” He shrugs.

I wait for him to say something smarmy, but he doesn't. He just sits there, his legs out in front of him all casual, like it's perfectly okay for him to be here next to me, even though he knows I hate him. Actually, I don't hate him. To hate him I'd have to actually have an opinion about him. And I don't.

All I know is that I'm here to see Derrick.
My boyfriend
. I have a right to wait for him. It's my right as, like, a citizen. Or a girlfriend. Or a patron of this hotel. The hallways are, like, common areas. To be enjoyed by all.

Beckett starts humming a little tune next to me, and I take in a deep breath, holding it in for one two three, then letting it out for one two three.

“Are you doing those breathing exercises we learned in yoga?” he asks.

“No.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I'm not.” I reach into my purse and look around for something to keep my hands busy. But I don't have anything except makeup, and the last thing I want to do is put on lip gloss or something in front of Beckett. I don't know why, but it seems too . . . intimate.

He turns toward me, and his eyes move over my body. “You look nice.”

I study his face for any traces of sarcasm. Wow. I forgot how green his eyes are. That same ripple of something (attraction? I don't even want to think the word ohpleasegodno) goes skittering through my body. Only this time there's something more there. Something almost . . .
anticipatory
. It's weird. And unsettling.

I shift my leg away from his.

“When someone pays you a compliment, you're supposed to say thank you.”

“Thank you.” Where the hell is Derrick?

“So are you still mad at me then?”

Yes. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Beckett, I don't even know you. How can I be mad at you?”

“You seemed pretty mad earlier.”

“I wasn't.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

We sit there for a few seconds in silence. My leg starts jittering up and down, and it takes all my willpower to get it to stop. The last thing I want is for him to think he's making me nervous.

“So is this”—he gestures to my hair and outfit—“all
for Derrick? Or were you planning on going out with your friend?”

“My friend?”

“Yeah. Quinn. I passed her in the lobby on my way in. She was decked out, head to toe.” He grins, remembering. “Although she was wearing a lot less clothes than you are.”

Something akin to jealousy hits my heart. Which is stupid. I'm not jealous of Quinn. “Quinn's not my friend,” I say.

He shrugs. “Whatever.”

And then he does something totally unexpected. Something totally crazy and weird and thrilling all at once. He reaches out and grabs my wrist, turns it over, and looks at the bracelet I'm wearing. It's just a bracelet . . . brown beads with a stretchy band. Nothing special. He runs a finger over one of the beads, tracing his fingertip along the swirly pattern of the different shades of brown and yellow.

“What's it mean?” he asks.

“What?” I'm startled. I've worn this bracelet every single day pretty much for over two years. Every. Single. Day. It's not an expensive bracelet. You'd think I would have lost it, or dropped it, or left it somewhere. In all this time of having it, someone should have stolen it, or it should have slipped off during gym, or it should have snapped off while I was doing something mundane like my laundry.

But it hasn't.

It's still on my wrist.

“What does your bracelet mean?”

“It doesn't mean anything.” My breath catches in my chest.

“It's tigereye, right?”

I nod, still not breathing.

“So it must mean something.” He turns my wrist over, inspecting the bracelet, then looks at me again, those eyes boring into mine. “So?”

“So what?”

“So what does your bracelet mean?”

“It's just . . . it's something I had with my dad.”

“The tigereye thing?”

“Yeah.”

He nods, thoughtful. His fingers have slipped off the beads now and onto my wrist, and his touch sends hot waves of sensation burning through my body.

I don't want to talk about my dad. I don't want to talk about him because I can't think about my dad without thinking about a million other things that could be upsetting—my mom, Quinn, Aven . . . they're all connected. Besides, my dad doesn't occupy any place in my life. He doesn't affect me. He's gone.

“He's gone?” Beckett asks, like he's reading my thoughts.

I nod.

He tilts his head, looking thoughtful, his index finger still making lazy circles on the inside of my wrist. I know I
should pull away, but I can't. It's mesmerizing, almost like he's put me in some kind of trance.

“Where did he go?”

“I have no idea.” It's a half-truth. I don't know
exactly
where my dad is, but I do know he's in New Hampshire, living alone. Which makes it worse when you think about it—he didn't even ditch us for some other family. He just . . . left. And never bothered to contact us.

Because you betrayed him. You lied to him
.

It all blooms up in my chest—the conversations with my dad, telling Aven about them, Aven telling Quinn, Quinn telling her mom, Quinn's mom telling my mom.

My mom, standing in front of me in the middle of the kitchen.
Is it true, Lyla? Are you leaving with him?

“Lie.” Beckett's still making circles on my wrist.

“He's in New Hampshire,” I say. “He divorced my mom. He wanted me to go with him.”

I take my hand away because I can't stand the way he's making me feel. Tingles and fireworks are flying all over, my heart is pounding in my chest, and my stomach is tangled.

I tell myself that the way I'm feeling doesn't have anything to do with Beckett. It's because I'm talking about my dad. And even if it was about Beckett, it doesn't mean anything. It's just . . . it's like looking at a picture of Channing Tatum or something. Which isn't cheating. Of course, Channing Tatum isn't here, rubbing my wrist while he asks
me personal questions about my dad.

I scoot over a little bit on the rug, putting more distance between me and Beckett. But I still feel kind of warm, so finally, I stand up.

“Look,” I say, “I'm not . . . I don't want to sit here and talk to you about my dad.”

He doesn't even have the decency to be offended, like a normal person. Instead, he seems totally unfazed. “Okay,” he says. “I figured.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Just that I assumed you wouldn't want to talk about your dad.”

“Why? Because you're a total stranger who's been pretty mean to me?”

“No. Because it's obviously a sore subject for you. Which is too bad, because I'm a really good listener.”

I snort. “I doubt it.”

“Dare you to find out.” His voice, just a second ago flirty and teasing, has turned kind of dark and smoky and all . . . I don't know, smoldering and husky.

His eyes rake up my body, starting at my legs and drifting all the way up until he's looking right into my eyes. It's so sexy I can hardly take it. I want him to like what he sees. Does he? He kind of seems like he does. His eyes have gotten all lidded and heavy, and he's staring at me from under his superlong lashes.

Dare you
.

That's what he said. Dare you to find out. The words reverberate in my head, and with the way he's looking at me, I wonder if he's talking about my dad, or something else.

“What's going on?” a stern voice echoes through the hallway.

Derrick strides toward us, his eyebrows knitted together in a frown.

“Derrick!” I yell wildly. “It's Derrick! Hi, Derrick!” I gallop down the hall and throw my arms around him. “I missed you!” I give him a kiss, realizing too late that I probably don't want him to think I'm super excited to see him after he pretty much blew me off all day. I mean, shouldn't there be consequences?

“What's going on here?” he asks again, pulling my arms from around his neck.

“Nothing.” Beckett stands up and shrugs. “I was just sitting out here getting some air, and Lyla came looking for you.” He stretches his arms over his head, like he's exhausted and bored, and like he wasn't just undressing me with his eyes a few seconds ago. I can't decide if I'm disappointed that he's acting like it was nothing, or thankful he's not making a big deal of it in front of Derrick.

“Yup,” I say. “It was nothing. We were just . . . I mean, I was just waiting for you.”

Derrick glares at Beckett.

Beckett doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he seems to kind
of enjoy that Derrick's all suspicious. He gives him a big grin and then claps him on the shoulder.

“Well,” he says, “I'll give you two lovebirds some time alone.” He pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and puts them on, which is completely ridiculous since it's nighttime. “I have a party to go to.”

“What party?” I ask, wondering if he's going to be at Juliana's, if I'm going to see him again in a few minutes. Derrick shoots me a look. “I mean, have fun!” I yell after Beckett as he starts toward the elevator.

I turn back to Derrick, and instantly, my heart squeezes. This whole thing with Beckett is so
stupid
. Derrick and I have been together for two years. Derrick is the one who's listened to me every time I complained about my mom's craziness. Derrick is the one who took care of me when the norovirus was going around our school and I couldn't keep anything down except Gatorade and dry toast. Derrick is the one who asked me to the junior prom by writing
LYLA, WILL YOU GO TO THE PROM WITH ME?
in rose petals all over my driveway.

Derrick is beautiful and perfect, and until today we've never even been in a fight. Well. Unless you count the time that he was visiting his family on the Cape for Thanksgiving and he told me he'd call me when he left at nine and then he didn't call me or text me until, like, midnight and I was mad because I'd thought he'd been killed in some kind of horrible fiery crash.

But even that was way back when we first got together. Since then, we haven't been in any other fights. He's been perfect.
We've
been perfect.

“I want to forget about today,” I say, wrapping my arms around him again and inhaling his scent. He smells like sunscreen and the beach. I wonder why he smells like fun while all I've done all day is be miserable.

His shoulders stiffen for a moment, and I'm afraid he's still mad. But after another moment, I feel him relax. “I'm sorry I got so mad,” he says. “I just got upset.” He sighs. “I know you would never do anything to hurt me.” He kisses me softly on the lips.

“I wouldn't!” I say. “I would never do anything to hurt you. Or us.”

“Want to go walk on the beach?” he asks. His hands intertwine with mine.

“Yes,” I breathe, thankful he's not suggesting going to Juliana's party. He wants to be alone with me! He can't be too mad then, right?

A fight. A walk on the beach. Moonlight. Racing hormones. I can't think of a better setup for what's about to happen. Sex. Sex. Sex. And lots more sex.

The beach is perfect. We sit at an outdoor restaurant, pigging out on nachos and potato skins, then order ginger ales
to go. We pour half of the soda out of our plastic take-out cups and add wine from a bottle Derrick bought earlier using Lincoln's fake ID. We sip it while we walk on the beach, tipsy and happy, making jokes and giggling.