In the Bad Boy's Bed (7 page)

A colorful throw covered the faded gold and green plaid couch. Two chairs flanked it, one a rocker in a bumpy oatmeal fabric and the other a recliner in brown faux leather.

All pointed toward the TV as if it were the prime entertainment.

If TV was king, the short, wide, tilting bookcase stuffed with books suggested that reading was a close second. The weight of the books--text books, romances, comics, literary classics, mysteries, and best sellers from several years ago—swayed the pressboard shelves. I could almost hear it groan.

Two 8 x 10 gold metal frames hung on the wall above the bookcase. I walked over to them. One held a school photo of a young boy of about seven or eight who resembled Nick but had blond hair and eyes so dark they looked black. The other photo was of Nick, a clearly younger Nick, maybe twelve or thirteen, in a red and black football uniform.

He hadn't put his tough on yet. That smile that these days usually just peeked out at one corner of his mouth took over the entire mouth. A dark sweep of bangs stuck up from his forehead, like he'd wiped sweat from them just before the picture was snapped.

The emotions in his green eyes were close to the surface, there for all to see, not hidden as they were in the grown up Nick I knew. I ran my finger across the handsome face, wishing I'd known this carefree and happy boy.

I felt Nick behind me. I leaned back against him when he wrapped his arms around my waist.

"How old were you?"

"Thirteen."

"You looked happy."

"That was taken a month before my dad announced he was leaving us for another woman."

A spiked fist twisted in my heart at the pain he and his family must have endured.

I turned in his arms to face him and brushed my fingers down his cheek.

"Nick, I'm so sorry."

"Hey, it happens."

"Did you see him much after—"

"Forget it. I have. Let me show you around."

He moved away from me and held his arms out to encompass the room we stood in. "Living room," he said. He pointed to the coffee table. "Dining room." He pointed to the corner by the window where a tall plant stood. "Arboretum." He pointed to the right.

"Kitchen." He nodded left down the hall. "Bathroom, laundry closet, two bedrooms."

His descriptions were delivered in a tongue-in-cheek tone edged with something else. Bitterness? Anger? Embarrassment? I wasn't sure. Was I only projecting my feelings about his home onto him?

As I looked around, I couldn't help but compare it to my home, with its separate living room, den, study/library areas; a laundry room the size of this living room; five bedrooms, each with its own bathroom and sitting area and walk-in closet; a kitchen with eat-in breakfast nook; formal and informal dining rooms, and so much more that I felt greedy even thinking about it.

I liked Nick. A lot. And the sex was mind-blowing. But seeing his house, seeing him in his world, stripped away all my rainbows and blue skies to reveal how very different we were. Not that I needed a guy who could give me fancy gifts and take me on expensive dates to be happy—Sean had given me the best gifts money could buy and I was miserable.

But I wasn't sure my character was strong enough not to care that any dates with him would be to hang out somewhere that didn't cost money. Or not to cringe in guilt every time he pulled hard-earned singles from his wallet to pay for our hamburger at a fast food place. Or not to care that my parents would absolutely flip at the thought of their daughter, their only child, getting involved with a man who had this present and an uncertain but likely similar future.

What am I doing with him? I thought, panic overtaking me. I had to end it before I hurt him.

"Nick, I—"

He pulled me to him again, kissed away the words I'd planned to say, making them melt on his clever tongue. I went weak in the knees. Fortunately, he picked me up and carried me to his bed. Every stupid thought I'd had of leaving him had vanished as he loved me with his hands, his mouth, his body, and his sweet, sweet words.

We headed back to school for our afternoon classes, and I parked at the very back of the lot. We shared a final kiss in the car, then he headed in one direction, toward the History building, while I headed the other way, toward English.

I saw Mr. Wilson stop Nick on his way into the building, but I was already two minutes late—another minute and I'd be counted absent—so I went on in to class. As I slid into the seat next to Gina, I remembered that I'd forgotten to warn him about Sean.

Fifteen minutes into class, a girl I recognized only as a freshman came to the door and gave my teacher, Ms. Gonzales, a note.

"Angela, you're to report to Mr. Wilson's office. Take your things."

I got the usual you're-in-trouble noise from the class, and I shot Gena a questioning look and grabbed my backpack.

"What's your name?" I asked the freshman as I followed her back to the office.

She looked scared that I'd spoken to her, but she managed to mumble her name.

"Ariana. That's a pretty name."

She smiled then quickly covered her braces with her hand.

"Why does Mr. Wilson want to see me?"

Ariana kept her eyes on the path, her long red hair covering her face but not before I could see the blush flaming her cheeks.

I caught her arm and stopped her. "Ariana, please tell me."

Her brown eyes wide, she looked around to make sure no one was watching or listening. She leaned in. "Your boyfriend Sean accused Nick Donnelly of smashing in the windshield of his Jag. Sean's, not Nick's. Nick doesn't have a Jag. He has a—"

Crap! Had Sean seen me with Nick? Was that why he was falsely accusing him?

"First of all, Sean's NOT my boyfriend. And second, why does Sean think Nick did it?"

"He said he saw Nick leaving the parking lot right before he went to his car for lunch."

"Do you know what time this was supposed to have happened?"

She shook her head. "Not exactly, but sometime after second lunch."

Nick and I were in the middle of each other before, during, and after second lunch.

"Thanks."

Again the hand came up to cover her smile. The girl would have such a pretty smile when the braces came off. Too bad she couldn't envision it, yet.

We'd reached the office. "When do you get your braces off?" I asked her.

She blushed again and dropped her head. "Not til next year."

"I wore mine until the middle of sophomore year."

He head jerked up. "You wore braces, too?"

I nodded. "You're going to have a beautiful smile. Just wait and see."

"Ariana, those folders won't file themselves." Carla Stone, Mr. Wilson's secretary, snipped at the girl, sending her to scurry away into the file room.

Mrs. Stone then turned her venomous stare on me and pointed at the row of chairs lining the front of Mr. Wilson's office.

I looked at them but remained standing. "Why was I called here?"

"Take a seat, please."

She'd said please, but the pinhole mouth the word had to pass through squeezed any sweetness from its meaning. In defiance, I stood against the wall with my arms crossed. I heard her sigh in irritation. For some reason, knowing I'd caused it made me smile.

She picked up her phone and jabbed a couple of buttons with her bony finger. "Ms.

Abbott is here."

A minute or two later, the door opened and Mr. Wilson called me in. My gaze flew to the chairs in front of his desk where sat the only two guys I'd ever slept with. Both looked pissed and like they wanted to pound each other.

"What's going on?" I asked Mr. Wilson, who was pulling up a chair for me between Nick and Sean.

He perched one leg on his desk and leaned toward me. "Ms. Abbott, you left campus at lunch time today."

"Well, yeah, you saw me. We talked. About Ming."

He held up his hand and smiled. "Yes, yes, but before you and I talked, or afterward, before you actually pulled out of the parking lot, did you see anyone else in the lot?"

My eyes flickered, wanting to turn toward Nick, to maybe get the right answer from him, but I kept them straight ahead, facing Wilson. I paused, not wanting to answer any questions until I knew what he was really asking.

"Now, this is important, so think about it carefully before you answer."

"Yeah, Angela. Think hard." Sean's comment made me want to slap him, but instead I shot him a dirty look.

"Mr. Carrington, I told you to keep quiet." Wilson snapped at Sean, who slunk deeper into his chair. He jiggled his leg, a habit I knew to mean he was barely containing his anger.

I took a chance. "No, Mr. Wilson."

Sean came up out of his seat. "Just because she didn't see him doesn't mean he didn't break my window. I saw him do it."

"Sit down! And if I have to tell you one more time to keep your butt in the chair and your mouth shut, I'll put you in detention. Is that clear?"

Sean scrunched his mouth up tighter than an asshole, and nodded once.

Mr. Wilson continued. "Now, Ms. Abbott, what about when you came back? Did you see anyone?"

"I wasn't really looking. I was worried about being late to class."

"You didn't see Mr. Donnelly walking toward the History building?"

"Well, I . . . yeah, I saw the two of you at the door to the building. Why?"

"Thank you, Ms. Abbott." He stood and walked to his door. "Go on back to class."

"I saw him do it," Sean insisted. "And if she can't corroborate his lame story that he went to lunch at that time then you're obligated to believe me and file a report with the police so this asshole can pay to fix my car."

"This is bullshit," Nick mumbled.

"Mr. Donnelly, is there anyone who saw you at lunch, anyone who could vouch for you?"

Nick paused, and this time my gaze did go to him, but his eyes wouldn't meet mine. His face was red from anger, from the injustice of the accusation, from the realization that the only one who could speak for him, wouldn't.

"No."

Sean stood, grunted. "You take care of this right, Wilson, or I'll have my dad in here." He shot Nick a triumphant look and left, leaving the door wide open.

Mr. Wilson sighed, and moved to sit at his desk. "Ms. Abbott, you can leave, too."

My feet felt glued to the carpet. I didn't want to leave Nick in this situation. But what choice did I have? I turned and walked to the door. I thought I heard a little sound come from Nick—I imagined it was the sound of his heart breaking, but I wasn't sure. My own heart was beating so hard, I could only really hear it telling me what I had to do. And I did.

I shut the door, walked back to Mr. Wilson's desk, sat in the chair next to Nick. Both Nick's head and Wilson's snapped up and two sets of eyes, filled with questions, looked at me.

"Angela, I said you could leave."

"Mr. Wilson, Nick couldn't have damaged Sean's car."

"How do you know that?"

I looked into Nick's eyes, smiled at him, took his hand in mine.

"Because he and I were together at the time it was supposed to have happened."

"He wasn't with you when I saw you."

"He was with me before that. We were making plans to leave campus for lunch. He went to get his backpack from his locker and I went to my car. I picked him up just after I left you."

"Are you sure, Angela? This isn't some kind of story he's convinced you to tell to save him from trouble?"

Rage at the accusation ripped away the sweetness he had admired in me earlier.

"He didn't have to tell me anything. I saw it all. After you left me, I saw Nick walking toward the parking lot. You stopped him, asked to see his class schedule because you didn't believe him when he told you he had a free period after lunch. He dug his schedule out of his backpack, showed it to you, and you threw it back at him and stormed away, mad—my guess because you didn't catch him in a lie or doing something wrong that you could bust him for. He and I left campus right after that, and we didn't get back until a few minutes ago when you hauled him in here on another attempt to bust him."

Nick's hand squeezed mine as if saying I was tip-toeing the line of getting us both into big trouble. I saw how close I was when I noticed Mr. Wilson's face pale and his mouth thin to the width of a toothpick.

Nick stood, and so did I. He slipped his arm around me.

"Mr. Wilson, I take it I'm in the clear now?"

Mr. Wilson stood, too. "Yes," he said, the word gritted through his teeth. He pointed at us. "But the next time you two miss class to "have lunch" together, I'll put you in detention and call your parents to discuss whether this is the right school for you."

He stormed to the door, opened it, and stood by like a sentinel, making sure we went through. As we crossed the doorway, Mr. Wilson stuck out his arm to halt Nick.

"I'm watching you." He whispered the words through his teeth, but I heard it clearly. The threat behind it. The warning.

Nick smiled and continued out the door. I followed, but Wilson stopped me with a hand on my arm.

"Ms. Abbott, I'd like a word with you before you return to class."

I took a last look at Nick before the closing door severed our gaze.

"Ms. Abbott—Angela—in the four years you've been in this school, you've never caused a bit of trouble. You earn good grades and get along with everyone, students and faculty alike. You're from an upstanding family, with high standards and aspirations.

What are you doing with a guy like Donnelly?"

The truth that sprang to mind—having great sex—brought a smile to my face. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

Mr. Wilson's face reddened. "I know your parents; they wouldn't be pleased with your choice."

"It's
my
choice."

"He's the wrong kind of boy for you."

"Who's the right kind for me? Sean? An arrogant, mean jerk who drinks too much and hits me? Is that what I deserve?"

"Well, no, I—"

"Nick is decent, and kind, and thoughtful of my feelings. He makes me feel safe and warm and good. He'd never hurt me. I do have standards; that's how I know I deserve someone like Nick."