Appealed (10 page)

I take them off and try to hide my eyes by looking down. My mother's gasp is horrified, so that plan obviously tanked.

“My goodness, why are your eyes so red? Do you have an infection?”

Claire Randolph finally cracks a smile. I bet she enjoys watching worms squirm under a magnifying glass on a sunny day too.

“No, Mom, they're not infected.”

“But they look terrible!” Her hand rests on my father's forearm. “Donald, dear, perhaps we should have the doctor come look at Brent?”

“Allergies,” Kennedy pipes up—sounding like she just thought of it herself. “His eyes are red from allergies.”

“Brent doesn't have any allergies.”

Kennedy smiles at my mother, and sounds so confident I'd believe her. “We all have allergies here. Something to do with the special species of trees in Connecticut. The pollen they . . . ejaculate.”

Ejaculate?

Then she sneezes for added effect.

It's obvious Claire doesn't buy it, but the rest of them swallow it like hundred-year-old scotch.

Then it only takes a few minutes before:

“Do make a salon appointment, Kennedy. I can see your split ends from here.”

I stand up so fast the glasses on the table rattle. “We're going for a walk.”

My mother's eyes are wide like an owl's. “Why?”

Saying I'm on the verge of stuffing the tablecloth down her best friend's throat probably won't go over well. “I just spotted a . . . double-breasted blue robin down by the lake. They're super rare. Kennedy and I need to study it for horticulture—”

“Horticulture's plants,” Kennedy whispers frantically.

“—and winged wildlife class.”

I'm a lacrosse goalie—I'm all about the save.

And they go for it.

Five minutes later, Kennedy and I are walking on the bank of the lake outside. I pick up a rock and throw it hard into the water. “How do you stand it?”

“Stand what?”

“
Posture, Kennedy, split ends, Kennedy, fucking carbs, Kennedy
 . . . I wanted to jam my fork into my ear just so I wouldn't have to listen to it anymore—and she wasn't even talking about me!”

Kennedy smiles. And it's not sad or fake or bitter at all. It's just pretty. “She doesn't mean those things the way they sound.”

“Then how the hell does she mean them?”

Kennedy shrugs a shoulder and tosses a rock of her own.

“She wants me to be happy. What she thinks happiness is. If she didn't care, she wouldn't say anything at all. She'd just ignore me. And that would be worse.”

Our eyes hold for a few seconds and I realize how much I've missed this girl. It's not manly to say—but it's really fucking true. The people I spend my time with, talk to every day—they're not real. They don't look at things the way she does.

They don't look at
me
the way she does. Even today, after all this time of not hanging out, we don't miss a beat. Because she knows me, beginning to end. All the pieces, good and bad, that make me who I am.

And no one else makes me feel the way I feel, right now, looking back at her. The ache in my chest, the clench of my stomach, the thrumming of my pulse.

“I'm surprised you're not having lunch with Cashmere's family,” Kennedy says.

That makes my gut clench for a whole different reason.

Cashmere's the hottest girl in school, and things started out wild between us. Fun. But in the year we've been dating . . . she's changed. She's become clingy and bossy at the same time. Miserably jealous and insecure. That's another reason Kennedy and I haven't really hung out lately—Cashmere's not too keen on her.

“We broke up.”

Kennedy's eyebrows rise. “Really? When? Why?”

And going by the happy spark in her eyes, it looks like the feeling is mutual.

“Yes. Yesterday. I'm not exactly sure why.”

“You're not sure?”

“There was a lot of screaming; it was hard to make out the actual words. It's somewhere between I'm suffocating her and I'm not giving her the attention she deserves.” Palms up, I shrug again.

Kennedy swallows as we walk along the water. “Wow. You, ah . . . you don't seem too broken up about it.”

“I'm not.”

A light breeze blows and she pushes a loose strand of hair from her cheek. “Do you think—”

“Kennedy!” Mitzy Randolph calls from up the hill to where we stand. “Kennedy!”

Her voice reminds me of Auntie Em calling for Dorothy as the twister was coming in.

She gestures for us to come up and reluctantly, we do.

Mitzy talks with her hands as she explains to us both. “We've all had the grandest idea! The Remington Hotel is just a few miles away—they have the most fabulous bar and casino—very exclusive. So we're all going to spend the night there and we'll take you back to school tomorrow. Doesn't that sound like fun?”

I smile at Mitzy and throw an arm around Kennedy's shoulders. This means solo time with Kennedy. “It sounds like a lot of fun, Mrs. Randolph.”

•  •  •

“Kennedy, are you awake?” I whisper.

I listen outside the door of the Randolphs' suite, but I don't hear any movement on the other side. Disappointment drops in my stomach. Because we spent the entire day with our parents, walking and talking and frigging talking some more. We had a late dinner in the “fabulous” restaurant downstairs, then our parents pretty much sent us to bed. While
they
hit the casino.

Ageism is a terrible thing.

But now it's just after midnight, and I have an awesome idea.

Which only works if Kennedy is still awake.

I knock again, louder this time. “Kennedy?”

The door opens halfway, and Kennedy peers up at me. Her glasses are off and her eyes—I never noticed before, but they're spectacular.

Thick, long lashes frame sparkling, golden-brown orbs. Soft and so . . . warm. The kind of eyes a guy would want to look down into while he's moving above her—the kind you'd hope she'll leave open while you kiss, deep and slow.

The rest of her? Well—I've always kind of noticed that.

Ever since she started wearing a training bra and I discovered the delicious sin of masturbation.

And I'd have to be blind not to notice her now. A thin-strapped silky pink tank top that's kind of draped across her chest. It doesn't show any cleavage, but if she moves just the right way, we're talking a prime view. The bottom half is matching pink shorts that are swishy around her thighs, showing off killer toned legs.

And I'm not the only one noticing things.

Kennedy's eyes slide across the chest of my sleeveless shirt and down the ridged muscles of my biceps. My skin is surfer-boy tan from outdoor workouts and afternoon practices. Then her eyes cut across to my waist, maybe picturing the six-pack beneath it, and then . . . lower. And I wonder if she notices how hard I'm reacting to watching her watch me.

The tinge of pink on her cheeks tells me she just might be.

Her gaze settles on my smiling face. She licks her lips and says, “Hey. What's up, Brent?”

I hold up the keys to my father's 1961 Ferrari 250 GT California. Also known as the
Ferris Bueller's Day Off
car.

Less than a hundred were made and, just like in the movie, it's my father's pride and joy. And it's parked downstairs right now.

I found out today that Kennedy doesn't have her driver's license. With her family's chauffeurs, her mother didn't see the point.

And I'm going to rectify that.

“Ready for your first driving lesson?”

•  •  •

“. . . then you ease your foot back at the same time.”

We're in the big empty parking lot of a darkened building a few miles from the hotel. Kennedy listens to my instructions intently, brow furrowed, adjusting her glasses. She seems excited, determined, and totally adorable.

“Got it?”

“Got it.” She nods.

And she goes for it.

There's a grinding sound as she moves the stick shift, and I mentally thank the clutch for his brave sacrifice. We start to move forward, bucking, inch by inch and I tell her, “Now gun it. Hit the gas.”

And then we're moving.

Kennedy's smile is huge and bright, like Christmas morning and the Fourth of July rolled into one.

The car gives a slight stutter as she shifts into second gear, but smooths back down after her foot is off the clutch. With one hand on the wheel, she grabs my arm with the other.

“I'm doing it, Brent!”

It's awesome, and I chuckle. “Yeah, you are.”

•  •  •

“You need a nickname. Kennedy is kind of a mouthful to say.”

We're parked at a picnic area high above the lights in the town below. It's still and quiet. The top of the car is open, but the sky feels like a dark canopy above us, dotted with countless bright stars.

We didn't crash into anything and the car is still running, so in my mind, Kennedy's driving lessons were a roaring success. She said she wasn't ready for the open road, but I'll get her there eventually. The look on her face when she really got the hang of shifting—it was pure elation and gratitude. Seeing that expression felt just like when I block an opposing team's goal—like something I was born to do again and again.

“My name is too long? Do you often have difficulty with big words?” she asks with a smartass smirk. “Maybe you should see someone about that.” Then she asks, “What's
your
nickname?”

“BC.”

She frowns, trying to figure it out. “Because your middle name is Charles?”

I shake my head and tell her with the straightest face, “Big Cock.”

Kennedy laughs. “Did you think of that all by yourself?”

“The guys on the team gave it to me. It's a lot to live up to—don't want to disappoint the younger classmen. But in the immortal words of Spider-Man,
with great power comes great responsibility
.”

“Uncle Ben, actually.”

“What?”

She tilts her head. “Uncle Ben said that, not Spider-Man. Remember?”

I do. But the fact that she remembers . . . is pure fucking awesome. It does things to me—deep, thoughtful, serious emotion type of things.

But I've never been the serious kind of guy, so I tease, “How about Randy? Randy Randolph. Can I call you that?”

Kennedy frowns. “Not if you expect me to answer.”

We talk more, about everything and nothing in particular. And somehow, even though it wasn't what I planned—or expected—my arm ends up around her shoulders, her head resting against my collarbone.

Slowly, I slide her glasses off and carefully fold them before placing them on the dashboard. Like it's the most natural thing in the world, I dip my head and press my lips against hers. They're achingly soft and warm. I trace her lips with my tongue, but they stay tightly closed, and I laugh against her mouth.

She pulls back. “What?”

I look into the gorgeous eyes of the girl I've known my whole life, and my only thought is, what the hell took me so long to do this?

My thumb slides slowly across her jaw. “Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

The last time we talked about it, sophomore year, she hadn't.

But she doesn't blush or recoil at the question. Her voice is low and kind of panting. “Of course I have. Why? Are you saying I'm bad?”

I don't know who the hell she's been kissing, but whoever it was—they must've been piss poor at it. This pleases me.

“Nope. But you're about to get even better.” I lean forward, brushing against her lips again. “Open your mouth for me, Kennedy.”

Then there's only kissing—head-turning, lip-sucking, tongue-sliding kind of kisses. Her taste makes me feel a little drunk. And the whisper of my name from her lips makes me feel a little crazy.

Clothes find their way to the floor of the car. And every moment is easy and natural, and so fucking right.

Afterward, we're pressed against each other in the same seat, boneless and spent. And I get why they make so many cheesy movie scenes that end just like this—because it just doesn't get more perfect than right here, right now.

Kennedy smiles up at me and I kiss her forehead, and together we watch the sun rise.

•  •  •

The next morning, my parents make me get up early—drop me back at school early—because my father has some meeting to get to back home. They leave a message for the Randolphs at the front desk. It sucks that I don't get to see Kennedy before we go, but I'm consoled by the thought that I'll see her at school.

Everything is going to be different now.

When I get to my room, I hop in the shower. My thoughts helplessly drift to last night. The feel of Kennedy's hands on me. The sounds she made—little moans and greedy whimpers.

Let's just say it's convenient that I'm in the shower.

I step out of the bathroom with a towel around my hips and water still trickling down between the grooves of my abs.

“Hey, baby.”

Cashmere is laid out on my bed—wearing my lacrosse jersey and nothing else. She's all hooded eyes, pouty lips, tan skin, and teased blond hair—ready for a
Playboy
photo shoot. There was a time my dick would've led me straight to her and I would've happily followed—all our problems solved.

But not anymore. I'm done letting my dick lead me around—it's time to start following my heart. And I know how corny that sounds, but I don't give a shit.

“What are you doing here?” I slip boxer briefs on under the towel—it just doesn't feel right to let her see me bare-assed anymore.

“Do I need a reason to visit my boyfriend?”

“Not your boyfriend anymore.”