Heat of the Moment (13 page)

“But I don't have a hypothetical girlfriend. I have you.”

“Well, the girlfriend you're going to have after me.”

He blanches. “Why would I have a girlfriend after you?” His eyes meet mine across the table, the light from the flickering cream-colored votive candles illuminating the sincerity on his face. Does he mean he might marry me? He wants to marry me! He would be such a good husband. And a dad, too. I'll bet he'd be super involved in our kids' lives.

And I would look so good in a mermaid-style wedding dress. I've always wanted one of those. With a separate dress
for the reception, of course. No one can dance in a mermaid-style wedding dress. Not that I know how to dance. Good thing we're going to a club. Maybe I can pick up some moves.

The waiter comes over with our food.

Wow.

That was really fast.

I take a bite of mashed potatoes. Delicious.

“Good?” Derrick asks, smiling.

“Perfect.”

I don't think I should tell him. I mean, it's one thing to cheat on your high school boyfriend. It's quite another to cheat on your future husband.

We stay at dinner for another hour, ordering dessert and laughing and reminiscing. Things have completely and totally relaxed between us. There's no tension in my body, and there's no tension between us from yesterday.

We're just . . . happy.

As we walk to the club, I inhale the warm night air and the scent of the ocean. I don't know what I was thinking, letting Beckett kiss me like that. Did I even let him? It's starting to feel very foggy now. The bouncer in front of the club doesn't ID us, which I think is cool until I realize it's not a twenty-one-and-over club. Everyone who's twenty-one gets a green wristband on their wrist so the bartender knows
they can drink. But the bouncer doesn't even ask if we want one. I must look young.

No matter.

I don't need booze tonight.

I'm drunk on love.

The inside of the club is exactly how I pictured it. Red leather couches line the perimeter, and there are floating tables hooked to the walls in between in each one. Matching leather ottomans are scattered around the room at random intervals, giving the club a casual but sophisticated feel. It's actually not that crowded, but that's probably because it's still early. Nothing really gets going around here until eleven, and it's only ten.

“Let's sit over there,” Derrick says, pointing to a booth in the corner. As soon as we sit down, he leans into me. “I missed you yesterday,” he breathes. “I can't wait to be with you later.”

“I can't wait either,” I say.

When the cocktail waitress comes around, Derrick orders me another Shirley Temple and himself another Coke.

“You wanna dance?” he asks.

“Maybe in a few minutes,” I say, not quite ready to get out there yet. I watch as a girl wearing a lime-green belly shirt grinds against a girl in black leather shorts. The Kesha remix that's pounding through the club seems like it was
made for them. Hopefully the really good dancers get here early, and then by the time everyone else shows up, everyone will be on equal footing. Plus, as people start getting drunker I'm sure their dance skills are going to start deteriorating. That will be my excuse if I'm a really bad dancer. I'll just pretend I've been drinking.

After a while, the club starts to get busier and a little hotter, so I pull off the black shrug I'm wearing.

“Yum,” Derrick says, kissing my bare shoulder.

“Mmm,” I breathe, trying to ignore the fact that he said the word “yum.” Yum is not sexy. Yum is what you say when you eat an ice cream. I am not an ice cream.

Derrick's hand is on my bare leg, and it's inching up ever so slowly, moving higher and higher until finally it's pushing up the bottom of my skirt. I sigh and force myself to relax until my body starts to respond to his touch. I'm falling into that kind of woozy state where I can feel the music pulsing through me and I'm hot and sleepy and semi–turned on and sort of zoning out.

And that's when Beckett walks into the club, ruining everything.

HE'S WEARING BAGGY JEANS AND A BLACK
T-shirt and black shoes that look like the kind of thing you should be wearing to a business meeting. They're shiny and new, and they contrast with the casualness of his outfit, even though his T-shirt looks totally expensive. He oozes confidence, and he stands there surveying the room like he's waiting for people to notice him. Actually, that's not true. People just
are
noticing him. A couple of girls who are sitting next to us sit up and whisper to each other. Probably about how hot he is.

My skin starts to feel itchy and hot. Why is he here? Why did he have to come to
this
club on
this
night? Why is Siesta Key so damn small? Why couldn't we have had our senior trip at Disney World or something? That place is huge and has, like, five million different parks. I could definitely have avoided him there.

I pull back from Derrick so I can ask him if he wants to get out of here and go back to the hotel. I'm ready to leave. Yes, we haven't danced yet, but who cares? Dancing is overrated, anyway.

But before I can say anything, Derrick says, “I didn't know Beckett and Katie were back together.”

It's so unexpected that I don't register it at first. Then I look back over toward the door.

And there they are.

Beckett.

And Katie Wells.

Together.

She's wearing one of those flapper dresses, the kind that has a top that fits your body like a tight sleeve, then flares out and ends in fringe at the bottom. She has the exact type of body that kind of dress looks good on—tall and slender and willowy. Her dress is white, and every time the strobe lights pass over her, they illuminate the dress, broadcasting to the world just how pretty she is.

“I don't think they're together,” I say.

“They're holding hands,” Derrick points out.

I look. They are. They're holding hands.

Seething rage fills my body. How dare he hold her hand after kissing me this morning? I pay no mind to the fact that I have a boyfriend, or that I'm planning on having sex with him tonight. Beckett
kissed me
this morning. He shouldn't be
here with Katie, or anyone. What a jackass.

I feel like I'm going to cry, which makes no sense. I have no right to be upset. I know that, which almost makes it worse. I'm not only upset and sad, but I'm mad at myself for being upset and sad.

I need to get out of here.

I turn back to Derrick to tell him I want to leave at the same time he says to me, “You wanna dance?”

And then I realize I can't leave. If I ask to leave now, it's going to make it seem like I want to leave because Beckett's here. And if I make it seem like I want to leave because Beckett's here, it's going to be obvious that Beckett has some kind of effect on me.

“I don't know,” I hedge. ‘“I'm getting tired.”

“Oh, come on,” he says. “I'll lead.” What is wrong with him? Shouldn't he be hustling me out of here so that he can take me back to our hotel room and have his way with me? Actually, now that I think about it, he's been stalling all night. Why? Is there something wrong with me? Did Derrick change his mind? Does he not want to have sex with me after all?

“You don't know how to lead,” I say crankily.

“Sure I do.”

“How?”

“Let me show you.”

I hesitate. “Okay,” I say finally, even though dancing is
the last thing I want to do. I'm in a horrible mood. Hasn't Beckett ruined enough of my vacation? Making me ride on a motorcycle with him? I could have been killed. Kissing me and almost ruining my relationship? Causing me to get into a fight with Quinn? I mean, isn't enough enough?

Derrick takes my hand and pulls me onto the dance floor. As soon as we get out there, the DJ turns the strobe lights to a slow, lazy rhythm, and a song starts playing that I've never heard before. It has a slow, melodic beat. Derrick wraps his hands around my waist and I rest my head against his shoulder. Since it's such a slow song, I don't really have to do much. I just lean into Derrick's body and sway when he sways. I guess it might be true that he knows how to lead. Well. If leading means just dragging me across the dance floor, which honestly is fine with me.

Derrick turns me around, and I lock eyes with Beckett.

He's sitting near the wall, his legs hanging over the side of the leather couch, his shoulders kind of slouched, like he's not sure yet if he's committed to staying here.

His eyes burn into mine, and a searing want floods my body.

I close my eyes tight. I don't want to see Beckett. Not now.

I pull back from Derrick. “Are you ready to go?” I whisper.

“What?” he asks. He's leaning in so close to me that I can smell the Coke on his breath.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Just a couple more songs,” he says. “I don't want to rush this night.”

What is he talking about? What guy doesn't want to rush the night he's going to have sex? Aren't guys always trying to rush things? Especially now that it's just hours away. Doesn't he realize that he could take me back to his room right now and have his way with me?

We dance a few more songs. During the fast ones I do my best to bop along to the music. There are so many people on the dance floor now that they're blocking my view of where Beckett is sitting. And after a little bit, I forget he's even there. Well. Sort of. At least enough so that I can calm down a little.

“Are you ready now?” I ask Derrick about twenty minutes later. “I really want to go, I think.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

This time, Derrick doesn't try to fight it. He nods.

“I'm going to run to the bathroom,” I say.

“Okay,” Derrick says. “I'll go and pay the tab and grab your sweater.”

“Thanks.” I squeeze his hand and then head to the ladies' room.

Of course there's a line.

I stand in it, gathering my hair up into a sweaty ponytail
and pushing it up off my neck. The air is cooler back here, and it feels good.

When I finally get into the bathroom, Katie Wells is there, standing in front of the mirror, reapplying her lipstick. Her cheeks look dewy and glowing, the kind of glow you see on Jennifer Lopez or Beyoncé. It's either natural or she has tons of money to spend on cosmetics. And flapper dresses.

I ignore her and head into one of the stalls. I take my time even though there's a line, hoping that by the time I come out, she'll be gone.

But she's not. She's still standing in front of the long mirror that's mounted over the sinks, her makeup spread out on the shelf that's jutting out from the wall. It's like she thinks the space is just for her. Whatever.

I take a deep breath and head to the sink to wash my hands.

When I'm done, I look around, but Katie's blocking the only paper towel dispenser. There are some hand dryers on the other side of the bathroom, but they're both being used.

I think about just leaving the bathroom, but then where am I going to dry my hands? On my dress? No, thank you.

The same rage I felt when Beckett walked into the club bubbles up inside me. Who does she think she is, taking up the whole bathroom like that? And in front of the towel dispenser on top of it? What if someone came in and they had
to clean up their baby and they needed towels to do it?

Not that someone would bring a baby to a club, but still. It just really speaks to the way she has no regard for how people are feeling. She's so selfish. She's always been selfish. I vaguely remember sophomore year her asking if she could have extra time on her English assignment because her family was going on a cruise. Can you imagine? Like she couldn't work on the boat? It wasn't even that big of an assignment.

She's probably used to getting things handed to her because she's blond and has dewy cheeks. Well. Not anymore.

“Excuse me,” I say to her, all sickly sweet. “I need to get a paper towel for my hands.”

She's leaning over the sink toward the mirror, applying eyeliner to her lower lid. She meets my gaze in the mirror and then moves, like, two inches over to the side, giving me just enough room to get my paper towel.

I take my time drying my hands, then throw the towel away and start to head out of the bathroom. I'm actually kind of disappointed. Adrenaline was coursing through my body—I was ready for her to start something with me. Which is ridiculous. Why would Katie even know anything about me?

And then she calls my name. “Lyla.”

I turn. She's not looking at me. She's still lining her eyes.
She's putting way too much of that stuff on. If it's not waterproof, she's going to be in a lot of trouble if it rains. God, I hope it rains. She'd probably look adorable, though, and five different guys would run to get her an umbrella.

“I don't want things to be weird,” she says. “But I want to let you know that if you kiss Beckett again, I'm going to be really upset.”

I'm not sure if it's my imagination, but suddenly the bathroom seems quieter and emptier.

“I didn't kiss Beckett,” I say.

“You did,” she says. “On the beach. He told me.”

I'm so shocked that for a moment, I can't speak. “No, I didn't. He kissed me.”

“Not according to him.”

“Well, he's lying.”

“Beckett doesn't lie,” she says. “He doesn't need to. That's not his style.”

“Well, I don't care if it's his
style
or not—he's lying. He kissed me.”

“Lyla, give it up. He's not interested in you. You have Derrick. I have Beckett. That's how it's supposed to be.” She says the last part with such finality that it's hard not to believe her. It makes sense. Beckett is cool and gorgeous, and she's cool and gorgeous.

My head is spinning and my chest feels tight.

I turn around and run out of the bathroom.

And that's when the tears come.

I must be completely out of it, because when I leave the bathroom, I end up going the wrong way down the hall. When I get to the end of it, there's a side door marked
EXIT
, so I push it open, and suddenly I'm on a side street between the club and the building next to it.

I take deep breaths and try to stop crying.

What is wrong with me? Why am I getting so upset about a guy I hardly know? Why am I getting so worked up over some jerk who isn't even a thing? Am I really that insecure? I know I'm not. Am I?

My phone starts vibrating.

Derrick. I can't go back into the club. I can't risk seeing Beckett or Katie again. Derrick is going to have to come back here and meet me. He'll wrap me in his arms and take me back to our hotel room. Maybe we'll order in room service strawberries and he'll feed them to me before we get into the Jacuzzi.

But it's not Derrick on my phone.

It's an email alert.

Before graduation, I will . . .
learn to trust
.

Why is that email coming
now
? It was scheduled to come
all day
yesterday
, not today. Before I can stop myself, all the anger and frustration of the last forty-eight hours takes over my body, and I throw my phone onto the ground as hard as I can. The screen shatters into a million pieces.

“Oh!” I exclaim, staring at the shards of glass littering the pavement. “Oh no!” I bend down and turn over my ruined phone. A tiny part of the screen has shattered, and the rest has turned into a web of broken glass. I start to sob, big wracking sobs that threaten to take over my body.

After a moment, I feel a hand on my back. I turn around, expecting to see Derrick. But it's not Derrick. It's Beckett. I want to yell at him for bringing Katie here, for telling her that I kissed him. But suddenly, I don't have the energy.

“I broke my phone,” I say dumbly.

“I know,” he says. “I saw you smash it.” He leans down next to me and surveys the damage. “Definitely wrecked.”

I look down at my phone, and my eyes fill with a fresh batch of tears.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Beckett says. “No use crying over a broken phone.”

“It was the only phone I had,” I say. “It had all my pictures on it.”

“You'll still be able to save them. Just because the screen is wrecked doesn't mean you can't still plug it in and download everything to your computer.”

“Maybe,” I say, even though I don't believe it. I can't stop
staring at my phone. It's somehow symbolic of this trip. It started off so shiny and exciting, and now it's just lying on the pavement, smashed into a million pieces. Anger bubbles up inside me again, the same anger that made me throw my phone onto the ground. I get a tiny burst of energy. “Leave me alone,” I say, and try to stand up. I stumble, but make it to my feet.

“You're bleeding,” Beckett says.

I look down. There are two small cuts on my pinkie toe, and a deeper one on my ankle. “I don't care.” I start to walk away. I need to get away from him. Every time I'm close to him something bad happens. And I'm done with it. I need him to leave me alone. I need to stay far, far away from him. He's an asshole, and I don't even want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset.

“You should get those cuts cleaned out,” Beckett says. He grabs the crook of my elbow. “You need help walking.”

“No, I don't. It's okay, really. They don't hurt or anything.” But my resolve is fading. My cuts are actually throbbing now, and my face is starting to feel all tingly and warm, like I might pass out.

“You should still get them cleaned out.” He leads me over to the sidewalk and sits me down on the curb. “I'll be right back,” he says. “Are you okay here for minute?”

I nod and look at the cuts on my leg. The ones on my toe aren't that deep, but the one on my ankle is dripping blood.