Heat of the Moment (9 page)

This is definitely not that kind of neighborhood. This is the kind of neighborhood where everyone knows everyone else's business and everyone's worried about their property values. In fact, even now as I'm glancing around there's a woman across the street giving me the side eye. She's pretending to be watering her flowers, but she's not even looking where the spray is going.

I give her a friendly smile, and she gives me one back, but it can't hide her suspicion.

“Beckett!” I yell toward the front door. “Beckett, I think we can go now!”

He turns around and looks at me, putting his hand up to block the sun. “What?” he yells.

“I think we should go now! I think Quinn's all right!” I shouldn't have said that last part. About Quinn being all right. Now the neighbor woman's eyes are all wide, like I've insinuated Quinn could be half-naked and tied up or something.

“It's okay,” I say to her, hoping I sound and look responsible. I tug down my spandex shorts. “We're just visiting our friend.”

“Oh, that's nice,” the woman calls back. She doesn't look convinced.

I turn my gaze back to Beckett, who is now talking to some guy who's opened the door of the little turquoise house. Wow. The guy is seriously hot. He has messy dirty-blond hair and he's wearing black surfer shorts with no shirt. He steps out onto the porch, and his abs literally glint in the sunlight. His face doesn't look too happy, though. Probably because he can't figure out why some stranger has showed up at his house demanding to see Quinn.

“I just want to talk to her,” Beckett's saying. Then he points to me. “See? That's her best friend right there, Lyla.”

Oh, Jesus. Why did he have to get me involved? I don't even want to be here.

Now the hot surfer guy is staring at me. “You're Quinn's friend?” he yells across the street, looking confused.

“Yes!” Beckett says at the same time I say, “No!”

Beckett throws his hands up and gives me a
what the hell are you doing?
kind of look.

“I think she's okay,” I say to Beckett. I turn and look at the woman with the hose, giving her another reassuring smile.

“Bill!” she calls toward her house. “Bill, I think you should come out here. And maybe get Harvey Cooper on the phone. That Flax boy is getting up to something again.”

“No, no, no,” I say. “No one's getting up to anything.”

“Harvey Cooper is the president of the homeowners'
association,” the woman reports. “And he's not going to be too pleased about being called back here for the second time in a week.”

The second time in a week? Yikes. Well, even if Quinn's not in any danger, she better be careful about this alleged Flax boy. He sounds like trouble. He's probably always bringing tons of girls home and getting noise complaints. Someone that good-looking is definitely bad news.

I turn back to the house to call for Beckett again, but at that moment, Quinn emerges onto the porch. She's traded the outfit she was wearing last night for a pair of gray sweatpants and a navy-blue T-shirt that's about ten sizes too big for her. Probably that Flax boy's. Which means . . . wow. Did Quinn sleep with him? Well, if she didn't, they definitely did something. Her hair is all disheveled, and if I was closer, I bet I'd see that her makeup was a little smudged.

I peer at her, trying to figure out if she's been having sex all night.
Stop being so naive, Lyla
, I tell myself. Of course she's been having sex all night. She didn't just go home with some guy and end up in his clothes because they were studying together.

“Lyla?” Quinn yells once she sees me standing on the sidewalk. Her voice is a mixture of annoyance and confusion.

“Oh, hi,” I say lamely.

“What are you
doing
here?”

“Just, um . . .” I glance around, looking for an excuse
as to why I would be here at this time of day, at this exact house, that would have nothing to do with her.

“We came to check on you,” Beckett says. “Lyla, tell her we came to check on her!”

“Check on her for what?” the Flax boy asks. His tone is all dark, like he doesn't like anyone insinuating that maybe he's up to no good. Probably he gets up to no good on a regular basis, and so he's sick of people calling him on it.

“To make sure she was okay!” Beckett says. He turns to Quinn. “Quinn, are you okay?”

“Yes,” she says to Beckett. She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me. “I'm fine.”

She seems really upset.

“You seem upset,” I call to them from the end of the driveway. “We should probably go.”

“Are you sure you're okay?” Beckett asks Quinn again.

“She's
fine
,” the Flax boy says. “Now you want to tell me who the hell you are and what the hell you're doing here?”

“Jesus,” Beckett says. “Take a chill pill. We're friends of Quinn's. We just came to make sure she was okay. Which we already told you.”

“Quinn, are these people friends of yours?” the Flax boy asks her.

“No,” Quinn says, surprising everyone. Even the Flax boy looks a little surprised, like up until she said that, he thought he was making a big deal out of nothing.

“Bill!” the woman across the street yells. She drops the hose, and a river of water goes snaking down her grass. Those flowers are definitely going to be ruined now—she's going to end up drowning them if she keeps carrying on like that. “Bill, come quick! There's going to be a domestic disturbance!”

“No there's not,” I yell after her. I turn back to the driveway. “Beckett! Come on! She's fine! Let's go!”

Beckett shakes his head one more time at the Flax boy, like he can't believe how stupid he's being. Like the Flax boy should be happy that he took Quinn home to hook up and then had a bunch of strangers show up on his doorstep to question his motives and get the neighbors all riled up. Then he turns around and walks back toward me.

“That guy's an asshole,” he says as he walks down the driveway.

“Shh!” I say.

But it's too late. The Flax boy heard him. “Hey,” he calls after Beckett. “What'd you call me?”

Beckett turns around. “I called you an asshole,” he says.

The Flax boy's eyes darken. He's very sexy when he gets all smoldery like that. I'm sorry, but I can kind of see why Quinn would want to go home with him. I mean, if you had to pick a boy to have as your vacation hookup, this guy is exactly what you'd want.

I look at Quinn. She's standing on the porch, looking a little dazed. Is she really okay? I wonder. I give her a smile,
but she scowls at me and looks away. All righty then. She must be at least a little bit okay. I really doubt someone who was being held against their will and tortured would be so unfriendly, even to an ex–best friend.

Then her eyes suddenly widen. “Are those my shorts?” she calls.

“No,” I say hotly. “They're mine.” These shorts are just plain black shorts. She's not the only one who can wear plain black shorts. Everyone has a right to them. They're, like, in the public domain.

“What did you call me?” the Flax boy asks again, like it's so unbelievable he needs to hear it twice.

“I. Called. You. An. Asshole.” Beckett moves closer, and I reach out and grab his arm.

“Bill, the police, call the police!” the woman across the street screams.

“Come on,” I say to Beckett, “this isn't any of our business.”

“Get out of here,” the Flax boy says to us.

Beckett takes a step toward him, like he's going to completely disregard the fact that we're trespassing on someone else's property and that said person is pretty much threatening Beckett.

“Beckett!” I say. “Stop. Just stop.”

In the distance, I hear the sounds of a siren.

“That's the police!” the woman yells from across the street. “My husband has called the police! And as soon as
they get here, I'm going to fill out a report. I'm going to fill out a report and make sure that this neighborhood doesn't go the way of the ghetto!”

Wow. That is definitely not PC. I don't think you can really just walk around saying you don't want your neighborhood to go the way of the ghetto. I think you have to call bad neighborhoods “transitioning.” Although it definitely doesn't pack the same punch to say you don't want your neighborhood to end up “transitioning.”

“Beckett,” I say, “please, come on.”

He turns around and looks at me, and when he sees my face, it must snap him out of it. “The police are going to come and arrest you!” I yell, just to drive the point home. “Do you want to spend the day in
jail
?”

“Fine,” he says, “come on.” He starts to head down the driveway, but he's walking backward, still staring the Flax boy down. The Flax boy is staring him down, too. I have the feeling that if Quinn and I (and the neighbor woman) weren't here, then they'd probably have started fighting. How stupid. Boys and their dumb hormones. Who cares if we're here looking for Quinn? Why do they have to make a big deal about it and get all up in each other's faces? This isn't medieval times. Nothing has to be settled with force.

The sirens are getting louder. Can you imagine if I got arrested during my senior trip? I'll end up at some police station and have to get a mug shot taken. Actually, I don't
know if they do mug shots if you're under eighteen. I don't even know if they arrest you if you're under eighteen. They might just send you off to juvenile hall. Not like that would be better—could you imagine my mom getting a phone call saying I was being sent to juvie? Talk about her anxiety kicking into high gear.

The sirens are getting louder and my heart is pounding and I can't take it anymore.

I grab Beckett's sleeve and yell, “Run!”

“ARE THEY COMING?” BECKETT ASKS A FEW
blocks later.

We're running at top speed and he's not even out of breath. Me, on the other hand—my legs are on fire and my chest feels like it's going to explode. I glance behind me. “I don't know,” I say. “I don't see anyone.” I can't hear the sirens anymore either. But they could have cut them off to lull us into a false sense of security.

“Should we come up with a cover story?” Beckett asks.

I look at him in admiration. “Good idea,” I huff. I hope he's going to take the lead with that, since I don't think there's any way I'm going to be able to come up with a good story. I'm not that good at fiction. I wrote the worst stories for creative writing. Luckily, it was an elective and didn't really count for anything. I got to take it pass/fail. Plus, it's not like I find myself in these situations all the time. I'll bet
anything Beckett is the one who's been in trouble with the cops a bunch. Probably that's why he and that Flax boy got into it. Troublemakers don't like when they come in to contact with other troublemakers. It becomes explosive.

But if Beckett's good at coming up with cover stories, he's not offering one.

“So?” I prompt.

“Maybe we should tell them we got an anonymous call that Quinn was being held against her will.”

“That . . . doesn't . . . make . . . any . . . sense,” I huff. For someone who's supposed to have a lot of practice at this, he's actually very bad at it. I can't take it anymore. I stop running and bend over and grab my knees while I catch my breath.

“Come on,” Beckett says, jogging in place. “Hurry up! They're coming! The police are coming! We're going to end up in the clink!”

My anxiety skyrockets, then immediately comes crashing down when I get a look at his face. He looks kind of like he's laughing. Or about to. And then I get it. He's making fun of me.

“You're making fun of me,” I say, stunned.

“No, no, I'm not. I really do think we should go running away from a police car that probably wasn't even coming for us.”

I stare at him incredulously for a second, then turn and start walking. “You're a jerk,” I say.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, coming after me. “Relax.”

“I will not relax!” I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt down over my fingers and try to get a look at the street signs without Beckett noticing. I want to make sure I'm going the right way without actually letting him know that I'm looking to see if I'm going the right way. “You pulled me out of bed at seven in the morning because you told me Quinn was being led to a drug den.”

“First of all, it was nine o'clock, and second of all, I said nothing about a drug den.”

“Then,” I say, starting to get going, “you almost got into a fight with a guy for no reason. Quinn wasn't in trouble; she was doing something totally normal!”

“Hooking up with that loser is definitely not normal.”

“Then
you got the police called on us and made fun of me when I showed the least bit of concern.”

“True, if the least bit of concern is you freaking out and screaming at me to run.”

“That's not—I don't—” I'm confused now. Should I be mad at him or not? We're getting close to the main part of town, the drag of Siesta Key, and I'm starting to feel a little silly. We weren't going to get hauled away to jail in the middle of the day. If anything, the police probably would have been questioning the guy Quinn was with, wondering why he had a girl with him and why we were concerned.

“Ooh, run, run, we're going to end up in the clink!”
Beckett says in a high-pitched voice, mocking me.

A couple of girls in bikinis walking by look at him and giggle, and I can't help but laugh, too. He looks ridiculous.

“I'm not the one who said anything about the clink.” The air is starting to get a little warmer now, and I pull a hair tie off my wrist and gather my hair into a ponytail. “You said that.”

“Yeah, well, I was just getting into the spirit of things.” He kicks at a pebble that's on the ground.

“Well, good job.”

He smiles at me. “Look, I'm sorry I came to your room like that and got you all worked up. I really just wanted to make sure Quinn was okay. But I guess I overreacted.”

“Nah, it's fine,” I say. “It was nice of you to look out for her.”

He gives me a smile, and I feel like it's genuine. I remember last night, sitting with him outside his hotel room, the casual way he took my wrist and ran his fingers over my skin. I resist the urge to shiver. I also resist the wave of guilt that rises up inside of me when I think about letting him do something like that when I have a boyfriend.

Relax,
I tell myself.
You couldn't have stopped it
. I mean, what would I have said? Beckett, don't ask me about my bracelet? I would have sounded like a crazy person.

“Let me make it up to you,” Beckett says now.

“How?”

“With the one thing no one can resist.”

“And what's that?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer. A flash of us in bed together, our legs tangled under the sheets, goes through my head.

Beckett grins and points at a little hut I never noticed before, even though it's on the main drag and I must have walked by it at least four times yesterday. It's a building really, or a stand, with a window in front where they serve people. Almost like an ice-cream truck, but they're not serving ice cream.

“Doughnuts,” Beckett says. “The best ones, like, ever.”

“How would you know?”

“What do you think I've been eating since I've been here?” He gives me a
duh
look, like of course he's been here eating doughnuts the whole time. It's so . . . I don't know,
normal
that it almost makes me a little uncomfortable. I don't like thinking of Beckett as a normal person with food preferences and dietary habits. It makes him seem too real, and as long as I keep thinking of him as a caricature, the better off I'll be. Up until now Beckett has been the hot guy who is fun to look at but is seriously trouble, who I would never jeopardize my relationship for. And that's how I want him to stay.

I glance at my watch: 10:07. I'm betting Derrick won't be awake until at least eleven, and honestly, what's the harm in a little doughnut?

“Sure,” I say as my stomach rumbles in anticipation.

Beckett orders me a glazed without asking what I want, promising me it will be the best doughnut I've ever had. We get plastic cups full of freshly squeezed orange juice and wrap our warm doughnuts in napkins so we can eat them while we walk back to the hotel. The tourists are already out in full force, streaming toward the beach in wide lines, holding folding chairs and coolers and brightly colored towels. Everyone has the happy look of people who are on vacation.

When we reach the parking lot that leads to the beach, Beckett raises an eyebrow at me, asking if I want to continue. I nod, and we keep walking, our feet sliding into the cool white sand, so different from the beaches back home, where the sand is hot and sort of grainy.

“I still can't believe the sand is so cool,” I say.

“They call it sugar sand,” Beckett says.

I raise my eyebrows in surprise.

“What?” he says defensively when he sees the look I'm giving him. “I know things.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” I can hear the flirting tone in my voice, and I blush and look back down at the sand, hoping he doesn't think I was flirting with him. Which I wasn't. I don't flirt with guys. Except Derrick. Not that we've been flirting much lately. Once you're in a relationship with someone, a lot of the flirting kind of stops.

“Lots of things. Like how Virginia is the state with the
highest population of elm trees and how the biggest ball of yarn is in Illinois.”

“Yeah, well, did you know that the oldest railroad is in Pennsylvania? And that the first twenty-four-hour diner was in Minnesota?” I shoot back.

“Really?”

“No,” I admit. “I just made all that up.”

He grins. “Me too.”

I reach out and push him playfully. “Jerk.”

He doubles over, pretending that I hurt him. “Ooh,” he says. “Remind me not to mess with you, McAfee. You're stronger than you look.”

We are definitely flirting. Definitely. A weird feeling flows through my body, excitement mixed with fear mixed with anticipation. And guilt. I can't ignore the guilt. It's there, under the surface, threatening to take over.

“Wanna walk down by the water?” Beckett asks.

I want to. But I know I shouldn't. I should head back to the hotel, I should wake Derrick up, I should see what he wants to do today. I should start planning for the perfect day to go along with the perfect night.

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

The email pops into my head. I don't know why. They've finally stopped coming. I'm supposed to be free of them. I don't want to think about the email. But I am. And isn't
part of learning to trust learning to trust yourself?

“Sure,” I say. “Let's walk by the water.”

The water is cold, but after a few minutes, my feet get used to it. The morning is like something out of a movie or a painting—birds swoop and swish across the sky, dipping their beaks into the water to hunt for their breakfast. It's early enough that the college kids aren't awake yet, and the beach is filled mostly with families and older couples. A little girl in a ruffled pink bathing suit toddles by and plops herself down, sticking a shovel into the wet sand and scooping it into a bright-yellow pail.

Beckett and I don't say anything for a few moments. We just keep walking, eating our doughnuts and drinking our orange juice.

“So what's the deal with you and Derrick?” Beckett asks once we hit a spot on the beach that's a little less crowded. He breaks off a piece of his doughnut and pops it in his mouth.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, is it serious?”

“Of course. We've been together for two years.”

“So what are your problems about?”

“We don't have any problems!” I say, shocked.

“Then why were you spending all day yesterday looking for him?”

“I wasn't. He was just mad because I lied to him about how I got to the airport.”

“You told him your mom took you?”

I nod and take a small sip of my orange juice. Something about this feels wrong—talking about Derrick with Beckett. It feels like a betrayal. I heard once that if you feel weird about what you're doing in your relationship, you should imagine how you'd feel if your boyfriend were doing it—and if you'd be mad at him, then it's wrong. For example, I should think about Derrick being out here with another girl, buying her doughnuts and walking on the beach with her while I'm back at the hotel, sleeping in our bed. It fills me with fury just thinking about it. I would be pissed. I would never forgive him.

“Then why are you here with me now?” Beckett asks.

I think about it. “Because I want to be.” It's a simple answer, but it's the truth.

“And do you always do everything you want?”

“Not really.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize I'm saying them.

“Like what?”

“This conversation is stupid.”

“Why? Because it's getting too close to talking about something real?”

The water's starting to feel cold again, and I take a few steps away from it, wriggling my toes in the sand. “Oh, now you want to talk about something real?” I ask.

“Why wouldn't I?”

We're coming up to the main part of the beach now, and he heads over to a trash can and throws away his empty orange juice cup.

“You don't seem like the kind of guy who's into having real talks.”

“Really? I'm so into real talks. I'm the realest real, like, ever.”

“Okay, fine,” I say as we keep walking. “Tell me about why you're such a player.”

“Excuse me?”

“Why you're always with a different girl,” I say.

He looks shocked that I would insinuate such a thing.

“Oh, please,” I say. “I've seen you in the halls at school.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“That's what I thought,” I say, sighing. “The realest real talker ever. Riiiighht.”

“Okay, fine,” he says. He takes in a deep breath and thinks about it. “I don't know,” he says finally. “I guess I've never really thought about it.”

“So think about it.”

“I guess it's just . . . easier.”

“Easier?”

“Yeah. As long as I don't get too close to someone, there are no expectations.”

“What's wrong with expectations?”

He shrugs. “I get enough of that at home.”

“Your parents put a lot of expectations on you?”

He nods.

“What sort?”

“Everything. School, sports, whatever. It's nice to have relationships where no one cares about what you're doing.”

I roll my eyes. “They care about what you're doing, Beckett. You just leave before they can give you crap about it.”

He opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it. “Yeah,” he says, “you're probably right.” He at least has the decency to look a little disturbed by this revelation. “So I told you something,” he says. “Now you have to tell me something.”

“Like?” Please don't ask me about Derrick, please don't ask me about Derrick.

Beckett reaches out and tweaks my bracelet. “This,” he says.

“I told you, my dad gave it to me.”

“And now he's gone.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you're still wearing it?”

I swallow. “Yes.”