Callie Vernon reluctantly pushed Easy Walsh’s bare arm away from her and sat up, grabbing her new Stella McCartney jeans from the rumpled pile on the stable floor where all of their clothes had ended up an hour ago. They were in a section of the Waverly riding stables that no longer held horses, where no one ever came. Of course, though the horses were no longer around, their smell lingered. But it was better than the oppressive smell of smoke that hung like a cloak over the campus.
“No, not yet …” Easy pulled at the legs of the jeans to keep Callie from tugging them on. She giggled and danced out of his reach. The brown canvas horse blanket they’d been lying on—it was clean, Easy had promised—was scratchy beneath her bare feet, although she hadn’t even noticed when it was touching the rest of her naked skin. Her mind, apparently, had been elsewhere.
She stared down at Easy’s bare chest, at the birthmark below his rib cage, at the waistband of his charcoal gray Calvin Klein boxers. His body was always toned, despite the fact that he never went to the gym, and he always had defined ab muscles from riding his horse, Credo. He was so effortlessly
gorgeous
. And once more, he was all hers, every delicious inch of him.
“We should really get a nicer blanket out here.” She stuck her bare, skinny arms through the spaghetti straps of her pale pink Cosabella camisole and shook her wavy strawberry blond hair out of her eyes.
“What, stiff canvas doesn’t turn you on?” Easy drawled in his slight Kentucky accent. He grabbed Callie’s folded cream-colored Ralph Lauren peacoat off the stable floor, wedging it under his head like a pillow with an easy grin. She knelt down and tried to pull it out from under his head. She didn’t mind getting a little hay in her hair, but she wouldn’t stand for total wardrobe abuse. It was already a concession that she wasn’t wearing heels. But before she could get the coat out from under his head, he wrapped a powerful hand around her waist and tugged her back on top of him.
“You are such a pain,” she said lovingly. She stared down into his gorgeous midnight blue eyes and plucked a piece of hay from one of his unruly brown curls. His lips were red and chapped from kissing. So were hers, and it felt glorious. “And no, I’m not in love with scratchy horse blankets.”
He placed his hand on her lower back, on top of her strawberry-shaped birthmark. He rested his fingers easily under the waist-band of her jeans. “You’re like the princess and the pea.”
She didn’t know about the pea part, but she definitely felt like a princess. The Waverly riding stables could have been a luxury suite at the Ritz-Carlton Atlanta, her governor mother’s hotel of choice, for all she cared. The stables were cozy and private—and that was all they needed. Easy had wanted to head up to the bluffs so that they could look out over the Hudson, but they’d abandoned that idea when they spotted the cross-country team running in that direction. Nothing like a team of skinny runner geeks with stopwatches to ruin a romantic, clothing-free afternoon.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, lifting his head to nibble on her left earlobe. His voice was gentle and sweet. Everything about Easy was familiar. Sometimes he even reminded her of things that had nothing to do with him, like the sweet tea she’d loved as a kid. They didn’t have it in the Northeast, and it was one of the only things she missed about the South.
She hadn’t been thinking about anything besides him, but now that he’d brought it up, her mind was flooded with the things she probably
should
be thinking about. Like the fact that she’d just bailed on Tinsley and her plan to get Jenny kicked out of Waverly. She’d meant what she’d said on the phone—Tinsley would probably be better off without her. That girl could lie her way through anything, and Callie’s nervous fidgeting would only make them seem suspicious.
“I was just thinking … about last night.” They’d lost their virginity together, and it had been everything she’d ever hoped it would be, with the one person she’d hoped it would be with. They’d remember it for the rest of their lives. She’d even kept a piece of straw from the barn and put it in her top drawer, so that she’d forever have a memento from their night together. Now that the barn itself was gone, she was glad she’d kept it, and she sort of liked the idea that she had in her possession the only remnant of the place where they’d lost their virginity. She kissed Easy on the cheek and he smiled his half-cocky, half-abashed smile. God, she’d missed that smile. And his smell, like coffee and Marlboro Reds, horses and Ivory soap, and arty paint smells she couldn’t really identify. And his knobby knuckles. It was all back now. And all of it was hers.
“Listen.” Easy reached up and gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind Callie’s ear. He kissed one of the freckles on her neck before leaning back and looking her in the eye. “When I went to the dining hall to get the bagels, I overheard people saying that we might be suspects. Some people think we started the fire.” His forehead was creased with worry.
“It’s Jenny. She’s spreading that rumor everywhere.” Callie’s face flushed with anger when she thought of the way Jenny had gone off on her last night in their room, accusing her not only of being a horrible friend but of being an irresponsible arsonist. Of course Jenny was just furious about Easy dumping her and was dying for a way to get back at Callie. Not only that, she was just sure Jenny herself had started the fire, out of rage and jealousy. She deserved to get kicked out. And then Callie would have a single. She could rig up a rope ladder and sneak Easy in every night.
“Come on.” Easy picked at a brown splotch—paint? something horsey and disgusting?—on his jeans. “That doesn’t really … sound like Jenny.” His voice was low and soft, as if he were trying to tiptoe around her.
Callie narrowed her hazel eyes, glowering at him. Of course
he
was a Jenny expert. He’d hooked up with her for two fucking weeks and now he knew everything about her? Her back stiffened. She didn’t want to have this conversation right now. She didn’t want to spend one second thinking about Easy and Jenny. At least Jenny would be out of the picture soon, if Tinsley’s meeting with the dean went as planned. If it didn’t, there would be plenty of time to remedy the situation, and then she’d never have to think about Jenny again.
“I feel like I owe you a better explanation for what happened with Jenny. Or a better apology. Or something …” He trailed off, rubbing his temples with his calloused thumbs. “I mean, there were all these things going on and I just couldn’t—”
Callie planted a long, soft kiss on his chapped lips, hoping that would shut him up.
Easy kissed her back, then pulled away slowly. Callie’s milky white skin had turned a delicate shade of pink, and he knew that no matter how cool she tried to play it, she was still upset about Jenny. Of course it was a sensitive subject for Callie—it had probably killed her to see him with Jenny, and so it was natural that she’d be angry. But still … Jenny didn’t deserve to be blamed for the mess he’d made with Callie. “Don’t you think we should, uh, talk about it?” He sat up on the blanket and pulled her up with him, pulling her fluffy white coat out from under his head.
“Shhh.” Callie put her finger over his lips, then replaced it with her own mouth. The sun had crawled high into the sky, and it cast long shadows all over the stable floor. “We’re together now, and that’s all that matters.”
Easy opened his mouth to speak but she silenced him with a long, slow kiss. Callie was right. They were together again, and this time nothing was going to change the way he felt about her.
Brandon Buchanan lay on his Ralph Lauren bedspread with his squash-calloused hands folded beneath his head.
Mr. Open is closed.
He still couldn’t believe that for once in his life, he’d been able to say something that actually sounded like a line from a movie. He was always coming up with good comebacks after the fact, but finally, he’d nailed it. There was something transcendent about the moment. He’d let Elizabeth Jacobs, the hot St. Lucius girl he’d hoped to make his girlfriend, know that if she insisted on keeping her relationships “open”—meaning she still got to flirt and hook up with whoever she wanted, even in front of Brandon—certain Men of Quality wouldn’t be available for her anymore. She’d have to settle for a lifetime of guys like Brian Atherton. Atherton. That fucker.
A soft knock interrupted his self-congratulatory meditation. Maybe it was Elizabeth, there to tell him how sorry she was. That if he wouldn’t take her back, she was going to join a convent and forsake all the Athertons of the world and him, forever, or something equally film-like and romantic.
He coughed and attempted a steady, manly voice. “Come in.”
But instead of Elizabeth’s dirty-blond head, the bearded face of Pierre Hausler, the Canadian dorm supervisor, appeared in the doorway. House, as everyone called him, was one of those Waverly alums who’d arrived as a teenager and then had never left—or, if he had, it had only been long enough to get a college degree. He supervised the dorm, assistant coached the girls’ softball team, and taught freshman earth science and recorder. He also said, “Eh?”
“Bad time, eh?” House asked, pausing in the doorway. Despite his nickname, he was a slim guy and looked a bit like Johnny Knoxville with facial hair. He also happened to be pretty cool, never harassing them too much about lights-out.
“Bad time, eh?”
was his signature hello.
“Nah.” Brandon sat up, running a hand through his short, wavy dark gold hair. “What’s up?”
House pushed the door open farther, revealing a skinny kid Brandon had never seen before. He had spiky light brown hair that looked like it had never seen a comb in its life, and he was holding an army green L.L.Bean sleeping bag with the initials
SRT
embroidered in orange at the top. He wasn’t all that much bigger than Brandon’s half brothers, Zach and Luke, who were eleven and still thought Super Soakers were the coolest things in the world. They especially liked to torture Brandon’s Labrador—who, incidentally, was also named Elizabeth. Brandon briefly wondered if, from now on, every time he called his dog, he’d be reminded of his experience with open-minded women.
House stuck a thumb toward the kid. “This is Sam Tri … Trigonis.” House was notoriously bad with names, which was especially problematic for a dorm adviser—he often referred to his advisees by their room numbers. “He’s one of the prospectives visiting this weekend.”
Prospectives. With everything that had happened last week—his short, bittersweet fling with Elizabeth, and the insane burning barn last night—Brandon had forgotten there’d be a bunch of little eighth-graders shadowing people around campus for the next few days.
“He was supposed to be staying with Brian Atherton, but there was an, um, incident at the squash courts this morning,” House continued. Brandon noticed a dark spot under the kid’s eye that stretched to the bridge of his nose. It looked like he’d taken a ball to the face, and hard. House nodded his head of curly dark hair at Brandon. “Sam, this is Brandon Buchanan.”
“Nice to meet you.” Sam stepped into the room Brandon shared with Heath Ferro, his hand stuck out like a politician’s. He wore a black-faded-to-gray Harry Potter T-shirt and khakis with a dorkily neat crease down the front. If he hadn’t looked so earnest, it might have been cool. But it wasn’t.
“Uh, nice to meet you, too.” Brandon swung his Perry Ellis- socked feet to the hardwood floor and leaned forward to shake the kid’s hand.
House smiled hopefully at Brandon. “So, you don’t mind showing him around a little—maybe taking him somewhere other than the squash courts?” He planted his large hands on Sam’s skinny shoulders. “I’ll owe you one.”
Brandon sighed heavily, and House disappeared back down the hall, leaving the tragically nerdy eighth-grader in the middle of Brandon’s room. A pair of brown leather top-siders peeked out from his slightly-too-short khaki pants.
“Nice room,” Sam offered shyly. He turned around in a circle, his eyes lighting up when he spotted Heath’s
PSP
on his filthy bed. He looked back at Brandon expectantly, the way Elizabeth (the dog—this could get confusing, he realized) did when she wanted him to throw a stick. Brandon wondered if he could command the eighth-grader with “Sit!” or “Stay!” but only assholes like Ferro treated people like that.
“So, uh, why do you want to go to Waverly?” he asked, smoothing out his navy blue plaid Ralph Lauren bedspread. It seemed like the Waverly handbook thing to say.
“Chicks,” Sam answered simply.
Brandon laughed, surprised. “You don’t have girls at your school?”
“Teases.” Sam set down his sleeping bag on the floor and sat on Heath’s unmade bed. He picked up the
PSP
, flipping it around in his hands and examining it. “All of them.” He ran his thumb lovingly over the power button.
“We’ve got a couple of those at Waverly, too.” Brandon nodded sagely. “You can play that, if you want,” he added. Sam eagerly flipped it on, and the familiar music of Spider-Man 3 filled the room. “Heath won’t mind.” Ha. If Heath knew Brandon had let some gawky amateur touch his prized possession, he’d write profanities on Brandon’s wall with his favorite Molton Brown pomade. He’d already done it once, freshman year.
“They’re
everywhere
,” Sam agreed, his thumbs already expertly maneuvering the tiny game console. “But I hear they’re hotter here, at least.” He tore his eyes away from the screen and turned to Brandon. “Do you have any other games besides Spider-Man 3? I beat this one already.”
Brandon ran his hand through his hair, blinking his golden brown eyes. What the hell was he going to do with this nerdy whiz kid all weekend? Cheer him on as he played video games? Compare the merits of high school girls with their eighth-grade equivalents? Just then, the door was kicked open with a bang. Heath stood in the doorway, a giant sweat stain ballooning disgustingly on the front of his gray Ridgefield Prep T-shirt.