Chapter 13: I Hate Waiting

My little scene with Ashley could very well have cost me a visit to the principal's office. It's a fortunate thing the faculty avoids the track field like the Witch of the West avoids water.

Nevertheless, it set the school buzzing.

In my school, if you have no friends, have no intention of interacting with anyone, and don't do anything out of the usual, no one will even know your name.

But within moments, everyone knows who I am and what I supposedly did.

Everyone has sex by senior year. That's a given, a fact. It's a pressure that lies on the shoulders of all high schoolers, a nagging little fly in our ears. You must have sex, it buzzes. You didn't have sex yet? Have sex, have sex, have sex. What are you, some kind of rock?

It's this pressure that wraps sex up in constraints, games, and rules, and makes it a topic talked about in whispers as if it's some kind of taboo. Everyone's hooking up with everyone. Everyone's having sex.

No one's sex life is the subject of widespread public debate.

It's like there are neon lights flashing out of my hair with the way people stare at me as I pass through the corridors. The fear that my presence commanded right after I confronted Ashley has ebbed down. I keep my face blank, my back straight, my chin up. I'm inclined to strut, but I don't.

Okay, maybe just a little.

I don't care about my changed position. I want to be having sex. I don't care about whether people look at me or they don't. The only thing that's bothering me, if I'm perfectly honest, is that they keep trying to talk to me between classes as if I'm some sort of hero. I even have some random guy ask me out. This makes moving around the school much slower than I'm used to.

I remember only during seventh period that I have band practice today, and with all the Shawn craziness, I forgot my oboe at home. Last week's practice was cancelled. I haven't touched my instrument at all over the summer and forgot to buy reeds.

I've been playing the oboe since I was six. I'm passably okay at it. I'd've quit if it weren't for the fact that participating in the school band looks very nice on my college application.

Mr. Sovarski, my AP calculus teacher, rambles on in the front of the class. The decision to skip eighth period solidifies in my mind. Now all I need is to convince my date that we're going to commit the crime together. I scribble a memo on the corner of my notebook and tear it out. Landon's conveniently sitting right next to me. I manage to catch his eye as I fold the little note four ways.

He raises his eyebrows at me, one corner of his mouth turning up in a half-smile. He lets his hand, the one nearest to me, fall from the desk and rest palm upward in his lap.

In one quick motion, I pass him the note. He attempts to close his fingers around it, but grasps my hand in the process. The touch of his skin is warm and smooth and sends happy little sensations up my arm.

As I slip my hand from his, the back of my palm grazes his thigh. I lick my lips. Calculus, please be over.

I have never in my life wanted another human being to this extent, and I get it now. It's fun. I'm having fun wanting him. My body is filled with this electric energy that's at once both painful and pleasing. I get why people do this. I even get why they obsess over it.

When he reads my note, a wide smile breaks across his face, and he gives me a thumbs-up. I nod my head once and then go back to concentrating on what Mr. Sovarski has to say about numbers.

***

Calculus ends just when I'm hanging on to the last threads of my patience. Landon and I are out of there faster than anyone can say hooky. The best part? Shawn sees us leaving together. I push my hand into the back pocket of Landon's jeans as I look over my shoulder at the other boy.

Landon notices what I'm doing and wraps his arm around me, drawing me against him.

I can't hide my glee when I see Shawn's expression. His jaw tightens, and his eyes squint into a steady glare. I like Shawn's angry face. So pretty.

My head snaps back to look straight ahead, and it suddenly sinks in that my hand's in Landon's pocket.

Wow, his butt. It's spectacular.

"So, where're we going?" I ask. We round the corner, and the school falls out of sight. Maybe this is all happening too fast. I was thinking about revenge against Shawn, but there's no reason to actually go through with this.

Except, that I want to.

"You hungry?"

I shrug. "Depends for what." It could be some kind of food.

Or not.

Landon lets go of me and takes a step away so he can look me up and down, checking me out in a most lurid way. "You don't strike me as the ice cream type."

"I'm not cool, creamy, and sweet enough?"

"You're one of the least sweet girls I've met." He's grinning to show me that he means this in good humor. He doesn't have to. I'd be repulsed if a guy considered me sweet.

"And that's saying a lot," he adds with a frown. It's the first time I see an unhappy expression cross his face. This golden boy with his scratchy Australian accent sure looks sexy when he's troubled.

I decide to pick at where it hurts, because if he can't take it like a man, he's not the man for me. "You've been through a lot of bad girls?"

The smile is back on his face, masking the darkness I glimpsed. "More like bad girls have been through me."

I take a big step toward him, coming up right against him. His hands automatically go to my waist. "Are you sure you want to try another? I may be the worst of them all."

His eyes light up with a fierceness I instantly like. That hungry look on his face can't be mistaken. He's not into food; he's into me. "I'll take my chances," he purrs.

Me oh my. I really, really hope he takes more than just his chances.

Then he does something very weird. He tilts his head to the side and sniffs my neck. It's not bad weird. It's sexy weird. Shivers race down my spine.

I press myself closer against him, sliding my hands over his arms. Whoa. Muscles. My fingers try to dig against the hardness of his biceps, but it's like clawing at stone.

His arms lock around my waist, and like this, we stay for a while.

Yes, we're hugging. Hugging.

I don't usually hug people. I'm not touchy-feely enough. I hugged my mom when Dad was in the hospital after his heart attack. But before that? I didn't hug anyone for years.

When a big black car pulls up beside us, we break apart.

Landon doesn't say a word. He saunters over and opens the passenger door, swinging his arm in a wide, theatrical arc, signaling for me to go in first.

I slide inside, scooting toward the middle to give him room to enter. The seats are cream-colored leather, and the car smells new. The driver is a woman with white-blonde hair. That's all I can tell about her. She stares at me through the rearview mirror. Her eyes are an intense, pale blue.

Landon sits beside me and closes the door.

"You act fast," the driver says with a thick Queens accent.

"Sophie, this is Dianne. Dianne, this is Sophie . . ." Landon makes the introduction in a flat voice while gesturing between us.

"Hmmm . . . Sophie," Dianne drawls. I don't know what to think about this.

"You're his aunt?" I ask.

"She's my uncle's assistant," Landon says quickly. Too quickly.

Suspicious, but I'm willing to roll with it.

Or maybe I'm intrigued. "What does your uncle do again?" I ask.

Landon chuckles, and the driver smiles.

"He makes money out of money," Dianne answers offhandedly as we turn to another street, cruising through the neighborhood. "Where to?"

Landon and I exchange a glance. "I think Sophie's in the mood for some American food," he says. "She needs meat."

It's true, I like meat.

"Burgers. On it," says Dianne, slamming her foot on the gas. We speed off down a boulevard bathed in thick yellow afternoon sunshine. Brown leaves of fall dance merrily in the air as we pass.

***

"Your uncle's some type of millionaire?"

Landon nods, pushing his leftover fries back and forth on his plate. "Some type of billionaire," he says. We're sitting side by side in a booth of an oily diner I would normally never set foot in. But the burgers were greasy and deliciously tasted like heart failure and it's completely deserted. We have much-needed privacy.

"His nickname is 'The Dragon of Manhattan.'" Landon gives me a funny look when he says this, scanning my face as if he's waiting for a particular reaction.

Uh huh. I've heard about the Dragon of Manhattan. His name's Ambrose Sutherland, and he's supposed to be a young man with no college education who made it huge on Wall Street. I don't care enough about economics to know more, but my dad sure respects him.

"You like getting driven around by the hot blonde assistant?" I ask.

"It has its moments, but this is just temporary until I get my American license."

That seems good enough. I haven't finished asking my questions, though. We somehow made it through an entire meal without talking about anything personal. We mainly made sarcastic observations about the world. I laughed more times than I'm used to laughing in an entire week, and I had moments when I couldn't eat because watching him eat was a little too sexy.

Nobody should be sexy while they eat. But I kept imagining his mouth doing . . . other things.

"What did you talk to Shawn about?"

Landon pushes away his plate and sticks his chin in my direction. "Obviously, we were talking about you."

"You were really chummy about it."

His light-brown eyes flash with a brimming ferocity that makes me curl my hands into fists. "He doesn't have a death wish, that's all. We talked it through like men."

"He's delusional."

"Is he now?" Landon leans one elbow on the table as he turns to me. I mirror this move and face him, edging closer and closer. "You've underestimated him before, Sophie. Are you making that a habit?"

I'm surprised. Shawn really opened up to Landon. He told him everything. How unlike Shawn. "Did you make a bet with him?"

"Now what kind of dick would do that?" he asks me with a lopsided grin.

"A dick who knows he's winning," I say with a chuckle.

I don't think. I don't have to think. I reach out and brush my fingers over his collarbone and then go up, tracing the line of his jaw and sliding my thumb over his bottom lip before I lean forward and kiss him.

What? Was I supposed to wait for him to kiss me?