Heat of the Moment Page 7

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask again.

  For a moment, a look of doubt passes over her face, like maybe she’s not sure she is. She opens her mouth, about to say something. But then she shakes her head just a tiny bit, almost like she’s telling herself not to do what she was just about to do.

  “Don’t wait up,” she says. Then she turns and walks out of the room.

  Well.

  Whatever.

  Quinn’s not really my problem.

  In fact, she’s not my problem at all. But still. There’s an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I get up and tiptoe over to the door and peek out. I watch as Quinn gets farther and farther down the hall before disappearing into the elevator. I have this weird urge . . . like I should follow her.

  No, I tell myself. You and Quinn aren’t friends anymore. You and Quinn are . . . well, not enemies exactly, but definitely not the kind of non-enemy ex-friends who can just go around following each other and demanding answers. Quinn is a grown woman. Well, a grown teenager. A grown teenager who can make her own choices. And yeah, it’s a little weird that she’s dressed so . . . provocatively. But honestly, I don’t even know Quinn anymore. She could go gallivanting around like that every single day for all I know.

  Still. Maybe I should follow her. I imagine myself confronting her in the lobby and demanding to know where she’s going dressed like that. Maybe I’ll even call her “young lady” and drag her upstairs. She’ll resist at first but then she’ll give in, and then she’ll—

  My phone buzzes.

  Derrick! It’s Derrick! Derrick is texting me!

  But it’s not Derrick.

  Just my mom.

  Hope you’re having fun, honey!

  Yup, I type back. Best time ever!

  Predictably, she doesn’t ask for details.

  Whatever. I have bigger problems than my mom’s absenteeism. I need to get to Juliana’s party so I can show Derrick what he’s been missing all day.

  Now I just need to find something sexy to wear.

  By the time I get down to Juliana’s room, I’m feeling a lot more confident. I’m wearing a really cute red spaghetti-strap sundress with a flared skirt, and I touched up my pedicure and added beachy waves to my hair with my curling iron. I look very Florida. And very sexy.

  I pull the top of my dress down in front just a little bit, then arrange my hair the same way Quinn did back in our room. Then I paste a smile on my face (my smile is one of my best features) and knock on the door to Juliana’s room.

  It flies open.

  “Girl!” Juliana squeals, then reaches out and gives me a huge hug. She smells like a mix of alcohol and cologne. Not that she’s wearing cologne, but the inside of her room reeks of it, probably from all the guys who are packed in here. “Ohmigod, I’m so glad you came.” She gives me a huge kiss on my cheek. Her lips are all wet and lipsticky. Gross.

  “Oh, of course,” I say, reaching up and wiping at my cheek. “You know I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “This vacation is the best,” she says, spreading her arms wide as if to show just how much she loves it. She twirls around and then falls down on her bed. The crop top she’s wearing slides up a little, exposing the bottom of her stomach.

  A guy I’ve never seen before leans down and kisses her belly button. Juliana giggles. She’s definitely wasted.

  I make my way to the cooler on the other side of the room. What I really want to do is look around for Derrick, but I don’t want to be too obvious. I need to be calm, cool, and relaxed, not wild like some kind of crazy stalker girlfriend.

  I survey the contents of the cooler. Ice, wine coolers, cans of Bud Light, a two-liter bottle of Sprite, and some cheap vodka.

  I grab a wine cooler and take a sip.

  I stand in the corner by the window, which is open just a little bit, probably to air out the smell of pot that’s permeating the room.

  “Do you want some, Lyla?” Rory Corbett asks me, holding out a joint.

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  “You sure?” she presses.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” I take a step away from her, because Rory’s a talker. She sits next to me in math, and she’s always going on and on about the stupidest things—the color she’s painting her room, her new jeans, the drama at her part-time job at Abercrombie. I cannot get sucked into the Rory vortex. I need to keep my wits about me.

  I run my eyes over the room, nice and slow, looking for Derrick.

  “Ohmigod, Lyla,” Juliana slurs, appearing beside me and pulling on my arm. “You have to be in our dance contest.”

  “Your dance contest?”

  “Yes, it’s like, a marathon,” she says. “We just dance and dance and dance and then whoever is the best wins!”

  “Oh, that sounds fun,” I lie. My eyes are flicking over the crowd, trying to find Derrick. But I don’t see him.

  “Are we looking for Derrick?” Juliana asks. “Because he’s not here.” She looks at me solemnly. “I think you miss him.”

  “No, I don’t . . . I mean, yes, I do miss him.” I’m confused by what to tell her. That I do miss him? Or that I don’t? I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. I’m not sure why, but the idea bugs me. On the other hand, I know that whatever I say to her is going to get back to Derrick. I take another sip of my drink. It’s berry flavored, and very disgusting.

  “Don’t worry,” Juliana says solemnly. “I’m going to help you. I’m very good at physiotherapy.”

  “What?”

  “Psycho, I mean.” She hiccups. “I’m good at psychotherapy.” Then she reaches over and pats me on the head, like I’m a dog. “I’m going to help you both get through this trying time.”

  Her phone buzzes then, and she squints at the screen, trying to decipher a text. I let my eyes wander around the room, and tap my feet to the music that’s blaring from someone’s iPod. The lights in here aren’t on, and it’s kind of hard to see in just the fading daylight that’s filtering through the windows.

  In the other corner, a group of people are trying to play beer pong, which isn’t working since there’s only one small, circular table. I spot Aven standing by the entrance to the tiny kitchen, her arms crossed over her chest. She’s talking to Liam, the guy she’s secretly been in love with for, like, ever. They look like they’re having a deep conversation, and I remember the way she cornered me at the airport, asking me if I was going to pay attention to the emails we sent ourselves.

  Is she telling Liam she’s in love with him? Is he going to reciprocate? I find it hard to believe that could really happen. I mean, they’ve been friends forever. If Liam had feelings for her, wouldn’t he have told her? He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would keep something like that a secret. Not that I know him that well—Aven always kept him sort of separate from us.

  “It’s Derrick!” Juliana crows. She throws her phone in my face. “He’s going to stop back at his room and then be at my party in twenty minutes!” She waves the phone around, like I’m supposed to be reading the text, but obviously I can’t. It’s hard to read when she’s so drunk and I’m so annoyed. Why is he texting Juliana before he’s texting me?

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “When he gets here, we’ll have a session. You two need to work out your probbbbbleeemmmsss.” Her voice is getting louder as she talks.

  “Sounds great!” I lie. “Be right back. I’m just going to run to the bathroom.”

  She doesn’t hear me. Instead, she heads over to the iPod and starts fiddling with it, talking about her dance contest. Everyone is ignoring her.

  I’m not going to the bathroom.

  I’m going to Derrick’s room.

  I need to talk to him before he gets to the party. I need to work things out with him. And the last place I want to do it is in front of Juliana.

  When I knock on the door of Derrick’s room, a thumping noise comes from inside, like someone fell out of bed. It’s probably Derrick. He has big feet. Maybe he’s running to the door b
ecause he thinks there’s a chance it might be me and he’s so excited. Thank god he’s on the first floor, otherwise whoever is below him probably would have called the front desk. Which is probably going to happen to Juliana’s party at any minute. Maybe that’s why she was in such a rush to get drunk. She knew she was on borrowed time. The school was very clear that we had to keep the peace and that if the hotel got any sort of—

  The door flies open.

  “Hiiii!” I trill. It starts off as flirty, just like I’d practiced in my head, and then sort of trails off into horror.

  “Hiiiii yourself,” Beckett says. He puts one arm up against the side of the door, blocking my view of the room. “Miss me already?” His eyes flick down to my chest, and I reach down and pull my dress back up.

  “No,” I say haughtily. Goose bumps have broken out on my skin. “I’m here to see Derrick.”

  “Derrick who?”

  I roll my eyes. “Can you please just get him?”

  “Fine.” He turns around and yells, “Derrick! You have a visitor!” He turns back to me and frowns. “Derrick?” he tries again. “Derrick?” He smiles. “Oh, right. He’s not here.”

  I take in a deep breath and resist the urge to scream. Why does he feel the need to mess with me like that? And for the second time today!

  “You’re not funny.” It wouldn’t be worth it to yell at him. That’s what he wants. He wants to see that he’s getting some kind of reaction from me. He wants me to get all worked up and wild. Well! He has another thing coming. I am certainly capable of controlling myself.

  “You’re welcome to come in and wait.” He steps back and opens the door. “Of course, I’m not sure how long he’s going to be.” He tilts his head, pretending to consider it. “Are you?”

  “Yes, I know how long he’s going to be,” I say. “He’ll be here any minute. And if you think I’m going to come into your hotel room and wait with you, then you’re crazy.” I look around wildly for someplace else to wait, but of course there isn’t one. I’m in a hotel hallway.

  But there’s no way I’m going into that room. I sit down on the floor, trying not to think about how many disgusting feet have walked over this carpet. It actually looks pretty clean, but you can never tell what kind of hidden bacteria could be lurking under the surface. They’re always doing investigative reports on the dangerous germs that are all over hotels. Not thinking about that now, though, la, la, la.

  I pull my phone out and send Derrick a quick text, telling him I’m waiting for him outside his room. I make sure to say I’m outside. The last thing I want is for Derrick to think I’m inside with Beckett. Shudder.

  “Letting him know you’re here?” Beckett asks conversationally. He slides down the wall until he’s sitting right next to me.

  “No,” I lie.

  “Okay.” He shrugs.

  I wait for him to say something smarmy, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, his legs out in front of him all casual, like it’s perfectly okay for him to be here next to me, even though he knows I hate him. Actually, I don’t hate him. To hate him I’d have to actually have an opinion about him. And I don’t.

  All I know is that I’m here to see Derrick. My boyfriend. I have a right to wait for him. It’s my right as, like, a citizen. Or a girlfriend. Or a patron of this hotel. The hallways are, like, common areas. To be enjoyed by all.

  Beckett starts humming a little tune next to me, and I take in a deep breath, holding it in for one two three, then letting it out for one two three.

  “Are you doing those breathing exercises we learned in yoga?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m not.” I reach into my purse and look around for something to keep my hands busy. But I don’t have anything except makeup, and the last thing I want to do is put on lip gloss or something in front of Beckett. I don’t know why, but it seems too . . . intimate.

  He turns toward me, and his eyes move over my body. “You look nice.”

  I study his face for any traces of sarcasm. Wow. I forgot how green his eyes are. That same ripple of something (attraction? I don’t even want to think the word ohpleasegodno) goes skittering through my body. Only this time there’s something more there. Something almost . . . anticipatory. It’s weird. And unsettling.

  I shift my leg away from his.

  “When someone pays you a compliment, you’re supposed to say thank you.”

  “Thank you.” Where the hell is Derrick?

  “So are you still mad at me then?”

  Yes. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Beckett, I don’t even know you. How can I be mad at you?”

  “You seemed pretty mad earlier.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  We sit there for a few seconds in silence. My leg starts jittering up and down, and it takes all my willpower to get it to stop. The last thing I want is for him to think he’s making me nervous.

  “So is this”—he gestures to my hair and outfit—“all for Derrick? Or were you planning on going out with your friend?”

  “My friend?”

  “Yeah. Quinn. I passed her in the lobby on my way in. She was decked out, head to toe.” He grins, remembering. “Although she was wearing a lot less clothes than you are.”

  Something akin to jealousy hits my heart. Which is stupid. I’m not jealous of Quinn. “Quinn’s not my friend,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Whatever.”

  And then he does something totally unexpected. Something totally crazy and weird and thrilling all at once. He reaches out and grabs my wrist, turns it over, and looks at the bracelet I’m wearing. It’s just a bracelet . . . brown beads with a stretchy band. Nothing special. He runs a finger over one of the beads, tracing his fingertip along the swirly pattern of the different shades of brown and yellow.

  “What’s it mean?” he asks.

  “What?” I’m startled. I’ve worn this bracelet every single day pretty much for over two years. Every. Single. Day. It’s not an expensive bracelet. You’d think I would have lost it, or dropped it, or left it somewhere. In all this time of having it, someone should have stolen it, or it should have slipped off during gym, or it should have snapped off while I was doing something mundane like my laundry.

  But it hasn’t.

  It’s still on my wrist.

  “What does your bracelet mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything.” My breath catches in my chest.

  “It’s tigereye, right?”

  I nod, still not breathing.

  “So it must mean something.” He turns my wrist over, inspecting the bracelet, then looks at me again, those eyes boring into mine. “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So what does your bracelet mean?”

  “It’s just . . . it’s something I had with my dad.”

  “The tigereye thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  He nods, thoughtful. His fingers have slipped off the beads now and onto my wrist, and his touch sends hot waves of sensation burning through my body.

  I don’t want to talk about my dad. I don’t want to talk about him because I can’t think about my dad without thinking about a million other things that could be upsetting—my mom, Quinn, Aven . . . they’re all connected. Besides, my dad doesn’t occupy any place in my life. He doesn’t affect me. He’s gone.

  “He’s gone?” Beckett asks, like he’s reading my thoughts.

  I nod.

  He tilts his head, looking thoughtful, his index finger still making lazy circles on the inside of my wrist. I know I should pull away, but I can’t. It’s mesmerizing, almost like he’s put me in some kind of trance.

  “Where did he go?”

  “I have no idea.” It’s a half-truth. I don’t know exactly where my dad is, but I do know he’s in New Hampshire, living alone. Which makes it worse when you think about it—he didn’t even ditch us f
or some other family. He just . . . left. And never bothered to contact us.

  Because you betrayed him. You lied to him.

  It all blooms up in my chest—the conversations with my dad, telling Aven about them, Aven telling Quinn, Quinn telling her mom, Quinn’s mom telling my mom.

  My mom, standing in front of me in the middle of the kitchen. Is it true, Lyla? Are you leaving with him?

  “Lie.” Beckett’s still making circles on my wrist.

  “He’s in New Hampshire,” I say. “He divorced my mom. He wanted me to go with him.”

  I take my hand away because I can’t stand the way he’s making me feel. Tingles and fireworks are flying all over, my heart is pounding in my chest, and my stomach is tangled.

  I tell myself that the way I’m feeling doesn’t have anything to do with Beckett. It’s because I’m talking about my dad. And even if it was about Beckett, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just . . . it’s like looking at a picture of Channing Tatum or something. Which isn’t cheating. Of course, Channing Tatum isn’t here, rubbing my wrist while he asks me personal questions about my dad.

  I scoot over a little bit on the rug, putting more distance between me and Beckett. But I still feel kind of warm, so finally, I stand up.

  “Look,” I say, “I’m not . . . I don’t want to sit here and talk to you about my dad.”

  He doesn’t even have the decency to be offended, like a normal person. Instead, he seems totally unfazed. “Okay,” he says. “I figured.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that I assumed you wouldn’t want to talk about your dad.”

  “Why? Because you’re a total stranger who’s been pretty mean to me?”

  “No. Because it’s obviously a sore subject for you. Which is too bad, because I’m a really good listener.”

  I snort. “I doubt it.”

  “Dare you to find out.” His voice, just a second ago flirty and teasing, has turned kind of dark and smoky and all . . . I don’t know, smoldering and husky.

  His eyes rake up my body, starting at my legs and drifting all the way up until he’s looking right into my eyes. It’s so sexy I can hardly take it. I want him to like what he sees. Does he? He kind of seems like he does. His eyes have gotten all lidded and heavy, and he’s staring at me from under his superlong lashes.