Heat of the Moment Page 8

  Dare you.

  That’s what he said. Dare you to find out. The words reverberate in my head, and with the way he’s looking at me, I wonder if he’s talking about my dad, or something else.

  “What’s going on?” a stern voice echoes through the hallway.

  Derrick strides toward us, his eyebrows knitted together in a frown.

  “Derrick!” I yell wildly. “It’s Derrick! Hi, Derrick!” I gallop down the hall and throw my arms around him. “I missed you!” I give him a kiss, realizing too late that I probably don’t want him to think I’m super excited to see him after he pretty much blew me off all day. I mean, shouldn’t there be consequences?

  “What’s going on here?” he asks again, pulling my arms from around his neck.

  “Nothing.” Beckett stands up and shrugs. “I was just sitting out here getting some air, and Lyla came looking for you.” He stretches his arms over his head, like he’s exhausted and bored, and like he wasn’t just undressing me with his eyes a few seconds ago. I can’t decide if I’m disappointed that he’s acting like it was nothing, or thankful he’s not making a big deal of it in front of Derrick.

  “Yup,” I say. “It was nothing. We were just . . . I mean, I was just waiting for you.”

  Derrick glares at Beckett.

  Beckett doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seems to kind of enjoy that Derrick’s all suspicious. He gives him a big grin and then claps him on the shoulder.

  “Well,” he says, “I’ll give you two lovebirds some time alone.” He pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and puts them on, which is completely ridiculous since it’s nighttime. “I have a party to go to.”

  “What party?” I ask, wondering if he’s going to be at Juliana’s, if I’m going to see him again in a few minutes. Derrick shoots me a look. “I mean, have fun!” I yell after Beckett as he starts toward the elevator.

  I turn back to Derrick, and instantly, my heart squeezes. This whole thing with Beckett is so stupid. Derrick and I have been together for two years. Derrick is the one who’s listened to me every time I complained about my mom’s craziness. Derrick is the one who took care of me when the norovirus was going around our school and I couldn’t keep anything down except Gatorade and dry toast. Derrick is the one who asked me to the junior prom by writing LYLA, WILL YOU GO TO THE PROM WITH ME? in rose petals all over my driveway.

  Derrick is beautiful and perfect, and until today we’ve never even been in a fight. Well. Unless you count the time that he was visiting his family on the Cape for Thanksgiving and he told me he’d call me when he left at nine and then he didn’t call me or text me until, like, midnight and I was mad because I’d thought he’d been killed in some kind of horrible fiery crash.

  But even that was way back when we first got together. Since then, we haven’t been in any other fights. He’s been perfect. We’ve been perfect.

  “I want to forget about today,” I say, wrapping my arms around him again and inhaling his scent. He smells like sunscreen and the beach. I wonder why he smells like fun while all I’ve done all day is be miserable.

  His shoulders stiffen for a moment, and I’m afraid he’s still mad. But after another moment, I feel him relax. “I’m sorry I got so mad,” he says. “I just got upset.” He sighs. “I know you would never do anything to hurt me.” He kisses me softly on the lips.

  “I wouldn’t!” I say. “I would never do anything to hurt you. Or us.”

  “Want to go walk on the beach?” he asks. His hands intertwine with mine.

  “Yes,” I breathe, thankful he’s not suggesting going to Juliana’s party. He wants to be alone with me! He can’t be too mad then, right?

  A fight. A walk on the beach. Moonlight. Racing hormones. I can’t think of a better setup for what’s about to happen. Sex. Sex. Sex. And lots more sex.

  The beach is perfect. We sit at an outdoor restaurant, pigging out on nachos and potato skins, then order ginger ales to go. We pour half of the soda out of our plastic take-out cups and add wine from a bottle Derrick bought earlier using Lincoln’s fake ID. We sip it while we walk on the beach, tipsy and happy, making jokes and giggling.

  “I wonder what would happen if I just walked into the water,” I say.

  “You’d drown,” Derrick says. “You’re tipsy.” He’s smiling, but I feel like I can hear a little bit of disapproval in his voice.

  “I’m not tipsy,” I say, then immediately stumble in the sand. “Ooof.” I giggle. It’s not my fault, I want to say. I’m wearing high heels.

  “You are tipsy,” he says. “It’s okay, though.”

  I know it’s okay, I want to say. You’re the one who gave me the wine and I’ve only had a little bit and there’s nothing wrong with being a little tipsy it’s Florida and it’s vacation and what’s the big deal especially because I know for a fact you were getting upset a few days ago because you couldn’t figure out a way to bring pot on the plane. But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I just take his hand and keep walking.

  A few seconds later, he says, “Are you mad?”

  “No.” I push aside my annoyance. We’re just getting back to being good. I’m not going to ruin even more of our vacation with another fight.

  “Good.” He stops and pulls me toward him, then tilts my chin up and looks at me. “I’m so sorry I took off earlier,” he says. He runs his fingers down over my bare arms, then rests his forehead against mine. “I was just being a baby.”

  “No, you weren’t being a baby,” I say. “I shouldn’t have let Beckett drive me to the airport. It was inappropriate.”

  “It’s okay,” Derrick murmurs. “You didn’t have a choice.”

  But you did have a choice about sitting in the hallway with him and telling him about your bracelet and letting him stroke your wrist and getting all turned on while he did it.

  I push my lips against Derrick’s, trying to force myself to get lost in his kiss. I wrap my arms around his neck as the kiss gets deeper and deeper. After a few moments, he pulls away, breathless.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go back to your room.”

  SIX

  WHEN SOMEONE INVITES THEMSELVES BACK to your room after you’ve just been passionately kissing under the moonlight, you kind of figure that maybe probably you’re going to have sex. Especially if you’ve been talking about it for a whole day. Especially if Quinn and Aven aren’t in the room.

  And at first, it definitely seems like things are heading in that direction.

  Derrick and I start to kiss.

  Derrick and I kiss more.

  Derrick’s hands roam over my clothes.

  We get under the covers.

  My dress comes off. His shirt comes off.

  So far we’re not in new territory—we’ve been doing “everything but” for at least a year.

  And that’s when things sort of . . . stall out.

  We’re still kissing. We’re still touching. But nothing’s progressing.

  I think about giving it a good swift nudge in the right direction, but I don’t want to have to be the one to get this thing going, if you know what I mean. I grind my hips into his, hoping he’ll get the message. The message being that he should take all my clothes off. I wonder if he’s going slow because he’s worried about me.

  “Do you have a condom?” I breathe into his ear. Not the sexiest of segues, but we need to talk about safe sex! No way I’m going to be doing it without using a condom. I’m not on the pill, and the last thing I want is a little Dyla (Derrick and Lyla, get it?) running around. Oh, god. Now I’m going to have to get on the pill. I’m going to have to tell my mom, and she’s probably going to get all weird and freak out and read, like, five million books about setting your daughter up to have a healthy view of sexual relationships. What are the laws for being under eighteen and getting birth control? Maybe I can just get some before I go, bring it back on the plane with me. Probably not, though. I have a feeling things are tighter here in Florida than they are in t
he Northeast.

  “Um, yeah,” Derrick says. “I have a condom.”

  “You do?” I’m surprised. Why would Derrick have condoms? Unless he bought them today when he was out.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I always have one. You know, just in case.”

  “Just in case what?” I’m trying to sound nonchalant, but I really have to make sure he means just in case I decide I want to do it, not just in case he runs into some random girl. Not that Derrick would ever cheat on me. Like I said, before today we haven’t even been in a fight.

  “Just in case you decide you’re ready.”

  “Oh.” I wonder how long he’s had that condom. “It’s not, like, expired, is it?” How horrible would that be? Being all responsible and then ending up pregnant or with an STD just because the condom was expired.

  “No.” He kisses my neck. Then my collarbone. Then my cleavage. I wait for him to keep going, to maybe kiss down my stomach and/or maybe take my bra off. But he doesn’t do either of those things.

  In fact, he stays right around my neck.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Everything’s fine. Why?”

  “Well, it’s just that we’re supposed to be having sex, and well . . . we’re not.”

  “Oh. I didn’t . . . I mean, I know you said you’re ready, but I just want . . . I want to make sure this is really what you want.”

  “Oh, I want it.” I do. At least, intellectually I do. My body is . . . I mean, I’m liking the kissing and everything, but I’m not . . . okay, fine. I’m not as crazy and excited as I was getting when Beckett was running his finger over my wrist like that. Not that it means anything. Of course I’m going to feel that way with Beckett. Beckett is dangerous and forbidden and makes my stupid hormones think they’re in charge. Derrick is safe and amazing and perfect. Derrick is better.

  I kiss his nose.

  “It’s just that you just decided this morning that you wanted to have sex,” Derrick says. “And then we had kind of a weird day, and so I’m just wondering if maybe we should sleep on it.”

  “Sleep on it?”

  “Yeah. You know, to make sure.” He kisses me softly on the lips, then pushes my hair back from my face. “I wouldn’t want you to end up regretting it tomorrow.”

  “Why would I regret it tomorrow? I love you. We’ve been together for two years. One stupid fight doesn’t change any of that.”

  “I know.” He sighs. “It’s just . . . it’s a big deal, and I want to make sure everything is perfect.” He grins. “I want to have candles and champagne and a fancy dinner. Not us fighting all day and some cheap watered-down wine followed by a quick tumble in your hotel bed.”

  Who said anything about a quick tumble? A wave of annoyance rises up inside me, and I do my best to quell it. Why should I be mad at Derrick just because he wants to make sure everything is special? He’s right. My first time should be something amazing, something magical, with flowers and candles and all the other things he was talking about.

  What we’re doing right now is probably something Beckett would do.

  Why are you thinking about Beckett?

  “Okay,” I say, “you’re right.”

  “Good.”

  I figure the making out will continue. Just because we’re not going to have sex doesn’t mean we can’t do anything but. Instead, Derrick turns over in bed and then takes my hand.

  “I’m sleeping over,” he says. His voice sounds suddenly sleepy, like he’d just been watching TV or something instead of making out with me.

  “Okay,” I say. We’ve slept in the same bed a couple of times before. Once when his parents were out of town, and once when we both went to a party and ended up falling asleep in a random room after making out for hours. He wasn’t complaining then about everything having to be perfect.

  I turn over and wait for Derrick to pull me close, or at least say something to make me feel better about what I can’t help but feel is a rejection. But he doesn’t, and a second later, he’s breathing softly, letting me know he’s asleep.

  The doors to the balcony are open, but the screen is shut. Warm night air floats into the room, and I can hear the gentle sound of waves against the shore mixing with the sound of voices downstairs. It’s still early enough that most of my classmates are probably out, walking on the boardwalk or hanging out on the beach or eating a late-night snack in one of the restaurants.

  Suddenly, I feel angry that I’m here, in my room, while everyone else is out having fun. But then I tell myself I should be happy to be here with Derrick—even if we didn’t have sex, we’re still in love. I’m still the luckiest girl in the world. And I’ll bet lots of my classmates would rather be inside with someone they love instead of out there fending off sloppy drunk guys looking for random hookups.

  My phone buzzes loudly, and I reach down to shut it off before it wakes Derrick up.

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

  I check the clock.

  Five minutes until midnight.

  Five minutes and then these stupid emails will stop for good.

  I turn over in bed and close my eyes.

  But I don’t fall asleep for a long time.

  SEVEN

  KNOCK.

  Knock.

  Knock, knock.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  I groan and roll over in bed, wondering who would be knocking on my door at this insane hour of . . . oh. It’s nine o’clock. Still. Nine o’clock is way too early to be knocking on someone’s door when they’re supposed to be on vacation. I sit up and blink blearily around the room.

  Quinn’s bed is empty, but in the corner, Aven’s curled up on her cot, the blanket wrapped around her, her thumb in her mouth. I shake my head. I can’t believe she’s still sucking her thumb. Quinn and I always used to tell her it was going to ruin her teeth, that her parents spent all that money on braces and she went through all that trouble making sure she wore her headgear even though everyone was having tons of sleepovers that year, which meant she had to—

  Knock, knock, knock.

  The knocking is a little more insistent now, but it’s still relatively quiet. I guess whoever it is has the wherewithal to know they should at least try to keep it down. It’s probably one of the teachers, trying to do a head count or something. No way can I let them catch Derrick in here. Even though we didn’t even do anything. Sigh. I turn over and decide to ignore it.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  They knocks are coming faster now, and staccato-like, almost like a really gentle woodpecker or something. Well. If a woodpecker was inside and trying to take a head count. Which I really doubt would happen.

  The knocking stops for a moment, and then there’s a loud whisper.

  “Lyla!”

  Oh my god. It’s Beckett.

  Beckett Cross is at my door. Is he crazy? Why would he think it was okay to show up here? Does he want to get his ass kicked? I wonder who would win in a fight between Beckett and Derrick. Derrick is taller. And he plays sports. So he probably has better cardio. But Beckett has broader shoulders. And he might fight dirty—he probably knows moves and stuff you can only learn on the street.

  “Lyla!”

  Oh, Jesus Christ.

  I get out of bed and open the door.

  “Finally,” Beckett says, then shakes his head like he can’t believe I’ve left him waiting out here this whole time, as if we had breakfast plans and he didn’t just show up here out of nowhere, calling my name when he knows I have a boy in my bed. His eyes rake up my body, and I become aware of the fact that all I’m wearing is a tank top and a really tight pair of shorts. I put them on last night after Derrick fell asleep—it was too cold to sleep half-naked, and besides, it wasn’t like we were alone. I knew Aven and Quinn were going to be coming back at some point.

  “Rough night?” Beckett grins.

  “No.” I cross my arms over my chest, and hope he can’t see anything. He look
s remarkably put together for someone who was probably out gallivanting and getting into debauchery last night. His hair is messy, but he’s wearing baggy khaki shorts and a navy-blue T-shirt and sneakers with no socks.

  “What do you want?” I demand. “I’m busy.” The quicker he gets out of here, the better. Aven and Derrick are both heavy sleepers, but eventually one of them is going to wake up.

  “I wanted to see if maybe you wanted to get coffee.”

  “What?” Is he crazy? Of course I don’t want to get coffee. Yes, you do. No, I don’t. Yes, you do. No, I don’t.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have a boyfriend!” I shake my head. Why am I trying to reason with him? He’s crazy. And you cannot reason with a crazy person. I decide to change my tactic. I step out into the hall and close the door behind me. “Look,” I say. “I’m dealing with something here, so you have to go.”

  “Dealing with something?”

  “Yes. My friend Quinn didn’t come back last night, and I’m worried about her.” It’s only a half lie.

  “Yeah, she went home with a guy last night,” Beckett says. “I saw her getting into some dude’s car.”

  My stomach drops into my shoes. “Getting into some guy’s car?”

  “Yeah, they were coming out of a bar. Or a club. One of those places on the main strip.” Beckett takes my hand and tries to pull me toward him. “Come on,” he says. “I saw where they went. I’ll show you.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” I wrench my hand out of his grasp.

  “Why not?” he asks, seemingly shocked.

  “First, because I fell for that yesterday, and I’m not going to be lured into your crazy games again. And second, Derrick’s in my room, and if he catches you here, he’s going to flip.” I stick my chin out, determined. “And besides, Quinn and I . . . it’s none of my business where she is.” But even as I’m saying the words, I’m nervous. Why the hell would Quinn get into a car with some random guy?