transfer schools instead.
“Yeah. Except it will probably happen again even if we do talk about it.”
“But why?”
He stopped mopping my face and leaned in very close. “Because it didn’t suck. If it had sucked, we could have the ‘let’s never talk about that again’ conversation and be done with it. You stopped bleeding, by the way.”
Why do people always think talking about things makes them better? I didn’t subscribe to that channel. “Why do we have to have any conversation about it at all?”
“We don’t. But be prepared for the consequences.”
“But you said that we’d kiss again either way, so why do we have to talk about it?”
“You’re right. We don’t. We can just get straight to the action if you want.”
I never felt less like kissing anyone than I did as I sat there on a counter in the girls’ bathroom surrounded by bloody paper towels, my nose throbbing, and my ass in a puddle of what I hoped was water.
And then he kissed me.
His mouth slanted over mine and I wrapped my arms around his neck. Some protest, huh? Foster splayed his hands on my hips, and my knees made room for him to lean in closer, and he couldn’t get close enough if you had asked me.
The anger was missing this time. The change was subtle because we still weren’t kissing in the Hilary Duff/Chad Michael Murray at the end of a Disney movie kind of way. The intensity hadn’t lessened, just the fury.
And passion filled the vacuum the anger had created. The bitterness I knew a thing or two about. This passion stuff sneaked up on me. It was as if I wanted to take from him and give to him at the same time—and like my body was so happy to finally circumvent my brain that it unleashed all the hormones I’d kept at bay all these teen years.
My legs crossed behind him, pulling him toward me, and he groaned, a sound that reverberated in my veins like a choir during a crescendo. Shamelessly, I tugged and pulled at him, forcing his fingers to dig into my hips harder and mercilessly.
I angled to the right at the same time he angled to his left, and we bumped noses, setting fire to my sore one. I gasped and pulled back.
“Shit!” Stars, stars, everywhere I looked, stars. I covered my poor schnoz with my hands.
“Oh God, not again. I’m really sorry, Layney.”
“It’s okay.” I said through my hands. “I probably deserve to get smacked in the face every time I kiss you.”
He pried my fingers away from my nose. “Oh jeez. I think we really should go find out where the nurse is the other four days of the week.”
“Is it bleeding again?”
“A little. And, um, your eyes are looking a little…swollen. And somewhat discolored.”
“Are you freaking kidding me? You gave me a black eye?”
“No…I think I gave you two black eyes. I’m really, really sorry.”
An errant, vain thought flitted through my head—I didn’t want him to see me with two black eyes. I wanted him to see me…pretty.
Stop it, Layney.
I tentatively touched my nose. What if it was broken? “I knew you were evil. I didn’t realize you were physically dangerous too.”
He winced. “Seriously. We should go get you checked out.”
“Nobody is going to believe I got hit with a door. I don’t even want to know what the rumor mill is going to churn out.”
“Layney, I’m not kidding. That color under your eyes isn’t one you see in a rainbow. It’s not natural.”
He took a step back and I slid off my perch. Only the rest of the room kind of slid with me, and I slumped against Foster.
“God. I am the worst kind of ass,” he said as he picked me up and carried me toward the door. “Your butt is wet.”
“I know. You sat me down in a puddle. Foster, don’t I have a date tonight?”
* * *
I did have a date that night.
And the preparations were not going well at all.
“Can’t you do your own makeup?” Tyler asked me with a makeup sponge in one hand and a jar of cover-up in the other.
“You’re
“Yeah. Except it will probably happen again even if we do talk about it.”
“But why?”
He stopped mopping my face and leaned in very close. “Because it didn’t suck. If it had sucked, we could have the ‘let’s never talk about that again’ conversation and be done with it. You stopped bleeding, by the way.”
Why do people always think talking about things makes them better? I didn’t subscribe to that channel. “Why do we have to have any conversation about it at all?”
“We don’t. But be prepared for the consequences.”
“But you said that we’d kiss again either way, so why do we have to talk about it?”
“You’re right. We don’t. We can just get straight to the action if you want.”
I never felt less like kissing anyone than I did as I sat there on a counter in the girls’ bathroom surrounded by bloody paper towels, my nose throbbing, and my ass in a puddle of what I hoped was water.
And then he kissed me.
His mouth slanted over mine and I wrapped my arms around his neck. Some protest, huh? Foster splayed his hands on my hips, and my knees made room for him to lean in closer, and he couldn’t get close enough if you had asked me.
The anger was missing this time. The change was subtle because we still weren’t kissing in the Hilary Duff/Chad Michael Murray at the end of a Disney movie kind of way. The intensity hadn’t lessened, just the fury.
And passion filled the vacuum the anger had created. The bitterness I knew a thing or two about. This passion stuff sneaked up on me. It was as if I wanted to take from him and give to him at the same time—and like my body was so happy to finally circumvent my brain that it unleashed all the hormones I’d kept at bay all these teen years.
My legs crossed behind him, pulling him toward me, and he groaned, a sound that reverberated in my veins like a choir during a crescendo. Shamelessly, I tugged and pulled at him, forcing his fingers to dig into my hips harder and mercilessly.
I angled to the right at the same time he angled to his left, and we bumped noses, setting fire to my sore one. I gasped and pulled back.
“Shit!” Stars, stars, everywhere I looked, stars. I covered my poor schnoz with my hands.
“Oh God, not again. I’m really sorry, Layney.”
“It’s okay.” I said through my hands. “I probably deserve to get smacked in the face every time I kiss you.”
He pried my fingers away from my nose. “Oh jeez. I think we really should go find out where the nurse is the other four days of the week.”
“Is it bleeding again?”
“A little. And, um, your eyes are looking a little…swollen. And somewhat discolored.”
“Are you freaking kidding me? You gave me a black eye?”
“No…I think I gave you two black eyes. I’m really, really sorry.”
An errant, vain thought flitted through my head—I didn’t want him to see me with two black eyes. I wanted him to see me…pretty.
Stop it, Layney.
I tentatively touched my nose. What if it was broken? “I knew you were evil. I didn’t realize you were physically dangerous too.”
He winced. “Seriously. We should go get you checked out.”
“Nobody is going to believe I got hit with a door. I don’t even want to know what the rumor mill is going to churn out.”
“Layney, I’m not kidding. That color under your eyes isn’t one you see in a rainbow. It’s not natural.”
He took a step back and I slid off my perch. Only the rest of the room kind of slid with me, and I slumped against Foster.
“God. I am the worst kind of ass,” he said as he picked me up and carried me toward the door. “Your butt is wet.”
“I know. You sat me down in a puddle. Foster, don’t I have a date tonight?”
* * *
I did have a date that night.
And the preparations were not going well at all.
“Can’t you do your own makeup?” Tyler asked me with a makeup sponge in one hand and a jar of cover-up in the other.
“You’re
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