Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (11 page)

And that scared me as much as the thought of his rejection.

I bit my lip, keeping my profile to him, not willing to meet his gaze in the moonlight. I felt it, though, his steady stare on my face.

“My mom’s gone, too.” The quiet admission pierced the night air, the words sharp and coated with bitterness.

“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say and didn’t dare act on my impulse to touch his arm.

“Your mom didn’t choose to die. Mine chose to leave.” Wes let out a half laugh, half grunt. “Trust me, you’re lucky.”

Weird, he used the exact word I’d thought just moments earlier. I shrugged. “I don’t feel it.”

“My mom acts as if she’s dead to me, yet she’s very much alive and very much not interested.” He hesitated, his voice deepening with emotion I hadn’t realized he possessed. “She’s somewhere farther across Kansas, last I heard.”

Somewhere during the course of his story, Wes had scooted closer to me on the blanket, our shoulders nearly touching, the scent of his leather jacket washing over me like a comforting presence all its own.

I swallowed, trying to ignore his proximity. “Is that why you came here?”

“Trust me—Crooked Hollow wasn’t my first choice. But she kicked me out for the last time, and it beat living on the streets.”

“You could have tried getting a job, you know.” I didn’t think he had one now, either, come to think of it. Not with all the lurking about town he did.

He grinned, slow and dangerous. “Why do you say that? Wishing I hadn’t come?”

“No, I just meant—”

His fingers grazed mine in the darkness, and I sucked in my breath. Definitely not regretting him coming.

But might be regretting something else if I wasn’t careful.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” I pulled my hand free, cupping them both around my knees instead. The wind picked up, and I instinctively leaned closer to his warmth. His attention was nice, don’t get me wrong—actually, way more than nice—but I couldn’t dwell on that, or I’d never come out of it.

“I don’t know. I don’t do labels.”

I snorted. “I bet there’s one on the inside of that jacket.”

He shrugged out of it and draped it across my shoulders. The scent of his cologne embraced me, and I snuggled into its black leather folds, realizing too late I’d taken one step further down a path I couldn’t control.

“You care about that label now, PK?”

“Not so much.”

The breeze stirred my hair again, this time not leaving the bitter chill behind that it had before. I clenched his jacket closed at my neck, determined not to read more into this than it was. “What’s her name?” The words slipped out, and I mentally snatched them back, but it was too late.

“What, Poodle Girl isn’t good enough for you now?”

Mortified, my eyes shot to meet his as heat crept up my neck.

Wes laughed, shaking his head. “You let that one slip more times than you realized.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Quit apologizing. Sonya is as high maintenance as a poodle sometimes, that’s for sure.”

“Then why are you—” I cut off my own sentence, already knowing the answer. High maintenance or not, with a body like hers, the answer was obvious. Though for me, a quality personality ranked higher than washboard abs, hence my aversion to Austin. Poodle Girl—no, Sonya—must have some decent qualities locked inside her skintight clothes that I hadn’t seen yet.

Or maybe Wes was just as shallow as he appeared.

“Why am I with her?” He finished my sentence, the question hovering between us like an anvil ready to crash. Although my heart was the only one in jeopardy. Man, I hated that. Vulnerability didn’t exactly seem to lurk in Wes’s gene pool.

“It’s none of my business.” I looked back at the moon, a much safer orb to study than Wes’s dark-brown ones.

“I’m not with Sonya, like I said.” Wes shrugged. “We have an understanding. It’s casual.”

Casual. Casual—what? The options sickened my stomach, and I slowly slid out of his jacket. Silently I handed it to him, wrapping my arms around my knees to stay warm. Once again I was brutally reminded that Wes and I played on completely different playing fields, with completely different sets of rules.

If his particular game even had rules at all.

“Thanks for the loan.” I nodded at his jacket as he slipped it back on, a puzzled frown creasing his brow.

Wes shifted his cross-legged position to face me, forcing my attention from the sky. “Why does she bother you so much?”

I didn’t want to talk about Sonya, didn’t want to picture them together. Somehow his giving Poodle Girl a name made her even more real. What kind of game was he playing? If he talked to her about me, as she said he did, then why did he talk to me about her? The whole thing was giving me a headache, and I shouldn’t have even cared in the first place. This was definitely one of those moments I wished I knew God was really listening.

I settled for my safety net of choice—denial. “Who?”

Wes scoffed. “Don’t be stupid. Sonya.”

“Well, why do you think it bothers me?” I stood up quickly, reaching down to gather my blanket and nearly pushing Wes off the corner in the process. “I’m not exactly the stupid one here, Wes.” Though the fact that I’d just blurted my feelings out to him pretty much confirmed the opposite. I folded the blanket against my chest, as much for distance between us as for warmth, and turned toward the house.

“Wait.” He came up beside me, a step too close and a step too far away all at the same time. “I don’t get it, Addison. You’re … different. With other girls, I get it. I know what they want. I know what I want.” He shook his head, squinting at me in the darkness like I was a puzzle he desperately wanted to piece together. “But you’re like three different people around me.”

“What do you mean?” Curiosity piqued my interest, overriding the warning in my head that kept trying to usher me back inside. Maybe God was trying to talk to me after all.

Wes took a step closer, holding up one finger. “You act as if I’m too far beneath you to even acknowledge. The high and mighty PK.” He eased even closer, ticking off his second point on his middle finger. “But other times you act as if I’m a project you’re trying to fix.”

He was too close now, his breath tickling my neck. My own breath shortened, and warmth flooded my stomach and chest despite the freezing wind stirring the leaves around us.

“Then other times …” His voice trailed off, and he lightly touched the side of my cheek with his fingers. “I get the feeling you actually like me.” His head dipped, and his lips zeroed in toward mine. I closed my eyes, anticipating the rush of heat, the taste of his lips, the warmth of his embrace.

Until I pictured him pulling a similar move on Sonya.

I jerked backward, relief and regret thudding painfully in equal measures. “Good call.” I drew a steadying breath, forcing myself to look him in the eye. “You’re right about all three.” Then I yanked open the front door and dead-bolted it before my heart could hightail it back outside into his arms.

T
he only good thing about being at the school at ten o’clock on a Saturday was that there was no way I’d run into Wes.
“Marta, will you pass me the red paint?” I covered a yawn with my paint-splattered hand.

Marta slid the can across the canvas sheet we had laid out on the gym floor. “Here you go. And I need the smaller paintbrush.” We traded brushes, and she dipped the small one into the cup of water to clean it. “These signs are looking great.” She tilted her head to study our poster-board progress, swiping red-tinged hair out of her eyes. Her hair was too short for a ponytail. I had learned my lesson about paint the hard way a few summers back when helping make car-wash posters for the youth group. My hair was safely up in a bun.

“So far so good.” If I kept thoughts of Wes and last night’s near kiss at bay, my hands remained steady enough to outline properly. But as soon as I remembered the way he’d leaned toward me, eyes lit with something indefinable, I started trembling. I’d already knocked over the can of blue, which had thankfully only been halfway full at the time.

“You seem different today.” Marta bent over the board and carefully lined my yellow letters with blue. “Are you well?”

I didn’t look at her, just kept carefully filling in the stenciled letters proclaiming T
ALENT
S
HOW
with red paint. “Late night. I didn’t sleep great.” Wes had made sure of that. I felt the touch of his hand on my cheek for hours after I’d gone inside. I was mad at myself for not kissing him, but madder still for even wanting to in the first place. I wasn’t
that
girl, and I never would be. No matter how complicated life became, I refused to become a curly haired groupie in a belly shirt. That wasn’t the answer.

And I didn’t need to hear God’s audible voice to know that much.

Marta opened the can of green paint. “Maybe tonight will be better.”

I mumbled an agreement, though I doubted the memories would vanish in twenty-four hours. Not when they were branded this deeply.

Marta began writing our school’s name on the bottom of her poster with careful strokes. “Did you try counting sheep?” She grinned.

More like leather jackets and tattoos. “Has that ever actually worked for anyone?”

“Nein. I doubt it.” Marta set her paintbrush on the canvas and twisted one arm to the side in a stretch. “No one who would be willing to admit it, at least.”

Wes certainly had admitted plenty last night. I dipped my brush in the red and finished painting the
w
in
SHOW
,
thoughts still churning. Was his opening up last night about his family part of a master plan to throw me off guard? Maybe he wasn’t any different than Austin. Maybe I was just this uncatchable fish to him, and that was the only appeal. Guys liked a challenge, but in Austin’s case, it was a matter of true disgust on my part rather than a game of hard-to-get.

But as hard as I tried to convince myself Wes was like all the other high school boys in my class, I just couldn’t. He might be a year or two older than them, but it went way beyond that. He hadn’t been making up that stuff about his mom. I saw the pain in his eyes, saw him peeling back several top layers of facade. There was a depth to Wes that went past his leather jacket, a depth I hadn’t noticed him sharing with anyone else.

The question remained, why was he showing it to me?

“Um, Addison?”

Marta’s voice yanked me back to reality inside the gym. I jerked backward, my brush dripping on my sweatpants. “What?”

She pointed to the
W
on my poster that I’d not only filled in but also added a big
E
and
S
after it. W
ES
. I stared at the painted evidence in front of me and winced. Busted.

Marta’s lips twisted to the side as she glanced from me to the ruined poster and then back to me. “I think it’s my turn to buy the coffee. We have to talk.”

We claimed a corner table at Got Beans, ignoring the weekend rush buzzing in for caffeine and pastries. For once I wasn’t concerned about seeing Wes there because if the only reason he came to Got Beans was to play the piano incognito, there’d be no way he’d show up on a busy Saturday.

I ran my finger over the lid of my mocha, watching the steam funnel through the tiny spout. My constant awareness of Wes’s presence or potential presence everywhere I went gnawed at me, evidence that was even more glaring than the kind I’d painted on the poster board at school. The report was in, there was no more denying it. I had fallen for Wes.

Exactly how hard I’d fallen was yet to be determined.

Marta peered at me over the cup of her latte, having branched out from our previous coffee trip. She’d even asked for extra caramel, and I couldn’t help but feel proud, like I’d personally birthed her into the world of caffeinated delights.

“Is it good?”

She nodded, licking foam off her lips. “Yes. But that’s not why we’re here.” She narrowed her eyes pointedly at me, and I took the hint.

“I guess I should have stuck to doodling on a notebook like an average teenager, huh?” I couldn’t help but grin, and she laughed.

“That would have been more normal.” She tilted her head to one side, studying me with that wise gaze I couldn’t get past, the one that said “even though I’m the same age as you, I’ve seen so much more.” It made me jealous, though I could never hold bitterness toward Marta. The saying “good as gold” pretty much summed her up, though it was definitely cliché. I hated clichés.

Wes’s leather jacket and motorcycle roared to the front of my memory. Well, maybe not all clichés. I shook my head to clear the image that wouldn’t erase.

“At least you painted over it before throwing the poster away.”

I exhaled loudly, and relief sagged my shoulders despite the tension knots still lingering. “Good thinking on your part. Definitely not what I’d want the rest of the drama team to see.”

“Your secret is safe with me.” Marta sipped her latte then folded her hands on the table and leaned forward as if ready to share more secrets. “Now, let’s … what do they say? Oh yeah. Scoop.”