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“Are you wearing underwear?” he quipped.
“Of course.” I scoffed.
“Then I’m carrying weed. For me, it’s a necessity as much as undergarments.”
“Charming.” My eyes rolled on autopilot.
“Apparently so, because that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile in a day, and it’s because of me.”
Was I smiling? Shit, maybe I was.
He parked on a grassy hill overlooking Todos Santos. The small SoCal town was pressed neatly in a valley between two mountains. This little reservoir provided the perfect view to the lights of downtown. The large blue pools of nearby mansions shimmered in the inky night, lampposts littered across the marina.
The reservoir was deserted, save for a basketball court a few hundred feet from us. It was well-lit, and there were teenagers throwing a ball back and forth, but they didn’t seem to mind the truck or us.
“Where did this thing come from?” I motioned with my index finger around the truck, angling my body to face him. From what I could remember, Dean’s family owned an infinite amount of Volvos. It was the perfect brand for the perfect type of family.
“My uncle in Alabama.” He wet his lower lip, scanning me with those twinkling emeralds. “Only gift he ever gave me. I’m not even sure why I kept it, but you wanted to be discreet, so I came in a vehicle Vicious wouldn’t recognize.”
“You saved a beat-up truck for the off chance you would ever need it?” I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Who are you, Dean Cole, and does the CIA know about you?”
Dean pulled his head back, his fingers laced behind his neck, and laughed.
“Shut up.”
And it was true that I was one of them. Those girls I pitied, who let his looks, his muscles, and his status seep into their brain and crawl all the way down to their panties, making the unnecessary stop in their chest. Because it felt like he grabbed my heart and crunched it in his fist.
“Okay, Mr. Shady,” I teased.
“That’s not fair. I haven’t had a dead body in this thing in ages.”
“Could have fooled me. The thing kind of stinks,” I hiccupped, knowing full-well that I was drunk. “Is this where you took your flings when you were in high school?”
“Nope. I’m a sentimental prick. I will never tarnish this baby with a random fuck.”
“You’re full of surprises, Dean Cole.”
“And you’re about to be full of me, Rosie LeBlanc.”
The grass was wet from the sprinklers, but I walked barefoot anyway. It provided cool comfort against the unbearable heat of August in SoCal. I made it to a bench on top of the hill, overlooking the city, and sat down. The good thing about Todos Santos was the lack of industrial factories and pollution. One of the reasons my parents took a job here when I was a teenager was to help my mucus problem, to make sure my lungs were unsoiled. A blanket of shiny stars above our heads reminded me that we were small and that they were big.
Dean produced two cans of PBR from the bed of his truck—I didn’t ask what the hell they were doing back there—and cracked one open, handing it over, before gulping the second one and plopping down inches from me.
“You know,” he said, the tips of his disheveled, sexy hair playing with the tips of mine. He smelled of boy, sweet hash, and a hint of a citrus, clean cologne. “Every star you see in the night sky is bigger and brighter than the sun.”
“What?” I snorted out a laugh. “That’s bullshit. The sun is huge!”
Dean looked at me, serious as a heart attack, and it was that moment that I realized what I had just invited into my heart. What I willingly opened the door to. It was like throwing your body off of a cliff, with eyes wide open, arms stretched, and a smile on your face. This is tragic, I thought. I forgot what it felt like to spend real time with Ruckus. Forgot the mayhem he stirred inside me.
“The sun is just a yellow dwarf star, Baby LeBlanc.” His voice was flat, his heated gaze—not. “She’s glorified because we’re familiar with her, and she is the closest. Most people love whatever’s the closest. What they’re used to.”
He wasn’t talking about the stars anymore, and we both knew it.
His knowledge of astronomy caught me off guard. Maybe because I wanted to reduce him to the stoner guy who didn’t care or know anything other than his football, women, and boring numbers.
He produced a blunt from his back pocket, raising his hips up to fish for it, and tucked it into his heart-shaped lips, the fire from his lighter illuminating every curve of his Adonis face. Taking a hit, he passed it on to me.
There was a moment where the blunt hovered between his fingers. I waited for him to withdraw. To scowl. To tell me I was mad for smoking. But none of those things happened. He let me make that decision for myself.
