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Nervously, my thumbs drum on the steering wheel. I’ve never once told anyone that story. It’s too personal, too close to my heart. But there’s something about Dallas that tears down my concerns, puts me at ease. Which in and of itself, I can’t explain.
I’ve always been shy in general. More so with boys like Dallas. The beautiful, popular ones. It shouldn’t make sense that I feel most like myself around him. And yet I do. Something about him expands my boundaries until I can’t feel them anymore. He makes me feel free to be who I want to be.
“So what’s the plan? Breaking and entering on a government computer?”
“Is it illegal if the LEO is a f-family member?”
“Yes, Dr. Evil. It is. So why are we committing a federal crime instead of asking them for it?”
More cringing. “Because they d-don’t know that I already s-stole her email address from the same computer.”
His eyebrows shoot way up, over the top of his sunglasses. Taking those same sunglasses by the stem, he pushes them up to the top of his head and leaves them there.
“And people say I’m the bad influence. You’re stealing my thunder, babe. For the record, I’m too pretty to go to prison, but I’ll risk it for you.”
His gaze heavy on me, I turn briefly and discover sweet sympathy on his face. “What did she say in the email.”
It takes a minute to muster up the courage. Saying it out loud is harder than I anticipated. Sigh. “She said, please don’t contact me again.” Dallas stares blankly. “In her defense, she told my p-parents s-she was relinquishing all her rights…she was n-never interested in me…It’s even in the contract.”
We ride in silence for a while. Then, the boy least likely to be the one I can count on places his hand on my thigh and says, “Whatever you wanna do, count me in, babe.”
Babe, again.
He hits the button on my iPhone resting in the cupholder and the music comes on. Boys of Summer by Don Henley. Pulling his sunglasses down over his eyes, he tips his head back on the headrest. And the hand on my thigh––the broad, suntanned one with veins intersecting along the back of it––it looks perfectly natural resting there. That’s why my heart goes a little bit crazy.
Dallas
“Maybe I should wait in the car,” I mutter, staring at the white house with the glossy black door and pink flowers. Also known as Casa Ramos.
By some divine intervention, it’s only 8 p.m. by the time we pull the car into the driveway. Now that we’re here, I’m having serious second-thoughts though.
“Are you sure they said it was okay? Won’t your dads feel threatened by me?”
Dora giggles and my stomach flips. Every time this girl laughs it does strange shit to me. I can’t tell you exactly what, but I do know it’s hazardous to my state of mind.
“C’mon, it’ll be fine,” she says. Giving me a teasing smile, she jumps out of the car while I stay put, relishing the comfort of the calm before the storm.
I don’t do parents. Never have. This is my first time and it’s two dudes. I’m like a rookie QB having to face the Patriots defense in the Super Bowl without a single day’s practice. In other words, the odds are stacked against me.
She stops and turns, head cocked to the side, rust-colored hair falling over her shoulder, brown eyes smiling as she gestures me out of the car. Dutifully, I follow. Because I’m finding out that I’m a sucker for this girl and if I’m not careful she’ll own my ass in no time.
“In the kitchen,” a deep voice calls out as soon as we step into the house. The scent of something delicious hangs in the air. Whoever is doing the cooking knows a thing or two about food.
Looking over her shoulder at me, Dora unleashes a big smile, her optic white teeth digging into her fat bottom lip. For a moment, my steps falter and my mind goes blank.
“R-ready?”
“To be torn apart by wolves? Sure. Let’s do this.”
Giggling, she continues in the direction of the voices and I follow, my eyes naturally drawn to the generous curve of her hips. The way her heart shaped ass looks in those jeans should be a federal crime.
“Dad, Daddy––this is Dallas.”
I walk in and the kitchen gets real quiet. They’re both dressed in jeans and dress shirts so I don’t now which is which. My only hope is that the big one wearing the heavy frown is not the Chief.
“Evan Ramos,” the blonde one introduces himself. I’m screwed. The frowner is the Chief.
Evan extends his hand and gives me a friendly smile. He’s got the permanent tan and build of a runner. I noticed that even in the pictures. These guys are seriously athletic.
