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8
Willow
Five seconds flat—that’s the length of time it would take me to run a forty-yard dash. Camdyn was a similar distance away when I glanced over my shoulder at him. I resembled Bambi before she went splat against a sixteen-wheeler. Now, Christian’s SUV edges forward in the long line of carpools and limos, exiting the parking lot. While reggae drones low in the speaker, my eyes lock onto the reflection of Camdyn MacKenzie in the rearview mirror. Shivering, I settle back into the seat. Seconds later, I compound the anguish sliding through my bones by taking another look.
He’s still there, strolling slowly, parallel, a few yards back.
Christian’s voice slices through the turmoil. “How was your first day, gal?”
Tearing my eyes away from Satan, I give Christian all my attention, muttering, “I met the sweetest guy in my last class.” Damn, Lolo, this isn’t kindergarten share time.
“You’re breaking my heart, Lolo.”
I shovel out a tiny laugh. “A few minutes before my last class ended, the teacher called this guy—friggen seven feet or something—to discuss a theory. I think he’s a freshman, maybe a sophomore, in friggen AP Physics.”
“Dayum, a tall, smart dude, too?”
As Christian laughs, I stop myself from suffering another look in the rearview mirror. “I’m a senior, hello? Anyway, he was weird, like one day a tiny voice might encourage him to take a gun to school and shoot his bullies.”
The dimple on Christian’s cheek disappears, and his eyes lock onto mine. “Should I laugh or ask your sistah to get you back into a school in our neck of the woods?”
“Wait, there’s more,” I gush with a cheesy grin. “The poor guy started off on the right track. The more eyes on him, though, he stumbled over the words. He ran out of class.”
“But how was he sweet then?”
“The second the door closed, those childish assholes burst into laughter. I walked out, found the kid curled up down the hall. I gave him some breathing instructions, and he said his name was Jamie.” Also, he told me not to exit through the west door. Maybe Camdyn bullies him too? “Anyway, he’s sweet, harmless. Nevertheless, if he decides to kill everyone, I’m confident he’ll spare me.”
Christian chuckles, pulling out on the main street. I lean back against the seat, letting oxygen filter through my lungs. “Something smells good?”
“Reach behind my seat.”
“Awe, what a pleasant surprise,” I say, grabbing the plastic bag rocking the Sunny’s Restaurant brand. The sweet, spicy scent intensifies from the sticky chicken wings. In Barbados, I’d mentioned Sunny’s, a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Watts.
“You miss home, gal? Because I’ve missed you.”
All of a sudden, I know why I’ve avoided this one last intact bridge in my life. Christian Marchand is my small slice of heaven in the horrible world I live in.
* * *
The wind bristles through the palm trees at a recreational area where we’re parked. A man-made lake is to our left, and to our right, every sort of ostentatious court—basketball, tennis, etcetera—is at our disposal.
Upon opening the Styrofoam container in my lap, my dome kisses the headrest with a satisfied groan. “Christian, did you try Sunny’s sticky wings before today?”
“Nah.”
I offer up the container, encouraging his first bite as he takes one. “Whadaya think?”
As a grin rides Christian’s lips, warmth contours the pit of my stomach.
“Lolo, they a’ight.”
“M-hmmm,” I roll my eyes, plucking one of the spicy, sweet drumettes. “I suppose that’s your last chicken wing until you’re in Barbados then?”
“Next time I visit Sunny’s, gal, I’m gonna have you at my side.” His hand clamps my thigh. As if realizing what he’s done, Christian lets go.
Silently, I place the container onto the dashboard, catching his hand. Our eyes lock while I situate his palm along the soft flesh between my legs. Hours ago, I’d cleaned a tiny trickle of desire that seeped down to this very spot. I reject the guilt and slide his hot, heavy hand up my leg.
“Kiss me,” I utter, voice dropping an octave. Eyes hooded, Christian pulls me up into his lap. His mouth’s kind, giving. The touch of Camdyn’s lips had incinerated me, crawled into my soul, and staked claim to a piece of me. That slither now belongs to him because that’s what assholes do.
