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NOTHING BUT WILD MALIBU UNIVERSITY SERIES

P. DANGELICO

Nothing But Wild (Malibu University Series #2) Copyright © 2019 by P. Dangelico All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 9781532332906 Cover Design: Regina Wamba, MaeIDesign.

Photographer: Michelle Lancaster Photographer. IG @Lanefotograf Model: Ben Ahlblad Spotify Playlist Join my mailing list for new releases and sales alerts. Mailing List www.pdangelico.com

CONTENTS

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Also by P. Dangelico About the Author

PROLOGUE

DALLAS The envelope with my name sits on the bed unopened, the handwriting definitely Beth’s. My head feels like a pressure cooker, ready to split in two from the force of it.

Forgoing the glass, I put the bottle of Jägermeister to my lips for the third time and tip it back. The burn feels good.

Productive, even. It means the Jäger’s doing its share to get me where I want to go, which is oblivion. It’s all I want right now and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it.

The roar of the crowd downstairs filters into my bedroom on the second floor. The empty bottle slides out of my fingers and hits the carpet. Following the noise, I step out onto the balcony and climb the railing. Standing on it, I survey the people congregated around my pool two stories below. Among them, I catch sight of Jen and Amy vying for my attention. No need to vie ladies, there’s plenty of me to go around.

My mind snaps back to the letter and my mood goes back to zero. I’m wallowing in the darkness, trying to claw my way out by any means possible. No one wants to be around

this version of me. Least of all me. So I push it all down and lock it up nice and tight.

“I am a golden god!” I shout, arms stretched out wide.

We won today. I should be happy, in a celebratory fucking mood. It was an important match against Cal and we made Holloway and his boys bend over and beg for mercy.

The NCAA men’s water polo season is a short one and every game counts when you’re hunting another title and we definitely are. The Malibu Sharks are contenders every year, having already won seven championships, so, you know, expectations and all that.

“Jump, jump, jump,” the crowd chants in return, drowning out the noise in my head.

“Do NOT jump.” Brock yells with his hands cupped around his mouth from amongst the crowd below. “You’ll break your neck, asshole!!”

The look on his face says if the fall doesn’t kill me, he will later. I love the dude but he has no idea what it’s like to be me. To have a family like mine. His is an advantage, mine a liability. One very clear distinctions.

Ignoring his note of warning––as I always do––I step o the railing and tuck into a cannonball. It feels like I’m falling forever, rushing toward a flashpoint––a life changing, unavoidable one. That is, if the fall doesn’t kill me first.

CHAPTER ONE

DORA This was a mistake.

Sweet muther goose, this was a big one. Next time I get an idea as stupid as taking a thirty minute Uber ride from my Malibu University dorm to attend a UCLA sorority party in Westwood I should just run my head into a brick wall and save myself the trouble.

Bad Guy by Billie Eilish pumps loud enough to drown out everything else, the heavy bass vibrating under my feet making my toes go numb. It was fun for about five minutes.

Now I keep having to shift from foot to foot like I’m in marching band just to restore feeling.

Packed together, barely dressed bodies bathed in neon blue and pink strobe lights sway to the music. Each one more perfect than the next. Had I not grown up in Southern California, this scene would’ve one-hundred-percent sent me screaming from the room. Luckily, I’ve been immunized.

It’s no myth that there are a disproportionate amount of beautiful people living in the Golden State. You either make peace with it, eat your feelings of inadequacy, or move

someplace less intimidating. I did a lot of the second and eventually settled on the first.

As for me, I’m not partaking in the dancing. I’m hanging in a dark corner instead. That’s more my thing anyway–– watching from a safe distance. From a safe place. Like libraries and study halls. I kill it there––or I used to.

I promised myself I’d make more of an e ort this year to put myself “out there,” whatever the flip that means. If you ask me, it sounds like walking a gangplank towards an inevitable death, but whatever, I’m trying to keep it positive so I’m calling it the “less observing, more doing” plan.

So far…not a winner.

For the millionth time, I scan the crowd and get nothing, no Sasha to be seen anywhere. My cousin is the only person I know at this party and she’s been MIA for an hour. Since she laid eyes on Aquaman.

Lesson learned. Never take Sasha literally when she says, “Be right back.” …or when she says, “You should get the Cat Woman costume. Winnie the Pooh makes you look like a fat orange troll.” …or when she insists that I need to come to the Theta Halloween party because “It’ll be epic.”

And definitely never again listen to her diet recs. This is the person who swore that if I ate only cheese for ten days, I would lose ten pounds. That alone should’ve made me think twice about attending this party. I still get queasy at the sight of camembert. So to recap, basically never listen to Sasha again.

I hook a finger into the tight neckline of my costume and yank on it for some breathing room. Dang, this outfit is uncomfortable. And to make matters worse, it’s hotter than summer in Hades up in here.

Wearing a black vinyl jumpsuit to a sorority house party was another major mistake. Vinyl is never the answer. But on the flip side, I’ll finally sweat away enough lbs to make jockey weight…or die of dehydration. Whichever comes first.

A guy walks by and leers at my outfit. In the meantime, I check out his. He’s wearing…black armor? Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s trying to be armor. Then I notice the talc-white hair. He’s dressed as Brienne of Tarth. So far I’ve counted four Deaneryses. Five Cerseis. Two Sansas, and one Brienne. Not a single Arya.

Brienne––the dude––stops to see if I’m amenable to his advances but my blank, nervous stare makes him think twice. I may have overestimated how far I was prepared to venture out of my comfort-zone by a gazillion miles. He considers his chances for a minute, then spotting a better option across the crowded room, he walks away.

Bye, bye Brienne.

Under normal circumstances, I would’ve declined my cousin’s invitation without a second thought because a sorority party? Yeah, that’s master level social life and I have yet to get my feet wet at introductory level, but she caught me at a bad time. I’d just promised myself that I was no longer going to let my issues dictate my life when she called.

Which is how I find myself here, lurking in a dark corner, and by the feel of it, developing a serious skin rash under my boobs.

A tiny Khal Drogo bumps into me. I only realize he’s Khal by the blown-up doll of Deanerys he’s wearing. And by wearing I mean her legs are tied around his waist. We’re practically eye-to-eye. Which puts him at five and a half feet.

No judgement, though. At barely over five feet, I’m no height elitist. I’ll consider a small guy…or a tall one. Skinny or chunky works for me too. Basically any decent guy has a

chance with me. As far as I’m concerned that “never settle” stu is pure BS. I’m happy to settle for a nice guy as long as he’ll settle for me.

“Yo, sexy,” tiny Khal Drogo says with a jerk of his chin.

Not a smarmy one, though. I can’t do smarmy. Gotta draw the line somewhere.

One side of his mouth hikes up in an oily grin while his deep-set brown eyes rake over me. After a full sweep, they double back and stop at my breasts which I patiently endure as I have since the summer after ninth grade when my B cup inexplicably became a full D. Once again, I do my best impression of a mime. And not because I’m not willing to give tiny Khal a chance. It’s because I suck at conversation with strangers. A throatparalyzing anxiety comes over me every time I attempt it.

Subsequently, I either stand around looking like someone bashed me over the head and left me brain dead, or I stutter and neither option has ever landed me a date––let alone a boyfriend. It’s a curse I’ve been struggling with since I learned how to speak.

Sensing my conversational skills hover somewhere between terrible and non-existent, Khal says, “Your loss,” and walks on. Not before the Deanerys blow-up doll smacks me in the boobs as he turns to leave, however.

Whatever, it’s fine, actually this may be for the best because the itch has graduated from mildly uncomfortable to flat-out aggressive and spreading everywhere. Taking this suit o isn’t even an option, not even to pee. I’m stu ed into this thing like sausage in casing. It would require either heavy machinery or an act of God to get it back on.

Less than a minute later, the itch gets unbearable enough to nudge me out of my safe corner in search of some privacy before I’m compelled to claw at my nipples in public. Even

though no one at this party knows I exist, I don’t need them to notice me for the wrong reason.

After repeated attempts at asking many, many individuals all of which are inebriated beyond remembering their own names where I can find a bathroom, I give up and start opening doors. Turns out, the third one is the charm.

I hit the switch and a dim, fluorescent-pink light comes on. As my eyes slowly adjust, I note that three of the four bulbs in the overhead fixture are out. Then I find the source of the pink light…

A light-up dildo sitting on the tank of the toilet. That’s right, a dildo lamp.

And because this needs to be preserved and shared, I take my phone out of my fanny pack and snap a picture of it. I’ll post it later on my new and improved Instagram account.

The dildo lamp is undoubtedly a step up from the inspirational quotes and animal memes that populate my feed now.

While I’m busy doing this I inadvertently catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. What the hell was I thinking when I bought this getup?

The mask, or whatchamacallit, covers the top half of my face, leaving my cheeks and lips exposed. Paired with the matte fire-engine red lipstick I’m wearing, the one I would never ever have the ovaries to wear IRL, I look…like someone other than me. So maybe not such a bad decision after all.

In the midst of pondering my life choices––specifically the vinyl I’m wearing––the itch comes back. The black gloves come o and I start scratching everything I can reach.

That’s when I hear something and the sound most definitely did not come from me.

A snu e?

A snort?

The My Little Pony shower curtain comes into focus in the mirror and my instincts tell me the snort slash snu e could only have come from behind that. My pulse goes from zero to sixty in an instant. Turning, I somehow summon the courage to slowly peel back the plastic curtain to reveal…

A mostly naked guy asleep in the tub.

I mean, I guess I’m not entirely surprised. I’m pretty sure I walked in on an orgy a few minutes ago. A mostly naked guy isn’t going to raise eyebrows around here.

Anyway, the naked guy––he’s passed out big time, his body curled into a comma facing away from me with a tangle of wild hair hiding his face. Standing over him, a familiar mix of fear and self-doubt begins to surface.

What to do? Do I go? What if he’s incapacitated? Ill? What if he needs help? I’m a pro at CPR thanks to my dad. Can I save his life if I need to? Should I attempt to save his life or should I call 911?

These are only a fraction of the questions running in circles in my head.

While that goes on, my eyes strain to make out the details of this naked stranger. No surprise, he’s another perfect specimen. My gaze moves down, down, down over a side view of big, defined muscles, a muscular chest. Broad shoulders. Biceps––very impressive. And then I reach…a diaper.

A diaper? Yep, he’s wearing an adult diaper.

Adult diaper notwithstanding, as I stare at the curve of his lower lip––the only part of his face not covered by hair––a prickle of familiarity runs up my back. I lean in for a closer look and the cringey creepy feeling gets stronger. Naked guy stirs, shifts onto his back, and my worst fear is realized. The room starts to spin and takes my heart and the air in my lungs along for the ride.

I know those lips…I know that face.

I know it because I spend an unseemly amount of time staring at it in English Lit. Dallas Van Zant is my guilty pleasure. Some girls have shoes. Some reality TV. Mine happens to be daydreaming about Dallas…and doughnuts. I mean, if I’m being completely honest.

He’s the most beautiful boy I have ever seen. There’s art dedicated to ones as beautiful as this one. Songs written.

Statues carved. He’s so pretty it makes my stomach hurt just looking at him. And so out of my league that the closest I’ll ever get to him is if I throw my body in front of his speeding Porsche. That’s pretty much the only way I’m touching him without an arrest warrant being issued.

Which I’m totally down for…I mean him staying in my dreams, not the roadkill part. Boys like Dallas––the “unattainables”––the ones so far out of reach they may as well hang in the heavens, they belong in the realm of fantasy. Not in real life. Because Dallas Van Zant is the opposite of boyfriend material. He’s the anti-boyfriend, more likely to give a girl a nervous breakdown than his heart.

To be honest, I actually feel bad for whoever finally does succeed in getting that slippery organ because I have a hunch it’ll be hard to hang on to.

His full lips purse as he blows out a deep breath. For a moment, I catch myself wondering what they feel like. Are they as soft as they look? Warm? I’m tempted to touch them, to run the tip of my finger along the seam.

Jesus, who am I? This is so out of character for me that I’m a little high o the thrill of it.

Other than breathing, he barely stirs. Basically, he’s unconscious and Dallas is never still. He has a tornado-like energy that sucks up everything and everyone around him.

Including this girl.

When am I ever going to get another opportunity to openly stare without consequences attached? Like…never. So

I do.

Living dangerously, I sit on the edge of the tub and take my time drinking him in. There are silver tears painted on his cheeks. This is curious but I don’t linger too long when there’s so much more to explore.

Asleep, he looks almost angelic. Which is completely false advertising because awake he’s wild. A hell raiser. And most notably a shameless player. Girls are constantly fighting for the right to sit next to him in class. The bookends, I call them.

I can’t judge the girls, though. Not when I’ve been admiring him from afar since the day my parents dropped me o for freshman orientation and he crossed my path on his way to the pool. One smile is all it took to enslave me. Our eyes met, he smiled at me, and bam! Glammed 4life. Three years later I’m still under this wretched spell.

He snorts again. Or snu es or whatever. And I bite my lips to stop from laughing. If he wakes up now, it will truly be the end of me.

I’m about to pull back and bug out without him being any wiser when his eyes suddenly crack open. Beneath his hooded lids, the striking bright blue eyes that I know becomes a warmer shade of turquoise in sunlight are trained on me. At the most, my face is a measly foot away from his.

There’s no plausible explanation for this.

I barely breathe while my mind scrambles for an excuse.

Then I recall that the headgear hides most of my face and the tightness around my lungs eases a fraction. Even if he had any clue I existed––which I’m sure he doesn’t––he would never recognize me in this outfit. The Cat Woman costume is a far cry from the button-down shirts and khakis I typically wear to class.

“Kitten?” he says in a scratchy voice, expression sleepy with a side of seductive. Let’s be real though, he could make

a fart look sexy.

The guttural purr slides over my skin and a shiver runs up my back. And that isn’t even the half of it. What’s really frustrating is that the rest of my body reacts in a way it seldom does––like he just hit the EASY button.

I go from feeling crippling nervousness to turned-on in the time it takes for the last consonant to fall from his perfectly symmetrical lips. And the worst part––for some incomprehensible reason it only happens with this guy, one that I have less than zero chance of ever getting romantically involved with. I wish I was imagining it but I’ve run a split test.

“Yes?” What in God’s green Earth possessed me to speak I will never know, but now that I have I wait for him to either call me out or laugh, and neither would surprise me.

“Am I dreaming?” he says, his expression one of genuine befuddlement. Good grief, he even makes confusion look good.

“Yes,” slides out before I even realize I’m moving my lips. No hesitation or stutter.

Dallas’s gaze moves over my face. First, my lips. Then my cheeks. His eyes briefly lock with mine before descending once more to my mouth. Then pain flashes across his face.

It’s acute and profound and for a minute I get the feeling he’s on the brink of tears. The real kind, not like the ones painted on his cheeks. But as fast as the pain appeared, it’s gone. His head tips back an inch, his chin comes up, and he pushes it all down and out of sight.

“Why d’you do it?”

My budding excitement takes a sudden downturn. Or is it upturn? Point is, he’s mistaken me for someone else. Not a stranger in a slutty cat costume but an actual other person!

And going by the emotion on his face that someone means

something to him. Whoever this girl is, she definitely left her mark. The longing in his voice is unmistakable. Also, it occurs to me that he’s high and hallucinating, and here I am feeding the delusion. I’m going to hell for this.

I can’t answer. A silent, tension-filled moment grows between us and I let it. Silence is the one thing I’m great at.

Meanwhile, he continues to stare at my lips like he’s one drug-addled, bad decision away from devouring them.

“Kiss me,” he murmurs quietly while his gaze lifts to mine, silently begging me to do it.

I could blame the costume.

I could blame a spell of temporary insanity. I legit could.

I could even blame pure and simple sexual frustration.

God knows I feel plenty of that.

But the truth is I have no idea where I get the audacity, where the courage I never knew I possessed comes from. All I know is that I’m at a crossroads in my life. This is my one chance to ever touch him, my one chance to ever feel what it’s like to kiss him, and if I let this one chance slip away, I know I will regret it for the rest of my life. All I can hope for is that he’s a terrible kisser and the spell will be broken, releasing me from this inconvenient crush. Fingers crossed.

Closing my eyes, I tip my head forward and place my mouth on his. And as soon as we touch, Dallas sighs. He actually sighs against my mouth as we gently kiss. And for a moment, while my heart attempts to ram its way out of my chest, I am positive that this kiss is going to kill me.

But it doesn’t.

In fact, I’m the opposite of dead. I’ve never felt more alive, fearless, desirable. More so when he leans into it, takes my face in his hands, and nudges my lips apart with his.

It’s even better than my daydreams. I expected it to be lewd, I guess. For Dallas to take over, to wage an all-out assault on my mouth. Instead, I get sweet seduction. I get

tenderness. A kiss I’ll be daydreaming about for a lifetime.

Because by tomorrow, he won’t remember a thing…and I will never forget.

CHAPTER TWO

DALLAS “You’re fifteen seconds o , Van Zant,” Coach Becker bellows from the other side of the pool. Sprints. He’s bitching about sprints.

The echo bounces o the walls of the Malibu U aquatics center and nails me between the eyes. My head’s throbbing, my muscles sore. I even slept through classes yesterday, trying to recover, and that did jack shit. I’ve got nothing left in the tank. I stop swimming and bob in the water to catch my breath while the rest of the team blows past me.

“Even Peterman beat you.” Becker shakes his head at me with a look of pure revulsion on his face. “Disgraceful,” I watch him mouth.

Wearing a goofy smirk, Brock swims circles in a lazy backstroke. “Guess there’s a first time for everything, huh?”

The big guy is a defensive player and not exactly known for his speed. I, on the other hand, am––when I’m not hungover, that is.

Water polo is considered the hardest sport to play with good reason. It’s four grueling quarters lasting up to twelve minutes a piece during which there is no touching bottom.

It’ll kick your ass six ways from Sunday if you’re not rested and in shape.

Maybe that’s what I like most about it. That it requires all my attention. Complete concentration. Which leaves little opportunity for my mind to drift elsewhere. Like to Beth.

All I can remember about Monday night is walking into the Theta Halloween party at UCLA with Warner, getting into it with Holloway––a douchebag on the Bruins polo team–– and one of the football guys breaking it up. Then getting stoned and kissing a girl in a cat costume like the one Beth wore on our first Halloween together.

Slow crawling over to the side, I hang on to the edge of the pool, too tired to even hoist myself out of the water.

Warner swims by and I low-key bark, “Bro,” making sure Coach doesn’t hear me.

He stops and a question mark appears on his face.

“Do you remember a chick in a cat costume?”

He shakes his head and the increasingly uncomfortable feeling that I imagined her gets stronger.

“Where’d you get that shit we smoked? I was seeing things. You sure it wasn’t juiced?”

“Nah, man,” Warner replies with a half cocked grin and a shake of his head. “That’s just you being you.”

I flip him o and the bastard swims away smiling.

“Can’t handle the sauce, love?”

Quinn Smith. Goalie. Serious chip on his shoulder. The evil glee on his face makes my balls itch. I’d throw a punch, but I’m too damn tired.

He loves nothing more than to give me shit. Mostly, I’ve surmised, it’s because he resents that I grew up with money while he grew up in public housing somewhere in the UK routinely getting the shit knocked out of him for being gay.

Fucked if I know how that’s my fault, but he seems to think so.

I’m about to jump out when a pair of big, hairy feet stu ed into Arena pool slides enter my line of sight. I glance up and find Becker with his hands on his hips, his face hard, and his lips thin. His skin is florid under his deep leathery tan. He’s got the look of an old dude with high blood pressure.

Terry Becker has won more NCAA men’s water polo championships as a coach than anyone else due in large part to his take-no-prisoners style training. Ask him and he’ll tell you, to be the best requires complete commitment.

Problem is, I’ve never been good at commitment and probably never will be. What can I say––it’s in the genes.

“Too busy dreaming about unicorns and butterflies to get your beauty rest, Van Zant?”

Taking a weary as fuck deep breath, I say, “No butterflies, Coach. Just pussies.”

That kicks o a chorus of snorts and chuckles from my teammates, none of which have the testicular fortitude to go up against Becker. As much as they say they hate when I make trouble, they love it when I do their dirty work.

It’s not like I wake up every morning designing new ways to piss him o because the dude is formidable. I don’t mean to goad Coach, but he makes it so easy. Especially since it’s an open secret that he doesn’t like me very much, if at all.

Our relationship has been contentious from jump. He didn’t take it well when I beat out his two top prospects for first string driver my freshman year. And since then, he’s had a hard-on to get me kicked o this team.

“You’re getting dangerously close to getting benched, son.” With a last glare directed at me, he blows the whistle and announces practice done.

Rea shoots me a WTF look and I shrug. Reynolds is my BFF, the two-meter specialist on the Sharks, and the cocaptain of this team. He’s also the de facto captain of the no-

fun police. The dude is strung tight lately, and I feel for him.

He’s got a heavy burden of expectations resting on his shoulders, but he needs to learn how to say no.

So here’s my TED talk on water polo for you newbies. I’m the driver. My position is the backbone of the o ense. Which means I need to get possession of the ball and make a fast break for the opposing team’s goal and either set up a scoring shot for one of my boys, usually Rea––he isn’t ranked one of the top two-meter specialists in the NCAA for nothing––or score.

“Are you trying to get benched?” my BFF mutters.

Strangely, I’ve got no answer for that.

When I don’t argue he scowls at me. “Dude, we’re playing Stanford next weekend––we need you.”

We’re aiming to win another title and there are plenty of guys happy and willing to take my place. Unfortunately for them, I’m by far the best driver on the team and it’s a gift that comes naturally. Maybe that’s what pisses Becker o –– that he can’t easily replace me, and that I don’t need to work that hard at being the best. That I never work hard at anything. Even water polo.

Unlike my boys, I got into it by accident. Brenda shipped me o to my first water polo summer camp at eight because she wanted to travel with her new boyfriend. I refused to once again stay with the nanny and made my feelings clear by setting her closet on fire. By then, the sperm donor also know as my father was busy with his new family and didn’t want me around any more than she did.

The endless hours of training never bothered me because it meant I was out of an empty house. It also helped burn o a lot of the anger and energy I constantly carried around, so in a way polo saved my ass. Plus, I was good at it and who doesn’t love winning. But unlike my boys who play for passion, it was never so much about the love of the sport for

me. The best part has been the brotherhood, the camaraderie.

When I graduate this year, my water polo days will be behind me for good and I’m gonna miss the shit out of it because that summer, the one I spent at camp, was the first time in my life I felt like I belonged somewhere. That I was wanted. That I was part of something worthwhile.

Dragging my tired ass out of the water, I grab a towel o the bleachers by the pool and dry o .

“Where are you?” Brock says, walking over to the bleachers. The big guy isn’t just my captain, he’s also the self-anointed uno cial team “parent.” I love him like a brother, but the preaching is a drag.

“What do you mean?” I say feigning stupidity and shoot him a blank stare. “I’m right here, Mother.”

Scowling, Brock drops his towel and shoves his legs into his track pants.

“Your head’s not here. You’ve been swimming like shit lately. You’ve been practicing mediocre at best…” He pulls his Malibu Sharks Get Wet t-shirt over his head and plants his cinderblock-sized hands on his hips. “So I ask again–– where you at?”

He doesn’t know about Beth. Nobody does and I’d like to keep it that way. There are some things a guy holds close to his chest and she’s one of them.

“Nah, really, don’t spare my feelings.”

“All I’m saying is––talk to me. Maybe I can help.”

“Dude, chill. I’m fine. Just tired from partying too much.

Rea’s the one with female trouble. Why don’t you lend your consulting services to your co-captain. He needs it more than I do.”

Inside my backpack, I can hear my phone buzzing and pull it out. Brenda’s text appears over the screensaver of

pro-surfer Sebastian Steudtner surfing a 115 ft. wave at Nazaré. Dude’s my hero.

Mommy Dearest: Hi Darling! I got the name of a reaaallly great therapist for you. I told her all about you already.

Fuck. Brenda is…how do I explain my mother?

When I was nine I asked her not to go away for Christmas with her then current boyfriend. She’s got as many as she’s got shoes––in other words, too many to count. I point blank told her that I got lonely when she went away. Her answer to this was to double up on my therapy appointments. There you have it––my mother in a nutshell.

Mommy Dearest: She’s got every celebrity clamoring for an appointment but I got you one!!! Isn’t that awesome!! Call me!!! Three black heart emojis.

Sensing Brock’s attention on me, I glance over to find his face set in stone. That means more unwanted advice is coming my way soon.

“Everything okay?”

Nothing’s okay, dude.

But I don’t say that. I shrug and grin. Because that’s what I do. “Fanfuckingtastic.”

DORA I. Am. Ruined.

Ruined by a bad man and a great kiss. A kiss I can’t stop thinking about. All because of a freaking costume. Have I

been guilty of indulging in indecent thoughts of Dallas in the past? Sure. But it was only a fantasy before, a product of my very fertile imagination. Actually knowing what it feels like to kiss him is so much worse. I can see my grave stone already.

Here rests Dora Ramos, beloved daughter of Jay and Evan Ramos, dead by freaking unrequited longing for a guy who doesn’t know she exists outside of his drug-addled hallucinations. Fin.

“I hate it when we fight, Sugar Bear.” Dallas’s voice rises above the chatter in the quad that overlooks Santa Monica Bay. My gaze slides away from my laptop to low-key creep on him. Three tables down from where I’m seated, he’s having lunch with some of his teammates.

“Let’s kiss and make up.” Dallas attempts to throw his arms around Brock Peterman and the latter pushes him o .

Dallas laughs at something one of the other guys said and his head falls forward. The wild tangle of blond hair, still wet from practice, falls over his electric blue eyes.

Let’s do it again…

The last words he said to me on Monday night. Then his gaze sharpened, the fog of lust I was drifting in lifted, and all the groovy feelings were swiftly replaced by a deep-seated fear that told me he was seconds from pulling o my mask and revealing me as the dirty imposter that I was. Needless to say, I bolted out of that bathroom faster than I dive on a doughnut on my cheat day and I didn’t stop running until I reached the corner convenience store to await my Uber ride back to my Malibu University dorm.

Little did I know what life had in store for me when I walked into the novelty shop on Melrose Avenue with Sasha.

Like I said, I rarely go to parties. We’ve already established

that I have a hard time talking to people, and being focused on academics most of my life is not conducive to having many friends. But she happened to call the day after I had finally screwed up the courage to email my birthmother.

Twenty-four hours later and still no response, I was worked me up into a pretty good lather so I uncharacteristically agreed. Basically you could call it an intersectionality of terrible events.

“You got a boyfriend, sweetie?” said the RuPaul lookalike who worked there.

“N-no, of c-course not,” was my automatic reply as I hid behind the changing room curtain trying and failing to cram my ass in the Winnie the Pooh suit.

“Do you want one?” she continued, sounding genuinely interested.

Did I want a boyfriend? That was like asking me if I wanted a Twinkie the month I decided to try the Paleo Diet.

Yes. Yes, a thousand times yes.

I glanced over at my cousin and found her busy taking inappropriate selfies with a sex toy of sorts. Did I say a novelty shop? Yeah, I meant novelty slash sex shop. Sasha’s idea.

“Umm, yes,” I muttered under embarrassed breath, and a frown appeared on RuPaul’s flawlessly made-up face. A moment later, a lazy smile replaced it.

“Try this,” she purred, handing me a hanger with a scrap of shiny dark material attached. “This should do it.”

Let me be clear––I hadn’t put on a bathing suit since the seventh grade so the suspicion ran deep as I stared at the scrap of material she suggested was going to change my relationship status. That was asking a lot of a Halloween costume but whatever, I went along with it because what did I have to lose. My mind, it turns out.

“You know what they say, honey. Bone is for dog and meat is for man.”

I had serious doubts about this wisdom. I’d lived in Southern California all my life and I was almost onehundred-percent certain that this breed of man preferred bone because in all my soon-to-be twenty-one years I had yet to find a single one who loved my meat. Despite all this (in addition to the voice screaming in my head to make a run for it) I put the suit and mask on, and promptly lost my freaking mind.

For the first time since I could remember, I looked in the mirror and I didn’t see someone who had a monologue of toxic garbage running on repeat in her head. I wasn’t the girl always reminding herself she wasn’t good enough, or thin enough, or interesting enough, or whatever––fill in the blank. I wasn’t someone who stuttered. And I definitely wasn’t someone who was still a virgin.

Sasha stopped taking pictures with ball gags long enough to look me up and down and announce that I looked “fucking hawt” and that was that. I whipped out my credit card and the rest you know.

Watching Dallas now, a pit of longing cracks opens my chest. Not that I would ever admit it to my friends. That’s not happening. Like––ever. Not even if I somehow end up starring in a Saw movie and am about to get dunked in a vat of acid. If you knew my friends, you’d understand.

“Hey, loser,” a familiar voice calls out.

See what I mean? Zoe’s voice yanks me out of my daydreaming as e ectively as a cold shower.

I’ve managed to become friends with three of the girls that share my dorm suite through no e ort of my own.

They’ve kinda just refused to let me hide in my room.

“We made a co ee run,” Blake says, holding up a cup in each hand, her gold medical bracelet jangling. “Want one?”

Say no to an iced latte? Never.

The two of them approach my table dressed like they stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. Zoe’s wearing platform wedge sandals with the wedge in rainbow stripes. A micro denim skirt and a blousy cotton top. Blake is in ripped white skinny jeans with a cherry red silk top and silver Jimmy Choo slides. The only reason I know all this is because of Zoe, freaking encyclopedia-of-fashion, Mayfield.

Blake hands me one of the drinks while Zoe’s gaze tracks mine right back to–– “Who are you staring at with that dopey look on yourrrrnooo. No!” she whisper-hisses. “Tell me you are not looking at Van Zant.”

I glance up to find Zoe’s picture-perfect face set in a grim expression, her glossy lips pressed together tightly.

The best way to describe Zoe is part motivational coach, part fashion consultant, part sociopath. Only the good kind, though. She’s the one always leading the charge in everyone’s defense. Maybe a little too aggressively at times, but for all her bluster and blunt talk, she’s generous to a fault and as loyal as the day is long.

Blake Allyn is the quiet one. The voice of reason. An introvert who goes out of her way to avoid attention. Thing is, with her movie star face, dark brown skin, and long thick braids, she’s too beautiful to go unnoticed.

Alice Bailey is the fourth member of our little group, the one absent at the moment. A recent transfer student, she’s a film bu and a scholarship kid like me. She’s also pretty much the most down-to-earth person I’ve ever met.

“I-I’m not. I’m looking at the v-view.”

Santa Monica Bay sparkles in the horizon. A small white lie for the greater good. I’m obviously not doing a good job selling it because Zoe’s expression calls me on my BS.

“You better be because––ewww, Ramos. Look at him––” The three of us glance over to find Dallas laughing it up with his buddies. “He’s a gorgeous, useless idiot.”

“He’s n-not t-that bad,” I mutter, taking a sip of my drink to hide the indisputable flush of my cheeks.

When all I get in response is whole lot of silence, I steal a glance and find that my knee-jerk reaction has earned me more unwanted scrutiny. Even Blake is eyeballing me strangely now.

“He’s sub-human, Dora. Liking him would require a level of self-loathing that seriously concerns me.”

The two of them move to sit on the bench, one on each side of me.

“You can’t fuck him,” Zoe continues with no sign of stopping. “He’s probably got like––a bunch of STDs.” Ouch. My ears hurt. “C-can you please not u-use that word. It-t’s so crude.” At this point, there’s so much heat coming o my face I wouldn’t be surprise to see it smoking.

“I’m a fan of the first amendment, Queen Mum, but I’ll be sure to edit my fucks next time we have high tea.”

“Look at you lawyering,” Blake remarks.

“Yale Law, yo. Here I come.”

“Easy there, Atticus Finch, you haven’t gotten in yet.”

While they go back and forth, the instinct to defend Dallas gathers strength. I don’t know why it bothers me that people assume he’s dumb and “useless” because he’s far from it.

Somehow we wound up in the same English Lit. class and his comments and answers are always insightful. He’s definitely doing the required reading and work…I don’t know. I guess I don’t like to be judged on my appearance so why doesn’t he deserve the same benefit of the doubt.

“You c-can’t judge people based on as-s-sumptions.”

“Yeah, Zo,” Blake chimes in. “Don’t we personally know the dangers of dragging people based on false assumptions?”

Zoe rolls her eyes. “You two bore me.”

Out of habit, I tug my phone halfway out of my backpack to check my emails. The small kernel of hope residing somewhere in my childhood dreams refuses to die.

I’ve sent Katherine Hamilton, the woman who gave birth to me, two more emails since that first one. I scroll down and that’s when I see it…a response.

The blood rushing in my ears drowns out everything else.

With my heart punching my breast bone and my hand shaking, I click on it. Five words.

Please don’t contact me again.

CHAPTER THREE

DALLAS The redhead seated in the second row is looking at me again.

She’s cute as fuck too. Perfect rack. Nice lips. Fantastic ass.

Not all dudes like a nice round ass and to that I say their loss is my gain. Go ahead and send them my way, guys. The only strike against her is that she seems to think I haven’t noticed her little game.

She glances over her shoulder again. That’s three times since class started twenty minutes ago. To her credit, this time she’s more subtle. Last time she tried to conceal it by scratching her chin on her shoulder.

This classroom has stadium seating and plenty of empty seats. I’ve got a perfectly unobstructed view of the second row where she sits every single time. She’s definitely not a fan of variety like I am.

It’s kind of adorable that she thinks she’s being sly, but c’mon man, I pulled the same maneuver in the eighth grade to get an eyeful of Tammy Kellog’s nonexistent A cup that had suddenly––and without warning––exploded into a full C cup over the summer. I’ve got a PhD in that move.

No one’s faulting her for wanting to get a good look at me. Let’s face it, looks like mine are meant to be admired.

It’s her assumption that I don’t notice what she’s up to that chafes my balls.

There she goes again. Her head turns, her eyes lift. Nice eyes, by the way; tilted up at the corners. Except this time I don’t let her o easy. Nah, I stare back, pucker up, and send her a kiss. She blinks, her eyes get as big as fists, then her head whips back around to face forward.

Which, of course, makes me chuckle. I’ll take all the amusement I can get these days.

“Who are you air kissing?” the girl seated to my right asks, her tone managing to sound both hurt and possessive at the same time, neither of which she has any right to.

Kelly. Speedo chaser. Hot but on the dangerous side of a stage four clinger. We hooked up once and that’s all it took for me to figure out I never want to do it again. To some chicks we are all interchangeable. Not my crew. We have a hard and fast rule that none of us share. Unless, you know, extenuating circumstances like true love.

Ignoring Kelly, my attention drifts back to the redhead.

Speaking of perfection. Want tangible proof that God’s a dude? Look no further than this girl because those curves were meant for a man to hug.

“Mr. Van Zant––” Professor Larsen calls out.

My head jerks in his direction in time to witness a slow smile grow on his bearded face. Larsen is a smug motherfucker. Young. With a head full of real hair, a hipster beard, and an attitude that comes from getting a lot of tail.

Competes in decathlons and whatnot. I only know this because the chicks in this class gush about it out loud.

He crosses his arms, pu s up his chest. “You seem distracted.”

Self-righteous bastard. I know he doesn’t like me.

Probably thinks I’m just another rich, good-looking asshole, and he’s completely right about that, but I’m not stupid and he needs to be disabused of that notion. Can I help it that I’m smoking hot? No. Can he help it that he’s a judgmental prick? Yes. “Not at all.”

“Care to share with the rest of the class your thoughts on what Lewis was getting at in The Monk?”

He thinks he’s putting me on the spot. Sit tight, bro, I got this one. I initially took this class for giggles but I’m really feeling it now. “Thematically?”

His brow twitches in surprise. “It’s a start.”

The chick sitting on my left––Hailey, I think her name is––pats my thigh. For what, reassurance? I shoot her a glare. Babe, you got a C– on your last paper. You’re the last person who should be doing any reassuring.

Sitting up straighter, I push her hand o . “It’s a tale of morality. Ambrosio’s a pretty dark, twisted dude and definitely got what he deserved in the end.”

Chuckles sweep through the classroom.

“And why is that?” Larsen asks. By his tone, I can tell his curiosity is piqued.

Feeling my oats now, I sit back with my arms on the armrests, legs spread apart. “He raped and murdered. I can’t throw shade at the guy for lusting, though––even if he was a priest.”

“You don’t consider lust a sin?”

“Hell no. Lust is healthy. It makes babies and shit.

Besides, if it was a sin, the devil would’ve come for me a long time ago.”

Everyone laughs. Larsen stops trying to resist a smile and nods. “Interesting analysis, Mr. Van Zant. Keep up the good work, but let’s watch the language next time.” I return a nod

and Larsen stalks to the opposite end of the room in search of a new victim.

My attention naturally shifts to the right, as if pulled by a supernatural force. The redhead stares back at me. She’s no longer pretending there’s a piece of lint that needs examining on her shoulder. Her cat-like eyes squarely meet mine and something weird passes between us.

I know we haven’t fucked. I have one rule and one rule only: never have sex high or drunk. In large part thanks to my grandfather and his countless lectures on using rubbers, girls being after my money, and the importance of getting signed consent whenever possible––I wish I was kidding.

Kitten.

The word pops up out of nowhere. I re-examine. The stubborn chin, the freckles covering her nose and cheeks… those lips. Jesus Christ, those lips. Juicy and plump with a natural reddish color. Fuck me, those lips look familiar. How do I know this girl?

Class lets out. While everyone stands and files out of my row, I remain in my seat and watch Kitten gather her things.

“You wanna get something to eat, Dallie?” the blonde on my left says. I glance up to find her standing over me with her hip cocked and a phony smile on her face. Her shoulders roll back, her chest comes out.

I hate it when chicks do that. Don’t overstep. You don’t know me. You’re not entitled to a pet name.

“Nope. See you around, Hannah.”

“Hailey.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

She waits a beat, glares at me, then walks away in a hu .

At least she got the hint on the first try. Most don’t.

When the redhead makes it from the aisle to the stairs, I shoot out of my seat. A relentless urge to get to the bottom of this strange feeling has me hunting after her. “Heyyy…”

She looks around but doesn’t look back at me.

“Hey, Bailey’s friend––” I think I may have seen her with Bailey at some point. Bailey being Alice Bailey, Rea’s girlfriend-non-girlfriend. My boy’s got issues.

She turns and when her eyes meet mine she flushes cherry red to the roots of her hair.

Jackpot. I knew she looked familiar. I smile big. “Bailey’s friend, right?”

The chick bolts. And I mean bolts. Like Road Runner style.

Stumbles down the steps, knocking into people on her way out the door. I’d be laughing my ass o if I wasn’t so damn confused.

I’m slowly making my way down the steps when a small object resting on the carpet catches my eye. An iPhone. I pick it up, inspect it.

No lock code.

DORA “I-I need your help,” I nervously announce as I burst into the communal living area in my dorm suite.

Last Monday night’s Halloween debacle was a game changer. It was one thing not knowing what I was missing out on, but now that I do know I can’t stop thinking about it.

Which has led to a lot of self-reflection––and staring vacantly o in space trying to determine what to do about it.

I’m not happy. I’m just…not. That isn’t to say that I would rewrite the past. I wouldn’t. Ever since I can remember I’ve wanted to be a vet and Cornell University Veterinary School accepts only the best.

I just…I need something more now. No matter what I do the restless feeling that I’m missing out won’t go away.

Thus, true to form, I made a list of the things I want to accomplish this year. New school year, new me. And on that list is a real life boyfriend.

I’m not deluding myself that Dallas is going to magically wake up and recognize me as the bun to his hotdog, the this to his that. He’s a beautiful distraction. Nothing more. A way to escape the very real fact that I’ve been stuck in limbo for years. Limbo, in large part, of my own making.

Not to mention, yesterday. Dear gosh, I don’t know what came over me yesterday. First, he caught me staring at him and blows me a kiss, clearly trolling me. Then, I ran out of class like I owed him money. That pretty much sealed it. I will not be having Dallas Van Zant’s babies so it’s high time that I replace my fantasy crush with a real one.

Seated on the designer couch Zoe’s decorator picked out––yes, her decorator––Zoe puts down her Kindle while Blake stops typing on her iPad. Just to give you a visual, when I moved into this dorm it looked like a prison cell. Now it looks like a suite at the Standard Hotel complete with an oversized flat screen TV, a designer rug, and art on the walls.

“About damn time,” Zoe shoots back with a knowing smirk.

When I don’t continue, Zoe’s head tilts, her platinum blonde ponytail falls to the side, and her perfectly groomed eyebrows hike up her tan forehead as if to say well? My gaze nervously shuttles to Blake who bites back a smile knowing I’ve just made a deal with the devil. Is this plan strife with danger? No doubt, but I’ve made up my mind. I cannot continue on like this. Hiding. Fearing rejection at every turn.

That’s not living––it’s existing. And it’s not enough anymore. I’m tired of waiting for life to happen to me.

Screwing up every bit of courage I have, (which, for record, is not a lot) I force the words out of my mouth.

“I w-want a boyfriend.” My overloaded backpack falls to the floor with a thunk.

“Don’t we all, sister,” Blake mutters drily.

“I-I mean I really want to try. H-how do I get one?”

The two of them share a look I can’t decipher and this isn’t the first time. They’ve been best friends since junior high, having grown up in Beverly Hills a block from each other, so it doesn’t surprise me.

From what I’ve been able to piece together, they’re living on campus because Zoe got in megatrouble with her mom when she threw a party at her mom’s condo, which they were both living in at the time. Apparently, someone stole an expensive painting.

“Haven’t you ever had one?” Blake adds, her face wavering between disbelief and polite neutrality.

A boyfriend? Mmmno. Not even close. I’ve shared a couple of sloppy kisses in high school with a boy named Ted Turner who was visiting his grandparents––our next door neighbors––for the summer. Not the famous one who created CNN. Just a regular Ted Turner. There might’ve even been some clumsy over-the-clothes groping involved. But that’s the extent of my sexual life or lack thereof.

“D-define b-boyfriend.”

“We’ll take that as a no,” Zoe answers for both of them.

I failed to mention Zoe’s spooky sixth sense about people.

She sussed out my sexual inexperience within a few weeks of meeting me and I hadn’t said more than two words to her yet. You don’t want to be caught in her crosshairs telling a lie.

Zoe’s large hazel eyes scan my clothes and her refined features twist like someone just dropped a stinker. “We start with your clothes obviously––” I’m just going to put it out there––I am not a fashion person. Khakis, button-down shirts, and polos make up

most of my wardrobe because they help me blend in. They don’t draw any unwanted attention, and I’m comfortable. In my book, that’s called a win win. Besides, I have better ways of spending the money I earn from my afterschool jobs. Like donating it to the animal shelters I volunteer at.

“At some point we need to discuss blowjobs––” she continues. “But it’s too long a conversation to have now.

We’re gonna have to block out an entire afternoon for that––” “At least,” Blake chimes in.

“At least,” Zoe echoes. “In the meantime, hear this…do not, under any circumstance, close your eyes around an aroused penis––like ever. It’s stupid,” she marks o with a thumb, “it’s dangerous,” she flips up her index finger.

“There’s a very good chance you’ll catch a dick in the eye, and trust me, you will not like the consequences.”

“That was a nasty case of pink eye you got,” Blake commiserates.

“It really was,” Zoe muses.

CHAPTER FOUR

DORA New Study Finds That An Alarming Number of Cases of Pink Eye Are Linked to Blowjobs. #eyeswideopen I stifle a burst of laughter as the Twitter headline flashes in my mind’s eye. My attention returns to the closet I’m blindly staring into. Then I remember that hidden among the mess in the corner is the Cat Woman costume, and thoughts of Dallas immediately replace fears of getting poked in the eye by an aroused penis.

“Dora––” Zoe says, tone annoyed. A clear indication that it’s not the first time she’s called my name. “Earth to Red. Come in, Red.” I glance up to meet her narrowed hazel eyes. And when I say up I mean way up; Zoe’s head practically grazes the ceiling of my cramped dorm room. She’s five ten to my five three. In addition, she’s wearing platform espadrilles which puts her somewhere between here and the moon.

“Where’s Blake?” I ask, glancing around.

“Inspiration struck.” Tilting her head, she strokes her platinum ponytail. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?” I let my silence speak for me as it often does. “For a minute there, you looked like you were mooning over some dude.”

“I like your s-shoes,” I go with. Anything to distract her from sni ng out that I actually was mooning over a guy.

And not just any guy.

“Sophia Webster. Feel free to borrow them any time you want. In fact, you’d be doing me a favor. Anything to spare my gag reflex from seeing you in those heinous penny loafers again. I swear I get depressed just thinking about them.”

She picks up two pieces of clothing o my bed. Gingerly.

As if they’re infected with Ebola. Her slender diamondcovered fingers dangle my favorite white button down shirt in one hand and my tan khakis in the other.

“Not even the Salvation Army is desperate enough to take these.”

“Y-you’re not donating my f-favorite shirt and pants. I wear those the m-most.”

I’ve stuttered ever since I can remember. No one knows why or how it started. At least, none of the therapists I’ve seen over the years could explain it. Inside my head everything is tidy, succinct, and clear. Forceful even. But as soon as the words are ushered out of my mouth they turn into a pile-up of letters.

Most people I meet assume I’ve su ered a traumatic experience or that my parents had something to do with it––both of which couldn’t be any farther from the truth.

Have I been fat shamed? Of course. Have I been bullied at school? Hasn’t everyone? But nothing serious enough to justify the anxiety I’ve felt all my life when I’m forced to speak.

I’ve tried the medication. The cognitive therapy. Some of it worked, most didn’t. So after years of struggling to control it, I’ve given up and come to accept that it’s just part of who I am. It doesn’t mean I don’t get self-conscious about it, though…because I do.

Zoe blinks. Her brow bunches, incredulity dueling with amusement on her refined features. They finally settle into a determined frown. “I’ve changed my mind. We’re burning them.”

She tosses my favorite shirt and pants onto the rest of the pile on my bed and I snatch them back, clutching them protectively to my breasts. Not to be outdone, Zoe grabs them and tugs. Backing down from a fight would never in million years occur to her.

“Let. Them. Go,” she orders.

“No.” I tamp down the urge to laugh as she pulls harder.

“Did you, or did you not beg me to help you fix this shit stain of a wardrobe?”

I exhale audibly. I mean…I don’t know if I’d call it begging, but I also don’t want to hide anymore. Either behind a Halloween mask or my baggy clothes. I don’t want to disappear into the background. For better or worse, I want to be noticed. I’m well aware that I may be setting myself up for a lot of heartache, but I’m willing to face the challenge. If this is going to be a new and improved me, who better to help me spruce up my image?

“How long would you like to hold on to your hymen? Till you’re dead? Because if I had a dick, it would go limp looking at this outfit.”

“Fine.” My head drops. My grip loosens one finger at a time. “I wouldn’t be surp-prised to find a p-pentagram under your bed.”

“I don’t need sorcery, Ramos––” She extends a hand and makes a circle near my face. “The virgin is all over you.”

I swat it away and immediately flush red hot because the thought of everyone knowing…

“Really?”

She makes a face and smacks my forehead. “No, not really, you weirdo. I’m just super, super intelligent.”

“And humble,” I add, my lips trembling into a smile.

Alice’s head pops in, her brown eyes wide and glassy with amusement. “What are you guys up to?”

“I’m Eliza Doolittling, Ramos’s ass,” Zoe deadpans while she takes the clothes out of my hands with undisguised glee and tosses them on the discard pile. Not a second later, she’s back in my closet, pulling out a shopping bag.

“She’s helping me up-pdate m-my wardrobe.”

Alice eyeballs me and a silent question passes between us.

She wants to know if she needs to intervene, and I shake my head. I asked for this, after all.

“With a flamethrower!” Zoe cuts in.

Alice grins. “I’ll be up late––History of Italian Film exam tomorrow––let me know if anyone wants to order takeout.” That said, she disappears into the room across from mine.

“What’s this?” Zoe continues unabated. Before I have a chance to answer, her face is half inside the bag. “What is THIS? Blake! Blaaaake! You gotta see this.”

I went a little crazy the day I received the email from my birthmother. I thought I had experienced rejection and disappointment in my life. I thought a person whom I didn’t know and didn’t love had no power to hurt me. Well, I was wrong. Every cut I’d received until that day paled in comparison to what it felt like to see those words.

Blake walks in and pops out her earbuds. Prince’s Purple Rain pours out of them before she turns the music o . It’s hard not to stare at her. Dark tilted eyes scrutinize the clothing on the bed and a wrinkle forms between them.

“Stop torturing the poor girl, Zo.” “Wait till you see this,” she says to Blake, swatting me away as I attempt to take the bag from her. Then she starts pulling articles of clothing out of it. A Victoria’s Secret extra large sweatshirt, a couple of pairs of black leggings, a pair of Ugg boots.

“It’s the Basic White Becky starter kit––” Blake snorts. “Keep me out of this.” She turns to leave.

“Where are you going?!” Zoe shouts. “We have a serious fashion emergency here!”

“I’m on a writing jag,” echoes from down the hallway.

Blake writes lyrics. Songwriting’s her passion, one she keeps a tight lid on. The only reason I know is because I noticed a few lines she’d written on the back of a sandwich wrapper and the piles of crumpled-up Post-its in her Luis Vuitton bag. That’s when she told me. Otherwise, she never talks about it.

The full force of Zoe’s attention returns to me. “Were you on a venti caramel macchiato high when you bought these?”

Did I mention I’m not a fashion junkie?

Her head is shaking before I can even attempt an explanation. “No. Just no. You’re returning everything.

Except these––I’ll let you keep these.” She pulls out the black lace bra and matching underwear and my cheeks warm. Next she pulls out a pair of black joggers and grimaces. “Jesus, you’re hopeless. Come on. We’re going shopping.”

Two hours later, my Neiman Marcus dressing room holds enough clothing to outfit the Duchess of Windsor.

“I don’t n-need all this,” I say to the tall shadow on the other side of my dressing room curtain. Zoe’s long slender arm intrudes in my safe space, shoving three more hangers at me.

I wouldn’t even know where to begin, how to get dressed in the morning. I’ve been wearing the same style of clothing since the ninth grade. That was the year my butt and boobs grew exponentially larger than the rest of my body, which did not look so hot on someone measuring all of five foot three.

The curtain rips open and Zoe does a cursory inspection of the outfit I have on. She shakes her head. “No. Take it o .

Too baggy.”

“I like baggy,” I grumble. Baggy be it, in my opinion.

“No shit,” she remarks drily. “That’s the problem.”

“My b-butt’s enormous…” My voice trails o . I hate the sound of it right now. And I probably shouldn’t have said it out loud, but the thing is, Zoe elicits total honesty out of me.

Also, ugly truth: sometimes living amongst a disproportionate amount of skinny Amazons and looking comparatively like Blueberry Violet in Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory gets to me. I’m only human.

Once again, the curtain flies open, and exhaling loudly, Zoe hands me another pair of jeans. The dramatics are strong in this one. “There are celebrities that pay hardearned cash––serious money––to get an ass like yours.

Stop being such a whiney little bitch and own it.”

No one will ever accuse Zoe of dissembling to save someone’s feelings. And yet an unexpected grin slowly grows on my face as I stu my legs into the pair of designer jeans she just handed me. “S-Stop ex-exaggerating.”

Paying for this butt…Who in their ever loving mind would want this?

“Fine…” She rolls her eyes. “It’s not hard-earned.”

Despite my best e ort to not encourage her, laughter escapes me. She really is the best kind of sociopath.

DALLAS “I’m thinking about going to Chile for spring break. A guy I know from boarding school says they get some wicked sixty foot swells,” I say to the freeloaders that have appropriated my couch. “Anyone game?”

The whole team is over tonight, most of them taking turns playing Assassins Creed on my Xbox, some of which are losing money betting on who’s gonna win. The rest are watching the Laker’s win on my eighty-six inch flatscreen.

We’ve got a big game tomorrow so it’s video games and take-out, a tradition we started freshman year when one of the starting seniors got so trashed he forgot to show up for the game the following day.

“Anybody here date Jill Hennessy?” Shane asks while staring at his phone with a shit-eating grin.

Shane Westbrook. Son on Senator Westbrook. Grandson of the first African American Fleet Admiral of the U.S. Navy, Lee Westbrook.

“Do not do it, man,” Warner howls as he stu a slab of pizza in his mouth.

Shane glances up, looking genuinely bummed. “Why not?”

“Venus flytrap,” Cole answers from the other side of the sectional.

The snickers start because the peanut gallery knows what’s coming. Shane’s a junior. He transferred in last year from UCLA so he doesn’t know the playbook––the real playbook––yet.

“The fuck?”

“Once you stick your dick in her, she ain’t letting you go, bud,” Cole explains, with a wicked grin. His glee at crushing Shane’s hope is some shit, but that’s Cole for you.

“She sounds nice,” Fletcher the freshman deadpans while simultaneously taking his anger out on my Xbox controller.

“You should definitely date her.”

“Bitches be craaazy,” Chasen, another freshman, sings.

“Knock that shit o , Chasen,” Brock jumps in immediately. Mother is ever watchful of his brood. He’s kicked back in one of the recliners, arm tucked behind his head, reading the Bible. I kid you not. “You want someone saying that about your mom or little sister?”

“No, Cap,” Chasen answers, duly chastened.

“Dude…” I level Peterman Two with a generic WTF look.

“What?” he answers, faking innocence as usual. “I just saved him months of incessant text and phone calls.” Then turning his attention back to Shane, “You’re welcome, Westbrook. Don’t say I never did nothing for you.”

“Your insides are some seriously dark matter, dude,” Warner says to Cole. Then he goes back to watching the Laker’s game.

Shane shakes his head and goes back to texting.

Cole turns to me again. “Are we gonna need jet-skis?

Could get expensive.”

I shrug. When money isn’t an issue, there’s no such thing as can’t do. “I’ll float you. Problem solved. Anyone else want the rest of the shrimp stir-fry?”

“No,” they all answer at once, which has me grabbing the take-out box o the co ee table before one of these savages changes their minds.

“I mean, sixty foot waves? It’s totally unhinged, but I dig it.” Cole slaps his palms together and rubs. “Let’s crush some ass.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Brock mutters. Mother is a pious dude. His brother…yeah, not so much.

“Why not? It’s fun to watch him crash and burn.”

That hits a nerve. Do I love an adrenaline rush more than the next guy? Maybe. Do I push the boundaries a little too far? Sometimes. So what? I’m not hurting anyone. And the chicks I date know the score. I’m not sure Cole can say the same.

“Fuck you, Cole. Like you’re one to talk.”

“Negative. I’m into chicks, bro.”

“Cole…” Rea warns.

“Get your face out of his taint and open your eyes,” Cole says to Rea, who endures it with the chill patience of a Shaolin freaking monk. There’s a reason he’s a captain of this team. The glue of this crew. “It’s a cry for help.”

“I’m not the one drowning myself in pussy to run away from whatever is chasing me. Who’s the one with the cry for help?”

“Guys, c’mon––” Reagan shakes his head and checks his phone for the millionth time tonight. Poor bastard.

“Did somebody say taint?” Quinn shouts from the kitchen. Then he cackles like a lunatic.

“Duuuude,” Warner sings.

“Inappropriate, man,” Westbrook adds.

“Highly inappropriate.”

Smith’s laughter soon turns infectious. Before long everyone else is laughing too.

Whoever found my phone. Can you please return it to me? Please! I can’t a ord a new one.

The chime of an incoming text has me digging into my backpack. The bus ride home from Stanford feels longer and

more painful than necessary, my body reminding me of every jab I took.

We lost to Stanford and it was a brutal one. Warner strained a quad. Quinn jammed a finger. And I got tossed out in the fourth quarter for elbowing Hernandez in the gut.

Cheater deserved it.

Regardless, it was not a good look when we’re already two games behind them in the standings. Like I said, the season is a short one and we don’t have many more matches before the playo s. Add in this bus ride home that feels like it’s taking an eternity and we’re all close to wrecked.

Seated next to me, Rea’s fast asleep, head against the window, face smashed into his pillow. Quietly, I fish out the phone and glance at the screen. Should I text back? I play with the idea. I’ve had it over a week now––maybe a little more. I can’t tell you why I haven’t returned it yet. Only that I tucked it in my gym bag and have been carrying it around with me ever since.

Hello? please text back if you have my phone. I promise I won’t be mad.

That makes me chuckle.

“What are you smiling at, princess?”

I glance up into Quinn’s smirking face and my amusement drops. He’s appropriated the entire row in front of mine under the claim that he needs more sleep than the rest of us. Asshole.

“Your mother wanted to know if I enjoyed her services last night.”

I put my head back down and focus on the redhead’s phone. I should give it back. I’ll do it as soon as I get back to campus on Monday.

“In that case, make an appointment to see the cock doc, love. Mum gets around.”

I wait for Smith to slide back down into his seat before I type.

Out of town. Will return it when I get back.

Pressing Send, I turn it o and stu it back into my bag.

“What are you doing?” Rea cracks an eye open.

“Invading some chick’s privacy.”

“Hmm, cool.” He’s still half asleep. Otherwise the no-fun police would be all over me.

“Alice text?” I ask because it’s becoming increasingly obvious that Rea is going o the rails without her.

“Nah,” he returns, his tone a major downer.

“Should’ve taken my advice, bro. Bailey’s a cool chick.”

I tried to gently shove him in the right direction a few weeks ago––he’s got it bad for a girl he’s become good friends with, a cool girl too, a film major––but some dudes need to overthink everything and Reagan is one of those types.

He looks away for a beat, pensive. “You think I messed it up beyond repair?”

“No. Only thing beyond repair is death.”

My chest gets tight. Rea nods, as lost in his thoughts as I am in mine.

“What’s that?” Eyes cast down, he’s squinting at the phone in my open backpack.

“A phone.”

“No shit, genius. Whose phone? Last time I checked yours didn’t have a case with cartoon dogs on it.”

“Some chick’s. She dropped it in class.” I can’t tell him I think it may belong to Bailey’s friend. The no-fun police

won’t allow it. He’d get in a hu and insist I return it tonight and that is not happening.

“So why do you still have it?”

“Because I’m strangely attracted to her and need to learn everything about her before I return it.”

“Stop fucking around. Why do you still have it?”

Nobody wants to hear the truth. Even when it hides in plain sight.

I shrug. “Haven’t gotten around to returning it. I’ve been busy.”

Satisfied with my answer, he flu s his pillow, his head goes back down, and his eyes fall shut. They suddenly slam open again and he stares at me pointedly. Then his gaze shuttles to the row in front of us.

“I heard you talking shit with Q,” he says in the lowest possible volume. “His mother went to jail for soliciting.”

Fuuuck. I’m an asshole but not that big of one.

“I didn’t know,” I murmur back.

Rea shakes his head. It goes back down on the pillow and his eyes close again.

The pressure is back. I’m crawling out of my skin. No way am I getting any sleep now. I’m too restless, too messed up. I pull the phone with the cartoon dogs case out of my bag, dim the screen, and start flipping through it.

Punching the Photos icon, I watch as a bunch of memes and dog pictures populate the screen. Then I see it and the world comes to a screeching halt.

It’s a selfie taken in a full-length mirror…of a girl in a Cat Woman costume.

Kitten.

CHAPTER FIVE

DORA “When did we get old enough to have a twenty-one year old?” my dad, Evan, muses out loud while he plays with my ponytail.

There’s more silver threaded through his sandy blond hair than there was last time I saw them. I tend to forget that time doesn’t stand still for them either.

“Not for another week––don’t rush it,” my other dad, Jay, remarks from across the table, his ginormous body barely fitting in the booth. He tugs on the collar of his navy polo shirt and glances around like he’s casing the joint.

My dad, Jay, is the Bureau Chief for the Southern California branch of the DEA and my other dad, Evan, is a high school art teacher. Which means I know everything there is to know about how to avoid getting caught committing a crime, and the di erence between Cubism and Abstract Expressionism. Basically if you need to start a cartel or buy a really expensive piece of modern art, I’m your girl.

And yes, I have two dads. For the sake of clarity, I’ll refer to them by their first names, Jay and Evan. To me, they’re Dad and Daddy.

With the exception of this small di erence, my family is embarrassingly mainstream. So mainstream my parents both drive Subarus and we have an honest to goodness white picket fence around our house in Del Mar. Up until this summer, before Iggy passed, we even had a Labradoodle.

Like I said––mainstream.

“Thanks for the s-surprise, but why today?” Even though I’m always happy to see them, this unexpected visit on a Saturday morning strikes me as a bit suspicious.

“Have to travel to Washington next week,” the Chief explains.

“Did you find your phone yet?” my dad, Evan, asks.

“Not yet. But the guy who found it said he was out of town so…”

It’s been a week and I’m starting to get a little nervous that my mystery person, the one who found it, is playing me.

I’m purely speculating it’s a guy by the tone of the text.

He frowns. “Let us know.”

“I think I can get you a new one o my plan. I don’t want you going anywhere without one,” says the Bureau Chief of my personal safety.

“How was the party at Sasha’s sorority?” dad, Evan, asks.

Every muscle in my body automatically draws tight. I shouldn’t have said anything, but he kept pestering me and he always frets about my lack of a social life so I mentioned Sasha’s party––I threw him a bone. Which, I see now, was a huge mistake because he won’t let it go.

“Okay. I guess.”

His dark blond brows come together as he examines me.

“You guess? Come on, you can do better than that.”

Sigh. This is how it starts. As far as helicopter dads go, he’s a military grade Black Hawk stealth.

“Sasha m-met a guy she liked and kind of left me to fend for myself. So, you know––” I shrug, not bothering to

finish. My parents know how hard it is for me talk to anyone, let alone strangers. “D-don’t say anything to aunt Donna,” I say to him. Donna being his sister and him not knowing how to keep a secret to save his life.

Case in point, he makes a face. I know he’s just being protective, but it’s too much. He doesn’t realize how incapable it makes me look.

“I m-mean it. Do not say anything to her, Daddy.”

“Fine,” he promises way too quickly. Which is why I’m fifty percent certain he won’t keep that promise.

The snort coming across the table has me glancing up to meet my dad’s brown eyes. He’s watching me over the rim of the co ee cup. They crinkle on the sides as he smiles around the cup.

Even though I was a surrogate baby, I don’t resemble either one of my parents. Before having me, they decided never to do a DNA test. Which means either one of them could be my biological father. All I know is that I’ve been told I look a lot like my birthmother.

A woman I’ve never met.

A woman who wants nothing to do with me.

“Are they coming over for Thanksgiving or are we going to their place?” I ask, eager to change the subject.

“Our place.”

The mention of our home brings up the sad fact that it won’t be a typical holiday.

“I miss Igg.” We had to put my dog to sleep this summer.

Being at school and away from home has tempered the blow, but going home and seeing it empty is going to be awful.

Iggy was basically my only friend for years. My speech impediment was so bad that my parents got him as a therapy dog for me when I was eight. The trainer named him Ziggy but I couldn’t pronounce the Z so everyone just starting calling him Iggy.

“We all do––” Jay says, and my parents share a look. Dad runs a hand over his closely-cropped salt and pepper hair, and sighs. “but he was in pain, sweet pea.”

That scrapes my nerves. As if I don’t know what the life expectancy of a large Labradoodle is. “I have s-something to talk to you about…”

Both of them freeze. The deer in the headlight expression is a familiar one. Every time I broach the subject, I see it on them.

“I want to meet her.”

“Honey––” “I d-don’t care that she’s not what you think I deserve.

Or…or that she’s not up to your parental s-standards–– which are extremely high, by the way. I just…I-I need to see her…in person.”

I can’t explain it any other way. It’s not like I expect us to have an Oprah moment. It’s not like I expect her to see me, come to her senses, and throw her arms around me. And who knows––maybe I’ll see her, scratch that itch, and never think of her again. It could happen. But I need to meet her.

It’s an itch that hasn’t lessened in five years.

“She never wanted to be a mother,” Daddy says jumping right into his usual explanation. “She has no children of her own––I mean––” he sighs tiredly, “you know what I mean.

None that she raised.”

“So that’s a no,” I answer for them, more than a little frustrated.

“It would be a breech of our agreement, Honey,” Dad, Jay, explains.

“The new clothes really suit you,” Evan segues in an attempt to distract me. “You look beautiful, honey.”

I’m wearing a white t-shirt that hugs my curves and frayed designer boyfriend jeans. My long, straight red hair is

in a high ponytail, and for once, I’m wearing a little makeup.

All courtesy of Zoe. “Daddy stop. My friend t-took me shopping. It’s not a big deal.”

He’s been trying to take me shopping for the better part of the last eight years and I refused so it kinda is a big deal. I just don’t need a therapy session from him right now.

“I’m just going to say what I need to say––” he continues, no less determined to speak his piece.

My other parent sighs, his expression long su ering.

“Babe––” The subject of my weight has always been a hard one for my father to handle. He’s super fixated on being supportive and at the same time terrified to say the wrong thing. The consequence of which is that the conversation always ends with me feeling forced to reassure him that I’m fine––even when I’m not entirely fine. It’s exhausting.

“You don’t have to change for anyone. You know that, right?” he continues as if he hasn’t heard a single pleading word. “You’d look beautiful in a garbage bag.” He stares across the table. “Right, Jay?” Not even waiting for an answer. “We support all your choices.”

“As long as the garbage bag covers you from neck to ankles,” Dad adds, eyes twinkling. Always the practical one.

I smile around a bite of pancake. “Will you s-support my choice to shave my head and join a r-radical political party?”

“No,” they simultaneously and forcefully clap back.

“What the fuck, dude!” a loud and angry male voice cuts into our conversation. It cuts into all the conversations. This restaurant is full and everyone turns to stare at the commotion happening behind me.

“Sweet Pea?” Dad’s brown eyes narrow and his lips practically disappear, his gaze pinned on something or someone behind me.

“Hmm?” I glance up from stirring my latte.

“If you care for your old man at all, please don’t ever bring a guy like that one home.” He tips his chin at the commotion happening behind me.

“Jay––” my other parent scolds.

Curiosity has me turning in my seat, my attention trailing after Dad’s glare. It leads me straight to a guy wearing a black wetsuit that’s peeled down to his waist, his torso naked, his dark hair wet, and his bare feet covered in sand.

He looks like he came straight from the beach. Maybe even the one this restaurant overlooks.

Standing over a table, he points angrily at whomever is sitting there. I can’t see them, my view blocked by the healthy width of the angry guy’s back.

“We are broken up, Cody. Do you understand broken up?” a girl, presumably sitting at the table, responds in a pitchy voice.

A love triangle. My favorite shape.

“You’re making a scene, Holloway. Run along,” a guy grinds out, one that must be sitting at the table next to the girl because Cody seems visibly peeved about it.

Transfixed, we watch the manager walk over and implore the angry guy and the people sitting down to take it outside.

The manager gently places his hand on the angry surfer’s naked bicep and the guy jerks away.

“––the fuck o of me,” angry surfer barks, directing his ire at the manager who takes a step back, understandably spooked by the exchange.

“That’s it,” comes from across the table. My Dad is out of our booth and striding toward the ruckus while my father and I watch him go.

Ramos to the rescue. Sometimes I think he was a superhero in a past life. His compulsion to keep everyone safe is almost too much. My other dad’s compulsion––if you

haven’t already guessed––is to fix everything. Whether it’s broken or not.

“Jay, be careful––” There’s tension and concern in my dad’s voice. There’s always cause for concern when the Chief’s on the job.

At six four and fighting fit, Jay Ramos cuts an imposing figure, but he isn’t invincible. Every time he stepped out the door when he was still working in the field, he was at risk.

It’s a persistent low current anxiety all law enforcement, military, and firefighting families have to make peace with.

The fear has only subsided recently, since he made Chief.

My father approaches the table with authority. Which with his size doesn’t take much. He pulls his badge out of the back pocket of his jeans, and brandishes it at the manager and trespasser.

Angry surfer’s face sti ens while the restaurant manager’s body language tells a completely di erent story, his shoulders slumping in relief.

My dad’s presence takes all the energy out of the situation. Angry surfer abandons the table and walks out of the restaurant, making an even bigger scene when he sends the door crashing open. Meanwhile, the restaurant manager shakes my dad’s hand. Pride fills me. Both my parents are pretty awesome people.

Then they step aside, giving me a perfect view of the two people sitting at the table. A pretty brunette and Dallas, who’s staring right at me as if he recognizes me. Not in the impersonal I-think-I’ve-seen-you-around way. More like the I’ve-had-my-tongue-in-your-mouth way. A slowburning heat crawls up my neck and over my face.

He’s wearing a faded blue Malibu University Water Polo T-shirt and a very serious expression. Streaked blond hair tumbling around his face, darker blond brows drawn down over an unblinking electric blue gaze. His pouty lips pressed

together tightly. He looks like a supermodel in the midst of doing his taxes.

The girl sitting next to him tries to nudge him out of the booth, but he ignores her, never breaking eye contact with me.

“Dor?…Dora?”

My dad’s question breaks the staring contest. I rip my attention away from the subject of all my dirty fantasies a few feet away and meet my father’s curious stare. His brow quirks.

“Do you know that boy?”

“Who?” My dad takes one look at my molten red face and knows.

He knows. And does a terrible job of hiding the spark of interest in his eyes. Nor the smile wanting to spread across his face. God, please let him drop the subject.

“Let’s get going,” he says, placing a hundred dollar bill over the check. “We have something to show you.”

Without having to be asked twice, I jump out of the booth and hustle out the door. Try as I may, I can’t resist taking one last backward glance at Dallas.

I swear that for a fleeting moment I see something that could be construed as regret on his face. Then again, it’s probably just my imagination––or wishful thinking.

CHAPTER SIX

DALLAS

E -It List 2020 1. get a make-over √ 2. learn to surf 3. get drunk 4. get a tattoo (a small one) 5. ride a Ferris wheel (or a hot air balloon) 6. meet my birth mother 7. date more 8. get a boyfriend 9. lose my V card 10.

Is this chick for real?

I don’t know what’s more troubling––that she’s still a virgin, or that she wants to lose her virginity but can’t even spell the word fuck in the privacy of her personal notes.

Closing out the Notes app, I stu said phone in my backpack and follow Rea to the garage where my pride and joy, my yellow Porsche 911, sits parked next to his Jeep.

Whoever tells you being rich isn’t all it’s cracked up to be has never been rich.

“I’m driving,” I tell Rea. “Hmm,” he returns distractedly. Which is weird because he usually fights me on it, arguing that my Porsche is too low and cramped.

“Dude––you okay?”

Glancing up, he blinks out of a fog and says, “No.” Then he stops short at my car and frowns as if he finally realizes what he agreed to. “Let me drive. I need to put my hands to use or I’ll start sending more desperate texts.”

I feel for him, I do. I know what it’s like to be tied up in knots over a girl and it’s not pleasant. Love is a dangerous drug. One minute you’re sixty feet o the ground, riding high on endorphins. The next, it’ll drop you like a Tinder hookup, and run you over for good measure. A lesson I learned a long time ago and never forgot.

We hop into his Jeep, and he tears down the road toward the Slow Drip, a local Malibu co ee shop.

“No use fighting it. It’s pretty simple. Beg for mercy, say yes to anything she says, and all will be well again.”

He shoots me a doubtful, scrutinizing glance. Rea’s never been in love before and I don’t want to spoil it for him. Every guy should know what it feels like at least once in his life.

Especially since the guy doesn’t even realize he’s already in deep.

He will soon enough, though. Chicks like Bailey demand your heart and expect nothing less. She’s a good egg, that one. The problem is, girls like Bailey will cut your heart out and take it with them when they leave. Which is why I steer clear of girls like her. Give me the Speedo chasers, the gold diggers, the ones in it for the bragging rights. Those are my type. Everybody gets what they want and everyone walks away happy. Well…most of the time.

“What if I ruin it?” he says pulling into a parking space in the Malibu Mart. Turning the engine o , he looks over at me with an expression more dejected than I’ve ever seen on him.

“What if you don’t?” I flip up my sunglasses and give him my undivided attention. “On this episode of Who Stole My Balls? we explore––” “Quit the shit.”

“Look, it might not work-out, but I can guarantee you’ll regret it if you don’t try. I like Bailey. She’s real, for one thing. And she doesn’t think you make the sun rise in the west, which makes her worth the risk.”

As we pass the glass-paned storefront, I catch sight of the woman in question. She’s sitting at a table against the glass with her friends. Among them is Kitten, and a smile grown on my face. This should be fun.

“Sac-up,” I tell him.

Shaking his head, he pushes the door open. The place is packed. Reagan heads for Bailey like a man on a mission while I make for the register and use the time to scope out my prey.

9. lose my V-card…

It keeps flashing in my head like some subliminal alpha bat call. She looks di erent. I noticed that earlier this morning when I saw her at the restaurant with her dads who I also recognized from the pictures on her phone. Crazy that I know more about this girl than all of the girls I’ve dated in the last four years combined.

For one thing, the baggy clothes are gone. She’s wearing a fitted white t-shirt and jeans. Her long red hair is in a ponytail, and she has gloss on her lips…right. Those lips…I know exactly what they feel like against mine. What they taste like. Those lips have earned my attention.

I lost my shit when I opened her photos and discovered a selfie of my mystery Cat Woman on her phone. It took me a

full day to recover from that alone. The revelations that followed had me searching frantically for a safe, quiet space to read like an adolescent school girl with her first romance novel.

“Hi, Dallas!”

I glance backward and spot the screamer. Amanda something or other. Great legs. No sense of humor. No thanks.

Her smile looks painful. Jerking a chin in return, I give her my back and place my order. A short while later, eye on the prize, I make my way to the table where Rea is busy trying to get back into Bailey’s good graces.

“No, really, make yourself at home, Reynolds. We’re so psyched that you would bestow upon us the gift of your illustrious company,” says the tall skinny blonde, the one Brock is always hanging around. I think her name is Zoe. Why he hangs with any chick is a mystery to me when he has no intention of touching them. Dude likes his balls on the cool side of blue, I guess.

“Fancy seeing you here, Bailey. We were just talking about you,” I say as I hand a large take-out cup to Rea. “Dall––” “What?” I say, tempering the urge to chuckle. My beautiful face, the one that God and my momma gave me, is the picture of innocence.

“Don’t,” Reagan warns. My boy is strung tight. God, I hope he gets laid soon.

Feigning more false innocence, I shrug. Meanwhile, my eyes take a lap around the table and come to rest on Dora. All by design of course. I’m hunting kittens today.

As I stare at her, her eyes flicker to me and away. Her full, glossy lips purse. Wrapped around her cup, her small hands clutch and release, short nails painted a dark color tapping against it.

Somebody looks guilty.

“Do I know you?”

She squirms under my intense examination, doing everything in her power to avoid direct eye contact. A deep flush works up her neck, a marked contrast against the white t-shirt. Damn, she’s cute.

In other news, I can feel the collective curiosity of her friends on me and their suspicions are not misplaced.

Bailey isn’t quite sure what to make of my behavior yet.

She knows me pretty well with all the time she spends filming the team so she’s not assuming the worst yet. Blake Allyn, who I know from a public speaking class we both took, is still reserving judgement. But the other one, Zoe Mayfield, that chick is a house burner. Meaning, you cross her and she’ll burn down your house with you in it. Judging by her expression, she’s already made up her mind about me and it’s not good. This, of course, only encourages me to continue.

“Weren’t you at that Theta UCLA mixer? Cat Woman, right? With the vinyl getup and the red lips?” Fuck if this isn’t an Oscar worthy performance.

Kitten just went from sporting a cherry stain on her cheeks to a third degree burn.

Zoe sco s. “Are you high, Van Zant?”

That means one of two things. Either her friends are covering for her or––they don’t know.

Dora’s honey-brown eyes finally lift and connect with mine. “W-we have class together.”

And there’s my answer––they don’t know. I make my way to her side of the booth and sit as close as I possibly can, stretching my arm out over the back of the bench.

“Russian Lit,” I muse leaning in. This is the most fun I’ve ever had with clothes on since I hit puberty.

“English Lit,” Dora is quick to correct.

“Right, that’s what I said.” And the more I stare, the more she squirms. “I know your name…Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me…Mmm, I know it.” My eyes narrow. I tap my lips with my index finger, doing my best to sell it. “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.”

“That’s D-Dory. My name is Dora.”

“Huh.” Fighting a grin now. “I guess that makes you an explorer.”

“And I guess that m-makes you unoriginal.”

She’s got more guts than I initially surmised. Even better.

Hand braced against the back of the bench, I hover over her, and she reacts by subtly shrinking away.

“Van Zant, step o my girl. You’re making her uncomfortable,” the Zoe chick orders.

“It’s fine,” Dora mutters.

“No. It’s not,” Zoe insists. When I don’t move fast enough for her liking, her stare sharpens. “Now.” “Chill, mama cat,” I say and lean back. “Kitten here has claws. She can speak for herself.” Which, to my growing delight, is absolutely true.

“Kitten?” Dora and Zoe repeat in tandem. Dora seems genuinely surprised while Zoe’s expression is less favorable.

“Isn’t that right, Kitten?”

Zoe fake-gags. “I just threw up in my mouth.”

I gotta say I’m a little disappointed in the Brock’s taste in women.

“S-stop calling me that.”

“See?” I tip my head in Dora’s direction, a self-satisfied smirk on my face that I know will get under the blonde’s skin. Also called a twofer.

Tired of my game, Zoe looks o and starts a conversation with Blake, which is my cue to delve a little deeper.

“Your friends don’t know, do they?” I murmur quietly.

Silence. More silence. She refuses to look at me. Then I hear a quiet exhale. “P-Please don’t t-tell them.”

My day just got brighter. This time I do nothing to rein in the grin. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I caught me a naughty kitten and I intend to celebrate. “Don’t sweat it. Your secret is safe with me,” I murmur back.

“Would you two just fuck already,” comes from across the table. The blonde again. “The sexual tension is killing us!”

She’s talking about Rea and Bailey who moments ago were huddled together on the bench engaged in a heated whispering contest. Now they look ready to melt into the ground from embarrassment.

The entire co ee shop erupts. People cheering, clapping, whistling loudly.

“Alice,” Rea calls out as she stands and begins picking her way between tables.

“Alice, don’t leave,” Blake pleads.

Ignoring us, she heads for the door. I’d say this is the perfect opportunity for Rea to make his move but I’m not him. He’s gotta connect the dots on his own…and it looks like he finally has. Getting up, he chases after her.

“That really crossed the line,” Blake scolds.

“You were all thinking it,” the blonde argues in her defense. “Don’t pretend you weren’t. I just did them a favor.”

“She’s not wrong,” I casually remark. The three of them stare at me while I finish the mu n Bailey left behind.

“Wha?” I say around a mouthful.

“Is your friend dumb or just dense?” Zoe again.

Snorting, I swallow and chase it with my co ee.

“Dense––but cut him some slack, he’s got a lot on his plate right now.”

They know it too. They saw what happened when Reagan’s older brother, Brian, unexpectedly showed up at the match strung out on meth and looking to hit him up for money.

Kitten’s eyes tag mine and hold on. Big and warm. Open with her feelings and secretive with her thoughts. They draw me in a little at a time. My humor fades. I could get lost in those eyes. I could if I let it. “Which one of you is giving me a ride home?”

“You’re in the back, Van Zant,” the blonde orders.

I’m staring at a mint green Fiat 500, and Kitten is staring at me from the other side of the hood, chewing on her lower lip. I’m tempted to pull it away from her teeth and kiss it just to see her reaction.

“It’s a little cramped for a guy my size,” I go with instead.

It’s the obvious answer but the blonde doesn’t seem to care. Shrugging, she points to her abnormally long legs.

“And did you just insult Bernadette?” she snarls.

“Who?” “Dora’s car, genius.”

Our eyes meet again over the roof of her midget car. “You named your car?” Kitten flushes to the roots her hair. Damn, she’s cute.

“Get in the back, or call an Uber, dude,” says the ornery friend.

Beggars can’t be choosers so I get in. Blake squeezes into the seat next to mine, and gives me a sympathetic smile when our cramped knees bang together. We head for campus first since my house is located in the opposite direction.

“Behave yourself, Van Zant,” Zoe barks as she gets out of the car.

“Bye, Dallas.” Blake waves and shoves Zoe forward.

“Enough, Zoe,” she aims at her friend. The two of them stroll inside while I slide into the passenger seat.

In silence, Dora starts the car and merges into tra c. We leave campus and head for the beach. It seems like she knows where my house is.

“Nice friend you got there,” I venture to say. “I’m going to need a rabies shot.”

“She’s l-looking out for me.”

“Yeah? Does she know that you go around kissing strangers in your spare time?” Immediately, her face turns into a stoplight, flashing cherry-red. “So I was right––they don’t know.”

“T-T-That’s private.”

“Oh, it’s a habit of yours. I get it now. What’s it like––a kink? I mean, no judgement. I’m partial to food as foreplay myself but––” “No! N-no. Gosh, no. It..it only h-happened that one ttime.”

She’s so flustered it almost makes me laugh. Every emotion this girl has is displayed on her face. “So I’m your first?”

Her face gets tight. “You are n-not my f-first.”

“I’m not?” I tamp down the urge to chuckle. News to me.

I’m pretty sure I’ve got proof sitting in my backpack that says otherwise.

“I-I mean, it’s the first time I did that.”

Embarrassment coats her face, her cheeks pink with it.

She can guard those thoughts all day long. It’s her feelings that give her away.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, cat lady. I know how good it feels to be bad. I encourage it actually.”

She rolls her eyes at me. It’s the most spunk I’ve seen out of her yet. I mean, besides her impersonating Beth and kissing me.

“The house on the right,” I point out.

She pulls the car/the golf cart––whatever you wanna call it––into my driveway and parks. In the meantime, I study her profile, the long neck, the freckles across the bridge of her nose. Those lips––glossy and full.

As much as I’m tempted to put my mouth on hers right now, I’m guessing she wouldn’t dig it. Nope her body is a bundle of nervous energy, both of her small delicate hands wrapped around the steering wheel like it’s an anchor meant to steady her.

Impatiently, she taps her short dark nails on the wheel, eager to get rid of me. In contrast, I could sit here all day. As a matter of fact I haven’t felt this good, this at ease, since before…

She finally looks at me, the red in her hair making her eyes look a light shade of brown. They’re long-lashed and tilted up at the corners––what my Grandpa calls bedroom eyes.

“Look at that broad over there, Dallas. Not much of a looker but the bedroom eyes on that one…those eyes could ruin a man’s life.”

“If you ever wanna do it again, you know where to find me.”

Her face flashes red again. As expected. I hop out and turn to face her, the car still idling in my driveway. The smile I’ve been fighting breaks free. Then, in case she didn’t get my meaning, I shout, “The kissing, I mean.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

DORA If you ever want to do it again, you know where to find me…

It feels like I stuck my face in an oven and it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m exercising. Of course he recognized me. He’s not a total idiot. I, however, am. An idiot who’s been caught red-handed and shamed to death. Well… not exactly shamed to death, but he definitely got his kicks at my expense.

The humiliation spurs me on, my arms pumping faster, my chest expanding and contracting as I hu and pu , power walking uphill back to my dorm.

Confession: I’ve never been an athlete. Hard to believe, I know. I mean, it’s not like I’ve been a couch slug my entire life. Just the last few years.

When I was still living at home, I played with Iggy a lot and took him on long walks. That was the extent of it, though.

My parents on the other hand…

They play tennis, golf, basketball, surf. They both hit the gym regularly. Yeah, that gene skipped right over me. Once I got to collage, I shed the walks and gained the freshman

fifteen. That’s just a really longwinded way of saying in the spirit of making changes, I’ve started going on regularly scheduled power walks. Which, more often than not, happens to be after dark.

Earbuds in, I’m strutting back to my room still riding high on Taylor Swift and some serious post work-out endorphins when I catch a strange sound rise above the music.

Conspicuously, I turn o Taylor and listen. Maybe it’s the wind. The Santa Anas are gusting tonight. A beat later, much to my chagrin, I hear the sound again and my pulse begins to race. Maybe not the wind.

This campus is built on a chain of steep hills. The grounds manicured to within an inch of their life, the sidewalks all well-lit. Which is why personal safety has never been a concern. It has crossed my father’s mind about a trillion times, however. And thank God for that.

I’ve been warned repeatedly about the dangers of walking around alone at night. I know the stats by heart, got them all memorized and everything. And yet, I still can’t believe it’s happening to me.

Having a parent in law enforcement is both a chore and a blessing. Am I maybe a little more paranoid than most people? Probably. But I sleep well at night knowing I’m prepared for just about anything. Case in point, the tiny can of pepper spray dangling on my keychain.

I hear it again, the sound. Under closer scrutiny, it definitely sounds like footsteps. And they’re drawing closer.

Goosebumps break out over my skin and the palpitations are going to put me in cardiac arrest. I take hold of the pepper spray, finger poised on the trigger, hand shaking.

Regardless of the near panic attack I’m having, I manage to control my instinct to cut and run. I need to get closer to

the safety of my dorm first––I can’t risk being dragged behind a bush or building––and I’m only a block away.

Roughly thirty steps.

Ten steps.

With each one I take, my anxiety escalates. I’m too terrified to look back. I don’t want to make him real.

The footsteps behind me accelerate, and they definitely belong to a man. The cadence, the hollow heavy sound of weight hitting cement is distinct––even in sneakers.

By the time I reach my dorm, I can barely hear anything over the sound of blood rushing in my ears. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it pulsing in my throat. I punch in the code on the security pad. The chime signals that the door is open and I dive inside. But not before someone––a large someone––barrels in right behind me.

That’s when all hell breaks loose.

I don’t think. I don’t feel. I just react, aiming the spray at the face of my assailant, kicking and screaming for dear life, fifteen years of parental training and dormant law enforcement DNA coming into play all at once. This is my fight song in the literal sense.

Next thing I know, there’s a bunch of shouting and cursing, and I look down and find Dallas curved into a fetal position, writhing in pain on the hallway floor with one hand covering his face and the other his privates. Not only have I sprayed him, I also landed an unprotected hit below the belt.

Oh e ng crap.

Zoe, Blake, and Alice rush out of our suite, their expressions in various stages of surprise. I take that back.

Zoe is wearing one of those sparkly purple beauty masks, the gunk is all over her face, so I can’t really tell what’s going on with her.

“Oh my God, Dallas!” Alice shouts.

Then I shout “I-I-I’m so sorry!” at Dallas, not meaning to. “You snuck up on me. I d-didn’t know it was you!”

“Burns––” he barely manages to get out. “Holy fuck, it burns!”

“What did this mofo do to you?” I hear Zoe ask with unmitigated contempt in her voice. “Did he lay a hand on you?!”

“What? No! I just r-reacted. I thought he was a s-sstalker!”

Stepping around me, Zoe walks over to Dallas’s prone body…and kicks him in the shin.

“Zoe!” Blake, Alice, and I scream.

My automatic reaction is to shove Alice out of the way and dive onto him, shielding his body from further abuse by covering him with my arms.

“You don’t sneak up on women, donkeybrains,” Zoe snaps, glaring down at him. Not that he would know that with his eyes being sealed shut. She attempts another kick that I thwart by grabbing at her ankle.

“Fuck!” Dallas shouts.

“Zoe, stop.”

“Gimme a break. I’m wearing my Golden Goose sneakers.

Not like I have my steel-toed Chanel boots on.”

“Jesus Christ, Zoe,” Alice adds.

“Bad. Bad. Bad!” Zoe continues. This time she delivers her justice by pinching his arm.

“I’m pressing charges!” Dallas shouts between coughing fits.

“Please fuck o in the fuckingest way possible.”

“That’s not a thing,” Blake casually remarks. She glances up from staring critically at her perfectly manicured midnight blue nails and rolls her eyes, not even mustering a pretense of interest in this mess.

Zoe glances at Blake and smirks. “I’m making it a thing.”

Meanwhile, back in reality, I’m as far from casual as I could possibly be. Watching Dallas squirming in pain on the ground is seriously stressing me out.

In my entire life I have never hurt a soul. I’m the girl who takes up ants in a dust pan and releases them outdoors instead of killing them. I hurt him and by the looks of it–– badly.

“He’s really hurt,” I say to no one and everyone.

“He’ll live,” Blake remarks.

“Can somebody grab the milk from the r-refrigerator, please?”

“Almond, soy, or regular?” Zoe’s voice drips sarcasm.

“Regular!” I bark, exasperated at this point with the lack of cooperation I’m getting from everyone. “Quick, before tthere’s p-permanent damage!”

“What?” I hear Dallas mutter through a cough as the pepper spray is no doubt burning his throat.

Gently taking hold of Dallas’s wrists, I guide his hands away. “Don’t rub. I-It makes it worse.”

Alice thankfully hands me the carton of milk. “Keep your eyes closed,” I tell him.

With no time to lose, I pour it directly on his face, and although at first he jerks, when the milk starts neutralizing the capsaicin he stops squirming.

“Better…thanks,” he rasps.

“C-Come with me,” I murmur and o er my hand, which he grabs onto with a brutal grip. As if I’m the only thing that stands between him and certain death.

Three sets of curious stares follow us as I slowly guide him to the suite bathroom, ones I do my best to ignore. Now is definitely not the time for explanations.

“Holler if you need help cutting up the body.” Zoe’s parting shot comes just as I close the door and lock it.

“If you walk me into oncoming tra c, I’ll be really mad at you, Dory.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I find Dallas trying to stick his head under the running faucet. The fact that he can tease me while his face looks like raw meat and his eyes are sealed shut says a lot about him.

This is the most we’ve ever said to each other, an actual conversation as opposed to what happened during and after the Slow Drip.

Talk about a moment of true fear. I thought for sure he was going to expose me in front of the girls. Not that they would judge, but I would never hear the end of it. Zoe in particular. She seems to equate Dallas with the devil, and finding out that I, not only went to a sorority party in disguise, but also ended up kissing the devil in question, would have given her enough ammo to last until graduation.

“I promise…I’m s-so s-sorry. I didn’t––” “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.”

Speaking of the devil…why is he here?

Eyes closed, he pushes the wet hair back o his forehead, and I hand him a clean towel, then guide him to sit on the closed toilet seat.

“Don’t rub, just pat dry.”

“You didn’t stutter,” he says, the sound mu ed by the towel to his face.

“I d-don’t always.” My voice sounds weak and pathetic and I want to kick myself for not having better control.

“This stings like a bitch.”

“It’s s-supposed to…the milk n-neutralizes the capsaicin.”

“Dora! A word please.” Zoe’s voice comes through the door like a battering ram.

“Just…give me a minute,” I tell Dallas. He holds the towel to his face while I step away and close the bathroom door

behind me.

“W-what?”

Zoe is still wearing the purple mask, her platinum hair is piled on top of her head. She’s got on men’s silk pajamas, and her whatever, Golden Goose sneakers.

“What?” I reiterate, desperate to get on with it and return to the guy I maimed.

“He’s an empty vessel. You know that, right?” She pokes my nose with her index finger, and I swat it away. “Don’t fall for the pretty packaging. You’re too smart for that.”

“I’m not f-falling for anything. I blinded the guy in case you haven’t noticed.”

“That was kinda kick-ass, Ramos.”

“Totally kick-ass,” Blake adds.

“Impressive, you little ninja bitch.”

“Can I go now? I’m t-trying to fix the damage I caused.”

Zoe eyeballs me suspiciously for a beat before waving me o . “Carry on––and remember what I said.”

When I enter the bathroom again, Dallas is on his feet and examining his face in the mirror, his eyes barely cracked open. The little I can see is completely bloodshot.

“Still pretty.” He smiles crookedly in the reflection in the mirror, his eyes watering like crazy. “Can you drive me home?”

“I should take you to an e-emergency room.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “All I need is a ride back to my place.”

A few minutes later I’m guiding him to my car.

“What happened to you?” says the boy that Zoe introduced me to at the house party we all attended the day the Sharks

won against the Bruins. He’s standing in the kitchen making a sandwich that looks to be approximately the size of my car.

He’s the tallest of the water polo players, with a sharp jaw, strong masculine features, and a full pouty mouth. His name is Brock, if I remember correctly. I also remember that Zoe––as much as she likes to deny it––has a major thing for this guy.

“She maced me,” Dallas tells Brock and hooks a thumb in my direction.

I had to help him out of the car and into the house because he can barely keep his eyes open. Figured the least I can do is set him up with some cold compresses for his poor damaged eyes and leave.

“It’s about time somebody did,” Brock mumbles around a bite of his sandwich. Then studying me curiously, he says, “Have we met?”

“Y-Yes. Zoe introduced us. At the party.”

“Ah yes,” He throws an accusing glare at Dallas, “the night you were acting like a douche.”

After wiping his hand on his shorts, he o ers me his hand. “Hi again. I’m Brock, Dallas’s roommate.”

A big smile grows on my face. Despite the serious and frankly intimidating expression, I get the feeling that Brock Peterman is a really sweet guy. “Dora R-Ramos.”

A new guy comes around the corner, wearing a black leather jacket and a motorcycle helmet tucked under his pit.

He stops short when he sees me. I recognize him from around campus and the water polo games. Another defensive player.

He checks out Dallas, who’s taken a seat at the counter.

“What’s wrong with your face?”

“Dora maced me.”

“Cool.” Cole’s attention doubles-back to me. “I’m Cole––Lughead’s brother.” Cole indicates to the recliner

where Brock is busy reading and making fast work of his massive sandwich.

“Dora. N-Nice to meet you.”

Cole Peterman is the polar opposite of his brother in every way. He’s completely unapproachable. His demeanor blandly arrogant. His body not nearly as broad and muscled. His features refined. His hair nearly black and longish. And eyes such a dark blue they may as well be indigo. They’re completely shuttered. This guy is not letting anyone in or out.

His gaze flickers up and down my body, his examination dispassionate. I’m still wearing the same leggings and tshirt I had on to power walk so I really have nowhere to hide.

“Milk?” I ask Dallas. When I don’t get an answer, I turn to find a frown on his face, his attention fixed on Cole.

“Dallas? Do you h-have any milk?”

Shaking o whatever was going on in his head, he gets up and goes to grab the milk from the refrigerator.

“I n-need a small bowl and cotton pads or ccompresses?”

“I’ll get them,” Cole Peterman announces.

“I’ve gotta lie down,” Dallas announces. His eyes watering like crazy again; he can barely keep them open.

“Okay. I’ll just get t-this ready for you and Cole can bring it up. Leave the comp-presses on your eyes and don’t rub.”

“Why can’t you bring it?” he shoots back.

Ummm…to his bedroom? The tell-tale sign of warmth starts to slow-crawl up my neck.

“Uhh––” “I’ll be in my bedroom, trying not to cry out in pain from your vicious assault.”

Well, nuts.

He walks away without waiting for a response. Five minutes later, I carry the remedy upstairs and knock on his

bedroom door.

“Come in,” he calls out.

It feels like a breech of privacy to be in here, in his bedroom, the one where he entertains the legions of bookends he probably has on speed dial. This is so uncomfortable. And I don’t dare look around. No. I head straight to the nightstand with imaginary blinders on and place the bowl on the bedside table. Then I step back and clear my throat, indicating that I’m about to take o .

He sits up, throws his legs over the bed, blinking rapidly. I feel terrible.

“T-Try and k-keep these on your eyes as long as you can.

It’s really the best r-remedy to neutralize the irritation.”

He nods. “Thanks.”

“Please don’t thank me. I-I am so so sorry this happened…” Then I remember. “W-Why did this happen?”

“Because somebody trained you to be a killer, then unleashed you on an unsuspecting general population.”

That makes me unexpectedly laugh. “I m-mean, why were you f-following me?”

He looks momentarily surprised, his brow wrinkling in the most adorable frown. Then he shoves his hand into his track pants and pulls out a phone. And not just any phone… my phone.

He holds it up in his palm and we both stare at it. There’s a gigantic crack in the screen.

“You’ve had my phone this w-w-whole time?” That’s a rhetorical question. It’s obvious he has. My stomach sinks to the floor and the gentle whisper that I have been played a fool turns into a battle cry. Taking it from him, I inspect the damage closer.

“I’m sorry. It must’ve broken when I hit the ground. I’ll replace it.”

My head starts shaking before he finishes. “I-I d-don’t want anything, not f-from you.”

“Dora, I’m…” His voice peters out.

When I finally glance up, he looks unbearably uncomfortable and it has nothing to do with the angry irritation around his eyes. He looks ashamed. As he should.

My thoughts start to splinter into di erent directions and possibilities. He preys on people lesser than him for entertainment. Is that what he does? Is that who he is?

Someone callous and spoiled. And what’s worse is that I was certain there was more to him. I thought beneath the party boy was a decent person with depth and intelligence…I guess I saw what I wanted to see.

“Do your f-friends know?” My prior assessment of Brock didn’t age well. Was he in on it too?

“That’s not––” “W-Were you all l-laughing at me?” I chew on the inside of my cheek to stop my lips from trembling, hating that I can’t keep it together right now.

“No! No. I was going to––” “D-Did you l-look through it?”

As soon as I turn the phone on, I know what I’m going to find. It’s not locked. His gaze darts away, which is basically an admission of guilt. And the threat of tears makes me look away for a brief moment.

Breathless from disappointment, I back out of the room, open the door to leave, and stop. That’s when–– inexplicably––the fire in my belly flares again. “Y-You’re nothing but an empty vessel. Everything is a game to you. No matter who you h-hurt.”

I’ve never in my life said something so mean or spiteful, spoken with the express intent of hurting another person’s feelings. That’s not how I’m wired. I’ve been the target of

attacks a few times too many and would never inflict that pain on someone else. And yet here I am.

Squinting, his cheeks infuse with color. There’s no mistaking that I’ve hit a sore spot because he looks genuinely mad for once. “You ever need someone to take that V-card o your hands let me know. I consider it my civic duty to make sure your first sexual experience is a great one.”

Flushing red-hot, I close the door and leave.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The surf before me stands two stories high, the sky overhead a muddy gray. In the distant horizon, thunderheads charge toward the shoreline.

My head should be in the game. Better surfers than I have died at Mavericks but it isn’t. It’s on something entirely di erent and equally dangerous. I can’t get this girl out of my head and I have to before she gets me killed.

It never even occurred to me that she would think I was pranking her. Fuck. I feel terrible. I wasn’t trying to hurt anybody, least of all her. I actually like her. “’Sup, brah,” one of the locals hollers at me. We both stand on the sand looking out, boards tucked under armpits, eager and ready to charge into the freezing Pacific.

“Praying the surf gods don’t call me home today.”

“Today is a good day to live,” he returns. Smiling, he gives me the shaka sign and I nod back.

He’s got the look of a guy living out of his van, baked by the sun to a dark co ee brown, his dreads bleached out. Free to be and do whatever the hell he wants. To love whoever he wants.

My mind snaps right back to big brown eyes widening in surprise. Then looking crushed under the enormous weight

of a dumpster-load of disappointment.

Fuck if I know why I care, but I do. Which pisses me o .

She’s a stranger. She doesn’t know me––not really. Nobody does. Empty vessel, my ass. I’m far from empty. And who is she to judge me, anyway. One day soon I’m going to be the king of fucking beer, owner of a bottling empire. On Forbes richest under thirty. She’s just a girl––a nobody…a girl who doesn’t give two shits about who I am or what I have.

The pressure starts to build, my head aching with it, my skin hypersensitive. Anger makes me run full-throttle into the frigid ocean. As soon as I hit the water, I take an involuntary sharp inhale. Not even the roar of the surf breaking can drown out my errant thoughts, my head filled with images of a cute redhead who thinks I’m dumb and spoiled. An empty vessel. Shit, maybe I am…maybe she’s right.

I mount the board and paddle hard into the surf. Waves crash over me as I cut them in half, diving under and out the other side, the salt in the air scraping my lungs raw. I welcome the pain. Maybe I even deserve it. Maybe there is something inherently wrong with me. God knows I come from rotten stock.

Shaka Brah is already up and riding the next one in. He swivels his hips, rides up the crest, goes airborne, and comes out the other side. His dreads flying behind him, grinning from ear to ear.

Today is a good day to live.

He gets it. Nothing like the jacked-up thrill of a big wave ride. It’ll burn your veins, make the organs inside your ribcage expand until it feels like your lungs will explode, and crown your ego a king among men.

Or it can kill you. Leave you paralyzed. Shit like that.

Paddling hard, I catch the next one. It’s bigger and breaks early, building and building into a monster. I enter the

tunnel, hand scraping the wall, the thrill blanking out everything else.

For a split second, the quiet makes me whole again.

Soothes my soul. Then I realize I wasn’t paying attention and rode too far in. I’m suddenly seconds from crashing into the jetty, an outcropping of rocks. It’s either bail or get hammered. In a split second decision, I bail and get dragged under. The force of a big wave is similar to that of a tornado.

You are literally powerless to resist, a rag doll at the mercy of its undiscriminating violence.

Caught under, the washing machine keeps me spinning and spinning. The safety line to my board snaps. It feels like I’m under an eternity. Until a strong hand takes hold of my wrist and pulls me to the surface. Breaking the waterline, I suck in air and the backwash of the wave. My lungs are on fire, my throat a 405 pile-up––nothing is getting through.

Gasping for air, I stumble out of the water and fall to my knees next to Shaka Brah.

“Thanks, man,” I croak, desperately trying to suck in air.

I’d be dead if it weren’t for him.

“You bet,” he says and walks away. “Be well, brah.”

Problem is, I don’t think I’ll ever be well again.

“Baby, what happened to your beautiful face?” Brenda says as soon as I walk into the living room.

My mother doesn’t even bother getting o the couch. She places the glass of red wine she’s nursing like a baby with a bottle on the co ee table and raises her thin suntanned arms, her long fingers waving me over.

“Surfing Mavs,” I mutter.

“One of these days, it’s going to catch up with you.”

“I’m pretty sure it already has.” I point to my face.

Making my way to the couch, I sink down into it and tap the shiner developing on my brow bone which hurts like a bitch.

“You should put some ice on that,” she says with a goofy smile, a clear indication that the wine has taken its toll.

Brenda’s tall––around five foot ten––and really thin so it doesn’t take much. I’ve watched her for years go from one controlled substance to another, which makes me an expert on the subject.

“In a minute…” I glance around. The house is too quiet, all twenty-thousand square feet of it. “Where’s Harry?”

Brenda’s current boyfriend. The only reason we get along is because he doesn’t pretend to like me so I don’t need to pretend to tolerate him.

“We broke up.”

“Again?”

She looks o . “For good, I think...He took his stu with him.”

I’m not celebrating yet. They’ve broken up a million times in the last three years.

“The bike too?” Dude loves his Harley.

“Yep.” “Too bad. I would’ve taken it out and wrapped it around a tree.”

She makes a sound. “Baby…”

My first genuine smile of the day. “And Grandpa?” I mean, what’s Thanksgiving without family, right? That’s sarcasm FYI. “He’s in Mustique with Brandy.”

I chuckle darkly. My grandfather––the honorable patriarch of this great family––is, for lack of a better term, a fucking horn dog. He’s seventy-seven and dates twentyyear-olds.

“Brandy?”

“New one. He met her at Morton’s.” My mother smirks around another sip of vino. “An aspiring actress.”

“So…porn?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

The co ee table is littered with take-out boxes, bags with The Bench logo, and an empty bottle of Chateau Margaux.

She’s working on her second one. Nothing out of the ordinary here.

The super chilled-out expression, however––that’s cause for concern. Brenda’s usually bouncing around with excess energy. “You seem like you’re in a good mood.” The unspoken accusation hangs in the air.

“New medication,” she explains, giving me a sly smile.

Figures. Then, placing her glass on the table, she lays down with her head on my lap; something she used to do all the time when I was still living at home.

My mother is what the rich call “eccentric” and what the rest of the civilized world––including the medical community––call “bipolar.” Which means I learned at a very early age to watch people closely and search for signs of change in their demeanor. Not for nothing but I’m kind of a stud at it.

Had she gotten a proper diagnosis and medication twenty years ago I have no doubt she wouldn’t be nearly as fucked up today.

“Love this new shrink. I’m even thinking of moving to L.A. to be closer to her. Did you like her, by the way?”

No. She’s another total phony and I don’t intend on seeing her again. “Yeah, she’s great.”

“I knew you guys would hit it o .”

A heavy silence falls between us and the pressure under my skin builds. It’s almost too much to bear.

“Beth died…” It comes out before I can stop it. Like an infection purged by the body.

My mother’s eyes blink open. Pupils dilated, her brows perfectly still thanks to her dermatologist. “Beth Bradley?

Your old tutor?” She sits up and turns to face me. I nod and watch something unreadable cross her face.

I met Beth the summer I turned sixteen. My parents had been separated since I was two so it should’ve been a simple divorce. It wasn’t. Nothing that involves my family ever is. It turned into a bloodbath. Basically an excuse to get back at each other. Including accusations of orgies, drug use around a minor, and physical abuse.

With all the bullshit that was going on––the two of them fighting for custody when in truth neither of them really wanted me around––my grades took a nosedive. They hired a tutor to get me up to speed for the new boarding school they were looking to ship me o to––the second one in three years. Beth was getting her PhD in Women and Gender Studies at Stanford and needed a job with flexible hours.

The attraction was immediate.

At least, for me it was. I wasn’t a virgin, but being shuttled from school to school didn’t exactly make it easy for me to keep a steady girlfriend. Beth was sexy and confident.

She was easy to talk to. And most of all, she listened. Except for the part that she was twenty-seven and I was underage, it felt like fate.

It didn’t happen right away. I mean, it took me a while to wear her down. There’s not much I want, but when I do I go after it with relentless patience and determination. Once I finally got her to admit that she was attracted to me too, it happened naturally. I convinced my parents to let me finish my junior and senior year in the Bay Area––she helped with that––and we carried on. It was the first time in my life I can recall being happy.

Shortly before the end of my senior year she told me she couldn’t see me anymore. That if it ever got out, she could go

to jail, be branded a pedophile. Her name would go on the registry, and she would never be able to teach again. Her life would be destroyed. And although all those things were true, they had been true from the start. And yet she’d chosen to love me despite the risk.

I was blindsided. Nothing I said or did changed her mind.

Shortly after that, she transferred to Princeton and I never saw her again. In a matter of weeks, she went from being the love of my life to a ghost, a painful memory.

“How? What happened to her?”

“Car accident…Her husband called me.”

“What did he say?”

Every word of that letter is forever seared in my mind.

“He said she left a letter with her lawyer to be sent in the event of her demise…” The exact word the lawyer used. “I don’t think she ever imaged it would be at thirty-three.”

“I always liked her.”

My gaze flickers over to find Brenda’s rapt attention on me. She was the only one I ever told about Beth.

“She apologized. Said she loved me and hoped I was doing well. She said she never had any intention of leaving me but the family threatened her…”

Jumping o the couch, I walk to the wall of windows that overlooks the Pacific, watch the sun melt into the horizon and leave behind a wake of color. Built on a blu , this house has the best view in Pebble Beach that money can buy. The entire structure is modern, the furniture large and sparse. All of it meant to showcase the beauty of the environment.

“She said she was o ered a hundred thousand to leave or face charges.” My skin feels like it’s going to split open and reveal every emotion I’ve ever had.

I came here for one reason only, to get answers from my grandfather and the old bastard is in the fucking Caribbean getting his pole shined by a soft porn wannabe.

“I thought it was Dad at first, but he hasn’t given a hot shit about me since I was conceived so it has to be Grandpa.”

The frustration I’ve been feeling since I opened Beth’s letter boils over and actual fucking tears fill my eyes. The one person that ever really cared about me and he had to ruin it.

Back against the glass pane, I slide down to the floor, legs weak, a feeling of powerlessness coming over me.

“He thinks he can play me, mess with my life, and get away with it. That I’m just a pawn…”

“It wasn’t Grandpa,” I hear a few minutes later. I glance up into my mother’s face. Her bright blue eyes the same exact shade as mine are filled with sympathy.

“What?”

“Grandpa didn’t threaten her.” She sits up straighter, snatches the half-empty glass o the co ee table and downs what’s left of the wine.

That piece of shit. “Dad…” Anger, raw and ugly, rises up in me.

“No…it was me. I o ered her the money.”

The sound vibrates through the air and reaches me but I can’t make sense of it. It can’t be possible. “You paid Beth?

You did?”

Brenda nods, looks o , her fingers nervously pulling at the fringes of the blanket on her lap. “I thought…I thought it was just a phase for her, you know. A thrill. And you…you were so emotionally needy. So young and lost. She played you Dallas. Not Grandpa. Not me. Beth was old enough and smart enough to know that you were a very fragile young man––and a rich one to boot.”

“You?” I’m in so much shock I can’t even form a sentence. It’s hard to breathe. It feels like the walls are closing in on me. “But I thought you…” I suck in a deep, ragged breath that sears my lungs. “You made me believe

you were cool with it! That you thought it was all romantic and shit!”

“I was trying to do the right thing,” comes out a quiet whimper.

“You fucking selfish bitch! You’ve never done anything to please anyone but yourself!”

Standing, I freeze in place because I’m so angry right now I may do something I’ll regret for the rest of my life. “You were the only one I trusted…”

Tears stream down her face. She wipes them away, swallowing hard what is probably a fuck load of guilt. I hope she chokes on it.

“You people are so toxic…”

I force myself to move, to head for the door. I can’t stay here another minute. Happy fucking Thanksgiving.

CHAPTER NINE

DORA Thanksgiving came and went. As usual, nothing much happened except that I had to keep kicking Sasha under the table while she was interrogated by Chief Ramos about the Theta party. First, it was whether the fire marshal was called for overcrowding. Then, did we observe any illicit drug use.

Blah, blah, blah. The man is always on the job. The answers were yes and yes, but naturally we kept our traps shut.

My errant thoughts immediately run to the Cat Woman costume. If my parents ever saw me in that getup, I am one hundred percent certain they would both stroke out.

“This seat’s taken,” I hear the guy who’s seated next to me in English Lit. say.

You ever need someone to take that V-card o your hands let me know. I consider it my civic duty to make sure your first sexual experience is a great one…

Filthy images of our naked, entwined bodies flash in my mind’s eye and I may as well be standing in dragon fire. A blast of heat works up my neck and over my face, sweat beads along my hairline.

The last thing I need is to be reminded of my downward spiral into total humiliation. As if it wasn’t hard enough to look Dallas in the eyes before he knew with absolute certainty what a pathetic loser I am, now it’s impossible. The silver lining here is that all I have left is one more month of this class. Then I’m a step closer to never having to see him again.

Distractedly, I glance up from my tablet, the one I use to take notes in Larsen’s class, and find Dallas standing next to the guy seated next to me. He’s in his usual uniform: faded Malibu Sharks t-shirt, long basketball shorts, and pool slides. His hair is––as always––a beautiful mess. Except something is very di erent today. His arm is in a sling, his right eye is an interesting shade of purple, and his bottom lip is split and swollen.

Huh. It takes me a minute to recover from the sight and within that timeframe all I do is stare. His gaze briefly catches mine and darts back to the guy seated next to me––Bryce, I think his name is.

“Is it?” he says, staring an icy hole in Bryce’s face. Bryce, for his part, looks genuinely confused at this line of questioning.

“Uh, yeah, dude, I’m sitting in it so I’d have to say it’s taken.”

Blank-faced Dallas continues. “Is it though?”

What the heck is he up to? Bryce steals a glance in my direction. To gauge if this is some coordinated e ort, I’m assuming. Unfortunately, I have no answer for him other than to look just as confused as he does.

“I need to sit next to my friend,” Dallas continues. “She’s taking notes for me.”

Which is a barefaced lie. We are as far from friends as possible. But all is not lost because this is the part of the

story where I find the fire in my belly––and my voice.

“We’re not f-friends.”

“Yes, we are, Dory. Don’t be mean,” he has the audacity to say. I catch him close to smiling and my anger kicks up two notches.

Bryce’s head bobs back and forth between us. I still have no idea what Dallas is up to, but I’m fairly certain that his intentions are not on the up-and-up.

“We’re not,” I repeat, wasting no time in correcting his false claim.

“You wanna pretend you don’t know me now? After everything we’ve been through?”

Brain damage. He must’ve hit his head. Maybe he’s concussed. Because he’s definitely lost his mind. It’s all I can come up with as an excuse for this strange behavior.

That’s when I realize everyone else within earshot has noticed the scene he’s making. Everyone and I mean everyone is staring. The bookends included who patiently wait for their cult leader in the aisle.

“I’ll move,” Bryce announces, as frustrated with this nonsense as I am. Standing, he gathers his things, forcefully shoving everything in his messenger bag.

“Great idea,” Dallas deadpans.

“D-don’t move,” I plead. Which doesn’t do any good.

As soon as Bryce shu es past Dallas, he takes the newlyvacated seat. Long legs splayed, his damaged arm in the sling filling the space between us.

Ducking his head into the aisle, he gives the girls a patronizing little salute with his still-functioning hand, then turns that deadly grin on me. Dallas has always been a beautiful disaster, but with the split lip and black eye, he literally epitomizes the label.

“I can’t have them bumping into my injured arm. You’ll keep me safe, won’t you, Dory?” At first glance, he seems

smug but then, for just a fraction of a moment, the act slips and he looks a bit lost, a little unsteady.

It’s apparent I won’t be getting him to move so I decide to make the best out of this terrible situation. Also, I’ll admit my curiosity is piqued.

“W-what happened to you?” I murmur, taking the opportunity to study his perfectly symmetrical profile while he pulls his books out of his backpack.

Turning to me, his smile drops and he runs his good hand through his sun-bleached hair, tugs on the ends. “You didn’t hear? I totaled my car.”

“The Porsche?” I ask, completely taken aback. He could’ve died. He nods. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“That I am…” He sighs then and I know there’s more to the story.

“Is it b-broken?”

“Dislocated shoulder.”

His playing days are over. With only a few games left in the water polo season––including the playo s––he won’t heal in time to play another game. And he’s a senior, which means he’ll likely never play again.

“So…” “Yeah,” he very quietly replies. No need to spell it out. A heavy, meaningful silence falls between us. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry…” he says a few minutes later.

I say nothing in return––what is there to say. It’s not like I’m ready to forgive and forget and pretend he didn’t hurt and embarrass me. It’s worth noting that I’m feeling mighty uncomfortable, however. My heart’s beating rapidly too.

“I wasn’t making fun of you––” His low raspy voice compels me to look at him. “––or anything like that…I can’t even explain why I kept it as long as I did...I’m sorry I can’t explain why, but it wasn’t to purposely hurt you.” He exhales tiredly. “I’m just…really sorry.”

Larsen walks in and the room gets quiet. That’s when Dallas’s voice gets even quieter. “I’m not an empty vessel.”

He turns to meet my scrutiny head on, and it occurs to me––beautiful, wealthy, gifted Dallas Van Zant is insecure.

“I’m not,” he repeats in case I didn’t believe him the first time.

I’m not sure either way yet, but I’m curious to know more. “G-Give me your email so I-I can send you the notes.”

DALLAS We beat Long Beach State tonight. A lucky goal by Rea in the last minute of the fourth quarter saved the season. It wasn’t looking so good for the Sharks until then. No matter how ugly the win, however, we beat them in the opening round and advance to the semifinals of the NCAA championship tournament next weekend.

I watched from the bench, of course. Even if I hadn’t dislocated my shoulder, Coach would’ve sat me for the arrest. He wasn’t a total douche about it either. He said he was sorry to see my playing days end this way. Somehow it seems fitting, though. It feels like it’s all coming to a head––my life, that is. I just can’t see how it’s going to break when it does.

“Rook!” Warner slurs at Jake Chasen, the rookie who replaced me. The freshman had three assists and one goal.

“Get your sloppy face o that poor girl and get us refills.”

Warner’s halfway to passing out on the outdoor couch around the pool. We’re all congregated there in various stages of drunkenness. Next to him, Cole and Rea are o to a good start on their campaign to get wasted.

We started partying as soon as we got home. All of us for di erent reasons. Rea has lady trouble as usual. Cole is being Cole, which means there’s always a reason to party. As for me, the night in jail didn’t even begin to put a dent in the low-simmering anger I’m carrying around.

My mother has always been a problem. Never knowing what each day will bring is tough on an adult, let alone a kid.

Some weeks she would stay in bed crying. Other times she would wake me in the middle of the night to take the sailboat out for a 3 a.m. cruise in rough waters. I was five the first time it happened. That we survived every single time is nothing short of a miracle.

The thing is, I always thought she had a good heart. Was she irresponsible? Sure. Spoiled? Extremely. She’s always been more like a sibling than a parent. But I never thought she was manipulative like my old man.

Bill Van Zant was and is interested in one thing and one thing only: furthering his own success at the cost of everyone else’s. It’s an open secret that he married my mother for her last name and her money. As soon as they had me, he left. He said he couldn’t handle her crazy, which is probably for the best because I can’t handle his either. I’ve always expected the worst out of him and he’s never disappointed me on that front.

But Brenda…fucking Brenda. She betrayed me worst of all.

Never once have I thought she would use me. After all the times I covered for her when my father tried to get the courts to adjudicate her as an unfit parent…this is what I get as a thanks.

“Chase, ya hear me!” Warner hollers.

The rookie is on my couch macking on a girl I’ve seen around campus, an upperclassmen. He pauses long enough to scrub the lust from his eyes and glance at Warner.

“Reaally? But I won the game for us tonight,” Chasen complains.

“Get the fuck outta here, rook. Help us win the championship. Then we’ll consider taking it easy on you.”

“Yeah, do that and we’ll consider making Fletcher our bitch,” Cole adds.

“Heeeyyy,” Fletch whines.

“In the meantime,” Cole continues, “get our refills.” He and Warner laugh.

Across the way, I catch Reagan eyeballing me. Something is going on with him––more than the usual.

Getting up, I plant my ass between him and Cole who’s listing to the side, and according to the sloppy look on his face, close to passing out.

“Where’s your girl?” I ask.

Bailey should be here, celebrating with us. As the o cial Sharks videographer, she’s just as much a part of this team as I am. Not to mention Rea’s girl––whether he wants to admit it or not.

“Not my girl.”

Still in denial. Poor bastard. “Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately? You look like shit.”

His head falls back onto the cushion, he palms his forehead. “I feel like shit. I think I’m catching the flu.”

That gives me the chuckles for the first time all night.

“Nah, bro. You’re catching feelings. That’s love making you feel like shit…” My mind drifts to Beth and my amusement fades. “Welcome to hell.”

He shoots me a defeated look. “I’m trying to get drunk in peace if you don’t mind.”

“At least you didn’t deny it. My new shrink would be proud of you.”

The one I don’t intend to see anymore.

With a sideways glance, he checks me out. “Why are you still sober?”

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking lately. Jail and a neardeath experience will do that to you. And I came to the conclusion that some shit needs to change. For one thing, I need to lay o the booze and the occasional recreational drug. If nothing else, Thanksgiving proved that those two things, plus raw emotions, don’t mix well.

“I’m gonna quit booze and pills for a while. See what happens.”

Rea searches me for signs that I’m messing with him, but he won’t find any.

“She’s on a date,” he says, out of the blue. “Alice––that’s why she’s not here.”

At first I can’t believe my ears. They must be lying to me.

He let Bailey go on a date? Is he a total glutton for punishment? Then the confusion transforms into a loud burst of laughter.

“Great. That’s just great,” he mutters, his patience wearing thin.

“And you let her? Dude,” more laughing, “why didn’t you just let her take a running kick at you balls, it would’ve hurt less.”

“Why am I taking relationship advice from you?”

“Hey, I may be fucked up beyond repair, but at least I know what a good thing looks like and I know you’re pissing it away.”

His face falls. Whatever I said hit home. Karen and Tara are suddenly standing over us. “Hey Boo. You, me, and Nutella in the privacy of your bedroom?” Karen’s smile says she’s picturing it already.

Karen. Legs for days. Loves sex. Knows how to take a hint.

Which is why we hooked up a few times last year. Twenty minutes ago, I had my tongue down her throat. Now I’m

wondering why. I feel nothing for this girl. No chemistry. No desire. No interest….Nothing. Ever have a day where you can’t stand yourself anymore? I think I just hit that wall.

“Hi, Reagan. You know Tara?” Karen says to Rea when I don’t answer.

Rea checks the two of them out, frowns. “We’ve met.”

He’s obviously no Tara fan.

I get up, careful not to bump my aching shoulder. The painkillers have worn o and I can feel every single twinge right now. Nudging her lower back, I guide her away, out of earshot.

“So––are we going?” She runs a finger down my neck into the hollow between my collarbone.

“No.” Confused, her brow wrinkles. She studies my face closely.

“What’s going on with you? I went to the bathroom for like––ten minutes. You seemed fine, and now you look like someone died.”

Truer words.

“Someone did die. Maybe some other time.”

It’s a lie and she’s smart enough to know it. Without waiting for an answer, I walk back into the house, go to grab a beer from the fridge––the one with my family’s name on it––and stop. Then I reach for the Pellegrino instead and head to my bedroom.

Grabbing my phone, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the contacts, my finger hovering over Dora’s phone number. I don’t know what it is about this girl. Except…and maybe I’m reading too much into this…when she looks at me, it feels like she sees me.

I Am Sorry

I press Send.

DORA unknown number: Thanks for the notes. Are you here?

Am I here? Why does he care if I’m here or not? It’s not like all is forgiven just because I’m sending him notes. I would’ve done the same for anyone in need. This is the second text I’ve received, the first was an apology of sorts. Now this. My finger hovers over the keyboard. I type. Erase. Type erase.

Me: Maybe It’s the NCAA Men’s Water Polo Championships––the Malibu Sharks against the Stanford Cardinal––and it’s not going to be a walk in the park. They’ve already lost badly to the Cards during the season, and with Reagan playing, we’re all here to support him.

“Who’s that?” Blake casually asks when she sees me looking at my phone. The aquatics center is packed tonight so we’re crammed tightly on the bleachers. There’s no hiding the texts coming in.

“Somebody from class,” I prevaricate. It’s mostly true.

With a small omission.

The team is still in the locker room. Which is probably why Dallas is texting. Even though his playing days are over, he travels with them. He’s still part of the team. They wouldn’t be in the position to play in the championship if it hadn’t been for him.

“Is he cute?”

Blake looks hopeful for me and I can’t even explain to her why all hope is lost. Nothing like a crush making an utter fool of you to kill said crush.

“I t-thought he was, b-but he turned out to be a major disappointment.”

If Zoe gets wind that I’ve been helping him out in class I will never hear the end of it. I haven’t told anyone, primarily Zoe, about the phone scam because I don’t want to be an accessory to murder.

“Cute enough to fuck?” Zoe chimes in––loudly. She’s sitting at the other end of the bleacher, Blake and Alice between us, but the volume of her voice is really unnecessary.

The middle-aged lady seated on the bench behind us glares. Probably somebody’s mother. I smile tightly and turn my displeasure onto the loud one. “Can you please k-keep your voice down?” I hiss.

Zoe makes a face, and my phone––my completely damaged phone––pings with an incoming text.

It’s a meme of a kitten. The most adorable rust-colored kitten.

I want to stay mad. I really do. But the kitten is so cute that I just can’t. Behold the new and improved me, smiling at a kitten meme.

“Somebody’s crushing on somebody,” Alice sing-songs. I give her my best don’t go there look, and she frowns in confusion. Searching Google, I find the ugliest picture of an old guy in a diaper. The caption reads: Big Crybaby. It took me weeks to figure out what his ridiculous Halloween costume was. Attaching the butt-ugly picture, I press send and smile.

CHAPTER TEN

DORA What the actual e ?

I spot him through the glass door and freeze. Seriously, I don’t know what game he’s playing, but I refuse to play along. I glance around to ascertain whether I’m in the right place, and yep, I am. It’s Paw Nation, the no-kill shelter in Venice where I volunteer.

So what is Dallas doing here? And why are Vi and Mika, the two women that own it, talking to him? New semester plus new classes was supposed to equal no more Dallas. And yet, here he is.

I left for Del Mar shortly after finals and haven’t seen him since. His injuries have healed nicely. In fact, he’s never looked better I’m sorry to report. The blond streaks in the disorderly perfection that is his hair are more pronounced, his cheekbones freshly tan. And despite that he’s wearing a black t-shirt that has seen better days, the ubiquitous silver basketball shorts, and flip-flops, he looks freaking gorgeous.

His lips lift in a faint smile and I blush. Darn it. I thought I was getting better at this, that I was growing immune.

I enter and the bells hanging on the door jangle. Mika and Vi turn to look at me, but my attention stays on Dallas.

Standing on his right is Vi, my favorite walking contradiction. She looks like a fairy princess, small and delicate, and yet she speaks in language that would make both my dads blush. Then there are the piercing and tattoos, and the fact that she’s a proud gun enthusiast.

Vi’s girlfriend, Mika, stands on the other side of him.

She’s a professional trainer to the stars and only works at the shelter part-time. Mika’s your quintessential California beach girl with her fresh-faced look, long black hair, and thousand-watt smile.

“Dor! Great, you’re here,” Vi says. Her usually spiky platinum hair is dyed lavender today. “I was just telling Dallas that we have a volunteer that goes to Malibu U as well.”

Vi examines my face, and when she finds the absence of all joy, a frown appears on hers. “Do you two know each other?” Her head bobs back and forth between us.

“Yeah, we do. Hi, Dora.” He smiles. I do not smile back.

“W-What are you doing here?” I inquire, addressing the person in question.

“Community service. Vi and Mika were kind enough to agree to let me work my hours o here.” He turns his lethal charm on them, unleashing his signature brain-bludgeoning smile. “I really appreciate it, ladies.”

He’s gonna try to butter-up these two? Really? I find comfort in knowing that Vi and Mika are the last people on the planet that would fall for his dirty-flirty tricks.

“Our pleasure,” one intones, batting her lashes.

“Nonsense. We’re happy to have you,” the other adds.

When both of them smile up at him, I’m on the verge of throwing up. I cannot believe what I am witnessing with my own eyes.

“Is this going to be a problem?” Vi asks, suddenly concerned.

Yes. “No,” I tell her while Dallas watches me closely. Vi doesn’t know about our sordid history, and I don’t want to look petty and immature. She doesn’t need me to spell it out; she can see that I’m less than thrilled. Helping him with his notes in class was one thing, having to endure him here, in my safe space, is altogether too much.

“Since he can’t do too much with his shoulder still healing, I’m going to buddy him up with you––” I barely manage to restrain a groan. Being in constant proximity to him is torture. A wild Dallas can charm the pants o anyone. A remorseful, humbled Dallas, I’ve come to learn, is even more dangerous. This is really not fair. Like seriously, I try to be a good person. What have I done to deserve this?

“You can show him how we do things around here so when his shoulder is better he can hit the ground running at the Abbot Kinney location.”

“Abbot Kinney?” Dallas asks, looking genuinely interested.

“The new shelter we’re building,” Vi explains. “It’s a larger prop with grass. You know, room for the dogs to play.” Vi has a habit of shortening words for no good reason.

Posey, Vi’s Beagle, sidles up to Dallas, her tail whipping back and forth against his leg. Lowering himself on his haunches, he pets the old girl with the missing eye.

“Who are you?” he asks her.

“That’s Posey. My dog. We rescued her from a lab that was testing cosmetics on animals. That’s why she’s blind…

Pose say hello.”

On cue, Posey dutifully gives a Beagle howl and Dallas grins. “She was in a tiny cage for the first seven year of her

life. She had no idea what grass was. Didn’t even know how to drink out of a bowl. Don’t buy products that test on animals, dude.”

“I don’t,” he answers back.

“Let’s start with the c-cages,” I tell him and walk away, heading to the cat section. There are about twenty litter boxes that need to be cleaned twice a day. Vi and Mika keep the place spotless. Without a word, Dallas follows.

“You don’t want me here?” he murmurs as I open the closet to retrieve the cleaning supplies.

“I r-really don’t c-care either way.”

I grab the gallon of natural cleaner o the shelf and he takes it from me. He attempts to that is, because I don’t let go. I tug. He tugs. We both tug. He’s much stronger so he wins.

I glance up into his carefully neutral expression. But something––a flicker of regret perhaps, crosses his face.

He’s a beautiful, screwed-up boy I remind myself. The regret is a passing sentiment.

“You can tell me if you don’t want me.”

Talk about a loaded sentence. For a moment, I’m tempted to scream at him for embarrassing me. For invading my privacy. For being mean. And then the flame of anger burns out and I’m left cold. No matter what he says, how momentarily remorseful he looks, he doesn’t care about anything other than the next thrill, the next challenge.

That’s all this is for him. Entertainment. A distraction from his rich boy “ennui.” That’s all I am to him.

“I don’t care w-what you do, Dallas. Just…stay out of my way.”

For the next two hour, I show him my routine, and he intermittently asks questions. Other than that, I don’t look at him and he doesn’t force a conversation.

“Can you do me a favor?” Vi whispers as I retrieve my backpack from her o ce, ready to leave for the day.

The most lethal question in the English language if you ask me. By themselves, the words are totally benign, but string them together and they have the power to take down pretty much anyone. And at this very moment, it looks like I’m it. Mind you, she’s seated at her desk, cleaning her gun.

Vi’s round, almost-purple eyes are unblinking and glued on me. Not a good sign. Meanwhile, I stare back like her face is ready to detonate all over me. “Umm…” “Nothing big,” she continues in a volume of voice that can only be described as alarmingly conspiratorial. “Just a small one.” She plays with the piercing in her lip. It’s her tell. The one she doesn’t know she has. And it means she’s up to no good, concocting a scheme.

“Umm…” “You’d really be helping me out.” She gives me a pointed stare before throwing a sneaky glance out the open door to examine Dallas who’s too busy playing with a fat black and white cat named Monster to pay us any mind.

“He needs a ride back to campus––you know, suspended license and all that. Anyfuckingway, two birds one stone.”

She pastes on a toothy grin, which only manages to make her look like a serial killer. Vi is not the smiley type. “I figured you guys both go to the Bu, you must live near each other.”

As much as I “live near” Madonna or any of the other celebrities who own homes on the beach in the Colony.

“But…” Her smile falls like a rock and she leans in, her voice hushed. “Look, dude, I won’t mince words. Grandpa called and said that if I give Richie Rich here”––she jabs a thumb over her shoulder––“a chance to work o his community

service and provide transportation, he’ll make a sizable donation.”

Nuts. “How s-s––” “Sizable,” she says with the decisive jaw-snapping of someone who’s ready to sacrifice anyone and anything to get it. “Do it for the orphans, D. The babies need you.”

She knows me. She knows I would never say no to the orphans. “Okay…I guess.”

“Great! He’s working the same sched as you so just swing by his place on Sat and pick him up.”

“But––” “You’re the tits. You know I always say that about you.”

And with that, she leans back in her chair, slams the heels of her red Doc Martin lace-ups on her desk, and goes back to cleaning her gun.

I’m having a hard time understanding how this is a compliment. “I never unders-stood––” “Twice as good.”

How did this happen? How did I get bamboozled into playing chau eur for someone who could a ord ten of them? I am so mad at myself I could chew glass.

“Sometimes I feel like S-Sisyphus,” I mutter to myself, gripping Bernadette’s steering wheel with undue force. It’s really not right to take it out on her.

“I’m pretty sure you need to have sex to get syphilis,” Dallas says in a lazy tone.

My skin flares with heat from my scalp to my toes and nearly singes the hair o my scalp. And there it is. No need to wonder if he saw my list anymore.

I run through a very short list of snappy comebacks and nix every one of them. Best I can do now is pretend I don’t

understand English. It’s either pretend to no comprende, or drive this car into the ocean and pray he drowns before I do––which is highly unlikely seeing he practically lives in the water. He’ll probably be forced to save me and then I’ll owe him a debt of gratitude.

Stealing a sideways glance, I find his head tipped back onto the headrest and his mirrored sunglasses shading whatever is going on in his eyes.

“I s-said S-Sisyphus. You know…Greek mythology.”

“Heard you, Dory.” Sliding his glasses to the top of his head, he aims the force of his electric blue gaze, which is considerable, at me. “I just wanted to make sure you were paying attention.”

Then he smiles. It’s unvarnished delight at my expense.

Bernadette hits the bottom of the California Incline and I hit the gas as we merge onto Pacific Coast Highway. He chuckles, and in that moment, I hate his guts.

DALLAS I’m trying to antagonize her. I am. I fully admit it. I need her to let loose all that anger she’s got bottled up. Know this about women: you do not, under any circumstance, want them carrying around a lot of anger. The longer it goes on, the worse it gets for us dudes.

“H-H-How did you know about the shelter?”

The first words she’s spoken in ten minutes and a good sign that I’m getting closer to getting what I want. Another indication is the stutter becomes more pronounced the madder she gets.

Mirrored shades hiding my eyes, I watch her grip the steering wheel like she’s ready to choke the life out of it. Her

back sti , stubborn chin lifted. Yup, she’s ready to blow any minute.

“I found it on your phone.” That should put her over the top. “When I was looking through it,” I add for good measure.

She’s turns an interesting shade of purple, far surpassing expectation, so all-in-all good progress.

“How could you! T-T-That s-s-stu is private!”

“If it was private, you would’ve locked your phone, Dora.

But you didn’t. So who’s fault is it?”

At the stop light one block from my house, she turns to face me, fire nearly shooting out of her eyes. It almost makes me smile.

“What you did is unf-forgivable.”

“You’ll forgive me,” I murmur flatly. It’s just a fact. Dora is good down to the fiber of her being.

She’s momentarily shocked silent. “N-No, I-I won’t.”

The blinker goes on and she autopilots her little green Chiclet of a car down my street.

“Yes, you will. Because you’re a good person.”

He brows lower and her eyes get squinty. “This is a ttrick. I get it now.”

“No trick. Just pointing out the obvious. I’m an asshole and you’re a really good person.”

“Y-You’re not that bad––except f-for your language.

That’s p-pretty bad.”

“You think I’m an empty vessel.”

Her face drops. So does her anger. Pulling into my driveway, she parks and turns the car o . “No…You’re not.”

She sighs. “I was j-just…upset. And…and I wanted to h-hurt you back. I didn’t m-mean it.”

“I didn’t mean what I said either. I’m sorry…I’ll do better.” We stare at each other for some time and I can tell she doesn’t want to be mad at me anymore. It’s not in her

nature. Her nature is to volunteer at an animal shelter, and help out a bonehead like me by taking notes and making margin annotations. Highlight all the paragraphs I need to focus on for the final, which I aced thanks to her. “Are you gonna accept my apology?”

She faces forward, chews on her bottom lip. “You have tto earn it.”

I wasn’t expecting that. She’s not the pushover she pretends to be. It puts a smile on my face.

“You c-can ride with me to the shelter on one ccondition.” She turns to stare me down again, her amber eyes glowing with emotion. “How did the accident happen?

Why w-were you arrested?”

It feels like a blindside punch. On me heels, it takes me a minute to answer, to search for an excuse. “Nothing much to tell,” comes out a thoughtless murmur. “I was on my way to Vegas and the road was empty…my foot got heavy. I hit one thirty, lost control of the car, and before I could regain it I was skidding o the highway.”

It was a miracle the car didn’t flip. The accident adjuster couldn’t explain why either.

She blinks those big warm eyes at me. “And…” I shrug. “And nothing. I was charged with reckless driving. It was Thanksgiving so they let me chill in jail for a night.”

She studies me closely, picking me apart. I can feel it.

“No.” “No?” “No. There’s m-more to it. Why were you being s-so reckless?” Her voice softens. So does the sharp look in her eyes. “You could’ve killed yourself. W-Why weren’t you with your family?”

Fuck. I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to even think about it. “I had a fight with my mother.”

She nods, expression thoughtful. “Okay. I’ll p-pick you up on Saturday.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Smiling. “See you Saturday.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

DORA I. Am. Trash.

I am. I am trash for this boy. That’s the only valid explanation for how I got talked into driving him to and fro the shelter on the regular. He comes around to the passenger side of the car wearing a grin so big there are creases in his lean cheeks.

“Hey,” he says, sliding into the seat.

“Hey.” I dare not glance over at him but his examination of me weighs heavy. Instead, I focus on backing the car out of his driveway and paying attention to the tra c before my wayward thoughts get us both killed.

He punches a button on my iPhone and before I can stop him More Than This by Roxie Music blasts through Bernadette’s speakers. I scramble to turn it o .

“What the fuck was that?”

That hits a nerve. I may be trash, but I will not be anyone’s fool ever again. “You have a d-dirty mouth.”

“Babe, you have no idea.” My face turns red-hot. He checks me out and shrugs. “Maybe you do.”

Silence falls between us, and I turn up the music in protest. “My d-dad made the playlist. He gave it t-to me with this car for my birthday. So please don’t insult my car or the music. T-That’s all I ask of you.”

My dad, Evan, had an original Fiat 500 the summer my parents met. A junker he’d bought and fixed up. All the music on the playlist was from the year they fell in love. He’s very sentimental…I guess I am too.

Dallas stares at me for a long while, his glasses o ering cover for whatever is going on in his head.

“I wasn’t making fun of you…I’m sorry if you thought that.”

I steal a glance and find him gazing out the window. The hand resting on his thigh is balled up in a fist. I’m fairly certain he could have anything he wants. He could probably have a Victoria’s Secrets model drive him around if he wished it. So why me?

“I don’t mean to be forward, but…aren’t you wealthy? DDon’t your parents like, own a bank or something?”

“No, they’re richer than that,” he casually returns. “And it’s my grandfather’s company. Have you heard of AndersBurns?”

“The beer?”

“Nobody ever remembers the spiked seltzers and energy drinks which are really solid products if I don’t say so myself.”

“I-I’ll take your word for it. M-My point is why haven’t you g-gotten a fancy driver?”

“Kitten…” He lowers his sunglasses and peers at me over the top of them, “why would I need a fancy driver when I get to spend time with you instead?”

“That’s n-nonsense. And…and c-can we agree that you will stop calling me that?”

“No. I like it and it suits you.”

I want to bang my head against the steering wheel and yet I can’t. I cannot because I’m driving sixty miles-per-hour down one of the most dangerous highways in America.

Nothing about this makes any sense.

My gaze absently falls on the small shark tattoo on his calf. “Do you miss playing…water polo?” He turns to look at me and it’s intense. I’ve never seem him look so serious.

When he doesn’t answer, I press. “If you d-don’t want to ttalk about it––” “That’s not it,” he says, cutting me o .

“Then what?”

He looks lost in thought––faraway. “It’s the first time anyone’s asked me.”

“Oh…do you?”

“Yeah”––he nods––“yeah, I do. You never really know how important something is until it’s gone.” He won’t get an argument from me.

I pull onto Ocean Drive and park behind the shelter. I’ve volunteered here the last two years and I have one more until I move back East and start over in New York. I’m already missing this place and I’m not even gone yet.

He seems to be in a strange mood, down when he’s usually trying to tease me. But some things are best left alone, so I don’t poke at it.

“Are you coming?” I ask as I get out of the car.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Dallas, would you mind grabbing the poles for the fencing and bring them to Stuart. He’s starting on the outdoor kennels today,” Vi says. She’s in the middle of lugging a wheelbarrow full of loose rocks to the dumpster.

Seeing Vi, who’s maybe a hundred pounds wet, struggle to push the thing over the uneven terrain, Dallas drops the hose and goes to grab the wheelbarrow from her.

A month and a half has passed since he started working at the shelter. Three times a week. Spending all this time together has been both the worst and best thing that’s ever happened to me. On one hand, it’s absolute torture of the sweetest kind. On the other, I dread the day it’s over and I have to go back to seeing him sparingly and knowing how much fun it was.

And missing him. Because I will. I’ll miss him terribly. He completed the community service hours he needs for his plea deal a week ago. Vi and Mika told me. He hasn’t mentioned it once.

Vi makes a grateful face. “Thank you. My shoulders can’t take any more abuse.”

While he pushes it to the dumpster with ease, Vi and I take a moment of silence and watch. We’ve been working outside at the Abbott Kinney location, clearing garbage all morning, and his t-shirt mysteriously came o at some point. I almost fell on my face when I looked up and found it missing.

His bronze skin glistens with sweat, making the chain mail tattoo look like shiny metal, muscles straining in the best way possible. And his shorts…good lord, his shorts are slung low to the top of his curvy glutes.

“He is such a fucking catch. If I was straight…”

He’s great. He really is. So how do I get rid of this hopeless crush I have on him, one that I am one hundred percent certain I will take to the grave as unrequited, if I’m constantly having to face the reality that––aside from swearing way too much––Dallas is one of the most decent people I’ve ever known.

“You guys coming together tonight?” Vi asks, rubbing her skinny biceps. She sits on the picnic bench and pushes the short sleeves of her Marilyn Manson 1998 tour t-shirt over her shoulders, tips her pale face up to the sun. Her hair is pink today.

Vi and Mika, along with a bunch of Mika’s celebrity clients, are throwing a fundraiser tonight, a carnival. All proceeds are going to finish building the new and improved shelter. They’re still fifty thousand short.

Way to put me on the spot, Vi. Cringing, I glance up from raking and and run right into Dallas’s alert gaze. He drops the empty wheelbarrow, and watching me, says “Yes,” without hesitation.

I am a deer caught in his headlights, super self-conscious that we are being watched by Vi and Stuart, the construction guy. We’ve never been anywhere together like an event or a party. There’s always been purpose to our time together. If we go to this fundraiser, we’re entering uncharted waters–– dangerous territory. We can no longer legit pretend it’s a friendship of convenience anymore.

“What time are you picking me up?”

What time what time what time…

His forehead wrinkles as if in deep concentration. “How about seven-thirty? We can grab something to eat before,” he continues.

I have yet to say a word.

Smirking, he picks up the empty wheelbarrow again and pushes it past me, stops. “Do you like sushi?” I nod. “Okay, good.” He wheels away, headed for Stuart.

DALLAS

“Cotton candy?” I say to the girl walking next to me. Dora’s always quiet, but more so tonight. “Ice cream? Peanuts?”

“I’m still f-full from the sushi…t-thank you again. It really was the best I’ve ever had.”

“That’s the third time you’ve thanked me, Dora. It’s just dinner, not a kidney.”

“I-I’ve never been to Nobu Malibu…p-probably never will again. It was really nice of you t-to do that…you d-didn’t have to.”

And uncomfortable feeling churns in my gut. I’ve taken plenty of girls there. Girls whose names I couldn’t remember by the time we walked out. None of them thanked me once. I almost forgot what it’s like to go out with someone whose company I actually enjoy. Someone whose name I’ll never forget. Someone I care about.

She looks o blindly, lost in thought, and I can’t stop watching her. Most people I know can’t stand not being the center of attention. They seek the spotlight every chance they get. Me included. But not this girl. Which make me want to stare even more.

“You haven’t said anything about how nice I look––not a single word. Jesus Christ, I mean, I made the e ort, Dora.

Put on real clothes for you. I even combed my hair and you didn’t even notice.”

A huge grin breaks across her face, her eyes glinting with amusement. I have on a white dress shirt and a pair of jeans.

I’ve never been a clothes guy. Dora on the other hand looks beautiful in a denim-colored summer dress that makes her hair look redder than usual.

It’s down and sexy, but it’s nothing compared to her lips.

Glossy and full. I’ve been picturing eating that gloss o her lips since she picked me up. For a dude of my vast experience, it’s embarrassing how excited I was to go out with her tonight, and I’m not even making excuses. It has

nothing to do with the very real fact that I haven’t hooked up in months because I’m not even remotely interested. And not for lack of opportunity. I mean, let’s face it, I’m still me.

Karen showed up at the house two nights ago uninvited. I told Brock to send her home.

“You look b-beautiful,” she says making a big deal of checking me out.

“Took you long enough.” She giggles, the crowd parts, and the Ferris wheel comes into view. “C’mon. Let’s get on.”

Glancing up with a pained expression, she shakes her head.

“Why not?”

Another face. “I’m s-scared of heights.”

I’m pretty sure I saw Ferris wheel on her list. Probably not a good idea to remind her that I snooped on her phone, but we’ve already established I’m full of bad ideas.

Pointing to the spinning wheel. “Isn’t this on your list?”

The blush is instant. “Time to knock one o .” I take her hand and she lets me lead her to the end of the line. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I-I am really scared of heights and I mean really.”

“Do you trust me?”

Honey-brown eyes search my face, open with her feelings but closed with her thoughts.

“Yeah…I do.”

A satisfied grin stretches across my face.

DORA I. Am. Dead.

Can you die of fright? Because I’m pretty sure I’m almost there.

“Keep the bar down. Keep your hands inside the gondola.

Don’t do anything to intentionally cause the gondola to swing more,” the tobacco chewing operator drones on.

The only reason I’m even considering getting on this steel wheel of death is because Mika and Vi would never hire anyone that hasn’t passed inspection.

Standing next to me, Dallas is all glowing smiles as he hands the operator our tickets. He actually tried to tame his hair tonight. He wasn’t kidding. When I saw him walk out of the house dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans, his hair pushed behind his ear, my heart nearly stopped. Then he made me drive us to that amazing restaurant. He opened all the doors and pulled out my chair.

If it was anybody else, I would’ve considered it a date.

In the open gondola, he sits so close he’s practically in my lap, his denim-covered thigh glued to mine. My teeth close to chattering, I scoot even closer. The operator lowers the safety bar with a loud bang that jolt me out of my skin.

“Chill, Kitten. I’ve got you.”

A heavy arm drapes around my shoulders. I’m wrapped in heat, in the solid comforting weight of him. He’s better than a security blanket. He’s better than everything.

“Ready?”

“No.” I’m shaking, honest-to-goodness shaking. Sensing it, his arm tightens. The Ferris wheel lurches forward for the next group to get on and I yelp. He laughs as I huddle closer to him, my hands grabbing fists-full of his shirt. Hope it’s not expensive because I am not letting go.

“You break it you buy it,” the obnoxious jerk chuckles near my ear as I hang on to him for dear life and slam my eyes shut.

“I-I-I told you this was going to be bad.”

“Open your eyes.”

“No, I’m t-too scared.”

Flying blind is the only thing keeping me sane right now.

That and his warmth, his weight, his scent. A mix of fabric detergent and expensive soap––the kind you buy at a department store. He smells so good it’s driving me crazy.

I’ve never done drugs but I’m mostly certain that they feel like Dallas smells. If I could do lines of him, I would.

“Open your eyes,” he murmurs again.

One at a time, I crack them open and the first thing I see is the soft smile on his face, that wicked smirk that tells me he’s amusing himself. Then I see the coastline.

It’s a cloudless night. The moon casting a pretty glow on the carnival. But that’s not where my attention wanders. It goes straight to the tapestry of lights blanketing the coastline. Between Dallas’s face and this view, the view is a very close second in stunning natural beauty.

“Wow.” “Aren’t you glad you trusted me?”

I nod. “T-Thank you for d-doing this…I w-would’ve never had the c-courage to do it alone.”

“That’s what friends are for, right?”

Searching his face for doubt, I find none. “Are we friends?

Like––r-real friends?”

“You’re my real friend…am I yours?”

All I can do is nod. The emotional pile-up in my throat won’t allow any words to come out.

It’s chilly up this high, windy too. My hair flies in my face and gets stuck in my lips gloss. Before I can peel my fingers away from his shirt, Dallas pushes it o my face and tucks it behind my ear. All the while he stares at my mouth like he did that night in October when he thought I was someone else. Like he wants to devour me. Like I’m somebody he desires instead of the girl that will one day die of unrequited longing.

Leaning in, he places the softest, tiniest, smallest kiss on my lips. It’s so brief that if I wasn’t completely focused on him with every nerve ending in my body, I might have missed it. He pulls back and blinks, a confused sexy boy that acts on impulse then second-guesses himself.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” he mumbles.

I’m so embarrassed I do the only thing I can to save face. I say, “Done what?”

The sound of an incoming text has him tugging his phone out of his front pocket and I’m literally saved by the bell.

Glancing at the screen, his face falls. “Fuck,” he says in a low voice.

“What is it?” I blurt-out, alarmed at his expression.

His eyes meet mine. “Brian’s dead.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

DALLAS Rea went missing. By the time I got back home, he was already gone and his phone was turned o .

“The Jeep’s gone,” Brock reports the minute I step through the door.

But I know where to look. Ten minutes later, I find him sitting in the bleachers of the aquatics center bent over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Heart heavy, I approach.

“Hey,” I say, taking the seat next to him. All the lights are o with the exception of the ones in the pool. As if the mood wasn’t already dark enough, the lights cast and a fucked up eery glow.

“Everyone’s worried,” I start with the obvious.

Rea wipes his face and stares ahead. He nods. “I needed to think.”

“I get it…” We fall into silence.

“How’d you get here?”

“Took Cole’s bike. He doesn’t know it yet.” I smirk because Rea knows the punchline. The Ducati is Cole’s

favorite thing in the world. He definitely will not be happy to find his baby missing, but I had no other choice.

“Driving with a suspended license…cool.” He shakes his head and we both chuckle.

“I’m gonna miss this place,” I muse out loud. We both glance around, at all the NCAA Championship banners hanging from the ceilings, three of which we helped win for this school.

“Thunder and Lighting will forever go down in the Malibu U history books.”

Thunder and Lightning: the nicknames given to us by a national NCAA reporter our freshman year after the assist that won us our first title.

“Forever in infamy, you mean,” Rea corrects drily. “It was good while it lasted.” Then his face folds, like he’s fighting tears.

“I’m so sorry, man, but you gotta know you did everything you could to help him.”

“Did I?” he croaks, ripped to shit over it.

“Yeah, you did. You went above and beyond. I don’t have a blood brother––you and the twins are the only brothers I’ll ever know––so I won’t insult you by saying I know how you feel. The thing is, you can’t save someone from themselves…I watched my mother try really hard to destroy herself for years.”

“What saved her?”

“Dumb luck and money. She took the sailboat out in a storm and it wasn’t the first time. She did it a lot when I was a kid, during her manic episodes…The last time she finally crashed the boat and almost drowned. My grandfather had her committed for a while. She got clean.” I shrug. “That was five years ago and not a day goes by that I don’t think I’m going to get a call telling me it happened again…or worse.”

“Then why do I feel responsible?”

The million dollar question.

He’s too far in the weeds of his pain to hear me now, but I’m gonna try anyway and hope he remembers it later.

“Because we all want to believe that we’re not as powerless as we really are….control is an illusion, dude. Give yourself a break.”

As if the funeral for my best friend’s brother wasn’t bad enough, the wake is worse. The ballroom at the Beverly Hills Hotel is packed. Your usual Beverly Hills crowd of welldressed douchebags. Most of them doctors, like both of Rea’s parents.

His dad’s a heart surgeon and his mom’s a dermatologist.

As far as I can tell, both of them are assholes and I’m entitled to say that because I haven’t seen either one shed a single tear over their son. Over the years, I’ve met them a few times. Enough to conclude that they are cold to the bone.

Mine are certifiable and Rea’s are barely human. I don’t know who has it worse.

I nurse my soda when I really want to be nursing some good whiskey. It’s been that kind of day.

“How are you holding up?” I hear Brock say to our friend who’s barely hanging on. Brock plants himself beside Rea, watches him drain his third glass of whiskey.

“I could use another drink,” Rea answers, shaking the empty tumbler.

“I know you’re in a shit place right now, but getting drunk is not the answer.”

“Do you ever get tired of being perfect?” Rea says to Brock. I don’t blame him. Mother has high standards, and the rest of us often fall short.

“Good whiskey is always the answer,” I interrupt.

Grabbing a chair along the way, I drop it near theirs and straddle it. “As a matter of fact, I’ll join you. Let’s get trashed. I can make a couple of calls and get some Molly.”

Damn, I miss Molly. I haven’t touched it since before the night we beat Long Beach––or anything else for that matter.

A day like this might warrant invoking a time-out.

Reagan aims a fed-up stare at me. “I’m not helping you o the wagon. If you wanna get wasted, find your own excuse.”

I got about a million of them and not a single one would make me feel better the morning after. It’s then I realize I can’t keep making the same mistakes and getting the same results.

“Dude––” I know he’s hurting. I know he’s hit his breaking point so I joke––like I always do. “You’re a mean drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” he grunts.

“You’re definitely on your way,” Brock argues.

“I know you’re going to law school next year, but could we shelve the debates for today?” Rea fires back.

Something behind me draws my attention. Turning in my seat, I catch Dora, who’s sitting with her friends at one of the cocktail tables, watching me with an expression I can’t discern.

“Reagan,” Dr. Douchebag Dad pages his son. He’s got a rod shoved so far up his ass his chin never comes down. His dad conducts a brief and disgusted examination of me and Brock. “Care to tear yourself away from your friends for a minute to be with your family. Dean Sullivan would like to have a word with you.”

Reagan’s face gets red. I’ve never seen him look so pissed.

“No, I don’t care to,” he snaps.

The entire place goes deadly silent. Heads swivel. All hundred or so people in attendance turn their attention our way. Bailey stands and starts to walk over, and I shake my head at her. This has been a long time coming and I don’t want to see her get caught in the line of fire.

“I’m only going to ask you one more time––come here.”

The fucker grits his teeth. “And out of respect for your brother, keep your voice down.”

Rea recoils as if he’s been punched.

“Me? All I’ve ever had was love and respect for him. Can you say the same, Dad?! Do your friends know that you cut him out of your life, out of the family, years ago? That you haven’t seen or talked to him in three years?!”

“Reagan,” Dr. Mom chides. Standing, she advances on him.

“––that you had him arrested for trespassing when he showed up at the house. Do they know that you don’t give a fuck that he’s dead?!”

His mother grabs his arm. “Outside, right now!”

“Why?” Rea shouts, shaking her o . “Am I embarrassing you?”

“Yes,” she grits out.

One big happy family. It makes me think of mine. I haven’t spoken to Brenda since the night of my accident.

Shortly after that the bullshit apologist texts and voicemails started. When they got to be too much, I blocked her.

“The junkie son is dead!” Reagan shouts at the top of his lungs. My boy is finally letting it all hang out and it’s about time. Something had to give and it was either this or his mental health.

“Murdered for his sneakers. Sneakers I gave him”––he pounds on his chest––“The ones I insisted he wear because I was worried about his feet. He was stabbed eighteen times for them!”

“Shit,” I murmur. So does Brock.

Across the room, standing with some chick I’m sure he was in the middle of hitting on, Cole catches my eye and gives me a what gives look. I answer with a shake of my head.

He never said a word to us. Which makes me wonder if Bailey knew and kept it from us as well. By the look on her face, dark eyes wide and quickly filling with tears, her slender hands covering her mouth, I would have to guess that she didn’t.

“He won’t be embarrassing you anymore,” Rea continues, backing out of the room slowly. “And the one that’s still alive…” He stops, nostrils flaring, anger dying out. “I never want to see either of you again.”

“Anybody see which direction Rea went?” I ask fifteen minutes later while standing in the hotel parking lot looking for any sign of him.

“I don’t see his Jeep,” Cole remarks. “Was I the only one that didn’t know about the sneakers?”

“Nope.”

“I didn’t.”

“I don’t think anyone did,” the rest of us answer in one way or another.

“His parents are gross,” Zoe mentions. More murmured agreements.

Dora looks up at me, her eyes packed with concern. “We’ll find him,” I reassure her.

Shortly after the scene, everyone started leaving because nothing says the funeral celebration is over like the family in mourning yelling at each other.

“Alice went after him,” Blake announces. “Let’s give them some space.”

Something in her voice grabs my attention. I glance her way in time to see her face go as pale as a sheet and her eyes roll into the back of her head.

“Blake! She’s having a seizure!” Zoe shouts, as Blake’s knees give way and her body folds over.

Luckily, Cole is there in time to save her from hitting the cement sidewalk. Gently cradling her body, he lowers her to the ground and turns her sideway, his hands cupping her head as she convulses. “Somebody check the time,” he barks, and Zoe holds up her phone for him. Peterman’s basic EMT training has come in handy on more than one occasion during the water polo season. Nothing like this, though.

Fuck, I’m not a religious man, but I’m thanking God right now.

“It’s okay, princess,” we all listen to him coo. “I got you.

You’re gonna be fine.”

Meanwhile, Zoe dials 911 and Brock runs inside to get some help. Some of the remaining assholes in the room have to be doctors. There’s your glass half-full at this shitshow of a funeral.

A douchebag in a five thousand dollar suit casually strolls up like this isn’t an emergency. At the same time a siren tells us the ambulance is quickly approaching.

“Tonic-Clonic,” Cole tells him.

The suit nods, gives Cole the obligatory I’m searching my extensive education for evidence of my usefulness look. Which convinces no one. “Looks like you guys have everything under control. Did you time it?”

“Just past two minutes.”

As soon as the ambulance pulls up, the the crew jumps into action. Everyone steps away, giving the EMTs room to work. Everyone but Cole who refuses to let go of his patient.

The seizure finally breaks and Blake’s body goes limp.

They load her onto the gurney, then they load the gurney

into the ambulance. Cole jumps in the back of the ambulance with her.

“What are you doing!” Zoe yells at him, totally coming apart. Brock whispers something in her ear and she makes a pained face. Other than that, she keeps her mouth shut and the ambulance doors close.

“I’m driving her to the hospital,” Brock tells me as he gestures to Zoe who’s wiping away tears. “You got a ride home?”

“I-I’ll drive him,” Dora says in a quiet voice. “Please tell Blake that I’ll come to the hospital as soon I can.”

Brock nods, then grabs a distraught Zoe by the wrist and leads her to the AMG black-on-black Mercedes G Wagon at the far end of the parking lot.

Glancing to my left, I take stock of Dora’s mood. She’s more quiet than usual. “You okay?”

She nods at first. Then shakes her head, her lower lip trembling. “No.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

DORA “This club is dope as fuck!”

That’s Zoe screaming at the top of her voice. Not surprised, right? She walks right past the bouncer, a man the size of the Titanic, and blows him a kiss. The rest of us dutifully fall in line behind her.

“Bar––” Blake says, pointing, “that way.” Her legs in the high-heeled Azzedine Alaïa booties look endless, her brown skin rich against the pale beige silk dress she’s wearing. I’ve never been tempted by fashion, but if I looked anything like Blake maybe I would be.

We cut through a well-dressed crowd, one person more beautiful and glamorous than the next. I even spot a few famous faces. And the decor is just as fancy. The booths decorated in jewel-toned velvet, the back of the bar is a mosaic of colored glass, and the ornate chandeliers overhead made of crystal.

“What are you guys drinking?” Zoe shouts over the loud music and even louder chatter.

We’re celebrating Alice’s birthday tonight. It’s been weeks since the funeral and a black cloud has been hanging

over all of us. Everyone’s been in a funk, and it was Zoe’s idea to give Alice––who’s been carrying the burden of Reagan’s grief––a breather.

“How are you buying?” Alice shouts over the din. “You’re not twenty-one yet.”

Zoe smirks and waves her black Amex at a very fit and very sexy bartender. “You’re so funny. Not intentionally of course. I’ve had a fake ID since I was sixteen.”

“Isn’t t-that illegal?” I say, seriously worried. Am I abetting a crime? “D-Does that mean I-I’m an accomplice tto this if you get caught? My father––” A slim covered hand, fingers stacked with diamond rings, comes at me and covers my mouth. Zoe shakes her head as if I’m beyond help. “What are you drinking, Red? What’s your drug of choice? I’m going to let you speak and it better be the name of your favorite booze.” She peels her hand away.

“Diet Coke, please.”

I get an overly dramatic roll of her eyes. “Why am I not surprised.”

“Cut them some slack tonight, Z,” Blake chides.

“One shot and we dance! But you hookers are having one shot tonight. You too––” she aims at me. God help us, I pray no one heard her. “No excuses! I don’t want to hear about your perfect parents disapproving.”

“Fine,” I mutter. I’ve learned the hard way that she’s unstoppable when she gets that look in her eyes. No amount of arguing will change her mind.

“Four Red-Headed Sluts,” she orders from the bartender with a lot of heavy eyelashes-batting. Then she hands them out and we all raise our glasses. “To Alice. Happy twentyfirst birthday and to many more.”

“And to friendship,” Alice adds, a bittersweet smile on her face. There’s a glassy sheen to her dark brown eyes, and

in reflex, mine get wet too. Going by Blake and Zoe’s faces, all of us are feeling it.

“To us!”

“I don’t know how I would’ve survived this year without you guys,” Alice continues. “I just want you to know how much I love you all.”

Tears sneak down Zoe’s cheeks while Blake smiles through hers. I tip my head back and let the sweet, spicy liquid run down my throat, then come up sputtering and choking.

“What the heck was that?” I wheeze.

“That, my little virgin, is what I call a good time,” Zoe chirps back.

“K-Keep your voice down!” Like I need her to announce to the world that I’m a twenty-one year old social misfit.

“Oh, pooh. Nobody cares. Let’s dance!”

We make our way to the top floor where the EDM music pumps loudly. The dance floor is packed, bodies smashed up against each other. At the same time, the alcohol has begun working its magic, loosening me up from the inside out.

“Who is that?” I ask Blake.

“The DJ––Marc Schulz,” she informs me. “Calvin Harris is more my jam, but he’s pretty good.”

The crowd seems to think so. They go wild when he comes on. We start dancing and hours pass in minutes.

Sweat-soaked, my hair sticks to my face and neck, my new slinky black shirt clings to my boobs, and my jeans feel shrink-wrapped.

And yet I don’t care.

I don’t care if I look chubby standing next to my hypergorgeous friends. I don’t care that I’m not the most graceful dancer on the floor. It feels so good to let go, to live in the moment with no other agenda other than to have fun, that I never want to stop.

Dallas was right––it does feel good to be bad. Well, at least my PG rated version of bad. I have no doubt his version is X rated, which naturally has me wondering what that X rated version looks like. Then I want to kick myself for even considering it.

Across the dance floor, I spot Reagan approaching, pushing his way between one sweat-slicked body after another. Walking up behind Alice, he wraps his arms around her waist, and she reaches back and rakes her fingers through his hair. The love is strong between these two.

Unfortunately, as happy as I am for my friend, it also serves to remind me of what’s missing in my life.

“I’m taking the birthday girl home, ladies,” Reagan announces. Zoe eyeballs him with open disapproval but keeps her mouth shut for once. “Can you do me a favor and drive Dallas home?”

“He’s here!” flies out of me. The rogue outburst gets Blake and Zoe’s attention, both of whom stop dancing and frown.

Oops. “Did s-somebody s-say something? Hahaha.”

“Nice try,” Blake replies, snickering.

I haven’t seen him much since the funeral. The kiss was ill-advised at best and all the time we were spending together even worse. Feigning sickness, I haven’t even been to the shelter.

“He’s at the bar,” Reagan remarks.

All of us turn to find Dallas leaning against the bar, waiting to be served. His heavy-lidded eyes meet mine and he grins from ear to ear, practically bludgeoning me with his sex appeal. As if I needed more material for my dirty daydreams.

Zoe groans. “Do I have to?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“That’s asking a lot.”

“I’ll owe you,” Reagan presses, a sly smile growing on his handsome face. It’s nice to see him smile for a change.

“Yes. You will.”

Everyone’s attention returns to Dallas, who’s approaching quickly. The urge to flee kicks me in the pants.

After indicating to Blake that I’m heading to the ladies room, I take o across the dance floor, march down a dimly lit hallway, and find it. Inside the bathroom, I pass by the mirror and stop short. The image staring back at me is enough to make anyone stop and stare.

I am one hot mess. My shirt––my black shirt, thank God––may as well be painted on. I keep poking at my pointed nipples and they bounce right back. The black eyeliner Zoe applied a few hours ago is halfway down my face. And my long hair looks like it’s been back combed for an hour. This is going to take some e ort to clean up.

While I get busy doing that, the girl standing next to me keeps stealing glances in the mirror while she applies fresh gloss. She’s whippet thin and very pretty, wearing a minidress that looks right o the runway. Enviously, I stare at her long, shapely legs. I’d kill for those legs.

Slamming the applicator back in the tube, her black almond-shaped eyes meet mine in the mirror. “I’d kill for your boobs,” she flatly announces, then proceeds out the door without a backward glance.

The shock takes a minute to wear o . As soon as it does, it morphs into intrigue. Is that what we’re all doing? Going around envying the next person instead of recognizing the best aspects of ourselves? I know I’m guilty of it. I can’t even tally how many times I’ve done it unconsciously. It seems wrong for some reason. And something else to add to the long list of things I need to change.

Dazedly, I walk out into the dark hallway. The only sources of light are a bunch of neon word signs hanging on

the walls, each one emitting a di erent color.

“Are you avoiding me?” a familiar male voice queries.

He’s leaning against the wall next to a sign that reads Stay Wild with his arms crossed, the neon glow outlining his profile. Bathed in blue light, most people would look sinister.

Not Dallas. It only compliments his perfection. Which seems par for the course.

His gaze slowly slides from my face to my heels, my skin burning from his open and deliberate examination and it has nothing to do with shame. One heavy-lidded look from him and my body lights up like the Vegas strip at night.

“Are you?” he repeats.

Rooted to the floor, I shake my head. People walk between us. Some stumbling drunkenly. A few necks snap to get a second look at him. And yet it doesn’t break the heightened sense of awareness I’m feeling. We may as well be alone.

“Then why does it feel like you are?”

Pushing o the wall, he swaggers over with deliberate slowness. “You weren’t sick, were you…”

I plead the Fifth.

He nods. “It was just a kiss, Dora. We’ve kissed before, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I haven’t. T-trust me,” I mumble under my breath.

When he reaches me, he plants a hand on the wall next to my head. “Screw it, let’s do it.”

“E-Excuse me?” I say shocked breathless.

“Screw it, let’s do it,” he repeats. Smiling wickedly, he points to the glowing pink word sign a few inches to the right of us.

Planting a hand on his chest, I push and he goes back easily. Then I make a break for it, heading for the dance floor. Number 8 on my E -It list will never happen––nor will number 9 for that matter––if I don’t put some distance

between us. He’s too much fun to be around, too much of a temptation, he’s too much period.

Alice and Rea are gone by the time I return, and Blake and Zoe are dancing with a bunch of guys. It’s time to put my actions where my intentions are so I start dancing too. It doesn’t take long before one the guys surrounding Zoe is grinding up against my behind.

That’s when I hear “Hey, man, she’s underage. I’d look elsewhere if I were you.”

I glance over my shoulder at the grinder who seems seriously spooked. He glares at me.

“H-He’s lying.”

“She’s not worth the trouble, bro. Walk away.”

As he’s staring me down with an expression of total revulsion, the grinder backs away, eventually disappearing into the crowd. I look up with a glare of my own and find Dallas’s smile is one for the books.

“What d-do you t-think you’re doing?”

“Watching out for you.”

“Hardly, y-you’re trying to r-ruin my good time!” I shout over the music. Taking my arm, he tugs me away, o the dance floor, and leads me to the wall on the far side where it’s only slightly quieter.

Leaning a shoulder against the wall, he crosses his arms and the t-shirt he’s wearing pulls tight, showcasing the complex network of muscles and veins of his arms. Thirsty.

I’m very thirsty all of a sudden.

Next, his blue gaze goes soft and sensual. If he thinks I’m going to capitulate that easily, he’s seriously delusional.

“I have a deal for you.”

Not what I was expecting but whatever. “I d-don’t nneed a deal.”

“You don’t know what the deal is. How could you know you don’t need it?”

“Because I d-don’t n-need or want anything from you.”

“Well that’s not very fair. You haven’t even heard my proposal yet. How do you know you don’t want something you don’t know?”

“You’re not going to l-leave me alone tonight, are you?”

“Not until you hear what I have to say.”

“Fine. G-G-Get on with it so I c-can get back to dancing.”

“Let me be your wingman.”

I’m speechless. For the first time in my life I am legit speechless. One minute of silence passes. Two minutes pass.

“I d-don’t get it…”

“You’re giving me rides to the shelter.” He shrugs like all this makes perfect sense. “In return, I’ll be your wingman.”

“My wingman?” I repeat. I don’t know if I should laugh. I mean, he’s funny. This proposal is hilarious. The scary thing is, I think he’s serious.

“You still working on that list? How many do you have left?” I say nothing. I admit nothing. “Huh…” He studies my face. “I take it that means all of them.”

“I g-got a makeover, didn’t I? And the Ferris wheel. I got that one d-done––” I snipe defensively. Yeah, I’m losing this argument or whatever you call this, this negotiation.

Reaching out, he takes a piece of my hair and tugs. “You look beautiful,” he says without missing a beat. “I like the makeover.”

Wait…did he just throw it out there that he thinks I’m beautiful? And I’m supposed to roll with it like the plate tectonics of the planet haven’t just shifted? What kind of game is he playing?

“What kinda g-game are you playing?”

He looks momentarily confused. “No game.” He leans in for a closer look, eyes narrowed. “Are you drunk?”

“No!”

“Then I’ll repeat myself because you’re hard of hearing tonight. I wanna help you.”

“You w-want to h-help me with m-my list…are you drunk?”

“You wanna be bad, right? I know bad.” He proudly pats his chest. “I’m the king of bad. All I’m sayin’ is––that’s my department. Let me help you be bad.”

I giggle because, dear me, he is serious.

He leans in, his mouth inches from my ear, and murmurs, “Say yes, Dora. I know you want to.” The silky purr slides over my skin, pebbles my nipples, and makes me shiver.

Then he looks into my eyes and smiles. And that look, that devil-may-care look, seals the deal.

What do I have to lose? Except possibly my heart. But I’ve already tried it the safe way and it hasn’t worked in my favor. That’s why I throw caution to the wind.

“Okay…you’re on.”

“Good.” He takes my wrist and leads me away again.

“W-Where are we going?”

“To dance.”

And irrepressible smile grows on my face. I. Am. In. Trouble.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DORA “Come over at six,” Dallas says as soon as I answer my phone.

“In t-the m-morning?”

I am not an early riser. Not even a little.

“Dory”––a heavy sigh filters through the phone––“do you, or do not want to learn how to surf?”

“I do.”

“Am I not the best surfer you know?”

A grin stretches my lips apart even though it’s midnight and I’m half asleep. Turning in bed, I face the closet where the Cat Woman costume reminds me that I know how this boy’s lips feel. How they taste. What his sighs of pleasure sound like.

“I dunno, I hear R-Rea’s pretty…” My words fade at the mention of Reagan.

He’s gone, took o the day after the night at the club, leaving Alice without an explanation. Only a letter telling her to move on without him and the pink slip to his Jeep. As much as Dallas tries to hide it, I know he’s worried. As much

as he tried to disguise it with humor, I know he misses him terribly.

“H-Have you heard from him?”

He takes a deep breath. “Nothing.” A full minute later.

“I’m worried.”

“I know…I-I think he n-needs to forget all of us for a while.”

I know that’s what I used to do when life got overwhelming. My Kindle is a testament to that.

“Maybe…be here at six.” That’s his cue that he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. I’ve gotten pretty good at reading his tea leaves. “And insubordination will be met with punishment, young grasshopper.”

Punishment? What kind of punishment? And why does that sound appealing?

I really need to cut back on the dark erotic romance. One thing is for sure, if anything were to happen to me and my parents checked my Kindle they would question whether they raised a monster.

“You r-really need to stop with the K-Kung Fu marathons and f-find s-something else to watch.”

“That’s Cole’s thing. I’m merely a bystander,” he explains while I role play the punishment in my head.

“Anyway, Master orders you to get your cute ass to my place tomorrow morning or face the consequences.”

All I heard is that he thinks my butt is cute. “Y-You’re taking this wingman s-stu v-very seriously.”

“When I make a commitment, I keep it. Besides, corrupting the innocent is my superpower.”

Truth hidden in plain sight, under the guise of humor.

Dallas is not full of beans. He keeps his word and shows up.

His work at the shelter is a testament to that. I’m not even sure what Vi and Mika would’ve done without him. All the construction he’s helping with has kept costs down. Then

there was the mysterious donation of thirty-thousand dollars in cash a law firm sent the other day on behalf of a client that wishes to remain anonymous. He refuses to admit it, but we all have a good idea where it came from.

“Dallas…” I start, remorseful, ashamed at how much I underestimated him. Like everyone else in his life, I expected nothing other a vain, shallow boy. When in truth, I haven’t even begun to reach the depth of him.

“Yeah…” He exhales and I can feel it everywhere. As if we’re connected in some profound way that I can’t explain.

This is the part where I learn you can’t break old habits all at once. Where I take a step backward. For all the progress I’ve made, there’s still a lot more work to be done.

I feel the words get trapped in my throat, the letters stalling, the stammer starting. So I give up, retreat, chickenout. “Nothing. Thank you.”

He yawns and I know he’s about to fall asleep too.

“Anything for you, D.” “See you t-tomorrow.”

“Nite, babe.” His voice fades.

Babe. It’s the last thing I remember before sleep claims me as well.

“Nice pictures,” I say, standing in the middle of Dallas’s bedroom admiring the framed photos of surfers that cover the walls. He disappeared into his massive walk-in closet without explanation a minute ago and I’m patiently waiting to find out why.

This house is insanely big. You could fit my entire house in Del Mar in his bedroom alone. And obviously decorated by a professional. The style is modern. Masculine. Though it’s

cozy. His bedroom is done in shades of blue with simple oversized furniture.

He returns holding a black wet suit. “Brenda found them.

She decorated the house.”

I scrutinize the neoprene with suspicion. Seems tight.

Revealing. It’s way too early in the morning for me to be stu ng myself into anything this tight. Even with all the walking miles I’ve logged in the past few months, I am not by any stretch of the imagination thin.

“You w-want me to wear this?” I’m not even trying to hide my discomfort at the prospect.

“Good work, detective. What’s next, the Epstein case?”

A giggle breaks free. “He d-didn’t kill himself.”

And now we’re both smiling like loons, which makes me forget that I’m nervous.

Taking the wet suit from him, I turn it upside down, try to stretch the material between my hands. A pang of jealousy hits fast and hard and my smile falls. Has he done this before?

“W-where did you get this?”

“I bought it for you when I picked up the surfboard.”

It’s definitely my size. Glancing up, the innocent look on his face makes me feel like garbage for assuming the worst about him.

“Oh…y-you d-didn’t have to buy me anything.”

“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

He’s so darn sweet. I don’t deserve him. Not even as a friend. “Do I h-have to wear it?”

“Yeah. You don’t want to know what’s been running into the Santa Monica Bay. If I told you, you’d never step foot in the water again. Get dressed and meet me on the beach.”

“Gross.”

“Trust me, young grasshopper,” he intones, smirking as he walks backward to the door. “Would I steer you wrong?”

“No.” He squints. “No, Master.”

And with that, an irrepressible smile is back on my face.

“No, Master.”

Five minutes later, my dark red toes are digging into the sand, carrying me to where Dallas has both our surfboards set up. I glance out at the grey, unwelcoming water. One heaping portion of hepatitis coming right up––and I asked for it.

“Ready?” he says smiling big.

I give him a wide tight smile in return. “Ready.”

An hour and a half later, I’m ready for a long nap, my hair smells like seaweed, and I’m not sure I ever want to surf again. “A-And you d-do this all the time? Why?” He smirks. “Once you get the hang of it, it won’t be so exhausting. Your muscles will get used to working with the energy of the ocean and not overcompensating for it––ever hear of go with the flow?”

“I t-thought I was in better shape,” I say wheezing.

“Aren’t you running?”

“I d-don’t run ever,” I tell him.

Try strapping two watermelons to your chest and go for a run, I want to say to him but refrain. He’s been so patient with me he doesn’t deserve me snapping at him.

“I s-speed walk.”

Stumbling out of the water, I lie down on the sand and make a sand angel or two. “This is m-more my style,” I say, staring up at the daisy chain of clouds above.

Dallas lies down next to me and gets up on an elbow, a soft mischievous smile on his face. “You wanna go to dinner tonight?”

Oh crud. I have a date tonight. Andy, from my Advanced Chem class. I’m actually kind of excited about it. Well, I was up until now. Why do I feel super uncomfortable telling him?

“I c-can’t…”

“Lab?” “No…” Shoot. I feel bad. Guilty even. And that, in in of itself, is so wrong. We have no claim on one another. “I-I have a date.”

His smile vanishes. His brows slam together. “A date?”

His tone implies someone dropped a stinker and that someone is me.

“N-Number seven on the list.”

“Riiight…the list. With who?”

“A guy from m-my chem class. Nobody you know––jjust a n-nice guy.” Why did I say that? What on Earth possessed me to say it like that? “But any other––” “No, that’s cool. Good for you.”

Standing, he brushes his hands together, cleaning the sand away while avoiding eye contact.

The sinking sensation in my gut gets stronger.

“Dallas––” “Let me know when you want to do this again.” He finally meets my gaze head-on, his eyes glowing vivid blue in daylight. Then he walks away, heading for his house.

DALLAS “C-can I come in?”

Dora’s standing in the doorway, blinking up at me like she’s got something on her mind and it can’t wait. My eyes travel down her body and hit on a few major key points.

A: she’s wearing a royal blue slinky dress and she looks hot.

B: her hair is down and parted to the side and she looks hot.

C: she has make-up on and she looks hot.

None of these things make me happy. In fact, my mood, which was already on the verge of crap, gets darker. “How was your date?”

“It was nice. Thanks for as-sking. C-can I come in?” She tries to look around me––probably wondering if I have a guest––so I cross my arms and lean into her line of sight.

“Oh…” The amusement drains from her face, her expression sobering instantly. “You have c-company. Sorry, I-I-I’ll go.”

“No. No company,” I’m quick to correct. Why? Who the fuck knows. It’s not like we owe each other anything.

Her eyes lift to meet mine, and her glossy lips curve into a gentle smile. “So…c-can I come in?”

She blinks those big brown peepers at me and I lose the fight to hold onto my bad mood. Even worse, I want to kiss her. There’s nothing worse than knowing how great it is to kiss her and not being able to do it again.

I step aside and she walks past me, heading straight to the kitchen like she’s done it a hundred times. I realize then that I like her feeling comfortable in my house. I want her to feel at home here. Heels clicking the entire way, I watch her hips sway, the blue dress hugging her ass. I am royally fuu–– “Hey, D. What’s up, girl,” says my suddenly inconvenient roommate.

“Hi, Cole.”

The fact that Cole Peterman––the biggest chick hater I have ever known for reasons not a single one of us can figure out––has taken a liking to Dora and turns on the nice guy routine whenever she’s here irritates the shit out of me.

He’s making himself a Nutella sandwich when I walk in.

The sight of the jar alone is enough to turn my stomach.

“Dude, we have a lady guest. How about you put a shirt on?”

Cole chuckles. Then sensing my lack of humor, his smile drops. “You’re serious?” When I don’t answer, confusion blankets his face. “You don’t have one on, either.”

“I’m…” Damn, I hadn’t thought this one through.

“I’m leaving anyway,” he jumps in to fill the void. “Just grabbing a snack on my way out.” Then he winks. The dude winks. Translation: booty-call.

Naturally, I’m forced to call him out. I can’t have Dora thinking he’s a stand-up guy. “Kacey or Madison?”

“Neither.” He smiles widely.

I watch his eyes travel down Dora’s body while he slaps the chocolate spread on two slices of bread and a sick feeling churns in my gut. I know what he’s thinking. I know because I’ve thought it too.

“You look nice,” he says to Dora. “Hot date?”

“Yup.” Yup? This morning he was a nice guy. Now he’s hot?

“You said he was just a nice guy?” Jesus, I need to take it down a notch before she starts to notice I’m feeling irrationally possessive.

Examining my face, she frowns in question. “H-he is… both t-those things.” Then turns back to Cole. “What’s ggoing on w-with you?”

“Just busy being awesome.”

She giggles. “T-That must be a lot of work.”

“You bet it is.”

“Don’t you have something to say to me?” comes ripping out. Both of them turn and stare. Yeah, not my finest moment.

A beat later, a smirking Peterman slowly and deliberately screws the top back on the Nutella jar while staring me down. He places the dirty knife in the dishwasher––still

staring me down. Then he says goodnight to Dora, walks out of the house chomping on his sandwich, and eyeballing me the entire way with a look that warns I’m going to pay for this later. He’s on to me. I’m never going to hear the end of it.

The front door closes and the kitchen is suddenly very quiet. Dora fidgets, laces her fingers together in front, and glances around avoiding eye contact. I can’t bring myself to make her feel better, to put her at ease, when I’m still pissed about having Peterman suck up all of her attention.

“It’s k-kind of private,” she says quietly. “D-do you think B-Brock will be home soon?”

Probably, he was meeting someone at the library to study.

I nod. “Let’s go to my room.”

I walk ahead because I can’t watch her luscious ass and think straight at the same time. I’ve never been good at denying myself anything I wanted, and I’m not about to test the strength of that muscle now. Not when I’m holding onto my sanity by a very thin thread.

The moon shines brightly inside my bedroom. I turn on a lamp, walk straight to the wall of windows that overlook the beach, and lean my bare back against the cool glass. At this point, it’s wise to keep as much distance between us as possible. I can’t trust myself not to do something stupid.

Dora makes it halfway and stops. Standing in the middle of the room, she starts to fidget again.

“It’s okay, Dora. Just say it.”

“Okay…okay…I-I…” She hu s and paces in a circle, her curvy hips swinging, her small feet moving in quiet steps while I wait her out.

“I was having a g-great time tonight…”

Seriously? Is she going to torture me with a blow-byblow of her date?

“…and I s-started thinking…” She glances up and my stomach clenches. “I don’t want to r-ruin it…because I’m… you k-know…inexperienced.”

Payback’s a bitch. I’m being punished for all the dumb shit I’ve done. That’s exactly what this is.

“Dora, most guys…” Words get stuck in my throat. Now I know how she feels all the time. I’m nearly choking on them, but she deserves to know the truth––even if it kills me.

“Guys like being the first.” Shrugging, I continue, “It doesn’t make it right, but it’s true.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She exhales in frustration.

“What I mean is…w-what if I d-don’t have a good experience? It could r-ruin the relationship.”

A fucked up sense of pride fills me. She’s worried that she could sour on the dude if he doesn’t make it good for her. In some backward way, it makes me happy that she’s not willing to settle for mediocrity.

“Which is w-why I’m h-here…I have s-something t-to ask you––a favor.”

Her bright white teeth dig into the fat part of her bottom lip and my dick wakes up and takes notice.

This is not the time, bro.

Somehow, I sac-up and resist the urge to squeeze my dick and readjust. This is my friend, after all. A good friend. A friend that I care about more than I should. Which means I can’t allow the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in months e ect this relationship. That would be bad. Never thought I’d say these words in my lifetime, and yet there you have it––I don’t want to ruin my friendship with sex.

Brushing her long red hair o her shoulder, she laced her hands together and her big brown eyes meet mine…hopeful.

My heart begins to pump faster and louder. It’s like my body knows something big is about to go down before I do.

“W-will you sleep with m-me?”

Good thing I’m already leaning against something because the blood just drained out of my head. “Sleep with you…You mean like a sleep over?”

By the look on her face, I’m way o target. Which is exactly what I was afraid of.

“No. No sleeping. Just s-sex. Just s-straight up sex––” “Got it. Got it. You don’t have to keep repeating it…I… umm––” “P-please just hear me out,” she blurts. “I n-need t-to do it with someone I t-trust. Someone I know will make m-my f-first time as good as it can be.”

The pleading look she gives me is a fucking dragon slayer.

No man with blood in his veins could say no to this woman when she looks at him like that.

“So I thought…” She sighs, her shoulders drop. “Y-you’re my friend. There isn’t anyone––any guy, I mean––that I ttrust more…” She steps forward, and if there was an open window nearby I’d be tempted to jump out of it.

“What d-do you say, Dall. Will you do it? You o ered once.”

Somewhere between Barstow and Las Vegas I turned a two-hundred-thousand dollar car into a pile of scrap metal.

Nothing like almost dying to help you get clear on how you want to live and this girl…she’s the first person in my life I don’t want to disappoint.

“That was a joke! I was teasing you.”

In my defense, I did not mean to say that so harshly but I’m in panic mode right now. I want to. Fucking A, I do. I want to so badly. But I also know I’m a bad bet and sex changes everything. She doesn’t know it yet, but I do.

Her face goes blank. Her eyes get real big. This is not a good sign. “It’s ok-kay. You d-don’t have to explain. I’m ss-s-s. Crud. S-sorry…forget I s-said anything.”

It hits me like a thunderbolt that she misunderstood me.

She thinks I’m not attracted to her––which couldn’t be farther from the truth. By the time my body kicks into gear, she’s already halfway down the hall and speed walking to the front door.

“Hey, Dora,” I hear Brock say. I come around the corner in time to watch Brock catch her by the shoulders as she almost crashes into him.

“You okay?” he asks, his face flashing genuine concern.

“Hi, B-Brock. Uh-huh, yeah. I gotta go.”

“Dora!” I shout but she doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t look at me. All it does is draw fire from Brock who looks pissed.

Typical. I’m immediately identified as the villain. In the meantime, Dora gets past him.

“Don’t let her go! Dora, wait!”

I get to the threshold and the fucker blocks me. The big guy is six foot five and an easy two-thirty. At at six foot one and two hundred pounds, I’m not moving him an inch.

“She seems to want to leave, bro.”

“It’s complicated. Trust me, I have to catch her.” And still, he doesn’t move. “Due process, bro. Aren’t you prelaw?”

By the time, my meddlesome roommate steps aside, Bernadette is pealing out of the driveway. I sprint after her glowing red taillights in bare feet and get only half a block before I lose her.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DORA I. Am. Mortified.

I knew there was a good chance he’d turn me down, but that look on his face…if there had been an open window he would’ve jumped out and made a run for it.

I scan The Cantina, the local bar where most Malibu U students hang out, to make sure a certain somebody hasn’t walked in. For the middle of the week, the place is packed with a mix of students and locals. The music coming from the jukebox loud and the conversation louder. When I don’t see Dallas or any of the other guys on the team, I relax a little but the victory is short-lived.

“I did s-something last night…” I mutter around a mouthful of chips. I eat when I’m nervous. What can I say, old habits die hard.

“What are you doing for spring break, Red?” Zoe says, interrupting my self-inflicted punishment.

Spring break starts in a few days and we all have di erent plans. Blake and Zoe are headed to The Palmilla in Mexico to meet up with Blake’s dad. Alice is going back to Jersey to visit her folks. And I’m launching “Operation Motherload.”

I’m driving up to San Francisco to meet Katherine. Whether she’s ready or not.

“Plans, Red?” Zoe checks me out and frowns. “Do you have any? And stop looking around like you’re waiting for your dealer. What is up with you lately? You’re acting weird.”

If she only knew…but the more important point is that nobody heard me. Huh, dilemma. Do I repeat myself?

Because it feels like it’s something I need to get o my chest.

Or do I hold my tongue?

“I-I’m thinking about…” I take a gulp of my soda–– stalling. Meanwhile, three very curious expressions stare back at me. “I’m thinking about going to San F-Fran t-to see my b-birth mother.”

“That bitch that sent you the email?”

Zoe has two speeds: love and hate. There’s nothing in between.

I nod and her perfectly groomed eyebrows climb up her forehead. “You’ve got chutzpah. I’ll give you that.”

“I f-feel like I have to.”

“Then you should,” Blake remarks.

“I would if I were you,” Alice chimes in. “I wish I had the chance to know my mother better before she died…it might not be pleasant but you’ll never wonder.”

“T-That’s why I’m going to do it.”

Across the bar, I spot one of the bookends and my mind immediately takes me back to Dallas. “I did s-something last night…” I start again, louder, with a little more courage this time.

Blake stares at me. Then she shouts, “Oh my God! You––” “No––” I sharply deny before that train leaves the station. “Not yet.”

“Your first BJ?” Zoe brings the bottle of Anders-Burns beer bottle to her lips and sips. “You better have kept your

eyes shut like I taught you.”

“That was our f-first date.” And my last with Andy. He’s a perfectly nice guy that I have absolutely no physical chemistry with. Otherwise he’d be the perfect boyfriend.

Why does love have to be so complicated?

“Don’t judge”––Zoe points a well-manicured light-blue nail at me––“you judgy judger.”

“I askedDallastodothedeed.”

Three sets of eyes blink back at me. Two brown. One hazel. Confusion filling all of them. A few more seconds pass in silence. Meanwhile, I stu another entire handful of chips in my mouth and wash it down with the dregs of Zoe’s margarita.

Blake finally speaks up. “Come again?”

After a fit of coughing, I push the empty margarita glass across the table at Zoe. “I asked Dallas to have s-sex with me.”

Silence. My goodness, I’ve rendered them speechless for once.

“Oh my gawd,” Zoe drawls. “You like him.”

“A-as a person. He’s been a good friend.” Small lie. Tiny prevarication.

I glance over at Alice for moral support and she shakes her head, lips pressed together to tamp down a grin. In other words, I’m on my own.

“C’mon. Don’t play us like that,” Blake says, chuckling.

“Are you on drugs?” Zoe again. “I forbid it.”

“Why d-do you h-hate him?”

Inquiring minds want to know. And judging by Alice’s expression, she was thinking the same.

Zoe’s amusement evaporates. She looks away briefly and swallows. “I’ve known guys like him all my life. They think they’re entitled to run over everyone and anyone for kicks…I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“He’s not like that, Z,” Blake argues. “I’ve told you this a million times.”

“He’s not,” I add. “He’s actually s-smart and sweet and––” “Smart? Did you say smart?” Zoe’s face is the very picture of shocked indignation.

“He’s v-very smart.”

“Now I know you’re high.”

“Well you can r-rest easy b-because he turned me down.”

My stomach clenches. It’s actually physically painful to admit.

“That son of a bitch. I’ll kill him.”

Alice bursts into laughter, I shake my head, and Blake rolls her eyes.

“But you j-just said I was high for asking him.”

“That was before he turned you down. Who the hell does he think he is?”

Zoe suddenly sti ens, her attention averts to someone or something over my shoulder. “Oh good. I don’t even have to hunt him down.”

My head whips around and there he is, standing in the entrance looking more gorgeous and sexy than any one person has the right to. What’s even worse––he doesn’t even have to try.

It looks like he ran here. His white t-shirt has a sweat stain in the middle, his tattoo bleeding through, and he’s wearing shorts and sneakers. His hair is wild and curlier at the ends from the physical exertion. Anybody else would look wrecked. Dallas manages to look even more attractive.

Those mesmerizing blue eyes scan the crowd, and once he spots our table, he trots right over, his expression so determined I don’t know if I should stand my ground, or cut and run.

“Girls,” he announces.

“Hi Dallas,” both Blake and Alice answer back. Zoe, on the other hand––nothing outside of a lot of glamorous glowering. When it goes on for far too long, I kick her under the table.

“Van Zant, what a surprise. You better have come with a written apology.”

He shoots her a confused look, shakes it o , and resumes his pointed stare at me.

“Can I talk to you?”

“I’m w-with the g-girls.”

He blows out a frustrated breath. “I see that. Can I talk to you anyway?”

He won’t stop until I acquiesce. Dallas is a closet gogetter for lack of a better term. The lazy no-e s-given attitude he puts on for the world to see is a sham, an act to sell the notion that he doesn’t care about anything when in fact he cares very much.

“Fine.”

He smiles, squares his shoulders, takes a satisfied breath.

“Good.”

“F-Five minutes.”

“That’s all I need.”

Meanwhile, the girls watch us closely, their eyeballs ping-ponging between us. They haven’t had the benefit of seeing us together so this is all new to them.

I slide o the stool and march to the front door. No way will I humiliate myself in front of the rest of the Malibu U student body. Some of the bookends are here and watching him/us closely.

Once I get outside, in the shadow of the parking lot, I stop and turn. “Yes?” “You ran out before I could explain.”

“You k-know I don’t run.”

“Fine. You speed walked,” he says all hu y. “What I was going to say…” His gaze darts to my lips and away, back to my lips and away, causing heat to infuse my cheeks.

“What I was going to say,” he repeats, struggling to find the right words, “is that sex changes everything. You don’t know that yet but it does…and…and any guy that tells you di erently is full of shit.”

His gaze softens and drifts back to my lips. Which makes me fidget, my body coming alive under his rapt, sexy scrutiny. A slow moving heat starts between my legs and spreads up, up, up, over my breasts, pebbling my nipples. My skin is so sensitive the wind blowing on my bare arms hurts.

If he can get me this turned on with one glance, I have to wonder what he can do with his actual body parts.

“I do want you,” he murmurs quietly, his gaze veering away to a set of headlights in the distance. I watch his Adam’s apple bob, his jaw tighten. “If I didn’t think it would fuck up our friendship, I’d take you up on your o er right now, but I know better”––his eyes meet mine again, packed with sadness––“and I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want it to ruin us.”

A moment of silence turns into two, then three.

“I understand.”

Because I do. Who am I kidding? I’m half in love with him already. I can’t even contemplate what it would feel like to see him with another girl. Curiously, since the accident, I haven’t seen any bookends hanging around. And yet it’s only a matter of time. Once he gets his driver’s license and his life back, I could turn into a long forgotten memory.

He studies my face. “Do you?”

Nodding. “Yeah.”

I guess I’ll have to resign myself to dating more Andys of the world. Not that there’s anything wrong with him. He’s perfectly fine. At least he won’t break my heart.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

DORA “Dora!” I hear coming from across the quad.

I’ve been avoiding him. I totally have. The talk we had a few days ago did not do me any good whatsoever. It’s only cemented the reality that I’m weak and shallow and in serious danger of stumbling into love with him. Which is why I need a time-out.

He’s been calling––I hit voicemail. He’s been texting–– I’m busy with schoolwork is my patent answer.

“Dora!” I hear the slapping of footsteps behind me and I break out into an actual semi-jog. Yep, I am almost running.

And yet I can’t shake him. He’s static cling, the lost red sock sticking to my sweatshirt right out of the drier, dogging my every step to the parking lot.

“Stop acting like you don’t hear me,” he says in my ear as I reach the top of the stairs hu ng and pu ng.

The parking lot is full of students loading up their cars.

Most have already left for spring break but some stranglers, like me, are leaving today.

“I-I can’t talk right now. I-I’m leaving for the week.”

“Oh, yeah––where?”

“Where?” Abruptly, I stop and turn, and in doing so, I almost crash into him. Dallas takes hold of my arms and steadies me before stepping back and putting some muchneeded distance between us.

His admission that he wants me too only served to fuel the sexual tension between us. It’s at DEFCON 5 right now and I’m not sure we can deescalate without one of us taking drastic measures.

“Umm, away.”

All the running has left a fine mist of sweat on my face while he looks like the windswept hero in my favorite Julia Quinn historical romance novel. Hair perfectly disheveled.

Freshly tan with just the right amount of rosy glow on his perfect freaking cheekbones. It’s an overkill of perfection.

“Yeah, I got that part,” he snarks. “What I don’t get is why you’ve been leaving skid marks every time you’ve seen me around the last few days.” He studies my face. “Are you mad at me?”

Crud. “No! No, I’m not m-mad at you I’m…umm”––shit, shit, shit––“I’m g-going to see my m-mother.”

“Your mother?” he repeats. His brows draw together, heavy thoughts resting there. He makes thinking look hot.

This is just beyond the pale.

“Yeah,” I sigh. I’m not even sure I’m doing the right thing. Problem is, I can’t silence the belief that if I don’t do it now––I never will.

“I’m coming with you.”

“You want to come with me…to, to m-meet my mother?”

Dallas looks o , his nose wrinkles. He licks his lips. How can anyone think straight standing before a cursed pout like that? I know what those lips taste like. I know what they feel like against mine. And the thirst for more is getting out of hand.

“I can’t trust you not to get yourself in a world of trouble.

Somebody’s gotta look out for you.” His gaze meets mine, a twinkle of something wicked in it. “Face it, Dory, you’re a danger to yourself. You need me.”

Wow. Major loaded sentence. But I’m not touching that bombshell right not. Not when I need to get on the road.

“So you’re g-gonna come with me?”

His head comes back around and he looks me squarely in the eyes. “Friends don’t let friends face important stu alone.”

This boy…

My heart does bouncing leaps inside my chest before dramatically melting to the floor. This needs to stop. He made his feelings clear on the subject…but I can let him be my friend.

“No c-comments on my driving.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he deadpans.

Liar. A smile tugs at my lips. “Or Bernadette.”

“Now you’re asking too much.” A crooked grin appears, and despite the flutter of panic I’m feeling over this trip, I get a little lost in that smile.

“I don’t know how this is g-gonna go down sooo…”

How do I tell him I might chicken-out at the last minute without looking like a total weenie?

“No pressure. It’s just a ride-along. If you change your mind when we get there––where are we going anyway?”

“San Fran.”

“If you change your mind when we get there, we’ll go get some chow and come home.”

I’m tempted. I’m so tempted to let him come along. The truth is, although I’m committed to going, I’m not sure how I’ll react once I get there. This is scary as heck. It would be nice to have someone there for moral support. It would be nice to have him there. Dallas does not get nearly enough

credit. He’s keenly aware of people’s vibes, a fined tuned instrument when it comes to reading other people’s feelings.

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I nod.

“Is that a yes?”

I nod again.

“Nah, I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“That I’m the hottest dude you’ve ever laid your big peepers on, but that’s besides the point.” An involuntary giggle escapes me. “Say you want me to come along.”

He opens the passenger side door and rests an elbow on the roof of my car, a big smirk on this beautiful face.

Rolling my eyes. “I w-want you to come along––” “––your Majesty.”

“Get in the c-car, your Majesty.”

Grinning, he does as he’s told. One thing’s for certain, there’s never a dull moment when he’s around.

“Oh. Oh. Oh. Tenderness, where is the…

Tenderness, where is it?

I don't know where I am but I know I don't like it…I open my mouth and out pops something spiteful…na, na, na, na, na, na, na.

Words are so cheap…la, la, la, la, la, la. But they can turn out expensive…

Words like conviction can turn into a sentence…”

My carpool buddy is singing Tenderness by General Public way, way o -key. He’s been doing it on and o for an hour.

It was fun for the first ten minutes, when he tried to sing along to Smokey Sings and messed up all the words. That was fun. Now it’s turned into a nightmare.

He’s got the passenger seat pushed all the way back, the seat back reclined, and his legs spread apart. I wonder if he’d

mind if I crawled all over him and kissed him senseless…or at least quiet. Lord, gimme strength.

We stopped at his house and picked up a few things for him, seeing that we could be gone for a few days, before hitting the road. That turned out to be a very bad idea.

Driving on the I-405 on a Friday afternoon to San Diego is sheer insanity. We’ve been at a standstill for an hour.

“I told you going to San Diego tonight was a bad idea,” says my sexy car buddy.

“I t-thought you said you wouldn’t c-comment on my driving?”

“You’re not driving. You’re parked in tra c, Kitten.”

Dang, that nickname still makes me blush every time. His gaze flickers to my mouth and a lazy Cheshire cat smile grows on his face. We both know he does it on purpose to rile me up. Why he wants to rile me up is another matter.

“And why do we have to go all the way south so we can go all the way north? Seems counterproductive.”

“I h-have to get the ad-ddress from my father’s laptop.”

“Huh? Wait a minute, why don’t you have it already?” He flips up his sunglasses.

“Because…” Cringing. I haven’t been completely forthright about my plan. “B-Because t-they don’t”––I steal a glance and am met by an unblinking, hyperaware stare––“know.”

He sits up abruptly, taking the seat back with him. “Your parents don’t know?”

How do I explain without throwing my parents under the bus? “My parents are…very p-protective––” “They treat you like a child.”

“––of me. Can you p-please stop being so perceptive?”

“That would be like asking me to be a little less goodlooking,” he answers with a completely straight face. “Try to be a little reasonable.” He flips his sunglasses back down.

That nudges a smile out of me. He always knows how to break the tension. “T-They’ve been doing everything to discourage me. They said that my mother was just a donor.”

“How did it happen? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“My dad, Evan, k-knows K-Katherine from high school.

They r-ran into each other when he was attending a teachers’ conference in B-Berkley. My parents had decided to s-start a family and adoption was really di cult for gay couples back then. They were s-searching for a surrogate… she o ered.”

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.

“Nice to meet you. And thank you for having me over.”

“We’re happy to have you. You’re welcome any time. This is my husband, Jay.” Looking over his shoulder, Evan glares at Jay. “Nice to meet you, Dallas,” Jay Ramos says in a flat voice that communicates with absolute certainty that it is not at all nice to meet me. Jay Ramos also does not extend his hand.

I steal a glance at Dora and catch her glaring at her father.

This is going about as well as I thought it would go.

“How’s your steak, Dallas? Cooked enough?” Evan asks twenty minutes later.

We’re eating outdoors. They have a sweet set up. Big comfortable couches, hammocks in the shade, and a large flatscreen TV. If Jay Ramos didn’t see me as an existential threat to his daughter’s welfare, I would really dig hanging out with them.

“Yes, sir.”

Needless to say, the conversation has been sti all throughout dinner. I’m pretty sure I have an ally in Evan, but Jay will not be dissuaded. Not with talk of the Dodgers. Not with talk of water polo, which he played competitively in high school. Nothing is earning this guy’s mercy.

“How do you feel about the Biology GRE, are you ready?”

Jay asks Dora.

“I’m so r-ready I could take it blindfolded.”

“What’s a GRE?” I ask, my feelers going up.

“It’s similar to an MCAT,” Dora explains. “I need it to apply to Veterinary school.”

Her lips are glossy from the olive oil in the salad dressing, and I find myself trying not to stare as she speaks. If her father notices, there’s a very good chance he’ll stab me in my sleep.

“You still have your heart set on Cornell? I know it’s still early, but I have to mentally prepare myself to have my baby living so far away.”

It finally clicks. “You’re moving to New York?”

Her big eyes on me, she nods once. “Next summer.”

My chest feels like it just caved in and I’m having a hard time breathing. I’ve been living in the moment for so long I never imagined Dora not being part of my future. And now that I’m forced to, I don’t like how it feels.

“What about you, Dallas? What are your plans after you graduate this year?” Jay asks.

My head whips in his direction. “Pardon?”

“Plans, do you have any?”

He’s fully staring me down now, no pretending anymore.

In passing, I wonder when he’s going to read me my Miranda rights.

“Do I need a lawyer present?” jumps out of my mouth.

Judging by the look on the Chief’s face, I’m dead. They will never find the body.

Evan chuckles and Jay smirks. Then his smile drops. “Do you need one?”

“No, sir.” I definitely lost that round. “Family business.

I’m working for my grandfather. I start right after I graduate.”

“Yeah, what kind of business is that?” He sounds about as interested in the answer as he is in paint drying.

“Jay,” I hear Evan mutter. No mystery who the peacemaker in the family is.

“It’s a brewing company. Anders-Burns,” I answer as I cut into my perfectly cooked medium-rare steak.

Jay glances up and studies me for a beat. “The AndersBurns––the beer?” This is the first time he sounds less than totally bored.

“Among other products. We have an excellent hard cider and seltzer isn’t half bad.” I’ve never met a single person who didn’t know my family’s company. And there’s no hiding it. It makes for interesting introductions when your actual family name is the name of the company.

Jay seems to regain his composure, takes a bite of his food. “So what will you be doing”––he waves his fork––“in this family business?”

“Dad,” Dora chirps.

“You don’t mind. Do you, Dallas?”

I’m guessing anything other than a no is not an option.

“Not at all.”

“See, Dora. Your friend doesn’t mind.”

Evan gives me a long-su ering expression and mouths sorry.

“I’m starting at our bottling plant in Temecula. I’ve worked in the executive o ce as an intern for years, but the old man believes everyone should start at the bottom.”

Jay nods, appeased for whatever reason. “I’d have to agree with your grandfather.”

“Are you done with the interrogation, Chief?” Dora grumbles.

“All done, sweet pea.”

Evan smiles tightly. “Anyone want dessert?”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

DALLAS “S-Sorry about that,” Dora says, glancing over from her side of the couch. Her nose wrinkles and I start to picture my lips on it, smoothing those wrinkles away with kisses. This is becoming a problem.

We headed to the family room right after dinner and started binging the new Jack Ryan season. This place is nice.

Not as nice as mine––they don’t have a trust fund that looks like the annual GDP of a small country––but nice and comfortable, nonetheless. A real home. Where no one pretends, and the people who live here really do love each other.

“No need to apologize. Look at it this way, I’m not an Amber Alert yet.”

She giggles and a hot spike pierces my chest.

“They’re overprotective,” she whispers.

That’s an understatement. Five minutes after I walked through the front door I could see they treat her like a speechless infant rather than the person she’s become, but whatever, I’ve got my own family problems to deal with.

“Are you looking f-forward to working f-for your grandfather?”

“I guess…I’ve never thought of doing anything else. I’m the last Anders-Burns. No cousins or siblings. There’s no one else to take over once my grandfather steps down…or worse.”

Which, knowing the man is built like a bull, shouldn’t be for another ten years at the very least, thank God. “You c-could do or be anything you w-wanted to… anything. You’re the most p-perceptive person I’ve ever met.

One of the smartest too.”

Her praise does strange things to me. My neck feels hot, so does my face. Her big brown eyes glide over me, honest and unflinching. I can’t handle the intense scrutiny. Like she’s trying to get inside my head. So I distracted her, press my toes against her thigh.

She smiles. It’s a naughty little smile. Then she runs her short nails up the bottom of my foot and I nearly shoot o the couch.

“That’s evil.”

“So whose f-fault is it?” she says, throwing my words back at me. “You shouldn’t start a foot fight if you’re tticklish.”

I thought the talk we had a few nights ago at the Cantina would take some of the energy out of the sexual heat between us, but no. My “heat” still has a hard-on for her that won’t quit.

“When are we breaking and entering?”

She glances around to make sure the coast is clear. Her parents retreated to the kitchen twenty minutes ago to clean up.

“After they go to s-sleep.”

Silence falls. The sound of the action on the TV fills the void. Neither one of us moves or looks away and it’s getting

harder and harder to ignore what’s happening between us.

Trained on my mouth, her eyes slowly move down the column of my neck to my chest, down my arm with the chain mail tat.

My dick is halfway to hard already, which is a sign I need to take measures to avert where this is going. Not that I would mind it going there. Fuck, I’d welcome it. But not here. Not now. This isn’t about us. It’s about her and I’m not gonna let her down.

Clearing my throat, I adjust myself under the blanket covering us. “Bathroom?”

“All the way down the hall and to the right.”

I make it as far as the end of the hall near the kitchen when a pair of quiet voices stop me. The first is barely above a murmur and yet I immediately recognize the authoritarian, nut-crushing tone belonging to Jay Ramos.

“Where’s he sleeping?”

Probably not my best idea to creep on Dora’s dads, but fuck it. A: I’m a nosy bastard. And B: I was getting some hardcore negative vibes from the Chief earlier. I’m chalking this up to self-preservation.

“The guest room,” Evan Ramos answers. “Where would you like him to sleep?”

“Malibu,” the nut-crusher replies.

A deep chuckle. “Don’t start.”

“The kid’s bad news, babe. I’m telling you.”

Glad we got the false pretenses out of the way. At least Evan seems like a cool dude.

“He seems perfectly nice to me.”

Tell him, Evan.

“Nice?” Jay sco s. “We busted a kid who seemed just as nice last month for distributing three kilos of coke at his local high school. These rich kids always think they’re above the law.”

“Don’t ruin this for me. I’m begging you. He’s the first friend she’s ever brought home––you go on a campaign of terror and it’ll be another twenty years before it happens again.”

“Friend, my ass,” Jay mutters. “Have you seen the way he looks at her?”

“He’s young, Jay. You remember being young, right?”

“I remember that’s the same way I looked at you before we slept together.”

That’s my cue to split. Before I get clear of the hallway and enter the bathroom, I hear Evan Ramos speak again.

“He can sleep in the basement.”

The knock on the guest room door has me glancing at my phone. Two a.m. and right on time. I hop out of bed, but the door opens before I can reach it.

Dora steps inside and hisses, “Are you dressed?”

“You’re inside the room already. Seems pointless to ask, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yeah. Hahaha.” She smiles so wide those sexy-asfuck bedroom eyes of hers turn into slits.

That’s when I notice the black tank top she’s wearing. It make her breast look like a thirteen-year-old’s wet dream.

Strike that––it makes them look like my wet dream. On the bottom she has pajama pants on, but those barely warrant a second glance in comparison to what’s happening on top.

I went to bed in shorts and a t-shirt. You know, just in case her dads tried to kill me in my sleep, and I had to bug out in the middle of the night.

Her eyes do a quick and furtive assessment of me. They move over my chest and up to my face. She can’t help herself

any more than I can. “Are we gonna crime, or are we gonna stand here all night so you can keep checking me out?”

She squints up at me, a mocking glance. “Oh my gosh, I w-was not checking you out.”

“Admit it, babe. Your eyes were gobbling me up like a bear eats honey.”

“A b-bear? S-So you’re the honey and I’m the hairy bbear in this scenario?”

“A cute, snuggly red bear.”

She giggles and my chest gets tight. Then her voice drops.

“Honey is s-super s-sweet and sticky.”

Fucking A, it is. My dick stands and starts to lean into my shorts, reaching for her. Now is not the time. We gotta stop this or the only theft committed tonight is the innocence I steal under her fathers’s noses.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t ever say the word sticky to me again.”

With a hand to her lower back, I shove her out the door.

Two minutes later we’re in Jay the barbarian’s o ce doing some crime. Dora is bent over the desk with her trophywinning ass sticking out while I’m leaning against the bookcase watching her, or more precisely watching her ass. I figure I’m here for moral support anyway.

She hits the mouse and the computer screen lights up her face and the adorable baby V etched into her forehead. She gets that same look when she’s concentrating in class or driving and it makes me want to kiss her there and take away everything that has ever made her worry.

“Please tell me you have the password.”

“Of c-course I do. It’s my birthday.” She types, hits return…and the icon bounces.

“It’s locked,” I remark out loud. “At least someone in your family has the good sense to protect their personal

stu .” Glancing over her shoulder at me, she rolls her eyes.

“Just sayin’” She types again, pressing the keys harder this time, hits return…and nothing.

“Maybe you need to capitalize?” I tease, knowing he probably resets it regularly.

Her expression grows increasingly more worried, but she tries again anyway. Still locked. “Nuts!” she whisper-hisses.

“Hey, watch the language, dirty bear.” When I don’t get even the semblance of a smile out of her, I know she’s close to a full-fledged freak-out.

The light comes on and we both freeze. Chief Ramos is standing in the doorway in a t-shirt and sweatpants with a look on his face that says we’re fucked.

DORA This couldn’t possibly have gone worse. I’m literally frozen in place, hands all over the evidence, caught right in the middle of doing a crime as Dallas keeps joking.

And Dallas…bless his gorgeous heart. He moves to stand next to me, squares his shoulders, and lifts his chin. He meant it when he said he was here to support me and the hand that squeezes mine is a testament to that. I’m sure this was not the impression he wanted to give my parents. He pretends he doesn’t care what other people think of him, but it’s thinly disguised.

Dad on the other hand…Dad doesn’t pretend. His face is stone cold, his hard gaze shuttling between me and Dallas.

He’s furious. Thankfully, Daddy comes around the corner to bail us out. He won’t let anything bad happen to Dallas.

“You want to tell me what’s going on here?”

“Sir––” “Not you,” he says, leveling Dallas with a deadly flat glare. “You don’t talk.” Then he turns on his heels and walks out. “Living room, Dora. Now!” We all scramble, Dallas bringing up the rear. “Sit,” Dad orders, pointing to the couch. Dallas and I sit side-by-side.

Dad plants himself in the armchair opposite us, and Daddy in the one next to his. He gives me a sympathetic smile.

“What were you doing on my computer? The one owned by the U.S. Federal Government.”

“I’m s-sorry, Dad. But––” “I don’t want to hear buts. You know better.”

I do know better. He must have told us a trillion times over the years never to touch his government issued phones or computers. The guns always went in the safe so those were never an issue.

“What were you looking for?”

“You k-know what I was looking for,” I barely get out. I never planned for getting caught. I’m so bummed that my plans are blown I can’t even muster the remorse he’s looking for.

“And how would you know where to find it?”

“Because that’s where I f-found her email address.”

Daddy looks shocked. Dad looks ready to bust a vein. “And yes, I emailed her––b-before you ask. And…and she t-told me to never contact her again. But she doesn’t g-get to make that choice anymore––I do. She’s made all the choices up until now…not anymore.”

Dad’s suspicion moves over to Dallas. “Did you encourage this?”

I’m immediately on my feet, anger and frustration over this entire mess finally boiling over. “No! He didn’t, Dad. He’s m-my friend, and he was nice enough to come along for support, and you’ve been nothing but rude to him since he

got here. And…and it’s really insulting to even suggest I ccan’t make my own decisions.”

“Okay, let’s all just calm down a bit,” Daddy interrupts.

“No one is accusing Dallas of anything. Right, Jay?” Of course Dad doesn’t say boo. “Jay?” Daddy glances sideways and glares.

With a flat stare and an even flatter voice, Dad says, “I retract all unsubstantiated allegations.”

“Jay…” “I apologize, Dallas.”

“Apology accepted, sir.”

Dad sighs deeply and runs both hands over his short, thick salt and pepper hair. “You’re not going to be satisfied until you do this…”

“No. I-I w-won’t.”

“Honey,” Daddy says. “You saw the email––the only reason why we’ve discouraged you for so long is because we know her very well. We’re just…” he sighs, “no other way to say it––trying to spare you the pain.”

Tears of frustration well up in my eyes. “But you can’t.

Not from this. Because it already hurts. I feel like I’m mmissing the last small piece of the puzzle. That I’ll never be whole if I don’t at least see her and have her see me…I can’t explain it any other way. I’m prepared for her to turn me away. It’s not about her…I’m doing this for me.”

A large, warm hand covers my lower back, his thumb brushing soothingly across my spine under the tank top I wore to bed. And despite the tornado of emotions twisting out of control inside of me, threatening to rip me apart, all my senses take notice of him, converge on that one spot grounding me.

Dad’s head tips back. Then my parents share a look. “Stay here. I’ll get it.”

“You have your credit cards on you?” Daddy brushes my hair away from my eyes.

“Yes.” “Stay someplace nice and call me as soon as it happens,” he orders, hugging me so tightly I can barely breathe.

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” I say, smacking a kiss on his clean-shaven cheek. They’re both seeing us o early. I don’t know who’s more eager to get on the road: me or Dallas. Each for di erent reasons.

“And lower your exceptions into the grave,” Dad grumbles, wrapping me in his arms more gently. “Love you.

Try not to break any laws when you’re up there, please.”

It nudges a smile out of me. Before last night I’d never once gotten in trouble for anything. I’ve never even been grounded before.

“And watch your step. That city has o cially gone to shit and I mean literally. People are shitting on the sidewalks––” “Jay––” “Am I wrong?”

“No, babe.” Daddy turns to face Dallas who’s been standing to the side watching us, expression so serious I wonder if something is bothering him. I can’t tell what he’s thinking and it makes me a little nervous.

“Dallas, it was a pleasure to meet you. Hopefully, Jay hasn’t run you o just yet.”

Dallas smiles softly. “No, sir. It takes a lot more to scare me o .”

“How much more?” is Dad’s quick comeback.

“He’s kidding, Dallas,” Daddy says. “Don’t listen to him.” Dallas and I get in the car. I lower the window down and wave.

“Love you.”

“Drive safely, sweat pea,” Dad says. “And call us when you get there.”

As I back Bernadette out of our driveway, Dad hooks an arm around Daddy. In the rear view mirror, I see them standing, watching…until we’re out of sight.

“You’re lucky.”

It’s the first sentence he’s uttered in an hour. He’s been staring pensively out the passenger side window since we left my house.

“I’m sorry about my dad.”

“He loves you. I would do the same for my daughter.”

I’ve never heard a guy my age talk about having children and it kind of surprises me. “C-Can I ask you something?”

Turning to face me, he says, “Shoot.”

“What happened on T-Thanksgiving? With your mom.

W-What did you fight about?”

He blinks, looks out ahead at the highway. He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer me.

“My ex died.”

“What?” I say flabbergasted. I can’t have heard that right.

“My ex-girlfriend died in September. In a car accident.”

Nothing could’ve shocked me more. Then I think of that night in October. I recall the pain in his eyes and it all makes sense now.

“I am s-so so s-sorry. I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.” An ugly streak of jealousy slices through me I’m embarrassed to say.

“We haven’t been together since I was eighteen. We started seeing each other when I was sixteen.”

“Oh, your high school girlfriend,” I muse. Weird that it makes me feel a little bit better.

“Beth was my tutor,” he casually announces like he hasn’t just dropped a bomb the size of the Hiroshima nuke in my lap. “She was in grad school when we met…she was twenty-seven.”

Holy e ng e s.

“She was twenty-seven? And you were––” “Underage,” he says, finishing for me. “It didn’t matter.

Not then. We loved each other.” He shrugs, seeming lost in the memory. “Anyway, my senior year she just suddenly breaks up with me, out of nowhere. Nothing I said or did changed her mind. During winter break she transferred out of Stanford to Princeton and I never heard from her again.”

I am white-knuckling the steering wheel, my heart hammering inside my chest. It’s a good thing we’re on the Grapevine because all I can do is keep the car straight I’m so absorbed in his story.

“I got a phone call from her husband in September telling me they’d been in a car accident. She died on impact. He sustained serious injuries but eventually recovered…he said Beth had left a letter for me with her lawyer in the event that something happened to her.”

“W-W-What did the letter say?” I blurt out.

“It said that she loved me and didn’t want to leave but that someone in my family had threatened her. She could either take the hundred grand that was o ered and leave or get reported.

“Her life would’ve been ruined. Jail time. The sex o ender registry. Her teaching career would’ve been over…” He makes a pained face. “Anyway, I was sure it was my grandfather,” he continues in a low, flat tone, sounding even more dejected than ever.

“He’s a manipulative motherfucker…I was positive it was him so I went to my

Mom’s house for Thanksgiving to confront him, but he was no-show. Turns out, he was in the islands with his new twenty-year-old girlfriend.” He smiles bitterly. “Nice, right?” A dark chuckle.

“So w-what happened w-with your mom?”

“I was telling her about it, about Beth and about what my Gramps had done, and that’s when she confessed. It was her….She’s the one who drove away the only person who ever cared about me.”

I care about you. I care about you so much. The words are on the tip of my tongue and that’s where they stay. He doesn’t want to hear it. He made his feelings about us clear.

“And the worst part is that she was the only one I told.

Brenda is a fuck-up of the highest caliber so it’s not like I was getting in trouble. She was barely sober back then anyway. She used to act like she was in on it. Like she was looking out for us…it was all a scam.”

We drive in silence for a few minutes, his anger and disappointment palpable. I steal a quick glance and find his profile perfectly still. Like he’s retreating to someplace far beneath his skin where the pain can’t reach him.

“I got in my car and I got the hell out of there. Then the accident…I haven’t seen or spoken to her since.”

“W-What about winter b-break? Christmas?”

His gaze drifts out the passenger window again, the barren landscape as bleak as the mood in the car. “I stayed home.” With his elbow leaning on the door handle, he drums his fingers.

“Alone?”

“I’m alway alone,” he absently murmurs.

The pain I feel for him is so acute I may as well be hardwired into his central nervous system.

“Get o on the next exit,” he orders. I’m too messed up to question why. I just do as I’m told.

DALLAS “W-Where are w-we going?”

Leaning into the steering wheel with her boobs pressed against it, the girl who’s been starring in every one of my dirty fantasies for the last few months slows the car down to look around. I point to the sign on the side of the road that says Welcome to Santa Cruz.

“I know, b-but where are w-we going?” Glancing sideways, she gives me a shy smile and the hole in my chest fills up.

She took me o guard with her question about Thanksgiving’s “Red Wedding,” as I’ve been calling it in the privacy of my own twisted thoughts. It felt good, though–– to share it with someone. Nah, strike that––to share it with her. Dora is everything that is honest and good and real. Call me an expert of the subject; I’ve been around enough people that were fakes to know the di erence.

I don’t have to pretend to be anything I’m not with her. I can just be––with no fear of it being used against me. Novel idea, not having to constantly defend yourself against the people who purport to care about you. There are only a handful of people I can say that about. Which makes me think of Rea. Makes me wonder if he’s found what he’s looking for.

“Do you need to be anywhere this week?”

She shakes her head.

Scratching my chin, I steal a few more glances at those beautiful breasts just because I can. “So technically we don’t have to go straight to San Fran…unless you want to.”

She’s quiet for a while. I watch the wheels turning in her beautiful head. “We d-don’t have to rush.” Her dark red

brows draw together. “Now that you m-mention it, I-I’d rather not rush. You know––so I have s-some time to pssych myself up.”

Smiling now as an idea percolates. “You want to knock o another item on your list?”

A slow smile grown of her face to match mine.

“Depends…w-which one?”

“Number four.”

“The tattoo.” She thinks. She thinks some more. “OOkay…You know s-somebody good?”

“The best. The artist who did mine.”

Five minutes later I’m strolling into my buddy Astrid’s shop with the girl I’m falling for.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

DORA I. Am. In freaking pain.

“It stings. T-This little thing s-stings,” I whimper as we amble down the Santa Cruz boardwalk. There’s a lot to take in. The rollercoaster, the eclectic mix of people, the gorgeous man walking next to me. The setting sun casts a romantic glow on everything. Lit by the late-afternoon sun, he looks like a gilded angel. A fallen one, of course.

So much for the mark of courage written in cursive letters on the side of my ribcage. Beauty in Bravery. If words have power, then I want those to be mine.

“Y-You d-didn’t warn me it would sting this badly.”

“You want me to kiss it better?”

The mere thought of Dallas’s mouth anywhere on my body makes me hot all over. And the babe thing again…it does not go unnoticed and untallied. My face flames for the millionth time, and he grins wickedly. Despite the selfinflicted pain of the tattoo, I can honestly say this is the most fun I have ever had. He’s the most fun I’ve ever had.

A homeless guy pushing a loaded shopping cart strolls past us and tips his head at Dallas in greeting. Dallas greets

him back. Since we left the shop, it’s happened a number of times with some random people.

“How c-could you s-sit t-through all that pain? It mmust’ve taken hours to do that.” I point to his left arm, the one covered in the intricate black, white, and gray detailed work that apparently Astrid is known for throughout the world.

Did I mention that Astrid is beautiful as well as talented?

Yeah, if she didn’t treat him like a pesky little brother I’d be seriously burning with jealousy right now.

“I didn’t do it all at once. I sat for her…” he looks o , squinting, “about four times. Countless hours.”

“I like it…w-why the chain m-mail?”

“To protect my heart,” he says, smirking. But I see past the smirk, past the pain. I see him––the lonely boy always left behind. The one under the beautiful veneer that no one bothers to look past. I don’t think he’s kidding.

He tips his chin at a bar we’re currently standing in front of. Santa Cruz Mountain Brewing. “You want to put another check on that list? It’ll take the sting away almost as well as my mouth.”

Red. I’m very red again. He misreads the blank look on my face as reluctance when in truth I’m in middle of a very graphic fantasy.

“I’ll take care of you, Kitten,” he murmurs. “I’m not drinking.”

Which surprises me. “For real?”

“Wingman––remember? Besides, I’m laying o the sauce for a while. I haven’t had anything to drink since the funeral…even longer before that.”

I’m curious as to why, but I don’t pursue it. The heavy conversation in the car was enough for one day. The bar is cute and quaint, with a rustic hipster vibe. Tiny Christmas lights strung up on the ceiling give it a cozy appeal.

We take a seat at the bar topped with copper and the bartender, a big burly guy in a plaid shirt with a really long beard that’s tied into a ponytail, comes over. I guess you could call it a ponytail. It’s got colorful rubber bands running down the length of it.

“IDs please,” he asks us. Dallas and I had them over and he nods. “What’ll you have? The IPAs are on the board.”

Behind him is a chalkboard full of colorful names. “I’ll hhave U-Unicorn Tears please,” I tell him.

“You?” the burly bartender says to Dallas.

“Just a Coke for me. Gotta watch out for my girl tonight.”

My girl. Lord have mercy on my fragile heart. If he’s trying to get me to not fall for him, he’s failing. I glance over with a tight smile and find him as cool and casual as the flip side of the pillow. I can play it cool too. I can be super cool. Because hell will freeze over before I embarrass myself again.

The bartender sets the tall frosty glass in front of me.

Then Dallas’s Coke. Raising my glass, I say, “To…” I take a deep breath, “to friendship and tattoos and…and to r-road trips.”

“To us,” he says, watching me closely, the ghost of amusement hanging around his mouth.

“To us.”

Two hours later…

“Did I try the Good Grief brown?”

“You did,” the bartender says with a wry smile, his arms crossed in front of his big barrel chest.

“Wut about theee Sweet Ride porter?”

“You tried that one too, babe,” the man sitting with his knees around mine says.

“Babe, you said babe like…five times.” I hold up a hand in case he can’t count without digits in his face.

Dallas grins. “Maybe you’ve had enough.”

“Maybe one more. Because I get it now”––I slap the top of the bar––“I get why people do this! I’m juss sayin’. The sting is gone. I feel favulous.”

“About your list…” he starts.

That dratted list. Well, maybe not too terrible. We’re here…together.

“Number ten. It’s a blank. Why?” He looks so utterly curious that I play with the idea of torturing him a little only to determine he’ll only retaliate in a more e ective way. I’m a lover not a fighter and I won’t apologize for it.

“I’m not telling you that.”

“Why not?” Smiling again. He’s such a tease.

“Because it’s personal…” leaning in, “but maybe one day you’ll have something to do will filling it in.”

Another sketchy dude walks by us and jerks his chin at my babe. “Why are all these people greeting you? You’re like…

Mr. Popularity around here.”

“Not just around here.” He smirks. “And because I used to come here to buy drugs when I was in high school.”

“Oh. That’s nice.”

The bartender with a ponytail on his face slides a glass of amber ale in front of me and I clutch the sweet sustenance with both hands and sip.

“Don’t turn me in to the Chief,” my crush murmurs in a low sexy voice. “We’ve already established that prison isn’t healthy for someone as physically gifted as I am.”

“I like you too much to ever do that to you,” I reply with a sly smile of my own. If my father knew, he’d never let Dallas within ten feet of me ever again.

He gets that sexy amused look I’ve come to know well.

Then his voice drops into a pitch and volume that immediately elicit images of sweaty vigorous sex. “How much do you like me?”

“A lot,” my drunken, loose-lipped self admits. I can’t help it. The truth is dying to get out. Is this what people mean when they say truth to power? Because Dallas’s hotness is powerful.

He leans in, our faces inches apart. “Why’d you kiss me on Halloween, Kitten?”

I swallow. “Because you asked me to.”

He snorts. “Maybe you’re not as trashed as I thought you were. Try again.”

Alcohol is a dastardly truth serum. I start babbling things I should never ever babble. All the incriminating words start spilling out of me in buckets.

“Because I wanted to, okay!” His lips twitch. He curls them around his teeth. “Because I think you’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. My eyes hurt when I look at you––they hurt.”

Dall’s smile is so satisfied I should be embarrassed. I should be dying of embarrassment. And yet, I’m not. I should shut up too in fact, but guess what––I don’t. Nope. Once it starts coming out it does…not…stop.

“I kissed you because you looked so so so sad and lonely––like that picture of sad Keanu Reeves on the park bench––and I wanted to make you feel better. I didn’t want you to hurt anymore…I would’ve done anything to take away that look on your face.”

The smile vanishes and his eyes fill with tenderness. I’ve seen that look. I saw it that night all those months ago.

“I kissed you because…because I thought it would be my one and only chance to ever kiss you and I couldn’t pass it up. I know it’s terrible––what I did to you. I know I took advantage of someone I knew was drunk or high…but the truth is…the truth is…I would do it again.”

Eyes flashing, nostril flaring, he leans in just a little and places a quick kiss on my mouth. Holy crap, this is

happening! It’s so good, so sweet. I close my eyes and I wait for more. And wait…and wait…

I open my eyes to find him studying me, gaze sexy with a side of smug. “You’re drunk. This isn’t happening tonight.”

Shut down again. Is this really happening? My head swivels in the direction of the bartender. “Sir––Mr. Pony Beard––how mush do I owe you?”

Smirking, the bartender responds, “Your boyfriend paid already.”

Boyfriend…right.

“Thank you,” I murmur to my non-boyfriend while avoiding eye contact at all cost. “You didn’t have to do that.”

I just poured my guts out, laid it all out there, and he turned me down again. How much rejection can a girl take? A lot apparently. Hell has frozen over because I am o cially humiliated beyond anything.

Sliding o the stool rather ungracefully, I sway and Dallas catches me by the arms. “Dora, look at me––” I gently push him away and make my way through the crowd in a less than straight line. It seems I am a lot more drunk standing than I was sitting. Very tricky, this getting drunk thing.

As soon as I hit the warm air of the boardwalk, a big hand wraps around my bicep. “Where are you going? You’re drunk and it’s dangerous around here at night.”

I shake my arm but that doesn’t cut him loose. “I’d like to be alone please.”

He snorts. “Yeah, no. I’m not leaving you alone. I got us a room down the street at a hotel,” he informs me. “It’s not the Four Seasons, but it’s clean and comfortable.”

“A room as in one room? That’s rather presumptuous of you.”

He stifles laughter. “Presumptuous? I’m pretty sure you wanted me to take your cherry right there in the bar. I’m not

leaving you alone. You’re vulnerable right now and someone could take advantage of that.”

“Someone other than you, you mean.”

I glance up into his glossy laughing eyes.

“Don’t laugh at me. Don’t you laugh at me!”

So what does he do––he laughs. And wraps me in his arms, holding me close, his face buried in my hair as his body shakes with laughter. His scent infuses my lungs and his heat seeps into my bones and his strength makes me want to climb him and…and uh, that went somewhere dark fast.

“Holy shit, you’re a sassy drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk!” But the sound is mu ed by his tshirt and his muscles.

“You are very drunk. You haven’t stammered once since you finished your first glass of Unicorn Tears.”

Oh my gosh, he’s right.

I push at his sculpted, shaking-with-laughter-chest and he tightens his grip on me.

“I’m not ever going to o er you my cherry again! You had your chance like…two times––and you blew it, buddy. You blew it.”

His laughter fades and he glances down at me with a halfcocked grin. “This is the part where I say I’ve got something for you to blow.” Then he starts laughing all over again.

“Uhhhh. Uhhhh. Uhhh,” I moan into my pillow and it’s not a happy moan. That’s the sound of pain. My head feels like it’s going to explode. I wish it would. At least I’d be out of my misery.

I smack my lips. Dry. I run my tongue along them. Pasty. I open my eyes to a room flooded with sunlight. The decor is modern, the sheets clean…the day-core. I recall saying that word ten times last night when we walked in. Serves me right if he never wants to see me again.

Apparently being drunk is not an excuse for amnesia. I remember everything in crystal clarity. The laughing, the angels I was making on the king-sized bed, falling asleep on his chest.

Holding my breath, I lift the sheet and exhale when I see I’m still wearing my bra and underwear, the good ones. I packed only the good stu in the very slim chance that Dallas were to accidentally hit his head and started seeing me as one of the bookends. They made a movie about that very same scenario. Anyway, spoiler alert: it has not happened…yet.

An image of Dallas lying in bed with his hands tucked behind his head watching me get undressed invades my painful head. I finally understand what the walk of shame means.

That’s when I recognize the sound of running water turning o , which tells me he’s out of the shower. Sweet baby pigs. I scramble out of bed to put some clothes on. It’s one thing for him to see me in the dim, forgiving light of night. It’s another in broad daylight. With perfect timing, the bathroom door opens as I’m hopping on one leg, trying to shove my jeans on.

“Morning,” he says all perky, his voice having an extra sexy scratch to it. “How do you feel?”

Turning, I hide my face under the safety of my messy hair. “Umm. N-not g-great, but you know…I’ll live.” There’s so much to apologize for where do I even start.

Slowly, I stand and meet his open smiling face for a nanosecond. That’s all the courage I can muster without a

triple-shot latte to bolster me. Then I button my jeans and grab my blousy shirt o the a chair. “I-I-I need to apologize,” I mumble, pulling the shirt on over my head.

“Why would you apologize?”

Because I was a hoochie who threw herself at you.

“Because I-I was…out of line.”

“You’re missing the point. That’s the only reason to get wasted…” He examines me cautiously. “I had a great time.

Didn’t you?”

The time of my life. I’ve never been so uninhibited––and it was fun. Being wild is fun. “Yeah.” More mumbling. A dull pain tugs at my side. I remember the tattoo and I lose my train of thought.

In relation to nothing, I announce, “I n-need to t-take a shower,” loudly.

“Okay,” he says, snickering.

That’s when I glance up and realize Dallas is wearing a towel around his waist and nothing else, and it’s like my senses get a jump start. Everything fires awake despite the raging hangover. Every detail is amplified times ten.

His hair is wet and pushed o his smooth face. He shaved; I rarely see facial hair on him and this morning is no di erent. My gaze slides down…to his collarbone. Where water beads slowly travel down his chest, in between swells of muscle, playing o the intricate pattern of his tattoo. His pecs heave with the air filling his lungs.

But my examination doesn’t stop there. Noooo. It continues further south, over the eight pack––yes, he’s got one of those––down to the edge of his towel, under which is a very large erection.

“You keep staring at it like that and it’s gonna want to personally thank you.”

My eyes snap up to find humor on his smiling face. But more than that, there’s lust. He strolls over to me like it’s a

morning like any other, cups my face, and drops a kiss on my lips. “I’ll go get food while you shower. What do you want?”

You. “L-Latte and a mu n?”

He nods, smiles. “See you in a few.”

Dazedly, I grab my cosmetics bag and shu e into the bathroom. This is so weird.

DALLAS Dragging my tired ass out of the bathroom, I’m met by the sight of a gorgeous ass on full display. Dora’s bent over and jumping around on one leg, attempting to shove the other one into last night’s jeans.

She’s wearing boy shorts with the bottom half of her cheeks hanging out. Last night was bad enough. First the striptease. Then she fell asleep with her ass pressed up against my groin. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep at all. Now it’s even worse.

I already stroked two out last night, one in the shower, and by the look of my dick right now it wasn’t nearly enough. This is getting to be physically painful.

She turns and startles to find me standing a few feet away. Then her gaze drops and my dick waves good morning.

No point in hiding it. I couldn’t even if I wanted to and I don’t want to. I can’t hold out any longer. She wants me. I want her. Seems pretty simple. That’s why I walk up to her, take her face in my hands, and kiss her. Because it’s time I made my intentions clear.

“Take the highway south,” I direct an hour later. She throws me a confused glance, her cute little nose bunching.

“W-Why are we heading south?”

“Big Sur. You up for it?”

She looks at me, skeptical but intrigued. She’s definitely tempted, and I’m finding that tempting this girl has recently become my favorite pastime.

She nods. “Where to?”

“The Post Ranch Inn…have you heard of it?”

She shakes her head and a knowing smile grows on my face. I can’t wait to see the look on hers when she sees it.

“I’m taking you on a date.”

The bright smile she gives me makes me feel like I did something right, something worthy of that smile, and fuck if I don’t want to keep putting that smile on her face.

“A date?”

“Correct––a date. Put another check on that list of yours, babe.”

The ping of an incoming text comes from her phone.

“Eyes on the road, Ramos,” I tell her when her gaze dart back and forth. “Want me to check?”

She nods, and I palm the phone, glance at the screen.

“It’s Bailey. She says she’s having a great time with her parents and no, she hasn’t heard from Rea.” Staring out at the open road, my favorite redhead looks thoughtful if not a little disappointed. “I was hoping…”

The text casts a pall over us. Rea’s the elephant in the room that we all pretend isn’t there, a stark reminder that you should’t get attached to anything or anyone because shit always goes wrong.

“C-Can I ask you something,” I hear her say in a small voice a short while later. My gaze moves from the stunning scenery out the window, from the craggy coastline and the chain of thunderheads hanging out to sea, to the beautiful girl in the driver’s seat.

She’s wearing jean shorts and a white sleeveless top. Both show o the freckles I’m going to carefully chart with my tongue later tonight. The image gets me half-hard already and I shift in my seat.

“I’m an open book, Kitten. Go ahead and read me.”

Her full lips kick up on one side, but shortly after her expression sobers. “Do you…” I watch her lick her lips nervously, then chew on the lower one. If we weren’t traveling at sixty miles-per-hour, I’d kiss her senseless but I’m not about to miss tonight’s primetime show.

“A-Are you s-s-still in love with her?”

I recoil. It’s a gut punch I never saw coming. My attention turns to take her in. Staring ahead, chin held high…She’s driving all over California in search of herself with a guy she barely knows. One who has a well-deserved rep for not being dependable. She’s got more courage than she gives herself credit for.

The answer comes to me loud and clear. “No…I haven’t been in love with her in a long time––and it’s a good thing.”

“Why? W-Why is it a g-good thing?”

Everything dies. Everyone leaves. Even if they don’t mean to––they leave. This is why you shouldn’t love anything, or anyone.

Abruptly, she looks over at me with a deep frown etched in her forehead. “You r-really believe that?”

“Believe what?” I ask, genuinely confused as to why she’s looking at me like I drown puppies for kicks.

“You s-said this is why you s-shouldn’t love anyone–– because they die.”

Shit. “Did I say that out loud?”

She nods. I should smooth it over with a lie. Apologize.

That would be the smart thing to do. And yet something inside of me rebels at the notion. The lie won’t come out. But the truth does.

“It’s true, isn’t it? Every relationship ends badly. With someone dying or leaving. With someone feeling shitty...”

She’s quiet for a while and doubt begins to take root.

Maybe I said too much. It strikes me as ironic that if she were to walk away from me now, if she decided I wasn’t worth the trouble, it would hurt. It would hurt a lot.

“No…I m-mean, yes––things do end. P-People die. But love is always worth it…even if it lasts for only a-a short aamount of time.”

“Yeah, you think it’s that simple?”

She smiles at me and I want to believe her. I want her to convince me. I want her. All of her.

“I d-do…I think it should be that simple.”

Dora looks back out at the open road with a soft smile on her face and a firm grip on her convictions.

The simple truth is that I’m falling in love with her.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DORA The rest of the drive to the Post Ranch Inn is conducted in total silence. Somewhere along the way the sexual tension rises and rises until it’s sky high.

A date…he definitely said a date. Do friends take friends out on dates, or do I dare hope for more? Why does love have to be so complicated? My delicate, fragile, hungry heart can’t take much more of this.

By the time I pull the car into the parking lot, it’s dusk.

This place is so surreal, so absolutely stunning, I can’t stop staring with my jaw hanging open.

“It’s…it’s a-amazing, Dallas. So beautiful.” It’s the kill shot, rendering me powerless to do anything other than to love him.

In the dark cab of the car, I sit and stare at the scenery until I can’t take it anymore. My head turns slowly and finds him watching me with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Not as beautiful as you,” he murmurs. No joking around.

No sly smile. Just brutal honesty. My heart may not survive his honesty. “You can kiss me if you want to…”

I want to. I want to so badly that I jump him, silencing my doubts with my mouth and tongue. Enough is enough. We’ve been dancing around this for months. I’m tired of waiting.

He’s giving new definition to the term edging.

“W-We don’t n-need to talk about it. We don’t n-need to name it. We j-just need to let it happen,” I tell him in case he gets cold feet that I’ll get clingy and demand he marry me immediately.

Wrapping my hands around his face, his skin smooth under my fingertips, I kiss him and he kisses me back, moaning like he’s been waiting all his life to taste my lips.

To call my car small and cramped wouldn’t do it justice. I try to straddle him and can barely fit my legs around his lap.

“Okay”––kiss––“this”––kiss––“is too cramped,” he mutters. “I can’t perform miracles in this car, but gimme a bed and you’ll be walking on water when I’m done with you.”

I pull back––my lips as swollen as his, my hair a rat’s nest of a mess with the way he’s raking his fingers through it––and I smile so hard my face nearly breaks. “Promise?”

“Cross my heart.” He pushes the passenger door open and we both nearly fall out. Thankfully, he catches me before I can wipe the concrete with my face.

Two minutes later, we’re walking through the doors of the very fancy Post Ranch Inn, both of us looking fit for an involuntary commitment. My hair is teased out, my shirt wrinkled. I’m flushed like I just stuck my face in a steam room. Dallas looks worse: lips swollen and red from my assault, hair wilder than ever. The looks we get make me giggle.

The doorman treats us to some seriously suspicious scrutiny. I can’t blame him. Judging by the people in the lobby, we’re probably the youngest guests here and tragically underdressed.

“Welcome, Mr. Van Zant,” the pretty concierge greets when she reads the name o of Dallas’s black Amex. She keeps stealing glances at him while she types. “Your family is well? Hope they come back to visit us soon.”

Without replying, Dallas gives her a flat perfunctory smile. Then he turns his attention on me and his face lights up. Somebody that hasn’t studied him as closely as I have might have missed it––the change from the mask he wears for the world to see to the real person behind it. He guards himself closely with good reason. Everyone other than his friends has failed him. Once bitten twice shy. I can’t blame him for being cautious.

“Showers first, then we can look around?”

Nodding, I automatically mirror the same smile back at him and his eyes flash with promise. That right there––the look on his face of pure joy and love of life and everything that is authentic and real and good is why it’s impossible not to love this boy.

“What s-should I…” I was about to ask what should I wear tonight, but the words die on my lips. Our suite––yes, he got a suite––is staged to look like a scene out of a Hollywood romance.

The room is dimly lit and a dining table for two is set up with flowers and candles…the whole nine yards. Wearing a matching robe to mine, Dallas is pouring champagne into two flutes. It’s a little on the corny side, but he wins a million points for trying.

Glancing up, his open and assessing eyes slide from my turbaned head, down my face, and over the robe covering my body. “I thought we’d stay in tonight and explore tomorrow…is that’s okay with you?”

Oh my gosh. It’s happening!!

“A-Anything you want to do…I’m in.”

“Anything?” he asks. The mischief is back on his face and in his voice. He drains his glass and walks over to me, handing me mine.

I drain mine too––then sputter. “That takes practice,” I wheeze.

Chuckling, he takes my hand and leads me to the bed, sits with his legs splayed apart, a sexy laziness to his bright blue gaze.

“Anything,” I murmur, looking down into his stunning face.

My skin gets sensitive under his intense examination.

Like I’m wearing a bear rug instead of a very expensive designer robe. My nipples pebble, heat infuses my privates. A dull empty ache keeps reminding me that it’s been neglected for far too long. I need to be touched. I need to be touched now. And not in general. I need to be touched by the person currently looking at me like he desperately wants to touch me and wants me to touch him.

He pulls me by the hips to stand between his legs. Staring up at me, his smile drops. “Are you sure you want to do this Dora…with me, I mean?”

This is the first time I’ve ever heard him sound less than totally confident and my heart gets stuck in my throat. My hands automatically lift and cup his face, my thumbs running along the sharp angle of his clean-shaven jawline.

“There’s n-no one else I want to do it with.”

“Kiss me,” he quietly orders a few seemingly endless minutes later.

Lowering my head, I press my lips to his and close my eyes. Not only is it as good as I remember––it’s even better.

Pure fireworks. They call it chemistry for good reason.

There’s an actual physical reaction that happens when Dallas

touches me. A transformation. I become a better version of myself. Uninhibited. Unapologetic. Everything I admire in him. And safe. He makes me feel safe enough to be me.

Tilting my head, I open my mouth to his soft probing tongue. His hands slip under the long hem of the robe and slide up my legs. They slowly travel over my hamstrings and cup my butt cheeks, squeezing.

“Fuck, I want you…wanted you for so long…I tried to be good. I…really did,” he mutters as he’s devouring my mouth, my neck. I’m not even sure he realizes he’s talking. Some people talk in their sleep. I wonder if this is a regular thing, if Dallas talks in his kissing.

Parting my robe, he strokes and cups my breasts as if they’re precious and worthy of worship. God help me, I gasp.

I actually gasp. I’ve never been so turned on in my life and he hasn’t even gotten to the important parts yet.

He pulls me even closer, traps me between his thighs, and wraps his arms around my waist. His touch is so committed, so confident, and frankly so sexy that it’s easy to let him lead.

Stopping abruptly, he pulls his mouth away from mine and places his forehead on my chest, holding me tightly. As if he’s scared I might get away. He holds me as if he needs me.

“We need to talk first,” he mutters, then exhales harshly as if this is costing him. “We need to slow this down.”

“Slow it down! Any s-slower and I’ll be a f-fifty-year-old virgin.”

His shoulders shake with laughter. “What I meant to say is that we need to play a few scrimmage games before we make it to the championship.”

“Water polo metaphors…now?”

“Yeah, babe.” He looks up at me with a lazy smile, expression content. His hands get back to work. Petting my

butt, running up and down my legs. A shiver shoots up my back and I’m panting all over again.

Threading my fingers through his unruly hair, I lower my mouth on his for a brief kiss. They’re mine now, his kisses, and I’m going to take as many as I can get while I can. He falls backward on the bed and takes me with him. His erection pinned between us, against my body. I immediately get excited, curious. I’m desperate to see him, to touch him, to explore him like a foreign land, to discover him all at once and savor him slowly.

Rolling us over, he gets o and leaves me on my back to watch. The robe slips open as he stands, revealing what’s been hiding underneath. As suspected, he’s perfect everywhere. His erection, which is long and thick, strains toward his belly. He grips himself and the head grows glossier each time he pumps. Then I notice he’s completely bare. And as I stare in wonder, an army of red ants crawl over me.

He pushes the robe o his shoulders and stands at the foot of the bed in all his naked glory for me to enjoy.

“Do you want to touch me?” He says it honestly, genuinely o ering himself to me. And my heart goes out to him. He’s such a giver that I couldn’t have chosen a better partner to do this with.

“Yes,” I immediately return, and he smiles softly.

“Is this your first time?”

“Yes.” After a meaningful pause, he walks over to his du el bag and returns with a handful of condoms, places them on the nightstand. My stomach flips. This is really happening.

Dallas crawls onto the bed and lies on his back. “Touch me however you want,” he says, looking me in the eyes.

Probably searching for signs that I’m having second thoughts. His next words confirm it. “If you want to stop,

we’ll stop. Just say so. It doesn’t matter when. I won’t be mad, okay? Just say stop and we’ll stop.”

Wild horses couldn’t stop me. The sight of this man laying himself out for me makes me wonder what heavenly lottery I’ve won. I’m not a lucky girl typically, and it feels like I bagged the most important prize life has to o er.

The turban falls o my head, and he throws the damp towel on the floor. Then he tugs the ends of my long wet hair, playing with it. The encouraging smile on his face makes me love him even more. Because I do––I love him.

This is love. This is what the real deal feels like.

My hand wraps around the base of his erection and I stoke him like he did to himself. Face set in stone, he exhales harshly, and says, “Grip tighter.” Then he covers my hand with his and guides me. With each stroke, he unravels a little bit more––and with that, I get bolder. My mouth is on him before I can issue a warning and a strangled cry comes out of him, all six feet plus bowing o the bed.

“A-Am I hurting you?” I ask, coming up for air.

“Jesus Fucking Christ, no. No, babe. That was perfect. I just wasn’t expecting it.”

So I get back to doing what makes him unravel, keeping my eyes closed at all times. Less than a minute later he pushes me o .

“No more. I won’t last another minute with you doing that.” Getting up on his knees, he looks down and pushes my robe open. I’m past feeling insecure about my hips, about the lack definition on my belly, about the soft roll of skin on my sides.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” His nostrils flare and his face looks momentarily pained. Slowly, he reaches for me.

His touch reverent and his attention enthralled.

This man who’s had the beautiful girls with the perfect makeup. The natural ones who look like models. The girls

into style. The athletes with their toned arms and legs. He’s had them all. And yet he’s looking at me as if I’m all he’s ever wanted. I don’t feel even a little bit jealous. Those girls may have come first, but this time finishing last is the one who wins. I’m the one he chose to let in. I’m the one here now.

His mouth covers my nipple and I whimper. His hand strokes between my legs and I press into it. He gives and I take. I ask for more and he gives more. The trail of kisses moves down. Onto my tattoo. Dropping further until I feel his breath on my clit…then is tongue…then his lips. An orchestrated attack on my senses. Primed for months, I come immediately.

As I lie a sweaty, satisfied mess, enjoying the aftermath of his handiwork, he stands to put on a condom. Everything he does fascinates me. This included. Even this simple act feels monumental. To be remembered. His body is the opposite of mine in every way. Hard where I’m soft. Bronze where I’m white. I could study him for decades and still find more to learn.

Crawling back on the bed, he makes room for himself between my legs. Pressed between us, his erection is more than ready to be called into action. It makes the empty ache grow again. That’s when he gets up on his elbows, stares down with warmth and a ection, and says, “You sure you want to do this? I can wait. We can wait.”

“I’m sure.”

“This isn’t gonna feel as good for you as it will for me, but I’ll do my best…” He looks momentarily lost, unsteady.

“Dora…”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve never done this either…with a virgin I mean, so tell me what feels good and what doesn’t.”

“You’re doing great.” Reaching up I caress his cheeks, run my thumb along his bottom lip. He plants a kiss there.

“I want to make it good for you….I want…I want you so much…”

Stroking, his face. “I w-want y-you too. I’m glad I waited for you.”

“You mean that?” he whispers.

“With all my heart.” The truth comes out with no stutter, no thought, no hesitation.

He rocks his hips back and forth and the sweet friction stokes my need, the urge building again. My knees naturally lift, wrap around his waist, our bodies moving in synch. They were made for this after all. He gives I take. I give he takes.

And as my desire climbs, he slips inside a little more each time going deeper and deeper until he hits resistance. One more thrust of his hips and he pushes all the way in. And I’m joined as one with the boy I love.

I yelp because holy cow it stings, the stretch burning.

Stretched and filled, the feeling is a strange one. Until Dallas slowly and carefully starts moving again, never taking his gaze o of me, watching for every reaction of pain or pleasure.

The pain is soon replaced by a desperate insatiable need to come again. Dallas’s face tells me he’s close and before long, he shouts in pleasure. And then I follow. I’d follow him anywhere.

CHAPTER TWENTY

DORA I. Am. In. Love.

A ray of light sneaks into the room and hits me right in the face. You know what else hits me? The soreness between my legs. My eyes open to find Dallas less than a foot away on the same pillow. Even asleep, he’s too handsome for his own good. It’s not mentally healthy for someone to be this handsome.

A thick strand of wavy blond hair covers his eyes. It keeps fluttering with every deep exhale he takes. I’m tempted to brush it away but I don’t want to wake him. He did all the heavy lifting last night and probably needs the rest. Poor baby.

“What am I, the Housewives of Beverly Hills?” he grunts.

“Stop watching me.”

An irrepressible grin takes over my face. The Housewives have nothing on him.

“Sorry…d-didn’t mean to wake you. How long have you been awake?”

“Since you started drooling all over me.”

“You’d probably like it,” I return, laughing. I push the hair away from his face, pet him, and he snuggles against my touch. Just a boy in need of attention. Then he cracks one electric blue eye open and the grin that materializes on his face matches mine.

“Admit it, babe, I’m the best looking dude you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

I know he hides his feelings beneath his jokes, but I wouldn’t be kidding if I said he is by far the most beautiful human I’ve ever seen. Except he’s so much more than a pretty face.

He’s smart, and kind, and loyal to a fault. He gives everything if he cares about you––even if it costs him everything.

His expression softens. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m not a v-virgin anymore.” My body says not great while the rest of me has never felt better.

“Is that a good thing?”

“A little s-sore, but it was w-well-worth it. I’ll submit my report by the end of the day.”

He gets up on an elbow and leans over me, plants a sweet dry kiss on my lips. “When can I expect a promotion for my stellar performance?”

He’s smirking, as he always does when he’s teasing me.

I’m not entirely sure he’s joking, however. The flicker of doubt that crosses his face says otherwise. So I do the only thing I can. The safe thing––I joke back.

“W-what sort of a p-promotion are you looking for?”

This earns me an evaluating glance. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Not really. Thanks to all the time we spend together I’m a little more knowledgeable about men, but only marginally.

“Umm, no.”

The corners of his mouth quiver. “Boyfriend.”

A deep flush covers my neck and crawls over my face. My heart expands to encompass the universe. It’s at risk of bursting. I’m almost too happy to form a cohesive sentence.

God knows what will come out if I try to speak now, so I don’t.

“Yeah, I figured you should make an honest man out of me. We don’t want rumors spreading that I’m some kinda player.”

After two minutes of silence, the humor falls o his face and he suddenly looks stricken. “Dora…”

It kills me to see him look so vulnerable. And it reminds me to be gentle with him. Some of us wear our insecurities on our sleeves. Some of us camouflage them better than others.

“If you don’t––” “You want to be my b-boyfriend?” I rush in, cutting him o before he goes any further down that line of thought.

“I don’t think it would go over well with my grandfather if I introduced you as my sex-pupil. You think Jay and Evan would appreciate it if I told them I’ve been upgraded from friend to sex-educator?”

Yeah, I can just imagine my parents’ faces. Closing the gap between us, I reach out and trace the sharp line of his straight nose, the steep angle of his cheekbone, following it down his cheek to stroke his lips still swollen from all the kissing.

Then in the name of this new bold brave me, I push the thoughts in my head and the feelings in my heart out of my mouth one slow syllable at a time.

“I want to be your girlfriend.” No stutter. No hesitation.

No doubt.

His expression transforms from serious to tentatively hopeful. He’s not entirely sure he can trust it yet and I understand. He’s more guarded with my feelings than I am.

“I do,” I repeat, my voice carrying twice the strength and ten times the conviction.

Taking my face in his hands, he pulls me closer and covers my mouth with his. And in that kiss that lasts and lasts and lasts are a million silent words.

Promises. Confessions. Assurances.

Words have always been di cult for me so I’ve learned to pay attention to what a person does rather than what he or she says. And in every act Dallas has ever committed, he tells me that I’m needed and treasured. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.

“Ready?” my friend, my partner in crime and tattoos and great sex and––and other misadventures asks me. Sitting in the passenger seat, he looks more handsome than ever in his dress shirt and gray slacks, his face the very picture of encouragement.

Talk about fantasies. If a magic genie had told me all those months ago that the boy passed out in a tub wearing an adult diaper would end up becoming the agent of my transformation and the champion of my dreams, I would’ve laughed myself dead.

And yet here I am, sitting in my car a block from Katherine Hamilton’s o ce on the corner of Ashbury and Haight with the same boy who’s turning into the man not even my wildest dreams could conjure. I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.

He’s proven to be the best person I know. I wish he knew that about himself. Sometimes I’m afraid he doesn’t. He’s given me so much, but what have I given him in return?

“H-H-Have I told you h-how much”––I take a deep breath––“how much I appreciate you?”

He gives me a small encouraging smile, his eyes filled with a ection. I wish I could say love but all I see is a ection.

A ection is good though. I can make a ection work.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. We can turn the car around and drive straight home, or back to a hotel.”

Slowly nodding, he holds my gaze and says, “We could go out…we never made it out of the room last night.”

Yes. And thank god for that. “In c-case you were wwondering I’m glad we s-stayed in last night.”

Both of us smiling now––his bright white teeth peeking out between his pouty lips. “A guy likes to show o his girl once in a while…”

I’m seriously tempted to turn the car around now, but I know I’d regret it later. The driving force to stand before my mother and face her is as irrational an urge as it is too strong to deny.

“I n-need to do this.”

Unconsciously, I reach over and brush the small cursive tattoo written on the side of my ribcage.

“Let’s go crush some ass, then.”

I start laughing and the tension is magically lifted, even if only for a moment.

As we get out of the car, I take in my surroundings. The Victorian houses, the landmarks, the history. Almost immediately a homeless man––an addict by the looks of him––approaches Dallas for money. Dallas waves him o and promises to bring him some food later, but the guy curses him out and continues walking down the street.

Taking the time to shore up my courage, I smooth the dark purple DVF wrap dress I bought for the occasion and check my open-toed slingbacks. Dallas comes around the car and, lacing his fingers through mine, leads me away.

“Watch you step,” he warns. “I already saw a couple of hypodermic needles and you’re wearing open shoes.”

He looks so adorably disturbed that I want to kiss him until that look is wiped o his face. Instead, he drags me across the street, heading for the Law O ces of Katherine Hamilton, a wingman with a job to do. We reach the glass door to a rundown storefront. This isn’t the top floor of a fancy law practice. This is the bottom floor of a practice struggling to survive.

Taking me by the shoulders, he ducks his head so we’re eye-to-eye. “You got this. I’m gonna hang back and––” “A-Are you c-coming inside with me?” A flash of panic makes me speak louder than necessary.

Taking mercy on me, he says, “Do you want me to?”

“Yes.” He nods and pushes the sooty glass door open.

“Gladys, get me the files for the Torres case and call the clerk at Judge Wozniak’s––do we still have leverage on him?” says the woman that looks exactly like me.

Well, not exactly, like me. She’s more gaunt, less boobs and butt. The wrinkled beige silk blouse hangs on her bony shoulders, a flowery thrift store skirt skimming her slender calves. Her heavy hair is curly where mine is straight, the color dull and streaked in gray. It’s piled on top of her head all messy and held in place by a bunch of pencils.

She appears at least five years older than my my dads–– early fifties––which is a surprise.

Gladys, presumably––a middle-aged Hispanic woman seated behind a metal desk littered with brown files––bites into her bagel with cream cheese. “Yeah, the pictures did the trick.”

The o ce is a disorganized mess. Dead spider plants in macrame holders hang in a glass store window that doesn’t look to have been cleaned since the last century, the small

space crammed with filing cabinets. And dust. This woman hordes dust. Has she not heard of hard drives and Windex?

“If you don’t want your wife knowing you’re fucking your niece, then don’t fuck your niece,” Katherine continues muttering under her breath while she licks her fingers and flips through a stack of papers, her purple reading glasses halfway down her small nose…the same nose I see every time I look in the mirror.

“I gotta leave early today. That damn dog has so much gas I gotta take him to the vet. It’s a week now he’s been farting.”

“Before you do, see if you can suss out if that cocksucker Wozniak is gonna have ICE wanting for us.”

“Uh huh,” Gladys mumbles around a bite of her bagel.

All of a sudden they both glance up and notice us standing by the door. Dallas squeezes my hand and I step forward.

There’s no doubt Katherine recognizes me; she’d have to be willfully stupid not to. Even Gladys gasps, her deep-set brown eyes moving back and forth between me and the woman who gave birth to me.

“You,” she says in a less that friendly tone. That’s fine I wasn’t expecting her to be happy about my surprise visit.

She makes a defeated face and chucks the files she’s holding onto a filing cabinet. The papers miss their mark and hit the ground scattering.

“I guess you’re going to want to talk?”

“Yes. I-I’d l-like that.”

She frowns. “You stutter?”

Does she expect me to answer that?

“Your fathers didn’t mentioned it,” she announces with something weird in her voice. As if somehow this is important intel that was withheld from her. As if she has a right to know anything about me.

“I don’t have a lot of time so”––she gestures to the open door––“step into my o ce.”

Briefly, I glance back at Dallas. He’s wearing a perfectly blank expression, unreadable, though I suspect by the sti ness of his posture he’s not a fan of Katherine Hamilton.

Parents are a touchy subjects with the boy I’m falling in love with.

I am falling in love with him. For real. Not the love tainted by endorphins and lust. With the real Dallas, not the fantasy one…and the real one is so much better.

Taking his hands out of his pockets, he follows me to the back of the room, walking past Gladys who’s watching us with unwavering focus.

“Have a seat.” Katherine gestures to the two ancient o ce chairs covered in junk. More files, a raincoat that has seen better days. The cramped room is trapped in time like the rest.

While Dallas leans up against the wall with his arms crossed, I clear one of the chairs and sit. Meanwhile Katherine rounds her desk to take her seat.

“Who’s Captain America, your boyfriend?” She jerks a chin at Dallas and smirks.

“Yes,” he answers before I can.

“How cute,” she snarks. Her scrutiny finds me again and after taking a solid sixty seconds to examine me like I’m a criminal she just caught in the act, she says, “I wish you hadn’t done this. I told your fathers––I was very specific about not wanting to be a part of this.”

“You’re n-not a p-part of anything. I just…I d-don’t know. I guess I-I just w-wanted to know…” A serious bout of frustration comes over me and whenever that happens the stuttering worsens. Taking a deep breath, I continue, “I wanted to know where or w-who I came from.”

Katherine stares back blankly. “My mother died of heart failure at fifty…you should probably know that. There’s high blood pressure on my father’s side.”

“I didn’t come for medical records.”

She exhales an exasperated breath. “I was born in Berkeley. My mother was a housewife and my father a cop.

She caught him cheating with her sister and divorced him when I was eleven. We traveled a lot. Lived out of our car for a period of time.

“My mother was very smart in a lot of ways, but not about men. She kept getting involved with the wrong ones.

One of them raped me when I was sixteen––” She says it so matter-of-factly that I almost missed it. To my left, Dallas straightens o the wall. “––I lived on my own for a while, but I knew the only way up was to get an education. So I went into the system and attended school. Graduated top of my class. Got accepted to Berkeley full scholarship. Yale law school followed. Graduate again at the top of my class,” she continues, sounding rehearsed. As if she somehow knew this day was coming and planned accordingly. “I’ve dedicated my life to helping people that have been fucked by the system… which is why I’ve never had any desire to have children of my own. Is that what you wanted to know?” The bitterness coming o of her is palpable.

“W-Why did you do it?”

It’s not that I expect her to spontaneously develop a modicum of sympathy or caring for me. It’s pretty clear life had hardened her in the worst way. It’s that I’m genuinely curious to see if we are anything alike. Because as it stands, other than sharing some DNA, I am the polar opposite of this woman in every possible way.

“Because your parents are grossly conventional. They wanted kids––to raise a family––and the oppressive and unjust laws at the time made it nearly impossible for them to

adopt. So I did what I could. No other reason…you were a statement I was making, a great big fuck you to the white patriarchy.”

Anger, that’s the all I feel right now. Gritting my teeth, I tamp down the urge to say something spiteful. Is the anger edged with pain? Yes, I won’t deny that it stings, but the anger supersedes everything else right now. Maybe later I’ll have cause to cry my eyes out. Probably. But now I’m mad on behalf of my parents, who despite being “grossly conventional” are the most amazing parents anyone could ever wish for.

It’s then and there that I realize I wasn’t missing out on anything, I was being saved from a boatload of heartache.

Dallas was so right. I am lucky. I’m the luckiest person I know and it took meeting Katherine to open my eyes to see it. Maybe part of me did hope for some kind of civil relationship. A mutual respect of sorts. Emotionally, I wasn’t prepared to close the door on this, whatever this is, before. I am now though.

Slowly, I stand and almost immediately my hand is swallowed up my a much larger and warmer one. He gives me a soft squeeze and I glance up at him, eyes open, seeing clearly for the first time in my life.

“T-Thank you for t-taking the time to see me…I won’t bother you anymore––in c-case you’re worried about a rrepeat of this surprise visit. I guess I should thank you––for g-giving me to my parents, who are the b-best. So… congratulations. Your s-statement was a success.”

When Katherine doesn’t respond, Dallas steps out first. As I follow, he takes my hand again, Gladys watching us closely.

“G-Gas-Ex for the dog. Ask your vet about the ddosage,” I tell her as we pass by her desk. A trick Vi’s vet taught me. She has it stocked at the shelter at all times.

The warm afternoon sun hits us in the face when we step out on the sidewalk. I close my eyes and take my first deep breath in a really long time.

“What do you want to do now?” he says in a low sexy voice. He’s not even trying to be sexy––he just is.

A calm detachment gets into my muscles and loosens me up. Shielding my eyes under the roof of my hand, I say, “How do you feel about going back to the hotel and ordering in? Maybe a movie?”

He smiles. “Whatever you wanna do, count me in, babe.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

DORA “Sweet pea, we told you––” I pull the phone away from my ear. Dad tends to be a loud phone talker. “expectations in the grave.”

Here comes the standard parental I told you so.

“I know,” I say cutting him o , “but I had to do it and honestly––as bad as it was, I don’t regret it.”

Dad’s tired exhale comes through loud and clear.

“Honey, it’s me,” Daddy says, stealing the phone away.

“How are you feeling? It’s normal to––” “Oh my gosh,” I interrupt before he really gets going.

“I’m fine. I’m b-better than fine actually. I feel l-liberated.”

A knock at the hotel door has me getting up from the bed and shu ing to the door in my complimentary slippers and flu y robe which both Dallas and I jumped into as soon as we got back to the hotel.

Peering through the view hole, a set of gorgeous lips smile back at me. I open the door and he walks in holding up the much needed bucket of ice for our sodas.

“I’m sorry, honey. I just wish I was there with you…” my father continues.

Yeah, I don’t. I much prefer the boy who just walked inside our room and threw himself down on the bed.

“Okay, Daddy I gotta go.”

“Call me later if you feel like talking about it.”

About all the orgasms I’m going to force him to give me?

“Umm, okay, bye Daddy. Love you.”

Dallas’s robe splits open, exposing a muscular thigh lightly dusted with blond hair and…

“Love y––” I hang up.

“Did you just hang up on on your dad?”

“No…yes. D-Do you have anything on under t-that robe?”

I mean, he was just traipsing through the halls a la nude save for a robe?

Mischief flitters across his face. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

I shu e to the end of the bed, and with each step I take, the more turned on I get.

“W-What do you s-suggest we order for dinner?”

The smile is back. The wicked one. “Whipped creme. Love it or hate it?”

“Love it.”

“Then I suggest we order some.”

A knock at the door has both our heads swiveling in its direction. Dallas is first at the door and peering through the view hole.

“It’s Katherine,” he says. Looking over his shoulder, he makes a face as if to say what do I do?

I throw myself down on the bed and groan. It was seconds from happening, the food foreplay I was promised. And Katherine picks this time to show up? I swear it’s almost as if my parents got wind that something big was going down and sent reinforcements to mess with my plans.

“Let her in, I guess?” Sitting up, I tighten the belt on my robe and Dallas opens the door.

An embarrassed looking Katherine Hamilton meets my eyes from across the room. She’s wearing beige slacks that look a decade too old––at the very least––and a pink blouse with a small stain on the collar. Her hair is still a major pileup on her head but this time its anchored in place by colorful Chinese chopsticks.

“May I come in?” she says with a touch of snark.

What a lovely woman. I’m so psyched that I found out this is the stock I come from.

“Sure…h-have a seat.”

Standing behind her, Dallas catches my eye and points to the door but I shake him o . He wants to know if I want him to leave and I don’t. I need him here more than ever.

While Katherine takes the armchair, Dallas and I sit on the couch side-by-side. “H-How did you find me?”

“Your parents. They told me which hotel you were staying in.” She looks around. “Swanky.” Which, judging by her tone, is an insult.

For the next few seconds we sit quietly, the vibe in the room awkward as e .

“Have your parents met him?” she says, tipping her head at Dallas. “Captain America.”

That’s when my long dormant anger spikes. “I’m ttwenty-one, in c-case you’ve forgotten. And yes, they have.”

“I have the stretch marks to remind me every day.”

My anger just spiked times ten. “Why are you here? WWe’ve already established you w-want nothing to do with m-me. So why are you here?”

She looks remorseful for a full minute, which, for her, is progress I guess. “I wanted to apologize for how I treated you today…my employee, Gladys, you may have seen her––”

“We walked past her t-twice. How could we n-not have seen her?”

“I need to get this out. Please don’t interrupt me.”

Oh my gosh. I’m missing out on food foreplay for this.

“Listen here, I-I emailed you. And…and you were r-rude. I came to s-see you. And you b-basically did your best to run me out of your o ce c-crying. But y-you don’t get to ccome in here and call the shots. Get out.”

She looks startled––if only for moment. “I’m sorry, okay?” Her gaze shifts around the room nervously. “I’m sorry…I don’t know how to talk to you…you’re a real person, for shit’s sake.”

She stares at me and something in the vicinity of warmth blooms on her face.

“You look so much like me…For years I pictured you as an embryo, a collection of tissues. They didn’t even show you to me when you were born because I didn’t want to hold you.

You know, in case some maternal chemicals kicked in…”

“Yes, t-those are t-terrible.”

Dallas snorts and squeezes my hand, and Katherine’s critical stare moves right over to the man I love. The one who’s here supporting me.

“I came to say I’m sorry. I realize we’ve gotten o on the wrong foot…but I wouldn’t be upset if you wanted to speak again––maybe get to know each other…I could be the distant crazy aunt everyone in the family finds fascinating.”

At least she’s trying. I’ll give her points for e ort.

“T-Thanks for coming, Katherine,” I say, standing; a clear signal that I’m done with this conversation. “I appreciate t-that you’re willing to make an e ort, but I’m nnot sure if I h-have room in my life right now. Between getting ready for v-vet school and a boyfriend, I’m p-pretty busy…I’ll think about it.”

Katherine’s face cracks in a small smile. She gets the subtext perfectly. If she wants to know me, she can make the e ort. I’ve done my share. And with that, another checkmark goes on the list.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

DALLAS “Who’s this?” I ask Vi as Dora and I walk into the shelter.

It’s the first time we’ve been back here since our road trip and there’s a new addition. A old yellow Lab slowly walks over to me and nudges my hand. I can’t resist the old guy and get down on my knees and rub his ears.

For years I begged my parents for a dog. Brenda never let me have one. Frankly that may have saved a life because she barely took care of herself and me. Subjecting another living creature to her neglect would’ve been cruel. My father hates all living things so he was a foregone conclusion. Then the divorce happened and the fall-out from that took over our lives for years. But I’ve always wanted a pet. Maybe because they love unconditionally. That’s something I can’t say about ninety-nine percent of the people in my life.

“What’s his name?”

“Banjo,” Vi tells us as she jumps o the counter to pick up an orange cat darting across the room. The little dude is known for opening cage doors. There’s a reason she named him Jailbreak.

“You guys are coming to the grand opening, right?”

“Put me t-to work.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I add. The new shelter is slated to open in a few weeks with a big bang. Meanwhile, they’re still operating out of the old location.

“He m-must be ten already––” Dora says as she pets Banjo’s head, “at least.”

He looks to be su ering from arthritis. Cataracts too.

Banjo doesn’t seem to mind. He’s soaking up the attention, nudging us with his faded tan nose when one of us stops petting him.

“He came in on the flight from Austin. Lived at the nokill shelter there for five years and the fosters were getting worried that he was losing the will to live.”

My chest gets tight. “Five years? How the fuck did that happen? He’s such a cool dog.”

Vi shrugs. “It happens. Even the pretty ones get left behind sometimes.”

Anger burns through me fast and hot. I don’t doubt that Banjo was pretty once, when he was young. He’s a purebred Lab, the most popular breed in the country. So what, now that his ears are a little chewed up and his face is covered in white hair and his eyes are cloudy he’s not worthy of a good life? He’s not worthy of a family to love him? I fucking hate people sometimes.

“What are his chances,” I ask her, looking into his honest face so grateful for just for a little love.

“Old dogs are the hardest to adopt out.”

My heart beats fast. “I’m taking him,” I say without thought to consequences and as soon as I do I immediately feel better. The rage bleeds out of me and my heart rate returns to normal. Yeah, this is the right thing to do.

“What?” Both Vi and Dora say.

“I’m taking him. I’m adopting Banjo.”

“Dall…you’re busy with school…and you’re graduating soon.”

“He needs eye medication administered twice a day,” Vi informs me.

This is why money is dope as fuck. “I don’t care. I’ll hire people to help me. I’ll get him his own personal butler if I have to. He’s not spending another night in a shelter. He’s not getting left behind anymore.”

All I get is silence in return.

“Cool,” Vi finally says. “I’ll get the paperwork started.”

“I d-don’t think he n-needs another bed, Dall––” My bae says as she takes the steaks we’re cooking tonight out of the refrigerator and sets them on the counter.

It’s only been a week, but I can’t remember a time when Banjo wasn’t a part of our lives. I say our lives because the girl I love is practically living with me and I couldn’t be happier. I got the girl of my dreams, an awesome dog––life is good.

“––The one you b-bought him t-the other day is plenty.”

I glance up for my laptop where I’m in the process of ordering my boy another custom-made orthopedic bed, and take her in. “Come here.” Her lips, red from our make-out session a short while ago, lift into a shy smile. I did that, put a smile on her face, filled her big brown eyes with love. And I’m not embarrassed to say it’s the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.

She comes around the counter, to where I’m seated on the stool, and steps between my legs. I cup her absolutely perfect ass and plant a kiss on the freckles between her breasts. The love I have for Dora’s ass runs a close second to her heart

which runs a close first to her breast. Go ahead and makes sense of that if you can.

“What do you think, B? You need an orthopedic bed in every room? The Cat Lady says you don’t.”

Stretched out on my couch, he picks his head up and stares at us. That is one happy freaking dog.

“Banjo says he’d like another.”

“Banjo s-spends m-most of his time on the couch with you.”

“So do you, babe, but I don’t hear any complaints from him.”

Grinning, she plants a big kiss on me and I take advantage of it.

Life is good. I’m not saying that lightly. Life is damn good lately. There’s nothing like love to make everything else that’s semi-shitty look better. The only dark spot is that we haven’t heard from Reagan.

“Hey, no funny business in front of the kids,” Cole says, walking in with his bike helmet in one hand and his backpack in the other. He drops both at the edge of the living room and goes over to the couch to pet Banjo.

The Petermans love my dude as much as Dora and I do.

Which means he’s getting more TLC than any one dog needs.

Wrapping my arm around Dora’s waist, I pull her closer.

“Are you hungry?” she asks Cole while he goes to the fridge and pulls out a beer. “W-We have a couple of extra steaks.”

“Starving,” he tells her as he grabs a bottle opener from the drawer, pops the top o , and takes a log pull.

“I’ll throw them on the g-grill in a few.”

“Hey, D––” Tipping his chin, he leans back against the counter. “Tommy Lau called––you know that friend of mine at Stanford. He said they’re gonna have some sick swells up at Mavs this weekend. Storm’s coming in. You up for it?”

My interest immediately perks up and pays attention.

Cole’s eyes dart over to Dora. A flash of guilt crosses his face but I may be reading too much into it.

“Driving up for the day, right? Because I have Banjo––” “Yeah, we can leave by 3 a.m. on Saturday and be back by midnight.”

“Babe, you mind watching him for the day?” When I don’t get an answer, I glance up at Dora and find her staring back blankly. “Do you mind watching him? You can invite the girls over if you want.”

“I don’t mind.”

I can almost taste the saltwater and feel the adrenaline jacking into my veins.

“Cool. Let’s smash it.”

Yeah, life is good.

DORA “Don’t go,” I mumble.

All week I’ve kept my mouth shut. All week I’ve had to talk myself out of saying my piece because I don’t want be that girl. The one who holds the person she loves back from doing what he or she loves. But this is crazy. This is beyond wild. It’s dangerous.

“I c-checked…they’re saying t-t-twenty foot waves.”

He glances up from the bag he’s packing and stares at me, his expression careful. Like he’s trying not to give anything away.

“I’m gonna be fine, babe.” He chuckles. It rings hollow and a little bit nervous. “You know I’ve done this before.”

“I have a b-bad feeling about this…please don’t go.”

Hands on his hips, the ubiquitous basketball shorts pushed low to expose the band of his underwear and the v that drives me to distraction every time he flashes it, he takes me in.

Meanwhile, I patiently wait for him to answer sitting on his bed crosslegged. This is the first disagreement we’ve had and it can go either way. God knows neither one of us is an expert on relationships. The last one Dallas was in was basically criminal child endangerment––if not outright pedophilia––and I’ve never been in one. We’re bound to screw this up at some point.

Breaking the stalemate, he crawls on the bed and pushes me down on my back. Up on his elbows, we’re eye-to-eye.

Every time this happens I get a strange feeling of completeness that I’ve never known before. Mentally, he gets me in a way I can’t even articulate. Physically, we’re on another level.

Snuggling between my legs, his erection growing between us, he unapologetically smiles down at me. And it happens like it always does between us––the all encompassing awareness my body has for his overrides everything else.

Overwhelms me until all my senses are consumed by him.

Except this time I push back. I don’t let it.

This time it doesn’t distract me from the very real fear I’m experiencing. And despite that I feel tethered to him in ways I know are unique and special and meant to be treasured, I also know that I’m not equipped to live life on a rollercoaster. I can barely handle a Ferris wheel. But that’s what Dallas is, a rollercoaster, and I never know when the ride starts or stops.

“This is who I am. You know that about me.”

“They’ll be o-other w-waves––you w-won’t get another life.”

He frowns and pauses to mull it over. “I’m not an amateur. I know how to handle myself out there…you can’t ask me to stop doing something I love, babe.”

He presses his hips into mine and I automatically press back. “I know,” I say as a fresh supply of tears fill my eyes.

“I…I love you,” I confess. There’s a time and a place to risk it all, when the stakes require it, and now is that time.

I’ve always believed that if you love someone, you should say it. If you care, show it. If you feel something, let yourself feel it or you may never get the chance again.

“Number ten on my list…”

“Yeah,” he says, his interest piqued.

“It was t-to fall in love. And I did. I fell in love w-with you …”

I don’t want to lose you ever I want to say to him, but what if I’m just being paranoid?

The thing is––paranoid or not––I can’t stop being scared for him any more than he can stop risking his life.

DALLAS Life is a little less good today than it was a week ago. Dora barely said goodbye to me when I left a few hours ago and now she’s not answering my texts.

“Trouble in paradise?” Cole the dickhead asks when he catches me checking my phone for the fourteenth time.

“She was pissed about this trip…she said she had a bad feeling.”

“Whoah. I love little D, but do not bring that estrogen tainted voodoo shit along for the ride.”

“Cut it out, Cole,” the smarter Peterman orders from the passenger seat of Shane’s Range Rover.

“I will not cut it out when lives are at stake, brother–– particularly mine. Everyone knows you do not talk jinxies right before you hit the water.”

“He’s right, dude,” Shane chimes in from the drive’s seat.

“Words have power.”

Can’t argue with him there. Especially words like I love you.

She said it and I have yet to say it back. I mean, I love her.

I love her more than anything or anyone I’ve ever loved. The love I had for Beth seems shallow in comparison. The kind of love a boy has for a woman he’s fascinated with because he doesn’t have the experience to compare it to anything else.

The love I have for Dora is undeniable. I love her against my will. I love her because I can’t not love her.

But I also know that you can’t change who you are to please other people. That’s a sure fire road to resentment.

Taking the next exit, the Range Rover gets o the highway and the coast comes into view. Even though it’s still dark out, I can make out the monster waves the Pacific is already churning up today.

Shane parks on the cli s overlooking the beach. We all hop out, and stare at the whitecaps below, the wind whipping our hair around. Then we share a knowing look.

Shaka Brah’s words come back to me. Today is a good day to live.

Fifteen hours later the Range Rover pulls into my driveway, around 2 a.m. on Sunday morning. Banjo greets us at the door. I find a note in the kitchen telling me he’s been fed, walked, and his medication has been administered.

As tired as I am, I sprint up to my bedroom and find it eerily quiet without her there, to the point that it’s creeping me out. All her books are gone, her computer is missing. My heart rate picks up speed like it never has before. Not even when I faced that twenty-foot wave on Thanksgiving. I check

my bathroom for her cosmetics and find those gone too. Five minutes later I’m mounting Cole’s bike and taking o for campus.

“I’m outside,” I say as soon as she answers her phone. It took me two calls to wake her up. My girl is a heavy sleeper… and she is my girl. For better or worse. All I have to do is convince her of that.

A few minutes later, she appears behind the glass door wearing her pajama bottoms with the cartoon dogs, a black tank top, and a pissed o expression. Pushing the door open, she steps outside. “You c-can’t come in. You’ll wake the whole dorm.” Her bun falls apart and she shakes out her hair and puts it back up.

“What’s going on? You didn’t answer my text. You took all your stu …you’re freaking me out.”

“I-I’m sorry about the text. It’s j-just that…that…” Gaze cast down, she exhales tiredly. “I can’t l-live like this.

Always wondering when I’ll get a call that something hhorrible has h-happened to you. I don’t want to live like this––” “You don’t have to,” I jump in, already in panic mode.

“What?”

“You don’t have to––not anymore. I see your point.”

“Y-You say that now, but w-when your friends call with the next b-big adventure––” “I promise––” “––you’ll end up r-resenting me.”

“I won’t.”

“Why the c-change of heart now?”

I pause long enough that defeat shows on her face. She’s losing hope and I don’t ever want to give her the chance to

doubt me. She’s the first person in my life I don’t want to let down. She’s the best decision I ever made. I won’t let this get in the way of us.

“The waves were breaking at twenty-five feet high…no joke, it was some sick shit. Everyone was itching to get out there…I was about to paddle out so I stepped in the water, and as soon as it rushed over my feet, all I felt was dread…”

She blinks, steps closer. “It’s n-natural to be scared––” “I didn’t say I was scared, Dora,” I shoot back with an indignant edge in his voice. This is not about fear.

“Sorry––” “Don’t apologize.”

Damn, laying it all out there is hard. Maybe it is about fear. That twenty foot wave felt less dangerous than the truth.

Filled with nervous energy, I run both hands through my hair and tug. “I’m sorry. I’m fucking this up.” I laugh at myself. It’s humorless and strained, the discomfort all over me.

“No––you’re not.”

“I felt dread that I would never see you again, Dora.

That’s what scared me. Not the prospect of cracking my skull on the reef––that didn’t make me feel shit. Or drowning… but never seeing you again…” A bottomless despair hits me.

“You’re what turns me on now, what fires me up. I’ve never felt more alive than when I’m with you.”

Tears fill her eyes, her lips tremble. I open my arms and stand my ground. She’ll have to come and get me if she wants me. I can’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to.

She has to come willingly.

And she does.

She walks right into my open arms and hugs me back.

“I don’t need to chase anything. All I want is right here…I love you, D.”

“I love you too.”

“Am I still dumped? Because I’m stuck on you like Gorilla glue, Dora Ramos.”

She giggles into my shirt. “I d-didn’t dump you.”

“Erroneous. You took all your stu .”

“I was upset…and I had to study for my c-chem test.” My smile fades as we stare at each other.

“So you’re saying I’m undumped because I’m so goodlooking you can’t stop wanting me?”

She shakes her head, her warm loving eyes holding mine.

“I’m saying I love you for you…” On her toes, she place a brief kiss on my lips. “No other reason.”

“Will you come back home with me? I can’t sleep without you.”

She nods and I breath a sigh of relief. Life is good again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

DALLAS “W-what are you thinking about?”

I glance up from the fire still burning in the pit and check out the girl of my dreams. Lying back on the pool lounger, her big eyes watch me from above her book. She’s been busy studying for the GRE she’s taking soon. Which reminds me on a daily basis that I’m going to lose her next year––a fact that I am in no way ready to deal with.

“Well? W-what w-were you thinking about? You get this really s-serious face when you’re mulling something over.”

No one has ever asked me that question. Not one person in all my twenty-two years. Not that I can remember at least.

I get up from my pool lounger to straddle hers. Taking the book from her, I drop it, grab her face, and kiss her like I mean it. She giggles and it hits me in the chest, a slow warmth spreading through my limbs, driving out the loneliness.

“W-What was that for?”

“For being my girl…because I love you… for giving me a chance. Does a man need a reason to kiss his woman?”

She snickers. “No.”

I had no intention of falling in love. I thought I’d done a pretty good job of avoiding that dangerous condition for the last four years, and yet here I am. “You.” The truth feels good on my lips. “I was thinking about you. I want you to meet my family––Brenda. My grandfather…”

I unblocked my mother a few weeks ago. Seeing Dora and Katherine attempting to have a civil relationship makes me want to try with my problem parent too. Life is short. Too short to keep carrying around this resentment.

“We can add my shitbag of a father at some point.” Fuck knows why I would subject someone I care so much about to my family, but this feels necessary. Significant even.

Her eyes flash and her face flushes. She scoots closer and wraps her legs around my waist, pressing her body against mine as the last of the smoldering embers in the pit die out.

My dick gets hard at the feel of those luscious thighs holding me closely and my hands run appreciatively over them. I can’t stop touch her. It’s an a iction. A compulsion. It’s love.

“We can meet Brenda for lunch one of the days she comes down to see her shrink,” I go on while planting a kiss on the side of her bare neck. Her body is a map of freckles marking all the spots she needs to be kissed and I’m the right man for the job.

When she doesn’t answer, I pull back and find a carefully blank expression on her gorgeous face. She can’t fool me anymore. By now, I know all her faces and this one tells me she’s nervous.

“It’ll be fine.” A slow smile spreads on my face as I go back to kissing a path from the curve of her shoulder all the way up her neck. “That’s what you said to me when you sacrificed me to your parents. Karma works fast sometimes.”

Chuckling, she pushes my shoulders. “So d-dramatic. I left you alone with them for a f-few minutes.”

“Jay deadlifts five-hundred pounds. Do you know how much damage he can inflict in that amount of time. One minute is too long.”

“He t-told you that?” The surprised on her face is almost too cute.

“He showed me his weights…”

In the quiet, she searches my face. “There’s s-something else you want say…” Her amusement drops and her voice gets quiet, slips under my skin and soothes me. “Y-You ccan tell me anything, Dall. You know you c-can.”

Her delicate fingers thread through my hair and scratch the back of my scalp. Closing my eyes, I lean into her touch, let her have me anyway she wants. Because this…this is where it’s at, where I belong, what I needed without even knowing it.

“Will you move in with me at the end of the semester?”

Her fingers still and my eyes blink open. Her face is blank, her eye wide. My heart starts to race and panic sets in. What if I read too much into it?

“Yes…” Her grin is so wide it takes up her entire face. “BBut I’m warning you right now––we’ll face resistance.”

“Your parents. We’ll find a way to work it out with them.”

Parents don’t matter. No one matters but us. As long as I’ve got her, nothing else matters.

She yawns and I check my phone. Almost eleven. “Let’s go to bed,” I murmur and pull her up o the chair with me.

We walk inside and I remember Banjo needs a walk.

“Have you seen Banjo?”

“S-Sleeping on his new orthopedic bed,” she tells me as she walks into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.

Rounding the other side of the couch, I see that Dora’s right. My boy is sound asleep on his new bed with his back to me. But something about him raises the hair on my arms.

Something feels o . My steps slow as I take in his prone unmoving shape on the mattress.

Getting down on my knees, I run my hand over his fur, his body already cold. My throat closes. My eyes sting.

Banjo’s gone.

Everybody leaves. My best friend. Banjo. Before long Brock and Cole will be moving out too. Then there’s Dora. She’ll be gone in a year. It’s gonna kill me to let her go. I can already feel it––my insides trashed––and it’s a year away.

“Have you had enough for today?” I ask her, the girl I love, the one that’s gonna leave me soon and take my heart with her.

She paddles back to me with a huge grin on her beautiful face. It’s covered in freckles from all the time we’ve spent surfing lately. She straddles her board and we drift for a while, staring out at the horizon.

“I’m e-x-xhausted.”

“Let’s go home.” Then I catch what I just said. My house isn’t a home. It’s barely mine and certainly not hers. Home is not a place, it’s the people who fill it.

“The house feels weird without him…empty. First Rea now this…”

“I know. I m-miss him too. It’s g-going to take time.”

“Except every time I think I’m clear of one mess another one takes its place.”

Dora catches me spacing out and brushes my thigh. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Taking my wrist, she pulls me closer. Our boards kiss. Then our lips.

We paddle to shore, and while Dora grabs our things, I carry our surfboards back to the new G-Wagon I bought the other day. Community service accomplished. Tra c school

completed. Driver’s license reinstated. Thank the fucking heavens.

One at a time, I secure the boards to the roof while Dora towels o her hair. My chest aches as I watch her behind my sunglasses. Can you love someone so much it physically hurts? Because I feel that all the time now and it scares the shit out of me.

“Darn, I l-lost my c-comb,” she says, searching her beach bag. “Give me a minute.” She takes o for the beach before I can answer. “’Sup.” I glance to my left and see Holloway and the rest of his douchebag crew getting out of his Tahoe.

“Holloway.”

I haven’t seen him since that scene he made at the Malibu Farm. I wasn’t even dating Mia, his ex. That was me trying to be nice. She started crying in the middle of a Stat class we have together so I invited her for a bite to eat to get her mind o of the break-up. No fucking good deed…

They start unstrapping their boards from the SUV and watching me at the same time. My feelers immediately go up. This guy is bad news and I don’t want him anywhere near Dora.

“Found it,” Dora says strolling back to our car with her comb in hand.

Holloway and his band of ratfuckers walk up with their boards tucked under their arms. They could’ve gone straight to the beach and yet they chose to come over and undoubtedly cause trouble.

“Get in the car, D,” I tell her, my voice barely over a murmur. It earns the desired e ect––her immediate attention. Her rust-colored eyes dart back and forth between me and the guys. As she comes around the silver G-Wagon, she passes them on the way. I watch Holloway rake his dead

stare from her face down her body and it sparks a rage in me unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. I guess you can call it a pile-up of bad circumstances.

“Didn’t take you for a chubby chaser,” he says, his boys chuckling.

Dora is far from chubby. That’s not the issue, though. The issue is that he’s a dead man because A: he doesn’t have the right to look at her and B: o er an opinion.

I turn away from the car to face them, smile. The same shit-eating grin I’m famous for. Slowly, I walk up to Holloway. who’s smirking, and pat my gut. “I mean I gained some weight, but I wouldn’t call me chubby.”

Holloway chuckles darkly, exacerbating the tension already pulled to breaking point. “I wasn’t––” Bam. My fist flies, connecting with Holloway’s face without thought to consequences. He stumbles back and drops his board. Holding his mouth, blood flows between his fingers.

The guys drop their boards too. Holloway’s eyes, packed with rage, slowly lift to meet mine.

Then all hell breaks loose.

“They g-got one g-good shot in before I broke it up,” my bodyguard says while she cleans the laceration on my cheekbone with hydrogen peroxide. The ones near the bone always tend to bleed more. It stings like a bitch too.

I can’t complain though. Right now I’m in my bathroom, sitting on the toilet, and being tended to by the woman I love while Holloway and the ratfucks are probably still kicking and screaming in pain in the parking lot where we left them.

“It was o-one against four. T-They could’ve r-really hurt you.”

Dora steps closer and stands between my split legs wearing the one piece bathing suit she surfs in sometimes.

She inspects my face. It’s a minor cut but if she wants to take care of me, I’m not objecting.

“But they didn’t,” I remind her. Then I start chuckling. It can’t be helped, and frankly, it feels good to laugh again. The image of those guys being laid low by Dora and her small can of pepper spray is too awesome not to celebrate.

I run my hands up her bare legs and cup her ass while she works. “Good thing you were there to save me, babe.”

“Hello, LEO’s daughter. H-Have w-we met?” She smirks down at me, presses the gauze a little harder against my cut and I flinch.

The laughter starts in my gut and works it’s way out, my entire body shaking with it. Shortly after they jumped me and everyone started throwing punches, I heard screaming and it wasn’t coming from a female. It took me a moment to realize that Dora was pepper spraying the hole lot of them.

“It’s n-not funny, Dall. W-What if I hadn’t been there?”

Like molten lava, the laughter bursts out of me and keeps coming. “You got some on me too!”

“I t-told you to s-step away,” she says with the cutest self-satisfied smile. “Nobody g-gangs up on my m-man.”

By the time we got back in the car, all four of them were on the ground howling in pain, and I can say from personal experience with good reason. “They have my sympathy.”

It took me days to get rid of the sting completely.

“It’s just a little c-capsaicin,” she innocently remarks.

“Anyway––I told them t-to wash with m-milk…”

She’s quiet for a while. “He called me c-chubby.” Her hand stills. “I heard him…I know w-why y-you hit him…I don’t want you g-getting hurt because of me.”

I love this girl. She’s the best partner anyone could ever wish for. Looking up into her sweet face, my chest expands

and a fist gets stuck in my throat. Gently, I reach up and wrap my fingers around her small wrist, take the gauze out of her hand. Those big brown eyes meet mine.

“I love you…you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Taking her hand, I place it over my pounding heart and cover it with mine. “I love you,” I say louder, clearer, with every fiber of my being until she hears it in her dreams.

Her eyes well with tears, her lips tremble.

“I love you, Kitten.”

Standing, I kiss her gently as I slip the bathing suit straps o her shoulders, hook a finger in the fabric, pull it down and expose her beautiful body. Then I kiss her, make love to her mouth, let her make love to mine. Her small hands push down my swim trunks and cup my balls, strokes my shaft the way I like it. She’s come a long way since that first night and she gets braver every time.

“I love you too.”

I lift her onto the counter, fish a condom out of the drawer on the left and roll it on as she watches. I need her. I need to bury myself inside of her and forget the world exists because outside the two of us, it’s all shit anyway.

“This way,” she says, sliding o the counter and facing the mirror. She presses he ass back into my dick and rubs up against me. My hands cup her breast and she throws her head back against my shoulder. I’ve never had this level of intimacy with anyone. With Beth I was too young and the rest I simply didn’t care about. Dora owns me. My body, my heart, my mind. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to be with her. Nothing I wouldn’t resort to to protect her.

Grabbing her hips, I enter her from behind and she whimpers. Her hand on the mirror, palm flat, her eyes trained on me. She watches as I drive my body into hers, give her everything I’ve got. Body and soul. I’m all in. We move against each other in counterpoint, and she rides me over

the edge. I come right after her, a painful cry ripped out of me. Sated, content, grateful. I bask in us. Until I remember all these feelings are temporary.

DORA That’s three times last night. On any given day, Dallas has a high sex drive, but last he was insatiable. Not that I’m complaining. He’s dead asleep when I leave for class in the morning. I place the briefest of kisses on his lips and whisper, “Dream a little dream of me.”

Two days later, after the epic sex marathon, something is very wrong with my relationship. I didn’t notice it at first because I was so busy studying for the GRE. And I don’t want to slip into paranoia, but I haven’t seen him and he’s barely texted. Even our evening calls have been brief and distant, which is completely unlike him.

Now that he has a car, he’s been driving himself to the shelter, our schedules no longer overlapping. Problem is, he’s already missed two shifts this week.

He’s not obligated to help out. The hours he needed for his community service were satisfied months ago, and no one is holding his feet to the fire, but had Vi and Mika known he was going to flake-out they could have arranged for some other volunteer to fill in. And that isn’t all that’s wrong.

Spotting him across the quad, I catch him laughing it up with two girls and a guy I don’t recognize and make my way over.

“Dallas…”

He turns, and spotting me, his face goes blank, the humor that was there a second ago just disappears, drops right o

his face. No kiss, no smile, no a ection, no indication I’m his girlfriend. Nothing. My stomach drops.

“You m-missed your t-time at the shelter again,” I say as soon as I catch up with him.

“I can’t do this right now…” he replies, searching around for an escape hatch. “Maybe later. After I study for my comm test we can talk.”

So cold, so distant. I have a hunch why he’s doing it, but for now I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt because I trust him and that’s what you do for the people you love.

“Okay…no p-pres-sure…I understand…are we doing something tonight?” I dare to ask with my heart jammed in my throat.

He makes a pained face. “Going out with the guys tonight.”

He hasn’t been out with his friends in a long time so I don’t fret. It’s not fair of me to highjack all his time. That’s not the bad part.

“Who is that?” I overhear one of the girls he’s standing with ask as I’m walking away. And that’s when all my fears come to life. Because the sweet boy I fell in love with is nowhere to be found. He’s been replaced by an unfeeling traitor.

“A friend,” he tells her. That’s the bad part.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

DALLAS “Oi,” I hear coming from somewhere behind me.

Needing to clear my head, I was out of the house and on the water by 6:30 a.m. I haven’t been able to focus on anything lately. It’s a miracle my grades haven’t taken a hit.

I can’t even tell you how long I’ve been sitting here straddling my board and staring out into space…thinking about Dora.

I miss her. It’s a constant, excruciating experience with no end in sight. I haven’t caught a single deep breath in two weeks and I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. I can’t let her go and I can’t risk falling any deeper. Which leaves me nowhere.

Quinn paddles up and assumes the same position, bobbing on the water next to me. Sunlight catches the new metal in his nose. Since the season ended he’s added more piercings and tats. It makes me think of Dora’s tattoo…and how many times I’ve had my mouth on it. Everything makes me think of Dora.

“Are you gonna let them all pass you by?”

I don’t respond and we both fall silent as we watch the first rays of light break over the Malibu hills and hit Catalina.

“Any word from Rea?” Quinn says after awhile.

“Nothing.” It’s been four months and I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever hear from him again. I know why he had to go, I get it, but a text, a call––anything to let us know he’s alive and okay––would be helpful. “He’s obviously not gonna graduate with us.”

“Yeah,” Quinn grimly returns.

We fall silent again, the time marked by the sun rising higher in a cloudless blue sky. It paints the Pacific in shades of blue and purple.

I never tire of this. The only sight that does a better job of quieting the restlessness pushing against me from the inside out is Dora’s smile. Making my girl happy kills every doubt I’ve ever had about myself.

My girl…

“What’s next for you?”

Glancing sideways, I find Quinn as lost in his own thoughts as I am.

“Working for the family biz.”

“Junior beer king in the making?”

There’s no bite to his dig. Which in itself is unusual. This is the most time we’ve been in each others company without the conversation turning sour.

“Something like that. You?” “Entry level at CAA. Sports division.”

“Sports agent. Cool.”

“What happened with that fit little bird of yours? I haven’t seen her around.”

“Bird?”

“Hen. Chick.”

“Oh…” Smiling now. “Hen. Yeah, I like it.” But the smile drops shortly after. “We broke up.”

“Why?” The shrug is involuntary. “Life, I guess…She’s leaving for the East Coast after she graduates next year. She wants to be a vet and grad school is in New York, and I’m going to be working at our plant in Temecula.”

“What a bunch of cock and bull,” he deadpans.

“Come again?”

“I know you like her, so what gives?” He studies me for a beat. “Wait…did she dump you? God, please tell me she dumped you.”

The smile that grows on his face at the mere possibility that I was dumped is downright evil. Which makes me laugh.

“No, she didn’t dump me…” the humor deserts me, “but eventually it all goes that way, doesn’t it? People change their minds. They leave. Life takes over…what’s the point of dragging it out.”

“What a sad little bitch you are. You know what pisses me o most about you, Van Zant?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.” His usual baiting doesn’t work on me anymore. When you’ve lost everything you care about, nothing really gets your goat.

“You have no fucking idea how lucky you are. So you went through some shite. We all have. Get over it. When I was thirteen, one of my mother’s boyfriends caught me jerking o to his rugby magazine and broke my arm in three places––and he was the nice one. You don’t see me crying about it in the mirror.”

It’s a credit to Smith that he could make me chuckle with a story like that.

“I’m not you…I don’t know how you do it.”

He looks o , pensive. “One day at a time, brother. One day at a time. But I’ll tell you something––I stopped expecting the worst to happen.”

Damn, maybe he’s right. Maybe I fucked up this relationship because I was expecting the worst.

People leave, I remind myself. Dogs die. And I’m left to pick up the pieces once again. But the voice isn’t as loud this time.

“An old surfer I know in Venice––homeless guy,” he starts again. On the horizon, another wave builds and neither one of us makes a move to catch it. “I bring him food from time to time, and we chat. He likes to chat and doesn’t have anybody to do that with…When I asked him why he doesn’t get o the streets, he said something that really stuck. He said, ‘Ride the wave you’re given. Make it a great ride. Make it the best ride possible. But don’t try to turn it into something it isn’t. That goes for life and people too.’”

I shoot him a sideways glance to asses the level of crap he’s feeding me and find nothing other than quiet contemplation on his face. “That’s deep.”

“Fucking hell––it is, isn’t it? And he’s right. You can’t change people any more than you can change your circumstances. All you can do is take them as they are and make the best of it.”

I’m fairly certain he’s speaking about his mother. The bus ride back from Stanford comes back to haunt me. Time to make amends.

“I’m sorry about what I said about your mother––on the bus ride home that night. That was out of line.”

He turns to look at me and smirks. “Don’t sweat it, pretty boy.”

A good-sized wave approaches and Quinn starts to paddle out. Before he gets out of earshot, he throws a sinister glance over his shoulder. “Besides––I’ve said the same shite about your dad.”

“Bite me, asshole,” I chuckle.

“You’re not my type,” he shouts back as he gets up on his board. Howling, he flips me o . Then Quinn rides the wave he’s given.

DORA “No sign of him, huh?” Vi says with a sympathetic look on her face.

Shaking my head, I take the last of the empty soda bottles out of her hands and place them in the recycling bin while Mika breaks down the bar set up in the corner.

In the two weeks since Dallas called me his “friend” I’ve neither seen nor heard from him. It’s o cial––I’ve been ghosted without an explanation or a proper break up. I know it in my heart, the one that’s barely beating without him.

The level of disappointment and heartbreak I’m currently experiencing runs so deep I dare not talk about it even with the girls because I’m sure I’ll have a total breakdown that I can’t a ord right now. Not with all the schoolwork and testing I have to do.

I can’t even muster the requisite anger. I know why he’s pushing me away––he’s leaving me before I can leave him.

But that doesn’t stop me from loving him with every fiber of my being. The spigot doesn’t get automatically turned o because someone leaves…or dies. I get what he was trying to tell me now. The love keeps flowing, and with nowhere for it to go you eventually drown in it.

All I can do is wait for him to realize it on his own time.

I’ve always been a proponent of actions speak louder than words anyway. I’ll show him how steadfast true love is.

“Do they think this is a petting zoo, or are they gonna adopt?” Vi mutters under her breath.

She’s speaking about the young couple standing near the cats. They’ve been here for hours and are the only ones left of the crowd we had all day. Although by the looks of it, Cletus doesn’t seem to have a problem with the heavy petting. What a lush that cat is.

“We’ll take him,” the woman holding the fat elderly tabby says.

“Score,” Vi mutters again.

The opening party was a huge success, but we’re all so exhausted. As soon as the paperwork is done and Cletus is placed in a carrier, Mika runs to lock the door behind them.

My night isn’t even over yet. I have to head back to the dorm and start packing up my things.

Graduation is in a few days. After the party at Shutters on the Beach the graduating class is throwing, I’ll head back to Del Mar for the summer. I’m still considering skipping the party altogether, but I’m sure Zoe won’t let me.

“He’s grieving. He’ll come around. You’ll see,” Vi says as she gives me a big hug. I won’t see them again till next fall.

“Just make him beg for it when he does,” Mika adds. If only it was that simple.

It’s 8 p.m. by the time I park Bernadette in the empty parking lot next to my dorm. Staring out into the darkness, I fight with myself, and I mean I literally fight myself.

“Don’t…”

But the forces of evil are formidable. They keep dragging my attention to the cell phone sitting in the cup holder. The one Dallas bought me to replace the one he broke. That feels like it happened a hundred years ago.

“Don’t call him. Don’t do it. That’s… beyond pathetic.”

I pick up the phone. My fingers hover over the speed dial.

“Do not do it.” I put the phone in the cup holder. “Good.

Now step away.”

As soon as I jump out of the car, a warm gust of June wind takes my hair and whips it around. The breeze brings with it a trace of smoke from a wildfire still burning up north. It reminds me of the car ride to San Francisco.

Regardless how this goes, whatever may come of us, it was still the best decision I ever made. He was the best decision I ever made, the reward so much greater than the risk of losing him. Because having been loved and loving, even for a short time, is better to not having loved at all.

With a bittersweet smile on my face, I pop the trunk door and begin organizing, making room for the boxes I have to haul back home.

“How was the opening?”

That voice...It’s like a tuning fork for the rhythm of my heart. It does things to me on a physical level that defies explanation.

Closing the trunk, I turn and give him my undivided attention. Dallas stands a few feet away looking very much unlike himself. Dressed in gray slacks and a finely-tailored white dress shirt with his initials embroidered on the cu , he’s every inch the aloof, sophisticated, heir to a beer fortune. Conveniently, I keep forgetting that’s what he is.

It’s easy to forget when I’m around him, having the time of my life.

He won’t meet my eyes, his gaze shifting away and back.

This is going to devastate me. He used to be my guilty pleasure, a fantasy, and yet he’s become everything I need and more. In my heart, I know I’ll never love anyone else the way I love him.

“Good,” I answer and let him take the lead. If he’s here to break up with me, he might as well get on with it.

His head tilts down and his hair falls across his right eye.

It takes all my strength not to reach up and push it aside.

He’s not mine anymore. I don’t get to do that. One day in the future, someone else will. The thought alone makes me sick.

Catching himself fidgeting, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants. His full pink lips press together tightly and his jaw tenses. Seeing him look so unsure, wearing not a stitch of his usual swagger, hurts. I don’t relish seeing him upset. If I could spare him all the pain he’ll ever feel in his life, I would do it without question.

“We had about a hundred people show up. T-Ten dogs and twelve cats got adopted…” He nods and shifts from foot to foot. “We missed you…I-I missed you.”

Tears threaten to embarrass me. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to stave them o , but it’s a losing battle.

Still nodding, his gaze keeps darting away and coming back to me. “I’m sorry I let you down…I need to explain––” The grief-stricken look on his face sits like a cinderblock on my chest. “You don’t have to––” “I do,” he insists. “I…I…” Shaking his head he looks o and hu s. I watch his lips move. Mustering the courage to end us. My stomach churns so violently I may throw up.

“When I found out that Beth left me for money I…it’s not…” He finally looks at me. Expression solemn, chin high.

And yet to me he looks ready to come apart. “Everyone leaves me. She said she loved me and she left me for a hundred thousand dollars. That’s how much I was worth to her…she could’ve taken me with her but she chose not to.”

As much as I want to wrap my arms around him and make him feel better, I can’t.

“It took me a long time to get over her and then I got that letter…it was even worse…” He takes a deep breath, his eyes burning with emotion finally meet mine. “I love you, Dora. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone. What if you get to school and decide it’s too much work to have a long

distance relationship? What if you meet someone else? Can you honestly say that can’t happen?”

Yes, I can honestly say it can’t. But I don’t say it because he’s so gunshy I’m not sure anything will convince him of that. “Do you t-think I’m weak?”

He looks confused for a moment, taken aback even. “No. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

“W-Would you say I’m fickle?”

Confusion blankets his face as he tries to figure out my angle. “No.” “Well then w-why would you even consider the rest?”

He can’t answer. He can’t because it’s only his fear.

“T-These past two w-weeks have been p-pure hell for me––” His head drops and he rubs the back of his neck. He looks so down and lost I almost reach out to hug him. But I stop myself. I can’t do this for him. He’s got to want to trust my love.

“For me too,” he murmurs, dejected.

I take two deep deep breaths to calm myself and start again.

“I love you. I love you like I-I never knew I could love someone…I thought Katherine w-was the l-last piece of the puzzle I was m-missing…I was s-sure of it. But she wasn’t… you were, Dallas.” Tears streak down my face and I wipe them away.

“You were the missing piece…I’m not psychic. All I can promise is that n-nothing outside of me and you”––I motion between us–– “is ever going to come between us.

Nothing and no one will ever make me love you less. Only you can do that…Can you promise me you won’t fall for anyone else?”

“Yes,” he says, unequivocally and without hesitation.

“Then why c-can’t you believe that a-about me?”

He stares at me for a beat. His electric blue eyes glowing in the reflected light of the street lamps at the edge of the parking lot. In three long steps, he’s on me, his face buried in the side of my neck, arms around my upper body holding me so tightly my lungs may never function normally again.

“Don’t break up with me,” he says, the sound mu ed by my hair. “I know I’m no prize, but maybe you could keep me anyway?” I nod against his shoulder as unchecked tears funnel down my cheeks and soak his shirt. “If you do, I promise to love you forever.”

And that’s the problem. His experiences have taught him that love is something to be bargained for. That he has to give in order to receive. Whereas my childhood showed me that real love is unconditional. It’s given freely with no expectation of reciprocation.

My parents taught me that the heart is a complicated organ. That in its imperfect beauty it is impetuous and blind, impractical and relentlessly forgiving. It wants who it wants without thought to race and class and gender. And it keeps wanting regardless of how many times it’s been mistreated.

I don’t question mine. I don’t fear it. I go willingly. I let mine lead me where it wants to go, and it keeps leading me right back to him.

“All I w-want is your heart,” I tell him through tears, “and y-your time. Because I would miss you too much if I didn’t have some.” Pulling up his shirt, I sneak my hand under the hem and palm the hot skin of his back. “And distance isn’t going to c-change that.”

“I’ve thought about this…” Picking his head up, he pushes at my shoulders and faces me. “If I catch a flight to LaGuardia on Friday nights––” “I’m n-not going to C-Cornell,” I announce, anxious to put his concerns to bed.

His head jerks back a little. He searches my face for the truth and finds it. “You’re not?” he tentatively queries, not sure he can trust his ears yet.

“I’m going to C-Cal Davis. I mean, I haven’t applied yet, but with my t-test scores and grades…”

I’m not doing it for him. I’m doing it for me. I’m proud of my accomplishments. I don’t regret them. But I also don’t want to regret not giving us a real chance.

“You’re staying in California?”

University of California Davis is the top ranked veterinary school in the country so it isn’t exactly a tough choice.

Privately, I think my parents breathed a sigh of financial relief when I told them yesterday.

“I h-have a boyfriend and––” I don’t get to finish that sentence and it has nothing to do with my speech impediment. Taking my face in his hands, he kisses me like his life depends on it.

“I’m sorry I freaked out,” he whispers against my lips as we stand in the empty parking lot clinging to each other. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.” More feverish kissing.

“Anything you want is yours to have.”

My grip around his waist tightens. “Anything?”

Glancing up, I discover the cocky smirk is back on his face so I know he’s going to be okay…that we’re going to be okay.

“Anything.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

DORA From my seat in the audience next to Blake, I watch Zoe give Alice the universal gesture for hand job. This is tame by her standards.

“I don’t read sign language,” Alice replies. A few attending visitors level admonishing glances their way.

This year went super fast. One more and it’ll be us up on that stage accepting our diplomas, thanking our loved ones, and moving on to bigger and better stu .

“How about this? You read this?” This time Zoe flips Alice the bird and she laughs.

“What time does the party start?” Alice asks nobody in particular.

“Nine at Shutters on the Beach––” Blake answers.

Two girls seated directly in front turn around and shush Zoe who makes a face. “We got a block of rooms so no one has to drive,” she explains.

The two girls in front take it to the next level, graduating from shushing to giving us dirty looks.

“Mind your own business,” Zoe warns them, “or I’ll rip o those caterpillars glued to your eyes.” Horrified, the girls

swivel around to face ahead.

Dallas’s entire family is in attendance, most of whom I’ve already met. His mother, Brenda, is dressed to the nines. His grandfather turned out to be a happy surprise. I know Dallas hates the comparison, but I see a lot of his grandfather in him. Even Dallas’s father showed up. I’ve never met him and frankly from afar, he looks about as friendly as an ice sculpture.

It’s never going to be what he would like it to be––not many people have that kind of relationship with their family––but it’s improving steadily.

Gladly, I can say the same about Katherine. We’ve exchanged emails on more than a few occasions, she being the one to initiate, and we’re taking it a week at a time. More importantly, I no longer feel like something is missing. As a matter of fact, I’ve got everything I need.

The valedictorian wraps up her speech and steps o the podium. The Dean announces the start of the diploma ceremony and graduates begin to line up. Before long it’s Dallas’s turn. I watch proudly as he makes his way to the podium, trailing after his fellow classmates. His name is called and he steps up, takes the diploma from the Dean and shakes his hand.

All good stu . All perfectly normal stu .

Until he takes a wrong turn into crazytown. That’s when the man I love rips the mic out of the stand, turns it on, and says, “Testing, testing.”

And all I’m thinking is, God help us all. Me especially.

Brenda who’s seated at the end of my row is giggling like a schoolgirl. Even Dallas’s dad who has a major stick up his backside cracks a smile.

Dallas looks right at me, his suntan deeper against the stark sodium white of his ear-to-ear grin, his face radiating

love and joy, and he says, “Hi, babe. Love you,” he shouts while pointing at me, “that’s my beautiful girl, right there.”

Everyone single person in attendance, hundreds and hundreds of people, turn to look at me and my cheeks burn red hot. They feel like they’re on fire. But that infectious grin of his spreads, and soon everyone is smiling and waiting to see what he does next.

The sides of my mouth turn up, and even though at first I wished for an earthquake to crack the ground wide open and swallow me whole, looking into his beautiful face, radiating so much unadulterated enthusiasm for life, I get swept away.

Swept up in him and this incredible passion he has for everything. Our relationship included.

He’s a wild one for sure. And he’s also the best man I know. A beautiful boy I had a crush on who’s turned into the man I love. I wouldn’t change a single hair on his head. Why would I when he’s given me the ride of my life?

“I just want to say…love is everything. If you do nothing else in your life, love someone.”

Dropping the mic, which makes a terrible noise, my heart walks o stage and marches right down the aisle until he reaches my row. Standing, I meet him in the middle, drawn to him as by supernatural force.

“I l-love you more than anything,” I whisper.

Because I do. It’s easy to love him when he’s become the man I know he’s capable of being. The person that gives so much of his heart he doesn’t hold anything back for himself.

There are no half-measures with Dallas. In his truest essence, that’s who he is and there’s no changing that about him. Nor would I want to. I take him as he is and in exchange I get so much more.

“B-But if you d-do that to m-me again, I’ll put Ex-Lax in your p-protein shakes.”

He seals my mouth with his, a kiss full of passion and longing and promises of what the future holds. And when he pulls away and looks into my eyes, I see all the love I have for him reflected back to me tenfold.

“I have something to tell you…”

Leaning in, he whispers in my ear. And as the smile grow on my face and on my heart, I tell him, “Whatever you want to do, count me in, babe.”

N OTHING B UT G OOD Coming Spring 2020

ALSO BY P. DANGELICO

Hard To Love Series (Single POV) Wrecking Ball Sledgehammer Bulldozer It Takes Two Series (Dual POV) Baby Maker Tiebreaker Risk Taker (coming soon) Malibu University Series (NA) Nothing But Trouble Nothing But Wild The Horn Duet (Erotic Romance) A Million Di erent Ways (Book I) A Million Di erent Ways to Lose You (Book II) Standalone You Can Have Manhattan

ABOUT THE AUTHOR P. Dangelico loves romance in all forms, pulp, the NY Jets, and to while away the day at the barn (apparently she does her best thinking shoveling horse poop). What she’s not enamored with is referring to herself in the third person and social media but she’ll give you the links anyway.

Facebook Reading Group (P. Dangelico’s Mod Squad) Or find me here www.pdangelico.com