“What’s wrong? Are they sending the paddy wagon for you already?”
“No, that might be something a little more lucrative.” He fiddles with his phone and scoots in close while holding it up above his head so that we can both see.
It’s some YouTube channel playing a video of a girl sitting cross-legged on her bed with a giant pink-feathered boa around her neck. Her makeup is severely smeared, mascara to her chin, eyes red as beets, and her lipstick is smudged half-past crazy.
“What in the hell?” I giggle as I snuggle into him as if we were settling in for a movie.
She comes into focus, and instantly I recognize who it is.
“Scarlett Stafford!” I cry out with glee. “I loved her Silver album. I must have played, ‘Meet Me in the Middle’ a thousand times. It’s true. She’s seen better days career-wise, but she’s still a mainstay on the radio. Back in her heyday, you couldn’t go ten steps without hearing one of her songs. Truthfully, you should be honored she wrote a song about your donkey balls. And yes, they are ironically just that huge. You’re welcome.”
The girl in the video sniffs hard. “So it’s been a while since Dex and I split, and to be honest”—she glides her nose across her arm, leaving a snail’s track of slime—“I still need him, you know? I just want him to understand how I feel.” Her chest bucks, tears spout out of the corners of her eyes, and it’s heartbreaking to witness. “Dex, if you’re watching, just know that I don’t go a single minute without thinking about you. You’re the only person who really saw me. I mean the real me.” She beats her chest and bawls like a baby before sniffing herself back to a quasi-composed state, and I’m terrified. “Sadly, it’s taken this long separation for me to realize that I never want us to be over. I want you here with me, in my bed”—her arms spread wide at the mess around her—“and I want to be in yours.” She wails, and I can’t help but shrink a bit since I’m currently in her most coveted position. “I can’t handle another day without you.” Her voice rubs raw as she shouts the words. “I don’t want to imagine a life without you while you’re in some other orbit doing the things you used to do to me with other people.”
Instinctively, my thighs pinch together. I think I just discovered who Dexter had previously honed his skills on.
“Please, I’m begging you to let me back into your life! We’re good together. I can’t do this without you anymore. Every day is like walking through razor blades.” She giggles through tears as she looks to the ceiling. “I might as well sit on an ant hill and cover myself with honey. It would have to feel better than this hell I’m submerged in. If you’re out there, Dex—know that I’m ready for us to happen again. I hope you are, too. I need you back. I’m publicly begging you to make me yours again.”
Either the camera goes black or Dexter just killed his phone. Either way, he sets it on the nightstand with a firm thud and shakes his head a moment without saying a word.
I hike up on my elbow to get a better look at this heavily stubbled, heavily handsome devil lying by my side.
“I guess I know who I warmed the sheets for.” I meant for it to sound funny, ironic even. Instead, it comes out pathetic and reeking of desperation.
“Come here.” He leashes his arms around me, landing me on top of him, his nose just a hair away from mine. “These sheets belong to you. Scarlett Stafford is delusional if she thinks I want another ride on that crazy train.” He lets out a deep sigh, one that sounds as if it took an entire year to fill his lungs. “I’m sorry I shared that with you. My brother said I shouldn’t miss the video. I had no idea what we were in for.”
“We?” I take a bite out of his bottom lip and pull it out like taffy. “You better watch your first person plural pronouns, or I might think there’s more to us than meets my thigh.” I move my leg over that hard protrusion pushed up against it, and he rumbles out the hint of a laugh.
“We.” He winces. “Now that would be crazy. You and me?” His lips press white as he examines me a moment, that painful look back in his eyes. “How would that work?”
“I’m guessing a lot like this.” I land my mouth over his, and we start in on a take two of last night’s performance that makes those aerial arts we engaged in a few hours ago look like a rough outline of what was to come.
Dexter wonders what the royal we might look like, and it tickles the deepest part of me with an elation I have never felt before. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance of Dexter falling in love with me after all. I could think of worse things to happen. Heck, I think I’m getting close myself. I’ve never been in love before, but I’d sure like to think it would feel a lot like this.
* * *
Date three consisted of nothing more than an ice cream social, so sweet and alarmingly PG even the cameramen were nodding off. Seth looked red-faced and angry, jotting down notes in that composition book he hauls around with him. Probably trying to find a way to deflect this milquetoast nightmare. Suffice it to say, date three did not end with a bang, much to the TSE’s chagrin. They’d never admit it, but I’m guessing they’d appreciate a naughty romp or two—so would I, but poor old Lenny isn’t getting the better part of that deal. Not with me anyway.
Date four of The Social Experiment takes place at the Cougar Dome, which is usually filled to the brim with screaming, sweaty guys and girls alike, each one riled up for the home team as the student body experiences a collective adrenaline rush. But on this early Saturday morning, it’s just the TSE crew bubbling around us as Lenard eyes me from half-court while I hold the ball to my chest like a baby. Seth reprimanded me for not kissing my prospective love connection as of yet, and the way he railed into me you would have thought I had plagiarized my last term paper for lit. I made it crystal clear my lips only go where lust leads them, and unfortunately my lips have decided to leave Lenard in the dust. Seth claimed to understand, although he looked dejected as if it were him I was rejecting. I guess, after several successes, Seth didn’t want to have a complete failure on his hands, but I’ll remind him that two out of three is still pretty good odds. I doubt Dexter will fire him anytime soon.
Date four was Lenard’s choice, and he chose to regale me with a one-on-one b-ball game that I am already regretting taking part in. It doesn’t matter, though. I’m already somewhere else emotionally and psychologically. I can’t stop reliving last Saturday night, last Sunday morning for that matter. And my time with Chelle was the cherry on top of a fantastic week. On Thursday, we went to the zoo for a few hours after school because she had a report due on giraffes. Dexter drove out to Denver with us, and it felt as if we were a family. Friday night, I stayed over a few extra hours, and we watched two Disney movies in a row, Chelle’s choice, then mine—Frozen and The Little Mermaid respectively. And shockingly, Dexter didn’t nod off once. He did, however, gift me a kiss after walking me out, a kiss that made my toes curl, my lips sizzling for hours after he left them. Then, this morning, he invited me to have breakfast with Chelle and him before we drove her to Trish’s house. It all felt so normal, so beautiful, the start of something new that feels natural as breathing.
I glance over at him with his dark suit, arms folded as he studies my next move. And yet, here we are on my next date with the boy who is supposed to be my love match. Dexter never brings up the TSE or Lenard while he’s shoving his tongue down my throat. Coincidence? I think not. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around this double life we’re living myself.
Lenard swoops in and steals the ball from my arms, dribbling it down the court, and I shout after him as I try my best to steal it back. Lenard and I go at it like a couple of thirteen-year-olds screaming and laughing as we play tug-of-war with that bloated orange ball. He lands one in the hoop, and I mercilessly do the same—on three different occasions. I’ve gotten so used to having cameras in my face I hardly notice them anymore. All those years of watching reality television, wondering how in the world anyone can be so stupid knowing the entire world is ogling, suddenly makes me see another persp
ective. I’m betting if given half a chance, I could get pretty stupid too and not give the one-eyed monsters plastered in the vicinity a second thought.
I steal the ball from Lenard and do a little dribble action between my knees the way Arlo used to do when we were kids. I glance over toward Dexter grinning like a lunatic, but as soon as I spot him, the grin falls off and I’m just left with lunatic. Latched onto his hips are the legs of a shaggy-haired redhead, her lips suctioned onto his, and judging by the way he’s staggering backward, that kiss was launched by way of a surprise attack. He spins to the left, and I see her profile, recognizing her immediately. Scarlett Stafford hopped on her broom and landed right on Dexter himself. He plucks her off, and she manages an elegant dismount like an Olympic gymnast gunning for gold. He may not have wanted that kiss, but the sight of it made my stomach sour, and I don’t like this feeling.
Lenard steals the ball, and I go after him with a vengeance. I bump and grind, butt my shoulder against his, hard, ready and willing to dislocate a limb or two if need be. I run the ball clear across the court and shoot from the three-point line, mesmerized at how the ball floats through the air in slow-motion. Life feels as if it’s floating in slow-motion. In the back of my mind, I can’t unsee that demonic lip-lock Scary Scarlett landed on Dex. I hate it. I hate her. I want her nowhere near my man.
A breath hitches in my throat at the thought.
My man?
Dexter is certainly not my anything. The pit of my stomach squeezes tight at the thought of losing him. I can’t lose him. He’s sweet and funny, and I’m crazy in love with him.
“Shit,” I hiss as the ball glides clean through the net.
I’m in love with Dexter. My heart pounds a mile a minute as the buzzer sounds loud and aggressive overhead.
I turn around to find Lenard jumping up and down, his fists pumping in the air, proud of the shot I made, and just as I’m about to smile or laugh, or kill Scarlett, he launches forward and his face lands hard over mine, mouth on mouth. For a second, I think he’s fallen on me in some silly cute way, but then his arms grip me by the shoulders and his tongue is doing its best to invade while my face does its best to evade and it’s an all-out awkward mess. By the time someone yells it’s a wrap, I manage to wipe my face down over my shoulder. The stagehands free us from our mics, and Lenard slaps me a high five before taking off. It’s odd. It’s as if that kiss meant nothing to him—and, believe you me, I’m glad about it. I’m guessing Petra gave him the shakedown before filming began—only it appears that Lenard is a hell of a lot better at taking orders than I am.
I glance over to where Dexter stands, and he’s alone once again, arms folded tight across his chest, that pissed expression I’ve seen one too many times making him look like the sex god he is.
I don’t waste a moment. Instead, I make a beeline his way, gloating over the fact I’m still sporting Lenard’s saliva on my cheek. For all Dex knows, I didn’t see him getting his face bitten off by that pathetic zombie who begged publicly to take her back.
“What’d you think?” I bat my lashes up at him. “It looks as if Lenny and I might just make super couple status in two weeks yet. I’d hate to tank your rankings, so I went with it.” I give a little shrug. “I used the trick you taught me. You know, the one where your tongue does that little swirly thing in the end? Who knows, I might just turn his floppy disc into a hard drive yet.”
His eyes widen a moment, and then just like that, we’re left glaring at one another for a few sharp moments.
He takes me by the hand and leads me out of the sports complex, and as soon as we exit the building, we make a sharp right into a darkened tunnel less than twenty feet away.
Dexter lands my back to the wall, pinning my arms above my head, and indulges in a kiss that sets my soul on fire. A flame so bright and beautiful burns between us like a raging inferno, all-consuming, greedily eating the oxygen around us until there’s not a breath left in the world.
His lips rake hard over my cheek until he’s nibbling on my ear. “Nobody kisses you but me,” he whispers it hot and aggressive, and my entire body detonates in an orgasmic nuclear explosion.
I cup his face in my hands and hold him steady in front of me, my lips a breath from his. “Same. That mouth, that dirty tongue and all of its disgusting wanderings are mine and mine alone.” A hiccup comes to me as I fight the avalanche of words waiting to bubble from me. Every emotion I’ve ever felt demands to make a verbal exit, but footsteps ensue this way, and God knows there’s no time for an entire dictionary to sprout from me so I choose wisely. “I love you, Dexter.” I give a hard blink in horror at what just vomited from my lips. “I do.” I press in with another hard kiss and then run like hell all the way to Canterbury.
Dexter
Dan and I stare one another down over beers at the Underground. It’s Sunday night. An entire twenty-four hours plus have gone by without me uttering those golden words back to her, and even though initially I hadn’t thought I’d say them, I’m starting to feel like an ass for not even acknowledging them.
“Has she texted?” Dan sucks the foam off his beer.
“No. She wants to. I can feel it. She’s as cerebral as she is emotional.”
My brother thumps out a silent laugh. “In other words, the perfect package.”
“Who would that be?” a voice calls from above, and we look to find Rowen and Lane looking pressed and cleaned and ready to get laid for the night. They take a seat at the table without bothering to ask first—and if history is any great teacher, I opt to hold onto my beer just a little tighter.
“So what’s new?” Rowen pegs me with a hard look.
“You know, don’t you?” I’m not one for games, but I’m not one for repeating what Ember said, at least not lightly.
“Know what?” Rowen glances to Lane just as the waitress comes by and quickly takes our order.
Lane thumps the table with his hand once she leaves. “Spill it. The girls are acting strange, and we want to know why.”
Dan grunts while examining him, “Why would the girls be acting strange? And even so, what would that have to do with my brother?”
Rowen takes a breath. “We were all together, and I happened to ask Ember if she made a love connection—on the show. She giggled like a kid and so did Sophie and Vi.”
He leans in on his elbows, that death glare that borders on a threat. “What’s up, Dex? Something tells me you have news.”
“Or you will soon,” Lane adds.
“I do.” I give a quick sweep of the vicinity and not so much for Ember, who I’m certain is artfully avoiding me, but for Scarlett, who is actively pursuing me. I’ve already ducked and evaded three times since that assault yesterday afternoon. “She said it. I have earned my steak. Ember loves me.” My entire body burns as I say those words. What in the hell is happening? I’ve had girls say those three toxic-laced words to me before. Hell, I’ve said them to Trish and Scarlett, never meant them in the traditional sense—they were a means to an end. Something you say, something people say back. And now here I am with an ache as heavy and wide as a mountain. I undeniably feel something, something other than obligation to parrot back a few words.
“Shit!” Rowen gives up a genuine belly laugh, as does Lane, and the adolescent doling out of high fives commences. “I’m buying.” He drums his hands against the table. “Next week we’re hitting the Pinewood Steakhouse. That Porterhouse is on me.”
Lane shakes his head. “Un-freaking-believable, dude.” Lane socks me hard on the arm. “No wonder they were freaking out. You did it. You were right. Even the hardest of hearts is pliable in your twisted hands. I guess the hard part is coming up then.”
The all-around jubilation at the table dwindles down, and it’s all eyes on me.
“What’s that?” I move my beer around in a circle, anything to distract me from the truth that’s about to come out.
Rowen hardens his stare. “You let her down easy. Ember is a sweet girl. Sh
e might have a bark—”
Lane cuts him off, “Hell, she has a bite. But she has a heart, too. You have to do the letdown with kid gloves. And for God’s sake, keep our names out of it.”
Rowen snaps his fingers, his eyes popping wide as if a bright idea just took a crap on him. “Tell her your ex is in town, and you’ve rekindled things with her.”
“Yes.” Lane gives me a shove, and I nearly fall off the chair. “Tell her you’re sorry, but that the flame never quite went out. She’ll understand.”
Rowen nods. “Ember Sparks does not want to be anybody’s second best. She’ll practically kick you out the door.”
Dan lifts a brow. “Well, little brother? What says you?”
I think on it long and hard as the band cues up in the corner, getting ready to blow the roof off this place for the next six hours.
“I think I’d rather drink bleach. There’s no way I’m dragging Scarlett into this. She’s psychotic. That’s like summoning a demon.”
Rowen and Lane exchange a pained look. “I get it,” Rowen says. “We watched the video. Hell, TMZ is running it twenty-four seven.”
Lane shakes his head. That look of pity on his face says it all. “Dude, you are going to need a restraining order. Don’t wait until you find her living in your bedroom. Crazy chicks only get crazier. And it’s never pretty in the end. You’d better nip this in the psychotic bud.”
Dan shoots me with his finger. “That’s what I said. You don’t need to invite crazy to the party. They just show up. Nine times out of ten you need to call the cops to chase them away.”
I take a breath and hold it. “Scarlett Stafford is a spoiled brat who has gotten every last thing her broken heart desires. She’s not interested in taking no for an answer, and she would only hope I’d call the cops. Police show up—she gets PR out of the deal. Everything is win-win. In the end, she’ll probably write another song about it. I’m nothing short of an emotional muse to her.”