Friday Night Alibi

  Now, before you think I’ve turned into some make-out floozy, I am trying to get to know him. You know, outside of the amazing kissing. I’ve made a goal to ask him at least one question every night before, during, or after all the spit swapping. I don’t want him thinking he’s under interrogation or anything, so I keep them short and sweet. Also, pretty nonemotional, because that would be too relationshippy, and we’re not in a relationship.

  So, I know—from him, not his Facebook profile—that his favorite drink is Dr. Pepper, but it can’t be the diet crap. He took tennis lessons for four years before he decided to do water polo instead. His major is Musical Theory, which to be honest, is the sexiest major I’ve ever heard of. When I found that out I don’t think I breathed any oxygen that night, my mouth glued to his. And the worst prank he’s ever had done to him, besides the awesome body wax, was when his roommate and his buddies painted his fingernails while he was sleeping. He didn’t even notice until that night when his date asked about it. No kiss for Chase that day. Which I admit, makes me happier than it should.

  Speaking of pranks, when it’s not Friday, we’re planning our next prank for Saturday. It’s funny and awesome, because we’re cheesy and gooey one night, and the next we’re torturing each other. It’s our thing. Don’t judge.

  I’ve gained two more clients since the official graduation, so I can be sure to have a Friday night when I’m “needed” and so they don’t get their tuition ripped from them right before they head off to college. Don’t ask me why, but I feel like I need the excuse “I’m working” in order for Chase and I to stay in my room. If it bugs him, he hasn’t said anything about it.

  We’re sitting together on my couch tonight, my legs propped up on his lap and he’s running his hand over my thigh while he flicks through his iPod, playing me songs he’s recorded. I think he likes the feel of my flannel pjs, because he hasn’t stopped touching them.

  I can’t take my eyes off his lips. We haven’t kissed tonight, and I think it’s ’cause once we start, we don’t stop till he goes home.

  “How’d you get so good at it?” I blurt. I never ask, “Can I ask you a question?” because I think it’s stupid to ask that. So I just put it out there every time I fill my question quota.

  He smiles, tucking his iPod into his black jeans pocket. He’s wearing a red T-shirt. In fact, he hasn’t worn black with me since he wore the green shirt that looked so darn tasty on him.

  He looks good in red, too.

  “Lots of practice.”

  My heart sinks. I knew that, but it’s one thing to assume he’s well rehearsed and another to have it confirmed.

  “Oh.”

  At least I know he hasn’t touched anyone’s boob except mine. Unless he’s lying his face off, but he seemed pretty darn serious when he said that.

  “What? You think I learned overnight? Violin isn’t the easiest instrument in the world.”

  My brow crunches, then I slap my forehead. We’re totally talking about different things.

  I burst out laughing, clutching my stomach.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Sorry,” I say, adjusting myself but not taking my legs off his lap. “I wasn’t talking about that.”

  “What were you talking about, then?”

  My face gets a little red, but I say it anyway. “I was wondering how you got so good at kissing, not violin.”

  “Oh!” He laughs as his mind rewinds to his answer, then he laughs harder. “At least I know what the wrong answer is.”

  I kick him, and he catches my leg and threatens to tickle me by wiggling his fingers near my feet.

  “Well . . . ?” I prod.

  His ears steam up, and he shakes his head. “Are you serious? Or just trying to embarrass me?”

  “If I thought you were a bad kisser, I wouldn’t lock my lips with you so much.” I sit up straight, pulling my legs under my butt. “I want to know. Because it’s like, you’re really experienced. And that intimidates me a little.”

  He runs a hand over his stubble, and sits there not saying anything. Hello! I spit that out there. Answer me!

  “Chase . . .”

  “Sorry, I’m a little in shock over this. Kelli Pinkins, giving me a compliment to my face.”

  “It won’t happen again if you don’t answer me.”

  His lips pull up and he slides over, pulling me underneath him. He runs his fingers through my short blond hair, and tangles his legs with mine. His orange scent is going to be a distraction.

  “It’s not about experience, Kel. It’s about knowing the person you’re kissing.”

  “And you think you know me?” I ask with my eyebrow raised.

  “Enough to know where your mind is when I’m kissing you, yeah.”

  I purse my lips. “Yeah, right. You just don’t want to tell me how many girls you’ve—”

  “Three. Including you.”

  I blink a few times. “You know I don’t believe you.”

  “Have I lied to you before?”

  My shoulders do a half-shrug thing, and he presses his lips to my forehead. And for some stupid reason, the whole sweetness of the kiss makes me burst out in jealous mode. “Who were they?”

  “The girls?”

  Duh. “Yes.”

  “Well, one was when I was fifteen and I promise, it had nothing on you.”

  I don’t admit to him I’m really relieved about that.

  “And the other?”

  “Eighteen. And again, nothing special.”

  My age. I’m starting to freak out again about how old he is, but I shove that aside because I don’t want to think about it and drop my eyes to his red shirt, playing with the loose fabric hanging between our bodies.

  “But you must have kissed them a lot. You know, to be so good at it.”

  “Not really,” he answers, caressing the skin on the back of my hand. “I wasn’t exactly in a good place with either of them.”

  Well, that’s about the vaguest answer ever. “So, you want me to believe that between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, you only kissed two people?”

  “It’s the truth. I’m not much of a dater.”

  I cock an eyebrow and he laughs at me.

  “You should know that, Kel. I told you while we were playing Xbox together. I like to be alone.”

  “But you’re here with me.” I know I’m being stubborn, but seriously, all the Facebook girls and the whole vibe he puts off, he’s gotta be lying. “And you’re really good at kissing. Are you just saying all this crap so I keep telling you that?”

  His mouth quirks at the side and he sighs. “Let me prove it.”

  “Prove what?”

  “How kissing is not about experience.”

  “Is that a pickup line?” I wink.

  “I don’t need those anymore with you.” He gives me that smirk and I pinch his side. “And I’ll demonstrate without kissing you, because if I start, I won’t be able to concentrate enough to explain it all.”

  His breath is so yummy as he leans in. Drool. I’m barely coherent as his nose touches mine.

  “Okay, Mr. Smartie Pants, tell me where my mind is.”

  “My nose, right now.”

  Holy crap!

  “Wait . . . how did—”

  He puts a finger to my lips, silencing me. “It’s all about focus. When you’re kissing someone, it’s knowing where that focus is.”

  His finger moves down my chin and across my neck. He travels down my arm till his hand is in mine. We tap our fingers together before he interlocks them and squeezes.

  It’s only then I realize his lips are against mine, when he says, “You’re thinking about our hands, even though I was moving closer to your mouth.”

  Okay, maybe he’s onto something here.

  “Do it again.” I smile, ready for more demonstration of his mind-reading skills.

  He catches me off guard by pressing his lips to mine, hard, then soft. I pull him closer, scratching his scruff with m
y nails. I try to focus on something other than his lips, but I can’t. And just when I think I want his tongue, he gives it to me. I meet it with mine and after a couple seconds, minutes, who knows how long, my focus shifts to his hands.

  Has he been moving them the whole time? Or did he just start because I thought of them? One wraps around my head while the other holds mine. I snuggle into him more, and throw my leg around his hip. He unwraps his fingers from my hand and pulls my knee so I’m closer. Then he releases my lips and we both freeze to catch our breath.

  “I’m going to try to remember it all,” he says, still calming down. “But hopefully I showed you well enough.” He smirks and drops my knee. “Lips, tongue, hands, legs . . . I may be missing a few, but I think that was how it went.”

  I shake my head. “You’re real annoying sometimes. You know that, right?”

  He smiles and kisses the tip of my nose. “You like it.”

  “Have you really only kissed three other girls?”

  “No.”

  Oh, I knew he was full of it.

  “I said I’ve kissed three girls including you. So, that would be two other girls.”

  “For real?” I sound so desperate. What has happened to me?

  He laughs, kissing my nose again. “For real. You don’t need to worry about other girls, Kelli. If you’re worried about that.”

  “I’m not,” I lie.

  “Sounds like you are.”

  “Well, I’m not. I know I’m just your Friday Night Girl.”

  Great. Now I’ve brought up the tiny fear I’ve had in the back of my mind. That this is totally just a fling thing, which it is . . . but he’s doing it with a bunch of other girls, and not just me.

  Besides, it can’t be anything more than a fling. We’ve never talked about it, and I’ve never wanted to. So why am I in jealous girlfriend mode?

  “Hey,” he says, trapping my face between his palms, soaking me in orange scent. “I promise you, Kel. I’m not someone who does this with just anyone. And I haven’t been able to feel something for anyone since . . .” He pauses, closing his eyes and for the first time since he started talking, I realize I haven’t taken a breath yet. Feel something? Wait a second. This is not about feelings. I can’t start feeling things with him other than the hormonal issues I’m having. But as he opens his eyes, they’re a little glossed like he’s holding in something majorly painful to talk about. And the scariest thing? I want him to talk about it. I want to know why he hasn’t been able to be with a girl. If it has something to do with the picture of that little boy I saw. And I almost ask, but he chops off my thought process.

  “You should know by now, you’re more than my Friday night. You’re . . .” He pauses and I think now we’ve both stopped breathing. I don’t want to hear what he has to say anymore because it’ll change things. Make us into something we can’t be. And if he’s such a mind reader, maybe he knows that, but he says it anyway. “You’re everything.”

  I shake my head, hating myself for bringing all this up. And hating that I have to set the record straight. “I can’t be more than the Friday Night Girl. I’m the alibi. So I’m no one’s anything. Especially yours.”

  I don’t mean for it to hurt, but I can tell my words jab swords into his eyeballs. He lets go of my face and sits up. I try to backpedal, even though it’ll do no good.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to be, Chase.” Sitting up, I rub his shoulders like some mother bird who just kicked its baby out of the nest too early and tries to apologize even though the baby’s legs are busted. “I just can’t, you know?”

  He shakes his head. “Guess I don’t understand it. Why you do that for people. Why you keep doing it.” His eyes—green today—flick to me. “Besides the money, which I know you don’t need, how’re you benefitting?”

  My whole body freezes. No one’s ever asked me that. I’ve never had to explain it. How I’m not doing it only to benefit myself. All my clients will lose a boatload of money and more if their parents found out the truth. They need me. I like being needed and helping out. Kelli Pinkins, girl with one friend looks like she has a bunch when she’s the alibi and saves the day for “true love.” That sounds lame, as true as it is.

  He looks at me with that concerned sexy expression. I don’t have an answer for him that won’t sound completely moronic, pathetic, and selfish. So I shrug.

  “Well . . .” He sighs. “I hope you figure it out, Kel.”

  He gets up and opens the balcony door.

  “Are you mad at me?” I whisper.

  My heart is thumping so loud, I barely hear his answer.

  “No.”

  And he’s gone, leaving me feeling like complete crap.

  Chapter 26

  When Chase IM’s me saying he’s got a performance on Friday night, I don’t know why my first thought is something involving Chip N’ Dales and a stripper pole. I really need to stop thinking he’s some kind of player, since he’s told me over and over that he’s only kissed three girls, never touched another boob besides mine, and has never had a serious girlfriend. But I have a hard time believing it all still since, well, I’ll admit it . . . he’s yummy. Seriously überyummy. I mean, all the girls on his Facebook think so too.

  And college frat boy screams player. But the more I spend time with him, the more I allow myself to believe maybe . . . I mean, there’s a slight chance I’m totally wrong. Not only about him, but about college too. I guess being an alibi had me believing that everyone is out partying and sleeping around and hiding it all from their parents. But I suppose there are some people, guys even, that don’t do that. They go to college to learn. Go figure.

  Then second thought . . . he’s totally pissed at me for what happened last week. And after having my first thought, I don’t blame him.

  Anyway, by performance, he meant violin performance. Summer concert for any music major to make sure they keep practicing while they’re off track. And that just made the popcorn bounce upward a million degrees. I still haven’t seen him play, but gah . . . to hear his music is like listening to angels sing or something equally as gushy as that.

  I’m booked tonight—Alex again—and one hundred percent BORED OUT OF MY MIND! Was it always this boring? Or did it just get that way ’cause I’m so used to playing tongue hockey with Chase? I’m trying real hard to keep myself entertained, but everything I do just reminds me it’s so much better with him around. Xbox, kissing, movie, kissing, listening to music, kissing . . . and no offense to Mr. Poppykin or Joey, but they just don’t cut it when I need someone to snuggle with.

  I crank up my music and start dancing around in my jammas, wishing again that my hair was long enough to head bang with the same effect. The song gets to the guitar solo and I air strum my fake one, jumping on my bed and singing completely off tune. I’m a rock star!—not really.

  Once the playlist turns to something slower, I fall backwards on the bed, staring at my ceiling and breathing hard. Whew! Maybe that will be enough to tire me out for the night. I reach over to click the button on my light remote and hit the snoozer when something moves outside my balcony. I scream bloody murder and fall right off the bed.

  The glass door clicks open and Chase eases in, not even trying to stifle his laughter. I’m so relieved to see him, and that he’s smiling and not supermad at me that I shoot upright, adjusting the ladies, making sure I’m not in danger of a nip slip, then sock him right in the chest. He is making fun of me after all.

  Holy High Heavens . . . he’s wearing a . . . a . . . I’m not kidding . . . a tie. Button-up maroon shirt, black silk tie, and black slacks. It’s about ten minutes I think with me just gawking at him, my fist still resting on his chest.

  “Stinky?” he says in a singsong voice, knocking his knuckles against my forehead. “You in there?”

  No. I’m still staring. Maybe drooling. Maybe having a dream or something.

  “I think I need to sit down.”

  He laughs and sets something on
the floor, then gently guides me to the edge of the bed. “You act like you’ve never seen a guy dressed up before. Are you blind at church or something?”

  What is wrong with me? Girls get all hot and bothered over guys in tight T-shirts and low jeans, but not me. I get all panty over button-ups and trimmed scruff.

  Except . . . it’s weird, because he’s right. I don’t get all dog-drooly over the guys at church.

  I shake my head, closing my eyes so I don’t have to look at him. “How was your thing?”

  The bed sinks next to me and a warm hand goes to my knee. The puff of air he releases from his mouth smells like citrus—always, and I almost forget the question, forget that he’s here when he said he wasn’t going to be, forget it’s past midnight, forget we’re on the bed—and I lunge on him.

  Almost . . .

  “It was long. I came here as soon as it ended, but I forgot how incredibly boring those things are. And how long some people like to make their solos.”

  That makes me smirk and meet his eyes, skipping right over his sexy ensemble. No time for distraction. But that doesn’t work so well, since his eyes are that really really amazing green tonight. “How long was your solo?”

  He smirks back. “Three minutes. Pretty much nothing compared to the ten minute ones I had to sit through.”

  “Were you last or something? Why did you have to sit through it?”

  He rests his head on mine. “Stinky, I’m appalled. You talk about not walking on the grass as common courtesy. You should know getting up in the middle of a concert is a big no-no.”

  I’m about to throw him off me, but he yawns and closes his eyes. Awww . . . poor guy is exhausted.

  “Looks like you’re beat,” I say, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Go home and go to bed.”

  He shakes his head, making my hair rub around. “I had to see my Friday Night Girl.”

  I laugh and lightly push him off me. His green eyes open. “Now you have. Really, go home and sleep. We’ll see each other tomorrow.” Even if we won’t kiss. Maybe I can sneak one in on his sleepy mouth—which is supercute. It’s not trying so hard to give me that pervy smile.