“No. I don’t know. But continue.”
“Well, the target would have to walk back and forth in front of the doorway, and the rest of us would find random stuff to throw at them as they passed.”
“Wait,” I said. “Like what kind of stuff?”
“I don’t know, man. Like shoes and balls or tape or whatever. Anyway, if the target got hit, he had to yell, ‘pa—TING!’, and then change direction. You know, like a carnival game.”
I asked, “And the point of this was?”
The guys all looked at each other and started laughing. Rymer snorted out, “Who the fuck knows? It was fun!”
“So… You just all stood around naked and threw stuff at each other?”
That made them bust up even harder, Trip explaining, “No! What the hell, Lay?”
“He said it was in the shower!” I defended.
Lisa backed me up. “I was thinking you were naked, too.”
“You would,” shot Pick, before continuing with his story. “Anyway, this one day we had Rymer in there—and dude, it was totally you—and he’s strutting back and forth, pa-tinging away. And Aetine whips this bar of soap at him and bam! Right in the eye!”
“Ow!” Lisa and I squealed in unison.
Pick was practically crying as he started reenacting the scene, holding a hand over his eye and yelling, “I’m blind! I’m blind!”
The guys started cracking up again as Lisa and I exchanged an eyeroll.
Boys were so weird.
“Oh shit,” Rymer said. “You’re right. It was me.”
That had us all laughing that time.
“When was this?” I asked.
Trip pulled himself together and said, “I don’t know. One day during gym.”
“I never heard that story!”
“Why would we tell you? You’re a girl.”
I shoved him for that.
Chapter 4
INTO THE BLUE
A few guests made their leave, stopping in to shake Trip’s hand, offer their final condolences, and say goodbye. Eventually, Lisa, Pick, and Rymer cut out too, but the house was still crawling with Mrs. Wilmington’s people. I figured the party wouldn’t end until very, very late.
I stifled a yawn, and Trip clamped his palm over my knee, asking, “Want the nickel tour?”
Before I could answer, he pulled me in the direction of the stairwell, leading me to the second floor.
I chuckled when he turned the corner and smirked out, “This is the hallway,” as he backed me up against a wall and closed his smiling mouth over mine.
I was pretty sure this tour was going to be worth way more than my five cents.
Those lips against mine once again. It was hard to breathe, but who cared about something stupid like breathing when I had Trip in my arms? His hand slid around my neck, pulling my face closer to his, a slight groan escaping from his lips as they parted and consumed mine. My heart was beating in that familiar cadence, my racing pulse threatening a full-on faint. I ran my hands along the linen shirt at his back, up to his shoulder blades, involuntarily sliding to tangle in his hair, my mouth opening to take him in.
Last time he had me up against a wall, we both practically combusted, and this time looked as though it wasn’t going to be any different.
Only, back then, I ruined everything by being an insecure idiot. But not this time, pal.
Trip’s palm was smoothing against my waist, grasping at the material of my dress, his hardened length pressing against my midsection. The familiar humming in his throat melted me down to my core, and I felt my hands slipping down to grasp his backside, pulling him tighter against me.
Trip braced his palms against the wall on either side of my shoulders, dropped his face, and spat out, “Christ.”
He gave a shake to his head, trying to pull himself together. His smoldering cobalt eyes met mine in wonder as he asked, “Are you trying to kill me?”
I giggled as he backed me through a doorway, but I positively squealed in delight when I realized we were in his childhood room. “Your room! Oh my God. I waited fifteen years to see this!”
Trip chuckled. “Well, I’ve always wanted to bring a girl up here, so I guess the wait is over for both of us.”
He crammed his fists into his pockets, standing there smiling at me as I checked out all his stuff. I looked around at the Trip Museum: the navy plaid comforter on the bed, the tan walls covered in sports pennants from every city he’d ever lived in, the shelf of hockey trophies.
I pulled a “Trip” and made a big show of checking out every little knick-knack on every surface, from the Michael Jordan figurine to the signed Gordie Howe puck to the vintage Nintendo console, eventually grabbing the Magic 8-ball off his dresser, giving it a good shake.
“Will I hit the lottery?” I asked, checking the answer in the little plastic window. “See there? All signs point to yes! Whoohoo!”