There it is, that stupid, sexy smile of his. He reaches for my hand and stops halfway, groaning. “That is not a good way to move my arm.”
Now I’m concerned again. I ball up the bandage papers and close the first-aid kit. “Davy didn’t injure any anything serious, did he? Ribs?”
“If you want me to take my shirt off, all you have to do is ask, Rydell.”
“I’m serious.”
He sighs. “I don’t think so, but I’m not gonna lie—starting to feel a little achy-breaky in the riblet region. Think I’d better take a peek, so you might want to look away if you’re sensitive to dynamite male bodies. I don’t want you swooning at the sight of raw surfer.”
“Lord knows I’ve been forced to stare at Davy’s naked chest a hundred times, so I’m pretty sure I can handle yours. Come on, let’s see the damage.”
But as he unbuttons his Cave guard shirt, it’s the least sexy thing in the world, because all I’m preoccupied with is how I’m going to drive this van if he’s got a broken rib. And it only gets worse when his shirttails flap open.
If I thought Davy was built, I was wrong. Davy is a twig. Porter is a cliff. He’s what happens when people use all their muscles at once to balance on a tiny plank of wet wood on massive, monster waves every day for years. All at once, I’m amazed at the beauty of the human body, ashamed at myself for using mine to do nothing but walk around the block and watch movies on Dad’s couch, and, most of all, I’m completely and wholeheartedly shocked by what Davy has done to him.
When people say black and blue, they mean later, after the bruises have had time to settle. But right now, his torso is mottled with big red welts, some of them slightly bloodied, some of them radiating jagged, crystalline lines of dark pink. It’s a hideous map of bruises to come. The welt across his ribs looks like South America, it’s so big.
His chin is tucked to his sternum as he holds his shirt open and inspects the damage, and I can tell by his groan that even he’s startled. It hits me all at once. I’m freaked out that he’s so hurt and didn’t say anything, and I’m frustrated that he had to resort to testosterone-fueled rage to solve all this. I’m disturbed by all the violence I witnessed. I’m mad that he has a friend like Davy, and I’m still enraged beyond understanding that Davy stole my scooter.
But despite all that . . . look what he did. Look what he did. For me? And he’s sitting here, in pain, falling apart, and all he’s worried about is that I’m sorry I gave him my number and don’t want to go out on a date with him?
It’s just too much. I fall to pieces.
“Hey, hey,” he says, alarmed, sitting up quickly, and then groaning a little. And that only makes me sob harder. He buttons his shirt halfway, covering up some of the evidence. “It’s okay. I’ve had broken bones before. I’m not broken today, promise. I’m just sore.”
“It’s just awful,” I say, choking back tears. “I’m so sorry you had to do that.”
“He had it coming. You don’t know everything he’s done to me. This is just the last straw. Hey, whoa, shush.” His hands stroke over my upper arms.
I calm down. Turn my head and wipe my nose on my shoulder. Brush away tears.
“There.” He swipes a thumb over my cheek, going back over what I’ve missed. Traces the arch of my eyebrows. Chases a flyaway tendril of hair at my temple. “And you know what?” he says in a low, intense voice. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat, because you didn’t deserve what he did to you. I will be your revenge.”
My breath catches, and I am overcome. Before I even know what I’m doing, I lean forward and kiss him.
Not a polite kiss.
Not a gracious kiss.
And he definitely doesn’t kiss me. O-oh, no. I’m the kisser, which is the first time in my life that’s happened—not the kissing, I mean, the initiating. I mean, hello. Evader! Initiating is not my style. But here I am, mouth firmly pressed against his. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m desperate about it and more than a little insistent, and if he doesn’t kiss me back soon . . .
But he does. Je-sus, he does. It’s as if a switch flipped in his brain—by Jove, I think he’s got it! And I nearly start crying again, I’m so relieved, so happy. But then his mouth opens over mine, and a switch flips on in my brain (ding!), and then his tongue rolls against mine, and a switch flips on in my body (ding! ding!), and holymotherofgod that feels good. We’re kissing, and it’s amazing, and his hand is stroking down my back, and chills are racing everywhere, and DEAR GOD HE’S GOOD AT THIS.
A massive shudder goes through me and I freak out a little. My head’s suddenly filled with all the things he’s said about being eighteen and sexual freedom, and there is no doubt in my mind that he’s exercised his rights with other girls—which is fine, whatever. No judgment. It’s just that I have . . . not, and all this super-filthy kissing makes me more than aware of the experience gap between us. Which worries me. And thrills me. And worries me.
(And thrills me.)
Dear God: Save me from myself.
He breaks the kiss—probably because he can sense all the internal freaking out I’m doing. And yeah, sure enough, he says, “Bailey?”
“Yeah?” I say, but now I’m done with the freak-out. Now that I see his face, I can’t stop smiling. Because his eyes are like slits and he looks all dazed and confused, and that’s how I feel: as if my body is a toy top, spinning so fast that I can’t see anything outside the van. All I can see is beautiful banged-up Porter, and all I can feel is this delicious whirling, twirling, buzzing, and I don’t want it to ever stop.
Now Porter’s grinning too, and I’m sure we both look like raving lunatics. Thank goodness we’re sitting in the rain in the middle of nowhere. “Hey,” he says, all raspy and deep. “Am I crazy, or was that the best kiss you’ve ever had?” His smile is acres wide and miles deep.
He knows it is.
“Surprising thing is, it’s the best you’ve ever had too,” I shoot back.
Both brows raise, and then he laughs, eyes closed. “You win. Want to do it again? Maybe it was just a fluke. We should test it out.”
We do. It was no fluke. I’m going to melt right through the car seat. It’s ridiculous. This is how teen pregnancies happen, I’m fairly certain. I finally push him away, and we’re both breathing heavy. “See, told you,” I say. “Best you’ve ever had.”
“Wanna know a secret? I knew if we ever would shut up and stop arguing, it would be. Come here. Don’t get all shy now. I just want to hold you.”
“You’re injured.”