Crosbie. Did he really memorize my number when I rattled it off two mornings ago? More likely he stole it from Kellan’s phone. Not that I’m complaining.
As for the apology, it’s completely unnecessary. I’m not interested in being tossed over his lap and having my ass spanked, but the faint sting of his hand is a pretty heady reminder of the other things those hands can do.
No prob—I start to type, stopping when another message arrives.
I’m hard just thinking about it, it says. Makes running a bitch.
I delete my response and stare at the screen, feeling my chest and stomach tighten. I want more. I want more texts and more hands and more, more, more. More Crosbie Lucas, if it can be believed.
Another text. When do you get off tonight?
I write back immediately. Eight.
I’ll pick you up.
Aware of Marcela watching me, I keep my expression neutral as I type “Okay” and hit send.
“What was that?” she asks when I put away my phone.
“My mother,” I lie, too easily. “She wants to know if I’m going home for Thanksgiving.”
“Are you?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ll save that special brand of torture for Christmas.”
“Good. We can cook a turkey.”
“Do you know how to cook a turkey?”
She’s quiet for a second. “No. Do you think Kellan does?”
I look at her sharply, then follow her gaze through the glass windows on the doors, where Nate and Celestia huddle behind the counter while Nate makes one of her specialty drinks.
I sigh.
*
My bike is parked in the alley behind the shop, so when we close up for the night I wave good night to Nate and Marcela, who head to their respective cars with goodbyes so cold I shiver in my winter coat. Because Burnham is tiny, the town shuts down fairly early and the streets are dark and quiet, making it easy to spot Crosbie parked half a block away, his car shut off. He lifts a hand in greeting and I nod back, then round the building to the alley. A second later the growl of an engine turning over cuts through the night.
We’d texted back and forth a bit more throughout the evening, agreeing to meet back here after Nate and Marcela were gone. Now I watch headlights illuminate the dumpsters as Crosbie turns into the alley and drives toward me at a crawl.
I’m not going to lie. I’m totally willing to shuck my jeans and hustle into the backseat and do everything people do when they meet each other in dark alleys at night. Though our texts were relatively tame, I’m burning with anticipation. I’ve never really felt like this before. Truly, seriously…horny. A crude, lame word to describe what’s going on in my belly and the places below, but there you have it.
Crosbie seems to be on a different page, however, because he stops the car and simply reaches over to push open the passenger side door. No lunging out for a passionate, forbidden embrace. I squash my silly disappointment and get in, and the overhead light immediately blinks off, leaving us in the dim glow of the tiny dashboard lights. The car is old but clean, with roll down windows and seats that sag slightly in the middle. There’s a gear shift between us and an air freshener in the shape of a candy cane dangles from the mirror, making the car smell like toothpaste.
“Hey,” I say, suddenly shy.
He glances over and smiles as he puts the car in drive. “Hey.” He’s wearing a puffy black jacket and jeans, and even in silhouette, he’s sexy.
This seems like a good “Your place or mine?” moment, except neither of those places is an option. I live with Kellan, and Crosbie lives in a frat house. I peer surreptitiously over my shoulder at the small backseat.
“Don’t worry,” he says, steering us out of the alley and turning onto the street. “I cleaned up.”
“I wasn’t worried about that.” Though I am disappointed—clean or not, there’s no way the two of us could fit back there. In fact, now that we’re here, I’m not sure where it is we are, exactly. Or where we’re going. Crosbie heads for the freeway, taking the exit south and merging neatly with the sparse traffic. I clear my throat and look around. “What, uh… What’s going on?”
He looks over. “You all right?” He drives with just his left hand, his elbow propped up against the window. His free hand rests on top of the gear shift, fingers tapping in time with the song playing on the radio, the volume so low it’s almost impossible to hear.
“I’m fine. Just…what are we doing?”
“Getting out of Burnham for a bit,” he replies. Then he takes a second look at me, concerned. “Is that not okay?”
Two exits away is a slightly larger town called Gatsby. No buses come this way, so I’ve only been a handful of times when Nate or Marcela drove. It’s a nice enough place, with box stores and movie theaters. Things to do that don’t revolve around coffee, alcohol, or school.
“It’s fine.”
“You want to go back? We can, no problem. But I didn’t know where we could go, you know? Kellan twisted his ankle and wanted to stay in to ice it, and my place is always busy.”
“I don’t want to go back,” I tell him. “I just wanted to know where we were going.”