“So, I think it’s your turn to drive.” He kills the engine, then gets out of the car.
I remain, a little stunned, as he walks to the passenger side and opens the door for me. “And sweetheart,” he adds, as I take his hand. “You’re going to want to go fast. Like rollercoaster fast.”
I hesitate. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Griffin’s right. This baby has some serious power.” He tugs me up to my feet, one hand going around my waist as he bends down to whisper in my ear. “Trust me. You’re going to enjoy the ride.”
I shiver—then I blush, because I’m certain that he can feel my reaction. Not only to his touch, but to the flurry of wicked thoughts that the word ride has spurred.
His low chuckle reverberates through me, and I step back, needing some breathing room. “What if I get a ticket?”
“I’ll pay it.”
“What if my insurance goes up?”
“I’ll pay that, too.”
I frown. “What if I wreck the car?”
He takes my hand, gently lifts it, and kisses my palm. “You won’t. Now go.”
“Or?”
He steps back, then slowly looks me up and down, my body heating at his very thorough, very intimate gaze. “Or I’ll suggest another way of cutting loose. Right here, right now, in the backseat of this car.”
I swallow a sudden lump in my throat as sweat beads on the back of my neck. “Wyatt, I don’t—”
“Then I suggest you drive, Kelsey.” He slides into the passenger seat and shuts the door. “Now.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
I suck in air, wishing I was bold enough to say no to the driving and see if he follows through on his backseat threat. But I know that he would—Wyatt’s not the kind of guy to make idle threats.
More than that, I want it just a little too much. And between the lesser of two evils, blasting down a long, straight road seems the more prudent choice.
I slide behind the wheel and start the car, then glance over at him. “You better buckle up,” I say, reaching into the glove box for my sunglasses. I slip them on, then use my finger to tip them down as I look at him over the rim. “I don’t have any Aerosmith, but it’s still going to be quite the ride.”
He bursts out laughing, then swallows the sound as I work the clutch, slam the car into gear, then peel off the shoulder, skidding a bit on the gravel.
Twenty. Thirty. Fifty. She’s up to seventy before I’ve barely taken a breath, then faster and faster until—
“Wyatt! Look! We’re over a hundred.” My hands are clenched around the steering wheel—but that’s just for control. The rest of me is feeling loose and free and unconstricted. It’s like jumping without a net, and I’ve never done that. Never.
And right then, as Blue eats up the ribbon of asphalt, I think for the first time that maybe that’s a little sad.
“Wyatt,” I say, letting up on the accelerator and gliding to a stop on the shoulder.
He looks confused, and I can’t blame him, because I’m staring at him as if he’s something lost that I’ve just found. Or, more accurately, as if he’s a map to something I lost long ago.
“Hey,” he says, his voice urgent. “Are you okay?”
I taste salt and realize I’ve started to cry. Suddenly, I laugh, the sound completely inappropriate, but oddly perfect. “No,” I say. “I don’t think I am.”
I draw in a breath for courage. “Will you help me?”
The confusion on his face shifts to concern, and he reaches for my hand. “Anything. I already told you I’ll lend you the money for Griffin’s treatment.”
I shake my head. “No. No, not that. It’s—okay, here’s the thing. There’s this little girl in one of my classes. And the other day, she dropped a Cheeto, then ate it off the floor.”
Wyatt’s looking at me as if I’ve gone a little crazy.
“Her mom almost lost it,” I explain. “I mean, seriously almost lost it over a Cheeto. Made the girl spit it out, then rinse her mouth out with water, then gave her this whole lecture on cleanliness. It was absurd. The kid’s going to have a germ phobia for the rest of her life.”
“Poor kid.”
“I know, right? That’s what I was thinking. But then I realized, that kid is me. I can drop a chip and eat it, but it’s still the same. My dad’s voice is in my ear all the time. All. The. Time. At least that little girl might actually dodge eating something nasty. All I’m dodging is my life.”
“I hear you, but from where I’m sitting your life’s not too bad. Decent job. Two jobs, actually, both of which you love. A brother who adores you. A really fabulous car. And an offer on the table to be the centerpiece model of what is shaping up to be a pinnacle project in the history of photography.”
I laugh. “Well, you might have a point. But here’s the thing about my good life. Is it really mine? Or is it the life-in-a-box that my dad built for me?”
He shifts, his attention fully on me. “Go on.”
I take off my sunglasses, then tilt my face up toward the sun as I organize my thoughts. And, yeah, as I gather my courage. “It’s not that I want to rush into a bar, grab a guy, and—you know—go at it in the bathroom.”
“Fuck,” he says. “You can say the word.”
“Fuck,” I say, feeling wildly decadent as the word slides off my tongue. “But that’s not my point. I’m trying to say that even though I don’t want to go pick up strangers, I’m still missing something. I want more. I want to audition, not just teach dance or practice. I want to cut loose, like you said. Like Griffin has said. I want to shake off this good girl naiveté.
“I want to go a little wild,” I continue. “To flirt and fool around and I don’t know. It’s stupid. I just . . . I guess I just want to know that the world won’t collapse on itself if I do those things.”
I turn my head so that I can see him, expecting him to look amused. Instead, he looks as though he’s been listening to every word I’ve said. Listening, and understanding.
“I want to do the show, Wyatt. Anonymous, like you said, because I can’t risk my job. But I really want to do it.”
I can see the relief wash over him. “Thank you,” he says. “But that’s helping me. You said you wanted me to help you.”
I nod, now suddenly nervous. But I force myself to continue. “What you said before. About me doing whatever you say. In front of the camera, and . . .”
“In my bed?”
I nod. “I want that. I want . . .”
I trail off, not certain what I meant to say.
“You want to be like the women in my photos,” he says. “Bold. Feminine. Strong. Women who go after what they want. Passionate women. Sensual women.” The corner of his mouth lifts devilishly. “In other words, Kelsey, you don’t want to be your daddy’s girl at all. You want to be bad. Or, rather, you want to be the kind of woman who he’d call bad.”
I take a deep breath as the truth of his words resonates through me. “Yeah,” I finally say. “That’s exactly what I want.”
23
Bad.
The word kept going round and round in Wyatt’s head. The word—and all of its wonderful, delicious, tantalizing possibilities.