Eleven Weeks (2 page)

Still, it gets me thinking. Sexy lingerie. Something I wore in the hope someone would see it and now, judging by all the things that have happened so far this morning (read: naked wake-up call, strange man in bed next to me, slight ache between my legs, and lips that feel a little bee-stung, potentially from too much kissing from a guy who possesses a great deal of chin stubble), yes, someone did.

Did we even use protection?

My stomach swells and a surge of bile makes its way up my throat, rolling into my mouth. I double over and swallow it down, determined not to vomit in some random person’s rose bush. I may be hungover and doing the walk of shame—well, in my case, run of shame—but there is no reason I can’t have standards.

The rumble of an engine working its way down the street has me jumping over to the footpath to avoid imminent death.
Nothing worse than having a one-night stand with a mystery guy and then being run over, on your birthday …

The engine slows down, chugging along behind me. I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the pavement, my pace fierce.

Still, the car moves along just behind me. My heart, which had slowed from the excessive running, starts to pick up again, building to a march. Is someone following me? Who?

What if it’s the guy from the house?

Rationally, I know the thought shouldn’t scare me. This guy has seen me naked.

What if it’s someone else?

I mentally change my list from having a one-night stand with a mystery guy and getting run over on your birthday as being the least impressive annual occasion ever, and replace getting run over with being stalked, kidnapped, and chopped up into tiny pieces.

Yep. Not panicking.

Frick!

I insert a small skip into my step, trying to seem as casual as an eighteen-year-old girl skipping can be. The car keeps pace just behind me.

My eyes scan the street till I see a small alley three buildings away. I could run down there. The car won’t be able to follow me. And the lane is even leading to my right, toward the sound of cars and hopefully familiarity.

I take a quick glance to my left—safety first—when the car engine stops.

It just
stops
.

Damn
.

Before I can run, though, I hear my name. “Stacey.”

I spin around. The car following me is an old mint-green Valiant. And the guy sticking his head out the window I know only too well.

“Michael.” I give a rueful smile and turn my head away. I don’t know if the fact I know him makes this better or worse.

“Whatcha doing?” he asks.

Oh you know, just the walk of shame home from a guy’s house, one who I probably slept with and who, judging from the ache between my legs, I’d say has a medium to sightly above average-sized penis.

“You know, nothing much.” I shrug.

Michael furrows his brow, and his gaze lowers to my—
oh my God I am not wearing a bra!
I cross my arms over my chest, hoping like hell he can’t see my nipples. He grins.

He can totally see my nipples.

His brown hair is pulled back in a knot behind his head, his eyes fresh as bloody daisies. I could have sworn he’d had shots last night, too …

“How come you look so chipper?”

“Chipper?”

“Like, not hungover,” I clarify.

“Maybe because while I did take my top off on-stage last night, I did it after two shots of tequila, not seven?”

Oh. Did that mean I …?

“The look on your face.” Michael laughs softly.

I huff out a breath and narrow my eyes. “See ya.” I flip him the bird and keep walking. Like I need anyone else making me feel like crap today. I’ve done a fine job of that myself.

“Wait! Wait.” The car door squeaks open and Michael’s feet thud behind me, then his hand is on my shoulder. It’s a warm hand. Big. Steady. “I’m sorry, Stace.”

“Yeah, whatever.” I shrug him off.

“Hey, I mean it.” He spins me round to face him. His deep, brown eyes aren’t mocking; they just appear concerned. “Can I give you a ride?”

I look back at his car. I know being in a confined space with this guy isn’t a good idea, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Thanks,” I mumble. He leads me back to the vehicle, opening the passenger-side door with a grand flourish, then slides over the bonnet and jumps in the driver’s seat. Seconds later, we’re pulling out from the curb, heading toward the direction I’d thought was the main part of town.

The car smells like McDonald’s wrappers and male body odour, no doubt not just Michael’s, but also his other band buddies’, too. Papers litter the floor at my feet, and a collection of six empty coffee cups, all stacked into one another, litter the two-hole cup-holder.

I blink, and the second my eyes close an image flashes into my mind: voices yelling at the party.
Vodka. Tequila. Beer. Lips I don’t recognise pressing against my own.

Ugh
.

“I love this song.” Michael leans forward and swivels the dial on the radio. I swallow down my guilt. A track by the Rolling Stones blares out of the car’s crackly speakers, a song about sinners and saints.

Two guesses which of those I feel like today …

We reach the main part of town in quite a short time. It’s crazy how I’d been so close, yet so far away; I guess that’s the beauty of suburbia. Everything can look the same, sound the same, despite the subtle Stepford Wives-style differences.

“So, you had fun last night?” Michael asks, not taking his eyes off the road, which I appreciate. I’m a terrible backseat driver.

“Mmhmm,” I reply. “You?”

“It was amazing. Best night, Stace.” He looks at me again, and this time the wheel swings along with his gaze. The car bumps the gutter and I grab the door as Michael gives a quick shake of his head and swerves back to the road.

“Amazing? Why? Something special happen?” I tilt my head, letting my gaze flick from the road to Michael, then back to the road again. His face is etched in concentration as he bites his lip. I can’t help but stare at them for a moment.

Unfamiliar lips.

I swallow down the sick still lurking in my throat. Why did I drink so much?

“Well, I just … I don’t know. I mean, it was fine, I guess. You don’t … remember anything about it?”

Isn’t that the million-dollar question?

“Just you and the band sounding great,” I try, flashing him what I hope is a convincing smile.

“Nothing else?” He narrows his eyes.

“Oh, you know. Just the usual party stuff.”

“Huh.”

Crap.

“Tell me, what’d I do? Did I make an idiot of myself?” I grab at Michael’s shirt and he looks at me, then jerks the wheel back to the right to avoid us running into a little old lady who is taking out her recycling bin.

“It’s … nothing.”

But his face says it’s everything.

Seconds later he shakes his head, as if he were shaking away some bad thought. “So what are our plans for today?”

“Huh?” I’m starting to sound like a broken record.

“Today. Your birthday.” He speaks the words slowly, like I am a small child.

My birthday? How the hell did he remember that?

“You … remembered?”

“Stacey, we’ve known each other since the start of high school.” Michael sighs. “Of course I remembered.”

He does have a point. I furrow my brows, trying to remember when his birthday is.

“June?”

He doesn’t so much as hesitate. The damn bastard knows exactly what I’m on about. “Not even close.”

“January?”

“Uh-uh.” Michael gives a wicked grin. “It’s not a competition. Anyway, what are we doing to celebrate?”

“I was just going to have dinner with my family …”
After I go home and try and scrape the sluttiness off me.

“Right.” Michael nods. Only, instead of turning right, as he’d been indicating and waiting at the lights to do, he swerves back into the traffic, going straight ahead. My heart lurches and I tighten my grip on the door.

“Michael?”

“Yeah?” He flicks me a quick glance.

“Where are we going?”

“Birthday stuff.” He smiles. His lips curve up, dimples crease both his cheeks, and it’s so hard for me to ignore the little flames sparking in my belly. Stupid, idiotic Stacey. This is Michael. And he isn’t interested.

I smile and gaze out the window as we drive. We leave the roads of the city and head out to the streets that lead to the cliff-tops. Michael’s car chugs along, The Beatles blaring out the radio now as we cruise past green grassy knolls, sheer cliff face, and wide, blue ocean, with specks of white flaring up in the wind.

It’s so beautiful out there—the sun shining down, highlighting the bold colours—that I can’t help it. I wind down the window
—
a full-body activity, no doubt due to the age of the car
—
and shove my head and shoulders out of the car. The wind whips my face, stripping away the shame and embarrassment I felt after my activities the night before. This is so real.

This is free.

I let the cool sea breeze flick my hair behind me and lick my lips, the faint taste of salt playing in my mouth. My lids slowly shut as I tilt my head up toward the sun’s rays. For one moment, I’m alive.

“You’re …”

My eyes fly open and I pull myself back into the car, turning to Michael, a grin on my face. “Yeah?”

Silence stretches out between us, as wide as the ocean in the distance.

“Nothing.”

I turn my head back out the window and give a sly smile. I don’t know what “I” am, but I like the way he said it. Even if I know I shouldn’t.

We pull over in the seaside village, lined with touristy shops. This is the place where people come to holiday, and the local businesses reflect that, with the overpriced clothing boutiques, fancy day spas, and fish-and-chip shops where you can choose between grilled with herb butter or stuffed with frog’s legs or something, instead of just your usual battered or fried.

Michael pulls the car to the curb and switches the engine off. He unhitches his seatbelt and runs around to my side of the car to fling open the door before I can so much as undo my own restraint.

“Thanks.” I smile up at him. His eyes gleam.

I stand and hop out of the car after stuffing my bra in a corner on the floor but taking my phone with me. Something warm stirs in my stomach, and I try hard to push it down. I’ve pretended like this for years. What’s one more day?

The sick feeling rises again. Bile claws at my throat.

“Are you okay?” Michael places his hand on my lower back. I double over, grabbing my stomach one more time and fight the wave of sickness that attempts to battle its way out of my mouth. Swallowing it down is so very acidic and disgusting, but spewing in broad daylight in front of hundreds of tourists—some of whom could be hot—is undoubtedly worse.

“Fine.” I straighten myself up.

“You look …” Michael pauses, and his eyes focus on my face. He jerks back his hand from behind me, as if he’s been caught stealing lollies from a jar. “… pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay.” Michael starts walking toward the beach, already packed with tourists, despite the cool spring breeze. I race to follow, practically tripping over my feet in the effort. He passes the flags and heads toward the rocks, where a couple canoodles in the sand.

“Romantic.” I nod in their direction.

Michael turns the colour of a beetroot.

“Jokes.” I elbow his side and he shakes his head and gives a weird laugh, casting me with
that look
again, the one he started when he asked me what I remembered about last night.

“I’ll be right back.” He turns away.

“Huh?” I fold my arms. “You’re leaving me?”

“Give me three minutes.” He holds up three fingers in the air, then bolts down the beach, leaping off the last rock and flying over the sand, heading back up toward the main drag.

I shrug and settle myself down on a flat rock. The ocean is calmer here, the wind not whipping up the waves due to protection from the cliff face. The waves crash down onto the sand farther to my left and I close my eyes and rest back on my elbows, enjoying the feeling of being by the sea, of being alive.

I’m eighteen. I screwed up last night, sure, but it’s not like I’ve never made a mistake before. Besides, things are going to change.

Change.
I shiver at the thought. Everyone else has been so freaking excited about school ending in a few weeks.

All I feel is dread.

Being social is perhaps the only thing I’m good at.

My mind flashes back to the night before once more. Seven shots of tequila. One night of presumably drunken sex with a total stranger.

I bite my lip till I taste blood. That was low, even for me.