Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (25 page)

Finally, I found my voice, and it sounded shaky even to my own ears. “Then why don’t you just leave?” I huddled into my blanket, unable to look away from the patch of sleeve covering proof that I was more sheltered than I’d ever realized.

“And go back to my mom, who tossed me here? Said she was sick of me? No thanks. I can handle myself.” Wes took a long sip from his glass, his eyes stony.

“Then why not get a job and move out?”

He shot me a “be real” glance over the rim. “This is Crooked Hollow. Businesses aren’t exactly desperate for help. And if it’s freezing out or raining, I have to borrow the Jeep when my dad’s passed out on the couch with a twelve-pack.” He looked away, up at the stars pricking the onyx sky. “Besides, do you really think I’d make enough for my own place shoving mochas across the counter at Got Beans? Or retrieving gutter balls from the bowling alley?”

Not even close. He must have felt as trapped as I often did, just in a more literal sense. I was sixteen—well, almost seventeen. No one expected me to be on my own. After all, I was a junior in high school—I was supposed to live at home, have a curfew, complain about doing homework. But Wes was legal age. He was out in the real world, free to live his own life—just stuck.

Maybe that’s where the bird tattoo came in.

Compassion built a solid tower in my chest. I always knew there was more to Wes than initial impressions. If Marta could have heard the pain in his voice, she’d have regretted ever saying anything negative against him.

I studied his profile, heart clenching. “I don’t know what to say.” Here I was with the perfect opportunity to witness to Wes, to say something encouraging, something to prompt him toward God, toward church, toward changing his current pattern of misbehavior. Something to make him want to be good.

But I had nothing.

God, what do I do? What do I say?
But the halfhearted prayer stuck in my throat. Just like in my bedroom at home, my prayers didn’t seem to make it past the first layer of the atmosphere.

“It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have dumped that on you.” Wes tossed his empty glass in the picnic basket and scooted closer to me on the blanket. “I wanted you to relax, not stress you out.”

“I’m not stressed.” Just hurt for him. I wanted to say that but didn’t know how to cross the barrier that still somehow seemed etched between us. I couldn’t figure Wes out. One minute he was a lighthearted, witty man playing the piano at Got Beans for my ears only, and the next he was a sullen, angry guy with a the-world-hates-me-sized chip on his shoulder. Where did the real Wes live? It had to be somewhere between those two extremes—somewhere next to where the romantic, picnic-planning Wes resided.

“Enough about me.” Wes brushed my hair back from my face, his fingers lightly skimming my cheekbone. “Where did we leave off in your driveway the other night?” He grinned and leaned in for a kiss.

You mean the night when you never agreed to call me and left me waiting all weekend?
I wanted to ask, but his lips were already covering mine. The question forgotten, I kissed him back, lost in the enchantment of his spicy leather scent, in the calloused brush of his fingers, in the tantalizing contradiction of cold air and warm breath.

Then his kiss became more urgent, and I might not have even noticed if he hadn’t started pushing me back on the blanket. “Wait a second.” I jerked my head to the side, breaking contact.

“It’s more comfortable down here.” Wes tugged at my elbow, and I reluctantly fell down beside him on the blanket. He kissed me again, his hand cupping my shoulder, his knuckles weaving gentle patterns against the tight muscles of my neck, and I forgot my hesitations. My mind blurred in and out, thoughts grasping and fading like a radio trying to tune. How did I go from never-been-kissed to
this?
What had I been missing? Yet somehow I instinctively knew that if I hadn’t been kissing Wes specifically, it wouldn’t have been nearly as amazing.

I got so lost in the haze of kissing that it took a moment before I realized Wes’s hand had left my arm and now prodded at the button of my jeans.
No, no, no. Yes. No
. My body and mind fought a battle as I batted his hand away then allowed him to try again.
No. Yes
.

No
. My purity ring suddenly weighed like a boulder on my finger, and with great effort, I broke our kiss and sat up.

Wes stayed reclined on one elbow, a smile on his face but something darker and void of humor in his eyes. “What’s the matter, PK?”

All of Marta’s warnings about being on the same page with each other swam in my mind, and I struggled for breath, struggled to find a clear thought, something I could hold on to. “I’m a virgin.” Oh wow, that totally wasn’t what I meant to say.

Cheeks flaming, I wrapped my fingers around my ring, the cold metal biting into my flesh.

“I sort of figured that. It’s not a problem, don’t worry.” Wes sat up beside me, his hands massaging my shoulders that moments ago had been so relaxed. Now they were knotted with tension, and I shrugged away.

His smile disappeared. “Come on, Addison. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal?” I edged away from him, far enough to turn and look him steadily in the eyes. Gone was the flush of embarrassment and in its place, anger. How dare he ignore me all weekend then try this?
And
act like casual sex was completely normal? What was wrong with him? “It’s a huge deal.”
I’m not Sonya
. But he knew that. It was more than obvious, especially now. My stomach dipped and churned. “Unlike some people, I don’t take sex lightly.”

“What makes you think I do? And besides, do you even have a reason, or is it just like with all the other forbidden fruits you don’t have answers for?” Wes challenged. “Because your dad said not to … because your church youth group says it’s bad …” His voice trailed off as his expectant gaze waited for my answer.

One I still didn’t have.

Still, I didn’t like the glint in his eye, the one that looked like a cross between amusement and mocking. Who was he to judge? I lifted my chin. “Maybe that’s exactly why.”

Frustration laced his tone. “You sound real sure.”

I
was
sure. Sort of. I mean, something had made me sit up, made me throw on the brakes and say no—and not just to him, but to the alcohol as well. But what was it? My own conscience? God? Common sense?

Why did I suddenly not know the answers to all the questions I grew up reciting?

“Everyone is a virgin at some point, Addison. That’s got to change eventually. Why not with me, tonight? I did this for you. For us.” Wes gestured to the spread around us, and a sense of understanding sunk in. Wes had gone to a lot of trouble, and he wanted to be with me.
Me
. Addison Blakely, PK. Not to mention he was hurting over his dad. Upset. Broken. My heart caved a little.

But not that much.

“I can’t.” I pressed my lips together, now raw and swollen. What had felt so good, so right moments ago suddenly just burned. I closed my eyes briefly, taking a steadying breath. When I opened them, Wes shook his head in disappointment.

“So that’s that? You’re sure?”

I nodded, and he sighed then began to pack up the basket. I remained still, unable to speak, refusing to allow him even one more minute to try and change my mind.

Because I still wasn’t entirely convinced he couldn’t.

S
chool comes really early in the morning when you toss and turn all night, reliving and rewriting the past.

I stood on the front lawn of Crooked Hollow High, a contraband cup of hot mocha in my hand, shivering as the late-autumn air lifted my hair from my scarf and blew wisps across my face. Good. Maybe it would hide my bloodshot eyes. I shivered but stood my ground, knowing I couldn’t take my coffee into the school and refusing to dump even a drop of caffeine into the trash can. Taking another long sip, I ignored the chill and let my inside grow toasty warm while my cheeks chafed in the cold.

“Addison, come inside.” Marta bounced on the balls of her feet, rubbing her arms briskly in an effort to keep warm. “Everyone has forgotten about yesterday’s talent-show rehearsal. I am sure of it.”

“Your accent thickens when you lie.” I stubbornly drank another swig, wishing I still had half a cup left to stall with. After yesterday’s embarrassment with my father and Ms. Hawthorne replaying in my mind, and the disastrous evening with Wes tugging at my heart, I just wanted to curl up in a ball and hide. Process. Try to make sense of what was swirling around my brain.

She swatted at my arm. “I am not lying.”

“Then use contractions.”

Marta’s brow puckered in confusion.

“You said ‘I am’ instead of ‘I’m.’ “I brandished my coffee toward her. “Americans use contractions.”

Her eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms over her chest. “How about this one?
You’re
crazy.”

Great, not only was I being a jerk to my best friend, but now my mocha was gone, and I hadn’t even savored the last sip. I tossed the empty cup into a trash can and eyed the school, feeling as if the weary building with its dirty glass-window eyes stared right back. Peering into me, seeing my secrets. Knowing what’d I’d almost done last night.

What I’d wanted to do.

I shivered again, this time not from the cold.

Marta’s stance softened, her arms slipping to hang at her sides. “What happened? I get the idea you are upset about more than just your father showing up at school yesterday.”

I let her lack of contraction pass that time and offered a shrug instead. I didn’t want to lie to her. None of this was her fault. But what could I say? I hated to admit Marta was right, that Wes and I were most definitely not on the same page when it came to expectations, and that after he’d rolled up the picnic blanket and stuffed it in the backseat of the Jeep, he hadn’t said another word the entire drive back to my house. Had I failed his test? Were we over? The thought made my stomach churn with disappointment, yet how could I want to stay with someone who asked things of me I couldn’t give—wouldn’t give?—and then pouted over it? Not one of Wes’s best moments.

And definitely not one of my mine.

Still, I couldn’t make myself let go. I kept picturing the hurt radiating from his features as he talked about his family, a layer of pain he probably didn’t even realize he showed. Wes Keegan, vulnerable? Historic moment.

So why did he have to ruin it by changing the subject so abruptly—and physically?

“Is it Wes?” Marta’s prodding voice penetrated my shield, reading my mind. I rolled in my lower lip and nodded. She shuffled a few steps closer, lowering her voice even though we were the only two idiots willing to stand outside in the cold before the warning bell. “Did you see him last night?”

Tears welled in my throat and I coughed, trying to clear the dam. “I snuck out.” Saying the words out loud made the guilt roll in like tidal waves, and I couldn’t believe I’d been lucky enough to get back inside the house without my dad realizing. After sneaking in once again through the window (and trust me, getting down that tree with help was much easier than getting back up solo), I’d checked on him, and there he sat dozing in front of the TV, his Bible open on his lap like any other night. Seeing the open Bible brought equal measures of guilt and bitterness, and I still had no idea why the contradiction. Guilt, I expected. Resentment? Not so much.

“Did something … happen?” Marta’s hesitant question spoke volumes louder than her quiet tone.

My chest warmed under my sweater, and I fought the crimson stain I knew had to be rising up my cheeks. “Almost. But no.”

Marta tugged the hem of her shirt farther over the top of her jeans, and I realized for the first time she wasn’t even wearing a jacket. Yet there she stood with me, discussing my love life in what felt like subzero temps, without a single complaint. Man, this was so screwed up. I didn’t deserve her. My dad didn’t deserve me treating him with such disrespect for his rules. And I didn’t deserve the drama he and Ms. Hawthorne were doling out in my life.

When did everything get so complicated?

Marta’s sigh broke my runaway train of thought. “You look confused. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“I have no idea.” Too much. Not enough. A headache pounded at my temples, and I wished I could wrap my scarf around my face and hide from the world. Not a bad idea, actually. That would solve the problem of going through my day with coffee breath.

“Just try. Whatever this is, you need to get it all out.”

I shut my eyes, trying to focus, and pressed my fingers against the bridge of my nose, desperate but unable to fully identify the emotions dancing a conga line inside my head. “Frustration.” Ah, there was one, finally. “Anger.” Yep, definitely anger over Wes ignoring me the rest of the night. “Confusion.” That one in abundance. “Regret.”

That last one got me, and I opened my eyes. Marta’s widened gaze met mine with shock. “Explain that one.”

I opened my mouth then shut it, fear creeping along my spine. Regret that I hadn’t pushed the boundaries even further with Wes? Regret that I’d snuck out and deceived my dad? Regret that I hadn’t done it all sooner?

Or was it just regret that Wes had initiated the idea of sex, and now I had no idea where our relationship stood?

Before I could decide, Luke strode across the grassy lawn toward us, hands shoved in the pockets of his hooded jacket. “What the heck are you girls doing out here? It’s freezing.”

“It’s actually forty-six degrees.” Marta pointed to the digital temperature reading flashing on the school’s roadside sign.

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.” He tweaked her chin then rested his propped elbow on my shoulder. “It better suits Addison here.”

“Such a comedian.”

Luke frowned. “You all right?” He tilted his head, peering down into my face. If he smelled my coffee breath, it served him right for getting so close. Yet somehow his presence didn’t annoy me or make me crave distance. He just felt safe. I leaned a little into the warmth his shoulder offered, wishing I could just like Luke instead and ride off into the sunset on a white horse.