Chaste (13 page)

“You stood me up,” she says.

I put a finger to my temple. “I meant to call.”

“Well, you didn’t. What were you doing, having a family picnic? Taking Quinn Junior to the park with your unwed girlfriend?”

Quinn Junior … unwed girlfriend … what is she talking about?
I open my eyes and shake my head at her. I don’t have any energy to fight.

“I’m a virgin,” I blurt.

She hauls in a breath, and then pokes me in the shoulder. “I don’t believe you.”

“You’re judgmental,” I accuse.

“Me? You’re a jerk. A jerk who looks at me with those innocent, bleeding-heart eyes until I want to believe every lying word that comes out of your mouth.”

She stares into my eyes with new intensity. Heat prickles my neck.

“I’m not lying,” I manage to say.

“You’re drunk. There’s no way in hell you could walk a straight line. Speaking of which, were you looking for angels when I called your name earlier? Somehow I doubt they live in the lights.”

“What?” I ask in a groggy voice.

“I want that kiss now,” she says, scooting in next to me.

“Now?”

“Why not? Afraid you’ll like it?

I shake my head and glance at her lips, so moist and full. No wonder she believes I’m drunk. For the first time ever I let my eyes take in her figure, the fullness of her chest, the swell of her hips, the long line of her legs. My body stirs, and my mind goes places I know it shouldn’t. To my hands on those legs, my face in her neck, her curvy body pressed against mine.

“Okay, Kat,” I say as I lean toward her. “But after this, no more pushing.”

Her hands slide around my neck. I’m going to keep my eyes open when I kiss Katarina Jackson. I know she’s teasing me and that I’m playing with fire. But she’s so gorgeous and forbidden it’s impossible to resist her. I snake my arms around her waist. Having her warm body pressed against mine feels like a dream, an unbelievably wonderful dream. The room gets all blurry as I think what a nice, soft pillow she’d make.

“You okay?” she asks.

It’s the last thing I remember.

20

Katarina

“Wake up, Quinn,” I say into the ear of the unconscious boy on my shoulder.

He doesn’t get up, just nestles his cheek against mine. I put a hand on the back of his head and slide my fingers through his thick, curly hair, surprised at its softness, the way it moves through my fingers.

For a moment I wish I could wipe out his past, overlook his ludicrous beliefs and take him home like a puppy. Then I remember how he lied to me, and I give myself a mental kick in the pants for these mushy feelings. No part of me should feel sorry for Quinn Walker.

I scoot sideways and lower his head onto my lap. He lies across the couch, his hands limp at his sides. Despite what I thought earlier, he’s not drunk. If he were drunk, his breath would smell like alcohol. If he were drunk, I’d have found him at some stupid party or coming out of someone’s house, not in the lobby of Fairfax Hospital.

Tracing a finger around his pale ear, I can’t fathom why anyone would run themselves into the ground like this. So I just sit there, drawing circles on his shoulder, empowered by the fact that I can do this without him flinching.

“Molly, I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

I feel myself smile. Does Mr. Nice talk in his sleep? This is too perfect. If he thinks I’m Molly, maybe we can have a decent conversation. I’m thinking of all the questions I’d like to ask when his arms come around my waist and he snuggles close against me.

My heart warms. Poor Quinn. My fingers make figure eights on his back.

I lift my hand, hating my irrational urge to protect a boy who hates me. He’d be horrified if he were awake. Every time I touch him at school, he acts like I’ve burned him.

“Don’t stop. That feels good,” he says.

I can’t believe my ears. So I sigh and rest my hand on the back of his cotton T-shirt. Where did this vulnerable Quinn come from? I think of Molly and how Quinn trusts her. I’d bet my right arm she’s seen this side of him.

My stomach twists. What makes
her
so special?

“You forgive me?” he asks, sounding hopeful, like Molly’s good opinion will make everything better.

Honestly, I doubt he’s done anything wrong. Knowing Molly, he probably did some stupid thing that doesn’t matter. Maybe he gave her the wrong kind of flowers on her birthday. My curiosity gets the better of me.

“For what?” I ask.

“Insulting your family.”

I inhale, more than a little surprised. It doesn’t seem like something Quinn would do. Maybe he isn’t as nice as he pretends. Maybe he’s … human. Putting a hand in front of my mouth, I let out an irrational giggle. Seduction doesn’t look so hopeless after all. I just need to find a way to make him let down his guard.

My cell phone rings. I pull it from my purse, look at the fluorescent green screen and curse under my breath. My ex is acting like a stalker. Why did I make out with him tonight? Getting rid of him now will be ten times harder. I click the accept button.

“Mike,” I say.

“Where are you?” he says in an agitated tone.

“At the hospital.”

“Still?”

I can tell that’s the beer talking because he’s slurring his words. He seems to have forgotten the eternal wait that goes on in emergency rooms. Tasha’s not the only one I’ve taken to the hospital in my Jeep. I’ve driven Mike on a number of occasions when his face has gotten in the way of someone’s fist.

“Gee, Mike. Tasha’s fine. Thanks so much for asking after her.”

I know it’s stupid to get sarcastic with a drunk guy, but I’m seriously tired of this possessive-boyfriend act. The least he can do is think about his most recent girl toy. You’d think he’d care that Tasha has a broken nose.

“Are you with her now?” he asks.

“No. Her parents came. They dismissed me half an hour ago.”

“And you’re still there?” His voice is whiny.

What business is it of his how long I stay here? I glance down at Quinn’s blond curls in my lap, such a contrast to my jet-black skirt. Without thinking, I wind a strand around my finger and imagine us waking up together. Me, inundated with the smell of baby powder. Him, with his arms around me, his body cradling mine as he holds me against his stomach.
Snap out of it
,
Kat!
The fantasy is absurd. Thinking about it makes me feel weak.

“I wanted a soda,” I say, looking at the vending machine in the corner.

There’s a button for Pepsi, one for Sprite and another for bottled water. The machine beside it has snack foods in it. Doritos, Fritos, Pretzels, Twinkies—junk food filled with empty calories. Ever since Roland died, it’s the only kind of food I eat.

“Come home. I want to see you,” he says, as if I’m a pet he can order around.

“I’m not your girlfriend, Mike. And even if I was, I wouldn’t come running at your beck and call.”

“It’s Walker, isn’t it?”

“Quinn means nothing to me.” I say it out loud to convince myself it’s true, because nothing about Quinn feels fake right now. And because the emotional part of me still wants to believe he’s innocent.

Then I shut my eyes and remember the breast milk in his refrigerator, the child bowls in his cupboard, the look of pure shame on his father’s face when I asked about the note on the counter.

“Quinn’s a liar and a fraud,” I go on.

“Do you want me to beat him up?” Mike asks, letting out a sinister laugh.

“No!”

“You gonna come home anytime soon, Alley Kat?”

I sigh and glance at Quinn’s eyelashes, so long they’ve tangled in the corners. He looks peaceful with his eyes closed, peaceful and pure. It isn’t fair.

“I don’t know. Just … go to bed, Mike. Don’t wait up for me. That stuff we did tonight.” I wave my hand in the air. “It doesn’t mean anything. Please don’t read anything into it.”

“But you kissed me.”

I’ve set him off. His voice gets louder and louder until I’m holding the phone as far away from me as possible. Forget the whales, someone needs to save my eardrums. I press end and turn off my phone, wondering what possessed me to tell him where I was? Gently, I put my hands under sleeping beauty’s head.

“Oh my heck, Quinn. Did you actually fall asleep?” says a voice to my left.

I look up. It’s a girl I’ve never seen before, with light brown hair and circles under her eyes. Her face is as pale as Quinn’s. She has the same straight nose, thick eyebrows and short, bitten-down nails as my lab partner. Is this his sister?

She grabs Quinn by the shoulders, lowers her nose to his and yells, “Wake up lazy bones. I have news!”

“Don’t do that,” I say, pushing back her forehead with the palm of my hand.

I may not shy away from confrontation, but even I have limits. Punching one girl in the face was more than enough action for me tonight. I’d rather not have to do it twice. The fact that Quinn has slept through all this proves how tired he is.

The girl straightens and puts her hands on her hips. “Who are you?”

“Kat,” I say.

“His physics partner?” How does she know? Before my brain starts working again, Quinn’s brunette twin starts talking.

“Elijah’s fever broke. Quinn will want to know.”

“Elijah?” The name sounds foreign as it rolls off my tongue.

“Our precious little boy has an RSV infection. And if it weren’t for my brother—” She shuts her eyes, taking a moment to fan the tears leaking from the corners. “If it weren’t for him, Elijah might have died.”

I nod.

“Quinn will make a really good dad one day,” she says.

Her words hit me like a slap.

“So Elijah is … who’s child, exactly?”

“Mine.” She says the word so loud it’s a wonder she doesn’t wake the whole hospital. Hell, people in Japan can probably hear her. “Quinn may watch Elijah, but I’m still his mother. His only solid, stable parent.”

She continues in frantic, urgent tones, explaining why she’s a good mother while pacing with long strides around the lobby. For someone so convinced of her goodness, she’s awfully nervous. And not really stable, I think, as I watch her wring her hands. For a moment I think God has played a cruel joke on this family, giving the sister all the passion and the brother all the steadiness.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say in an attempt to smooth things over. “Quinn hasn’t mentioned his nephew. I was just clarifying.”

She crosses her arms over her stomach. “Should I wake him up, or will you?”

“Let him sleep,” I say, looking at her with new respect. Phrase your wishes as a request and people walk all over you. Phrase your wishes as an order and people listen. It’s one of the few things I’ve learned from my father. I wonder where Quinn’s sister learned it.

Hmm, well, two can play at that game. I stick my hand into my coat pocket and fish out my keys.

“I’m taking him home.”

21

Quinn

I‘m having one of those glorious dreams where my mother sets a plate of bacon and eggs and pancakes right in front of me. My stomach grumbles, and I open my eyes to sunlight pouring through my bedroom window.

Oh crap! Why did it have to be a dream?
There’s no food in front of me now, just a solid white ceiling stretching from one end of my room to the other, and … huh? The smell of bacon.
Um, wait … how did I get here?
The last memory I have is of sitting on a couch in the hospital. The hospital.
Elijah is sick!

“His fever broke,” someone says.

Bolting upright, I see Kat standing in the doorway. She’s pulled her dark hair back into a ponytail and looks down-right domestic wearing my mother’s white-ruffled apron. I shut my eyes. Maybe I’m still dreaming. But when I open them, Kat’s still standing there, hands on her hips, head tilted to the side.

She smiles and her entire face lights up, reminding me of my mother’s before she got depressed. The way she’d stand over my shoulder in that very apron, teaching me to make chocolate chip cookies. The way she laughed when I pulled the beater out of the dough at full speed, splattering us both with creamed butter and sugar. It was the best smelling mess I’d ever made, which reminds me … I must smell awful.

I glance down at my wrinkled T-shirt, my mud stained shoes, the jeans I’ve worn for the past two days. My mouth is dry as cotton. But all this pales in the face of my relief. Elijah is going to be fine.

I let out a breath. “Is he home?”

“He’ll be home this afternoon,” Kat says. “Your sister’s at the hospital, your father’s at church and I, um, made you breakfast.”

She bites her lower lip, fidgets with the ruffled edge of her apron, catches my eye and then looks away.

I swallow. Is she flirting with me? Hazily I remember running into Kat in the lobby, feeling her arms wind around my neck, the rising of her chest, her breath on my skin. Did we kiss? Because if we did, I don’t remember it. Scratching my head, I try to bring back what happened last night, but all I can recall is thinking of her as a pillow before I blacked out.

Not my finest moment. She still took the time to drag me home?

I turn sideways, put my feet on the carpeted floor and let my eyes linger on Miss Katarina Jackson, who continually proves to be more than she pretends.

She’s leaning against the doorframe dressed in a long-sleeved sweater, faded blue jeans and socks—mismatched socks—one dark green and the other black. When she sees where I’m looking, she puts one foot over the other as if this will keep me from noticing. Did fashion-conscious Kat get dressed in the dark?

What scares me is that she still looks amazing. The apron tied around her waist emphasizes her hips, her long trim stomach, the perfect rise of her breasts. Even without her skin-tight jeans, I can’t keep my eyes off her.

“How did you get me home?” I ask. Pretty or not, I doubt she has super-human strength.

“Your sister helped me take you to my Jeep,” she says, coming to sit beside me on the bed. She takes my left hand in both of hers, turns it over and traces the lines on my palm with her fingers. “I called John to help me on this end. He’s good in a pinch. Did you know you talk in your sleep?”