Escape In You (3 page)

Making out is simple enough though. And not a bad way to spend a few hazy, vodka-fueled hours at a party. Particularly when the guy looks as good as this one does. I lean in a little, allowing the side of my breast to brush up against his arm. “Maybe you were right,” I murmur and bat my eyes at him. “Maybe it is easier not to talk.”

He looks down at me, his lips parting slightly. I’m close enough now that I could easily reach up and trail my tongue across those lips or along that impressive jawline. But his next words stop me cold.

“I don’t know, Zoe. You’ve intrigued me with this conversation idea. I’m thinking it might do it for me too.”

I purse my lips, surprised. I was sure he’d jump at the chance to avoid talking.

“So.” He leans back again and gives me a lazy smile. “What should we talk about?”

“We could start with your name.” I’m debating whether I should just get up and leave him here. My friend Everett is across the room, talking to a guy I know a little through Hunter. Surely they’d be more appropriate company.

“Do you want my real name, or my fake name?” He winks.

I narrow my eyes, not really in the mood for cute. “What do you think?”

“Well, you see, the thing is that most people don’t call me by my real name. In fact, most people don’t even
know
my real name. So if I give you that, it’s kind of saying something, you know? It takes us past the point of general acquaintances at a party. It makes us something
more
.” He waggles his eyebrows at me.

I’m not sure whether I’m annoyed or intrigued by this. I thought I wanted to flirt with him, but this feels too much like a game.
Or your impression of him is just colored because now you know he probably has money
.

“Let’s start with your fake name,” I say, deciding to play along. “Maybe we can work up to your real name. I’m not sure I’m ready for that level of commitment just yet.”

He nods. “Fair enough. Everyone calls me Jet.”

I stare at him. “Jet? Are you kidding?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Jet is really my nickname.”

“Why?”

He furrows his brow. “You know, it’s been so long I’m not really sure. Everyone has called me Jet ever since like, Little League. Something to do with my base running skills. Oh, and the fact that my initials are J.E.T.” At my skeptical look he cocks his head. “What? You don’t like it?”

“Not particularly.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, Zoe, this is fun.”

“What is?” I ask, feeling defensive.

“Talking to a girl who has no desire to please me. It’s refreshing.”

“You’re pretty damn full of yourself.”

He points at me. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. You couldn’t give a shit about what I think, could you?”

“I don’t see why I would.”

His face darkens. “I don’t see why you would either. Why anyone would.” He inhales sharply, sounding almost pained. “Yet, somehow, they do. Or, at least, the ladies do.”

I don’t like that look. It makes me feel sad, which is just ridiculous, since I barely know him and what I do know I’m not even sure I like. I try to lighten the mood by shoving his shoulder. “Oh, yeah, I’m so sure you’re complaining about all the women who are just dying to please you.”

He shoots me that same amused grin. “Are you volunteering?”

“Not even remotely, buddy.”

“It’s Jet,” he says.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I refuse to call you that.”

“Well, now we’re at an impasse. You refuse to call me by my nickname yet you’re not ready for my real name either. The only other option is for you to make up your own name for me. Either way, it implies a certain level of intimacy, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know you well enough to give you a nickname.” I think for a moment. “Unless you like the sound of Cocky Ass.”

He pretends to think about that. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, then. I guess we
are
at an impasse.” I’m actually starting to enjoy myself. He may be cocky, but it’s been ages since I’ve actually flirted with a guy like this. When I hook up at parties the talking phase doesn’t usually last this long.

“I think I have a solution,” he says, holding up a finger in triumph. “Taylor!”

“Why would I call you Taylor?”

“Because it’s my last name.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Okay. Taylor it is.”

He holds out his hand to shake mine. His skin is warm against my palm, his grip firm. I have a sudden urge to feel his hand curled around the back of my neck, and I release his fingers before my palm starts to sweat.

“So, Zoe,” Taylor says, his gaze flicking down to my legs before meeting my eyes once more. “What’s your story?”

“My story?”

He nods. “Yeah. What do you do? Who do you know? What do you like? Your story.”

If only my story really were that simple—a collection of answers to meaningless questions. I look down at my hands. A weight fills my stomach as I consider how I would answer if I could be honest. If I could actually tell him—or anyone—my real story.

“You okay?”

I look up and realize he’s watching my face closely. I force a smile and nod. “Maybe too much vodka.” I hold up the bottle, glad for the excuse. From the look on his face I’m not sure he bought it, so I hurry to answer his original question. “I’m a student at MCC.” I peek at him from the corner of my eye for any reaction to the name of the local community college. If he grew up in this neighborhood I’ll bet he’s one of the kids who goes to an actual university.

When he only nods, I go on. “I’m not working right now, so I’m taking classes all summer.” I leave out the reason for my unemployment. I can imagine how he’d react to that—talk about putting a damper on our flirting.

“What are you studying at MCC?”

More details I don’t want to get into. “This was my first year. I haven’t really decided on a major yet.”

He looks concerned. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.” I blush again. I’m too exposed to this guy. I don't want him asking questions about why I waited so long to enroll in classes. But his face relaxes.

“Good. When you said it was your first year I was worried you were a teenager for a minute there.”

“Why would it matter if I was a teenager?” I ask, a flirtatious note in my voice. He only grins at me, a purely wicked grin, and my face grows hotter.

“What about you?” I ask, embarrassed by my reaction. “What’s your story?”

“I work at the body shop in town. We mostly do repairs, but sometimes we get some refurbs to do, which is what I really prefer.”

That isn’t the answer I expected. “School?”

He shakes his head. “Never really saw the point.”

“So you live here all year?” It doesn’t make sense. Why hadn’t I ever come across him if he wasn’t away at school all year?

“All four miserable seasons.”

“They’re not all miserable. Spring is nice.”

“Whatever. Spring lasts about two minutes. It goes from cold as hell to hot as balls around here.”

I have to laugh at that. “I was just thinking that tonight. That spring went way too fast.” I pause. “I wasn’t ready for summer.”

“Me either,” he says, his voice soft. I look over at him. He’s staring at the ground. He looks about a million miles away. I wonder what it is about summer that he doesn't like, but I don't press. I know what it feels like to dread something as inevitable as the change of season.

“Zoe?” Ellie mumbles from the carpet. “Are you still up there?”

“I’m here, Ells,” I answer and look down at her. Never opening her eyes, she smiles. In a minute she’s snoring again.

“Can I have a sip of that?” Taylor points at the bottle in my hand. I’d almost forgotten it was there. I take a swig before passing it to him, wiping my mouth on the back of my arm as the warmth fills my belly.

“Impressive,” Taylor says, nodding at me as he takes the bottle and follows suit. “You didn’t even grimace.”

I shrug. “I like vodka.”

“Okay, so I know you like vodka and picking fights with girls at parties. What else makes you tick?”

“
I
didn’t pick that fight!” I say, my voice a little too loud. “That bitch got mouthy with Ellie.”

“And that’s a mistake, huh?”

“You have
no
idea.”

“You’re not like most of the girls I know,” he says and nods down at Ellie to include her in his assessment.

“What does that mean?”

“Well, most girls don’t chug vodka straight from the bottle. And most girls don’t actually get in fights at kegs. When a girl says she’s going to kick someone’s ass, I can pretty much always assume she’s full of shit.”

“Ellie and I don’t mess around with stuff like that. We’ve had to stand up for ourselves way too often for it to be a joke. When Ellie threatens someone, she means it.”

“You too?”

I nod. “Though I don’t feel the need to threaten quite as often as she does.” I meet his eyes. “But when I say something, I mean it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” His voice is a soft rasp that makes the hair on the backs of my arms stand up. I stare at his lips, wishing I could kiss him. Why had I been so stupid and told him I prefer conversation to cheesy lines? I could be making out with this hottie right now if I had kept my mouth shut and laughed at his little jokes like any other girl.

“How long have you guys known each other?” he asks.

It takes me a second to come back to the conversation. “Ellie? We’ve been tight for a few years now. I guess we started hanging out when we were seventeen.” I manage to keep my voice casual, as if that year, and the circumstances surrounding our becoming friends, hadn’t been any big deal. “What about you? You said you grew up with Preston? Are you guys tight?”

He lifts one shoulder. “Not particularly. I mean, I guess we were. But we don’t have a lot in common anymore.”

That’s a little cryptic. Does that mean he
doesn't
live in one of these huge mansions on this side of town? Or is it simply that he stayed home and got a job while Preston went off to school?

“He’s not a bad guy, though,” Taylor says. “His parents travel a lot, so he throws a ton of parties in the summer.”

“Maybe I’ll see you at another one of them.”

He’s quiet for a moment as he holds my gaze. “I hope I see you regardless.”

His tone makes my stomach flip and all in a rush I’m frightened. Am I getting in too far here? Flirting at a party is one thing, making plans to see each other after tonight is another. To my great relief, Ellie chooses that moment to wake up fully.

She moans as she sits up. “Ugh, I have a headache. Zoe, you weren’t supposed to let me mix beer and pot. You know this.”

“I warned you,” I say. “You told me to fuck off.”

She laughs weakly, rubbing her head. “That does sound like something I’d say.” She pulls her phone from her pocket and starts to type. “Let’s find Hunter. I’m in need of sustenance. I want pancakes.”

“Mmm, pancakes,” Hunter says, as he walks up behind her. “I’m in.”

Ellie holds up her phone. “I was just texting you.”

He taps his forehead. “I could sense that my presence was desired.”

I look over at Taylor. “I guess we’re leaving.” Somehow I’m both disappointed and relieved.

“I guess so.”

I know it’s better to leave before I start getting any weird ideas about seeing him again, but I still feel a sense of letdown. I’ll never get to find out what it’s like to kiss that gorgeous mouth. To trail my tongue across that jaw…

As I start to stand, Taylor grabs my hand. “I’ll be seeing you, Zoe. That’s a promise.”

I look down at him, not knowing what to say. I should discourage him, tell him I’m not interested. But I just can't do it. “We’ll see,” I murmur, then turn to help hoist Ellie into a standing position.

“Let’s find Everett,” Hunter says. “He’s the DD tonight. Why’s it so dark down here?” He looks around the room. “Hey, Everett!” he shouts. “I want pancakes!”

Everett’s laugh sounds from across the room, and we head off in that direction. I refuse to turn around to take a last look at Taylor. Even though we aren’t heading home yet, leaving the party takes me one step closer to my real life.

And there is no place for anything as beautiful as Jet Taylor in my real life.

Chapter Three

Zoe

I wake up the next morning with a raging headache. As is often the case, Hunter and Ellie had found a second wind after their midnight pancake snack. Along with Everett, we ended up in the park with another fifth of vodka. I can't remember actually getting into the house, and I say a silent prayer that I was quiet.

There’s far too much light in my bedroom, and I pull my raggedy quilt up over my face. No sooner am I ensconced in my cocoon than my phone starts vibrating on the nightstand. The sound of the phone clattering across the cheap particle board of the nightstand might as well be a jackhammer in my already pounding head. Groaning, I stick an arm out from under the covers to grab it.

“Hello.” My voice is raspy, and I rub my eyes.

“You sound lovely this morning,” Ellie says, sounding amused.

“How are you not hungover?” I moan. “You drank more than I did.”

“You were downing vodka all night,” she says. “I didn’t start on the hard stuff until we got to the park.”

“Right. What’s up? Or are you calling me at this God-forsaken hour just to be a bitch?”

“It’s noon, Princess. I thought you might want to get your lazy ass out of bed and go get burritos.”

I moan a little. Burritos are our sure-fire hangover cure. “When can you get here?”

She laughs. “Give me twenty.”

It’s a struggle, but I manage to roll out of bed. Once I’m on my feet, I slowly make my way to the bathroom down the hall. So far I haven’t heard anyone else stirring, and I’m relieved. Some things I just can't handle when this hungover.

Once I finish brushing my teeth and rinsing out my mouth, I peer into the mirror, debating whether or not to jump in the shower. Ellie said twenty, which usually means more like a half hour. My hair looks like shit, greasy and lank, and my blonde roots are starting to show through the bottled red. I’ll have to get Ellie to dye it for me soon. My face is pale, with huge dark circles under my eyes. I sigh. A shower would be great, but I need to check on my mom first before I leave, and that could take a while. I settle for washing my face and pulling my hair up into a messy bun. I take my makeup bag from under the sink and smear some foundation over my face, but it doesn’t do much to hide those dark circles.