Heat of the Moment (8 page)

“I wonder what would happen if I just walked into the water,” I say.

“You'd drown,” Derrick says. “You're tipsy.” He's smiling, but I feel like I can hear a little bit of disapproval in his voice.

“I'm not tipsy,” I say, then immediately stumble in the sand. “Ooof.” I giggle.
It's not my fault,
I want to say.
I'm wearing high heels
.

“You
are
tipsy,” he says. “It's okay, though.”

I know it's okay, I want to say. You're the one who gave me the wine and I've only had a little bit and there's nothing wrong with being a little tipsy it's Florida and it's vacation and what's the big deal especially because I know for a fact you were getting upset a few days ago because you couldn't figure out a way to bring pot on the plane. But I don't say any of that. Instead, I just take his hand and keep walking.

A few seconds later, he says, “Are you mad?”

“No.” I push aside my annoyance. We're just getting back to being good. I'm not going to ruin even more of our vacation with another fight.

“Good.” He stops and pulls me toward him, then tilts my chin up and looks at me. “I'm so sorry I took off earlier,” he says. He runs his fingers down over my bare arms, then
rests his forehead against mine. “I was just being a baby.”

“No, you weren't being a baby,” I say. “I shouldn't have let Beckett drive me to the airport. It was inappropriate.”

“It's okay,” Derrick murmurs. “You didn't have a choice.”

But you did have a choice about sitting in the hallway with him and telling him about your bracelet and letting him stroke your wrist and getting all turned on while he did it
.

I push my lips against Derrick's, trying to force myself to get lost in his kiss. I wrap my arms around his neck as the kiss gets deeper and deeper. After a few moments, he pulls away, breathless.

“Come on,” he says. “Let's go back to your room.”

WHEN SOMEONE INVITES THEMSELVES BACK
to your room after you've just been passionately kissing under the moonlight, you kind of figure that maybe probably you're going to have sex. Especially if you've been talking about it for a whole day. Especially if Quinn and Aven aren't in the room.

And at first, it definitely seems like things are heading in that direction.

Derrick and I start to kiss.

Derrick and I kiss more.

Derrick's hands roam over my clothes.

We get under the covers.

My dress comes off. His shirt comes off.

So far we're not in new territory—we've been doing “everything but” for at least a year.

And that's when things sort of . . . stall out.

We're still kissing. We're still touching. But nothing's
progressing
.

I think about giving it a good swift nudge in the right direction, but I don't want to have to be the one to get this thing going, if you know what I mean. I grind my hips into his, hoping he'll get the message. The message being that he should take all my clothes off. I wonder if he's going slow because he's worried about me.

“Do you have a condom?” I breathe into his ear. Not the sexiest of segues, but we need to talk about safe sex! No way I'm going to be doing it without using a condom. I'm not on the pill, and the last thing I want is a little Dyla (Derrick and Lyla, get it?) running around. Oh, god. Now I'm going to have to get on the pill. I'm going to have to tell my mom, and she's probably going to get all weird and freak out and read, like, five million books about setting your daughter up to have a healthy view of sexual relationships. What are the laws for being under eighteen and getting birth control? Maybe I can just get some before I go, bring it back on the plane with me. Probably not, though. I have a feeling things are tighter here in Florida than they are in the Northeast.

“Um, yeah,” Derrick says. “I have a condom.”

“You do?” I'm surprised. Why would Derrick have condoms? Unless he bought them today when he was out.

“Yeah,” he says. “I always have one. You know, just in case.”

“Just in case what?” I'm trying to sound nonchalant, but I really have to make sure he means just in case I decide I want to do it, not just in case he runs into some random girl. Not that Derrick would ever cheat on me. Like I said, before today we haven't even been in a fight.

“Just in case you decide you're ready.”

“Oh.” I wonder how long he's had that condom. “It's not, like, expired, is it?” How horrible would that be? Being all responsible and then ending up pregnant or with an STD just because the condom was expired.

“No.” He kisses my neck. Then my collarbone. Then my cleavage. I wait for him to keep going, to maybe kiss down my stomach and/or maybe take my bra off. But he doesn't do either of those things.

In fact, he stays right around my neck.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “Everything's fine. Why?”

“Well, it's just that we're supposed to be having sex, and well . . . we're not.”

“Oh. I didn't . . . I mean, I know you said you're ready, but I just want . . . I want to make sure this is really what you want.”

“Oh, I want it.” I do. At least, intellectually I do. My body is . . . I mean, I'm liking the kissing and everything, but I'm not . . . okay, fine. I'm not as crazy and excited as I was getting when Beckett was running his finger over my wrist like
that. Not that it means anything. Of course I'm going to feel that way with Beckett. Beckett is dangerous and forbidden and makes my stupid hormones think they're in charge. Derrick is safe and amazing and perfect. Derrick is
better
.

I kiss his nose.

“It's just that you
just
decided this morning that you wanted to have sex,” Derrick says. “And then we had kind of a weird day, and so I'm just wondering if maybe we should sleep on it.”

“Sleep on it?”

“Yeah. You know, to make sure.” He kisses me softly on the lips, then pushes my hair back from my face. “I wouldn't want you to end up regretting it tomorrow.”

“Why would I regret it tomorrow? I love you. We've been together for two years. One stupid fight doesn't change any of that.”

“I know.” He sighs. “It's just . . . it's a big deal, and I want to make sure everything is perfect.” He grins. “I want to have candles and champagne and a fancy dinner. Not us fighting all day and some cheap watered-down wine followed by a quick tumble in your hotel bed.”

Who said anything about a quick tumble? A wave of annoyance rises up inside me, and I do my best to quell it. Why should I be mad at Derrick just because he wants to make sure everything is special? He's right. My first time should be something amazing, something magical, with
flowers and candles and all the other things he was talking about.

What we're doing right now is probably something Beckett would do.

Why are you thinking about Beckett?

“Okay,” I say, “you're right.”

“Good.”

I figure the making out will continue. Just because we're not going to have sex doesn't mean we can't do anything but. Instead, Derrick turns over in bed and then takes my hand.

“I'm sleeping over,” he says. His voice sounds suddenly sleepy, like he'd just been watching TV or something instead of making out with me.

“Okay,” I say. We've slept in the same bed a couple of times before. Once when his parents were out of town, and once when we both went to a party and ended up falling asleep in a random room after making out for hours. He wasn't complaining then about everything having to be perfect.

I turn over and wait for Derrick to pull me close, or at least say something to make me feel better about what I can't help but feel is a rejection. But he doesn't, and a second later, he's breathing softly, letting me know he's asleep.

The doors to the balcony are open, but the screen is shut. Warm night air floats into the room, and I can hear the gentle sound of waves against the shore mixing with the sound
of voices downstairs. It's still early enough that most of my classmates are probably out, walking on the boardwalk or hanging out on the beach or eating a late-night snack in one of the restaurants.

Suddenly, I feel angry that I'm here, in my room, while everyone else is out having fun. But then I tell myself I should be happy to be here with Derrick—even if we didn't have sex, we're still in love. I'm still the luckiest girl in the world. And I'll bet lots of my classmates would rather be inside with someone they love instead of out there fending off sloppy drunk guys looking for random hookups.

My phone buzzes loudly, and I reach down to shut it off before it wakes Derrick up.

Before graduation, I will . . .
learn to trust
.

I check the clock.

Five minutes until midnight.

Five minutes and then these stupid emails will stop for good.

I turn over in bed and close my eyes.

But I don't fall asleep for a long time.

KNOCK
.

Knock
.

Knock, knock
.

Knock, knock, knock
.

I groan and roll over in bed, wondering who would be knocking on my door at this insane hour of . . . oh. It's nine o'clock. Still. Nine o'clock is way too early to be knocking on someone's door when they're supposed to be on vacation. I sit up and blink blearily around the room.

Quinn's bed is empty, but in the corner, Aven's curled up on her cot, the blanket wrapped around her, her thumb in her mouth. I shake my head. I can't believe she's still sucking her thumb. Quinn and I always used to tell her it was going to ruin her teeth, that her parents spent all that money on braces and she went through all that trouble making sure she wore her headgear even though everyone was having
tons of sleepovers that year, which meant she had to—

Knock, knock, knock
.

The knocking is a little more insistent now, but it's still relatively quiet. I guess whoever it is has the wherewithal to know they should at least try to keep it down. It's probably one of the teachers, trying to do a head count or something. No way can I let them catch Derrick in here. Even though we didn't even do anything. Sigh. I turn over and decide to ignore it.

Knock, knock, knock
.

They knocks are coming faster now, and staccato-like, almost like a really gentle woodpecker or something. Well. If a woodpecker was inside and trying to take a head count. Which I really doubt would happen.

The knocking stops for a moment, and then there's a loud whisper.

“Lyla!”

Oh my god. It's Beckett.

Beckett Cross is at my door. Is he crazy? Why would he think it was okay to show up here? Does he want to get his ass kicked? I wonder who would win in a fight between Beckett and Derrick. Derrick is taller. And he plays sports. So he probably has better cardio. But Beckett has broader shoulders. And he might fight dirty—he probably knows moves and stuff you can only learn on the street.

“Lyla!”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

I get out of bed and open the door.

“Finally,” Beckett says, then shakes his head like he can't believe I've left him waiting out here this whole time, as if we had breakfast plans and he didn't just show up here out of nowhere, calling my name when he knows I have a boy in my bed. His eyes rake up my body, and I become aware of the fact that all I'm wearing is a tank top and a really tight pair of shorts. I put them on last night after Derrick fell asleep—it was too cold to sleep half-naked, and besides, it wasn't like we were alone. I knew Aven and Quinn were going to be coming back at some point.

“Rough night?” Beckett grins.

“No.” I cross my arms over my chest, and hope he can't see anything. He looks remarkably put together for someone who was probably out gallivanting and getting into debauchery last night. His hair is messy, but he's wearing baggy khaki shorts and a navy-blue T-shirt and sneakers with no socks.

“What do you want?” I demand. “I'm busy.” The quicker he gets out of here, the better. Aven and Derrick are both heavy sleepers, but eventually one of them is going to wake up.

“I wanted to see if maybe you wanted to get coffee.”

“What?”
Is he crazy? Of course I don't want to get coffee.
Yes, you do
. No, I don't.
Yes, you do
. No, I don't.

“Why not?”

“Because I have a boyfriend!” I shake my head. Why am I trying to reason with him? He's crazy. And you cannot reason with a crazy person. I decide to change my tactic. I step out into the hall and close the door behind me. “Look,” I say. “I'm dealing with something here, so you have to go.”

“Dealing
with something?”

“Yes. My friend Quinn didn't come back last night, and I'm worried about her.” It's only a half lie.

“Yeah, she went home with a guy last night,” Beckett says. “I saw her getting into some dude's car.”

My stomach drops into my shoes. “Getting into some guy's car?”

“Yeah, they were coming out of a bar. Or a club. One of those places on the main strip.” Beckett takes my hand and tries to pull me toward him. “Come on,” he says. “I saw where they went. I'll show you.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say. “I'm not going anywhere with you.” I wrench my hand out of his grasp.

“Why not?” he asks, seemingly shocked.

“First, because I fell for that yesterday, and I'm not going to be lured into your crazy games again. And second, Derrick's in my room, and if he catches you here, he's going to flip.” I stick my chin out, determined. “And besides, Quinn and I . . . it's none of my business where she is.” But even as I'm saying the words, I'm nervous. Why the hell would
Quinn get into a car with some random guy?

Beckett just stares at me for a moment, not saying anything. It's actually a little bit uncomfortable, if you want to know the truth. Finally, just as I'm about to turn around and head back into the room, he speaks. “First of all, I'm not trying to lure you anywhere. I'm asking you to come with me. And second of all, if you think I give a shit about your douche-bag boyfriend, you're wrong.”

“He's not a douche bag!”

“He is a douche bag. He didn't answer his phone after you missed the bus, he left you stranded all day yesterday, and then last night he made you wait at his hotel room while he took his sweet time.” While Beckett's been talking, he's been walking closer to me, until the distance between us is almost nonexistent. “So like I said, he's a douche bag. And like I also said, I don't care about him.”

“Whatever,” I say. “I don't have time for this. Don't come to my room again.”

I turn around and start walking back inside, hoping that Aven and Derrick slept through all that.

“She could be in trouble,” Beckett calls after me.

I stop. But I don't turn around. “What do you mean?”

“Quinn. She might be in trouble.”

I turn around. “I'm sure she's fine.” Still, as I'm saying the words, an image of Quinn from last night pops into my head. That outfit. The way she was tossing her hair all
around. The red lipstick. The way she walked as she left the room, like she was on a mission. “And besides, we're not . . . we're not really friends anymore.” But I don't move.

“So? Aren't you the least bit worried about her?” Beckett asks. Then he shakes his head, like he's frustrated. “This is ridiculous. I'll take care of it myself.”

He turns around and starts to walk away from me, back down the hallway toward the elevators.

“Wait!” I say. “You can't just . . . what are you going to do?”

He shrugs. “I'm going to make sure she's okay.”

“How?”

“I saw the car she got into, and the neighborhood she was headed for. I'm going to go there.”

“To check on her?”

“Yes.”

“But you don't even know her.” At least, I don't think he does. I don't remember Quinn ever mentioning or having any kind of interactions with Beckett. In fact, he's the exact kind of guy she hates. The kind who just shows up in class, doesn't take notes, and somehow still gets good grades. Quinn works hard for her grades. Really hard. And she doesn't like people who don't.

“So?” Beckett asks. “She might be in trouble. And if you're not going to do anything about it . . .” He trails off,
like he can't believe I wouldn't want to do something to save Quinn.

“I'm sure she's fine. She probably just met a guy she wanted to hook up with.”

Even as I'm saying the words, they don't sound right. Quinn, hooking up with some guy she just met? Quinn has only hooked up with one guy that I know of, and that was after she completely overanalyzed it and made a list of all the pros and cons. It was like a two-month-long process. By the end of it, the guy almost didn't even want to hook up with her anymore. Granted, it's been a while since we talked, but I have a hard time believing Quinn's changed that much.

Quinn, what is going on with you?

“Whatever,” Beckett says, shaking his head. “Later.”

I watch him start to walk down the hallway, and before I can stop myself, I'm calling after him, “Wait!”

He turns but keeps walking backward.

“I'm coming with you. Just let me grab a sweatshirt.”

I tiptoe back into the room, shutting the door carefully behind me. Aven and Derrick are both still sleeping soundly. Aven's curly hair is poking out of the blanket cocoon she's fashioned for herself, and Derrick is now sprawled across the whole bed, snoring loudly.

I think about waking him up. I could ask him to come with me. It would be the right thing to do. Much better than
just walking out with Beckett and leaving Derrick here all alone on the second day of vacation. And yeah, I know he left me yesterday, but still. Two wrongs don't make a right.

On the other hand, I don't want to take the chance there's going to be drama between Derrick and Beckett. If those two get into it, then who knows what will happen to Quinn? She could end up locked up in some skeezy guy's basement for years and years and no one will know where she is until she claws her way out using a pair of scissors she made out of twist ties. Well. That probably wouldn't happen, since Beckett seems to know where she is. But still. Why take chances with things like that?

The hotel room door opens an inch. “Lyla,” Beckett whispers. “I'm going. Are you coming or not?”

I take a deep breath, then quickly scrawl a note on the hotel notepad that's sitting on the desk.

Went out to get coffee—be back soon.

Before this weekend, I'd never lied to Derrick once.

And now I've done it twice in two days.

“Are you sure you saw them come down here?” I grumble fifteen minutes later. It feels like we've been walking forever. And what was at first a nice little stroll on the beach has turned into just . . . walking down rows of streets. Lots and lots of streets.

“Yes,” Beckett says. “It was a black Range Rover, and they definitely turned into this neighborhood.” He's walking next to me, and every so often, his arm brushes against mine. I keep moving over on the sidewalk, but there's only so far I can go. The only thing that's keeping me from totally losing it is the fact that I'm wearing long sleeves. If I were wearing short sleeves, if our arms were brushing against each other and his bare skin was on mine . . . I shiver, then wrap my arms around myself.

“You cold?” Beckett asks.

“No.”

“You're shivering.”

“No, I'm not.”

He shrugs. Even the way he shrugs is kind of sexy. I try to think of things to distract myself. The beautiful sun beating down on my face. The way the air is warm and perfect, not too hot, not too cold. The grit of the sand in my toes. The way this sweatshirt smells like Derrick. Yes, Derrick! Think of Derrick! How nice it felt to sleep with his arms wrapped around me last night.

Well.

One arm, at least.

How I fit against him perfectly in bed; how he was the big spoon and I was the little spoon.

How he didn't want to have sex with me.

No, no, no, do not think about how he didn't want
to have sex with me! Why didn't he want to have sex with me? It's definitely not because he doesn't want me. It's just because he wants to make it perfect. Because he's perfect. Tonight we'll have sex.

I wonder if I'll have time to shop for something really sexy. I'm kind of rethinking my black bra and underwear set. Maybe I should get something a little more . . . I don't know, trashy. But not trashy in a cheap way—trashy in a hot way. It should be sort of see-through, but not—

“There it is,” Beckett says. He points to a one-story turquoise box house with a neatly manicured lawn. A shiny black Range Rover sits in front of it.

“Wow,” I say. “She really looks like she's in a lot of trouble, Beckett. Thank god you got me out of bed to save her from this crack den.”

He gives me a pointed look.

“What?” I ask.

“Well, aren't you going to go to the door?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

“You're the one who saw her, why don't you go to the door?”

“Because I don't even know her.”

“Yeah, but if I go to the door and she's been taken by some kind of gangster, then I'm going to be kidnapped, too.”

I expect him to shake his head at my ridiculousness, but
instead he nods seriously, and his jaw sets into a line. “Good point. You stay here.” He begins to march toward the door.

“Wait!” I call after him. But he's not listening. He's walking right up the driveway, all determined, like he has every right to be there. “Beckett, wait!”

He ignores me.

What the hell is he
doing
? Shouldn't we, like, have a plan or something? You can't just go marching onto people's property and banging on their doors, asking them if they're harboring a teenage girl in their basement. People don't like that.

I look around, wondering if I've missed anything that would lead me to believe this is a bad part of town. It doesn't look like a bad part of town. We're so close to the beach that I can still smell the ocean, and there's sand lining the road where the sidewalk meets the pavement. These houses have to be, like, millions of dollars. Okay, not millions. They're not mansions or anything. But I'll bet they're pretty expensive. My mom is always talking about how when you buy a house, it's all about location, location, location. And these houses are in a great location.

In fact, now that I think about it, it's very unlikely that Quinn has been kidnapped. Why would a kidnapper take her to some expensive almost-beachfront property? I've never heard of anything like that happening before. When people get kidnapped, they're always taken to some
run-down abandoned apartment building where the neighbors turn the other cheek.