Hooked (Harlequin Teen) (14 page)

Still, I made a show of pressing my lips together and
considering the offer. I couldn’t believe that Ryan Berenger was standing before
me dressed smartly in khaki shorts and a blindingly white golf shirt with a
perfectly pressed collar at such an early hour on a Saturday morning. I figured
him for the type who’d sleep till noon, at which time a maid probably delivered
him waffles in bed.

“My dad even throws in lunch at the clubhouse.” His grin spread
wider along with his arms. He sensed me weakening. “Can you find a better deal
than that today?”

My vision blurred a little as I fought against my own grin. I
rubbed my shoulder like I was cold, even though it was already eighty degrees in
the shade.

“Fred?” he begged when I didn’t answer. His brow even furrowed
a little.

“Okay, okay. I’ll play. But I should probably warn you that I’m
not much for small talk.”

Ryan smirked, and his chest caved forward like he was relieved.
“That’s okay. I’m counting on it.”

* * *

Somebody pinch me.

I sat alongside Ryan in the golf cart, alone, as he drove us to
the first tee to join up with the rest of the foursome.

Along the way, he stopped the cart outside the clubhouse,
leaving me by myself. I watched him talking to the golf pro through the window.
He leaned his forearms against the window, and I couldn’t help but casually
admire the broadness of his shoulders. My eyes drifted lower. It was hard not
to.

When he returned, I looked away, just for a moment. Until he
shared the news. “Sorry, Fred. It’s going to be just you and me.”

“Just us?” My eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

“The other two in our foursome canceled. Weird, for a
Saturday.”

“Yeah, weird,” I said. Very weird.

“We’ll just finish faster.” He smiled. “The pro said we could
go ahead and play.”

I’d have been lying if I said I was disappointed. More than
anything, I was supremely glad that we weren’t teaming up with any of the
players from Lone Butte. It was bad enough that I had to endure them during the
week, and I was pretty sure they felt the same way about me.

Ryan drove the golf cart to the first tee, and we both climbed
out to retrieve our drivers. Already wearing my golf glove, I took my club and
walked silently to the tee box with Ryan beside me. This early, the course was
quiet. Too quiet. I could hear myself breathing through my nose.

“You first.” Ryan motioned to the tee box.

I bent over to tee up my first shot before stepping back for a
few practice swings. And caught Ryan’s gaze in my periphery, the slightest smile
lifting his lips. He was watching me—maybe even studying me—and I wanted him to,
mostly because I craved to know why. What was so compelling about me? Was I
simply a golf swing to him? Or was I something else? I pushed away jumbled
thoughts by inhaling a deep breath with each practice swing. But I’d be fooling
myself if I said my curiosity about Ryan didn’t consume my almost every waking
thought.

Deep breaths didn’t help. This was turning out to be harder
than I’d expected.

I couldn’t help but wonder if I was measuring up to his
expectations. Or if I even wanted to. I had to remind myself for the zillionth
time that Ryan was the type who chased after the likes of Gwyneth Riordan and
girls with 90210 names like Madison and Alexandra. He threw drunken parties and
got naked with them in hot tubs. Today was all wrong. Why did he have to find me
at the driving range anyway?

At least I could get in a round of golf. And stop overanalyzing
everything.

Without so much as a glance in his direction, I stepped up to
my ball, lowered my forehead and bent my knees. I swung my club, closed my
eyes,and listened to the sharp, clear sound of the ball when it left my club.
Normally I closed my eyes only on my practice swings, but with Ryan so close,
this was the only way I could concentrate.

“Good shot!” Ryan said after the ball went sailing into the
air.

I opened my eyes and watched the ball fly across the sky and
land in the middle of the fairway.

“Do me a favor?” Ryan said.

“Okay.” I pulled the tee out of the ground.

“Watch my swing. Tell me what’s wrong with it.”

Wrong? Is the color of the sky wrong? What
could be wrong?

“Uh...okay,” I stammered and then stepped away from the tee box
to give him enough swinging room.

Ryan bent over to tee up his ball. His blond head gleamed in
the morning sun. I liked how his hair was always slightly disheveled, never
perfect. He stood, legs together, studying the fairway. His lips always pursed
when he concentrated. Then he spread his legs apart and took three practice
swings before adjusting his black sunglasses one final time. His little ritual.
Kind of like mine before I struck a ball.

I had to remind myself to focus on his swing. My pulse started
racing when I realized that Ryan would expect me to say something helpful,
something coherent.

Come on, Fred. Pull it
together!

Finally, Ryan swung his club, and I sucked back a breath. His
ball sailed farther than mine but not as straight. It sliced slightly to the
right before landing on the edge of the fairway. A decent shot, but not
great.

Ryan grumbled. He let his club thump to the ground like it was
a heavy bowling ball. “Well?” He frowned in the distance at his shot.

I cleared my throat. “It was a good...”
And you looked amazingly hot swinging your club.

“But?” He walked toward me and let his sunglasses drop to his
chest. My heart raced faster as his glasses dangled at the end of the leather
strap.

“Well...”
Here goes.
“You raised
your head before you completely followed through. And you might be gripping your
club too tightly.” I grimaced at him apologetically.

Ryan’s head began to bob slowly, as if I’d just shared the
world’s greatest tip in, like, ever. “Yeah,” he said, pausing the head bob to
let a smile slowly stretch across his face. “I think you’re right. Coach is
always getting on me about that.” Another heavy sigh. A happy one? “Jeez, I
really have to stop that.”

Everything was going well, but then I had to blurt out, “Next
time, why don’t you try closing your eyes on your practice swings. Picture your
swing. Picture where you want the ball to go.”

His chin pulled back. “Seriously?”

Why’d I say that?
“Yeah.” I climbed
into the cart, avoiding his gaze as I spoke. “Close your eyes and then let your
body do the rest.” I braced myself to be chided.

But Ryan didn’t laugh. “Okay.” His tone turned serious as he
climbed into the cart beside me. “I’ll try that.”

I couldn’t look at him. I’d sounded so cheesy.
Close your eyes and then let your body do the rest. Really,
Fred. What were you thinking?

“Thanks. You’re sure you’ve never had lessons?” The cart
started humming beneath our feet as we drove to the next hole.

“Positive,” I said, turning. Looking at him, sitting so close,
I squirmed as heat rushed up beneath the buttons of my shirt.

Ryan smiled.

I gripped the side handle on the cart so that I wouldn’t fall
out.

It was going to be a long morning, certainly different from the
one I’d planned.

Chapter 24
Ryan

I WAS FEELING
LUCKY WHEN I
found Fred alone at the driving range, although luck
didn’t have much to do with it.

I’d remembered something Coach Lannon had said after the
tournament last week during the bus ride back to the school:
You guys should spend
your Saturdays at the driving range like Fred, practicing. She must plow
through six buckets of balls, at least. If it wasn’t for her, we would have
lost this tournament. And it was ours to win this year.
Most of the
guys had bristled at Coach Lannon’s assessment, even me, but that was last week.
Last week I was doing everything possible to ignore Fred Oday’s existence.

Now she had become impossible to ignore. She was everywhere,
even when she wasn’t. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her for longer
than five minutes, and I wasn’t exactly sure why. Suddenly I had become curious
about everything—like how she got so good at golf, where she lived, who she hung
with, what she thought about and why her hair always smelled soft and sweet like
the desert. It was embarrassing, really, and I hadn’t told anyone. How could I?
Who’d understand it if I said that Fred Oday was different in all the ways that
were beginning to matter?

At the ninth hole, just as the course started to fill with
golfers, the woman who drove the beverage cart finally stopped alongside us, her
silver cooler loaded with cans covered in ice. My mouth watered just looking at
it.

“Thirsty?” I asked Fred when the beverage cart stopped.

Fred shook her head. “I brought water.”

“Come on. Do you like Coke or root beer?”

Fred’s lips twisted. “Okay. Root beer, then.”

“Two root beers,” I told the lady, reaching for my wallet.
She handed each of us an ice-cold can. Fred pressed hers against her forehead. I
figured her head must get pretty hot with all that hair.

When she left, I said, “Wish I could have bought two
beers.”

The brightness in Fred’s face faded, and I wanted to cram
the words back into my big stupid mouth.

Lame, Berenger. Totally lame.

“So, you don’t drink?” I popped my can, anxious to prove
that I wasn’t the tool that she obviously thought I was.

Fred shook her head and looked away, distant again.

“Why?”

She wouldn’t face me and fiddled with her can. “Cuz I don’t
like it.”

“So, you’ve tried it?” I asked her carefully.

Her chin lifted. “A sip or two.” She turned, finally.

“Don’t like the taste?”

She nodded. “Or the smell.”

“Oh. Well, that’s cool.”

A nervous giggle rumbled in the back of Fred’s throat,
surprising me. “That’s cool?” Her eyes widened. “I’ve seen what it does to
people.”

I watched my reflection flicker in her eyes. I wondered if
she was referring to me, but Fred had never seen me drunk, and for that I was
supremely grateful. “You mean like some of the guys at my party.” It wasn’t a
question.

“Your party.” She paused, a crisp edge to her voice that I
hadn’t heard before. “And other places.”

Real pain clouded Fred’s eyes when she said
other places.
On the reservation, I assumed. It bothered me to see the hurt in her face, her
eyes, and at the same time I wanted to understand. I found myself anxious to
know everything about her. Just when I had almost worked up the nerve to ask,
she sighed impatiently and glanced at the foursome gaining behind us. They had
almost reached the green. “Come on, we better get going.” Fred started to climb
out of the cart, but I held her back. Her eyes dipped to where my fingers
clutched her forearm.

“Sorry, Fred,” I said quietly.

“For what?” Her eyes met mine.

“For making you mad. Again. I didn’t mean to.”

Fred sighed again. “I’m not mad. I’m just not much for small
talk, remember?”

I paused and then made a teasing face. I released her arm,
reluctantly. Her skin brushed like satin against my fingertips. “So you’ve told
me.”

“It’s your shot.” The lightness returned to her voice.

We walked side by side to where our golf balls had landed in
the middle of the fairway, only a few yards apart this time.

Chapter 25
Fred

WHEN RYAN
REACHED
for my forearm, I thought my breathing would stop.

I really hoped he hadn’t noticed that my skin was on fire, and
not because it still felt like August in late September. My body temperature had
absolutely nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with Ryan
Berenger. Just one look from him gave me goose bumps. Could another person truly
cause that?

I was having such a good time playing golf with him that it
surprised me.

But why’d he have to bring up drinking? Drinking was something
that I did my best to forget, especially when I could avoid it. I doubted his
mother sat around their perfect backyard wearing her sparkly birthday necklace
and tossing empty beer cans into their manicured flower beds, reminding Ryan
that the best he could hope for was a trailer and a waitressing job.

“Your turn.” I nodded at his ball. Since he’d tried my little
trick and started closing his eyes on his practice swings, he’d been hitting
straighter drives. A small part of me wondered whether at first he’d sliced the
ball on purpose to get my attention, to get me to look at him. If only I could
tell him that it wasn’t necessary to ask for a golf tip. I’d have done it
anyway.

Ryan hit his second shot so that it landed squarely on the
green.

“Great shot,” I said with my hand over my eyes to block the
glare.

“Thanks.” He smiled at me. “Your turn.”

I walked over to my ball and took my two usual practice swings.
“You mind watching my swing?” I said casually without really looking at him.
“I’m having trouble with this nine-iron. Tell me what I’m doing wrong?” Not
completely untrue but not completely true either. For the first time in my life,
I felt a little bold. Totally unlike me.

Ryan took a step closer. “Sure,” he said. He looked eager.

I lowered my forehead and bit back a guilty smile.

I gripped the club, lowered my chin and bent my knees. Then I
swung the club and lifted my head, a moment sooner than necessary. The ball
sailed into the air and bounced next to the green instead of on it. I made a
frowny face.

“What happened?” Ryan walked onto the tee box. “I’ve never seen
you do that before.”

“What?” I said, careful to maintain an innocent tone. Jeez, I
was acting like such a girl!

Ryan chuckled. “You missed a green!”

“Hey, I’m not perfect, you know.” My head tilted to one
side.

But Ryan chuckled again, still watching me from behind his
sunglasses. From the way his smile turned up on one side, I thought he might
disagree. Did he seriously think I was bordering on perfect? At least
special?

“Keep your head down on your swing,” he said, not bothering to
hide his smirk.

I smiled sweetly. “I’ll try to remember that.”

Then Ryan laughed, and I couldn’t help laughing, too. It felt
so good. It was like a dream. The day—life, the sun, the air—everything began to
feel so unbelievably good. I wanted to stay wrapped inside it.

We finished playing the back nine less seriously than the front
nine. We went from a formal round of golf to something resembling miniature
putt-putt at the mall. The only things missing were the windmills, lazy rivers
and rubber ducks. We used our golf clubs like pool cues when we weren’t using
them like hockey sticks.

“Good thing Coach Lannon isn’t watching,” Ryan said. “He’d
freak.”

For the rest of the morning, we didn’t keep score or stress
about missing short putts or long drives. Ryan wasn’t loud or nosy; he wasn’t
overly talkative either, although he did enough talking for the both of us. I
liked that. I liked that he had less of an edge away from school and his
friends. He could be sweet and funny. I could stay pretty comfortable around
him, almost enough to be myself.

We switched clubs and experimented with using drivers as
putters and putters as drivers. I even let Ryan make a crack about my golf bag.
I had it coming. “This looks like my grandmother’s couch,” he said, examining
it, and I tried to look mad but he made me laugh till my ribs ached.

Around the thirteenth hole, the ranger yelled at us for slowing
the play, and we both had to bite down on the insides of our lips to keep from
laughing. And getting kicked off the course.

By the eighteenth hole, I didn’t want the day to end. It had
been one of the best days that I could remember in, well, forever. If Ryan had
suggested playing another round, I would have happily agreed, no matter how
badly my arms throbbed.

Instead, he said, “How about lunch?”

I said, “Yes,” before he finished asking. I’d never had lunch
at the clubhouse before. It was reserved for members only. Never mind that it
was the world’s biggest luxury to be waited on by someone else for a change,
complete with linen napkins and crystal water glasses and everything. I couldn’t
refuse.

We both ordered cheeseburgers as thick as hockey pucks. Ryan
insisted that I try the vanilla milk shake. “If I get one, you’ve got to get
one, too,” he told me. I ate every morsel, including all of the French fries and
the enormous pickle that accompanied my plate.

“Finally,” Ryan said as I bit into the pickle. The juices
exploded inside my mouth. “A girl with an appetite.”

“What?” I said. “A girl can’t eat?”

“Exactly,” Ryan said.

At last, Ryan signed a receipt left on our table. “Do you need
a ride home?”

“No,” I said quickly.
No way.
“But
thanks anyway.”

“How will you get home?”

“My dad. He gets off his shift at five.”

“But what will you do till then?”

My shoulders shrugged. “Practice some more. On the driving
range.”

“So this is how you spend all your Saturdays?”

I nodded. “Mostly, although the day usually doesn’t include
lunch at the clubhouse.”

“No wonder you’re so good.”

I felt my cheeks turn hot. “Practice never hurts.”

“Obviously.”

Ryan leaned back in his chair, studying me again. I guess you
could say I was starting to get used to it. The window behind him overlooked the
golf course, framing him like a photograph in perfect greens and oranges. “You
really are serious about your golf. I thought I loved golf, but I am nothing
like you. Not even close.”

I looked back at him, and my smile tightened, just a little
bit. I wasn’t ready to tell him why I left home every chance I got. Golf just
happened.

“But I don’t mind driving you home—”

My eyes widened. “No!” I paused and then swallowed, before he
thought I was a lunatic. “I mean, that’s real nice of you, but thanks. My dad
kind of prefers that I wait for him. It’s sort of become a ritual.”

Ryan’s chin pulled back.

“You know,” I said, “gives us a chance to talk and stuff.”

Ryan sighed heavily. “No, I wouldn’t know.” But then he leaned
forward and crossed his arms on the table. In a softer voice, he said, “I really
had fun today, Fred. Thanks for playing with me.”

Instinctively, I leaned forward, too, our elbows only inches
apart. “Me, too. Thanks for asking.”

“Are we cool?”

“Totally.”

Then Ryan dipped his head, and his eyes flashed behind me, like
he’d seen a werewolf or something. “Oh, no,” he moaned. He sank lower in his
chair so that my head could hide him.

“What?” I turned.

“Don’t turn around.”

Too late.

“Dammit,” Ryan exhaled. “It’s Zack Fisher and his dad.”

A sour taste rolled up my throat. Why did it feel like we were
doing something wrong? Like I was wrong?

“Great. He sees us.” He exhaled through clenched teeth. Another
soft moan. “And he’s coming over....”

“Probably time for me to go,” I said, but I had no idea how to
leave. My body was frozen to the chair.

Ryan thrust out his hand, covering mine. “No!” The water glass
next to my hand wobbled, and his voice softened. “I mean,
no.
Just wait. I’ll deal with Fisher.”

I looked down at Ryan’s hand, covering mine, confused. Waiting.
Did he realize my fingers had begun to shake?

Then I glanced over my shoulder again, just slightly.

Zack waved, the curls bouncing about his head. When his gaze
met mine, his eyes widened with that same look of horror in Ryan’s eyes. Zack
stopped so abruptly that the toe of his dad’s golf shoe caught his ankle.

Ryan chuckled a little at their impromptu floor show, but I
didn’t share in the amusement. Was Ryan embarrassed to be seen with me?

I looked back at Ryan, a dozen new questions filling my brain,
then down at our hands, then back into his eyes. Confusion. Frustration. Pure
agony.

Ryan’s gaze met mine. He didn’t release our hands.

My breathing stopped. I needed water but didn’t—couldn’t—slip
my hand away from Ryan’s, even though I knew with every brain cell that I
should. “Is it a problem seeing Zack?” The words stung inside my mouth.

The tightness in Ryan’s face began to fade. “It’s always a
problem seeing Zack.”

“Why?”

Ryan chuckled again, but this time it was forced. “Because he’s
got the biggest mouth in the galaxy.”

I was afraid to look behind me again. I wished Zack had never
come to the clubhouse, but maybe it was better that he had. At least now I knew
Ryan didn’t want anyone to know about us, if there was an
us.
My voice wavered. “Is he still here?”

Ryan sat higher. “No. His dad yanked him out the door. Probably
late for their tee time. Lucky us.”

Lucky me.

“You doing anything tonight?” Ryan asked suddenly, and I’m
pretty sure all the blood drained from my face. My emotions jumbled and wound
together like a ball of rubber bands. I didn’t know which one to pull at
first.

When I looked down at our hands again, Ryan sat back, releasing
mine as if finally realizing that he’d been holding it. My head went a little
dizzy. “Tonight?”

Ryan smiled again, the crooked kind that made breathing
difficult. “Yeah, it’s Saturday night. Do you...go out?”

Normally I try to work,
I thought,
but I didn’t dare say that. Then I would have to tell him where, and that would
only dredge up a really ugly memory involving me, him and a gooey slice of
mesquite-honey mousse cake.

“Um, sometimes,” I said in a casual voice.
Make that never.

Ryan cleared his throat. He wasn’t letting it go. “Well, would
you like to go out with me? Tonight? Maybe see a movie at the mall?”

I stared back at him numbly.
Like a
date?

I looked at him without really looking at him. Urgently I ran
through a laundry list of logistics in my head: (1) I would have to make sure I
wasn’t offered a shift at the restaurant. Turning it down would only piss off
Mom; (2) I would have to borrow Dad’s van, which had less than a half tank of
gas; (3) I would need to cajole Dad for permission—and Dad had barely slept last
night; and (4) What about Gwyneth Riordan? Weren’t Saturday nights usually
reserved for girlfriends? The Gwyneth Situation nagged at me most of all.

“Well?” Ryan winced, lowering his chin as if he was bracing
himself for a
no.

“Um, I don’t know...” I said finally.

“I could pick you up—”

“No!” I said again, interrupting him. “I mean, that’s not
really necessary.”

“We could just go somewhere and talk if you don’t like
movies.”

“Go somewhere?” I blinked away the dryness beginning to cloud
my eyes.

“Yeah, it’s been fun talking to you today. I guess...” His head
tilted as his shoulders lifted. “I guess I’m not ready for it to end.” Then his
cheeks darkened, and I felt a relieved smile stretch across my face. That might
have been the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me in the History of Ever. My
skin turned warm and tingly again, all the way down my back.

I heard my own voice say, “I like talking to you, too.”

Ryan’s face brightened, as if what I’d said surprised him. His
eyes lowered to my hands, and for a moment I thought he might reach for mine
again. I wished he would. I wanted those goose bumps.

But then I had a better idea. “Do you know where Pecos Road
ends? At Chandler Boulevard? There’s a barbed-wire fence at the end.”

Ryan nodded, but his eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he said slowly.

“Meet me there at eight?”

He blinked. “Can’t I come pick you up?”

I swallowed. “No, that’s okay. I can get there myself.”

“In your van?” His tone turned doubtful, but I ignored it.

“Something like that.” By eight o’clock, Dad would be sleeping,
and if Mom was home, she’d already be well into her first six-pack and wouldn’t
notice I was gone. She’d think I was in my bedroom, reading. It could work.

It
had
to work.

“Okay, then,” Ryan said as he rose from his chair. “Eight
o’clock. I’ll be there.”

I smiled up at him, every inch of my skin still tingling from
my forehead to the tips of my toes. My hands reached underneath the table and
pressed against my stomach when it started to do flip-flops.