Slow Burn (26 page)

“Oh, he doesn’t like to talk about me—I’m an embarrassment,” I say quickly.  I s
mile in an obnoxious tween way.  “Can I have a moment with my brother?  I have some family issues I need to talk to him about.  Mom’s drinking again.”

What can she say to that?
  Clearly annoyed, she throws a terse “call me” at Dean before stomping away.  I do feel bad for ruining her sexy time.

I sink down in the sand next
to Dean.  He doesn’t look at me, so it’s hard to gauge how angry he is.

“I’m reall
y, really sorry,” I say finally.  “I don’t even know why I did it—and I totally didn’t meant to spy on you like that.  It was just…weird, you know?  I’ve never seen you with a girl, so I always kinda thought you were—um, not gay.  More like…asexual?”

That earns me a look.  “Thanks,” he says dryly.

“Okay, that came out really bad,” I admit with a laugh.  “It’s just that you have this ‘strong, silent’ thing going on, which makes it kind of hard to relate to you.  Though I have to admit, you’ve been pretty human lately.”

Dean glances at me again, and that upward turn at the corner of his mouth gives a glimpse of how incredible a full-blown smile from him would be.  “Are you trying to piss me off?”

“Old habits die hard,” I fire back.  I don’t know why we keep repeating each other, but I can do it all day if he wants.

He shakes his head, and goes back to looking out at the ocean.  We sit in companionable silence for a while, and it’s nice.  I offer him
a part of my chocolate bar, which he declines with a small gesture of his hand.

“I’m not good at it,” he says finally, out of the blue.

“What?”  I swallow a bite of chocolate—painfully.  “Being human?”

“
Getting to know people…small talk.”  He shrugs.  “Making friends.”

“Oh, well, that’s probably because you’ve been skating by on your looks for most of you
r life.”  I mean to say this in a teasing way, but I don’t think I quite make it.

The flash of humor on Dean’s face makes me sigh in relief
.  He’s not mad.  “You’re not so good at the whole making friends thing yourself.”

“Come on, you must know you’re really, ridiculously attractive, right?”

“How am I suppose to answer that without sounding like an asshole?”

I have to smile at that.  “Tell you what—you can practice on me.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.  “Being an asshole?”

“Ha, no,
I’m sure you don’t need more experience in that area.  I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…we could be friends.”

He doesn’t reply right away, and for a second, I wonder if I’ve overstepped my bounds.  What could I bring to the friendship, other than insults and too-personal observations?

“You wanna be friends?” Dean finally says, tilting his head to the side and squinting in that way he does.  He looks both amused and uncertain.

“Sure,” I say decisively.  I run my fingers through my long hair, pulling it away fr
om my face.  “I’m not saying I totally forgive you for being so mean to me before…but it’s in the past, so let’s leave it there.  No more fighting.”

“No fighting?  I don’t know if I could live with that.”

His tone is teasing, and I take that as a good sign.  “Oh, me neither.  We’d have to have a couple of friendly arguments every once in a while.  You could push me down in the mud, and I could beat you in a race.  For old time’s sake.”

“Come again?
” Dean says, looking at me like maybe he heard wrong.  “You’ve never beat me in a race.”

“You ate my dust
that one time,” I say indignantly.  “You know, you should really see someone about that selective memory of yours.”

When he
just chuckles and shakes his head, I spring up.  Kicking off my sandals, I stand in front of him, hands on my hips.

“
Okay, Youngblood, on your feet.  I challenge you to a rematch right now.”

His
head comes up .  “What are the terms?”

I shrug.  “Winner gets bragging rights.”

Dean climbs to his feet, towering over me.  He looks down at me with a challenging gleam in those beautifully odd eyes.  “I accept.  First one to that post and back.”

He indicates the direction with a nod of his head, and I immediately take off
, not looking back.  Swearing, he follows—right on my heels, despite my head start.

It’s much harder to run on the sand than on—oh, anything else.  But I love to run when I’m being chased.  My bare feet sink into the sand with each running step, and my long hair streams behind me, slowing me down in a parachute-like effect.  I don’t care, I don’t even care if I win—this is fun!
  I feel like a carefree child, unconscious of style or form as I pump my legs forward.

I could use the support of a bra, though.  The bouncing…ow.

Dean is right behind me, and I feel him effortlessly catch up.  “You pulled that same move last time,” he says as casually as if he were sitting down instead of sprinting in the sand.

“And you fell for it again
—ha!”

Grinning,
I give him a little shove, hoping to throw him off his rhythm.  Then I put on a burst of speed, surging ahead.

For one brief delusional second, I think I’m going to win.  Then Dean streaks by, reaching the post mere feet ahead of me.
  He’s not even out of breath, and he’s laughing at me!

I’m trying to get my breath back.  It’s not the running that stole it.  I’m staring at Dean the way one would stare at a beautiful work of art, or a particularly stunning sunset—so in awe it makes my chest hurt a little.  Despite the shadows of the night, I try to individually catalogue his features,
wondering what makes him so beautiful.  Is it the way they are arranged so harmoniously on his face?  No, each attribute is striking on its own, I conclude.  How sickening.  I don’t think I’ll ever be able to not admire that face.

“How did you get those scars?” I ask him abruptly
.

Dean is checking his phone
.  He glances up at me with a half grin.  “Fighting and football.”  He slides the phone into the back pocket of his jeans.  “Johnny’s looking for you.”

“Oh,” I say, frowning.  “Oh!  I was looking for Heather.  I’d better grab my purse and shoes.”

I start to head back to where I abandoned my belongings on the sand, but Dean stops me.  “I’ll get them,” he offers.

He jogs off, then returns shortly with my things.  “Thanks,” I say, reaching for my purse.

Somehow, I end up knocking it out of his hand.  My purse falls on its side, spilling most of the contents out onto the sand.  Way to go, Clumsy.

We both crouch down in the sand to pick up the items.  I’m so glad I cleaned out my purse yesterday.  Dean does not to see the crumpled up tissues and tampons I usually have stashed in there.

“What’s this?”

Dean’s holding
up a drawstring pouch.  “Those are my trouble dolls,” I tell him.

At his puzzled look,
I take it from him and open it up.  “Hold out your hand,” I order him.

When he does, I shake
the contents of the pouch onto his palm.  The seven brightly colored dolls look even tinier in his big hand.

“You tell them your troubles and then stick them under your pillow.  While you’re sleeping, they’re suppose to solve all your problems for you,” I explain to him.  “
My mom got them from a psychic shop in San Diego she used to go to all the time.  They’re from Guatemala.”

Dean picks one
of the little dolls up, and holds it up, squinting at it in the moonlight.  “You sleep with these things?”

“No, I don’t actually believe in
the legend.”  I roll my eyes and carefully take my dolls back, sticking them back in the pouch.  “I think they’re cute.  I don’t remember how they ended up in my purse, though.”  I’m totally lying—Marta, Greta, Ansel, Avery, Giovanni, Blodwyn, and Shaniqua have gone everywhere with me since I was twelve.

I check my phone and notice several missed calls and texts, mostly from Johnny. 
He still freaks out when I’m out of his sight for too long.  I wish I didn’t find that endearing.  You’re sick, Juliet.  Sick and twisted, and so—

“I think this belongs to you.”

I look up to see Dean holding up my bra, dangling it from his fingers like a fish on a hook.  Before I can say anything, amused male voice suddenly sounds out of the darkness.

“Well, well, what
have we here, boys and girls?”

I sigh in relief as Ben strolls forward, hands tucked into the front pocket of his khaki shorts.  He’s looking back and forth between me and Dean, an ins
inuating smirk on his handsome face.

“Nothing to see here.”  I roll my eyes at Ben’s wide grin.  “
Dean needed a slingshot—I was in an accommodating mood.”

“Yeah, I bet you were.”

Ben grabs my bra from Dean and starts twirling it around, burlesque style.  “Does Johnny know about this?”

I snicker
, snatching it back from him.  “What, that Dean and I have been trysting on the beach at night?  We were waiting for the perfect opportunity to tell him, weren’t we, Dean?  Our love is so new, I wanted to keep it a secret for a while longer.  At least until the baby is born.”

Dean ignores me, letting my teasing roll off him like water off a duck’s back.  But Ben chuckles, elbowing him in the ribs.

“I always had a feeling about you two.  The sexual tension between y’all is ridiculous.”

My eyes meet Dean’s, and I burst out laughing.
  “Right.  All that fighting and cold silences were just foreplay.”

“Big time,” Ben agrees with a sly look at Dean. 
“You do like living dangerously, Youngblood.  Shit, man, you keep playing with someone else’s toys, you’re gonna get caught.”

To my surprise, Dean smirks back at him. 
“I’m not gonna get caught.”

I don’t know what they’re talking about, but I’m certain it doesn’t have anything to do with me.  Which is why I’m letting that ‘someone else’s toys’ comment go.  I wonder what secrets Ben knows about Dean, though.

I decide to change the subject before curiosity gets the better of me.  “Ben, have you seen my friend, Heather?”

“You mean the
drunk redhead glued to Sloane’s ass?  Can’t exactly miss her when she’s going around telling everyone she’s the president of the Itty Bitty Titty Club.”

“Oh noooo,” I groan.
  “I have to go.”

Trying to run while putting my sandals on, I hop awkwardly away.  Damn it, Heather!  I warned her, and she just—grrr! 

I briefly entertain visions of dragging Heather away by her hair while she shrieks like a tea kettle.  It would have been perfectly acceptable in caveman times, according to the movies.  If only.

I f
ind Heather in a circle of people near one of the bonfires.  One of the girls is Arianna, and I’m annoyed to find them giggling together.  Sloane stands on the other side of Heather, and she appears to be listening to whatever fascinating story the drunk redhead is recounting animatedly.  Gosh, I wish I could rent her out at parties. I would make a fortune.

The group’s
mood sours as soon as I intrude, mostly due to Arianna’s glare.  What is that girl’s problem?  I pull Heather away to scold her about breaking her promise not to get drunk.  She’s irritated with me for interrupting her moment with Sloane, but I don’t care.  I resolve to shadow her every movement for the rest of the night.

It goes downhill
quickly after that.  I manage to catch the attention of one of the many drunk and horny guys roaming the party like stray dogs.  Not only does he grab my boob and try to hump me from behind—he does this in front of Johnny, who at his most sober, is
not
known for his Zen-like control.  He body slams the drunk pervert to the ground and proceeds to beat his face in. 

Three guys I don’t recognize try to pull Johnny off the guy, but it’s not happening.  Finally,
Mack  and Nick come to the rescue, wrestling the beaten guy out from under him.  The drunk guy makes it only a few stumbling feet before he falls into the sand ,bawling loudly.  No one seems to notice, and the party continues on.  I try to help the guy out by getting him some ice and a towel—and while I’m cleaning him up, he tries to go for the boob again!  What the hell?!  I just can’t.

By the time our group is willing to call it a night, Dean and I are the only sober ones
left.  Jason and Ryan decide to spend the night at Mark’s along with several other kids, so it’s Mack in the passenger seat, and Nick and Heather leaning against each other and snoring away in the middle.  Johnny and I are alone in the back, and it doesn’t take him long to find out I’m not wearing a bra.  Even smashed out of his mind, he’s still irresistible.  Fortunately, the memory of him beating some guy to a bloody pulp is still fresh in my mind, and I have no problem yanking his hands out of my dress.  Besides, I’m not down with exhibitionism, and I never understood how couples could just make out at parties in full view of everyone else.  Aren’t the girls afraid it would end up on the internet?