The Complete Arrogant Series (15 page)

Jensen

“Claire Fahnlander is obsessed with you.” I’m walking out of
morning devotions Monday morning next to Waverly. So far Camp Zion is a carbon
copy of Whispering Hills high school complete with the same familiar faces and
one, miss Claire Fahnlander shooting daggers our way during prayer time.

“She’s always been,”
Waverly
sighs, hoisting her Bible and Book of Mormon on her
hip as we breeze down the hallway. “She used to have a thing for Cade Corbin.
Cade has a thing for me.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. It’s been going
on since middle school.”

“So
that’s
why she doesn’t like you?”

“I guess?” Waverly doesn’t seem
to care that much, which is a relief because I know how fucking catty these
high school bitches can be. “I try to stay out of it.”

“Who’s Cade Corbin?”

“That guy right there.” She nods
forward where a tall, lanky guy with surfer hair and a neon pink, popped-collar
polo is walking toward us. He’s smiling at her like a love-struck puppy dog.
Waverly stops at a drinking fountain.
“He’s been in love
with me for years. I think he just wants me because he can’t have me.”

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t
feel good knowing she came all over my cock the other night but she won’t give
frat boy here the time of day. Almost makes a guy feel special.

“Hey.” Cade weasels his way up to
us, edging me out with calculated intention. “So, uh, any plans this summer?”

Waverly smiles at him, laughing
under her
breath
like she’s amused by his goofy grin
and his California tan and those disgusting dimples. He’s showering her with
attention and she’s lapping it right up like a kitten to milk. “Cade, you know
I can’t hang out with you.”

“I’ve been waiting forever for
this,” he says. “All those years of turning me down and you won’t at least let
me take you on one date? Send me off to college on a high note?”

This guy’s fucking obnoxious, and
I want to slap that smug grin off his face right here, right now.

“She’s with me.” I clear my
throat as Cade whips around.

His smile fades. “Who’re you?”

Waverly shoots me a furrowed-brow
look, which I’m interpreting as, “Protect the family secret,” but for all I
know, it also means, “Don’t intervene, I actually want to date this douche
canoe.”

I’m not a mind reader, so she’s
out of luck.

“We’re together.” I’m not sure
why that seemed like the best thing to say in that moment, but I’ve said it and
now I have to own it.

Her jaw drops, her face paling.
Cade scratches the side of his head, squinting at me.

“I thought you couldn’t date?” he
asks her.

It’s funny watching her squirm
and
try
to come up with some kind of impromptu lie,
especially since she’s a horrible liar. I decide not to make her suffer too
long.

“She’s not supposed to.” I inch
closer to her, slipping my hand into hers. “It’s kind of under wraps, so I’d
appreciate you not saying anything to anyone, man. Thanks.”

I pull her down the hall with me,
leaving Cade to eat my dust. By the time we round the corner, she yanks her
hand out of mine.

“Why did you do that?” Her words
are delivered with a hushed heat. “What, you think because of last night, I’m with
you now?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not. Let’s
just make that clear right now.” I smirk, rubbing my hand across my mouth.

“You can’t just tell people we’re
together.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” She wants to get angry
at
me, I can tell, but she’s still trying to wrap her
head around how she feels about it.
This will
either
bode well for me or it’ll be catastrophic. “Because it’s not true.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

She’s cute.

“I’m not supposed to date, and
even if I were, you’re the last person on earth I should be associating with in
that way,” she says. “Look, I’m already on thin ice, and if this were to get
back to my dad…”

Her words trail off, like she’s
afraid to finish the thought.

“I can handle your dad. Not
worried about him.”

She’s quiet, but her face says it
all.

“What, are you afraid of him?” I
ask. “Or, wait, are you afraid to
disappoint
him?”

Her palms smooth over the hem of
her sweater. “Look, just don’t tell people I’m with you, okay? Even if you’re
joking.”

“Fine,” I say. “As long as you
don’t go on a date with Cade Corwin.”

“Corbin.”

“Whatever.”

“Not a problem.” Waverly rolls
her eyes. “I’m not going to date him, anyway.”

“I can’t imagine you’re missing
out on much.” I grab the collar of my polo and pop it up, flashing a goofy grin
like Cade’s.

She cracks a smile and somehow
we’re just now realizing the halls have emptied around us. Her
hand clasps
over her mouth. “Jensen, we’re going to be late
for the Faith-Building workshop.”

“Oh, no. Whatever will we do?” I
find the situation to be hilarious, though judging by the sour look on her face
we’re not on the same page.
At all.
She brushes past
me in a panicked frenzy, only I grab her arm. “Where are you going?”

“Class.” She jerks her arm from
my grasp.

“No, you’re not.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t be
late. I can’t have any tardies on my record. They’ll make a note of it on my
weekly report, and Bellamy already says everyone thinks I’m acting different
and I’m still trying to prove to my Dad that—”

She yammers on, but I tune her
out.

“We’re both adults here.” I clear
my throat, interrupting her train of thought. “Let’s just sign ourselves out.
They’ll only contact your parents if you’re, like, missing or a no-show. Trust
me. I’ve spent my fair share of summers at Bible Camp. If we sign ourselves
out, that takes care of any tardies or unexcused absences. This isn’t high
school.”

She leans back against the wall,
her head tilted, and then our eyes meet. “Fine.”

That
was easy.

With determined steps, we rush to
the main office and sign ourselves out. Minutes later we’re just a couple
of
free birds, heading down student-free halls toward the
front doors where adventure begins the second we peel out of the parking lot.

She climbs into my truck,
slinging her bag between us. “So what now? Where are we going?”

“I hadn’t thought that far.”

“Seriously?”

“You were worried about getting a
tardy,” I say, turning the ignition. “Now you don’t get a tardy and you get out
of camp for a few hours so you can be bad with me.”

“Just don’t get me into too much trouble
today. Let’s fly low on the radar.”

“So you barged into my room last week
and practically demanded that I fuck you, and now you don’t want to get into
trouble?” Good to know even losing her virginity hasn’t changed the core of
Waverly Miller. She’s still jam-packed with indecisive confusion. “You had a
problem. I solved it. You really think I’d get you out of trouble just to get
you into more trouble?”

“All I said was don’t get me in
too much
trouble today.” She buckles up,
crossing her legs and staring straight ahead. “I’m trusting you with my future.
I still think I can convince my dad to let me go to college. I’m trying to walk
a very thin, narrow line here. That’s the only reason I let you talk me into
signing out.”

“You trust me?”

“You’re good at this being bad
stuff. You know what you’re doing.”

I pull out of the parking lot and
come to a stop at the corner. “You’re okay with last week, right? We never had
a chance to talk about it. You spent all weekend doing chores or some shit like
that. I thought you were avoiding me.”

“How many times are you going to
ask me?” she huffs. “I’m totally fine.”

My foot presses into the gas.
“Just making sure.”

Waverly stares
out the window, tracing her finger across a smudge on the glass.
“So, where
are we going?”

“Probably shouldn’t stick around
town if you’re not wanting to be seen.” I roll down my window, letting the
fresh air hit my face. Freedom is skipping some bullshit camp with a pretty
girl by your side and no particular destination in mind.

“The next town over,” she says.
“Hilldale. They have antique shops and little cafés.”

My lip curls up on one side. “I’m
sorry, Waverly, but I am
not
going
antiquing with you.
I’m not your boyfriend
,
remember
? You made that pretty clear just a little while
ago.”

“So if you were my boyfriend, you
would go antiquing with me?”

“Probably. But you’d have to blow
me first.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“That’s how relationships work, just
so you know. You do shit you don’t want to do and sometimes you have to bribe
each other with sexual favors.” She smacks me hard across the arm, though it
doesn’t much hurt. “And why the fuck does an eighteen-year-old want to go
antiquing, anyway?”

We pull out onto the main road
that veins through town east and west.

Waverly slinks a shoulder up to
her ear. “I don’t know. It’s something to do.”

“You need to grow your
imagination, then. I can think of a million other things to do that are better
than antiquing.” I switch the radio on to a classic rock station. “What do you
like to do in your free time?”

“Never had a whole lot of it.
Most of my time is spent at home. Housework. Chores. I read books. That’s about
it.”

“You’re killing me here. You know
that, right?” I merge onto the interstate, rolling up my window. “Is there a
theme park around here? A mall? Anything?” A big green sign a quarter mile down
the road tells us we’re just fifteen miles away from the birthplace and
lifelong home of Mormon poetess Elizabeth Wagner. “You know her?”

“I know of her, yes,” she says.

“You want to go see where she was
born? It’s not much better than antiquing, but I get the feeling you don’t get
out much, so I’m willing to go there, and you don’t even have to blow me.”

“I wouldn’t have blown you
anyway, but yes, we can go there.” There’s a hint of a smile in her voice, and
I think she’s kind of excited.

We follow the signs to a sleepy
little town called Glen Oak that seems to encircle a small lake. About a mile
down the road, just past a handful of boat ramps, is an old house stitched
together with mudded timber. A white sign out front says: HOME OF ELIZABETH
WAGNER.

“Found it.” I shut off the
ignition and climb out.

Waverly runs to the sign, reading
the scheduled tours. “Aw, they don’t start tours until four.”

A red sedan is parked outside the
house. “Someone’s here. Won’t hurt to ask.”

I jog up to the front door and
knock before checking the handle. The house is unlocked, so I motion for her to
follow me.

“What are you doing?” She
whispers her words and crouches down, like we’re a couple of burglars.

“Hello? Anyone here?” I call out.
The house is small, a sparsely decorated living room to the right and an old
timey kitchen to the left. A set of stairs is before us, and the sound of
footsteps above tells us the owner of the red car is definitely here. “Hello?”

The footsteps move quicker until
we see the feet of a woman at the top of the stairs. She climbs down gingerly,
the stairs popping and cracking with each careful movement.

“We’re closed.” Her voice is
gruff and old, tinted with small town fatigue.

“I know, but we’re just passing
through, and my girlfriend here is a huge fan of Elizabeth Wagner’s work. It
would mean the world to her if you—”

“Twenty minutes,” she says. “And
don’t tell anybody. I’m just the cleaning lady.”

Waverly’s
mouth
parts
into a smile a mile wide and she gives my arm a squeeze.

“See?” I say. “Ask for what you
want and you just might get it.”

She scampers off toward the
living room, oohing and ahhing over display cases filled with handwritten notes
and letters by the poetess. A desk with Elizabeth’s actual feather quill and inkpot
sits behind velvet ropes.

“This was her desk,” Waverly
says. “Her actual desk. Where she wrote. She sat here.”

You’d think we were touring
Graceland, or something. “Yeah. Very cool.”

She doesn’t pick up on my
sarcasm, so I stand aside and watch her fawn over every square inch of this
humble dwelling.

“She had twelve children,”
Waverly said. “Can you imagine?”

“How many sister wives?” I tease.