And disgustingly so that I’d always stare at him even though he made me hatesick.
Which means he’s right.
I wouldn’t be able to handle it if he took his t-shirt off and flashed me his very beautiful and sculpted, soccer god of a body. In my bedroom no less.
Oh my God, he’s in my bedroom right now.
I mean, I knew that.
I just didn’t think of the implications.
I guess I just… wanted to see him so badly that it didn’t occur to me that he shouldn’t be here in the first place. If we get caughtafterI’ve made the promise to never ever see him, my parents are only going to hate him even more.
“You can’t be here,” I blurt out, determined to protect him now.
Something about my words or maybe the way I’ve said them, all breathily and yet urgently, strikes a chord in him. Not the emotional kind. The kind that’s made of one part mischief, two parts danger and three parts amusement.
“Yeah?” His eyes glitter. “Why not?”
“Because my parents are asleep just down the hall.”
Wrong thing to say.
Because that just makes him even more interested. It makes him straighten up from the desk, as if he’s getting ready to pounce. “So?”
I move back.
Again, the wrong thing to do.
Because somehow my good girl-ness triggers his bad boy-ness.
But I can’t help it. I don’t know how else to be.
That I feel something skating up and down my spine, something like thrill, is a fact I’m choosing to ignore. Because this shouldn’t be thrilling. This is a big,bigrisk that he’s taking and he needs to understand that and leave.
“So if my dad finds out that you’re here, then —”
“He’ll beat me up.”
“Yes.”
“Probably try to kill me too.”
“He w-will.”
“I’m not that easy to kill though.”
“But you are.”
“Yeah, how’s that?”
“Because you’ll let him. That’s how.”
I feel something clashing at my back. The bedpost.
Because all this time, he was inching closer and I was moving back.
A dance of a sort.