CHAPTER 4

When I wake, my head's on a pillow, and it smells like home. No. Home is a fabric softener brand. This pillow smells like sunshine and cedar.

Like him.

Blinking my eyes open reveals I'm in a strange bed.

And I'm not alone.

Timothy Adams is stretched out across the sheets as if he owns them. He's as beautiful asleep as he is awake. Maybe more so.

His firm mouth looks more forgiving with his lips parted in sleep. His eyelashes are black and so long I want to trace them with a finger. Thick, dark hair falls across his forehead, shielding him from the world.

I wonder what boys who have everything dream of.

The sheet is twisted around his legs, and his chest is bare. I drink in the cut lines of his body.

What the hell am I doing here? Did I crawl into bed with him? Did we...?

Please, God, tell me I didn't sleep with him.

Not that I haven't imagined having Timothy Adams pop my cherry back before he revealed himself as an *** who cares more about popularity than me.

But, hello, that's why we have dreams and the privacy of our own heads so we can fantasize about stupid shit we'd never admit to ourselves in the light of day.

He groans stirring  when his lashes flutter my heart leaps into my throat.

Shit, shit, shit.

He stills once more, and I exhale slowly.

Pulling back the edge of the blackout curtain reveals the soft colors of the early-morning sun peeking over the hills and trees along the horizon.

I make a lap of the room I haven 't visited in months.

Timothy's schoolbooks and bag sit on the desk my Dad and my stepmom got when he  moved in. His guitar rests against the wall by the door. He got it secondhand from my Dad's label, played it until his fingers bled.

A pile of street clothes is neatly folded on the dresser. faded  T-shirts, black and gray. A Henley. Two pair of jeans.

The same day my Dad's agent sent him a car for his final album hitting platinum, I got Timothy a Ramones T-shirt for his birthday.

He wore that shirt until the hem frayed.

I miss those days. We didn't care about anything but having fun and being alive. Every second we spent together messing around with music on my Dad's tour-bus-turned-studio, or questing to find a best cheese fries in Philly, or doing impressions behind the soundboard felt like we were taking control of our lives. Making new memories.

Timothy didn't value our friendship. He traded it for popularity at Oakwood.

I'd figured the pain would fade over time, but seeing him every day, even for a moment in the hallways or before or after school means the ache in my gut never quite goes away.

He saved your *** last night.

He saved my *** because if something had happened, my Dad might've thought he was involved in the party and come down on him. It's the only explanation.

The boy I knew, the one I laughed with and dreamed about, is long gone.

I tug on the door of the pool house and step outside in my bare feet. The speakers have long since gone silent, and there's no breeze, but I can still smell him as if he's followed me.

I clean up the patio, collecting bottles and cans before putting the bags behind the pool house.3

When the clean up is done, I sneak upstairs to my room.

I don't bother hitting the lights. The ominous, lumpy shapes are my king-sized bed, my dresser and desk, and the comfy armchair by the window I use to read and do homework. The dark spots along the wall across from my bed are music boxes, lined up on the shelf like guardians.

On impulse, I stop by the last one and lift the top.

"It's a Small World." streams out until I shut the lid again.

It's the same song every time, the same arrangement, played by gears instead of humans. The little dancing dog in a tutu ha always been the best part.

I'll figure out how to keep my part in the musical and keep Carla and her damned minions at bay without Chris' help. Without anyone's.

In my suite, I reach for a washcloth, but the reflection of the girl in the mirror makes me freeze.

Not because she's hungover or lonely.

Because she's wearing a frayed Ramones T-shirt.

Sunday morning. I shower off the booze and party, dress in jean shorts and a tank top, and fluff out my damp hair.

There's a text from Avery with a picture of the Villa they've rented, asking how the party was.

I enter and delete a few texts, settling on: No one died. I don't think Carla and I are destined to be best friends. Go drink more wine.

Timothy's T-shirt sits on top of my laundry hamper. I toss the T-shirt and some other clothes into the laundry, then grab The Great Gatsby for English class and pad down the hall. The sound of a guitar pulls me toward the kitchen.

I pause to listen, my eyes closing as I lean a shoulder against the wall.

Thousand of years ago, human beings should have spent every ounce of their precious time finding food or shelter or safety. Having sex.

Not singing songs and creating instruments.

We did it anyway. Maybe we knew then what we seem to have forgotten since: life isn't about money or winning or even surviving. It's about finding meaning in the time we have

When I peek around the corner, Uncle Rudy is laughing from a chair at the table and Timothy's playing on a stool at the island.

He's a magician. There's  no other word for the way that instrument sings under his hands.

I don't believe in Gods, but if they ever existed...

Their ashes stir each time that boy lifts a guitar.

I swallow my envy and enter the kitchen. "Morning."

"It's afternoon." Rudy points out.

"Like you and Dad ever got up before noon on tour." I head for the coffee maker without making eye contact and pick out a pod. My stepmom found his killer Columbian blend I could live on. "Dad call you this morning?"

"Not yet. But far as I know everything went fine. Now is when you bribe me." he adds with a wink as I set my mug under the stainless nozzle and hit Start.

Uncle Rudy's attention shifts to Timothy. "You play like a prodigy, kid, but that guitar is a piece of shit. Get Eddie to give you a new one."

Rudy's phone erupts into a rendition of my Dad's band laughing their way through a cover of Johnny Cash, and I glance over my shoulder.

"Tell my Dad no Carlton belongings were harmed in the making of last night's gathering." I call as Rudy heads down the hallway to answer.

The coffee finishes brewing, and as I go to retrieve it, I sneak a look at Timothy.

His presence shouldn't suck the air out of the kitchen, but once Rudy's gone, all I see is the guy who lives in the pool house. Gray sweatpants cling to his hips, and the white T-shirt outlines every plane of his torso, leaving his arms deliciously bare.

I remember that chest bare last night, too close to ignore.

His body's beautiful, but it's the way he uses it that's impossible to forget. The control in everything he does.

Timothy uses that body like he's had it before, like it's his favorite suit of armor and they've been through countless battles together.

His hair isn't falling across his forehead like it was when I left his bed hours ago, but standing up as if he woke the moment I walked out the door and has been running his hands through it since.

Which is impossible.

I clear my throat. "Why did I wake up in bed with you?"

Timothy lifts his chin, assessing. "Why did I wake up in bed without you?"

The way he says it sends shivers up my spine.

"You passed out." he goes on, setting the guitar against the wall before rising and crossing to the counter next to me. "I didn't want you to wake up somewhere unfamiliar alone."

I shift a few inches, giving him access to the coffee maker and cupboard overhead. "I would've figured it out."

"But the seconds before that are the worst."

I take a sip of my coffee, burning my tongue. "What do you mean?"

He reaches over me for a mug and to change the coffee pod. I don't think he's going to answer, but finally, he does.

"My Dad used to padlock the door if he was drunk or in a mood. Never knew until I got home from the label or school or hanging out if it was one of those nights. The worst part wasn't finding a place to crash. It was waking up and not knowing where I was."  He grimaces. "Especially somewhere cold."

I set my coffee on the counter, my stunned gaze never leaving his face as I think of the T-shirt he must've pulled over me after I passed out, the blankets tucked in around me. "Timothy---"

"Emily! Your Dad wants to talk to you." Rudy's voice comes from down the hall.

"Be right there!" I shout back, then lower my voice. "I didn't mean what I said about you living in the pool house. It was cruel and insensitive, and I'm sorry. You said that thing about my garbage bag, and I lashed out."

The machine finishes brewing, and Timothy reaches past me to toss the pod. His shoulder brushes my ****** in a way that sends awareness flowing through me. I tuck my hair behind my ear, swallowing as I sneak a look up at him, but he's oblivious, and before I can respond, he continues.

"We all do shit when we're hurting. It's a good reason to keep from getting hurt in the first place."

I go to the giant fridge for cream, setting it in front of him. He stares at it as if he's surprised I know how he takes his coffee.

I turn away, going to the cupboard for cereal. "I said I hate you. I don't. I envy you. You take what you want, and you don't feel bad about demolishing whatever's in the way. Like friendships."

"If we're not friends, tell me how we've talked more this week than in the past four months."

I freeze in the middle of the kitchen, watching him add cream to his coffee. "Because lately whenever I get into trouble, there you are."

He puts the cream back in the fridge without so much as an indication he's heard me. I shake my head to clear it as I set the cereal on the counter. "Listen, don't tell my Dad about Chris."

"Or what?"

His words have me stiffening.

If my Dad finds out I can't handle myself, it's more evidence I'm not as capable as I should be, as capable as Timothy.

Timothy might be the Prince of Oakwood, but he's in my castle now.

I close the distance between us, stopping when my bare purple-painted toenails graze Timothy's socks. I tilt my head up to take in every line of his handsome face, his chocolate eyes bright with challenge.

"If you tell Dad about Chris," I murmur. "I'll tell him I woke up in your bed."

My Dad is protective. The day he finds out I'm not innocent, heads will roll.

Timothy's jaw tics because he knows that too. He reaches up to brush a thumb along my cheek, tracing beneath the pale red scratch I saw in the mirror this morning.

"You're not built your games." he replies at last, his breath light on my face. "You're too earnest."

"You don't know me anymore. You said it yourself. Dad would freak if you let me ride your bike. He'd lose his mind if he found out I was riding you."

Timothy reaches for his coffee on the counter and takes a long sip while I wait impatiently.

'What?" I say sharply, and his mouth twitches.

"I think you'd lose your mind if you were riding me, too."

His gaze traps mine, and heat floods my body, hardening my nipples, settling between my thighs.

My small victory gets smaller because I'm vibrating from his words.

Our friendship never came with barely veiled innuendos. No sexy, loaded provocation.

So, what the hell is this?

The rules of what's between us are changing..

But I'm not the one who changed them.

"Emily!" Rudy hollers again.

I take a step back, still staring at Timothy. "Your T-shirt's in the washing machine. I'll leave it by the back door."

All day Monday at school, people are talking behind my back. I'm dreading rehearsal that afternoon, but it'll be a relief too, because I'll find out what they're saying.

Turns out I don't have to wait long.

Jessy leans over in calc, when the teacher steps out, to whisper. "Are you okay? There's a rumor going around that you begged Chris to punch your V-card, he said no, then when he tried to leave, yopu crawled after him."

I cut a look at Carla across the room. "That's how it happened." I deadpan. "I planned the whole party so some jock would stick his **** on me."

Jessy goes back to her book. My gaze lands on Avery's empty seat. I really wish she were here.

By the time I make it through lunch, then fourth and fifth periods, Carla and her minions have been spreading gossip all day, but it's Chris I'm dreading most.

I don't want to look him in the eye.

Not because I'm afraid, but because he's a reminder of how stupid I was to think I could win these people over.

    Miss Norma calls us to attention. "Since Mr. Chris Albright doesn't have lacrosse today, we can run the rowboat scene."

The one where they nearly kiss. Perfect. I get to beg for Chris' attention on stage, too.

Miss Norma looks around as I drop my bags on the corner of the stage. "Where is Chris?"

There's no Chris in sight.

She checks her watch. "He must be running late. Emily, a word."

I cross to her, and the rest of the crew goes about their preparations.

"It was kind of you to host the party this week, which makes it hard to say this."

The hairs on my arms lift. "Say what?"

"I've been thinking long and hard, and I'm not ready to put you on stag in the leading role after your inconsistent performance this past few week."

Every muscle in me tightens at once in denial and panic.

No. Shit, no, she can't take this away from me.

I want to say it's hard to focus when someone's threatening to poison you with your own water bottle or point out that Chris misses more rehearsals than he makes.

But Chris' good when he's here. I hate that it's true.

"I know I haven't been consistent recently." I admit. "But I'll fix this. I swear. Just give me two weeks."

"We put a premium on words, but actions speak louder." Miss Norma sighs, checking something on her phone. "I can give you ten days, but I'm making sure Carla is well versed in the lead. If your consistency doesn't improve, I'm making an executive decision and putting Carla in your place."

I nod because I can't find the words to speak.

Before I can, Chris strides in the door. He makes his way up to the stage, and I drag my feet to meet my prince, who's taking his sweet time shrugging out of his blazer. When he straightens, my gasp isn't the only one in the room. His eyes so swollen it;s almost shut, fresh and pink and angry.

"I trust you'll be more careful leading up to opening night. We can't have our prince looking like he was bludgeoned." Miss Norma chides.

I swear this day can't get worse until Chris good eye narrows as he lowers his voice. "You can wave your *** in my face and then **** someone else, but tell him he doesn't need to run interference. You're not worth it."

I shake my head to clear it. "What...?" That's not from lacrosse." I realize. "Someone hit you."

Chris grimaces. "Don't pretend you don't know."

We put a premium on words, but actions speaks louder.

I told Timothy not to tell my Dad about Chris.

It never occurred to me he'd take matters into his own hands.

The boy I've never seen lose his temper finally lost it.

I should be sickened or angry, and part of me is.

But there's a surge of conviction underneath.

Chris expensive cologne makes my stomach turn, but I step closer. "I know what you think happened, but I'm going to do you a favor and tell you the truth."

"I didn't pick Timothy Adams over you."

Chris opens his mouth to respond, and I cut him off.

"But I would."

A gasp comes from the wings. I don't look to see if it's Carla or Jessy or the minions.

"He's twice the man you are." I press. "Because he doesn't let petty bullshit get in the way of what matters."

"Now, I know you're no prince, but for the next hour, do us both a favor and pretend."

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