Starry Eyes(30)

“Is it clear?” Brett whispers.

This is too much pressure. I do one last survey of the inner pavilion and wait until a server turns his back. “Okay, now!”

Brett crests over the top step and takes three strides toward the bar, slipping behind it. He punches the air with a victory fist and then ducks out of view. When he pops back up, he has two wine bottles. He hands them to Summer. She tries to pass them to Kendrick, and he waves them away—at least, at first. She says something to him that I can’t hear and shoves one of the bottles against his stomach. He caves and accepts it.

More bottles emerge. The clink of heavy glass echoes across the bar. It’s taking them forever. Why are they giggling? Someone’s going to hear. And just how many bottles of wine do they need? Summer’s already holding three.

I suddenly smell roasted marshmallow.

“Stuck on lookout duty?” a deep voice rumbles at my ear.

A small yelp escapes my mouth. I punch Lennon in the arm.

“Ow,” he complains, rubbing his sleeve.

“Stop creeping up on me like that,” I whisper. “You’ll give me a heart attack.”

His white teeth flash in the dusk. “Sounds like a challenge.”

“Glad you’re so gung ho for my early demise.”

“You used to like when I sneaked up in the dark.”

Memories from last fall flitter through my head. Tiptoeing out of the house to find him waiting behind the palm tree at the bottom of the steps. His hand over my mouth to stop me from laughing. Feeling like my heart would burst out my chest with wanting his arms around me.

Don’t think about it. Don’t answer him. Just pretend he didn’t say anything. Act casual.

“Where were you just now, anyway?” I manage.

“Not doing this stupid shit. And I also”—he holds up a flattened s’more—“found this. Never turn down toasted marshmallow. That’s a sin.”

“Oh, is it really?” I whisper, irritated that my heart is still racing. Because he startled me. Not because of what he said. Or that he’s standing so close that I can smell wood smoke on his shirt. But why is he standing so close?

“Pretty sure that’s what the preacher said last Sunday at church.”

“You still go to church with Mac?” The New Walden Chapel. They have service outside in a small amphitheater, and people from different faiths go there. I think they mainly exist to feed the homeless and do other charity-work-type things around the Bay Area; Mac used to be homeless when she was our age, and she often got her meals from their soup kitchen. My dad says it’s not a real church, but what would he know about divinity?

“I don’t have a choice. She claims I wear too much black.”

I snort. “Okay, so let me get this straight. Mac believes that God forgives her for selling things like . . .”

“Cock rings?” he provides.

That wasn’t my first choice. His nonchalance frazzles me, and I get a little defensive. “Yet God doesn’t forgive you reading all that gruesome horror manga? All those gory zombie movies?”

“Personally, I’d like to think so. Being prepared for the zombie apocalypse is just common sense.”

“Yeah, pretty sure I remember that being mentioned in the Bible,” I say sarcastically.

“It’s an amendment to the commandments,” he says. “Amendment number thirteen. Thou shall arm yourself with machete and shotgun, and remember to aim for the head.”

I turn away to keep my eye on Brett.

Lennon reaches around my shoulder, holding up half of a marshmallow. “Want some?”

His voice is dark and velvety, so close to my ear that a thousand goose bumps race down my neck. An unwanted shiver chases them, and I pray he doesn’t see it. “No.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice even lower. Deeper. Seductive.

No. Not seductive. What I’m hearing is the equivalent of a mirage. See, this is where I went wrong before. Just because one person’s feeling something doesn’t mean the other person intended it. Just because my body wants to slowly turn around, to find him gazing down at me, and our eyes would lock, and—

What’s the matter with me? I have to stop. For the love of God, have some pride, Everhart.

“No, thank you,” I say more resolutely.

“Your loss,” he says, sounding bored. His arm disappears.

And now I do turn to look at him. Slowly. But not because I expect anything. I just want to see if he really is bored, or if . . .

His eyes aren’t on mine. Of course not. He’s gazing off in the distance.

“Oh, look,” he says casually. “Jack Kerouac is about to get busted.”

What?

I swing around and spot the bartender in the pavilion, headed straight toward them. Crap, crap, crap.

“Brett!” I whisper loudly.

He doesn’t hear me.

“Guys!” I say louder, panicked.

Summer glances around as if she possibly heard me, but isn’t quite sure. What do I do? If I take a step into the light, the bartender will see me. But if I can’t get Brett’s attention—

Lennon whistles.

Brett looks up.

I wave frantically and point toward the pavilion.

He understands now. There’s a short scuffle with the wine bottles, and then they’re racing toward us. Problem is, when they get to the steps, the bartender can—