Sweet Water(43)

“Wait,” he says. My hands freeze on the keys dangling from the ignition. “Do you want to hear some more?”

Did he really just ask that?

My heart is still pounding from being scared out of my seat, but there’s something else that’s got it beating wildly. The boy’s T-shirt is stretched and ripped, exposing a little black rubber necklace, but up close, this kid with the dirty-blond hair is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

He’s squinting at me with one eye, the other buried under his hair. His whole body is wet with a summer sheen.

“Well?” His smile makes me take a sharp breath, and there can only be one answer to his question.

I exhale. “Sure.”

“Okay . . . well, why don’t you pull in the driveway this time.” He gives a little laugh. “My parents aren’t here.”

His parents aren’t here? His parents aren’t here!

“Right,” I say, picking up a hint of cigarette on his breath.

I start Dad’s truck, and it sounds so loud in the middle of the quiet woods. After I park in the driveway—Stonehenge’s driveway—with my dream boy, I draw in a sharp breath of surrealism and hop out.

He grins at me, and every nerve ending on my arms comes alive.

“What?” I ask, smoothing down my hideous black work pants.

Is it my snazzy red Applebee’s polo or my big-ass truck that’s got you looking at me sideways? Maybe this is a mistake.

He laughs. “I’ve just never seen such a small girl drive such a big truck before.”

Five foot five is not that small, I almost say, but I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me or not. I decide that he is. “We’re not all bequeathed with Beamers at birth.” I nod to the white convertible parked in the driveway.

“That’s my mom’s. She’s out of the country. I have a Jeep in the garage. I actually love your truck. It’s rad,” he says.

“Oh. Yeah, it’s my dad’s truck, but I dig it,” I lie.

He nods and twists his lips as if he doesn’t believe me a bit. “Bequeath is a nice word. Let’s go make some more words together—come on.” He walks over to me, and the only thing I can think of when he says “make words together” is make love—and it’s the most provocative thing anyone’s ever said to me.

His rough hand grabs mine, and my body responds with quiet quivers. His fingers are calloused from playing, but somehow I find them strangely seductive, amatory, hands that have been worked until they were rubbed raw and then healed again.

He leads me across the lawn, and Stonehenge is a little creepy at this hour. We weave through lawn ornaments, tall statues with white heads that seem to watch us as we walk by, a fountain that doesn’t run at night. Time has stopped—just for us.

We make it to the pergola on the side of the house, where he usually plays guitar beneath the stone pillars. It’s illuminated with spotlights, and I wonder if he feels like he’s onstage when he plays there.

He picks up his guitar and doesn’t ask, just starts playing “Yellow Ledbetter,” another of my favorite Pearl Jam songs. My knees go weak at the introduction. I collapse into a sitting position on the bench and listen.

His music is intoxicating, his voice unlike Vedder’s, because he doesn’t howl into the microphone, more a soft drone but smooth—like sad silk running down my skin on a hot August night.

We’re the only two people on earth, and nothing can hurt me here.

The world reached in its dirty hand and swooped my mother away in a matter of months, and ever since I’ve felt exposed to more disaster.

Anything could’ve taken me out—not getting into CMU, Dad falling ill like Mom.

Cancer.

We weren’t one of the lucky ones, but here I am.

In this kingdom of the wealthy with this boy, at Stonehenge, and I am safe.

He taps me on the shoulder, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve closed my eyes again.

“Jeez, do I put you to sleep?” he asks.

He’s sitting beside me now, and I giggle, embarrassed. “No, you’re so, so good. Sometimes I close my eyes when I listen to music. I can hear it better that way.” I feel like such a dope when I say it, but his eyes light up with hunger at my response. Maybe because I’ve just complimented him, or maybe because he likes my answer.

“My name is Joshua. Josh,” he says, and I think that it’s a delicious name and that it suits him. “What’s yours?”

“I’m Sarah. Sorry we’re just getting to introductions now,” I say, but all I can concentrate on are his lips, wet with perspiration like everything else on his tall, wiry body. Joshua has to be over six feet tall, and even sitting down, he towers over me.

“That’s okay. Better late than never.” He brushes my hair away from my face. It’s come undone from my ponytail, and I must look like a mess, but he doesn’t seem to care. I lean into the brush of his hand as he pulls strands behind my ears, tipping my face up.

Those lips. He parts them, and I almost stop breathing. I lean in, hoping he’ll close the gap between us.

“My mother told me I should always learn a girl’s middle name before I kiss her, but I’m okay with just knowing firsts if you are.”

I’m. On. Fire.