Worth the Risk(38)

“I can’t make it.”

“What?” It’s a half-laugh, half-panicked sound.

“I can’t make it,” he repeats matter-of-factly.

“The vote is in less than twenty-four hours. I need to get these shots of you, so I can put them up on the site.” Desperation edges my tone. I’ve pushed this deadline as far as I can and still be able to get the magazine to the printer on time. I have no more wiggle room. The website is more forgiving of the time constraints, but not the print side.

“Are you giving everyone else the same personal attention you’re giving me?” His question throws me.

“No. Why? They’re turning in their own photos.”

“Then do the same for me. I’m sure there are plenty of photos from the other night you can use.” There’s a bite to his words that has my head startling. “No doubt you had photographers staged throughout the pub to snap the perfect picture.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” He sighs as I look at everyone around me. They are all trying not to be obvious about eavesdropping, curious who I’m talking to as they wait for Grayson to arrive.

“Grayson?”

He grunts. “Find a picture from the other night. It’s that simple.”

“It isn’t the same.” I make the comment and then cringe because it is the same. It should be the same, but it isn’t. Photographs from the hero party are not what Rissa is expecting. Grayson’s biography forged by me, even less so. The spots I’ve worked tirelessly to secure with E! News Daily and Entertainment Tonight are expecting professional pictures, not Sunnyville Gazette cast-offs.

“Make it the same. This isn’t my thing. You’ve forced my hand enough, and I’m done when it comes to you.”

The rejection is instantaneous, and panic has me responding without thinking. “I should’ve known you were full of crap when you agreed to do this. Do you know how this screws me up?”

“Fucking typical.” His chuckle is full of derision. “Regardless of what you might think, not everything is about you, Princess.”

“Fine. Great.” I think of the photographer I’m going to have to pay for lost time. I think of my promise to Rissa, and my conversation with my dad.

I blink my welling tears away and tell myself that they’re there because I don’t want to let people down and not because I feel personally rejected.

Or used.

He said he wanted me.

How was I not supposed to think about that? How was I not supposed to obsess over those words to the point I slipped my fingers under the waistband of my panties and put them to work while I thought of him last night.

It was just a kiss, Sidney. He didn’t reject you. He didn’t anything you, so stop overthinking. Don’t fall off the estrogen-edged deep end thinking this is about you when he’s simply talking about participating in the contest.

“Not all of us get to come and go on a whim like you. I don’t have time for this in my life. Not in the least.”

“Time for what? What do you mean?”

“This. The photo and the goddamn contest. Us. The kiss. Me wanting you. It was a huge mistake, and your response a few seconds ago just made it more than clear why it was.”

“Grayson, I—”

“I’ve gotta go.”

The call ends, and I’m left standing in the middle of a photo shoot that isn’t going to take place. I stare at my cell phone, not really knowing what the hell just happened, and eventually come to the realization that I never really knew I wanted there to be an us until the door shut in my damn face.

Talk about screwing myself on all fronts. And not in the good way.

Shit.

What am I going to do now?

If there is any silver lining in my day, it’s that when I walk out of the Sunnyville Gazette’s office an hour later, I have a thumb-drive full of photos of Grayson I can possibly use for our site. No, they aren’t of him in his flight suit with the front unzipped like I’d planned. Yes, I had to deal with the searching comments from the gossip columnist about whether I really needed the pictures just for the contest.

But I have them.

At least there’s that.





I meet him stare for stare. His eyes hold so much depth, but the angry red mark on his cheekbone stands out bright against his olive complexion.

“Fighting isn’t the way to solve a problem,” I say to Luke. On the inside, a part of me wants to give him a high five for doing it, and another part of me wants to pull him against me to protect him from the cruelty of other kids. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” It’s the same question I’ve asked three other times. In the school’s office. In the car. In the driveway once we were home.

“No.”



“Mr. Malone, there’s been an incident here at school. You need to come and get Luke.”

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s been in a fight.”

My laugh filled the line. “You’re kidding, right? My Luke?”

“I’m sad to say I’m not kidding. We have a zero-tolerance policy for fights.”

“I’m on my way.”



“Luke, buddy, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what happened. You’ve sat here for the past two hours, now it’s time to talk.”