This Girl (Slammed #3)(71)

I bend down and press my lips to her ear. “I already told you we can’t stay long. We’ll be really, really, really busy after this.” I kiss her on the cheek and walk to the stage. I don’t even give myself time to prepare. I begin my poem as soon as I reach the microphone so that I don’t waste another second. “My piece is called The Gift. . . .”

If my dad were alive, he’d be sitting right there

Watching me up here, with a smile on his face

He’d be proud of the man I’ve become

He’d be proud that I stepped up to take his place

If my mother were alive, she’d be at home

Teaching my brother all the things she taught me

She’d be proud of the man I’ve become

She’d be proud of who I grew up to be

But they aren’t here. They haven’t been for a while.

It takes time, but it’s starting to make sense.

I still miss them every time I take a breath.

Their absence will never go unnoticed.

But every smile on your face seems to replace

A memory I’d rather not hold

Each time you laugh, it fills a void

Each kiss heals another wound in my soul

If my dad were here, he’d be sitting with you

He’d be hugging you . . . saying thank you.

Thank you for saving my boy.

Thank you for bringing light to his world.

If my mother were here, she’d be so happy

To finally have a daughter in her life

She’d love you as much as I love you

She’d make me promise to one day make you my wife

But they aren’t here. They haven’t been for a while.

But I can feel their pride. I can feel their smiles.

I can hear them say, “You’re welcome, Will.”

When I thank them for sending you from heaven.

AS SOON AS I return to the booth she’s trying to thank me with a hug, but instead I grab her hand and wave over my shoulder as I pull her to the exit. “See you guys later,” I say to Gavin and Eddie. I don’t even wait for them to say good-bye as we make our way to the door. I remain two steps in front of Lake the entire way back to the car, practically dragging her along behind me. I can’t think of anything but being alone with her tonight. We’re never alone and I need some uninterrupted, alone time with her before I go crazy.

When we reach the car, I practically shove her inside, then climb into the driver’s seat. I crank the car, then turn toward her and grab her shirt and pull her mouth to mine while I back out of the parking spot.

“Will, do you realize your car is moving?” she says, attempting to pull away from my grip. I glance out the rear window and cut the steering wheel to the right, then turn back to her.

“Yep. We need to hurry. You’ve got a curfew and that only gives us two more hours together.” I press my lips to hers again and she shoves my forehead back with the palm of her hand.

“Then stop kissing me and drive. It won’t be much fun making out with you when you’re dead.”

“PULL OVER,” SHE says, several houses down from my driveway.

“Why?”

“Just pull over. Trust me.”

I pull over and park the car on the side of the street. She leans across the seat and kisses me, then pulls the keys from the ignition. “If my mom sees your car, she’ll know we’re back. She told me to bring you to my house if we came home early. She doesn’t want us alone at your house. Let’s sneak in through your back door and we can come get your car later.”

I stare at her in awe. “I think I’m in love with your brain,” I say.

We both exit the car and run toward the back of the house we parked in front of. We make our way behind the fence, then crouch down and run across three backyards until we reach mine. I take the keys out of her hands and unlock the back door. Why do I feel like I’m breaking in? It’s my house.

“Don’t turn on the lights. She’ll know we’re back,” I say as I help her make her way through the darkened doorway.

“I can’t see,” she says.

I put my arm around her back and bend down, scooping her legs up with my other arm. “Allow me.”

She throws her arms around my neck and squeals. I walk her until we’ve reached the couch and gently lay her down. I take off my jacket and slip off my shoes, then reach down until I find her. I slide my hand down the length of her legs until I reach her feet, then I remove her shoes while she slips off her jacket.

“Anything else you need me to remove?” I whisper.

“Uh-huh. Your shirt.”

I immediately agree with that and pull my shirt over my head. “Why are we whispering?” I ask her.

“I don’t know,” she whispers.

The sound of her voice when she whispers . . . knowing she’s on her back . . . on my couch.

The significance of the next two hours is almost more than I can handle, knowing the things that could occur between us. I recognize that, so rather than lower myself on top of her, I kneel on the floor next to the couch. As much as I want her, I want to take it at her pace tonight, not mine. I tend to be extremely impatient when it comes to her.

I find her cheek in the dark and turn her face toward mine. When I touch her, her breath hitches. I feel it, too. I’ve touched her face countless times before, but somehow in the dark with absolutely no interruptions, it seems a hell of a lot more intimate.