The Way to Game the Walk of Shame(2)

Cars and girls. Loads of them. Girls, I mean. And there was a lot of skin in most of them. My cheeks flushed hotly at a picture of a girl and the minuscule bikini that could barely restrain her large boobs, which she thrust toward the camera with a coy grin. I couldn’t even tell if she was a redhead or a brunette. Just teeth, lips, and boobs. Flip. A blond with boobs. Another blond with boobs. A picture of someone’s legs on the beach.

“Come on. Show your face,” I muttered with a quick upward glance to make sure my unknown partner was still sleeping. He was.

Finally, I found a picture with a guy in it. He was standing in profile, but his face was turned toward the camera, dipped down toward—what else?—more boobs. His nose was pretty straight, aside from the teeniest bump at the bridge. Slightly spiky dark blond hair. Laughing dark-gray eyes that glanced to the side. His jaw was sort of large, which could be from an underbite, but it suited him. Especially when he smiled. So very hot.

And familiar.

My head jerked to the smooth, lounging back. Then I focused on the tiny glimpse of black Chinese characters trailing down his left forearm. I’d seen that tattoo close-up once before. Everyone claimed it meant “Just live.” But for all I knew, it actually meant “Gum lover.”

A low groan escaped my lips. No, no, no. Not him. Anybody but Evan McKinley, Nathan Wilks High School’s very own legendary manwhore. Said to have screwed so many girls that he had to get a new surfboard, because his old one was full of nicks in memory of each new conquest.

Killing any remaining traces of hope that I was wrong, he stretched out his left arm, and I could see his name written on his skin. Evan McKinley. In my handwriting.

WHERE WERE THOSE DAMN SANDALS?

I crawled around so fast, I was pretty sure I’d have permanent carpet burn on my elbows. I didn’t care. If anyone caught me within a yard of Evan, the rumor mill would explode. It had been hard enough to squash the gossip that spread last year when I’d nearly drowned in the Harrison Parks community pool and he’d saved me. Since then, I’d steered clear of anything that had to do with him.

Which would really suck if anyone knew I’d spent the night in his bed.

Shoes, shoes … maybe I didn’t need them. Dad had bought them for me when I became editor of the school yearbook. He probably wouldn’t even notice that they were missing, but Mom definitely would. She’d been the one who persuaded him to get them for me despite their ridiculous price—you would have thought the crystals were real diamonds—instead of the modest black pumps I needed for my internship at his law firm next year. “You need something pretty! Something fun!” she kept saying over and over. Weird how I was more like Dad, even though I wasn’t his biological daughter. The only thing I’d gotten from Mom was her brown eyes.

And she would give me hell if I didn’t have my shoes. Besides, I didn’t know how far from home I was. And I already wasn’t looking forward to the walk of shame I had ahead of me. I wiggled even more beneath the bed, arms spread out in search.

A sleepy male voice laced with amusement suddenly drifted over my head. “They’re under my desk.”

“What?” I scrambled out and shot upright, smacking the back of my head against Evan’s jaw. He must have been leaning over the bed, watching me. A loud crack echoed through the room before we both sprang apart, each groaning loudly. Gah, his jaw was as hard as a hammer, and I was the screw he’d nailed. Not exactly the best metaphor, but he’d knocked whatever literary sense I had out of me.

When the pain finally lessened, I glanced up. Evan was turned to the side, slightly bent over, both hands massaging his cheeks and jaw as though checking if anything was broken. With a mind of their own, my eyes slid down his body. I’d seen him at the pool and gym before, but I’d never actually looked at him. At least, not this closely.

Light freckles were sprinkled where his very tan shoulders and back came together. Thank god he was wearing a pair of wrinkled khaki shorts—although they rode pretty low on his hips. On one side, a pale line peeked out beneath his tan. A spot that was probably never in the sun and no one ever saw. At least no one he wasn’t sleeping with.

“Uh…” My head nearly burst from the instant heat that sprang to my cheeks. I tore my eyes away and focused on a tropical postcard hanging on the edge of his mirror, squashing the unwanted yet not unreasonable disappointment that he was wearing clothes. This was not the time to be ogling Evan McKinley.

“So, I guess I should say good morning.” He stretched his arms over his head and grinned down at me, enjoying my discomfort. I saw his lean biceps ripple distractingly out of the corner of my eyes. “Isn’t that what people are supposed to say first thing in the morning?”

Look away, Taylor. Look away. I shaded my eyes against the tantalizing view and focused on the lines on my palm. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t you know the morning-after protocol better than me?” Damn, I shouldn’t have said that.

To my surprise, he threw his head back and laughed. “Yeah, I guess there’s no denying that truth.”

I clamped my jaw shut before anything else inappropriate slipped out, and my eyes longingly glanced toward the door. I should have slid out when I had the chance.

Did we have to go through the polite pleasantries? Couldn’t we just forget about each other as though last night (and this morning) hadn’t happened? Like we didn’t know each other?