Chaste (19 page)

“Kiss me,” she says.

I’d be a fool not to.

28

Katarina

Quinn brushes his hand along my cheek so softly my knees go weak.

“You’re playing me, aren’t you?” I whisper.

He takes a step back. “Is that what you think? That I’d come this close to push you away?”

He shuts his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. If I lose this moment, I may never get another one.

My hand moves to his elbow before sliding up his bicep. His muscle tightens under my fingers.

“Please,” I say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

His clear eyes stare down at me. “I don’t want to hurt you, Kat.”

“You won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

I put a hand on his chest, feel his heart jump below my fingers, the heat of his body through his cotton shirt.

“I’m not made of glass, Quinn. I won’t break.”

Most guys don’t care about who they hurt. Besides, he should worry more about himself.

“It could be dangerous,” he says.

“How’s one kiss going to hurt us?”

He lifts an eyebrow like it’s obvious.

“It won’t change anything,” I say.

He’s attracted to me. The evidence shows in his darkening gaze, his lingering look, the flush on his cheeks. He wants to kiss me. I don’t think he’ll do it, though. Not when he’s so deathly scared of losing control. Still, when he tilts up my chin and slips a hand around my waist, I realize I underestimated him. He is going to kiss me.

I’m not sure what to expect, but it’s more than the phantom touch I feel when his mouth meets mine, less than the heat that rushes through my body when the kiss deepens and his fingers cup the nape of my neck.

I wrap one arm around his waist, put my other hand to the stubble on his cheek and inhale the scent of baby powder.

It’s too much. I feel like I’m going to spontaneously combust. I push my body up against his until I come against the solid wall of his chest. My curves feel deadly the way they mold into the shape of him, soft and sensuous and every bit the curves of a seductress.

His voice is deep and gravely when he speaks, “Kat—”

I press my mouth to his again, feeling new warmth spread under my skin. His strong arms tighten around my waist. His lips move in time to mine. His heart thuds hard and fast against my palm, and everything around us fades into a blur—the beige walls, the stone mantel, the dark silhouette of my lab partner’s cello. Nothing exists outside the feeling of his mouth on mine, which is probably why I don’t hear my father clearing his throat until Quinn jumps back.

I dig my nails into my palms because I don’t know what makes me angrier, the abrupt way Quinn broke from our kiss or my father’s arrogant interference in my personal life. What the hell is he doing home?

When my eyes slide over to Quinn, he’s glancing at the floor, followed by the fireplace, followed by the wall over my father’s left shoulder. Anything not to look The Pastor in the eye. My dad is as still as the sky before a blizzard.

This sucks.

“You’re home,” I say in a flustered voice.

I am so dead.

As he looks from me to my lab partner, he clenches his jaw. “Carol,” he calls, snapping his fingers. “Carol, get in here now.”

My mother steps into the living room. “Don’t talk to me like a servant!” she says, scowling at my father.

“You were supposed to be watching her. Did you know they were making out?”

“She’s seventeen,” my mother says. “Not two.”

“Did you even
know
she brought home a boy?” he accuses.

The only thing worse than dealing with my parents’ threats is hearing them talk about me as if I’m not standing here, like their argument is real, but my presence is not. Like I’m nothing more than a family pet, incapable of understanding.

“I’m. Right. Here.” I say.

My parents face me at the same time. “We talked about this,” my father points out.

“No. We talked about Mike,” I remind him. “Quinn is my study partner. He’s here because we have a physics project.”

“I know what I saw,” my father says.

“Come on, Dad, you’re smarter than that. What sinful things could we do with the door wide open and Mom in the next room?” I grab Quinn’s hand and pull him to stand next to me. When his arm rubs against mine, I feel stronger.

My father threatens Quinn. “You touch her again and I’ll—”

“Dad, lay off!” I shout. “Quinn was raised in a Christian home. He has standards.”

My lab partner whispers into my ear, “Christian, huh? Are you having a change of heart?”

His warm breath tickles my neck and my face heats up. My father’s eyes grow colder. My mom studies the creases in the floor.

“The sooner we leave, the better,” I say, directing Mr. Nice to grab his cello.

My father grinds his teeth so hard, it looks as if he’s chewing diamonds. “Excuse my lack of hospitality, son,” he says, keeping his voice even. “Perhaps your pastor can vouch for you. Can I have his name?”

I shake my head at Mr. Nice to keep him from opening his mouth. Then go to work at setting my father straight.

“That’s awfully intrusive, Dad.”

“No. It’s called for,” my stubborn father continues. “I want to know who my daughter dates. I don’t even know this boy’s name.”

“Quinn Walker,” my lab partner says, jumping in as if he can smooth everything over. He doesn’t flinch. Though his voice shakes a tad. “I respect your daughter … sir.”

“You’re not Bishop Walker’s son, are you?” My father’s eyes narrow into slits.

Bishop who? If Quinn’s dad’s a bishop, why would he not mention it before now? Seems the time for that would’ve been months ago, before I brought him to my house. I glance at Mr. Nice, who’s gone undeniably white.

“But everyone likes my father,” he says.

“He’s Mormon, Kat. Did he tell you that? Or did he go on about how he’s a Christian, lie about his beliefs and make you think he’s just like us?”

“Larry, please,” my mom puts a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “You’re not acting right, calm down.”

“I will not calm down,” he shakes off my mother’s hand. “It’s one thing for our daughter to lose her virginity, another for her to lose her soul.”

My lab partner gasps.

“But Quinn’s not going to hell,” I blurt. “He’s a good person. He defended me.”

“You just lost your brother, you’re upset,” my mother tells me. “Don’t go saying things you’ll regret.”

“Quinn isn’t going to hell,” I repeat.

“I’m sure he’s a fine boy,” my dad continues in an even voice. “Did I mention I’ve spoken to his father? The man is nothing if not amiable. And God loves Quinn and his father just like he loves you and me, but their doctrine is wrong.”

“So what?” I say.

“I’m not saying this is his fault,” my dad says. “If anything I feel sorry for him, working so hard for salvation when all he has to do is believe in Jesus. But I don’t think he’s worth it, honey. The risk of losing you is too much. What I don’t get is why you don’t date John. Not only is he a good Christian, but you’ve known each other since you were kids.”

The last thing I need is my father playing matchmaker. This situation is already humiliating enough.

“Kissing John would be like kissing my brother,” I blurt, not realizing my mistake until my mother turns deathly pale. Roland, yes, of course I brought up Roland. What’s worse is that I didn’t even mean to.

“We’re leaving,” I say, storming through the house and out the door. When we’re both outside and Quinn’s cello is in the back of the Jeep, he looks at the ground and kicks at the rocks. His hands are clenched into fists in his pockets. His face is red but he’s yet to say a word. I on the other hand, have learned a valuable lesson. Never kiss a Mormon boy in front of your preacher father.

“He’ll warm up, just give him some time,” I say as we climb into our seats.

Quinn sighs the longest, loneliest sigh I’ve ever heard. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

I start the engine and pull from the curb. “Why the hell not?”

“Let’s see,” he says, counting the reasons on his fingers. “First, we’re not dating. Second, I got you into trouble. And then there’s Molly.”

“Why do you care so much about that girl?”

“I’ve known her forever, okay? Her and Preston have always stuck by me. They’re like my second family.”

I pull on my hair, which I rarely let myself do because I know it’s a sign I’m starting to get upset. I’m not upset. What reason do I have to be upset? I tell myself to be quiet, but words come spewing from my mouth anyway.

“She marks you like territory and bosses you around.”

“You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, really? Then tell me how it is,” I say, going through a string of expletives in my head. The best thing I can do is shut up, but for some reason I just keep talking. “Deny it all you want, but you have feelings for me. That kiss at my house … changed everything.”

“It wasn’t supposed—”

“Well it did, okay! Now spill. What’s so great about Molly?”

“I have an easier time trusting myself when she’s around, acting like a gentleman, keeping my thoughts in check. Kissing her doesn’t make me lose control.”

I stare at him in disbelief. That is wrong on so many levels.

“Do you need to stay in control all the time?” I ask.

Quinn doesn’t say anything. Instead he clears his throat and looks away from me, his usual cheesy smile replaced by a lost expression that makes my heart constrict.

“Not that you’d know it from my recent behavior—breaking windows, punching jocks, kissing girls who are way out of my league,” he says. “But Amy and Elijah remind me every day what could happen if I lose control. And there are so many places I want to go, things I want to do before I have to be a father.”

I shake my head at this down-to-earth explanation that’s oozing with logic, self-awareness and maturity.

He sounds like he’s thirty.

“I think you should get to be young,” I say.

Quietly, he folds his hands in his lap, tracing his shoe along the rubber mat. He’s done talking, but I still drive the speed limit to prolong our time together.

He treats Elijah with such love and his sister with such devotion, that for a second I’m jealous of Amy.

Why couldn’t Roland have been more like Quinn? I know for a fact that if Mike had gotten me pregnant, my brother would’ve refused to help with the child.

The Mormon boy I thought was sheltered and untouchable has turned out to be neither. His humanity, his tenderness, his honesty make him one of the most real people I’ve ever met.

Being with him is helping me acknowledge the pain and grief I’ve ignored for months. I need him in my life. The question is, how can I keep him there?

29

Quinn

I spend the next week running around the house like a maniac. If Elijah is dirty, I change him. If a meal needs cooking, I put a pot of water on the stove. Anything to keep my mind off Kat and that kiss.

In addition to my suspension, my father has grounded me, which means I can skip seminary and church without my parents getting worried. I do this with way too much eagerness. Not because I dislike either, but because I don’t want to see Molly.

As I’m driving to seminary for the first time in a week, I stress over what I should say to her. If I tell her about the kiss, she’ll want to murder me. But if I tell her a lie, I’ll feel like a jerk. When the wind blows up against my car, I think of Kat, the hill we flew over in her Jeep and the rush of adrenaline that made me feel alive. It’s the opposite of how I feel with Molly.

But if I lie to my “almost girlfriend,” will she sense something’s off? Maybe rumors have already spread about Kat and me. Who knows what’s being said since I punched Mike Duvall in the face.

Man, my life is a mess. I should be happy, though. Molly is wonderful. Okay, so maybe wonderful is an exaggeration. She’s been angry or jealous or clingy nonstop. Also, she makes me feel totally smothered.

But Kat and I would only hurt each other. Her father hates me. Mike wants to beat my face into the ground, which is yet another red flag. And it doesn’t matter if she wears short skirts or long pants, being near her kills my self-control. I could go on forever listing all the reasons it wouldn’t work.

Then again, she did stand up to her dad for me. She’s brave, fun, loyal, direct.

She took care of me when Elijah got sick.

She didn’t judge my sister.

She trusts me with her secrets. And that kiss, wow … made me feel like I could fly.

When I see her Jeep parked in front of Preston’s house, I blink a few times to convince myself I’m not hallucinating. Bracing myself for an awkward moment, I walk through the front door to find Kat sitting in a chair near the fire. Brother Parker is pacing in front of her, Molly has yet to show and Preston is sitting at the piano, plunking out the sorriest version of “How Great Thou Art” I’ve ever heard.

“You should quit while you’re behind,” I tell him.

Like the good friend he is, he grits his teeth and pushes harder on the keys to annoy me.

Kat turns at the sound of my voice. Her light green sweater makes her eyes look amazing, and I’m dying to run over there and put my arm around her. Instead I give her a curt nod. She responds by dropping her gaze to my mouth, which warms at the memory of her perfect lips on mine. How am I going to pull this off?

“Brother Walker, have a seat,” Preston’s dad says.

I hesitate before taking the chair next to Kat, careful not to give away how glad I am to see her.

As if she can read my mind, she flashes me a mischievous smile. I go deaf to everything else in the room while my insides heat like kindling. Dang, she has me wrapped around her finger. I want to touch her something fierce; instead I dig my nails into the top of my backpack, open it and pull out my scriptures.

Don’t stutter, don’t stutter.
“Do you have one?” I ask, pointing to the leather bound Book of Mormon my mother gave me for my birthday.

“Are you kidding? My dad would kill me,” she says, grabbing the book right out of my hand. “But if you insist.”