Louder Than Words (Fall For Me) (3 page)

CHAPTER 8

After school, I ditch cheer
practice. Well, not really ditch it. I cancel it. More because half the squad
is absent today than anything else. I mean, otherwise I would have
gone—gladly. I like to face things head-on rather than hide from
them—that’s why I didn’t leave school. And also, well, Zoey needed to
take her test. She’d studied for the stupid thing all day yesterday.

I exhale slowly, and glare at the
line for the school bus. Yes, I have to ride the bus. Unknown to most people,
I’m not rich.
Far from it.
I think people think
otherwise just because they don’t pay attention. But Zoey and me—we
aren’t rolling in money like most of the crowd we hang with. It’s just we
usually have rides to places with friends. Or boyfriends. But I’m between
boyfriends (AKA: stalkers) at the moment.
Hence, my glaring
at the bus-line.

I sigh and decide to walk it.

It’s over ten miles to my house,
but I convince myself the walk will do me good. (Yes, I hate the bus that
much.)

As I’m crossing the street from the
school, Mason pulls up in his fixed-all-cool-by-himself Mustang. Seeing
it—and him—my heart stops.

“Get in,” he says through his open window.

“No thanks,” I tell him, my heart
now doing disturbing violent things—flipping and twitching and basically
spazzing. Mason and I—we have a complicated past. And like I said, we don’t
hang out anymore. Ever.

Yet here he is.
Right
in front of me.
For the second time today.

“You’re going to walk home?” he
says skeptically. The corners of his lip twitch, “—in those shoes?”

I sigh,
then
get into his car.
Because he has a point.
The boots
are
not
made for walking. They’re
made for heart-stomping. And attention.

They hurt.

I get in and he doesn’t watch me do
it. He keeps his eyes straight ahead.

Once we round the corner from the
school, his eyes flick to my face. “Wanna stop for ice cream?”

I cough,
surprised.

Mason is so not the taking-a-girl-out-for-ice-cream
kind of guy. He’s the kind to seduce her with his eyes, then explore her mouth
thoroughly with his tongue, totally make-out with her
in his car
… then never call her again. Ever.

My head tells me to just say no.
That I should just go home—alone—and wallow. But my heart is a
little confused … and my stomach wants ice cream.

So, I draw out a breath of resign
and finally say, “Sure.”

A hint of a smile plays at the
corners of Mason’s mouth—which is kind of magical and swoon-inducing
because Mason doesn’t smile much anymore. But man-oh-man, when he does
Mmmm
. It’s
sheer dynamite to my insides. The kind that ignites sugar and
glitter—you know, wild, happy, sparkly stuff. It shines all around me and
gets me all restless and dizzy and seeing stars.

Yeah, that’s Mason’s smile.

Mason pushes his gorgeous hair out
of his now dancing eyes, his fingers weaving through the soft strands. His lips
twitch. “You were never one to pass up ice-cream.”

“You were never one to offer it,” I
say flippantly.

He smirks slightly.
But then turns kind of serious.
He raises his brow. “You
mean to anyone but you.”

My insides do this flip thing.
Because, yes, okay, he took me out to ice cream before.
Lots
of times.
But then again—he used to be my stepbrother. We used to
be related.
Sort of.
Now we’re nothing. I’m just
another girl to him. Pretty much. And like I said, he doesn’t take girls for
ice cream—as most of my friends can attest.
The many,
many that have fallen for him—only to be dumped unceremoniously.
Or told that they weren’t his girlfriend—after he had totally made-out
with them, and got them all panting and wild for him.

We get to the ice cream shop and he
buys me a chocolate-banana milkshake—because he knows me. That’s what I
like. He also buys me a hot-fudge brownie sundae, though. So, I know he knows
about the picture.

See, I eat a lot of ice cream and
chocolate when I’m stressed—or buy shoes. But
there’s
no shoes
for sale in the ice cream shop. So, he orders me tons of ice
cream,
then
gives me a sideways glance. I look
away—my cheeks on fire. Thoroughly embarrassed now. I mean, I guess I
should have known he’d seen the picture. Apparently, the whole school has by
now. But I should have known that’s why he offered me the ride. Normally, he’d
drive right past me.
Boots or not.
Because like I
said, I avoid him these days—and he knows it.

We sit at the booth by the window,
and I still can’t look at him. Haven’t been able to since he bought me all of
the ice cream.

I can feel his eyes on me though.
Feel them frown and look concerned. (Yes, I can feel all of that.)

“Don’t be embarrassed—it’s a
good picture.” He says it matter-of-factly, with absolutely no teasing, and
maybe (a hint) of sympathy.

It’s the first time he’s mentioned it—the
picture—and he doesn’t even bother to make a pretense about it. So, yeah,
he knows I’ve seen it—that the whole
school
has seen it.

I sink in my seat and mutter, “It
was taken by a pervert.”

He smirks. “It was taken by a
girl.”

I blink up at him, totally not
getting how he could possibly come to that conclusion. I mean, come on. No way.
Still, he’s
Mason
… and he knows things. So, I just
choke on my milkshake and wait for him to go on with his theory, my jaw kind of
hanging open.

He watches my shocked reaction with
his knowing smirk, then leans slightly towards me over the table, talking
confidential-like as he enlightens me, his voice low, and reassuring, and
totally confident, “It’s like the picture was sent out to embarrass you. But a
guy—
any
guy—would know
that it’s
not
a bad picture … totally
the opposite, if you get what I mean.” He adds reassuringly, “You have
NOTHING
to be embarrassed about.”

Heat rips through my body. I squeak
out, “No?”

His answer is a slow shake of his
head. His eyes linger on mine. “No,’” he murmurs soothingly (yet incredibly
firmly). “Nothing.”

My pulse thumps.

I can feel my face redden—deeper,
deeper,
deeper
. Suddenly, I need to dunk my head in a
bucket of ice water. I’m so embarrassed, but also feel strangely complimented
and Mason’s stare isn’t exactly easy for my heart to stay calm about. I mean,
hello. His gorgeous, swoon-inducing eyes seem to be saying
I’ve seen you naked, and I liked it.

I swallow.

Okay, no one’s exactly seen me
naked. No one. I have to keep reminding myself of that—over and
over—or I will die of embarrassment. But still. Now everyone’s seen so
much of me that when they look at me I can tell they’ve seen the
picture—and they’ve fantasized way more than they actually saw.

Mason’s eyes wash over
me—different now—like fully taking in that I’m dying of
mortification.

He may or may not know what he’s
doing to my heart—that he’s causing it all kinds of havoc and stress. In
any case, he relents and takes a drink of his soda (since he didn’t buy himself
ice cream—I mean, he’s not the one that has dirty pictures of him
floating around school, now is he?). His eyes narrow. “So who was it?”

He means who took the picture. He
seems to want to crush the person to bits. (Which is nice, and way more
comforting than his assurance that I have “nothing to be embarrassed about.”)

I shake my head grimly. “I have no
idea.” Then I add just as grimly, “You know more than me—I thought it was
a guy.”

He gives a soft laugh, like I’m an
innocent lamb—and it’s cute. “It’s definitely not a guy. A guy would know
the picture’s awesome,” he murmurs again, for the millionth time getting my
chest all heaving. (Can he not just stop with that already??)
 
His eyes take in my discombobulated
reaction. With patience he says, “What I’m saying is, it’s from a girl.
One that wants to embarrass you.
Know anyone like that?”

I shake my head. I seriously have
no clue.

“Okay, here’s what I know,” he
says. “It wasn’t taken at our school. The lockers are a different color.”

I blink,
then
realize he’s right. Holy smokes!!

Heat rushes through me realizing
he’s been paying a lot more attention to the picture than me. I just looked at
it the one time—then tried to push the image out of my brain. But he’s
obviously been studying it—thoroughly. Frankly that knowledge is
embarrassing.
To say the least.

I slink back in my seat with a
groan. His eyes flicker to me and
a slight smirk quirks
on his lips—like he can read my mind, and knows what I’m thinking. That he’s
studied the picture intimately. And I’m humiliated. But he doesn’t say anything
about it. Instead, he tries to get me to concentrate on the perpetrator. “So
what girl would be with you at another school
?—
one
where you showered and stuff?”

I shrug. “The whole swim
team—it’s like, twenty girls.”

“Okay,” he leans in towards me
(like
that’s
going to help me think
[so not!!]) now I can smell his yummy, tempting Mason scent—
that
I’ve missed
so
much.
Mmmm
. Geez, shoot me. Get me
out of my love-struck misery. Still, he draws closer, trying to get me to
focus, yet doing the total opposite. His brow rises as I stare. “And which one
of them is jealous of you?”

I scowl. “No one’s jealous of me.”
Then my eyes pop open wide. “Oh wait.”

He grins, my light-bulb-moment reaction
obviously amusing him. He puts a finger through my whipped cream. “Figured it
out?”

“Yeah.” A shiver runs through me.
“It’s Sabrina.”

She’s on the swim team with
me—and she’s jealous of me. Not just about stupid Sean … but about
everything
. Cheering, swimming,
guys. I shudder.

“Geez,” I groan. I sure know how to
make enemies—without even trying. People suck.

Mason tilts his head, “This Sabrina—is
that the chick from cheerleading?”

I nod, pushing away my food. “Yep.”

He smirks. “Don’t even worry about
it. It’s taken care of.”

My stomach rolls.
“Mason you can’t beat up a girl.”

He laughs. “That’s not what I do to
girls.”

CHAPTER 9

Monday morning before school I stop
Sabrina as she’s coming out of the locker room. I don’t bother playing games.
Not my style. I just straight up call her out. “You sent that picture of me.”

She scoffs. “What picture?”

“You know what picture,” I tell
her, wanting to bash her smug face in.

“You mean that
naked
picture?” Her lips twist with a wicked smirk. “Why
would I send out that?”

Ohhh, does she
really
want to go there? I stare her in the eye, unblinking. “Because
you’re a jealous witch.”

She puts her hands on her hips.
“Jealous of
what?
” she sneers.

“Jealous of me.” The list seems
pretty long at the moment, actually. But I just bring up what seemed to set her
off—I mean, the “incident” that happened right before the picture was
sent … to the whole school. I grit my teeth. “Jealous that Sean still has a
thing for me.”

She does a tight smile. So fake.
“Sean?” she scoffs. “I’m so over that dweeb. I’m back together with Brendan … ”—she
smiles
so
smug, and bats her
eyelashes at me—“… didn’t you hear?”

Brendan is captain of our football team.
He and Sabrina had dated a while a few months back—but then they called
it quits. Well, he did.

I hadn’t heard they were back
together. But I can believe it. He just broke up with his latest girlfriend.
Sabrina could have caught him while he was vulnerable. After all, Sabrina is
hot for poor Brendan—because he’s captain of the football team. That’s
the only reason. She has this warped, pathetic need for “social status” at our
school. Plus, of course, she needed some way to save face after her so-called
boyfriend (Sean) wrote a steamy poem about another girl (me).

“Look, I know you did it,” I tell
her flatly. “You better stay away from me. And never try anything like that
again.”

“Or what?” she asks, which kind of
lets me know she did it.
Even if I hadn’t already known.

“Or you’ll be sorry,” I tell her.

She smirks and rolls her eyes. “Oh,
I’m so scared.”

My whole body stiffens with heated
anger. “You better be,” I tell her.

“Or what?” She sounds challenging
again, and amused. Like I can’t knock her block off.
Which I
can.
But I don’t need to.

I lean in closer to her and raise
my eyebrows. “Or maybe I’ll find Brendan is more my taste than I thought.”

The smug expression falls off her
face. Her lips part slightly, and she does this little gasping noise, practically
turning purple. Because she knows I can have Brendan … if I want him.

She swallows,
then
narrows her eyes into tiny slits, trying to act all indignant and
I-can’t-believe-you’d-go-so-low
. She
huffs accusingly, “You’d use a guy like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Use a guy like what? Like
you
?”
I practically pin her
against the wall and she starts shaking. I swear. She so doesn’t like to be
called out.
At all.
Sure, she’ll do the calling.
As often as she can.
But someone dare do it to her? She
practically pees her pants.

“
Wha
—what
do you mean?” she squeaks out in a tiny, pathetic whimper.

“I know you only like Brendan
because he’s high on the school’s social chain. I know you need that after Sean
made you look like a loser—him flirting with
me
—in front of the whole class—when he was
supposed
to be
your
boyfriend.”

I straight up call her out, “You’re
using Brendan.”

“I am not!” she squeals.
Then gulps, trying to look me in the eye.
“I like him.”

“Whatever.”

I walk away, letting her sweat.