Authors: Jamie Shaw
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #New Adult, #Contemporary, #Coming of Age
Riot (24 page)
I find myself looking for Bryce, desperately wanting to see a familiar face, when I spot Shawn instead. He’s sitting in the middle of the couch in the living room, Joel Gibbon on one side and some chick I instantly hate on the other. I’m frozen in place when some idiot slams into me from behind.
“Hey!” I shout over the music, whirling around as the jerk leans on me to steady himself.
“Shit! I’m—” Bryce’s eyes lock with mine, and he starts laughing, wrapping his hands around my shoulders to steady himself in earnest now. “Kit! I forgot you were here!” He beams like a happy lush, and I scowl at him. “Where’s Kale?”
“By the keg out back,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest instead of helping my drunk-ass older brother stay on his feet.
His brows turn in with confusion as he finally finds his balance. “What’re you doing in here by yourself?”
“Needed to pee,” I lie with practiced ease.
“Oh, want me to take you to the bathroom?”
I’m about to chew him out for treating me like a baby when one of his on-again, off-again girlfriends sidles up next to him and asks him to get her a beer.
“I think I can find my way to the bathroom, Bryce,” I finally scoff, and he studies me through a glassed-over gaze before agreeing.
“Okay.” He eyes me some more and then unties the over-sized flannel from around my waist and man-handles my arms into it. He pulls it closed over my chest and nods to himself like he’s just safeguarded national security. “Okay, don’t get into trouble, Kit.”
I roll my eyes and take my flannel back off as soon as he walks away, but then I regret dismissing him so quickly when I find myself standing alone in a crowded room. I root myself to a spot by a massive gas fireplace and pretend to drink an empty beer while trying not to look awkward, which is probably useless considering I’m spying on Shawn from afar like a freaking creeper.
What the hell was I thinking coming here tonight? He’s surrounded. He’s
always
surrounded. He’s amazing and popular and way out of my league. The blonde sitting beside him looks like she was born to be a cut-out advertisement propped in front of Abercrombie & Fitch. She’s hot and girly and probably smells like fucking daffodils and . . . is standing up to leave.
The spot next to Shawn opens up, and before I can chicken out, I rush across the room and dive ass-first into it.
The cushion sinks beneath my sudden weight, and Shawn turns his head to check out the idiot who nearly slammed right into him. I should probably introduce myself, disclose my affinity for stalking and ass-diving, but instead I keep my mouth shut and force a nervous smile. A moment passes where I’m certain he’s going to ask who the hell I am and what the hell I’m doing hijacking the seat beside him, but then his mouth just curves into a nice smile and he goes back to talking with the guys on his other side.
Oh, God. Now what? Now I’m just sitting awkwardly beside him for no apparent reason, and blondie is going to be back any second and order me to move, and then what? Then my shot is gone. Then I jumped out my bedroom window for no freaking reason.
“Hey,” I say, tapping Shawn on the shoulder and trying not to do something humiliating like stutter or, you know, throw up all over him.
God, his T-shirt is so soft. Like seriously downy-soft. And warm. And—
“Hey,” he says back, something between confusion and interest shading the way he looks at me. His eyes, glassy from drinks he’s had, are a deep, deep green, and staring into them is like crossing the border into an enchanted forest at midnight. Terrifying and exhilarating. Like getting lost in a place that could swallow you whole.
“You sounded really good tonight,” I offer, and Shawn smiles wider, giving the butterflies in my stomach a little puff of confidence.
“Thanks.” He starts to turn away again, but I speak up to keep his attention.
“The riff you did in your last song,” I blurt, blushing when he turns back toward me, “it’s amazing. I can never quite get that one.”
“You play?” Shawn’s entire body shifts in my direction, his knees coming to rest against mine. Both of us have worn-through shreds at the knees, and I swear my skin tingles where his brushes against mine. He gives me his complete attention, and it’s like every light in the room focuses its heat on me, like every word I say is being documented for the record.
A shadow falls over me, and the Abercrombie model from before glowers down at me, all blonde hair and demon eyes. “You’re in my seat.”
Shawn’s hand lands on my knee to keep me from moving. “You play?” he asks again.
My eyes are glued to his hand—his
hand
on my
knee
—when Demon Eyes whines, “Shawn, she’s in my seat.”
“So find a new one,” he counters, casting her a glance before returning his attention to me. When she finally walks away, my cheeks are burning bright red.
Shawn stares at me expectantly, and I stare back at him for a loserly amount of time before remembering I’m supposed to be answering a question. “Yeah,” I finally say, my heart cartwheeling in my chest at the feel of his heavy hand still resting on my knee. “I watched you . . . at a middle-school talent show”—
please don’t throw up, please don’t throw up, please don’t throw up
—“a few years ago, and”—
oh God, am I really doing this?
—“and it made me want to learn to play. Because you were so good. I mean, you ARE so good. Still, I mean”—
train wreck, train wreck, train wreck!
—“You’re still really, really good . . .”
My attempt to salvage my heartfelt reasons are rewarded with a warm smile that makes all the embarrassment worth it. “You started playing because of me?”
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard and resisting the urge to squeeze my eyes shut while I wait for his reaction.
“Really?” Shawn asks, and before I know what he’s doing, he removes his fingers from my knee to take my hands in his. He studies the calluses on the pads of my fingers, rubbing his thumbs over them and melting me from the inside out. “You any good?”
A cocky smile curves his lips when he lifts his gaze, and I confess, “Not as good as you.”
His smile softens, and he releases my hands. “You’ve been to a few of our shows, right? Normally wear glasses?”
Is that
me
? The girl in the freaking glasses? I’ve screamed from the front row for more than a few of the band’s shows at the local rec center, but I never thought Shawn noticed me. And now when I think about how dorky I probably looked with my thick, square frames . . . I’m not sure I’m glad he did. “Yeah. I just got contacts last month—”
“They look good,” he says, and the blush that’s been creeping across my cheeks blooms to epic proportions. I can feel the heat in my face, my neck, my
bones
. “You have pretty eyes.”
“Thanks.”
Shawn smiles, and I smile back, but before either of us can say another word, Joel is pushing at his arm to get his attention. He’s shouting and laughing about some joke Adam told, and Shawn shifts away from me to rejoin their conversation.
And just like that, the moment is over and I didn’t even say anything close to what I came here to say. I didn’t say thank you or tell him that he changed my life or express anything even
remotely
meaningful.
“Hey Shawn,” I say, tapping at his shoulder again when Joel’s laughter dies down.
Shawn turns a curious gaze on me. “Yeah?”
“I actually wanted to ask you something.”
He turns his body back toward me, and I realize I have no fucking clue what to say next.
I came here to ask you something?
Of all the things that could have come out of my mouth,
that’s
what my brain settled on? The desperate, girly part of me that I don’t like to acknowledge wants to tell him that I love him and beg him not to move away. But then I’d have to go drown myself in the pool.
“Oh yeah?” Shawn asks, and to stall for time, I lean toward his ear. He leans forward to meet me, and as I breathe in the scent of his shower-fresh cologne, my mind goes completely blank. I’ve lost the ability to form words, even simple ones like
thank you
. He’s moving away soon, and I’m blowing my last chance to tell him how I feel. With my cheek next to his, I turn my face, and then Shawn’s eyes are right in front of mine and our noses are practically brushing and his lips are centimeters away—and my brain says
fuck it
. And I lean forward.
And I kiss him.
Not quickly, not slowly. With my eyes closed, I press a warm kiss against his soft bottom lip, which tastes like a million different things. Like beer, like a dream, like the way the clouds swept across the moon tonight. My brain is flickering between wanting to melt into him and needing to pull away when Shawn makes the decision for me.
When his lips open to mine and he deepens the kiss, my heart hammers in my chest and my trembling hands anchor themselves to his sides. His fingers bury in the thick of my hair, pulling me closer, and I’m far too lost to ever want to be found. My fingers fist in the loose fabric of his T-shirt, and Shawn breaks his lips from mine to purr low in my ear, “Come with me.”
F
IRST, LET ME
just say: I am an unintentional method writer. When I write, my heroine possesses me, and living inside Dee’s head was . . . an experience. Weekly meltdowns. Tons of attitude. Angst like nobody’s business. Writing her was a challenge—for me and everyone who had to breathe the same air as me. So a HUGE thanks to the man who had to live with me: my husband, Mike. And thanks to the four ladies who were always there to talk me off the ledge: Rocky Allinger, Kim Mong, Kelleigh McHenry, and my mom, Claudia.
Thanks to my agent, Stacey Donaghy, for crying ugly tears over the same scenes I did. Thanks to my editor, Nicole Fischer, for spending time with Joel even in her sleep. Thanks to Jay Crownover for spoiling me with kick-ass blurbs. Thanks to everyone at HarperCollins who works their magic on my stories to put them in your hands. And last but not least, thanks to each and every one of YOU who are reading this right now. You mean the world to me, and it’s because of you that I’m able to continue doing what I love. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Born and raised in South Central Pennsylvania, JAMIE SHAW earned her M.S. in Professional Writing from Towson University before realizing that the creative side of writing was her calling. An incurable night owl, she spends late hours crafting novels with relatable heroines and swoon-worthy leading men. She’s a loyal drinker of white mochas, a fierce defender of emo music, and a passionate enthusiast of all things romance. She loves interacting with readers and always aims to add new names to their book-boyfriend lists.
www.authorjamieshaw.blogspot.com
www.facebook.com/jamieshawauthor
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VARIOUS STATES OF UNDRESS: GEORGIA
By Laura Simcox
A B
OWLER
U
NIVERSITY
N
OVEL
By Megan Erickson
B
OOK
T
HREE:
I
NDEPEND
ENCE
F
ALLS
By Sara Jane Stone
By Jamie Shaw
A B
IL
LIONAIRES AND
B
IKERS
N
OVELLA
By Cynthia Sax
A
N
U
NDER
THE
S
KIN
N
OVEL
By Charlotte Stein
A N
OVELLA
By Jennifer McQuiston
An Excerpt from
by Laura Simcox
Laura Simcox concludes her fun, flirty Various States of Undress series with a presidential daughter, a hot baseball player, and a tale of love at the ballgame.
“U
h. Hi.”
Georgia splayed her hand over the front of her wet blouse and stared. The impossibly tanned guy standing just inside the doorway—wearing a tight T-shirt, jeans, and a smile—was as still as a statue. A statue with fathomless, unblinking chocolate brown eyes. She let her gaze drop from his face to his broad chest. “Oh. Hello. I was expecting someone else.”
He didn’t comment, but when she lifted her gaze again, past his wide shoulders and carved chin, she watched his smile turn into a grin, revealing way-too-sexy brackets at the corners of his mouth. He walked down the steps and onto the platform where she stood. He had to be at least 6’3”, and testosterone poured off him like heat waves on the field below. She shouldn’t stare at him, right? Damn. Her gaze flicked from him to the glass wall but moved right back again.
“Scared of heights?” he asked. His voice was a slow, deep Southern drawl. Sexy deep. “Maybe you oughta sit down.”
“No, thanks. I was just . . . looking for something.”
Looking for something?
Like what—a tryst with a stranger in the press box? Her face heated, and she clutched the water bottle, the plastic making a snapping sound under her fingers. “So . . . how did you get past my agents?”
He smiled again. “They know who I am.”
“And you are?”
“Brett Knox.”
His name sounded familiar. “Okay. I’m Georgia Fulton. It’s nice to meet you,” she said, putting down her water.
He shook her hand briefly. “You, too. But I just came up here to let you know that I’m declining the interview. Too busy.”
Georgia felt herself nodding in agreement, even as she realized
exactly
who Brett Knox was. He was the star catcher—and right in front of her, shooting her down before she’d even had a chance to ask. Such a typical jock.
“I’m busy, too, which is why I’d like to set up a time that’s convenient for both of us,” she said, even though she hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. But she couldn’t very well walk into the news station without accomplishing what she’d been tasked with—pinning him down. Georgia was a team player. So was Brett, literally.
“I don’t want to disappoint my boss, and I’m betting you feel the same way about yours,” she continued.
“Sure. I sign autographs, pose for photos, visit Little League teams. Like I said, I’m busy.”
“That’s nice.” She nodded. “I’m flattered that you found the time to come all the way up to the press box and tell me, in person, that you don’t have time for an interview. Thanks.”
He smiled a little. “You’re welcome.” Then he stretched, his broad chest expanding with the movement. He flexed his long fingers, braced a hand high on the post, and grinned at her again. Her heart flipped down into her stomach. Oh, no.
“I get it, you know. I’ve posed for photos and signed autographs, too. I’ve visited hospitals and ribbon cutting ceremonies, and I know it makes people happy. But public appearances can be draining, and it takes time away from work. Right?”
“Right.” He gave her a curious look. “We have that in common, though it’s not exactly the same. I may be semi-famous in Memphis, but I don’t have paparazzi following me around, and I like it that way. You interviewing me would turn into a big hassle.”
“I won’t take much of your time. Just think of me as another reporter.” She ventured a warm, inviting smile, and Brett’s dark eyes widened. “The paparazzi don’t follow me like they do my sisters. I’m the boring one.”
“Really?” He folded his arms across his lean middle, and his gaze traveled slowly over her face.
She felt her heart speed up. “Yes, really.”
“I beg to differ.”
Before she could respond, he gave her another devastating smile and jogged up the steps. It was the best view she’d had all day. When Brett disappeared, she collapsed back against the post. He was right, of course. She wasn’t just another reporter; she was the president’s brainy daughter—who secretly lusted after athletes. And she’d just met a hell of an athlete.
Talk about a hot mess.
