Summer's Desire (13 page)

"Maybe." I clench my hand on Seth's
chest. "But you don't deserve to go to prison on his account."

Josh moans once, and Seth strides to him
and raises him by the throat, glowering into his pain-clouded eyes. "If
you ever tell anyone about today, you won't live to regret it." He sounds
absolutely chilling. "And if you ever even think of coming near Summer
again—when I get my hands on you, you'll beg for death before I'm through, you
fucking whoreson. Understood?"

"Yes," Josh whispers. With a
grimace of disgust, Seth lets go of him, and Josh slumps back to the floor.

I'm trembling again just from breathing
the same air as Josh, and I'm so very cold it's as if I'll never be able to get
warm again. Then my savior returns to me and takes my hand, and the first
contact burns and I barely contain a flinch, but then I remember—this is Seth!—and
after that his touch just feels warm and safe, and that terrible cold disappears.
Holding me by the hand, he drags me out of the bathroom and through the empty
hallways.

But he's walking much too fast, and... "Seth,
stop!" I come to a standstill and force him to stop as well. I'm panting
lightly from the effort it took to keep up with him, and I'm holding my
stomach. Josh got me good with his punch.

Seth sees me touching my middle and his
expression darkens again. "He hit you in your stomach?" His voice is sheer
menace.

I nod hesitatingly, then hold fast to
his hand when, spinning around, he makes to go back the way we came. I can't
let him do that; Josh is banged up badly enough already.

"It's not so awful, really. It just
aches a little," I lie. "Please don't leave me!"

Of course, Seth hears my lie just as he always
used to and he shakes his head, looking mad and frustrated. But he stays with
me.

He bends down, putting one arm behind my
knees and the other at my back; in the blink of an eye, I'm aloft in his arms, and
my hands curl instinctively around his neck. Then he heads with purposeful strides
for the building's exit and he's holding me so carefully, so tightly to him,
that I'm not jarred at all by the movement.

"What are you doing?" I'm
breathless and my heart is once again fluttering wildly in my chest, but this
time it's not because of fear.

"I'm carrying you outside."

"I can see that," I remark with
forced lightness. "The question is
why
you're carrying me."

"Because you're hurt and I don't
want you to walk." He says this as if it were the most natural thing in
the world for him to be carrying me—and who knows, maybe it is. Right now, it certainly
feels that way to me: natural and inevitable. Nestled in his protective
embrace, I feel small and cherished and safe.

I feel as if I've come home.

We've already reached the deserted
parking lot, and he's managed to open the passenger door of his black BMW
without putting me down. With utter gentleness, he settles me in the car seat
and fastens my seat belt. But as soon as he straightens up and leaves me to
stride round the car, insidious cold closes around me once more, freezing the
air in my lungs.

In the absence of Seth's touch, I
remember those other hands on me earlier—the hands that knocked me around and
bit cruelly into my flesh and brought me pain and terror—and my skin starts
crawling. Fists bunched tightly against the insane urge I have to rip at my own
flesh wherever Josh touched it, I follow Seth's progress with desperate eyes,
clinging to the sight of him like a lifeline.

It can't be more than a couple of
seconds until he reaches the other side of the car and slides gracefully inside...
but for me that short time expands to an eternity beset by horror. Seth's
barely in his seat and still turned away from me to shut the door when I tear free
from my seatbelt and launch myself at him, climb on his lap, and bury my face
in his neck, clinging to him for all I'm worth.

"
Sunny!
"—that's all he
says, just my name on a shattered whisper.

And his arms come around me, their touch
hesitant at first; but when I still can't get close enough to him, he embraces
me tighter, giving me what I need. He doesn't say a word, just curls his strong
body around me and shelters me throughout the storm of shudders that convulse
my frame.

"I'm s-s-sorry," I choke out
at one point when I still can't stop trembling, and then it's him who shudders
against me once.

"Don't!" he tells me fiercely.
"Don't you apologize for this!" And he holds me even tighter.

Even after I finally stop trembling,
stop feeling cold—he keeps holding me.

G
radually, I become aware of the
world around me. I notice that evening has fallen and that the car's console is
digging painfully into my back. Actually, my entire body feels like one giant
ache, courtesy of the tussle with the scumbag.

But most disturbingly, I become aware of
Seth
. He's so much bigger than I that, sitting on his lap, I'm
completely engulfed by him. And wherever his body touches mine, which is
everywhere, my nerve endings are now blazing with an overload of sensation.

Luckily, I'm saved from having to think
about my weird physical reaction when I remember how I practically attacked
Seth by jumping onto his lap—and I'm overwhelmed by sheer mortification. Then I
realize that I'm
still
clinging to him like a limpet, and I'm so
embarrassed I swear my cheeks must be glowing neon-red.

Without raising my head, I try to detach
myself from Seth, but his hold doesn't loosen so in the end I'm forced to look
up. "Umm... You can let go of me now."

His eyes are stormy blue with concern. "You're
okay?"

"Yes, I'm okay now." Then,
very softly: "Thank you, Seth."

He studies me intently for a moment
longer—trying to decide, maybe, if my assurance that I was all right was overly
optimistic. He must be satisfied with what he sees, though, because he gives a
sharp nod and releases me at last. I quickly scramble back to my own seat and
refasten my seatbelt.

When I look up again, I see that he's
still watching me. I'm so discomfited by the way I jumped him earlier that I
don't know what to do with myself. It doesn't help things that Seth's eyes are
shuttered again and I have no idea what he's thinking.

He's probably counting the minutes until
he's rid of you, stupid!
Dejected by that thought, I overcompensate by
rushing into speech: "Thank you, also, for giving me a ride back to the
Andersons' place." Now please take me there already and put me out of my
misery!

A bit of my anxious mood comes through
in those harried words, I think. Seth cocks his head curiously, scrutinizing me
for a few more (interminable) seconds.

Then: "You're welcome," he
murmurs. His lips curve into an almost grin and I blink, dazzled. It's a good
thing that I'm sitting down, because suddenly I feel a bit shaky.

A moment later he turns the key in the
ignition and the car is in motion.

* * *

Seth hasn't put on music, and we aren't talking.
Still, now that I've calmed down a bit, the silence between us isn't awkward
but somehow restful. I remember how, in those long-ago days when we were so
close it was as if we shared the same soul, neither of us ever felt the need to
fill the quiet with useless words, just for the sake of it. We were always at
ease with each other, even when spending hours with no words spoken between us.

Ever since he started driving, I've been
helplessly sneaking glances at him. Every once in a while, I'd try to drag my
eyes from him and find something else at which to stare—the dashboard or the
window or jeez, anything else; but every time, and after only a pitifully short
resistance, I'd fall prey again to that terrible compulsion of looking at him.

He was beautiful as a boy, but as an
adult—he's devastating. His profile is flawlessly chiseled, the classic severity
of his features alleviated by the sensuality of his lips. His thick hair is
still damp from the shower he took after practice, and the inky strands falling
over his brow make my hands itch with the impulse to push them back. The way his
jersey molds his powerful torso should be outlawed. Heavens, even the
effortless ease with which he handles the car is sexy beyond words!

Again, I force myself to look away, utterly
disconcerted. I don't know what's been wrong with me lately, why I've been regarding
Seth so... so... Covetously! And why I've been feeling so
different
with
him—alternately hot and cold, but always off-balance and always with those
pesky butterflies wreaking havoc on my insides.

Oh, stop lying to yourself, Summer! You
know exactly what's wrong with you.

I give an internal sigh. Defeated, I
close my eyes and force myself to confront the truth. It's a truth that I've
tried to keep buried ever since I saw Seth again, but it refuses to stay under
and instead keeps throwing me for spins.

My childhood companion, my best friend,
has grown up into the most gorgeous man I've ever seen. And it would be okay if
all I felt was some detached admiration for his undeniable godlike hotness. The
problem is that "detached" is the very last thing I feel toward Seth.
What I actually feel is an explosive attraction the likes I never imagined that
it even existed.

The irony is killing me.
I—
who've
never had even a single crush on a boy!—have managed to fall in mind-bending,
senses-shattering, body-enslaving lust with
Seth
, my former best friend
who hasn't wanted to be my friend in more than five years.

I've loved this boy with a pure,
boundless love practically all my life and I hate this new attraction that is now
muddling my feelings. It's unwanted and definitely unrequited, and I don't know
what to do with it. Except try to get over it. I'd die if Seth came to suspect the
truth of my feelings; I couldn't stand to see the pity in his eyes.

His right hand touches lightly upon my
left where it's resting on my seat, and I can't stop a small shiver of
pleasure. I grit my teeth, exasperated with myself. I really need to get myself
together, I can't keep acting like this with him!

"We're here," he tells me.

I open my eyes and see that the car has
stopped—not in front of the Anderson residence, however, but in an unfamiliar,
somewhat rundown neighborhood.

I turn to Seth with questioning eyes. "I
thought you were taking me to the Andersons."

He shakes his head. "I need to make
sure you're all right first. Besides, you look like a wreck survivor." His
jaw turns to steel. "We need to patch you up before you head back."

I look at him for long moments, probing
his ardent eyes. All I can read in them is concern and... affection? No,
something deeper, darker than mere affection. Something that somehow calls to
my own buried desires. I slam the door shut on that thought.

"Okay." My voice is faint,
almost breathless. "Thank you for doing this."

Why not accept his help? It's not as if
I really want to see Jessica or Louise, especially when I can be with Seth
instead. And of course that I can't show up at the house like this, all bruised
and battered. What was I even thinking?

But why is Seth doing this for me? Why
does he care?
I decide not to question it and just go with the flow. I
want to be with him so much.

He leaves the car, and after what seems like
no more than a moment—jeez, I still can't get over how fast this boy can move!—my
door is opening and he's releasing my seat belt, then picking me up deftly in
his arms. I don't even bother to protest his caveman tactics; he'd just ignore
me because I'm hurt and he's obviously entered ultra-protective mode.

Besides, I'm not stupid enough to cut my
nose in order to spite my face. Safety, joy, instinctive comfort—I find it all
here, in his arms. I lay my head on Seth's chest, breathing in his woodsy scent.

I hear him engaging the car's locking
mechanism, and then he starts walking. He easily carries me over several
flights of stairs, finally stopping before a door marked 23A. Again he manages
to unlock, open, and close the door with no apparent effort and without
jostling me once.

The entrance to his apartment opens
directly into a modest living room, where he lays me on the couch. I see two
other doors, one leading most likely to his bedroom, the other to the bathroom.
There's a small kitchen area at the other end of the living room, and Seth
heads for the beat-up fridge in there, returning to me with a frozen bag wrapped
in a clean kitchen towel.

"Hold this to your cheek; we want
to get the swelling down." After I comply, he leaves me again, this time
heading into the bathroom.

I take advantage of the opportunity and gaze
around me in open curiosity.

The apartment isn't much to look at: the
walls are sorely in need of a new coat of paint, the floor is scratched and
carpet-less, the brown sofa I'm sitting on is torn in a couple of places. There
are only a few other pieces of furniture from what I can see, and an ancient-looking
TV set. Still, the apartment is tidy and clean, and anyway, this is where Seth
lives and I would never turn up my nose at any home of his.