Page 15 of Love on the Tracks
It’s so stupid. It’s not as if I’ve never been kissed before. But I’ve never been kissed quite like this. His tongue teases the seam of my lips and I open for him, wanting him more, wanting more of him. It’s not until I hear someone say loudly, “Hey, isn’t that Zane Rivera?” that I remember we’re in public.
Flashes are going off, and I can hear the crowd starting to form around us. As much as I’d like to keep kissing Zane, we’ve got to get out of here. He must feel the same way because he doesn’t resist when I break off our kiss, only lays a hand on my lower back to steady me and then help me into the Land Rover, waving at the crowd and smiling as he does.
Is this his life? I can handle the attention for concentrated bursts, but for Zane it may be more like a years-long slog with extra crazy sauce drizzled on top when they go on tour or to an awards show, or apparently when they kiss SIG athletes.
Once he’s firmly shut and locked the door and given the driver the go-ahead, he turns to me. Cups my jaw with a hand and runs his thumb over my cheek. It’s the sweetest way anyone’s ever touched me and it makes all these gooey romantic feelings drip out of my heart and spread through my whole body.
“You okay, Row? You look a little shell-shocked.”
That’s how I feel. Or like game being chased by a pack of well-trained hounds. Yeah, I suppose it is open season on us right now. I’m so unsettled, I can’t even really enjoy that he called me Row, just like I’d fantasized he would. “I’m okay, I’m not used to . . .” I wave to the people still crowding the car, trying to snap pictures with their cellphones and long-lensed cameras through the tinted glass. “This.”
Zane’s hand falls away from my face, and I wish he would put it back. Instead, he reaches over and buckles my seatbelt before tucking me under his arm—well, as far as the seatbelt will allow. “I don’t think people ever get used to it. At least the people I know don’t. Sick of it, yeah, but it’s always shocking, always makes me tense up, you know?”
He shivers, probably in an exaggerated way to make me feel better. It does. And the way he called me Row, which I’m getting to relish while replaying it in my head. That’s the first time, but I hope it won’t be the last.
“Still want to go to the movie?”
“Yeah, I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”
He smiles that charming smile and it makes me wonder how many girls he’s smiled at like this before. Probably a million. He’s only picked me to smile at for now because it’ll sell him some records. Well, that’s fine. We can have fun while we play the media.
“Me too.”
Chapter Seven
Rowan
Really, Kate? Really?
I love my roommate, but she’s not always the most considerate person. I guess I should count myself lucky this is the first time I’ve come home to a sock on the door, but all I want is to go to bed. Kate and the Russian are probably going at it on every available surface. I’m pretty chill about the human body—I have to be to get along with Captain Naked in there—but voyeurism’s never been my thing. Fuck.
My watch says it’s only nine, but between the press junkets this morning, team meetings, practice runs, and the slightly uncomfortable dinner with my dad, I feel as though this day has been happening for at least a hundred hours. Part of me wants to sit down in the hallway and cry.
I suppose I could go down the hall to see if I could crash with Angie and Lola or Aiden and Travis, but all I want is to be alone. Is there no place in this entire goddamn city where I could have some privacy?
I thunk my head back against the wall and consider lying down in front of the door until the Russian leaves. But they could be at it all night. We have our first race the day after tomorrow, so this is the last time Kate will fuck until the races are over. Then I’ll be socked out of our room again probably until we go home.
Calling my dad is unappealing for several reasons, and the only option I can think of . . . well, Zane isn’t actually my boyfriend. Calling him to see if I could crash in his suite is something a girlfriend would do. Except, if I were his girlfriend, wouldn’t I be staying with him already? Couch-surfing while sexiled is a totally acceptable reason to text afriendthough, right?
What’s the worst thing he could say? No? A little voice in the back of my head pipes up:The worst thing he could say is he’s already got company.
I want that stupid voice to stick a sock in it. So what if he does? It’s none of my business. I don’t think he would, though, if for no other reason than getting caught with a girl in his room when he’s supposed to be in love with me would taint his squeaky-clean image. Can’t have that.
For someone who’s so capable of making split-second decisions on the track, I sure am skilled at talking myself in circles off it.Just text him, Andrews.
Before I get back on the merry-go-round of “should I or shouldn’t I,” I grab my phone and text Zane with one eye closed. Because surely that will make it less horrifying if he’s all, “Uh, no, I fulfilled my obligation for today already. You’re on your own, blondie.”
Hey, my roommate’s banging her Russian in our room. Could I borrow your couch for a while?
Not even thirty seconds go by before my phone pings back.
Sure. Come on over.
Thank goodness Zane is a nice person who takes pity on damsels in distress.
Twenty minutes later, I’m knocking on his door, and as with the text, I can barely take a breath before he’s there.
And he’s wearing . . . glasses.
