Page 26 of Love on the Tracks
“Yes, I did, but this isn’t what I thought was going to happen. You were supposed to spend a little time with him, get your pictures taken, and you were both supposed to get something out of it. You weren’t supposed to . . .”
“What? Sleep together?”
My dad and I had the talk a long time ago, and he’s always been relatively candid with me about sex, which I’ve appreciated. Even so, I know I’m baiting him, but I can’t dredge it up to be sorry about it.You want to fight? Fine. Let’s fight.
“I don’t give a goddamn if you want to fuck the pop star.”
Heads turn, and my dad lowers his voice and hisses across the table. “Like I said, I don’t care if you sleep with him. You think I’m stupid? I know during competitions is when you find guys to hook up with, and that’s fine. You’re a young, attractive, intelligent woman. Of course you have hormones, and desires, and I have absolutely no problem with you fulfilling those needs as long as you’re safe and it doesn’t interfere with your competitions.”
“I’d hardly say this interfered with—”
He raises a hand to silence me, and wow does that make the fury rise in my throat. This high-handedness is not like him. Not that he’s more of a buddy than a parent, but he’s always been pretty chill and trusted my judgment. Since that seems to have gone out the window under all the pressure, maybe I can goad him into shouting about me fucking a rock star again. That would serve him right. Havethatpop up onCelebrinews.
“You didn’t miss a race, but I’m concerned this doesn’t seem as casual as your usual . . . trysts. I’m not worried about the sex, Rowan, I’m worried about love.”
How bass-ackward is my life that my dad is encouraging me to have casual sex but freaks out when I, god forbid, might actually like the guy? And “love”? That’s a strong word. Yes, I like Zane. A lot. Am more attracted to him than I’ve probably ever been to anyone else. I admire his talent, his loyalty to his band, and the sex is crazy good, but—an unsettling feeling flits around my ribcage and I say it out loud as much to myself as I do to my father.
“I don’t love him.”
“Maybe not yet, but—”
My phone cuts him off with a ping, and he shakes his head before picking up a fish taco that looks delicious. “Think about it, okay? I don’t want you throwing away your shot over some guy because he looks hot in skinny jeans or whatever.”
At least in this way—being completely embarrassed by my dad—I’m normal. I roll my eyes and take up my phone, and there is, in fact, a text from Zane.
What did you have in mind for show time this evening?
I try to keep my smirk internal because that certainly won’t help my case with my father, but text back. Under the table.
Public or private?
Satisfaction curls in my belly. I can only imagine Zane’s face when he reads my message. I hope he’s not anywhere public and has to, I don’t know, adjust himself? That’s so not my problem though. Actually, I kinda like the idea of throwing him off balance.
Jesus, Rowan, I almost choked on a cheese curd. I was thinking public, but hell, if you’ve got time, we can definitely make plans for both. Or maybe surprise me.
With a goddamn winky emoji. Plus, I just snorted and some water went up my nose. Ow, ow, ow. Which doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as the disappointed look my father is giving me.
Zane
Stanley scored us some tickets to the ski jump, which to me may as well be suicide on skis. These people are nothing short of magical. Like sorcerers shoved into spandex suits who strap sticks on their feet and then launch themselves off a mountain built to make them go as fast as possible. Who in the hell thought that was a good idea? But humans . . . For as long as we’ve done anything, we’ve wanted to figure out how to do it better, faster, bigger, more efficiently. It’s stuff like this that redeems the human race.
When Rowan shows up at the entrance to the event, she’s wearing a mish-mash of street clothes and Team USA gear, and she looks adorable.
“Hey.” One word, a simple greeting. You’d think someone who sings about love and lust for a living wouldn’t be struck dumb by a girl saying hello, but Rowan’s not just any girl. I swallow, the movement more pronounced than usual because I can’t help but thinking of her under me, and how she tastes.
Right now is not the time to be thinking about those things, though. We can have fun while we watch the event, but we’re on the job. And because my life is fucking awesome sometimes, part of my occupation at the moment is kissing a hot blonde.
I give her one of those big, camera-ready smiles and slip a hand around her waist, pulling her tight to my body. Even through all the layers of trying to stay warm, her body feels fantastic against me, and I bend down to kiss her.
She goes up on her toes and wraps her arms around my neck and meets me in the middle, our lips pressing together in a way that makes me not cold anymore. Nope, it’s as though she’s spiked the blood in my veins with alcohol, and when she parts her lips and teases me with tongue and teeth, she sets me aflame for her. Her mittens are on the back of my head, and I have to stop myself from flinging her over my shoulder and dragging her back to my hotel right now.
That, however, is not part of the deal. Not the public deal anyhow. In private, though—Jesus, let me get some time alone with her sometime in the next twenty-four hours, because otherwise I might die—that is a different story.
I kiss her back, mindful of the cameras, and after a not-scandalous amount of time, I pull away from her. Breathless? Me? No way. Not with a girl I’m having a manufactured-for-the-media fling with. Rowan’s looking a bit flushed too, and ducks her head.
“Sorry about that.”
“Sorry?”
