Page 11 of Give You Up

“Hey, there, get your hands out of my pockets.”

I tip my head forward, then back, ready to headbutt the touchy jerk who did not get the message there is such a thing as personal space and sexual harassment. And who can forget stranger danger?

His voice near my ear stops me. “Or else what, Pixie Dust?”

7

Syn

Taron’s breath is warm on the curve of my ear, and my mind fills with images of hot summer nights touching and kissing him in the bed of his pickup truck, our stargazing quickly turning into an intense making out.

His hands inside my pockets, Taron guides me out of the crowd’s path, onto the lawn, and behind a tree, giving us privacy from the other students. He leans against the tree and anchors me to him.

With our height difference, the top of my head tucks perfectly under his chin. Every nerve in my body is hyperaware of every hitch in his breath, every rise and fall of his chest against my back, and every soft caress from his fingers inside my pockets.

The sun in the sky is hotter than I remember. The breeze that coasts over my face has a hint of a floral smell I haven’t smelled before, and I’ve sat under this flowering tree many times in between classes, usually caught up in the romance book I’m reading.

I resist the urge to close my eyes and melt against him. It has always been like this with Taron. With him, I am so aware of the world. The smells. The textures. How the hair on his arms brushes my skin. Soft. A whisper of hair on skin. Smooth. Skin on skin. The temperature. No matter summer or cooler temperatures, Taron runs hot. His body temp matches his hotheadedness.

“Taron, what are you doing?” I am out of breath. Dizzy from our proximity after years apart.

“Showing you which direction you should be heading.”

“Where would that be? You have us hiding behind a tree.”

As soon as the words are out, I want to take them back.

“Hiding?” He takes his hands out of my pockets, and setting them on my shoulders, he turns me to face him. “Is that what you would like to do, Syn? Play hide and seek?”

Oh, God, the seduction and sex dripping from his words. It’s the game we played. At night. On the football field. Inside his house when his parents were out of town. At the back of the high school we went to. He always found me. Claimed a kiss for it, too. Other times, there was more at stake, like his hand down the front of my pants or my fingers stroking his thickness throughhispants.

“How about it, baby? Should we relive the past?”

The past. My mom. My dad. Or who I thought was my biological dad until my mom dropped the news that Gary wasn’t my real dad. The lies. The embarrassment. The mortification should anyone find out the truth. The pleading in her eyes. She did it for me. That’s what she kept saying over and over. Did she, though? Or did my mom like sleeping with all those men?

“It’s not a good idea.”

“Because you have a boyfriend?”

“Because I’m not into casual hookups and that’s all you’re interested in.”

As soon as I heard the news that the star QB for Stanford had put in for a transfer to DU, I searched Taron online.

“Jealous?”

“Grossed out.”

“You believe what other girls say? What they post online?”

“What does it matter? You and I are not an item. What you do with your junk is none of my business.”

The girls post pics of Taron’s dick. Or at least I think it’s his penis. His manhood has its own hashtag. #TD. Some say TD is short for Taron’s Dick. Others say it’s a play on touchdown for scoring time with the commitment-phobic star quarterback.

“What you think matters. What’s his appeal, Syn?”

The jealousy in his voice . . . I blink. “Wait, what?”

He grasps my chin and tips my head up. “You heard me.”

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