Page 43 of Stand

She squinted at him. “You got pretty hair,” she said.

This time he flinched before his lips tightened. He didn’t say anything.

“Hey,” she said, getting mad even though the pot was trying to teach her peace and love. “I just said you had pretty hair.”

“Yeah.” He batted at the clothes hanging in the closet. “Thanks.”

He was taller than her. God, that was hot. Half the guys she dated were short, intense jocks. Even the basketball players. How skinny was he under that hoodie? Were the baggy jeans to be trendy, or could he not afford ones that fit?

She stood up and moved closer to him. She wasn’t going to be thwarted. She had this down to a fine art these days—a tilt of the head, a big smile that said, yes, I am interested; yes, your wildest dreams have come true. She put out a hand and touched his arm.

He looked down at her, frowning. Oh boy, was she going to make his day. It would be a great story for her friends, too—the day she bestowed a favor on the poor geeky bike kid. She slid her hand up his arm, over his shoulder, up to touch the thick blond locks. They felt soft and rough at the same time.

He was standing very still, letting her touch him, still frowning. Sam smiled bigger. He recoiled.

Huh? Recoiled? Didn’t he understand what was happening here?

She moved toward his mouth slowly, loving the slow prolonging of that first touch, the power she had to steal the breath of any boy she wanted. And this one didn’t move, didn’t try to take over the seduction, didn’t rush to stick his tongue down her throat, didn’t do anything, just waited even though she could feel that she was getting him exactly where she wanted him.

Until he put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her away. Gently, but still.

“What’s the matter with you?” she said. “Oh shit!” The rum and Coke she’d had was messing with the pot. She should have realized. “You’re gay, aren’t you? I’m sorry, I—”

“I’m straight,” he said without inflection. “You really think that a guy has to be gay not to want to make out with you?”

Her mouth fell open.No onehad spoken to her like that. “You—you don’t?”

He folded his arms, making her drop hers, and looked into the depths of the closet. She couldn’t see his expression.

“Why not?” she demanded. “What’s the matter with me, huh?”

He unfolded his arms long enough to pull his phone out of his pocket. “How long do we have to do this?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. He wasn’t answering any of her questions. “What’s the matter with me?”

Now he did look at her, his face illuminated from below by his phone. “You don’t even know. That’s what’s the matter with you.”

“What?”

That vague itchy feeling along her shoulders grew. Okay, so she basically ignored guys like this on any normal day. She’d kind of forgotten that choosing to do that might mean the guy wouldn’t be interested in her either.

“Look,” she said, immediately annoyed. “You don’t have to be rude.”

He laughed, and despite her anger, she liked it. Even though he was laughing at her. “Says the girl who turns her nose up at anyone without a flip phone and a roadster.”

“I donot!”

“I saw you.” He waved his phone, a small, old model with a simple screen, at her. “You can’t even keep that snotty look off your face.”

She gaped at him again. Had she done that? Was she that shallow? Shewasn’t! She didn’t care about stuff like that! She was just thinking that he didn’t even have a camera phone, and yet—

Oh.

She retreated to the other wall of the closet, leaving at least three feet between them. The emo kid tried to push the door open, but it was held shut from the other side. “Hey,” he said. “We’re done here.”

The boys outside laughed. “Yeah, right!”

“We’re not done!” Sam called. “We’renotdone,” she repeated furiously to him.

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