A. Jackson - When We Met

Maybe next year, there would be room for a boy like Blake, when I’d be venturing out on my own in a new city and trying to make a life for myself. I had Blake to thank for showing me what I might have to look forward to—but I knew I needed to wait until the time was right. Because now? The time didn’t seem right, for either of us.

A kind of melancholy set up camp, heavy in my chest, but I ignored it.

“Is set design the kind of career you’ve always seen for yourself?” I asked.

“I think so,” he said, turning the corner to where his car was parked. “Maybe on a Broadway set or in a smaller production around here.”

I couldn’t imagine Blake leaving his family to seek out Broadway any time soon. Maybe we’d keep in touch after our project was over with. I’d like that.

We lapsed into a comfortable silence, each lost in our own head. I looked at my phone and saw two missed calls from my mother and was transported back to reality too soon.

“Thanks for a great night,” I said after he drove me to my car, which was still parked in front of Threads. “Next time it’s my choice—you get to come see a classic movie with me.”

Heat crawled up my neck. I couldn’t believe I’d voiced that hope out loud. Without practicing how it would sound first.

“Deal,” he said without any hesitation.

* * *

And a couple of nights later that was exactly what we did. We saw the ten o’clock show at the Cedar Mountain Theater and ate buttery popcorn while I explained how much I loved all the vintage clothing in those productions. He didn’t even raise an eyebrow at me.

Every time his thigh brushed against mine, I felt the urge to turn and practice one of those old-fashioned kisses that I was so fond of in these movies.

In fact, during the kissing scene, I held my breath as my imagination took over. In my side view I noticed how Blake’s gazed skimmed over my face and then landed on our hands, which were so close together I could feel the electricity between our skin.

But it was so ridiculous to have those fantasies when our lives were so different—so scripted by our families, in completely different ways.

I’d even seen one of my mother’s society ladies near the concession stand before the movie. I immediately pulled out the notebook I carried everywhere, just in case, and fabricated the idea of a class project. I told her the assignment involved the study of costumes and that we were meeting more of our classmates near the entrance, the exact place where Blake had set up residence.

He pretended to study the door in order to spot our friends arriving and didn’t even question me about it afterward. It was as if we’d come to an understanding that our time together wasn’t real; it was just the tucked-away moments we shared while working on this project and there was no use wasting time discussing it any further.

Blake

By the following week our space already looked fairly put together. All of the lumber had been stained and the shelving units created. The only two tasks that remained were the staging and decorating. I’d finished building days ago and I didn’t need to help with anything else, but all I wanted to do was steal more moments with Chloe in the pop-up shop.

Even though our time together had an expiration date, this project felt as much mine as hers and I wanted to see it through. Plus it kept my mind off what was bothering me at home.

My mother was beginning to act strange—like she was hiding stuff from me. I’d been through this too many times to count and knew all the signs of someone heading down that dark road again. All I could do was make sure my brother’s life wasn’t disrupted. Thankfully he had a full schedule of school and sports activities to keep him busy. But he wasn’t stupid—he knew the score as well as I did.

I was pretty sure Chloe figured out that I didn’t need to hang around anymore, either, but she never said a word. Every day that I showed up, she looked grateful. And happy to see me. And that kept me coming.

“Can you hoist the tape over the top of this pipe? I can’t reach,” Chloe said.

“Bet you’re missing those heels,” I said, grabbing the roll of filament from her grasp.

“Bet you are, too,” she countered, arching a playful eyebrow.

We’d been doing this a lot more lately—flirting with each other. It made me nearly desperate for the opportunity to touch her.

What that meant exactly, I wasn’t sure. We were great in our confined space together. I was fairly certain that she didn’t let anyone else know what we were up to, besides my aunt Jaclyn—and especially not her overbearing mother. Nor that we had hung out a couple of times. That bothered me at first—really bothered me. But now I got it. She had been kept on a short leash and pretty sheltered.

After hanging a few of the silver movie reels on opposite walls, I said, “Truth or dare?”

She seemed so at ease tonight, it actually surprised me when she said, “Truth.”

Darn. I had hoped I could convince her to go somewhere with me on a dare. I’d have to try a different approach.

“Hmm . . . if I asked you to come see my friend’s live band at Club Utopia . . . would you say yes?”

She immediately began twirling her hair around her fingers and I almost regretted trying to persuade her into going out with me at all.

It felt like an entire minute had passed by before she finally agreed. “Yes.”

I appreciated that she was remaining open to ideas and I really liked seeing that fire in her eyes—that small flicker that was awakened when she took a chance and tried something that was outside her comfort zone.

As we made our way to the door, she swept her hands down her clothes as if to smooth them out and said, “Is this okay—what I’m wearing?”

She had on a vintage Coca-Cola T-shirt from my aunt’s shop, tight jeans, and her pink Converse sneakers. I reined in my dirty thoughts about how amazing her breasts looked beneath that thin cotton material and how the denim stretched over her womanly hips.

“Actually it’s perfect for where we’re going.”

I could practically hear her gulp and that made me grin.

When we got inside the club, she nervously looked around the lively joint. The opening band was hard rock, the speakers were blaring, and the floor was packed with fans trying to get as close to the stage as possible.

“Can I . . . get you something to drink?” I said, against her hair. She shivered, as if I’d surprised her by being so near.

She placed her mouth next to my ear and I nearly crawled out of my skin. Her lips were warm and as she spoke they buzzed against my flesh. “I don’t really drink. I don’t like—”

“Feeling out of control?” I said, finishing her sentence.

She nodded, biting her lip, as if I’d think she was a freak of nature, when in actuality I admired that type of self-discipline. How could I not? “No biggie. At all.”

I’d actually been nervous about becoming an alcoholic myself, but after reading all the literature and going through this with Mom too many times to count, I knew that I could stop after one or two beers. That was the difference. Now I just needed to keep a close eye on my brother.

“Can I just take a couple of sips of whatever you’re having?”

“Sure.” We moved over to the bar, where I ordered my beer. She took two grateful swallows for some form of liquid courage and handed it back. She seemed to have no problem placing her lips where mine had just been, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her mouth—especially her full bottom lip—as I sipped from the bottle after her.

My friend Nick, the drummer for the headline band, sought me out in the back of the bar and clapped me on the back. “Thanks for coming, man.”

When I introduced Chloe, she politely said hello, but I got the impression that she wanted to disappear from his scrutiny.

After he left to begin his set, I said, “You feel out of your element here, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Kinda. Sorry.”

Before I could respond, the music started and the place erupted over the first song. People began yelling and swaying and Chloe looked around in awe. I stood behind her against the back wall, and just like at the live theater production, I felt this insane need to protect her, to create our own little personal zone.

But by the third song, she seemed to get into the music and was swaying back and forth as they covered a popular tune. She mouthed a few of the words, which was so damned sexy. My arm kept brushing hers as I took sips of my beer, and I felt almost desperate to tangle our fingers together.

What would she think if I did? She was such a “play by the rules” kind of girl that I was pretty sure she might freak. Still our time together was coming to an end and I felt the burgeoning desire to get closer to her, to see what this chemistry was all about. You could probably walk on the tightrope of tension between us.

After I finished my first beer, I felt a little bolder. I wasn’t feeling a buzz quite yet, but my confidence and yearning to test our attraction hit its peak.

When I carefully placed my fingers on her shoulders, I studied her reaction. Her body seemed to tremble beneath my touch, and that only egged me on.

“Truth or dare?” I asked, and her eyes met mine, holding the connection strong as cement.

A rash of color sprinkled across her cheeks and she looked so damned irresistible. A momentary guise of uncertainty crossed her features before she took a deep breath. “Dare.”

My lips sought her ear before she could change her mind. “Your pick. Do something spontaneous.”

Her gaze swept around the bar unsteadily before something seemed to click and settle in her eyes. I could see her ticking through the idea in her brain. She nodded and then stepped forward out of my grasp.

She made her way to the middle of the writhing bodies, closer to the stage. Her back was to me and I noticed the tightly coiled tension in her shoulders. She stood there for several long minutes, watching the band and the people around her. Then to my utter astonishment, she lifted her arms in the air and began swinging her hips in time to the music.

Her ass looked sweet and if I had been standing directly behind her like I’d been moments before, I wouldn’t have been able to keep my fingers from sliding around her waist and moving in close. So damned close. The front of my jeans tightened in response.

Some dude with long hair dancing next to her turned in her direction to check her out. His eyes slid from her breasts down to her crotch and I balled my fists in response. Damn, was I really feeling jealous over this girl? The same girl who had driven me up a fucking wall for so many weeks?

Now the guy stepped in front of her, shifted his hand to her hip, and matched her efforts. She bristled in response, and just as I was about to head over and push him the hell away, she brought her hand to his shoulder. In her profile, I saw her nod and grin.

After a minute more, she turned away from him and searched for my eyes across the room. She held my gaze steadily as she swayed her hips seductively in my direction.

Hell, this girl was hot. Especially when she was letting go and owning her sexuality.

She danced the entire song with this guy close behind her—a little too close—but her eyes remained glued to mine. I couldn’t look away even if I tried. When the number was over and she began moving toward me, I felt something spring loose in my chest. The kind of feeling I hadn’t had for a girl in months. Maybe years.

I wanted her. But I wasn’t sure if she wanted me in the same way. Not outside of our time together on this project. And I needed to be okay with that.

She giggled and threw herself into my arms, pulling me in for a tight hug. “That was fun.”

“Yeah?” I said against her neck. Fuck, she smelled good—like strawberry shampoo. “You looked like you were having fun. I’m surprised that dude didn’t ask for your number.”

She pulled back to look at me. “Why would he?”

“Because you’re hot, Chloe.” I drew her closer to whisper in her ear, “You might not even realize how damned hot you are. Especially when you’re not thinking too hard—when you’re lost in the moment.”

Her lips parted and her eyes met mine. She seemed at a loss for words, so I decided to change the subject. I wanted to give her an out. Maybe I’d said too much.