“Yeah, sure, there’s at least one or two that might not prove lame. Pick you up at ten?”
“Cool.”
John and I have known each other for three years, ever since a party during which I thought I was going to die.
I was hitting on this girl, and she was hitting back like a pro. We found a shadowy spot near the pool waterfall to make some semi-stoned explorations and get better acquainted—all fine and good until someone yanked me away from her with the clear intent of ripping my arm from its socket. Apparently she had a boyfriend who was a bit disappointed to find her with her shirt hanging open and one hand down the front of my jeans.
“What the f**k do you think you’re doing?” he screamed, eyes crazy and swinging back and forth between us. His hand was still clenched around my nearly dislocated arm as she stumbled backwards. He was smaller than me, but older and really pissed off.
When he let go, I tried to just retreat and take the loss. No sense getting my ass kicked for some girl who hadn’t bothered to volunteer her name or ask mine, as far as I could remember. “Nothing, man, seriously,” I mumbled, still high but sobering up fast. Unfortunately, my unzipped jeans and the fact that she was fumbling to rebutton her shirt contradicted my words.
He stepped closer to me, his wiry neck muscles bulging. “I’m gonna kill you.”
That’s when John popped up next to me. I’d never seen him before. “Hey! Do I know you?” At first I thought he meant me, but a quick glance told me he meant pissed-off guy.
“Back off, dickwad.” The guy stabbed a finger at me. “This is between me and him.”
“Oh yeah? This is my house. So why don’t you back off.” John was smaller than both of us, but he was gushing righteous indignation.
That’s when pissed-off guy’s six-foot-four, linebacker-width friend materialized. Gaping at him, I thought: I’m dead. Holy shit, I’m totally dead. Expressionless, he stared back as I contemplated whether or not it was even remotely possible for me to get in one punch that might stun him long enough for me to make a run for it. I couldn’t look away from his glassy-eyed gaze until he cracked his knuckles.
I swallowed, trying one last stab at conciliation with the pissed-off boyfriend. “Hey, uh, sorry, dude—I didn’t know she was taken.”
“Not good enough, dude,” he sneered, unappeased. He didn’t want apologies. He wanted blood. Mine.
That’s when John sidestepped me and meaty guy, all 140 pounds of him barreling straight into pissed-off guy. Knocking the guy flat on his ass, he commenced to beat the shit out of him, fists flying. Great, I thought, my eyes sliding back to the huge thug whose neck was the size of one of my thighs, now I’m definitely getting my ass kicked.
I stood straight, fists clenched, certain that if that guy landed one punch, I was going to be (a) unconscious and (b) not nearly as attractive as I began this lousy evening. And then meaty guy breathed a deep, frustrated sigh, rolled his eyes, and leaned down to grab his friend out from under John. Making for the side gate, he towed his bleeding, stumbling comrade along. Without a word, the girl followed.
This all happened in the time it took me to blink twice.
Like a prize fighter, John rocked his head back and forth a couple of times, popping his neck, and then looked at me. “Come on, man, I’ve gotta ice my knuckles.” He grinned idiotically as he pumped his hands open and closed as though that would help the pain. “God damn, that hurts.”
I shook my head at him. “Uh, thanks?”
“No prob. That guy was a dick.” I followed him into the house, where he opened a drawer in the freezer and rummaged through ice packs of various shapes and sizes. “My step-mom does kickboxing,” he said, in explanation of the ice packs. I tried and failed to imagine my mom kickboxing. Pulling a hand-sized pack from the freezer drawer, he said, “So, you’re Reid Alexander, yeah?”
At sixteen, I was still on the outer fringes of celebrity. “You know who I am?”
I had no idea then how much everything would change, or how quickly. Meeting John was one of the earliest indications of the approaching shift in my social status. John is one of my closest friends now, but he’s always been conscious of who’s who, and I’ve wondered if our friendship would have ever occurred if he hadn’t known who I was that night.
“I know Karen and Olivia, and they said they were bringing you tonight.”
The last glimpse I’d gotten of Karen and Olivia, they were dancing together and driving every guy in the vicinity nuts. Too bad for the guys, because neither girl would be interested in any of them. They were much more interested in each other… which is why I’d gone looking for my own amusement.
Taking two beers from the fridge with his uninjured hand, John handed me one.
I twisted the cap off and shook my head. “Guess I got lucky that big guy wasn’t in the mood to fight, eh?”
John shrugged. “The smaller guy was the douche. I figured, take him out, problem solved.”
Risky guess. “Yeah, well, thanks.”
Chapter 16
Emma
I wake up alone, with bits and pieces of last night and this morning floating back to me. The first thing I remember is the last thing that happened—Graham leaving a piece of paper on the night table before he leaned over, hands on either side of my head, and kissed me goodbye. I drifted back to sleep with the taste of him on my lips.
I sit up a bit, scooting back against the pillows and rubbing my eyes, and the note is there, where I remember him leaving it. The clock reads 11 a.m., so he must have left three hours ago. He’s somewhere between California and New York, probably flying over a patchwork quilt of corn and wheat fields. The room-darkening draperies seal out the sunlight completely, so I have to switch the lamp on to read his note. I run the pad of my finger over his familiar scrawl, my name at the top and his at the bottom.