He blinks at the sudden change in topic. “Thanks.” He shrugs like it’s not a thing. His voice. My compliment. “I played around with the guitar a bit in junior high. Couple friends and I actually thought we could put together a band. We’d just started to get serious and practice when my father got reassigned again. . . . And eventually—” He stops and waves a hand, motioning at the bunker around us. Enough said. I try to picture him in his life before but have trouble grasping it beyond who he is now. Here. In this world.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“South Carolina.”
I thought I detected the barest southern lilt to his voice.
“Let me guess. Football?” Bred in the South. It seems a certainty. I cross my arms and assess him with an air of drama.
A plan that backfires, because once I start checking him out, it’s hard to stop. My cheeks grow warm, heat creeping all the way up to my ears as I skim his broad shoulders. The cotton T-shirt looks so soft. It rests across his chest, hugging the flat lines of his torso. I remember the sensation of me curled against that chest. The power of his arms, flexing biceps as he carried me. Aware that I’m ogling him, I jerk my attention back to his face. I’m worse than a boy who can’t keep his eyes off a girl’s chest.
He smiles that grin that makes my stomach flutter again. “No. No football.”
I angle my head. “Not the golden boy, huh?” It fit. At least I thought so. He’s so strong and in command here. He seems like the kind of guy who would lead his team to a state championship or something. Then it dawns on me. “Oh, I get it. You were the army brat. Bet you rebelled.”
The idea of this is kind of hot. I picture him luring some Goody Two-shoes (who resembles me a lot) onto the back of a Harley and speeding out of the school parking lot. I glance away, afraid my burning face is bright red now at the totally ridiculous fantasy.
“Am I that predictable?”
I feel my eyes widen. “Oh my God, am I right?”
“Hey. It wasn’t cool moving around every couple years. One year I changed schools twice. So. Yeah. I might have acted out a bit. First day of school I might have made a beeline for the kids who looked most likely to skip school and get high in their parents’ basement. I had a nose for them.” He taps the side of his nose.
“And wild girls,” I say before I can catch the words.
He stares at me for a while. “Well, I was wild. They were the only ones I could get.”
This I doubt. All he needed to do was flash that grin, and any girl would have followed him.
“The good girls knew better,” he adds.
Maybe he’s right about that. I would have known better. The Davy Hamilton of before would have given him a wide berth, watching from the window of her chemistry class as some other girl hopped on the back of his bike and took off to make out in some basement.
This Davy Hamilton? She could be tempted.
My cheeks sting as this thought slides through me to settle into the mass of butterflies kicking to life in my belly.
“Guess we’re all bad here,” I say, unable to look away from him. I can hardly breathe. My chest feels tight as he watches me intently, like he’s waiting for me to say or do something. Like he can read my mind.
“Well, we’re all rebels. This is true.”
I nod, waving at the map with flags dotted across it. “Literally.”
“You were the good girl,” he declares abruptly.
I snort and tuck a strand behind my ear self-consciously. “What?”
“It’s stamped all over you.” He moves closer. “You were the girl. The one.”
I hold my breath, watching as he stops just inches from me. The notion of personal space is lost.
“The perfect princess.” His words are a warm breath on my face.
I open my mouth to deny the image, but can’t grab the words. They’re not untrue exactly.
His lips twist into a crooked smile. “You wouldn’t have even looked at me.”
Not true. I would have seen him. I know this deep in my gut where muscle meets bone and wraps tight. I wouldn’t have been able to not look at him. And if I’d ever heard his voice . . . if he ever sang? I don’t know if I could have stayed away. Good girl or not.
He continues, still standing too close. I can smell the clean, soapy scent of his skin. “I would have been one of dozens looking at you. Just another guy who can’t help himself when he sees this amazing girl out of his reach.”
I avert my eyes, stunned by his words. I’ve been complimented before. But not often since I became known as a carrier. And not since I hacked off my hair, dyed it, and exposed my face to so much sun it resembles leather. “I doubt—”
“Yes,” he’s quick to say. “I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
I moisten my lips and shake my head. I’m not beautiful. I know this. Not because I suffer from low self-esteem or anything. I know my assets. I have good hair (well, had). My legs are pretty decent. And yet there were far prettier girls at Everton than me—and even here. Tabatha’s face floats across my mind. I’m too thin. As far as my chest goes, there isn’t much to it, and my nose has a slight bump. So I can’t fathom where he’s coming from when he calls me beautiful.
As though he’s reading my mind, he says, “And I’m not just talking about your face. You’re strong. Brave. And even though you try not to show it, you care about people. You’re beyond loyal. All you’ve wanted to do is get back to your friends. I can’t tell you how jealous that has made me.”
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“South Carolina.”
I thought I detected the barest southern lilt to his voice.
“Let me guess. Football?” Bred in the South. It seems a certainty. I cross my arms and assess him with an air of drama.
A plan that backfires, because once I start checking him out, it’s hard to stop. My cheeks grow warm, heat creeping all the way up to my ears as I skim his broad shoulders. The cotton T-shirt looks so soft. It rests across his chest, hugging the flat lines of his torso. I remember the sensation of me curled against that chest. The power of his arms, flexing biceps as he carried me. Aware that I’m ogling him, I jerk my attention back to his face. I’m worse than a boy who can’t keep his eyes off a girl’s chest.
He smiles that grin that makes my stomach flutter again. “No. No football.”
I angle my head. “Not the golden boy, huh?” It fit. At least I thought so. He’s so strong and in command here. He seems like the kind of guy who would lead his team to a state championship or something. Then it dawns on me. “Oh, I get it. You were the army brat. Bet you rebelled.”
The idea of this is kind of hot. I picture him luring some Goody Two-shoes (who resembles me a lot) onto the back of a Harley and speeding out of the school parking lot. I glance away, afraid my burning face is bright red now at the totally ridiculous fantasy.
“Am I that predictable?”
I feel my eyes widen. “Oh my God, am I right?”
“Hey. It wasn’t cool moving around every couple years. One year I changed schools twice. So. Yeah. I might have acted out a bit. First day of school I might have made a beeline for the kids who looked most likely to skip school and get high in their parents’ basement. I had a nose for them.” He taps the side of his nose.
“And wild girls,” I say before I can catch the words.
He stares at me for a while. “Well, I was wild. They were the only ones I could get.”
This I doubt. All he needed to do was flash that grin, and any girl would have followed him.
“The good girls knew better,” he adds.
Maybe he’s right about that. I would have known better. The Davy Hamilton of before would have given him a wide berth, watching from the window of her chemistry class as some other girl hopped on the back of his bike and took off to make out in some basement.
This Davy Hamilton? She could be tempted.
My cheeks sting as this thought slides through me to settle into the mass of butterflies kicking to life in my belly.
“Guess we’re all bad here,” I say, unable to look away from him. I can hardly breathe. My chest feels tight as he watches me intently, like he’s waiting for me to say or do something. Like he can read my mind.
“Well, we’re all rebels. This is true.”
I nod, waving at the map with flags dotted across it. “Literally.”
“You were the good girl,” he declares abruptly.
I snort and tuck a strand behind my ear self-consciously. “What?”
“It’s stamped all over you.” He moves closer. “You were the girl. The one.”
I hold my breath, watching as he stops just inches from me. The notion of personal space is lost.
“The perfect princess.” His words are a warm breath on my face.
I open my mouth to deny the image, but can’t grab the words. They’re not untrue exactly.
His lips twist into a crooked smile. “You wouldn’t have even looked at me.”
Not true. I would have seen him. I know this deep in my gut where muscle meets bone and wraps tight. I wouldn’t have been able to not look at him. And if I’d ever heard his voice . . . if he ever sang? I don’t know if I could have stayed away. Good girl or not.
He continues, still standing too close. I can smell the clean, soapy scent of his skin. “I would have been one of dozens looking at you. Just another guy who can’t help himself when he sees this amazing girl out of his reach.”
I avert my eyes, stunned by his words. I’ve been complimented before. But not often since I became known as a carrier. And not since I hacked off my hair, dyed it, and exposed my face to so much sun it resembles leather. “I doubt—”
“Yes,” he’s quick to say. “I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
I moisten my lips and shake my head. I’m not beautiful. I know this. Not because I suffer from low self-esteem or anything. I know my assets. I have good hair (well, had). My legs are pretty decent. And yet there were far prettier girls at Everton than me—and even here. Tabatha’s face floats across my mind. I’m too thin. As far as my chest goes, there isn’t much to it, and my nose has a slight bump. So I can’t fathom where he’s coming from when he calls me beautiful.
As though he’s reading my mind, he says, “And I’m not just talking about your face. You’re strong. Brave. And even though you try not to show it, you care about people. You’re beyond loyal. All you’ve wanted to do is get back to your friends. I can’t tell you how jealous that has made me.”
