Sticky Fingers (9 page)

When he hangs up, I say, “Since my gloves are right here in my coat pocket, care to let me know the plan?”

“We skip Lucas’s and Rick’s parties entirely and just head to the nursery. Courtney definitely won’t be there, and I bet she doesn’t miss us, either. Besides, it’s our last chance for time alone before Christmas. Whaddya say? And I promise—no pressure.”

I’m not sure the nursery’s the right answer, but it definitely beats hanging with Courtney and trying not to throttle her in front of the whole school. Not because I’m in a peace-loving mood, but more because I don’t want to be the focus of gossip for the rest of break if I end up ripping her a new one in the middle of a crowded party.

As Scott flips a U-turn on Route 9, heading back toward Bennigan’s, I realize that there’s no way I can look at Courtney’s face tonight. No way.

I lift Scott’s hand and kiss his fingertips. “I say you’re a genius.”

When we pass by Bennigan’s, heading for Speen Street and the nursery, I lean across the seat and kiss him on the cheek. And I know I’ve made the right choice.

At least until a few minutes later, when we’re rolling into the nursery parking lot.

“Uh-oh,” I say, just after Scott kills the headlights and turns so we’re heading into the area behind the nursery. We both instantly recognize the car parked—lights off—at the far side of the lot, under the ice-laden branches of a tall evergreen. It’s a guy Scott knows from basketball, and the guy’s with his girlfriend.

Scott does a quick U-turn, trying to make it look like we’re nothing more than some random car that happened to wander back there accidentally, then heads back onto Speen Street.

“Now what?” I hate the idea of heading to Rick
Dando’s, but there’s really nowhere private to go at this point.

“I know you didn’t want to go to a hotel before,” he says, “and I totally don’t want to pressure you, but … since we can’t go to the nursery … maybe?”

I glance sideways at him. He’s so incredibly gorgeous, so out of my league … and so good to me, it blows me away. “Okay.”

“Really? I promise—we don’t have to do anything you don’t want—”

“Let’s just go.”

In my grandparents’ generation, I know people my age had kids already. They worked regular jobs to pay for food and clothes, as opposed to the catch-ascatch-can babysitting I do so I can put gas in my car and have some cash when I get to college. They were considered adults at seventeen.

But as I walk through the glass doors into the hotel lobby, with Scott walking beside me, I feel like I’m back in first grade and doing something I’m not supposed to. My gut’s clenched as if I expect a teacher to put her hand on my shoulder at any second
and say, “Jenna Kassarian, what are you doing here? You know this isn’t where you’re supposed to be.”

I shouldn’t feel like a kid, I know. I mean, I’ve always made all the right decisions, because that’s just what I do. It’s why my whole future’s lining up the way I planned. But I still squeeze Scott’s hand, just for reassurance.

As Scott tells the desk clerk that he’s the one who called a few minutes ago about the availability of a room, and gives the fifty-something guy the name of our economics teacher, I can’t help but smile to myself. And when the clerk goes in the back for some paperwork, I whisper, “Um, nice job, Mr. Evans.”

“Thanks. I thought it was brilliant.”

“No way am I going to a hotel room with Mr. Evans, though,” I tell him. He’s about to say something, but I interrupt. “Hey, the name on your credit card—”

“I’m paying cash.”

“Oh.” Now I really feel like a dork. “Um, do you have enough? I think I have enough for part—”

“Don’t worry about it. I got Christmas money from Dad yesterday.”

When the clerk comes back, Scott signs for the room, pays for it in advance—he tells the clerk he just wants it taken care of—then grabs the key card.

As we follow the signs to room 145, Scott starts to rub my back, just above the waistband of my jeans. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Nervous as hell. I want him so badly—just feeling his hand at the small of my back and thinking of what else that hand might do makes me burn inside—but I’m also starting to wonder if I’m doing the right thing, assuming we actually do the deed tonight. If I’m going to regret it later.

He seems to have it all figured out, and I just … don’t.

He slides the key into the door at the end of the hall, then steps back, letting me go in first. It’s pretty much your standard-issue hotel room. There’s one big bed, sporting a burgundy comforter with a paisley pattern (to hide stains?) with white cards propped on the pillows, offering room service breakfast. The carpet looks fairly clean, and so does the bathroom.

“What do you think?”

“It’s fine/’ I tell him as he shuts the door behind us and flips the privacy lock.

“Well, let me make it better than fine.” He turns me toward him, tosses the room key in the general direction of the nightstand, then kisses me hard.

And hoo-boy, is it ever
fine.
Within seconds, he has me back against the wall, and both our coats are on the floor near the door as we’re kissing each other and holding each other as tight as we can. And all I can think is,
This is it!
The moment I’ve wondered about forever. And it’s going to be with Scott. Tonight.

I think my brain is going into major meltdown.

He gradually slows down, kissing me more gently. His hands come up on either side of my face, and as he presses his body right into mine, he whispers, “You know I love you, Jenna.”

I let my hands drop lower, right over the back pockets of his jeans, and just let my emotions take the lead.

I don’t want to think anymore. I want to
do.

Eventually, he eases me toward the bed. It’s so much more comfortable lying here than in the Jetta.
We have total privacy and tons of time, even if we won’t be able to stay all night.

As he’s brushing my hair back with his fingers and kissing my neck, he whispers that I’m going to love this, that I’m going to remember this night forever. That this is the right thing for us. And that I’m the best.

And that does it. My brain re-engages, and I have a sudden moment of panic. He’s still kissing me, moving lower, pushing my shirt up and doing wondrous things to my stomach. But I open my eyes, see the white ceiling above me, and think,
Best at what? Best compared to whom?

All those self-esteem lectures we got in health class start running through my head, making me wonder if I said I’d come here tonight because I needed to feel better about myself after the crap today with Courtney. And that maybe, subconsciously, I thought proving to Scott that I love him more than Bridget or Ashley or anyone else could ever love him is the way to accomplish that.

I mean, have I become the low-self-esteem cliché girl? Is the primary reason I’m here on my back
tonight staring at the ceiling because I love Scott and tonight would’ve been the night no matter what, or because I had a rotten day and I need Scott to make me feel bulletproof again?

Scott kisses me right by my belly button, flattens one hand over my stomach, then looks up at me. “You can’t loosen up and enjoy this, can you?”

“I
am
enjoying this,’ I say as I play with his hair. “But—”

“But.” He drops his forehead against my stomach and laughs. “I knew there’d be a ‘but.’ It’s impossible for you to turn your brain off and stop overanalyzing, even for a second, isn’t it?”

Without waiting for me to answer, he pulls my shirt back down, then moves up so he’s lying beside me, and we’re practically nose to nose. I can feel his breath against my face, the heat of his skin. And it’s all perfect. Except for this nagging, annoying question in my gut.

“What are you worried about?” His green eyes just radiate intelligence, and it’s obvious he cares, even though I know this is absolutely killing him.

It makes me wonder what in hell is wrong with
me. “This is probably a very awkward time to ask this question—”

“Am I still a virgin?”

I stare at him. “Um, yeah. Although I wasn’t going to be quite so blunt. I mean, I asked you once before, and you didn’t really answer, so—”

“I know. I had a feeling that night at the nursery, when you found out you’d gotten into Harvard, that the whole virginity thing was as much the problem as being in the Jetta.” He lets out a long breath, then says, “But no, I’m not a virgin.”

“So why haven’t you just flat-out told me?”

His closes his eyes for a beat, and when he opens them, I can tell that part of him doesn’t want to get into it. He just wants to pick up where we left off. But he says, “I didn’t want you to hold it against me. Or think it meant I didn’t love you as much. I mean, the first time was a mistake.”

“Bridget?”

He nods. “But you’re nothing like her, and I love that about you. You’re not like anyone else I’ve ever gone out with.”

Yeah, I’m thinking. Bridget is jaw-droppingly
gorgeous. I’m passable. And worse—at least in most guys’ minds—I’m a geek.

“Look”—he runs a finger along my cheek, then loops his fingers through my hair—“I love you for a lot of reasons. Not just because you’re nothing like her. I think you’re smart and ambitious, and when you relax, you have a wicked sense of humor. And I obviously find you beyond hot.”

I can’t help but smile at him, and I wrap one of my feet around his ankle.

“And I know I can trust you,” he says, giving me a soft, quick kiss. “So I want you to trust me, too. I want you to be happy.”

“You do make me happy.” How could Scott not make any girl happy?

“For what it’s worth, she’s the only one. I didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. I mean, I’ve had opportunities, but I wanted it to be special. And you”—he drops his hand from my hair, moving it along my back and down to my hip—“you are special. And I’ve never wanted to be with anyone like I want to be with you.”

We start kissing again. And it absolutely kills
me, because he’s so unbelievably good. Good like they show in movie clips during the Oscars good. I try to stop thinking—I even let my hands slide into the back of his waistband, to let the feel of his warm skin work like a drug to numb my brain—but I can’t. I can’t relax. All I can imagine is how many ways this is going to screw up my life and my plans if it doesn’t go the way it goes in all those happily-ever-after movies. And no matter how much I love Scott, or how many other people I know are doing the whole sex thing with no problem, I just can’t. At least not tonight. My head’s not on straight.

“Scott—”

“It’s not working, is it?”

“It’s not that. Believe I want you …”

“But not tonight.” I can feel the exasperation he’s trying so hard to hold back, and I can’t say I blame him.

I let my hand drift up his back, then meet his gaze. I hate telling him no, especially when I can’t make him understand why. When even I don’t completely understand why. “I’m really sorry, Scott, but maybe I’m just not ready.”

“You are,” he says. “It’s just that you get way too
wound up about things—you know, like school—and I think it’s the same with sex. But if you can trust me, nothing bad is going to happen. I promise. You might even feel better.” He brushes his fingers against my skin, then grins when I give an involuntary shiver.

“I don’t know if it’s that simple.” I can’t make this decision tonight, lying on a hotel bed with his hand inside my shirt. I need to know, deep in my gut, that having sex with him won’t screw up my future in some unforeseeable way.

“I hate to ask, but what does Courtney think about all this? Have you talked to her about it? About us sleeping together?”

“Not really.” Not in ages. And when we did, it was always a hypothetical. Scott and I have taken things pretty slowly—well, until right before Christmas break—so I didn’t really think it’d be a serious issue for at least a few more months.

“Maybe you should talk to her about it, once you two get over everything that happened tonight. See what she thinks—if you’re just not able to relax, or if this is something more.”

I make a sarcastic face. “Right. You want me to talk to Courtney because she obviously has no problem with sex.”

“That’s not why. She’s your best friend. Maybe she can give you perspective.”

“Normally, yes. But not right now.”

“No, I definitely don’t want you talking to her right now.” He wraps his arms around me, then rolls us so I’m on top of him, lying with my nose a few inches from his. “We have this hotel room for the night. Let’s stay as long as we can. If we don’t go any further than we have before, I can live with that. And if you change your mind, well—”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“We’ll get there. If not tonight, then soon. And I know you won’t regret it.”

“Still no regrets, huh?” Scott says after I stretch toward my nightstand to pick up on the first ring.

“What, not even a hello?”

“I had to ask again. It’s what guys do.”

It cracks me up that Scott has started our last dozen or so phone conversations with the same line.
I guess he can’t help but pressure me, at least a little. But since he bought me a new CD—one I’ve been dying to get—the morning after we had our hotel room discussion, just so I’d know he wasn’t mad at me, and to help me feel better about the whole Courtney thing, Tm not the least bit upset with his teasing.