#Superfan (9 page)

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shoulder the knock-off bag and swing back around. “You didn’t check on me yesterday, not once.” The words come out bitter and somewhat childish. I have to make myself not pout.

Lord, help me. Don’t let me turn into one of those silly, clingy girls I can’t stand.

“You think I didn’t check on you.” A secretive smile plays on his face. “I watched you all night until you started to wake up. That’s when I decided to head home and crash. When I woke up I started to head over, but I heard your door shut and caught a glimpse of you heading downstairs.”

“You were watching me from the peephole?” The thought kind of thrills me.

“Like you don’t do the same?” He raises one eyebrow, smirking.

Frowning, I reach inside my purse and dig out my house keys. Sighing, I cross the distance between us, pausing once I’m standing beside him.

The idea sort of strikes me all at once. “You snuck out and stayed low-key so you could sneak your friend out of your apartment without getting caught.”

I say this without looking him in the eye. It all comes out the side of my mouth without much thought. Eight gapes at me, but says nothing, and I can only hope our trip to my parents’ house isn’t a trip filled with a bunch of unspoken nothings.

He follows me into the hallway and watches me lock the door. “Alex, I know there’re still some things I haven’t told you.”

“That’s an understatement.”

Eight steals my hand and gives it a squeeze. His eyes beg for understanding. “Some stories aren’t mine to tell, but I promise it’ll come in time. Baby steps, okay?”

Don’t be so pushy. Give the guy some space.

“Yeah, baby steps.”

We trudge downstairs and into the lobby. Bright sunlight batters my eyes as I push open the lobby doors. Tears stream down my face from the intensity of the rays. I brush them away and slide my sunglasses from the top of my head down to the bridge of my nose. The shades are my favorite, thick black frames shaped like Cally’s eyes with a gold bridge and temples.

Today’s the first day I’ve worn them in weeks. The sky has been a perpetual smudge of tin-roof gray since before winter. Only today does the sky brighten, with Eight by my side.

I hop off the curb and into the parking lot with Eight on my heels. The headlights on his car blink and the horn beeps with the tap of the unlock button on the clicker in his hand. The car’s dirtier than I remember. Dusty on top, muddy on the undercarriage. He’s traveled off the beaten path since picking me up at the emergency room.

He opens the door for me and I’m thrown off kilter by the gesture. It’s such a forgotten one.

“Your buddy is tall, huh?” I say once we’re both inside. I search for the button to adjust the seat from where it’s practically lodged into the back.

“Not everyone likes their knees in the dash.” Eight starts the car with a push of a button. “Speaking of cars, how’s yours?”

“Driveable, or so says the guy at the tow place.” The screen situated on the dash between us lights up. I tap at the navigation buttons and enter my parents’ address.

Eight’s eyebrows pucker. “You have trouble finding your way back home?”

I give him a wry smile. “Literally and figuratively. Even after all these years of driving back and forth, I still sometimes take a wrong turn if I don’t use the navigation.”

Eight backs out of the parking space and drives through the lot. I pop open his glove box and ramble around inside. Owner’s manual, a couple protein bars. Nothing that tells me anything about anything.

He pulls onto the street, watching me from the corner of his eye. “Looking for anything specific?”

I close the glove box and shove my shades back on top of my head. Eight side-eyes me between turns, one side of his mouth curled in a distasteful manner.

“Not really.”

“Didn’t your mama teach you not to be so nosey?”

The air inside the car is stifling. I adjust the vent. “We made out. You’ve groped my boob. I think that gives me free rein over your glove box.”

Eight gums his lips. “One more boob grope.”

“Huh?”

“One more boob grope gives you free rein over my car.”

“Really? Only one?”

Eight slows to a stop at a red light and flips on his blinker. “Absolutely.”

Shrugging, I say, “Okay.” I grab his hand from the steering wheel and place it over my right boob.

The friction of his palm against my breast puckers my nipple underneath the sheer material of my bra. Eight lets out a low curse, his left hand gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. Someone blows their horn behind us, sending us both jerking in surprise. Eight takes a righthand turn, one hand still on my breast.

“Jesus, Alexa. You trying to get us both killed?” But he doesn’t take his hand off my boob. If anything, he gives it a little squeeze.

We’re two blocks away from our apartment building and I already want to turn around and go back. “Pull over.”

“What? Why?” He moves his hand and I immediately put it back.

“Because I think we should go back to my apartment and have sex.”

Eight snorts and places his hand back on the steering wheel. “You’re looking for an excuse to avoid your family.”

If my lady bits could protest, they would. “Nope, has nothing to do with my parents. Actually, can we not discuss my parents and sex in the same conversation? It weirds me out.”

The image alone makes me gag and shudder. My lady boner shrinks away in despair. Back in junior high and high school, kids would talk about walking in on their parents having sex or overhearing them in the throes of passion at night. Never had I been so happy my parents slept downstairs, an entire floor away from us kids. I was blessed for having never gone through something so traumatic.

“You know, when I found out about sex you couldn’t convince me that’s something my parents ever did.” Eight smirks, shaking his head. “They were so uptight and stiff.”

I cackle. “Uptight and stiff. That’s what she said.”

Eight grins at my ridiculousness. “I figured if Jesus was birthed by a virgin, why couldn’t I have been?”

“You’ve got like fifty brothers and forty sisters. Your parents were both freaks in the sheets.”

Eight pretends to gag and I laugh. The urge to jump him dwindles in my belly, bouncing around with my jittering nerves. He’s right, of course. He’s always right. I’m nervous about seeing my folks. More so now that I’m bringing him along with me.

My gaze settles on those bruised knuckles of his. “Don’t be surprised if my dad asks about your hands. He’s hella nosey, and a little overprotective of me, but who could blame him?” I bat my eyes and straighten the skirt of my dress. Yeah, I’m wearing a dumb dress. My scraped-up legs are currently mourning the loss of my sweats.

Eight’s eyes follow the movement of my hands along my legs. “You look nice. Did I tell you that already? And the cut on your forehead is barely noticeable.”

My hand reaches for the offensive wound. The nagging headache I acquired the night of the accident has yet to return. The only reminder of the incident is a weird, tightening sensation around the abrasion.

“It took me forever to cover the bruising with makeup.” I flip open his visor and check out my forehead in the mirror. A few curls dance in front of the cut, partly hiding it from view. “Dad’ll see it. Hell, I could wrap a bandana on my head or pull a cap down over my eyes and he’d still know it’s there. He’s perceptive like that.”

Eight nods, chewing one corner of his bottom lip.

We fall into a comfortable silence, only interrupted by the occasional instructions from the feminine robotic voice navigating us to my hometown.

“I’ve never met a girl’s folks before,” he says. “You’re my first.”

Eight’s confession startles me, considering he was in a long-term relationship before we met. I file this information away for later use and decide to blow it off for now.

“Oh, garsh.” I giggle, batting my eyes and twirling my curls around one finger. “They say you always remember your first.”

Eight laughs, and it feels good to be silly, to work away both of our worries with laughter.

Once the laughter fades away, Eight’s face turns serious. “I thought about your offer.”

“Offer?” I tap my chin. “The only thing I’ve offered is my body, but you turned me down flatter than a pancake.”

Eight doesn’t even smile. “Your offer to go home with me.”

The softness of his voice, so vulnerable, sends my heart sputtering. “And?”

“And, yeah. I’d like that.”

“I think I’d like that, too.”

Eight slows to a stop at a red light and flashes a brief smile. The man with bruised knuckles and a locked life of secrets also wears his heart on his sleeve. I rest my arm on the console between us, palm up. He takes my hand without hesitation. The moment his skin touches mine I know everything has changed between us.

#chaptereight

The town hasn’t changed much since last time I visited.

The overbearing, metallic
Welcome to Red Cedar, Georgia!
sign flashes in the insistent midday sunlight. We cross a bridge into town, the same bridge I stood under at the age of twelve and received my first kiss from Samuel Jackson. Not the actor, but the biggest dweeb in my sixth grade class.

“Samuel Jackson?”

Sighing, I let the back of my head hit the headrest behind me. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

Eight chuckles, the car slowing to a crawl as the speed limit dips. “Tell me more about Samuel Jackson.”

A vision of the county-famous high school chess champion flashes through my mind. “Tall, dark, and not so handsome. Big Coke-bottle glasses and a retainer. Think Steve Urkel with an overbite.”

“There’s no way. No way you gave away your first kiss to a guy named Samuel Jackson-not-the-actor, with tortoise shell glasses and a retainer.”

“There weren’t exactly a lot of options in this town, okay?” I gesture at McDuff’s General Store, an old building with two ancient gas pumps sitting outside. “See that clapboard building? You know how many generations of McDuff’s have run that business? Like five. This place never changes. The people never change. It doesn’t grow. It doesn’t diminish. It just is.”

“Is that why you left? To meet new people? To experience life in a new town?”

The inside of the car has transformed from stifling to an inferno. The temp on the dash reads fifty-five, but that can’t be correct. I crack a window and suck in the rush of cool air.

“Eight, I rarely leave my apartment. My socialization skills are lackluster at best. Do you really think I moved away from home to meet new people?”

“If not for that reason, why?”

“Breathing room. Away from my family.” I suck in another breath for emphasis. “Two more right turns and you’ll see what I’m talking about.”

“You’re making me nervous, Six.”

I scan the lawns until I spy the pink, purple, white, and red of my mother’s snapdragons, poppies, and pansies springing up from the spotty grass. The flowers line the drive and pop from the flowerbeds where Mom’s perennials lie in wait for better days.

The yellow two-story Victorian was built before my birth, but appears just as new as it did over twenty years ago. A fresh coat of paint beams bright in the warming sun. Dad and Wes sit on wicker rockers on the cream-colored porch, jars of sweet tea resting on the wicker table between them. Their easy grins and laughing eyes bring a smile to my face, but I gulp it down quickly enough when the monotone voice of our navigator tells us we’ve arrived at our destination.

Eight follows the direction of my gaze, slows, and turns into the drive. From the front porch, Dad and Wes both glance our way, their faces scrunched in curiosity. Their rockers slow to a standstill.

“I kinda didn’t tell them you were coming.”

Eight cuts the engine and stares at me. The silence around us rings in my ears. I sigh just to make some noise.

“It’s not a big deal,” I say.

Eight quirks an eyebrow.

I wring my fingers. “Okay, it’s kind of a big deal.”

“Yeah, a little warning woulda been nice. On all of our behalf, I’m sure.” Eight’s expression is solemn, but his voice wields no anger or frustration.

“Sorry. I’ve been kinda busy recuperating from a head injury and all.” I’m using the accident as an excuse, and possibly for a little sympathy to keep him from being pissed at me.

Apparently it works.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Eight squeezes my hand and nods toward the porch. “You ready?”

“No, sweet Jesus. What was I thinking?” The car seems to shrink around me. Air becomes difficult to obtain.

“You were thinking about getting your parents off your back by bringing the perfect boyfriend.” Eight smiles, his thumb stroking the back of my hand and soothing my nerves.

“You’re here as a friend, remember?”

Eight gives me the same look my grandmother gave me whenever she found me dimwitted. “Alex, do you really think we’re just friends? We’re in like with each other, remember?”

“Eight—”

He doesn’t give me time to say anything else. Eight leans across the console and captures my lips in a kiss.

“Brantley Carlock,” he says. The tip of his nose touches mine. “My name is Brantley Carlock, but I prefer Eight.”

“Brantley Carlock,” I say, testing out his name. “Nice to meet you, Brantley Carlock. I’m Alexa Hannah, the girl with two first names.”

“And I’m the guy with two last names.” He laces his fingers between mine. “We’re a perfect fit.”

Eight kisses me again, and I can’t help but wonder if Dad and Wes are able to see us through the tinted glass. They show no indication of shock or anger from their seats on the porch, only curiosity.

I give him one last kiss on the corner of his mouth, the one he toys with whenever he’s worried or anxious. “Let’s get this over with so we can go home and make out some more.”

Eight’s shoulders shake with laughter. We part, each of us climbing out of the car. Eight sort of frowns when I open the door without waiting on him, and I smirk. We meet at the front of the car.

“How tall is your dad?”

I tilt my head to one side, wondering what he’s getting at. “I don’t know. Six one?”

Eight hums. “How much do you think your dad weighs? Two thirty, two forty?”

Dad rises from the wicker chair, and Wes quickly joins him. Dad’s face is stern, his dark eyes dissecting each step Eight takes. Those eyes of his narrow into slits when Eight reaches for my hand and I relent. Wes stares at us, his big dumb mouth open in shock.

“Two twenty-eight, last I heard.”

I give his hand a supportive squeeze as we climb the first step onto the porch. Dad’s harsh expression remains neutral as he welcomes me with his arms open. I feel his stare over my shoulder even as I embrace him.

“Who’s this fool?” Dad whispers in my ear.

“Daddy, be nice.” I scramble out of his arms and stand by his side, clearing my throat. “This is my father, Percy Hannah, and my brother, Wes. Dad, Wes, this is Ei—”

“Brantley Carlock, sir.” Eight juts out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Both of you.”

Dad stares at his hand like it’s an IED waiting to explode. I nudge him in the ribs, but he’s unbothered by my touch. Even in his late fifties the guy’s a standing mass of muscle. As a child I’d imagined him made of nothing but brass and steel, and as an adult that image of him is left unchanged.

Eight eventually drops his sweaty hand, wiping it on the back of his jeans. If he’s embarrassed he doesn’t show it. His easy, forgiving smile at my father pricks something in my heart.

Wes smirks at the scene from behind his glass of sweet tea. “You brought a guy home, Alex? And all this time we thought you were a lesbian.”

Rolling my eyes, I leave my father’s side and stand next to Eight, allowing him to wrap one arm around my waist. “Mom and Evie inside? Maybe they won’t be so rude.”

Calling out Dad’s rudeness seems to do the trick. He gives a slight shake of his head, seeming to clear his mind of whatever takes up residence inside there. He offers a hand and Eight accepts it.

“You’ll have to forgive my surprise. Alexa caught me off guard by bringing a friend.” Dad’s deep voice vibrates around us. The two men pump hands a few beats too long.

“We’re not just friends. We’re in like with each other,” I explain.

Wes gives Eight a friendly slap on the back. “Alex finally found someone who tolerates her weirdness. I never thought it’d happen.”

“Can it, Wes,” I grumble.

“Does Mom know you brought a date for lunch? She doesn’t, does she?” Wes sips his tea, his eyes sparkling wickedly. “Damn, this day keeps getting better and better.”

“Who do I hear out on my porch?” a voice calls.

I spot her past the screen door, her face breaking into a huge grin. But when she pushes open the door and notices Eight standing beside me, one arm wrapped protectively around my waist, she falters. The screen door swings back as she drops her hand, and smacks her in her stunned face.

Dad rushes forward and opens the door. His hands flail around her face. “Caroline, are you all right?”

“Alexa brought a date,” she murmurs in wonder, sending Wes cackling.

“She’s okay,” Wes says. “As long as she’s talking about Alex’s love life, she’s okay.”

“Get inside, wise guy,” Dad says, jerking his head at the house.

He guides Mom into the living room with a chuckling Wes following them. Eight and I lag behind the group, entering the house as someone lets out an ear-splitting squeal. My nephew Noah toddles out of the kitchen, his robust belly hanging over the edge of his diaper. He spots me standing in the foyer and opens his arms. I grin at the sight of him and squat down, opening my arms for a wiggly-wet embrace. Noah wraps his chubby arms and legs around me as much as he can, and I pick him up, spinning him around.

“I wouldn’t do that,” a voice says. Tasha, Wes’ wife, walks out of the kitchen with her arms crossed. She leans against the wall, giving Eight a brief, friendly smile. “He just ate twice his weight in mashed potatoes. You remember what happened last time you spun him around after he ate?”

Cringing, I stop spinning and prop him on my hip. He stares up at me in wonder, as toddlers sometimes do. “No more spinning, Mr. Pukey Pants. Hey, can you say hi to my friend Eight? Eight, this is Noah.”

“Hey, Noah.” Eight offers Noah a finger to shake. Noah stares at it in wonder. “Leaving me hanging like your grandpa did, huh?”

I snort, but it’s the only sound in the room. Everyone gapes at Dad, waiting for a reaction. Dad squares his shoulders, a distasteful frown creeping across his face. Mom seems to come to her senses, slapping him in the chest.

“You left him hanging? What kind of way is that to greet Alex’s guest?” Mom crosses the room, taking Eight’s hand in hers. “Caroline Hannah, it’s a pleasure to meet you …”

“Brantley Carlock, but Alex calls me Eight.” We exchange knowing smirks.

“Sounds like there’s a story behind that,” Tasha says, pushing herself off the wall and retrieving her child. “You’ll have to tell us about it over lunch. After I wrestle this kid into some clothes.”

“He’s a streaker,” I tell Eight. “Runs through the house ripping off his clothes.”

“He’s a cutie. Seems to really love you.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” I elbow Eight.

“Exactly,” he says in that sexy voice. “Why wouldn’t he?”

Mom beams, cupping her hands over her mouth. “Oh my God. My prayers have been answered. She’s not a lesbian after all.”

The flirtatious vibe snaps and fades away. “Mom, please don’t embarrass me.”

“I’ve prayed and prayed for Alex to find someone, and the Lord has heard my pleas.”

“Dear God.” I palm my forehead.

“Alexa, stop saying the Lord’s name in vain,” my father grumbles.

Tasha snickers and totes Noah upstairs, retrieving a shirt here, a sock there along the way.

“How about you help me set the table, huh?” Mom tells me, patting and releasing Eight’s hand. “We’ll let the men talk while we finish fixing lunch.”

Leaving Eight behind with my burly father and my dumb brother makes me hella nervous, but I’m not given a choice. Eight leaves us with a smile and follows the men into the den. They all sit on various pieces of furniture and Dad flips on the television. Their low, muffled voices are indistinguishable as I head into the kitchen behind my mother.

“Where’s Evie?” I ask.

Mom waves away my question, closing the kitchen door behind us. “She’s running late and will be here later. Now spill. Where’d you meet him? How long have you been dating? What’s he do for a living? Have you met his parents? Are they nice—”

“Mom, stop.” I skirt past her to the stove and flip off the low-set burners. “One question at a time.”

I reach for one of the serving bowls stacked up on the counter near the stove, but Mom swipes them away and shoves them into the cabinet. “Are you crazy? We have company. Let’s use the good china.”

“We never use Grandma’s china.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Mom says. “This could be your only chance at snagging a good man. He is a good man, isn’t he?”

A good man? How does one define a good man? Is he a good kisser? Yes. A good knight in shining armor? Most definitely. But beyond that I have no idea. I don’t know if he has a stable job or steady income. Judging from his fancy furniture and expensive gym equipment, there’s money coming in from somewhere.

Drug dealer.

“He’s not a drug dealer,” is my brilliant response. “Remember when I dated that guy and he turned out to be a drug dealer?”

“You never brought the drug dealer home for a proper meal,” Mom points out. “Maybe you picked up on his sketchiness from the beginning.”

Sketchiness. Eight is the epitome of sketchy.

While I scrape a pot of mashed potatoes into a dish, Mom checks out her reflection using a shiny silver serving spoon. “He sure is a handsome fellow, isn’t he?” She puffs the ends of her springy blonde bob, cheesing at the spoon.