Undecided (13 page)

“He seemed
nice.”

“You can
do better.” He tips his bottle at a guy dressed as a lumberjack. He’s even
carrying a fire log. “How about him?”

“Who is
he?”

“I don’t
know. He’s probably getting a degree in forestry. Smart and environmentally
friendly—doesn’t get much better than that.”

The guy
drops the log and promptly pukes behind one of the tombstones.

“Not
him,” I say at the same moment Crosbie says, “Moving right along.” He scans the
crowd and points at someone dressed in chef whites. Even from here we can hear
him cursing viciously at people in a British accent.

“Seriously?”

“What?
It’s Gordon Ramsay. He can cook you breakfast in the morning.”

“After
calling me names all night.”

“Some
girls are into that.”

I drink
my beer. “I’m not.”

Crosbie
smirks. “I didn’t think so. Okay—what about him?” I swat his hand when he
points to a guy dressed in a long blond wig and red bathing suit,
Lifeguard
stenciled across the chest, pubes poking out at his crotch.

“Pamela
Anderson?”
“Bet he’s good at mouth to mouth.”
“You’re terrible,” I accuse. “I think you
brought me out here because you need assistance finding somebody.”

He grins.
“I don’t need your help, Nora.”

I think
of his abruptly-ending list. “Really? I think you might.” I tap my chin and
study the selection. “Let’s see. How about…her?” I point to a pretty brunette
in a predictable cat costume. It’s mean, but Crosbie probably prefers things
simple.

“Been
there,” he replies. “Done that.”

I mock
gag. “Fine. What about her?” I point to a cute ballerina, her blond hair
twisted into a high bun, pink satin toe shoes laced up her calves.

“Ugh,” he
says. “Too much work getting under that tutu.”

“Good
grief.”

He
laughs. “I mean, first you’ve gotta get the tutu off, then the body suit, then
the leggings… I’m looking for something with a little easier access.”

I hit him
in the leg with my empty bottle. “You’re disgusting.” I sit up straighter when
I spot a guy dressed as a baseball player. There’s nothing especially creative
about the outfit, but I have a thing for athletes, and he’s the definition of
tall, dark and handsome.

Crosbie
sits up, too. “What are we looking at?”

“Number
nine,” I whisper, though he couldn’t possibly hear us. “Do you know him?”
“Ah…” Crosbie scratches his chin. I hear
the faint rasp of his five o’clock shadow, and when I glance over he’s closer
than before, leaning in to see the guy I’m pointing out. “Yeah,” he says
eventually. “His name is Phil. But you don’t want him.”

“I don’t?
Why not?”

“Because
Thelma hooks up with Brad Pitt,” he answers. “And he’s no Brad Pitt.”

“I’m
keeping him on the list,” I say, just as a petite girl dressed in a skimpy
schoolgirl costume minces up the walkway. “There,” I say, nodding at her.
“That’s the one.”

“You want
to hook up with a chick?” Crosbie asks. “I’m all over it. You can use my room.
I’ll just sit quietly in the corner and watch. You won’t even know I’m there.”

“For you,
jerk. Short skirt, no tights—easy access.”

He
watches her progress. “All right. She’s in.”

I shiver
as I study the partygoers.

“You
okay?” he asks, shifting closer. “Want some cape?” He flings the tail end over
my shoulders before I can answer.

“Thanks,”
I say, fingering the flimsy fabric. “All better.”

“They
don’t call me a superhero for nothing.”

We fall
silent as a familiar laugh rings out from below, then Kellan jogs through the
cemetery to greet the two beauty queens who have just stepped out of a cab curb
side. They’re dressed in floor-length gowns, one red, one silver, with sashes
and tiaras. One even has a bouquet of roses. We watch him sling an arm around
each of their shoulders, grinning as he leads them toward the house.

I
recognize them from parties last year—and if I’m not mistaken, the one in red
appears on Crosbie’s bathroom list. “Don’t you, um…know her?” I ask, wincing as
the girl in question giggles and tugs on Kellan’s tie.

“Not
really,” Crosbie says, unconcerned.

They
squeal in mock-terror as a chainsaw-wielding maniac charges the trio, and
Kellan roars with laughter before pulling out his cell phone and trying to call
someone. He frowns, hangs up, and quickly sends a text, waiting a moment for a
reply that doesn’t come. Because I’d planned on walking home and wasn’t worried
about getting separated from Marcela, I hadn’t even brought my phone. If Kellan’s
texting to find out if I’ve bailed, he’s not going to get an answer.

“It
doesn’t bother you?” I ask, when I notice Crosbie looking a little more tense
than he had a minute earlier.

“Me?” he
echoes. “No. Does it bother you?”

I think
it’d bother me if my name appeared on the bathroom wall, but I don’t especially
care that the girls are here. “No.”

He
studies me for a second, then nods. “Good.”

A group
of coeds arrives, clambering out of a limo, all but one dressed in a tight
business suit, heels, and carrying a briefcase. A couple even clutch a
newspaper. I toss back my head and laugh. “I’ve been wondering where they
were.”

Crosbie
frowns. “The businesswomen?”

I gesture
to his costume. “The Lois Lanes.”

“Why
didn’t you come as Lois?”

For a second
my mind goes blank. Somehow I’d managed to forget I was sitting up on a tiny
eave with Crosbie Lucas while he wore only spandex. Somehow I’d managed to
forget I was awkward and uncomfortable. I’d even managed to forget that I’d
promised myself one guilt-free night of anything goes. And now I’m remembering.

“I…” I
try. “I don’t have a business suit.”

He
blinks. He’s got very long eyelashes. For such a big guy, it’s an oddly
endearing trait.

“But you
had a red wig?”

“Well…no.”

He smiles
faintly. “I prefer Thelma to Lois any day, anyway.”

“You do?”

“Yo!
Cros!”

The
sudden shout sends us scattering, as far as the eave will allow, anyway. We
both whip our heads around to see a guy dressed as the Cat in the Hat peering
out the window.

“What the
fuck, Alex?” Crosbie mutters, running a hand over his face.

“Kellan’s
looking for you. He’s got a couple of Miss Americas that want to say hi.”

My scalp
itches under the cheap wig. “You should go,” I say. Now that whatever weird
spell had been brewing is broken, I’m cold and my butt hurts. “I’m freezing,
anyway.” I flash him a fake smile, then gesture for the Cat in the Hat to move
aside as I clamber back through the window, my frozen limbs screeching as they
unfold.

“Nora,”
Crosbie says.

“Thanks
for your help,” I tell him. “I can take it from here.” I step back as he comes
through the window, pulling it closed.

“Get
out,” he says to the Cat in the Hat.

“There
you are!” comes a familiar voice. Crosbie looks pained and closes his eyes for
a second, but when they reopen, he’s looking over my shoulder—at Clark Kent.

“We’re
not supposed to be seen together,” Crosbie says. “We’re the same person,
remember?”

“I
thought you’d be happy to make an exception,” Kellan replies. “For Miss
Maryland or Miss Louisiana?” Upon hearing their cue, the slightly tipsy beauty
queens enter the room, doing their best formal waves and collapsing into each
other as they giggle.

The Cat
in the Hat and I share a look, then murmur our excuses as we leave the room.

“You
doing okay, Nora?” Kellan asks.

“Just
great,” I assure him.

Crosbie
says something, but it’s drowned out in more laughter, and I’m moving too fast
to make it out, even if I wanted to. It’s only nine-thirty when I get
downstairs, so I grab another drink and make a half-hearted lap around the
room, checking out the décor, the costumes, the couples. I see Max—The Walking
Douche—and all of a sudden I just want to go home. Phil strolls by with Dorothy
from the
Wizard of Oz
, his hand squarely glued to her ass, and I sigh
and set my drink on a table. Maybe the reason I was so good at this last year
is because practice makes perfect—and I am now sorely out of practice.

I zip up
my jacket and make my way to the front, wincing when a group of vampire
football players rush by, knocking me into the wall. Their apologies are lost
in the throbbing music and I rub my sore tailbone, turning to scowl at the
doorknob that bruised me. And then I freeze, because I know this doorknob. I
know this closet.

When Kellan first spoke to me that ill-fated
May night, I’d been equal parts stunned, thrilled, and terrified. We were
already drunk when we started talking, and two drinks later we were blitzed.
The alcohol may have loosened my inhibitions but it had done nothing to calm my
nerves, and as he’d led me through the house looking for an empty room, I’d
rambled on inanely about every dull thing I could think of, from our
unseasonably warm weather to the periodic table. I think we were both grateful
when he found the closet, kissed me, and put an end to the impromptu science
lesson.

Now I
turn my head slightly to see what would have once been the house’s formal
dining room, but is now just a room filled with couches and cheesy posters.
Forty-five minutes after our less-than-memorable sex, I’d walked by here to see
Kellan standing in the center of the room, a blonde girl on her knees in front,
blowing him while his frat brothers cheered him on.

My face
floods with heat and remembered humiliation and I shoulder my way through the
crowd and out the front door, the icy air more than welcome. For all accounts
and purposes, this is a great party. Lots of people, free booze, loud music—but
the best part was when I was away from it all, drinking a single beer with a
guy I shouldn’t even like.

But I do.

I keep my head down and hurry along the sidewalk. I dart over to the
next block to avoid the groups of people arriving for the party, encountering
only a couple of hardcore kids approaching houses, most of which have gone
dark. Street lamps and flickering jack-o-lanterns offer a little light, but I
welcome the darkness. Rather, I welcome it until I hear footsteps thudding
along behind me, coming too fast to be anything other than running. I risk a
terrified look over my shoulder, prepared to sprint—and very grateful Thelma
favored practical shoes—then come to an abrupt halt when I find Superman
bearing down on me.

“Crosbie?”
Seeing someone I know should encourage my heartbeat to slow to normal levels,
but instead it keeps pounding. He’s still wearing his costume, but now he’s
added sneakers and a heavy jacket, the red cape bunched up around his neck,
like he got dressed too fast to think it through.

“Hey,” he
says, stopping a few feet away. I don’t know if it’s because he’s breathing
heavily, but he’s having a hard time meeting my eye, so for a second I just
watch the white puffs of his breath dissipate in the air.

“What are
you doing out here?” I think of the house, the beauty queens, the everything
I’m not.

“You
can’t walk home alone.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, leaving pieces
sticking out every which way. “People do crazy things on Halloween.”

“I’m
pretty sure all those people are at your house.”

He smiles
briefly. “Maybe. Anyway. Come on.”

Even
though it’s a thirty-minute round trip and he’ll be back at the party with
plenty of time left for fun, I feel obligated to tell him to go home. “This
isn’t necessary.”

“Let me
do it anyway.” He’s got his hands crammed in his pockets and I realize he must
be freezing in that costume. Hell—I’m freezing in mine, no spandex in sight.

We walk a
block in silence. “How’d you do with your French paper?” he asks finally.

“Pretty
good.” I’m surprised he remembers my classes. “These past couple of weeks have
been hell, but I think I’m on top of everything. How about you? How’d midterms
go?”

“I feel
good about Bio and Art History, but Econ is kicking my ass.”

“Two out
of three ain’t bad?”

He smirks
and kicks a piece of smashed pumpkin off the sidewalk. “Two out of three is
sixty-six percent. It ain’t great.”

“Who says
you aren’t good with numbers?”

“Hey,” he
says suddenly. “I’m sorry.”

I look at
him. “For what?”

“For
messing up your night back there. If you’re leaving because of Max or whatever,
I didn’t mean—”

I wave him
off. “Don’t worry about it. Maybe tonight just wasn’t meant to be.”

“It was
your one night to blow off steam.”

“There’ll
be other nights. Like, between Christmas and New Years, or spring break…”

He laughs
at the depressing timeline. “You don’t think you’ll regret it?”

We pass a quiet block that’s a dedicated dog
park, mulch running paths and stands of bare trees marking the grass.

“Not
flunking out?”

“Missing
out on the things you want because you’re trying so hard to be good.”

“I am
good.”

“I know
you are.”

“Well,
what about you?” I counter.

“What
about me?”

“I saw
the bathrooms in the student building a couple of weeks ago. Your ‘list’
doesn’t have any new names on it.”

He’s
quiet for a second. I expect him to say something cocky, like maybe he just
hasn’t updated it yet, but he surprises me when he says, “I got tired of that.”

“What?
Being popular?”

“Being a
dick.”

The
second surprise in as many seconds. “You—”

“Look,
Nora.” He stops at the corner, a tall cluster of trees blocking the street
lamps and houses so we’re folded in darkness, only the faintest slashes of
light making it through. I stop, my back to the trees, and when he steps into
me, I feel the cold bark through my coat and my jeans. “I’m just going to do
this,” he says, lifting a hand to rest on the trunk beside my head. “And if you
don’t want me to, say no.”

He’s so
close. With his head dipped his mouth is only a couple of inches away from
mine, and though we’ve been in close proximity before, this is the first time
there’s ever been any intention in his gaze. The only time he’s ever shown it,
at least. He lowers his head another inch, then another, until his lips are
only millimeters from mine, giving me every opportunity to push him back, run
away, not do something ridiculous.

But my
hands remain fisted squarely in the sleeves of my jacket, my feet planted on
the soft grass, my head tipped up to his. Waiting for something I’m finally
ready to admit I want.

I see his
eyes drift closed and then his mouth brushes over mine. I’d never allowed
myself to give kissing Crosbie Lucas much thought, but if I had I’d have
predicted it to be hard or invasive, grabby hands and lewdly thrusting hips.
But it’s nothing like that at all. The hand on the tree stays where it is while
his other finds the dip of my waist and rests there on top of my coat. I feel
the chill of his nose bumping mine, the contrasting warmth of his lips, and
though shock and awe are currently duking it out for top billing in the
feelings department, I’m starting to feel some very unexpected other things,
too.

A tiny
sigh escapes and Crosbie seizes the opportunity to slip his tongue into my
mouth, very gently finding mine. My fingers uncurl themselves long enough to
fist in the front of his coat, and the permissive action has him stepping into
me even more, so I’m caught squarely between him and the tree. The hand resting
on my side slides up to tangle in my silly wig, and when he tries to tug my
head back the wig falls off.

“What
the—” he mutters, frowning at the mop of hair in his hand.

This
isn’t really the time for laughing but I do, my forehead bumping his shoulder
as my body shakes from the force of it. I’d hoped to do some new things
tonight, but at no point was Crosbie Lucas on the list.

“I
forgot,” he explains. “I’m sorry.”

I laugh
harder.

“Nora.”

I feel
his fingers under my chin, tilting my face back up to his, and even in the
darkness I can feel the intensity in his gaze, the seriousness there, and I
stop laughing when he kisses me again, this time a little harder, a little more
sure. He’s not waiting for me to take him up on his offer to stop, and he
shouldn’t. I rise onto my tiptoes and kiss him back, teeth and tongues and
lips, feeling his raspy breath, hearing the hungry sounds he makes as he winds
his fingers through my real hair and—

“Shit,”
he whispers, jerking back. “Fuck.”

Then I
hear it too. Raucous mixed laughter, male and female, approaching from the next
block. They’re heading toward the Frat Farm and there’s really no way for me to
step out of a copse of trees with Crosbie Lucas without starting rumors. As
though he’s thinking the same thing, Crosbie nudges me backward into the trees,
and then we just stand there, hot and cold, waiting for the group to pass. They
stumble by a minute later, not even glancing our way.

We stare
at each other for a long time. I don’t know quite how this happened, but parts
of me that have been quashed beneath my responsible new veneer have whirred
back to life and they’re not ready to end whatever this is just yet.

“Tell me
what you want,” he says, his voice slightly hoarse.

I
swallow. He seems sincere and a little on edge, and I understand—certain parts
of me are howling at the mere prospect of doing the responsible thing and
sending Crosbie Lucas back to the frat house to bang Miss Maryland. So instead
I do as he asks, and tell him the truth. “Walk me home.”

He nods.
“Fine.”

“And
promise that no matter what happens, my name will never end up on any lists.”

He
flinches, so fast I’d have missed it if I blinked. “I promise, Nora.”

We start
walking, our brisk pace due only in part to the cold. We don’t touch and we
don’t speak, and when we reach my block I look up and down the street to make
sure we’re alone. Crosbie glances around too. “Want me to go around back?” he
offers. “Come in through your window?”

“Oh.
Would you—”

He growls
and snatches the keys from my palm, hauling me up the steps to the front door.
“I’m not crawling through the fucking window. That was a joke.”

“I
thought maybe with the Superman thing—”

“He leaps
over buildings. He doesn’t break into places.”

“Well, I
really don’t know a lot about Superman, Crosbie.”

He shoves
open the door and nudges me in first. “I don’t want to talk about this right
now.” And then the tentative kisses from the tree are gone, replaced by hot and
wet and dirty. Soon my coat is on the floor and I’m kicking off second-hand
cowboy boots, not caring where they land. Crosbie scoops me up like I weigh
nothing and I wrap my legs around his broad waist, hard muscles pressed against
the tender insides of my knees.

He
carries me into my bedroom, flipping on the light and closing the door. When he
sees my gaze catch on the knob he must realize I’m worried about the lack of a
lock because he says, “He won’t be home tonight. I’ll be gone before he comes
back.”

I nod and
swallow as Crosbie toes off his sneakers and drops his coat on top. Now he’s
waiting there in that ridiculous costume, a very conspicuous bulge in front
making it clear where we stand. “I really wish I wasn’t wearing this,” he says,
reaching behind his neck to fumble with the zipper.

“Let me
help,” I say, stepping close. He turns to face the door and I slide the zipper
down, watching the fabric separate to reveal the very broad, very muscled plane
of his back, dotted with freckles. Impulsively I lean in and press a kiss to
the warm skin, goose bumps popping up on contact. The muscles ripple as he
reaches up and shoves the sleeves down his arms, the attached cape catching and
tearing slightly, though he doesn’t seem to care. When he turns around he’s
naked to the waist, the shiny fabric bunched around his stomach.

My mouth
goes dry. Crosbie is almost accidentally perfect. Too broad, too big, too hot.
He looks like the guy who can lift a tractor with his bare hands, hands that
are now reaching for me and slowly, intently, undoing the myriad buttons on
this two-dollar shirt.

“You can
just tear it,” I murmur, fighting the temptation to do it myself. I want this.
It’s been too long and I want it all right now. “I’m never going to wear this
again.”

“Nora,”
he says seriously. “I’m going to need you to wear this outfit on many, many
occasions.”

I fail to
stop the unladylike snort of laughter that escapes, and Crosbie laughs too,
though he never falters in his task. Finally he pushes the cheap denim over my
shoulders and lets it fall to the floor so I’m left in a white lace bra and
Thelma’s high-waisted jeans.

He sighs
and steps back, blatantly eying my chest. “Can I tell you something?” he asks,
never lifting his gaze.

“Ah,
okay?”

“I have
wanted to touch these for a long time.”

I laugh,
surprised. “What?” I suppose I shouldn’t be so shocked: he’s a guy, these are
boobs. It’s like peanut butter and jelly.

He
reaches around and I feel his fingers slide under the bra’s lace band, undoing
the hooks. “That first day,” he whispers against my hair, “when you showed up
with that tight little sweater with the buttons on the front? I think about
that a lot.”

My whole
body floods with desire at the words. Because the grittiness in his tone, the
feel of his erection bumping my belly as he stands so close and guides the
straps down my arms—I know he’s talking about jerking off as he thinks about
that cardigan.

I want to
laugh but I don’t think I can anymore. When he finally bares my breasts for the
first time, the sound of his sharp breath steals my own. Very slowly he trails
his hands up my hips, over my stomach, until he’s lifting a breast in each
calloused palm, his touch as reverent as his skin is rough and scratchy. And
while his fingers stroking back and forth over my nipples feels great, it’s the
look on his face that’s really turning me on. He’s completely absorbed. Like
he’s memorizing this moment. Like he’ll never forget it.

“Crosbie.”
I slip my hands up over his big biceps, his wide shoulders, his neck, his ears,
before finally tangling in his hair.

“Nora,”
he replies, shifting forward so I have to step back, my calves hitting the bed
frame. He releases my breasts long enough to skate a hand between my shoulder
blades, anchoring the other on my ass and lowering me onto the mattress before
kneeling between my parted legs. His big hands go to the button on my jeans and
he looks me in the eye. “Okay?”