Page 7 of The Wrong Side of Kai
“Harrison, listen,” I say, breathless between our kisses. I hold his jaw, keeping his mouth away from mine so he can’t shut me up with his lips.
His hands are already winding their way under my hoodie, caressing my chest. He can’t fight that sexy little smirk that always makes an appearance whenever we start touching each other, and he manages to bury his face into my neck, his breath hot against my skin as he leaves a trail of kisses behind.
“Harrison,” I try again, but it’s more like a groan. I tilt my head back, giving him more access, closing my eyes. His mouth feels so good, his hands feel so good. . .
No. I need to stop this.
Abruptly, I push him away until he’s facing me. His lips are parted, his eyes glistening. “Listen to me,” I say, and then I let it all spill: “We can’t get together anymore. It’s over. We’re done.”
The warmth of Harrison’s hands disappears from my body and the truck goes silent. All I can hear is his heart thumping, or maybe it’s mine. He blinks at me as though he can’t quite process what I’ve just told him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and it’s true: I am. “But I can’t. . . I don’t want to. . . date you.”
He writhes beneath me, shoving me roughly off his lap, like I’m a parasite clinging to his body. When I slide back into the passenger seat, he grips the steering wheel, his jaw clenched.
“Is this about the ski trip?” His voice is seething, dripping with a bitter humor that I can’t make sense of. “Because I wasn’t asking you on that trip as adate, Vanessa,” he snorts, like it’s the most absurd thing in the world. “I only wanted you to come on that trip so we could hook up. As if I’d want to date you either.”
Oh.
So he didn’t want our fling to be anything more than it was. . .Whydid I read more into that ski trip idea? We could have continued exactly as we already were, but now I’ve made the whole thing beyond awkward. I fold my arms across my chest and sit back in the seat, trying to process this. I feel so stupid.
“And even if Ididwant to date you. . .” Harrison continues, sitting forward to glare at me. “How come you get to just jump into my truck, kiss me like that, then tell me it’s over? Seriously, Vanessa?” He’s angry now. His eyes have lost all their sparkle, and suddenly he’s no longer that sexy, confident football player who I thought was so cool until approximately four seconds ago. “If that’s how easy you think it is to drop me, then there’s no way I’m signing up for this.”
“Harrison, chill out,” I say, keeping my cool despite how massively uncomfortable he’s making me. I can’t look at him straight in the eye. “I misinterpreted something. It happens. Now can we just get back to doing what we’re good at?”
“Nah, screw you, Vanessa. Get the fuck out.” He points, nostrils flaring, and I hear the click of the doors unlocking.
My eyes widen with shock and I glance outside. That car from before is still parked, but there’s no one else around. It’s dark, it’s late, and I’m miles from home. I look back at Harrison, my brows drawn together. “What? You’re kicking me out of your truck?”
“You seriously think I’m giving you a ride home? After you want to mess me around? No way. Like you said, we’re done,babes,” he barks with laughter, shaking his head as he starts up the engine again.
I look down at my fists clenched in my lap. How is he throwing this back in my face? “And what exactly are you going to do without me to keep you company?” I challenge, angry now too.
“What – you think you’re the only girl I’ve got on speed dial?” he mutters under his breath, but I know he wants me to hear it, and of course I do.
That’s what gets me out of the truck. I throw open the door, but not before I grab a handful of fast food wrappers from the glovebox and throw them at Harrison.Dick. I’ve barely slammed the door shut again before he speeds off, wheels screeching on the gravel. I grab a fistful of rocks and hurl them at his stupid goddamn truck before it can disappear, but once his taillights have faded away, I heave a sigh into the darkness. I really didn’t expect Harrison to explode on me like that.
I sit down on the gravel and watch the lone car that remains here. Pretty sure it’s shaking in a very obvious rhythm. Pretty sure I look like a pervert. I call Chyna, because I know by now not to rely on Dad to be my savior, but she doesn’t answer. I try her a second time but to no avail, and I realize I have no other options. Sometimes I wish Kennedy was the older Murphy sibling so that she could rescue me at times like this, but no, she can’t freakin’ drive yet.
Ughhh.
Nice one, Harrison. Abandoningme in the middle of nowhere.Now I feel really stupid for even agreeing to see him tonight.
I bury my head in my hands and massage my fingers into my hair. I’m deep into the park and it’s at least a mile walk to the exit, which I’m not psyched to do on my own. It’s too secluded, whereas at least here in the parking lot, I have company. I steal a peek at the car again, wondering if I can ask them for help, but then the buzzing of my phone grabs my focus. I’ve never felt so relieved to see Chyna’s name flashing on my screen.
And with no questions asked, she promises to be here within fifteen minutes.
She turns up within ten, and when I climb into her car and am faced with her eyebrows raised expectantly, all I say is:
“Fuck Harrison Boyd, man.”
3
“I heard someone smashed some super sentimental vase and her parents flipped,” Chyna muses on the drive to school, subconsciously moving her hands as she speaks. A bad habit of hers, one that nearly kills us every morning because her hands never seem to actually be on the steering wheel. “What if her parents get home from their trip and ban her from throwing another party? Imagine that. No more Madison Romy parties. A Westerville tragedy.” She places a hand on her chest, in a parody of mourning, and I reach over and grab the wheel, jerking the car to one side to avoid us knocking down a streetlight.
“You know what would be an even bigger tragedy? Us dying when we we’re T-boned by a truck because you flew through a stop sign,” I deadpan. I have my own license, but I haven’t yet bought a decent car and I refuse to drive Dad’s old clunker to school. Mom once named it “The Green McRusty.” Because, you know, it’s verdant green and a total rust-bucket. The name has stuck ever since.
“Oops,” Chyna says, blushing. She grips the steering wheel a little tighter. “Do you think Harrison will talk to you?”
