Angela Morrison - Sing Me to Sleep

He can tell I’m jazzed. “What’s up?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Nothing.” It’s easier to lie to him. It’s really none of his business.

I’m packing my backpack at my locker, head down, avoiding Scott, when my cell goes off for real.

“I’m here.”

“Cool. I’ll take off as soon as I can. Email me directions, okay?” I’m down the hall, pushing out the front door. Shoot, it’s pouring out.

“I don’t think you’ll need them. I’m pretty easy to find.”

“Just do it. Don’t mess with me.”

“Whatever you say. Hey—how do you get your hair to do that?”

“My hair?”

“It’s hot—wavy like that.”

I look up and squeal like a cheerleader hugging the QB after a touchdown.

Derek sits in front of the school steps on a sleek black motorcycle with two helmets dangling from the handlebars. Dang. He looks good in leather.

I fly at him—almost knock him off the bike. I don’t care if it’s raining and I’m getting soaked. My lips are all over him. He doesn’t even have a chance to say hello. I hear a cell phone clatter, don’t know or care if it’s mine or his. Nothing matters—as long as he’s here. Solid. Real. Kissing me.

Then there’s a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me.” Scott? How can he do this? “You’re making a scene. PDA on school property.” He’s standing under one of the school’s giant blue and yellow umbrellas.

I bury my face in Derek’s black leather jacket.

Derek chuckles. “Hello.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Derek.”

“Scott.” They actually shake hands. “Do you have a minute?”

Derek looks down at me. I shake my head. “It’s raining.” Scott hands me his umbrella.

“Come on, Beth. Scott’s a friend.” Derek gets off the bike and walks a few feet away with Scott. They turn their backs to me.

When they come back, they are both drenched. Derek’s smiling.

Scott’s not. “Bye, Beth. See you tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry about that. What did he want?”

“He told me if anything happens to you, he’d kill me.”

“Scott couldn’t kill anything.”

“Just me. He doesn’t like my bike. Called it a death trap. If he only knew—”

I glance down, examine his bike. It bristles with chrome and a major engine. “If anything happens to you on this thing, I’ll beat Scott to it. Where did this come from?”

“I needed a way to get over here—often.”

“I have a car.” I point out Jeannette, glistening in the rain at the back of the parking lot.

He pulls a face. “You don’t expect me to ride around in that? Come on—hop on.” He hands me a helmet. “I’ll take you home.”

“It’s raining.”

“We’re already wet.”

“What about my car?”

“It’ll still be here tomorrow when I drop you off.”

“You’re staying”—I swallow hard—“the night?”

“If your mum will let me sleep on the sofa.”

I punch his shoulder. “Don’t do that to me. Feel my heart.” I put his hand on my sternum, so he can feel how he makes it race.

He slides his hand up my neck, caresses my cheek with his thumb. “Don’t do that to me.”

I unzip his jacket and press my ear to his chest. His heart matches mine—beat for beat.

He takes the helmet from me, slides it slowly onto my head, does up the chinstrap, kisses my nose, then kicks his bike to life.

I climb on the back, slide close so my legs are hugging him, wrap my arms tight around his waist, bury my face in the wet sweatshirt hood sticking out the top of his jacket. “So far, so good,” I holler over the engine.

He laughs. “Hang on.”

We tear out of the parking lot.

“Slow down. There’s kids.”

He obeys—senses something by the way my voice catches, even manages to touch my hand without losing control of the bike.

I lay my cheek against his shoulder blade and think about him and me and kids all the way home. “Left here. Now right. Okay. You can let it out. This is an open stretch.”

He gives it gas, and we’re flying. I see the appeal. Huge rush. Loads of adrenaline. He thinks he’s going to ride this thing all winter? Maybe I need to get a better car. Poor Jeanette. I wonder what I can trade her for.

When we get to my house, I don’t want to get off the bike, can’t let him go. He twists around and kisses me—our helmets clashing together.

He is real. I didn’t make him up. No ghost. No phantom. Just this endangered boy I’m learning to love. He unlatches my helmet’s strap, slowly pulls it off my head. Dumps his, too. Puts the kickstand down on the bike—I think. I don’t know. I’m too lost in his hands smoothing back my wet hair, his breath on my temple. His mouth closing in on mine again.

I pull away for a second. “I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything if you’ll kiss me again.”

“You aren’t riding this in the snow.”

His grin says everything. “Shoot, Beth. That’s what makes it fun.”

chapter 20

MY GUY

We make out on the back of Derek’s bike in the pouring rain until my mom pulls up in the driveway.

Derek is so cute with her. “Hi, Mrs. Evans, I’m Derek.” He shakes her hand and unloads all the groceries out of the trunk, helps her put them away while I change and dry my hair. I throw down an old pair of Levi’s and a dry hoodie for Derek.

“Beth, honey,” Mom calls up to me. “Bring that pillow from your closet and some sheets and a blanket when you come down. I’ll make up the pullout in the den for Derek. I don’t want him riding all that way tonight in this weather.”

I am so tempted to call down and tell her not to bother, that he’s going to sleep in my room, but she knows me. Knows my room is trashed—knows how squeaky that old den sofa bed is. Gosh, do I know her? How did she get so devious?

If Derek wasn’t determined to keep me a nice girl, I’d rise to her sneaky challenge. Maybe even clean up my room. Next time he comes over, I will. Just to flip her out. Just in—I don’t know. Better not go there. I’m still at— Your lips on mine promise what I don’t dare .

He cooks dinner with Mom while I do my homework.

I can never get her to cook.

Mom’s got work to do. She leaves Derek and me alone in the kitchen with the dirty dishes. I clear the table while he loads the dishwasher.

“You made a good impression.” I put our three dirty plates on the counter so he can scrape them down the disposal. I turn to slide a platter of oven-roasted potato wedges into a Ziploc.

Derek moves up behind me. His arms go around my waist. “I always do.”

I drop the bag of potatoes on the counter and twist to face him. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

I close my eyes—can’t breathe. He kisses my eyelids. Each one, lightly. I will my lips to be patient. His mouth moves to my left temple, my cheek, now it’s on my neck. I bruise easy. I should warn him, but I want to wake up in the morning to find his lip prints on me. I wrap my arms around his head, don’t let him off my neck. He sucks harder and harder, moves his mouth, and does it again.

Then I can’t stand it. I bend my knees and get his lips. I’m so hungry. Starving. No matter how much I ply his mouth with mine, I want more and more. I get my mouth on his neck like in Lausanne. “You been working out?” He looks leaner than he did in Switzerland. “You taste sweaty.” I find a fresh place on his neck to chew.

“Do you like the way I taste?” There’s a deadly serious note in his voice that wasn’t there before.

I stop biting him, caress the spot on his neck that’s already turning pink. “Yeah.”