Fallon: BLASPHEMY!
Zane: Don’t yell, they’ll hear you.
I tucked my phone under my pillow only to hear it buzz again.
Zane: Let me take you shopping.
Fallon: Are you pulling a Pretty Woman on me, Mr. Gere?
Zane: Well, I am rich.
Fallon: Should I be charging more?????
Zane: Hilarious. I’ll pick you up in the morning, bring snacks, this could take a while. I’ve been in your closet.
Rejection washed over me. See! I knew it! He was kissing me because I was convenient! Not because he found me even the least bit attractive.
Zane: Though my vote will always be no clothes, you have killer legs, you know that right? BTW I wouldn’t say no to a few scantily clad pictures—just to get me through the night.
I Googled a picture of a marshmallow and edited it to put a bikini top on it then sent it.
Zane: I think I just orgasmed.
Fallon: There’s more where that came from.
Zane: Talk dirty to me—wait let me get comfortable—shirt’s off, I’m ready, hit me with it.
I grabbed a few more pictures of s’mores and sent them over.
Zane: Oh baby…That’s the spot. I think—I’m—going to—
His text ended.
Two minutes went by.
Fallon: Did you die?
Zane: No, I got hungry then felt awkward eating food porn, so I stole Jay’s Lucky Charms. Hey, since we’re sending dirty texts I think we should have phone sex, you know, to make it not weird that you were just sending me pictures of marshmallows. What are you wearing again?
Fallon: Nice try.
I yawned and smiled down at my phone. AH! Why did he have to be so funny?
Zane: I’m naked.
My breath hitched, and my mind shot to the visual of him dropping the blanket. Bad Fallon. Bad Fallon.
With trembling fingers, I typed out.
Fallon: Naked in bed with marshmallows? I may be jealous.
Zane: I did offer to share…
Fallon: I’m pretty sure our ideas of sharing are different.
Zane: Doubtful. After all, you did kiss me back. Damn it, just think of all those places my tongue didn’t get to explore! Cruel woman.
Fallon: I can’t believe you just said that!
Zane: I HAD PLANS!
Fallon: I’m sure you did.
Zane: I guess the marshmallows will have to hold me over until then.
Fallon: Then?
Zane: When you let me keep you in my arms for longer than a few minutes—when I’m yours to keep right back.
The conversation had shifted.
And I didn’t know what to do.
My heart was trying in vain to pump out of my chest while my fingers hovered over the phone. What was I supposed to say back?
Finally, I managed to get a text out.
Fallon: One day you’ll find the marshmallow for you ;)
Zane: What if I already did?
Abort! I needed to stop talking to him.
Zane: I’m making you uncomfortable. You don’t know me. I get it. But give it time, pretty soon you’ll have everything about me memorized, maybe by then your judgment won’t be clouded by what you see on the internet and you’ll see me, just me.
Fallon: And who is Zane Andrews?
He didn’t reply back right away.
Zane: Sometimes, I think, he’s still the scared little boy who was abandoned by his sisters and dropped off in foster care when the love of his life died.
I gasped.
Fallon: I had no idea. I’m so sorry.
Zane: Everyone’s sorry. It doesn’t change the fact that it happened.
Fallon: I know.
Zane: Tomorrow. Don’t forget. And if you don’t bring marshmallows, I’m eating you. Your choice.
Chapter Twenty
Zane
I SLEPT LIKE SHIT most of the night, tossing and turning as nightmares haunted me as if I was experiencing them all over again.
“Come on, Zane.” She giggled. “What’s the big deal? Touch me.”
“I’m busy.” I yawned and snagged my AP Psych book in an attempt to put some distance between me and Cassie, just another girl in a blur of girls whose only goal in life was to get me to jump between her thighs.
But I didn’t have time for that life.
I ran the entire way to the house I’d been living in for the past three months. Rejection heated my face as I ducked and tried to run up the stairs.
“Zane!” Mrs. Angel shouted my name with glee. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Great.
When wasn’t she waiting for me?
“Come have a snack!”
“I ate.”
Silence and then. “I provide a roof over your head, the least you can do is try my chocolate chip cookies. I made them just for you.”
Yeah, I bet she did.
I avoided eye contact as I hurriedly jogged into the kitchen and tried to swipe a cookie off the plate only to have my foster mom, the seventh I’d had in the past ten years, place her hand on mine and giggle. “There, there, isn’t that better?”
She was high again.
I slumped my shoulders and begrudgingly sat on the chair, irritated that I was going to have to stay up until she passed out and make sure the rest of the kids got their homework done.
It was a vicious cycle.
She tried to touch me.
I avoided her like the plague.
Until I agreed to go to her bedroom with her, only to tuck her into bed and leave.
Bile rose up in my throat as her fingertips danced up my forearm. “You’re growing up so much.”
“Almost eighteen.” I muttered snatching my arm away. “You should make these cookies for my birthday.” I took another huge bite. “They’re good!”