Love Edy Read Free Page B

game-winning touchdown against Madison, he would
have found it hard to believe that a junior would look in his
direction, let alone have interest. But twenty-two days of
post-Madison fervor had shown him teachers who shrugged at late
homework, girls who kissed him on dares, and all the back slaps,
handshakes and fist pounds he could stand. He hadn’t made up his
mind how he felt about any of it yet.
    “You’re a coward,” Matt announced. “I’m
gonna talk to her for you.”
    Hassan choked. “No! Matt—”
    Too late. Already, Matt parted the
crowd.
    Rushing over would make Hassan look stupid,
especially if he wound up crashing an otherwise harmless
conversation. Staying put might result in humiliation, considering
embarrassment was the Dyson twin specialty. He had speed and could
bolt for the door, but leaving would mean he ran from a girl.
    Hassan gulped the bitter brew and waited. He
shifted, resisting the urge to fidget. One second, two seconds,
three.
    She made her way over. Head high, gaze even,
confident in her stride.
    They could’ve been in a beer commercial. Him
standing there, looking dumb, with some specialty brew in his hand,
her parting the crowd in slow motion, hair fluttering from the
blast of an A/C vent. This was the part where he discovered she
wanted the beer and not him.
    “Hassan.” She made his name sound like a
whisper of silk against satin, the rustle of imported fabric. There
it was again. A dip of the tongue, subtle. She smiled at him and
his cheeks grew hot.
    “Aimee,” she offered.
    She surprised him by extending a hand,
ultra-formal for a bunch of teens. He took it, and she didn’t let
go.
    “Will you come with me?” she said.
“Upstairs?”
    His Adam’s apple bobbed, thick in his
throat. She didn’t mean anything by the offer. After all, lots of
things were upstairs. He just couldn’t think of any.
    “Alright,” Hassan managed. He cleared his
throat and set the beer on a table.
    Aimee led him by the hand through the crowd.
Upstairs and a single left later, they arrived at a bathroom, large
and luminous. Hassan blinked. Aimee pulled him in and shut the door
behind them.
    “Number twenty-seven” she crooned, just a
hint of slur in her voice. She stepped forward, copper curls
spilling into damp, hooded, and shadowed green eyes. “Ninety yards
against Madison. Two touchdowns against Southie. Three against
Charlestown,” she announced. The girl leaned forward, lips parted,
and ran a red-tipped finger from Hassan’s nose downward, eyes never
leaving his mouth.
    “Kiss me,” she said.
    He froze. Had the girl never heard of small
talk? Already, he’d forgotten her name. Even if she wanted to . . . do things , it seemed to him that she should wait for his
advances. Maybe he was old fashioned. How many guys did it take for
a girl to do away with the formalities?
    She turned her back on him to flip out the
light switch, bathing them in darkness. Hassan opened his mouth,
only to find that words wouldn’t come. Soft lips and the nip of
teeth grazed his ear. Her mouth dragged lower, paused, and
devoured.
    She kissed hard, punching her tongue between
his lips, blazing the cinders of cigarettes there. He’d kissed
before, easy, meaningless flirting that was never so demanding, and
never with a girl that made him feel smothered, or made him feel
like he needed to reach out and grab a buoy. Before he could get
the hang of it though, she’d backed away. Now she had fingers at
his zipper. Fumbling.
    The beer muddled what was already a jumble
of confusing, contrary thoughts: that he should say something, that he didn’t really know her, that he was sorry
if he was supposed to, that he couldn’t even recall ever having
seen her. And what the hell was her name?
    He shoved her back, then snatched for her
when she pitched, only to ease her clumsy head crash to the door.
He’d never put his hands on a girl and hadn’t meant to that time.
If he’d hurt her, he didn’t think he could