Senior Week Crush Read online

  I beat Amy and all of the others out the door. Since Amy had an art function to stick around for, I needed to find another ride home. Or the dreaded bus. But my plan was to ask Dylan for a ride home, if I could catch him at his locker in time. Then, once we were alone in the car, I could bring up Senior Week again and see how he was getting there. If we could just have a minute alone, without Jack interrupting, I was almost positive I could get him to offer me a ride. Although, at the moment, my biggest fear was asking Dylan for a ride home. Even though we were neighbors we’d never done the whole carpool thing. But now was the time. It couldn’t hurt, right? I mean, people needed rides. It was a common thing. Not a big deal.

  I kept up the pep talk as I scrambled through crowds who were heading toward the exit, maneuvering through the hordes like a salmon swimming upstream. There he was, looking sexier than ever leaning against his locker. He was laughing. Even his laugh was hot. It made his eyes crinkle up and made him seem so much more relatable than a living god would normally be. He spotted me when I was a few yards away and I swear, his eyes lit up. Like he was actually happy to see me. Giddy joy had me floating the rest of the way to his locker.

  “Hey, Laynie.”

  “Hi.” I tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His grin never faltered as he waited expectantly for me to speak.

  “So, um, my friend Amy, she normally gives me a ride home from school.” Was that my voice? Why did I sound like I’d inhaled helium? I took a deep breath and tried again. “But she has this thing today. After school. An art thing.”

  Dylan was still wearing that friendly grin as he waited for me to quit rambling and get to the point.

  Right. A ride. Needed by me. I could do this.

  “Anyway, she can’t give me a ride home and I was wondering if maybe you could?” I was officially out of breath and not even positive Dylan had heard the end of my request since my voice had gone so breathy and high-pitched it was possible only dogs could hear it.

  His face fell. “Aw man, I wish I could, but I’ve got to go to my little brother’s soccer game.”

  To my credit, my smile never wavered and I’m almost positive my disappointment wasn’t too obvious. The guy had to go watch his little brother play soccer. If my heart wasn’t already his, I would have handed it over on a silver platter then and there.

  But now I was in the awkward position of having to get out of there gracefully. Unless maybe he wanted to talk? He blinked at me, still wearing that apologetic frown. Right. So no talking then.

  “Okay, so, um….” I started walking backwards, not stopping even though I was bumping into people left and right. The nerves that always threatened to drown me when Dylan was around were about to swallow me whole.

  Dylan’s face lit up then and a flash of hope made me pause mid-step, causing a lowerclassman to run right into me. I barely noticed.

  Here it comes. He’s just realized he wants me to join him at the soccer game. Or maybe he wants to grab coffee later. Or maybe…. “Maybe Jack can give you a ride.”

  My stomach took a nose dive as I realized Jack had materialized at Dylan’s side. How had I not seen him coming? I was so focused on Dylan, and trying to walk away without humiliating myself, that I’d let down my defenses.

  The enemy was here… and he was smirking.

  “Um, that’s okay,” I said with a little too much nonchalance. I only want a ride if it’s with you. But unfortunately Jack must have heard what we were talking about. He leaned back against the lockers, his hands tucked into his jeans pockets. His dark hair was messy—but then, it was always messy—like he had a permanent case of bedhead or something. His eyes were fixed on me and I had the uncomfortable feeling I always got around him. Like he was a panther and I was his prey.

  “Need a ride?” His voice was low and husky, like he smoked cigarettes, even though I knew he didn’t.

  My eyes narrowed a bit. It didn’t seem like he was mocking me but he put me on edge. “Um….”

  Dylan was watching and waiting. How could I say no when I just told him I needed a ride?

  “It’s probably out of your way,” I started. I forced myself to meet Jack’s stare. I’m giving you an out here. Take it.

  But Jack shrugged. “Not really.”

  I held in a huffy sigh of annoyance at his obtuseness. I had given him an out and he’d totally missed it.

  Maybe I could change my mind. Tell them I’d rather stick around and wait for Amy. Or ride the bus. Ugh. No one would believe that I’d opt to hang out at school for no reason or ride the bus.

  I bit back a sigh and tried my best to sound grateful. “A ride would be great. Thanks.”

  Dylan was all smiles as he waved us off. Us. Me and Jack. The guy who kind of terrified and definitely annoyed me.

  Wonderful.

  It’s just a ride, Layla. Chill.

  My internal pep talk was a flop. It was already off to a bad start. I followed Jack through the crowds to the parking lot but then we were on our own, walking side by side. In silence. How many minutes did it take to drive to my home? I’d never counted before. Why hadn’t I counted? Whatever, it couldn’t be more than ten minutes. Ten minutes and then I would be out of the car.

  Or truck, apparently.

  Jack came to a stop in front of a large red pickup truck that so did not go with his whole grunge, punk vibe. Instead of going to the driver’s side, he went to the passenger side door and pulled it open for me.

  No guy had ever opened a door for me. Ever.

  I moved to the door and hovered for a second. It was a big step up. For a fleeting second I toyed with the hope that I could get into this giganto vehicle with some semblance of grace. I put one foot on the door’s edge and my skirt rode halfway up my thigh.

  Yeah, graceful was so not happening.

  “Need a hand?”

  Before I could answer, Jack’s hands were on my waist lifting me like I weighed nothing and I half stepped, half launched into the front seat. He shut the door in my face before I could summon a thanks.

  Once he was in the driver’s seat and both doors were shut, the silence was as stifling as the heat. Jack revved the engine and fiddled with some dials and cold air came blasting out of the vents. Aaah. One problem solved, at least.

  I spotted Dylan climbing into his car a few parking spots away and allowed myself one longing gaze as Jack backed up the truck and pulled out.

  It’s just a car ride and there’s no one here for Jack to humiliate you in front of. Deep breaths. In, out, in, out.

  For a minute there I thought my nerves were unwarranted. He was unusually quiet as we pulled away from the school. But then, as if the inner demon just couldn’t be restrained any longer, he did it.

  “Lay lady lay,” he crooned the oldies song in his over-the-top, borderline offensive Bob Dylan impersonation.

  Not again.

  And just like the first time I met him, he didn’t stop at the first line. “Lay across my big brass bed,” he sang. Of course, that first time he’d had a microphone in his hand and had sung his terrible rendition in front of half of our class at Beth Webster’s birthday party. I don’t think most of the partygoers recognized the classic song but they saw who he was serenading and all eyes were focused on me as he sang about spending the night in his bed.

  It was humiliating.

  I should have been happy that at least this time there was no one around to witness this bizarre serenade. His impersonation grew more ridiculous and he was singing so badly that my lips twitched up involuntarily. It wasn’t much but he caught it.

  He stopped singing and I glanced over to see him smiling. Not smirking, but smiling. Like, a real honest to God smile. It made him look… nice.

  Maybe that’s why I got the nerve to actually talk to him. “Why do you call me that?”

  He shrugged, his eyes still on the road and a little smile still lingering on his lips. I snuck another peek at him. His smile gave him dimples. Somehow that had a humanizing effe
ct on his overall demeanor and for a moment there I actually forgot that he was an intimidating loudmouth who took pleasure in tormenting me.

  He opened his mouth and I thought he might give me an explanation, or start up a normal conversation at the very least. But no. He resumed his terrible rendition right where he’d left off.

  My head dropped back against the headrest with a sound that was half groan, half laugh. “Please stop, you sound like Brent.”

  The instant silence that followed my thoughtless remark was deafening. My stomach plunged toward my feet. Oh sweet baby Jesus. Did I really just insult this guy’s lead singer and friend? As if he didn’t already hate me enough, now he would despise me and most likely make my life hell going forward. I didn’t want to look over at him but the sudden silence was killing me. I turned my head ever so slightly to the left.

  His lips were pressed together in a tight line.

  “I’m sorry.” Horrifying embarrassment washed over me. Why had I said that? How incredibly rude. “I didn’t mean—”

  And then, as if he’d been holding it in, a laugh burst out of him. I suddenly knew where the phrase “busting a gut” came from. It sounded like it was torn out of him against his will.

  It was a great laugh, the kind of belly laugh that you don’t hear in public. The kind that’s shared between best friends over ice cream late at night. I couldn’t help myself; it was contagious. I laughed too.

  My laughter seemed to set him off even more and soon the two of us were laughing so hard we were fighting for air.

  “He does sound like that,” Jack said when he caught his breath.

  I bit my lip, still grinning. There was no way I was going to dig myself deeper into this hole by agreeing with him. Jack shook his head and leaned back in his seat, only one hand on the wheel as he turned into my neighborhood. “He was never supposed to be the long-term singer, you know.”

  “Really?” I tried to act casual and leaned back like he did. As if Jack Abrams and I always had little heart to hearts in his truck.

  “Brent heard we were looking for a singer and offered to help us out. It was only supposed to be until we found someone else.”

  Someone more talented, was what I assumed he meant by that. It was unspoken, though. Would you look at that? Jack Abrams was actually showing some tact and diplomacy.

  Hell must have frozen over.

  “So what happened?”

  Jack shrugged again and shot me another smile. “We got used to him.”

  Huh. Was it possible that big bad Jack hadn’t had the heart to fire him? I cocked my head to the side to study Jack’s profile. It was all sharp angles and without that smile, he was back to looking dangerous. Far more likely Dylan had stuck up for Brent.

  My house came into view and I scrambled to gather my bag and the cardigan that I’d taken off thanks to the brutal summer sun. We’d barely come to a stop when my hand reached for the door handle, but his voice stopped me.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

  I froze with one hand on the door. Me? He wanted to talk to me? This had to be the start of a joke or something. Warily, I turned back to face him, my free hand tugging on a lock of hair that had fallen over my shoulder. “You did?”

  There was that smirk again. See? I knew it. He was just playing with me. I had no idea why he liked to toy with me, I guess every predator needs prey, but still, I’d never done anything to him and he—

  “I can give you a ride to Senior Week.”

  It took a moment for his words to sink in. But when they did, my heart started racing with excitement. He would give me a ride. Odds were he was going with Dylan. The band was planning on playing down there, I’d overheard Dylan telling his friends.

  My voice came out as a squeak. “Really? That would be so great, thank—”

  “On one condition.”

  Uh oh. The air rushed out of my lungs at that ominous phrase. If Jack was asking for favors... well, this could not be good. He’d probably make me do something to humiliate myself in front of the entire school. Or maybe commit a crime. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

  I turned back in my seat to face him and studied his unreadable expression. The really irritating thing about Jack was you never knew what to expect. That’s what always put me on edge when he was around. That unpredictability. Never knowing what he was thinking or what he might say or do.

  Like right now. I licked my lips as I thought about what to say. His eyes followed the movement and I swear they lingered too long on my lips. To my horror, my traitorous body overreacted and heat flooded my cheeks. Great. Now I probably resembled a turnip.

  Yup, Jack’s irritating smirk confirmed it. Way to keep cool, Layla.

  “What’s the condition?” I asked.

  “You sing for our band.”

  I choked on air for a second. Clearly I’d heard wrong. “Excuse me?”

  Ah, there was the smug smile that I knew and hated. Back in full force.

  “Are you joking?” I gaped at him, realizing how stupid my question was. He had to be joking. But then… he wasn’t laughing.

  Jack leaned back, seemingly happy to take his sweet time. “We’ve got some gigs lined up down in Wildwood and Brent can’t make it. He finally got a full-time job and he can’t afford to take time off work.”

  I stared at him, waiting for him to burst out laughing again at his private joke at my expense.

  He didn’t.

  “I can’t,” I said, the words tumbling out of me. “I mean, I can’t. I don’t. I don’t—”

  “You don’t sing?” he finished. “Yeah, you do. Or was that someone else belting it out in the spring musical?”

  I blinked at him. Once. Twice. Words were not my friend as I tried to process this strange request. Nay, requirement. I couldn’t let go of the idea that this was some kind of terrible joke at my expense. I mean, me? A frontwoman for a rock band? The idea was so laughable, I should have been laughing.

  But I wasn’t because my brain was locked onto one fact as if it was crucial to my existence. “You came to see Pippin?”

  He shrugged. Shrugged! As if all the hot, rebellious punk guys in our school came to see me in musicals. Not that he’d come to see me, obviously, but still. Jack Abrams came to see Pippin?

  Oh. My. God. My heart stopped. My hands froze in the act of twisting the cardigan in my hands. If Jack came to see the play, that meant… had Dylan gone too? My heart started up again, but now it was in overdrive. Had it been Dylan’s idea? It must have been. Jack Abrams was so not the supportive theater-goer. But Dylan? He supported the arts. Hadn’t he bought two tickets to the art fair that Amy coordinated?

  Jack burst into my mental meltdown. “I heard you sing. I know you’re good, so don’t pull the humble act.”

  I’m not gonna lie, his words of praise gave me a thrill. They went straight to my head and made me dizzy. I’m not denying I have talent—musical theater is all I’ve ever wanted to do. It’s what I’ll be majoring in at college and hopefully, maybe, one day I’ll reach my goal of being on Broadway. So no, I’m not overly modest nor do I lack in self-confidence. However, the number of times my talent has been recognized by anyone outside of my parents and my friends in the theater department could be counted on one hand. And no guy—hot or otherwise—ever took note. So yeah, I let myself ride the high for a moment.

  But Jack was watching me. Waiting. He was expecting an answer.

  A little part of me wanted to let out a little squeal of excitement and call Amy immediately to tell her that Jack Abrams had just asked me to join his band. Better? He asked me to join Dylan’s band. But that initial wave of excited flattery was quickly replaced by nerves.

  “I, uh, I don’t know how to sing, like…..” My hands flailed a bit as I looked for the word. “Normal music.”

  Jack’s face screwed up in a look that said he thought I was crazy. “You can sing, right? That’s all we need. Singing is singing.”r />
  My palms started to sweat at the image of me, Layla James, singing in front of a crowd of our peers. My nervous reaction was admittedly ridiculous since I thrived on performing in front of crowds. Singing in front an audience had never gotten me flustered, let alone sweaty-palm nervous. And now there were butterflies in my stomach. Great. Just great.

  Before I could protest again, Jack continued. “Look, we’ve already lined up some shows and I’d hate to cancel. Plus…..” He trailed off for a second and turned to look straight ahead as if he had to think about what he was going to say next.

  “A friend of mine from home set me up with a producer in Philly who’s looking for new talent. We need to do a live show there on the way down to Wildwood so he can see us.”

  I was speechless again but this time it had nothing to do with Jack’s crazy request or the nerves it brought on. I was shocked by the sincerity in Jack’s voice. For the first time since that awful night when we met—or rather, the night he pounced on me like the wounded antelope of the class that I am—Jack sounded serious. He wasn’t joking or mocking or teasing, and his sincerity was oddly effective.

  How could I say no to that? Like a switch being flipped, my brain went from dismissing this crazy idea to figuring out what it would mean if I said yes. The butterflies were still there but I started to think of the other implications. If I did this, I’d be a part of the band. Part of Dylan’s band. We’d probably all be driving down together. We’d have rehearsals together. Dylan and I would spend time together. Lots and lots of time. Plenty of time for him to see that he and I were meant to be together.

  A new kind of nervous excitement took over and I forced myself to take a deep breath, extremely conscious of the fact that Jack was watching me like a hawk.

  I turned back to him, my sweaty hands gripping my cardigan so tightly it was going to get all pilly and gross. “I’d have to learn your songs,” I started.

  “I’ll teach you. We’ll rehearse so you’re prepared.” He leapt on my words as if I’d just agreed. And I guess I had, I just hadn’t said the words yet.

  Another terrifying image of me on stage, in front of a crowd of our fellow classmates and producers, popped into my head and the nervous tickle in my stomach threatened to turn to outright nausea. I pushed that image away. He was right, singing was singing. I could do this—for me and Dylan I would do anything.