ARROGANT PLAYBOY (37 page)

JENSEN

“Claire Fahnlander is obsessed with you.”
I’m walking out of morning devotions Monday morning next to Waverly. So far
Camp Zion is a carbon copy of Whispering Hills high school complete with the
same familiar faces and one, miss Claire Fahnlander shooting daggers our way
during prayer time.

“She’s always been,” Waverly
sighs, hoisting her Bible and Book of Mormon on her hip as we breeze down the
hallway. “She used to have a thing for Cade Corbin. Cade has a thing for me.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. It’s been going on since middle school.”

“So
that’s
why she doesn’t like you?”

“I guess?” Waverly doesn’t seem
to care that much, which is a relief because I know how fucking catty these
high school bitches can be. “I try to stay out of it.”

“Who’s Cade Corbin?”

“That guy right there.” She
nods forward where a tall, lanky guy with surfer hair and a neon pink,
popped-collar polo is walking toward us. He’s smiling at her like a love-struck
puppy dog. Waverly stops at a drinking fountain. “He’s been in love with me for
years. I think he just wants me because he can’t have me.”

I’d be lying if I said it
didn’t feel good knowing she came all over my cock the other night but she
won’t give frat boy here the time of day. Almost makes a guy feel special.

“Hey.” Cade weasels his way up
to us, edging me out with calculated intention. “So, uh, any plans this
summer?”

Waverly smiles at him, laughing
under her breath like she’s amused by his goofy grin and his California tan and
those disgusting dimples. He’s showering her with attention and she’s lapping
it right up like a kitten to milk. “Cade, you know I can’t hang out with you.”

“I’ve been waiting forever for
this,” he says. “All those years of turning me down and you won’t at least let
me take you on one date? Send me off to college on a high note?”

This guy’s fucking obnoxious,
and I want to slap that smug grin off his face right here, right now.

“She’s with me.” I clear my
throat as Cade whips around.

His smile fades. “Who’re you?”

Waverly shoots me a furrowed-brow
look, which I’m interpreting as, “Protect the family secret,” but for all I
know, it also means, “Don’t intervene, I actually want to date this douche
canoe.”

I’m not a mind reader, so she’s
out of luck.

“We’re together.” I’m not sure
why that seemed like the best thing to say in that moment, but I’ve said it and
now I have to own it.

Her jaw drops, her face paling.
Cade scratches the side of his head, squinting at me.

“I thought you couldn’t date?”
he asks her.

It’s funny watching her squirm
and try to come up with some kind of impromptu lie, especially since she’s a
horrible liar. I decide not to make her suffer too long.

“She’s not supposed to.” I inch
closer to her, slipping my hand into hers. “It’s kind of under wraps, so I’d
appreciate you not saying anything to anyone, man. Thanks.”

I pull her down the hall with
me, leaving Cade to eat my dust. By the time we round the corner, she yanks her
hand out of mine.

“Why did you do that?” Her
words are delivered with a hushed heat. “What, you think because of last night,
I’m with you now?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not. Let’s
just make that clear right now.” I smirk, rubbing my hand across my mouth.

“You can’t just tell people
we’re together.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” She wants to get
angry at me, I can tell, but she’s still trying to wrap her head around how she
feels about it. This will either bode well for me or it’ll be catastrophic.
“Because it’s not true.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

She’s cute.

“I’m not supposed to date, and
even if I were, you’re the last person on earth I should be associating with in
that way,” she says. “Look, I’m already on thin ice, and if this were to get
back to my dad…”

Her words trail off, like she’s
afraid to finish the thought.

“I can handle your dad. Not
worried about him.”

She’s quiet, but her face says
it all.

“What, are you afraid of him?”
I ask. “Or, wait, are you afraid to
disappoint
him?”

Her palms smooth over the hem
of her sweater. “Look, just don’t tell people I’m with you, okay? Even if
you’re joking.”

“Fine,” I say. “As long as you
don’t go on a date with Cade Corwin.”

“Corbin.”

“Whatever.”

“Not a problem.” Waverly rolls
her eyes. “I’m not going to date him, anyway.”

“I can’t imagine you’re missing
out on much.” I grab the collar of my polo and pop it up, flashing a goofy grin
like Cade’s.

She cracks a smile and somehow
we’re just now realizing the halls have emptied around us. Her hand clasps over
her mouth. “Jensen, we’re going to be late for the Faith-Building workshop.”

“Oh, no. Whatever will we do?”
I find the situation to be hilarious, though judging by the sour look on her
face we’re not on the same page. At all. She brushes past me in a panicked
frenzy, only I grab her arm. “Where are you going?”

“Class.” She jerks her arm from
my grasp.

“No, you’re not.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t
be late. I can’t have any tardies on my record. They’ll make a note of it on my
weekly report, and Bellamy already says everyone thinks I’m acting different
and I’m still trying to prove to my Dad that—”

She yammers on, but I tune her
out.

“We’re both adults here.” I
clear my throat, interrupting her train of thought. “Let’s just sign ourselves
out. They’ll only contact your parents if you’re, like, missing or a no-show.
Trust me. I’ve spent my fair share of summers at Bible Camp. If we sign
ourselves out, that takes care of any tardies or unexcused absences. This isn’t
high school.”

She leans back against the
wall, her head tilted, and then our eyes meet. “Fine.”

That
was easy.

With determined steps, we rush
to the main office and sign ourselves out. Minutes later we’re just a couple of
free birds, heading down student-free halls toward the front doors where
adventure begins the second we peel out of the parking lot.

She climbs into my truck,
slinging her bag between us. “So what now? Where are we going?”

“I hadn’t thought that far.”

“Seriously?”

“You were worried about getting
a tardy,” I say, turning the ignition. “Now you don’t get a tardy and you get
out of camp for a few hours so you can be bad with me.”

“Just don’t get me into too
much trouble today. Let’s fly low on the radar.”

“So you barged into my room
last week and practically demanded that I fuck you, and now you don’t want to
get into trouble?” Good to know even losing her virginity hasn’t changed the
core of Waverly Miller. She’s still jam-packed with indecisive confusion. “You
had a problem. I solved it. You really think I’d get you out of trouble just to
get you into more trouble?”

“All I said was don’t get me in
too much
trouble today.” She buckles
up, crossing her legs and staring straight ahead. “I’m trusting you with my
future. I still think I can convince my dad to let me go to college. I’m trying
to walk a very thin, narrow line here. That’s the only reason I let you talk me
into signing out.”

“You trust me?”

“You’re good at this being bad
stuff. You know what you’re doing.”

I pull out of the parking lot
and come to a stop at the corner. “You’re okay with last week, right? We never
had a chance to talk about it. You spent all weekend doing chores or some shit
like that. I thought you were avoiding me.”

“How many times are you going
to ask me?” she huffs. “I’m totally fine.”

My foot presses into the gas.
“Just making sure.”

Waverly stares out the window,
tracing her finger across a smudge on the glass. “So, where are we going?”

“Probably shouldn’t stick
around town if you’re not wanting to be seen.” I roll down my window, letting
the fresh air hit my face. Freedom is skipping some bullshit camp with a pretty
girl by your side and no particular destination in mind.

“The next town over,” she says.
“Hilldale. They have antique shops and little cafés.”

My lip curls up on one side.
“I’m sorry, Waverly, but I am
not
going antiquing with you. I’m not your boyfriend, remember? You made that
pretty clear just a little while ago.”

“So if you were my boyfriend,
you would go antiquing with me?”

“Probably. But you’d have to
blow me first.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“That’s how relationships work,
just so you know. You do shit you don’t want to do and sometimes you have to
bribe each other with sexual favors.” She smacks me hard across the arm, though
it doesn’t much hurt. “And why the fuck does an eighteen-year-old want to go
antiquing, anyway?”

We pull out onto the main road
that veins through town east and west.

Waverly slinks a shoulder up to
her ear. “I don’t know. It’s something to do.”

“You need to grow your
imagination, then. I can think of a million other things to do that are better
than antiquing.” I switch the radio on to a classic rock station. “What do you
like to do in your free time?”

“Never had a whole lot of it.
Most of my time is spent at home. Housework. Chores. I read books. That’s about
it.”

“You’re killing me here. You
know that, right?” I merge onto the interstate, rolling up my window. “Is there
a theme park around here? A mall? Anything?” A big green sign a quarter mile
down the road tells us we’re just fifteen miles away from the birthplace and
lifelong home of Mormon poetess Elizabeth Wagner. “You know her?”

“I know of her, yes,” she says.

“You want to go see where she
was born? It’s not much better than antiquing, but I get the feeling you don’t
get out much, so I’m willing to go there, and you don’t even have to blow me.”

“I wouldn’t have blown you
anyway, but yes, we can go there.” There’s a hint of a smile in her voice, and
I think she’s kind of excited.

We follow the signs to a sleepy
little town called Glen Oak that seems to encircle a small lake. About a mile
down the road, just past a handful of boat ramps, is an old house stitched
together with mudded timber. A white sign out front says: HOME OF ELIZABETH
WAGNER.

“Found it.” I shut off the
ignition and climb out.

Waverly runs to the sign,
reading the scheduled tours. “Aw, they don’t start tours until four.”

A red sedan is parked outside
the house. “Someone’s here. Won’t hurt to ask.”

I jog up to the front door and
knock before checking the handle. The house is unlocked, so I motion for her to
follow me.

“What are you doing?” She
whispers her words and crouches down, like we’re a couple of burglars.

“Hello? Anyone here?” I call
out. The house is small, a sparsely decorated living room to the right and an
old timey kitchen to the left. A set of stairs is before us, and the sound of
footsteps above tells us the owner of the red car is definitely here. “Hello?”

The footsteps move quicker
until we see the feet of a woman at the top of the stairs. She climbs down
gingerly, the stairs popping and cracking with each careful movement.

“We’re closed.” Her voice is
gruff and old, tinted with small town fatigue.

“I know, but we’re just passing
through, and my girlfriend here is a huge fan of Elizabeth Wagner’s work. It
would mean the world to her if you—”

“Twenty minutes,” she says.
“And don’t tell anybody. I’m just the cleaning lady.”

Waverly’s mouth parts into a
smile a mile wide and she gives my arm a squeeze.

“See?” I say. “Ask for what you
want and you just might get it.”

She scampers off toward the
living room, oohing and ahhing over display cases filled with handwritten notes
and letters by the poetess. A desk with Elizabeth’s actual feather quill and
inkpot sits behind velvet ropes.

“This was her desk,” Waverly
says. “Her actual desk. Where she wrote. She sat here.”

You’d think we were touring
Graceland, or something. “Yeah. Very cool.”

She doesn’t pick up on my
sarcasm, so I stand aside and watch her fawn over every square inch of this
humble dwelling.

“She had twelve children,”
Waverly said. “Can you imagine?”

“How many sister wives?” I
tease.

“Several. Eight, I think? She
was the first, though.”

I follow her into the kitchen,
where she ogles teacups Elizabeth Wagner once drank from as well as a pie pan
she used to bake her famous boysenberry pies with.