Better than Perfect (20 page)

“Ashtyn, wake up. We're here.”

I'm not really awake, and just want to go back to sleep. That's not going to happen, because Derek pats me soundly on the shoulder.

“I'm up,” I say groggily.

He keeps patting me on the shoulder until I sit up and look out the window. In front of us is a big sign that reads:

Oh, goodie. Nature. Should I mention that I'm not fond of spiders, and just hearing the sound of crickets creeps me out? “Umm . . . why don't we ditch the camping idea and go to a hotel? Between your gambling money and my meager savings, I'm sure we can scrape up enough to stay at a decent place.”

“Gambling money?”

“Don't act all innocent. Monika found a bunch of money stashed in your boot and poker chips in your suitcase.”

“So that makes me a gambler?”

“Yep.”

“Listen, Sugar Pie. Don't be a diva and be quick to judge other people.” He steps out of the car and heads toward a sign that reads REGISTRATION AND GENERAL STORE.

A guy at the front desk greets us with a crooked, toothy grin as he produces a site registration form. Soon we're assigned a small campsite with running water and electricity.

While Derek buys a bundle of wood and matches, I buy hot dogs and buns. In the end, I splurge and buy stuff to make s'mores. As long as I'm stuck here, I might as well make the best of it.

Outside, Derek leans against the car while checking the map for our campsite location. He has no clue that two girls sitting on top of the picnic bench a few feet away are staring at him like he's some sort of conquest.

He peeks into my bag. “What'd you buy for dinner?”

“If you're thinking I got organic turkey burgers or flax seeds, you've got another thing coming.”

“What about apple cider vinegar?”

“For what?”

“A detox.”

I look him up and down. “You don't need a detox, Derek. You need hot dogs.”

His response is a laugh. “Let's pitch the tent and make a fire so I can fill up with those nitrates. Yum.”

“You're seriously getting on my nerves.”

“That's the point, Sugar Pie.” Derek drives down the winding gravel road until we reach campsite number 431. It's got a few trees, but mostly it's an open, flat grassy area. “Home sweet home!” he announces.

A couple of our neighbors are playing football, a family is cooking over a fire, and a few girls are sunbathing in bikinis.

Derek practically jumps out of the car and pulls our tent out of the back.

I read the description on the side of the box. “This is for three people.”

“Right. We're two people, with a tent for three. We'll have plenty of room to stretch out.”

I'm not convinced. “This looks small, Derek. I don't think my blow-up bed will fit very well in this thing.”

“Blow-up bed?”

“Yep. I need to be comfortable.”

Being around guys in close quarters is second nature to me. I've had to sleep on the bus with the guys when we've traveled long distances for games, and I've been in the locker room when most of them were half-dressed. But this is different. I have to be in a tent with a boy I have a crush on who I don't want to have a crush on.

Derek pulls out the tent and spreads it on the ground.

“Need help?” I ask.

“Nope. I got it.”

I sit on a tree stump and watch Derek expertly pitch the tent.
It's hot, even though the sun is going down. He takes off his shirt and wipes sweat from his face with it. When he shoves part of his shirt into the waistband of his jeans, his deep blue eyes meet mine and I feel butterflies in my stomach.

I look away, not wanting him to know I was admiring his naked, bronzed chest and perfect physique. I feel guilty for looking.

The domed tent is green with a purple racing stripe going down the side like a sports car. Most sports cars are bigger than our tent. Most closets are bigger than our tent. All the tents around us are bigger. When Derek refuses to put the blow-up bed I brought in the tent, I lug it in there and inflate it myself. It takes up most of the space, but at least I'll be comfortable.

In the woods, I gather little sticks to kindle the fire as Derek places firewood in the pit. One of the guys in the campsite next to ours tosses a football near me. On instinct, I drop the sticks and catch the ball.

“Whoa,” a boy with curly blond hair says. “Nice catch.”

I throw it back in a perfect spiral. Curly's friend, who's got a tattoo of a skull on his forearm, says, “Good throw. What's your name?”

“Ashtyn.”

“I'm Ben. Where you from, Ashtyn?” the guy with the tattoo asks.

“Chicago.”

Curly waves me over. “Want to hang with us?”

Derek looks ready to intervene, as if I need some hero to rescue me if I get myself into trouble. I don't need his help. These are
just a few guys having fun. “Maybe I'll meet up with you guys later.”

When I come back to our site, Derek shakes his head.

“What?” I ask.

“You fell for it.”

“Fell for what?”

He nods in the direction of Ben and his friends. “Those guys were checkin' you out way before that ball was thrown your way, Ashtyn. It wasn't an accident.”

I arrange the sticks in the fire pit along with the wood Derek bought. “So?”

He kneels down and starts to light the kindling with a lighter. “So I'm gettin' paid to drive you, not to babysit you.”

“I don't need a babysitter. I don't need anyone.”

He shakes his head and sits back on his heels. “That's what you think.”

Ashtyn really got pissed at my babysitting comment, like it was some huge insult. Now she won't talk to me. After we ate the hot dogs, she climbed into the tent and hasn't peeked her head out since. Will she still ignore me when we have to sleep next to each other?

“Can we join you?” comes a female voice from the campsite next to ours. “Our fire went out and we're out of wood.”

Three girls, all wearing St. Louis Cardinals T-shirts and bikini bottoms, walk up to me. They've all got super long straight hair. One has a stripe of her hair dyed pink.

“Sure.” I help bring their chairs around our fire.

The girls introduce themselves and we start talking. Ashtyn steps out of the tent. She doesn't talk much until the guys who'd been playing ball earlier gather around our campfire. They bring a cooler full of beer. Before long, we're hosting an all-out bash with music blaring from speakers in someone's van.

Ashtyn's suddenly chatting it up with a bunch of the guys. She's
got all their attention as she relays some story about playing football in the middle of a downpour last season. Ashtyn has power over guys . . . power that has nothing to do with being a football player. She doesn't flip her hair back or giggle or stick out her breasts to get their attention like normal girls. She's just . . . Ashtyn.

“Is Ashtyn your girlfriend?” a girl who introduced herself as Carrie asks.

I glance across the fire at the girl who drives me nuts, then tell myself to look away and stop caring about what she does.

“Nope, Ashtyn's not my girlfriend.” I glance around like I'm about to tell Carrie something super secretive. “She's actually royalty from Fregolia, a small country in Europe. She wanted to know what it was like to live with the locals in America, so she's here undercover. I'm her bodyguard.”

“Ooh.” Carrie glances at my biceps appreciatively, then licks her lips. She leans closer. “You have the most
amazing
eyes. Where are you from?”

I bet my left nut that if I say Fregolia, she might very well believe me. “The answer's kinda complicated.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm from a lot of places.”

“Ooh, mysterious.” She straightens, seemingly excited to learn about all the places I've lived. “Let me guess, then. You must have gotten that sexy drawl from somewhere.”

I nod. “Alabama. Tennessee. Texas.”

Carrie touches my bicep and cries out, “Oh, my God! You're from Texas? What a coincidence! I love Texasians!”

After talking and laughing with the guys from the other campsite until my voice is raw, I'm suddenly exhausted. They ask me to play strip poker at their site. I'm not about to play strip poker with anyone, let alone a bunch of guys I just met. I don't tell them that Derek plays poker, because I don't want him to play strip poker or any kind of stripping game with those girls he met tonight.

Derek is talking to some girl by the campfire. He's been talking to her all night. She's flirting, giggling, and touching his arm. Derek is definitely interested; I can tell by the way he's focusing all his attention on her.

I gather my hockey jersey and toiletries, then walk down the little pathway to take a shower and get ready for bed. I pass Derek and the giggler on the way back to our tent, ignoring them as I unzip the entrance and crawl inside.

I'm lying on the mattress and hear more giggles. And Derek's laughter. Ugh, why do I care if Derek wants to hook up with someone else? Because the truth is that I want to be with him. I find myself craving it. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to wipe out the image of Derek and the girl outside. I wish that girl was me.

What am I thinking? I don't want a guy who cringes at the thought of having a real relationship instead of a one-night stand. I don't want a gambler or womanizer. Just like I told him before dinner, I don't want or need anyone.

I try to sleep, but I can't. As if hearing their low whispers isn't bad enough, through the nylon I see their shadows. Her giggles grate on my nerves because they're so fake.

I turn over, put my earbuds in, and listen to music. The light from my iPod gives the tent a dim glow. I take a deep, calming breath . . . but out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of something crawling on the tent—a big spider is right next to my head!

I scramble to get away from the creepy thing.

Is it on me?

Oh, no. I don't like creepy, crawly spiders with fangs and a bunch of legs and gross, sticky webs. They freak me out.

It moves closer.

“Don't come near me!” I cry out, then whimper for help.

Within seconds, the front of the tent zips open and Derek appears. “What's wrong?” he asks, his voice full of concern.

I point to the offending creature. “There it is!” I moan when it climbs to the top of the tent. “Ewww. Get it away. Smash it. Kill it!”

“You're brutal. It's a spider, Ashtyn. Not a scorpion.”

He captures it, then sets it free outside.

“Make sure you put it far away,” I tell him.

He appears again. “It's gone. You're a tough football player. Surely you can handle a little spider.”

“Surely being a football player has nothing to do with a fear of those eight-legged creepy crawlers, Derek. And that thing wasn't little. I saw its fangs.”

“Yeah, right.” He shakes his head. “What did you think, that there'd be no spiders at a campground? We're in the middle of nature.”

“I didn't expect one to be
inside
my tent,” I tell him. “I read on the Internet that it's not uncommon for a person to eat a spider while they're sleeping. I couldn't go to sleep thinking that thing was about to crawl on my face and stick its fangs into me. This is my space.”

“Well, it's gone, so you're fine now. I'm surprised we haven't heard from the Happy Camper police. It's quiet hours after ten, you know.” He grabs his toiletries from his duffel. “Your bed is takin' up eighty percent of the tent. Where do you suppose I'm gonna sleep?”

I point to a sliver of space, big enough if he doesn't move much. “Right there.”

“You're kiddin' me, right?”

“No.”

He shakes his head. “We'll figure it out when I get back.”

“What about that ugly girl you were talking to?” I ask, trying
to hide any trace of jealousy in my voice. “Isn't she still out there waiting for you?”

“She wasn't ugly. And no, she's not waitin' for me.”

“Did you see her pink hair? I mean, seriously. It's painfully obvious she's begging for attention.”

“She's hot.”

“Yeah, well, what do you know? I think bacteria from those algae smoothies have invaded your brain.”

He turns to me. “You jealous I was talkin' to her?”

“I'm
not
jealous. I'm just concerned, but I won't look out for you anymore if you don't want me to.”

“You need to look out for yourself, Ashtyn. Not me.”

Derek leaves to wash up. My stomach has butterflies knowing that he'll be sleeping in the tent with me. I don't want to admit that I want him to want me. But I do. I want him to say that the girl he was talking to tonight was boring and stupid and . . . not me.

He's back. The blow-up bed moves as he sits on it. I roll toward the middle . . . toward him.

“Don't think you're sleeping on my bed,” I mumble, scootching back to the edge of the bed and hoping he doesn't sense that I'm totally aware of the electricity between us. If he's feeling it, too, he's masking it.

“Listen, Sugar Pie, you didn't leave me any room. We're sharin' a bed. You don't like it,” he says in an annoyed tone, “I have a pocketknife that I'll be happy to plunge into the mattress.”

I sit up. “You wouldn't dare.”

He reaches into his bag and holds up the knife. “Try me.”

Unfortunately, I don't think Derek is the kind of guy to make empty threats. “Fine. You can sleep in the bed, but make sure you stay on your side. Remember our no-touching rule.”

“Just move over.”