Eleven Weeks (9 page)

His breath warms my ear, and then he sucks on my neck. I raise my arms and entwine them around his head, trying to lose myself in the feeling and pretend I haven’t seen the anger on Michael’s face as he strummed that last riff.

Kate gives me a look and moves a little farther into the crowd.
Yep, slutty Stacey is at it again.
I can practically touch her disapproval. It’s not like I’m planning on leaving here with him.

Aside from that horrible night after Joe’s, I’ve only slept with two guys, and they’d all been serious boyfriends at the time. Sure, I flirt a lot, but when your best friend looks at you like that?

It hurts.

The sucking on my neck grows intense, painful, even, and I swipe at the guy’s shoulder, trying to push him back. My eyes scrunch shut.

Would doing this make the thing less real?

The …
baby?

I need to talk to Kate.

“Get off me.” This time, my shove is forceful as I jolt the guy back. I spin to face him and he shrugs. I can’t really blame him. I’ve let him dirty dance with me for several songs in a row, and now I have a problem with him sucking on my neck?

Glancing back up on stage, I make eye contact with Michael, at the same time as the random guy places his hands on my hips again—gently this time.

I raise my chin in challenge.

Michael raises his eyebrows.

Then he plays his next eight notes with just one finger.

The middle one.

December 9

I
T IS
our last night at schoolies, the annual congregation of the recently liberated to celebrate their eighteen-year-old I-can-drink, I-can-legally-vote (hah!) freedom on the Gold Coast of Australia. It is pretty much Vegas by the sea, and I’d booked my flight when Kate found out the guy she was head over heels for dumped her ass. He used to be her hero.

Granted, things are different now.

Now, Dave is a douchebag. Well, even more of one than I already thought he was.

I don’t get angry about many things. But you screw with my friends—seriously, you breathe on them in an incorrect fashion—and I will take your balls, bake them in a pizza, and serve it to your closest acquaintances from here till next Sunday.

Add to the mix the fact that on our first day here, Kate told me her father has Huntington’s, a horrible disease that affects your nervous system, resulting in death—and that there’s a fifty per cent chance she could have it—and you have a recipe for one hell of a week for Kate. It makes my own slight pregnancy problem seem pale in comparison.

“I’ve never kissed a guy before,” some dickwad in our circle on the beach says, and all around the group, girls lift their glasses in the drinking game that could possibly be renamed ‘What Have Girls Done We Can Punish Them For.’ Because, seriously.
Seriously.

We hold our shot glasses to our mouths, then tilt back and let the alcohol fling in. As I’d been doing all night, I let the sweet green liquid fill my mouth, do a pretend and overtly obvious swallow, then grab my pink drink bottle, pretending like I was chasing the Midori with some water, when really I am spitting the alcohol out.

Am I planning on keeping the baby?

No freaking idea.

The one thing I do know is that I’d woken up the morning after the boys’ gig with a guilt-induced hangover worse than that felt by a nun at a strip show.

All I’d wanted to do was talk to Kate about it all, but after Dave broke up with her, and then she told me the truth about her and her father and the horrible disease that could kill them? Frick. I can’t burden her with my stupid problems. It makes me even more determined not to drink. I can’t stand the thought of risking some sort of defect in this child, not when Kate is going through what she is going through.

I sneak a glance at her once more from out the corner of my eye. She is rocking slightly as she sits. Clearly, she didn’t have the foresight to bring a spitting bottle.

Because she’s not pregnant
.

The dark purple bruises under her eyes give her away. I know she hasn’t been sleeping, and despite what she said to me earlier about how much fun she’s having, this has been one of the worst weeks of her life.

“I’m gonna go,” Kate says, standing up and stretching her legs. I look into her eyes; they speak of loneliness and heartache as they have ever since graduation. And hell, since she’d confided in me about what a jackass Dave was, and how crazy her situation at home is, I can’t freaking blame her.

“I’ll come with you.” I stretch my arm up to her and she grips it with her hand.

“No, you stay.” She tilts her head toward the blond surfer guy at the edge of the circle. I’d noticed him earlier in the night, and made a subtle show of pretending to Kate I was interested. She kept pushing me to go out and “have a little fun” on our last night in Queensland, and when she says it again now, I screw my eyes shut. How do you tell your best friend you’re not interested in all that?

After the argument continues, I decide to give in. If it’s going to help Kate sleep easier, knowing I’m ‘with’ someone else, I am damn well keen.

After some back and forth, Kate leaves, and starts the walk to the hotel. I wait till she’s gotten to the boardwalk, and then say my goodbyes to the group.

“Why didn’t you just go with your friend, then?” an annoying guy with slicked back hair asks. Somehow, I don’t think “
because I’m worried about my potentially vulnerable friend, and spitting is for camels and I’m done”
is a viable answer.

“Get stuffed,” I say instead.

I follow Kate as she walks along the boardwalk. She wanders aimlessly, her head turning to look at all the signs as she passes them and for the bazillionth time since she’s told me the truth about her dad, I just want to go over there and wrap her up in a big cotton wool ball and squeeze her till she feels so suffocated by affection she can’t breathe.

Or something like that, with less death, anyway.

I finally follow her onto the street that leads to our hotel when I see her turn down an alley. I stalk closer to it, my heart pounding. Why is she going down here? The hotel is barely a block away. This must be how mothers feel when their child does something wrong.

Shit.

I am going to be a mother.

Pushing the thought to the back of my mind, I slink alongside the buildings till I get closer to the little A-frame chalkboard that marks the entrance to the alley.

“Fortunes read and futures told …” I breathe. I stick my head down the alleyway just in time to see Kate disappear into a shopfront next to an A-frame identical to the one out on the street. A psychic? That isn’t like practical, researching, rational Kate.

I decide to creep a little closer. Maybe I can hear what the psychic tells her, be there for my best friend when she comes out.

I take one tentative step then another, walking on tiptoes so as to avoid potential detection.

Suddenly, a hand claps down on my shoulder. My heart leaps into my throat. I suck in a gasp and spin around as quickly as I can.

“What are you doing?” Michael’s deep brown eyes dance in front of mine. I slump against the wall behind me, brushing off his hand and resting my head against the warm, hard bricks.

“You scared the crap out of me,” I say. I close my eyes. As much as I’m relieved to know it’s not some psycho killer, I’m also as confused as a whale on Ayers Rock. What the hell is he doing here?

“Well, that’s what you get for stalking people.” Michael shoves his hands into his pockets, a mischievous smile playing across his face.

I give a small shove to his chest. His quite firm, non-moving chest.

Wow.

“What are you doing?” I ask, biting on my lip. The pain allows me to focus on something other than how sexy his chest is. Why hadn’t I tried touching it before?

“Following you, following Kate?” His lips rise in a half-smile. I shake my head. “Okay, so our gig was up here, remember? And I knew the hotel you guys were staying at, because Dave spent three hours blowing up over how annoyed he was that Kate moved his penthouse to the sister hotel and had it under her name only.”

“And you came here to see us?” I ask. God, does my heart always pound this loud?

“Yep.” This time, I’m graced with a fully-fledged grin.

Air rushes out of my lungs, and I can’t help but smile. “You know, that’s kind of stalky.”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?” he asks, and I swallow. Michael takes another step closer to me, and I back up until I am flush with the brick wall. Barely an inch separates our bodies, and with each breath in I take, my chest moves closer to his.

“So … um …” I clear my throat. “Did you just, like, walk the streets to try and find us?”

Look straight ahead. Study the collar of his T-shirt.

Do not make eye contact.

I glance up.

Shit!

DO NOT MAKE EYE TO LIP CONTACT.

“Nah, I was just doing a once over, then I was going to call or something.” He runs his hand through his hair, shrugging his shoulders as if it were no big deal.

“Look, I also wanted to say I’m sorry about what a douche Dave has been. I know I texted you, but it just wasn’t cool, and I thought I should do an in-person apology.”

I nod. “While we’re on the subject of apologies …” I clear my throat. My mind flashes back to memories of him sticking his finger up at me as he played. “… I should probably apologise to you.”

“What for?” Michael asks.

“For, um …” I bite my lip. Damn him for making this harder! “Letting some guy make out with my neck while you watched?”

If you’ve ever seen a storm out at sea, you’d know exactly what I’m seeing now. Michael’s face goes from sunny, to stormy, to torrential, to sunny again, all in the blink of an eye. Or maybe I’m just flattering myself.

Maybe he is simply confused and has no idea what I’m talking about.

“Not even. It’s not like we’re dating.” He shrugs. A whoosh of air fills my lungs, and I’m not sure if it’s clouded with relief or sorrow. Are both this heavy? “Besides, it’s not like the kiss was a big deal.”

“It … wasn’t?”

“Nah, ’course not. You can kiss who you wanna kiss, even if it is some random dude at my concert.”

Oh.

He doesn’t care.

Double oh.

Michael takes a deep breath in then exhales, his lips forming a small pucker. My disappointment must show on my face, because I can see him processing the thoughts, giving small nods of his head as he no doubt decides what to say next. “Stacey, what you do is your choice. Let’s be honest: my whole life you’ve pretty much acted repulsed by me. It’s hardly like I stood a chance with you anyhow.”

“Stood a chance?” I practically choke on my tongue. “What the hell are you talking about? You’ve never even asked me out before.”

“Boys tease you because they like you?” Michael asks.

“Seriously?” I shove at his chest. “You thought I was pretty, but a bimbo. Someone you couldn’t see a future with.” He opens his mouth to speak, but I hold up a finger in protest. “Don’t lie. I know it’s true.”
Everyone does.
No smart girl gets preggers at eighteen.