The Keatyn Chronicles: Books 1-3: (Stalk Me, Kiss Me, and Date Me) Page 9

  “You’re a virgin? Really?”

  I hang my head. “Yeah.”

  He pushes my chin up so I’m forced to look at him. “Keatyn, that’s a good thing.”

  “My friends think it’s lame. It’s like I’m flawed or not sexy enough.”

  “Sounds like your friends have some fucked up values. Sex is not what makes you sexy. I’m very serious about you being in my movie. Every guy in America is going to fall in love with you.”

  “I highly doubt that. I can’t even seem to get the one guy I like to fall in love with me. And if that isn’t bad enough, my supposed best friend is threatening to tell everyone at school that I’ve never done it. Everyone thinks I did it all the time with my ex. If they find out, they’ll look at me like I’m a fake Prada bag.”

  “Grandmother said that you shouldn’t care what people say about you. The people who say bad things are insecure about themselves. When I was young, kids at school used to tease me about my mom. I learned to fight. Got tough. When I lived with Grandmother, she told me that if I had confidence, everyone else would have confidence in me. So I got good at faking it. Now, I don’t even have to fake it anymore. Don’t let them get to you.”

  “Okay, I’ll try.”

  “I better get going.”

  “I’m sorry again about your grandmother.”

  “I really appreciate you being here, helping me. Will you give me your phone number, so I can get in touch with you?”

  I recite my cell number while he puts it in his phone.

  As he walks away, he says, “She’d love the fact that I met the girl I’m going to make into a star on her beach.”

  Wednesday, May 18th

  This is important, people.

  Lunch

  During fourth period, my cell buzzed with a text. I practically ripped it out of my bag, trying to see if it was from Brooklyn.

  I was surprised to see Vincent’s name.

  Unknown caller: Hey, it’s Vincent.

  Me: Hey . . . how are you doing today?

  Vincent: Better. I want to attempt to repay you for your kindness yesterday. Would you be available for dinner tonight?

  I thought about it before I replied. I don’t really know Vincent very well, but he seems nice. I felt so bad for him yesterday. Last night, when I wasn’t counting up the hours it’s been since I’ve spoken to Brooklyn, I admit that I thought about him a little. About how strong and sexy he seems, but how emotional and deeply sad he was.

  I thought about texting him. To check on him. I still have his business card sitting on my desk. I didn’t, though. I was afraid he’d think it was weird. But what he said to me when he left—about his grandmother being happy he met me on her beach—made me happy. Made me feel like maybe this project, if it does end up coming to fruition, would be something I should do.

  The way he seemed to idolize his grandmother, and her old Hollywood-style ways, make me trust him. Make me want to do whatever I can to make him happy again.

  Me: You don’t have to repay me. I was doing what anyone would do.

  Vincent: I disagree. So dinner? And if you’re nervous about it because you don’t know me that well, why don’t you choose the restaurant and meet me there?

  Me: I’m not nervous, Vincent. I trust you. As far as dinner goes, how about Moon Beams? We can sit on the patio and enjoy what’s left of this beautiful day.

  Vincent: I’m glad you trust me. If we’re going to have a relationship, trust is important. Six o’clock?

  Me: Sounds good. See you then.

  Now, I’m sitting at our lunch table, thinking about him.

  Not really him specifically. I know he’s too old for me, but I was thinking it might be nice to date a guy that didn’t act like such a boy.

  Especially the kind of boy that would hook up with you and not call you.

  Maybe I should start looking for a man. The kind of man who would tell you that you don’t have to have sex to be sexy. Who would say you have an expressive face. Who would want to risk his dream project on an unknown like you.

  I think about what it would be like to kiss a man. A man who looks like Vincent. A man who has more experience than a boy could even imagine. A man who would treat you with respect. A man you could trust to call you.

  I imagine being in a scene like the one at the end of his grandmother’s movie. Jumping into a man’s strong arms. Getting twirled around as he confesses his love for me. Then laying me back in the sand and kissing me as the waves curl up around our feet.

  Of course, they didn’t show anything beyond that in the movie. Movies from the sixties were quite clean, sexually. But we all know what happened next.

  They totally did it right there in the sand.

  Unfortunately, when I picture doing that, I see Brooklyn’s face instead of a man like Vincent.

  “Gonna be weird here next year,” Cush states loudly, wiping out my daydream.

  I look around, notice the empty table, and remember that today is Senior Skip Day. The only people at our table are me, Vanessa, RiAnne, and Cush.

  “That’s why we need to plan ahead,” Vanessa says.

  “Plan for what?” I ask.

  “Who we want to sit with us next year,” she replies in a condescending tone. Like we’re idiots who should have totally already known this.

  She gets a portfolio out of her Chloé bag and hands us each a small presentation binder. She flips hers open, and we all follow suit.

  Mostly because we wonder what the hell she has planned.

  “Okay, so first off is Alexander Littleton. Prom prince. Quarterback. Obviously popular with the juniors. Good looking in a boyish way. Dad plays for the 49ers. Mom, a former Miss Kentucky is on a local morning show. Seems a little squeaky clean for me, but I'll see what I can do with him at the party.”

  I flip through the profiles and can’t believe all the work she put into this. “What party?” I ask.

  “Saturday night at Cush’s.”

  “Um,” Cush says. “I can't Saturday night.”

  “What could you possibly have to do?” Vanessa snaps at him.

  He looks insulted. “Soccer tournament, all weekend.”

  “Friday night then,” she says.

  “Naw, I gotta be asleep early. We have to be on the bus at like seven.”

  Vanessa gestures toward the other tables. “Take a look out there. All those people are wondering how to take over this table next year. This is important, people.”

  “Why don't you have the party at your house, Vanessa?” I suggest. Her house is not nearly as impressive as Cush’s.

  She waves her hand. “I’ll figure out the details later. Next up is Isabella. Mother is an Italian movie star. Father owns a vineyard in Sonoma. They split their time between the two, which means their 22,000 square foot house would be a great place to party.”

  I wonder if RiAnne and Vanessa had a conversation like this about me before we became friends.

  “What about Mallori Blaine? I’m surprised you don’t have her on here,” Cush says after flipping through the pages. “She’s hot.”

  “She wears tennis shoes to school,” RiAnne says, like it’s a crime.

  “And her grandfather owns a chain of hotels. She always had the funnest pool parties when we were kids,” Cush counters.

  “Really? How did that get past me?” Vanessa looks perplexed. “Good catch, Cush.”

  Cush and I share a glance. I can’t be part of this. Choosing friends this way. It just isn’t right.

  “Um, I have to go to class early,” I announce.

  Cush gathers up his tray. “Yeah, me too.”

  Vanessa says, “So you took my advice and lost it to Cush? Is that why he’s chasing your tail all over school?”

  I suck in a breath of air. Shut my mouth and walk out.

  Cush follows me. “What the fuck?”

  My eyes tear up. I can’t look at him. I don’t stop at my locker. I walk straight out the back door and run down to the s
occer fields. I stomp up the bleachers, sit down, and then put my face in my hands and cry.

  I don’t even know what to do. Part of me wants to tell Vanessa that it’s true. That Cush and I had sex. Then she’d have nothing to hold over me. But the last thing I want is another fake boyfriend.

  I can’t believe I’m letting Vanessa’s stupid remark get to me. I should be proud that I want it to be special.

  “I’m confused,” Cush says as he sits down next to me. “What did Vanessa mean by lost it to Cush? What did you lose?”

  I let out a big sigh and decide to tell him the truth.

  “You were right about Sander not doing it for me. The reason my hair was never a mess, the reason I always looked perfect was because we never had sex. Sander said he wanted to wait until he got married, but it wasn’t just that. We didn’t really do anything. Like, we kissed. That’s pretty much it. I was frustrated about it one day and stupidly told her. That’s what she’s been holding over my head. She threatened to tell everyone that our relationship was a sham and, even worse, that I’m still a virgin.”

  Cush shakes his head back and forth, trying to come to terms with my confession.

  “But Sander. He acted like you guys did it all the time. He was always all over you. Rubbing your back. Kissing you.”

  “I know.”

  “I never had sex with Vanessa,” he admits.

  “You didn’t? She told me you did. Said it was amazing.”

  “Yeah, that’s the lie. I, um, well, I couldn’t perform that night. It was one of the few times I got really, really drunk. She got pissed and told me I better never tell anyone.”

  “You couldn’t get it up for her? Ohmigawd. That’s so awesome!”

  “I didn’t with RiAnne either. She passed out. So last year before I started sitting at your table, you guys make a card like that for me? What’d it say? Mom never home. Throws a good party?”

  “I don’t know. We started sitting there when Sander and I started dating, but I’ve always suspected she only became friends with me because of my mom.”

  “Abby Johnston’s daughter. Yeah, that is impressive. Your mom’s . . .”

  “Don’t you dare say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “That my mom’s hot.”

  He laughs. “I was gonna say talented.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Shit. This is a mess.”

  “Wanna know something?”

  “Probably not,” I say with a laugh.

  “I think it’s cool that you’re a virgin. So speaking of big secrets, you do realize tomorrow is Thursday night. You better be taking me dancing.”

  I give him a hug. “You wanna chill Friday too? I know you need to get home early, but maybe we can figure out what we’re gonna do next year.”

  “Yeah, that sounds good,” he says and hugs me tightly back.

  You definitely have the face.

  5pm

  I pretended to be sick, so Coach let me leave soccer practice early. I tore home, showered, fixed my hair, and did my makeup. Then I stood in my closet and tried on about 37 different outfits.

  I can’t decide how I want to look. I don’t want to look so young that he thinks I’m too young. I don’t want to look like I’m trying to look older to impress him. I don’t want to be too dressed up, since we’ll be out on the deck overlooking the ocean. But I also don’t want to look too casual.

  I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I guess it’s the whole movie thing. Although I’ve never admitted it to anyone, I do think I want to act, so I want to make a good impression on Vincent. I want him to see me as old enough for the job, but young enough to have that innocent look that my mom had.

  I decide to wear my hair down and straight, but at the last minute, I pull my bangs back into a barrette. It’s windy on the deck, and I don’t want my hair flying all in my face while I’m trying to eat. I also decide on an outfit. I’m wearing a sheer, cream lace embroidered dress. It looks sweet and innocent, but the top is very sheer and kinda sexy. I pair it with some cute brown wedges, ivory chandelier earrings, and cream Gucci sunglasses that have tortoiseshell accents.

  I drop my car off with the valet and walk out onto the deck. The deck overlooks the ocean and has great lounge furniture and gorgeous views. I immediately spot Vincent. He’s leaned back on one of the platform lounges that is almost bed-like. There’s a silver wine bucket next to him that’s wrapped in a white napkin so it doesn’t sweat all over. He’s been staring out at the ocean, but he turns, looks at me, and gives me a little wave. Like in case I didn’t see him.

  I smile and slowly walk toward him. He looks very handsome in a white cotton shirt, pale yellow shorts, dark yellow driving loafers, and black wayfarers.

  He stands up to greet me, gives me a couple air kisses, and then takes my hand and sits down.

  I perch daintily on the edge of the lounge, letting my feet dangle off the side.

  “I’m really glad you agreed to meet me,” he says.

  “I’m glad you asked.”

  He holds his index finger up in the air, and the attentive waiter brings us two glasses that he fills with Chardonnay.

  When the waiter walks away, Vincent leans close to me, clinks his glass softly against mine, and says, “To the beach.” He takes a drink then puts his head down slightly. Like maybe he’s saying a silent prayer.

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?” I ask.

  “Yes. Thinking about work helps.”

  “Oh, so this is about work?”

  He grins, takes a sip of wine, then says, “Now that I’ve found the perfect lead, work is about all I can think about.”

  “What are you going to call the movie? Hopefully not something bad like Another Day at the Lake or A Day at the Lake: Part Deux.”

  He laughs. “Those do sound bad. How about A Bad Day at the Lake?”

  “Or Just Another Day at the Lake.”

  “I actually like that one,” he says.

  “So I don’t really get what my character will be doing besides screaming in a bikini.”

  “She’ll kick ass in a bikini.”

  “You mean I won’t get a cape and some tights? That’s it. I’m out.”

  He laughs again and says, “You’re funny.”

  “I wasn’t joking,” I say with a straight face to tease him.

  He studies me, so I remove all trace of emotion from my face. Give him my poker face.

  “Remind me not to play poker with you.”

  A smile breaks out across my face. “I suck at poker. I always smile when I get a good hand. I can usually do a joke straight faced, but I’ll be honest. I’m not that good of a liar.”

  “The key to lying is to convince yourself it’s the truth.”

  I tilt my head and think about that. “So you have to lie to yourself first. That’s interesting.”

  I drink a little more wine. Neither one of us is talking now. We’re looking at the ocean. Looking at each other. Drinking our wine. It’s a surprisingly comfortable silence. I don’t feel the least bit nervous around Vincent. I look at his expensive clothes, his handsome good looks, and wonder why he chose to be behind the scenes in the movie industry rather than in front of the camera.

  “So why aren’t you an actor? You definitely have the face for it.”

  “Well, thank you. I guess I’m more fascinated with what goes on behind the scenes. And I’m sort of a Type A personality. Very meticulous, very organized. Grandmother said you need to be very creative to act. I’m much more right brained. Facts, figures, deadlines. I’m good at those. Grandmother taught me a lot about the craft: how to spot talent, about the creation of the story—characters, story arc, plot tension, how special effects should enhance the story line not take the place of it.”

  “It sounds like we have a lot in common. I grew up hearing about all those things too.” I take another sip of wine, and he immediately refills my glass. “And I’m pretty creative, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how you
’re going to add special effects to A Day at the Lake. Are aliens gonna attack? Will I have to fight off a pack of rabid sharks?”

  “Aliens. The movie blurb is gonna be, Saving the world, one bikini at a time.”

  At first I start to laugh, but he looks serious.

  “Ohmigawd, it's a spoof movie!? No way I'm doing that!”

  He puts his wine glass up to his lips, and I notice his mouth break into a little smirk. He's got one knee bent up on the couch and I slap my hand down on it when I realize he’s lying.

  “Oh my gosh! You’re doing it. You're lying to me.”

  He laugh and then covers my hand with his.

  It’s at this point I realize that I am touching his naked knee.

  And that I probably shouldn’t have done that.

  But Vincent doesn’t look offended. Instead he grins and says, “Part of me wants to teach you to lie. The other part of me loves that you can't. I watched four different emotions cross your face while you figured it out. I know you thought it was just a pickup line, but I was serious when I said you have a very expressive face.”

  He’s rubbing his thumb across the top of my hand as he speaks. I don’t think he realizes that it’s making me feel kind of breathless.

  He leans toward me. “So, just how old are you?”

  I regain my composure and whisper back with a completely straight face. “Twenty-one, of course. Almost twenty-two.” I’m pretty good at this lie, because I tell it often. So often, I almost believe it myself.

  He leans back on his elbow and studies my face.

  I notice he has a dark eyelash loosely dangling dangerously close to his eye. I automatically reach out to brush it away.

  “Close your eye.” I gently grab the eyelash when he complies. “Okay, you can open now. You had a loose eyelash. See? Now you have to make a wish on it.”

  He leans into my hand, closes his eyes, and blows warm air across my fingers. “I wish you were twenty-one.”