“It doesn’t matter if the person that is your best friend today isn’t your best friend in ten years, because right now they are, and ten years from now, they still would have been. You’ll still think back and most of your stories will include them. You’ll still have pictures with them by your side. And who knows, maybe that person would be your best friend still if you took the time to appreciate them and not write them off as just another person because of the chance that you might grow apart. That’s like refusing to call Mercedes your niece just because one day you may not live under the same roof and be her favorite person.” I shake my head again, frustration rolling off me, making my muscles ache with tension. “Sometimes I feel like you understand me so well. Like you’re looking at me and hearing everything that I don’t know how to explain, and then other times you come out with bullshit like this, and I feel like I don’t know who in the hell you are, and I feel confident you don’t know who I am either.”
“That’s because you want me to give you everything to give me anything!”
“You’re impossible!” And flipping crazy! It takes so much willpower to not throw those words into the fire we’ve built, that it makes me feel physically weighted with exhaustion as I turn around and head toward the shed once again. I hear his steps matching my anger as they splash against the sodden ground. The fact that he seems angry at me for initially being angry makes my blood boil, warming me though the temperatures are low enough I can see my breath linger with the rain.
I spin on my heel, making my hair whip and slap my neck. “I can’t believe you think you’re justified in being upset and don’t think I should be. This is so hypocritical.”
“I don’t even know why we’re fighting. I had to take twenty detours to finally find a route that allowed me to get here because I thought you would be freaking out, and I get home and you’re chomping at the damn bit to leave.”
“Horse jokes aren’t cute. They’re insulting.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“Yes you did. It’s you, King. You always mean something with your words. We both know that.”
“Are you only pissed because of the comment I made to Spencer?”
I hate that he threw the word only into his sentence, but I release a deep breath that I try to shove the thought out with and wipe a hand across my forehead to push back the loose strands of hair the rain is plastering to my face. “I don’t want to be a convenience for you. I don’t want this to be something casual where when it fits into your schedule things are great, and when you’re too busy…” King is always busy, with crazy things that range from marketing, to taping for Spencer, to now preparing for his own biking career. “…I want…”
King takes two long strides and slides his palm across my cheek. “You deserve to be significant to someone. You shouldn’t feel bad or embarrassed to ask for that.” My gaze drops to see his feet glide closer so that our toes are touching. “Lo, if you want a title, we’ll use them. I’m not trying to be an insensitive dick.” My eyes drift up when he doesn’t continue, taking in the rain that’s making trails down King’s face, touching and feeling places I’ve been tracing with stencils and have been anxious to feel again with my own skin. “My mom’s been married six times. Six times,” he repeats, heavily emphasizing the number. “She loves to use titles. When she introduces Kash, she lists off every award and title that’s ever been used by the media.” I can tell by the way his eyes darken and then close that there’s something behind how she introduces him as well, but I’m not sure if he’s upset that it’s accompanied by titles or a lack thereof.
“I want you to be my boyfriend, King. I don’t want you to be my BMX-riding, brother-of-Kashton-Knight—” My eyes travel to the side because I was just about to say sex God, and really, that would have both been awkward and untrue. I do want him to hold that title. “I don’t care about those things.”
“I like the ring it has when you say, ‘My boyfriend.’”
“If you’re patronizing me…”
King’s hands fly up to his sides, drawing my attention to the water sliding down his widely stretched palms. “I’ll call Spencer tomorrow and re-clarify things.”
My head snaps to the side and then I turn and tromp the few remaining feet to the shop where the door is propped open and three bikes are out, sitting in mud puddles that are forming around them.
“What? I’m kidding. I’m just … bad at this … Clearly.”
“Clearly,” I agree.
“Titles aren’t something I’m a fan of.”
“So you’ve said,” I state, making his eyebrows rise with a silent challenge.
“You really aren’t the kind of girl that has angry sex, are you?”
I raise my eyebrows and purse my lips.
King’s eyebrows match mine, but a small grin appears on his face. I hate it because it makes him look more desirable matched with his wet hair and long-sleeved tee that is currently clinging to every line that I’ve tried to re-create and, I’m now realizing, have failed at. “Clearly not.” His tone is friendly, playful even, but I’m frustrated. I’ve just revealed things about my family that I hadn’t intended to and don’t think he understands the significance of either the fact that I’m trusting him with it, or how much it bothers me that my family has never truly accepted me. I turn and head toward the bike that is the farthest away.
It’s slick, and my feet keep getting stuck in the mud. There’s no way I’ll be able to wear these shoes again, even washed. I know after being submerged this many times in the dirt they’ll never come close to clean. As I pull out the bike, my left foot slides deeper into the muck. Thankfully my hands are on the brake pads, and I’m able to use the bike as an anchor, but when I pull my foot, my shoe is stuck, encompassed in the sludge.
I struggle for several seconds, muttering every curse word I know and damning this weather.
King’s hand disappears into the puddle up to his wrist, clutching my foot. He tugs my foot loose with a squishing sound as the muck loses suction with my shoe. “You love the rain. You can’t hate it just because it doesn’t always do what you want or expect. We all have ugly sides.”
“It doesn’t mean I have to like it right now.”
“No, you don’t.”
I turn with the bike and head to the shop, my left shoe filled with grit from the puddle that rakes painfully against my heel and the top of my foot.
King is behind me with the other two bikes. I’m not sure how he managed to get both of them when he had just freed my foot, and both were covered, but I don’t ask. I’m not into pointing out that I’ve acknowledged both his speed and strength. He flips on the lights and goes over to the lockers where he retrieves a stack of old rags. Without asking for help or giving direction, he starts toweling one of the bikes clean.
I watch him carefully for several seconds, noting how dark his hair looks when it’s wet and the width of his muscles around his shoulders as he moves. In modeling sessions I’ve been looking at many backs with the numerous strapless gowns and have realized that it may be one of the most beautiful parts of a human. However, most of the women modeling are thin, lacking much tone or definition, while King is corded with thickly defined muscles. Watching him makes my body heat and my pulse quicken.
His dark eyes flash up as though he knows what I’m thinking and I swallow, moving my attention to the pile of rags. I grab one and take a few steps back. It’s crazy the simplest thing on King seems to have such an effect on me. I know he caught me staring at him. I also know he reads me well enough to have known that I was admiring him, but he doesn’t say anything. Neither of us does. We simply dry the bikes and put them away before shutting off the lights, closing the door, and making the wet and muddy trek back to the house.
“What took you guys so long?” Mercedes cries as we step inside.