Slow Play
Page 50Funny, considering he calls me angel on occasion, thanks to that costume I wore when I first met him.
He’s wearing a red T-shirt that clings to his chest in all the right places and black track pants, the type that button up the sides. Wonder what he would do if I went up to him and tried to rip his pants off…
“You should go to the gym with me,” he offers nonchalantly, interrupting my dirty thoughts.
“Really?” I try my best to remain nonchalant and not read too much into what he says. Of course, I could be insulted and think he’s making a veiled reference that I need to work out. I’m so thin—built just like my mom, who has the same willowy figure, so I know that’s not true. But I am fairly weak. “Am I not muscular enough for you, Prescott?”
“Not even close…” His voice drifts and he frowns. “I don’t even know your last name. How fucking lame is that?”
I glance around to make sure no children are in the vicinity before I yell out, “It’s Asher.”
“Alexandria Asher? AA? Don’t tell me your middle name is Ann.” His laughter is infectious and I can’t help but respond. “If I call you Triple A, will you fulfill my every need?”
“You wish,” I toss back, grinning madly, my heart light, though it has no business getting involved in this…whatever we’re doing.
We’re playing a game, Tristan and I, though I’m not sure if he’s aware of it. I’m trying my best to throw up as many roadblocks as possible to take this slow while he’s acting like we’re already a couple. I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it.
Truly, we’re both just a couple of idiots, dancing around this—thing that we’ve become. And it’s silly. But I’m not budging from my current position. I don’t think he’s going to either.
So we’ll continue to dance around each other until someone makes the next real move.
“Seriously, though. If you want to come with me to the gym I don’t mind. You could use the treadmill or whatever other machines interest you.”
“I prefer lifting,” he says with a shrug. “Used to do it a lot in my high school football days.”
“You played football?” I squeak.
He gives me a weird look. “Yeah.”
“I was a cheerleader!” I bound toward him, my feet light as I run. “I was even my class’s homecoming queen my senior year.”
“Get the fuck out.” He stops in his tracks. “I was my senior class’s homecoming king.”
“You were not.” I stop just in front of him, resting my hands on my hips as I try and catch my breath.
“I was. On the prom court too, three years in a row, though I never won.” He makes a face. “Not that I really wanted to. That was such a bogus popularity contest.”
“Meaning you were super popular,” I add. All I ever wanted to do was win. It meant I was popular and people liked me. That’s what I thought, at least. Once my family had their fall from grace, I realized no one really liked me at all. I had no friends stick by me in the aftermath.
None.
“Well, you had to have been too.” His gaze runs down the length of me, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. “I’d like to see you in your cheer skirt sometime.”
My skin heats from his stare. “It was really short.”
Horny.
Yes, God, I keep putting him off the sex thing, but why? Our most recent confessions prove we were almost made for each other. We would’ve been that disgustingly perfect couple in high school land. Though if we’d meet in high school, it probably wouldn’t have worked. I would’ve been too emotional—I was a wreck back then, always giving my boyfriends grief, like some sort of insecure minor stalker—and he would’ve undoubtedly cheated on me.
Not that Tristan’s a cheater but…yeah. That’s what hot football jocks did back in the day, at least in my school. My boyfriend, who was my homecoming king and escort, cheated on me the night of the homecoming dance by getting a hand job from the rival high school’s head cheerleader after the dance was over. He dropped me off, snuck over to her house, and messed around with her.
Talk about a cliché. I dumped his ass. He was snatched up by one of my friends on my cheer team within a week.
I hung around a lot of catty girls back in the day.
“I bet you were sexy in your jersey,” I throw back at him. “And amazing to see playing out on the field.”
“I wasn’t that great.” His smile dies a little. It’s not as bright, not brimming as much with fond memories. “I played to hang out with my friends and get girls.”
I laugh. “At least you’re honest.”
“Yeah, you can never call me a liar,” he says. “I always give it to everyone straight.”
I say nothing. I feel like I’m not giving it to him straight, keeping little pieces of myself hidden from him, from everyone. That’s not fair to anyone, especially Tristan—Kelli and Jade and Lucy, Steven and my roommates, even Shep and Gabe. I’m hiding my past, my family’s problems, my parents and what they did because I’m ashamed of them.
If I told Tristan, would he understand? Or would he think less of me? I don’t know.
“Well, pick up your pace, Asher. Meet you on the front porch,” Tristan calls, envy rippling through me when he turns and starts to run toward my house. I let my gaze linger, a sigh full of longing leaving me.
Effortless, perfect jerk—though that’s not really fair. He hasn’t been a jerk to me in days. No, he’s been sweet, on his absolute best behavior. After our night of naked times, we’ve been playing it cool. He took me to brunch Sunday and stared at me so hungrily throughout the entire meal I could hardly focus. That had been sort of uncomfortable.
And hot. I can’t deny it.
We’ve texted a lot. Hung out a bit. Kissed numerous times. Long, tongue filled kisses that seem to drug my brain and turn me into a pile of mush. It’s been…nice. It’s felt real. Fun and light, nothing too serious. In the past, I was always so quick to rush headlong into a full-blown relationship. Expecting so much more than the guy I was with ever wanted to give.
Yeah, we’re dancing around it but we’re not in a full-fledged relationship, and I’m okay with that.
Really.
I finally make it to the front porch to find Tristan sitting on the steps, chugging from a bottle of water and looking sexy as sin. I collapse on the step beside him, resting my head against his shoulder as I try to catch my breath. He doesn’t push me away, doesn’t say anything rude or discouraging. Merely drops a kiss on top of my head when he’s finished drinking and waves a new bottle of water in front of my face with a flourish.
The sweet gestures melt me. Something he’s really good at doing lately.
I grab the water from him and crack the top off, taking a long drink before I twist the cap back on and set the bottle beside me. “I’m out of shape.”