Heart Shaped Rock Read online

  I know he’s really only inviting Tiffany to walk along the ocean. I wouldn’t dream of joining them. “Nah,” I say. “I’m kind of tired. I think I’ll just sit here for a little bit. Is that okay? I’m a little... over-stimulated, I think.”

  “Are you all right?” Tiffany asks.

  I nod.

  “Come on, babe.” Kellan grabs Tiff’s hand. “Let’s go suck face.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?” Tiffany asks me, resisting Kellan’s pull on her. She looks into my eyes, trying to read my sincerity.

  “I am one hundred percent positive,” I reply. And I am. I’d actually prefer to be alone for a moment. I’ve had far too much social interaction for one night. “Please, go suck Kellan’s dopey face. The boy looks desperate.”

  Kellan adopts an expression of extreme desperation, and Tiffany laughs.

  “I can’t stand to look at him anymore,” I say. “Please, go.”

  “Okay,” Tiffany relents. “But why don’t you move a little closer to the fire, so you’re not sitting here all alone? You look like a creeper or something.”

  I laugh. “Roger that.”

  Kellan and Tiffany grab each other’s hands and walk across the sand toward the water. I follow Tiff’s advice and move quite a bit closer to the bonfire, where I can feel the heat wafting over me. It feels calming.

  A log in the bonfire falls, and the entire fire crackles and pops and sizzles. A wave of thick smoke envelops me for just a moment with the shifting of the breeze. I begin to cough and wave the air with my hands to clear a clean patch to breathe.

  “Looks like you’ve picked a dangerous spot,” a voice says. I turn, expecting Jared. But it’s not Jared. It’s some guy I don’t know.

  Wow, yet another Casanova. Do I have “PLEASE TALK TO ME” stamped on my forehead? What’s going on tonight?

  I don’t reply to his pick-up line. I mean it’s pretty lame.

  “Is this seat taken?” he asks, motioning to the sand next to me.

  I shrug.

  His voice seems really familiar to me. But I can’t place it.

  He looks to the fire for a moment, and the flames dance across his face. Wow, he has the most alluring collection of features I’ve ever seen. Well, in person, anyway. I’ve seen movie stars and rock stars rival this guy, but I’ve never seen such perfection up close. He truly is a work of art. His hair is dark. His cheekbones are high. His nose is sculpted. His lips are... wow.

  “I’m Dean,” he says, extending his hand.

  I put my hand in his and immediately feel a current of electricity jolt through my body. I jerk my hand away.

  “I’m Shaynee,” I say, sounding more confident than I feel. “I recently learned I’m supposed to say my name when someone says theirs. So, there, I did it. I said my name. It’s Shaynee.” Oh God, I’m rambling.

  He laughs a masculine, guttural laugh.

  I freeze. I know that laugh. Oh my God. I look down at his clothes. Jeans. Combat boots. He’s not wearing the leather jacket, but...

  Another plume of smoke from the bonfire hits and envelops us. Again, I cough ferociously. But he isn’t coughing at all.

  When the smoke clears, he lets out his breath. “You’re a bonfire rookie, Shaynee.”

  When he says my name, my stomach flips over and that electricity from our handshake bounces throughout my body.

  He turns to look at me, flashing a wicked grin, and I finally see those startling blue eyes in the flickering light confirming what I already know. Motorcycle Boy.

  “When you see smoke coming,” he says, “you gotta hold your breath ‘til it passes.”

  “Or, hey,” I say, “here’s an idea—we could just move back a bit.”

  “What, and sacrifice warmth?” He grins.

  “It is a bit of a Sophie’s Choice, isn’t it?”

  Dean laughs like he actually understands my movie reference.

  Gah, is it super-duper hot out here tonight? Am I sitting way too close to the fire? Is my hair burning? “Actually, holding my breath is my superpower,” I blurt. “I can hold my breath all day long.” God, I sound like such a dork.

  “Well, that’s a handy superpower. You could totally team up with Aquaman and fight underwater crime and stuff.” He shoots me a crooked smile. “And make some really beautiful tadpoles.”

  I can’t take it anymore. I have to call a spade a spade. “You’re the guy on the motorcycle.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Motorcycle Boy.”

  “Yes, I am. And you’re the girl with the walkie-talkie. Walkie-Talkie Girl.” He laughs.

  That laugh. It holds nothing back. It’s warm and intoxicating and infectious. And irritating and annoying and cocky. He pisses me off.

  “You sure got mad at me earlier. What’d I do to make you so mad?”

  “I’m pretty sure it started when you breathed.”

  He laughs again, this time throwing his head back.

  I guess I’m just a laugh riot. What is so damned funny?

  He regains his composure and smiles at me, light from the fire dancing across his perfectly arranged face. Wow, that really is quite a face.

  “So, Shaynee, what’s the deal with the walkie-talkie?” he asks.

  To admit the extent of my dorkdom would be way too embarrassing. “Well, Dean, what’s the deal with the motorcycle? Are you trying to be James Dean, riding around in your leather jacket, making all the girls swoon? Is Dean even your real name?”

  Why the heck am I being so rude? I’m being an absolute bitch. Why?

  “Yeah, you got me,” he says, throwing up his hands. Surprisingly, his tone is easy and playful, without a hint of annoyance. “That’s exactly right. I have no imagination whatsoever, and imitating James Dean’s as big as I can dream. In fact, I’ll let you in on my deep, dark secret.” He leans in close to me. “My real name is actually Frodo.”

  I’m taken off guard. I look down, trying to hide my smile. So, he’s not a total dumbass. Interesting. And he smells really good, too.

  “Okay, Shaynee-girl,” he says, and my head snaps up. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  “Oh yeah, Frodo, what’s that?”

  His face is etched in marble. I can’t find an imperfection on it. I look down. I can’t even imagine what he thinks of me right now. I’m acting like a spazzoid. And an even bigger jerk.

  “Since you’re such a badass breath-holder and all, I issue you a challenge. But be warned, it’s not for the faint of heart.”

  “Well, I’m in luck, then. I don’t have a heart, so I’m good.”

  “No heart, huh? That’s too bad. I’d never guess it, looking at you.”

  “There’s a lot you’d never guess, looking at me.”

  There’s a moment of heavy silence between us as he considers me. His smirk is gone. His eyes have lost their cocky sparkle. He’s looking at me with such earnest assessment, such undivided attention, such acceptance, I have to look away to catch my breath. If I were standing up, I’d have to sit down. He’s beautiful.

  He parts his lips as if to speak, but instead, licks his lower lip. Oh my God, his lips are exquisite. Get a hold of yourself, Shaynee. Seriously. This is ridiculous.

  He still isn’t speaking. He’s looking at my face, every square inch of my face. He’s not even trying to disguise his scrutiny of my features. Like right now. He’s unabashedly staring at my eyes, my nose... Oh my God, he’s noticing my freckles right now. And my mouth. My lips. He licks his lips again. A heat spreads throughout my body.

  I exhale. “What’s your challenge, Frodo?” I ask, breaking the spell. I chew on my lip in anticipation of his reply.

  He shakes his head, just slightly, as if being roused from a daydream.

  “What’s it gonna be?” I demand.

  “Well, I’ll tell you, if you’ll let me.”

  I nod. Yes. I will let you. I will let you.

  “Let’s see who can hold their breath the longest. The loser has to grant the winner a reasonable w
ish.”

  I clear my throat. “Well, I guess that depends on the wish. What will you wish for if you win?”

  “No, no, no, Walkie-Talkie Girl, it doesn’t work that way. Neither participant’s prospective wish shall be stated beforehand. Each of us has to take a leap of faith and trust that our faith won’t be abused.”

  Where did this boy come from? He’s otherworldly.

  “I’m willing to take a leap of faith and trust you, Shaynee—wait, what’s your last name?”

  “Sullivan.”

  “I’m willing to take a leap of faith and trust you, Shaynee Sullivan. Are you willing to trust me?”

  I’ve never met anyone like him before. “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Seventeen. So, are you in?”

  “Don’t you want to know how old I am?”

  “You’re sixteen.”

  I gasp. “How’d you know that?”

  “Lucky guess,” he says. “Are you in?”

  I think for a moment. If I win, he’ll have to grant me a “reasonable” wish. I could have a lot of fun with this. And there’s, like, zero risk I’ll lose this bet. Little does he know, I’ve been singing since I was three years old. Mom always marveled at how I can hold a note for days and days and days. Mom.

  He’s cute, Shaynee, her voice says in my ear.

  My breath catches. I haven’t imagined Mom’s voice even once before now. It’s jolting. It’s disturbing. Slightly panic inducing, even. I look into his blue eyes. They’re reassuring.

  He subtly nods at me.

  Do it, Shaynee. Take a leap.

  “What’s your last name?” I ask.

  “Masterson.”

  “Okay, I’m willing to take a leap of faith and trust you, Dean Masterson. I’m in.”

  He smiles broadly.

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to smile if I were you, Motorcycle Boy. You’re going down.”

  He laughs. “Oh, you are a badass, aren’t you? An adorable little badass.”

  I’m on fire.

  It takes me a second, but I find my voice again. “I’m sure that ‘adorable’ line usually works like gangbusters for you—probably on every girl you’ve met in your entire life... and, for that matter, it’ll probably keep on working on every girl you continue to meet on this planet forevermore”—I shake my head, struggling to regain my focus... What did I start out trying to say here?—“but, you see, Frodo, I’m not every other girl. I’m not falling for your lame-ass lines. I warned you, my heart isn’t normal.” I’m lying, of course. Not about the abnormality of my heart, but about his effect on me. The truth is I’m absolutely falling for his “adorable” line—and everything else he’s peddling—hook, line, and sinker.

  “Intriguing,” he replies, but his eyes aren’t smiling when he says this. “Okay, you’ve stalled long enough. Are you ready to rumble?”

  “Yep.”

  “On the count of three, then,” he says. He holds up his hand and wordlessly counts “one, two, three” with his fingers while we both inhale deeply.

  A minute passes, then almost two. I’m beginning to feel light-headed. His face is turning red. If I can just hang in there a little bit longer, I know I can beat this guy. But I’m starting to feel like I’m going to die. I can’t stand it any longer. My lungs are burning. I gasp and inhale a large swallow of breath. He remains focused on me, still holding his breath.

  “Okay, cheater, you can breathe now,” I shout at him. “You’re such a cheater.”

  He exhales. “I didn’t cheat, I promise. I should have told you, though. Holding my breath happens to be my superpower, too. I sing in a band. I’ve got big ol’ singer’s lungs.”

  He’s a singer, too? Damn. I feel duped. Why didn’t I ask him a little bit about himself before I agreed to this stupid bet? And now—oh my God!—I’m at this guy’s sick and twisted mercy. Who knows what bizarre and contorted “wish” he’s going to demand of me? I feel like I’m going to pass out from panic. Or throw up.

  “Don’t worry, Shaynee,” he says, soothingly, like he’s talking a cat down from a tree. My face must betray my anxiety. “Remember, you put your faith in me? I’d never abuse that. Never. Not even in jest.”

  Who is this guy?

  I take a deep breath. His eyes are so alluring they’re almost painful to look at. “What’s your wish?”

  “It’s reasonable, I promise. And painless. I want you to come see me play with my band on Wednesday night. Well, with one of my bands.”

  “I... can’t,” I say. “I have to work on Wednesday.”

  “After work,” he says. “We play at 7:00. You’re done with work by then, aren’t you?”

  “Well, actually, yeah.”

  “Okay, then, that’s my wish. The place is in Normal Heights. Not too far. That qualifies as a reasonable wish, right?”

  I think for a moment. I have to admit, I’m intrigued. What kind of emo-screamer-thrasher-ska-punk band will my ears be feasting on here? “Is it an all-ages club?” I ask, scrunching up my face with concern.

  He laughs out loud.

  I’m offended. “It’s a reasonable question. I’m sixteen.”

  “I’m sorry.” He chuckles. “You’re right, it’s a totally reasonable question. It’s just, well, wait ‘til you see the place.” He recovers himself and looks at me with solemnity. “It is most definitely an all-ages club.”

  I sniff the air, not sure I accept his apology. “And it’s safe for me to go there at night?”

  “Yes. Very, very safe. I promise.” He puts his hand on his heart to emphasize the sincerity of his promise.

  I squint my eyes at him, trying to read between the lines. His expression is clearly one of utter amusement, but I don’t understand the joke.

  “You wouldn’t welch on our bet, would you, Shaynee?” His face suddenly reflects genuine anxiety.

  I pause, intentionally letting him wonder if he’s caught this particular fish on his line. “You’ve put your faith in me,” I finally declare. “I won’t abuse it.” This last part elicits a huge, toothy grin from him that makes my cheeks burn.

  “Excellent,” he says. “So, listen, admission is five dollars, so I’ll put you on the guest list. Make sure you tell the guy at the door your name, okay?”

  I smile. I’ve never been on a guest list before.

  “Let me give you the address.”

  I stand up and grab my phone out of my bag. “Shoot.”

  He stands up and brushes the sand off his jeans as he recites the street address. “Hey, as long as you’ve got your phone out, lemme get your number—”

  “Hey, Shaynee.” It’s Jared. Oh my God. Crap.

  Jared puts a cup in my hand. “I brought you a soda. Oh, Dean. Hey.”

  They know each other?

  “Jared.” Dean’s tone is polite, but not particularly warm. “You know Shaynee?”

  “Oh yeah,” Jared says. “We go way back. Right, Shaynee?” He bumps my shoulder with his.

  I look to Dean. “We just met fifteen minutes ago.” I look down at the cup of soda. I never drink soda.

  “Dean.” A guy with strawberry blonde hair, a goatee, large stud-earrings and tattoos covering his forearms rushes toward us, panting. “Dude, there you are, man. Come on. We’re so effing late.”

  “Hey, C-Bomb,” Jared says.

  C-Bomb, or whatever his name is, doesn’t even glance at Jared. He’s practically jumping up and down with nervous energy. “Where’ve you been this whole time? We gotta go now, man,” he shouts at Dean. “We still gotta get all your gear from your house and load it into my truck.” He looks at his watch. “Damn, we’ll be lucky to have time for a sound check.” He pulls on Dean’s arm.

  “Shaynee,” Dean says calmly, “this is Caleb, also known as ‘C-Bomb.’”

  I wave awkwardly.

  “It’s really great to meet you, Shaynee, and I’m sure you’re an incredible person and we’d have tons to talk about if we had the time, so I’m sorry I can’t get to kno
w you better right now, but, dude”—he turns to Dean—“we’re gonna be so fucking late if we don’t go right this very second.” He looks back at me. “No offense.”

  “None taken.” I look at Dean. “It sounds like you’ve gotta go.”

  Dean nods and looks at his watch. “Our band’s got a gig—oh, wow, like, right now. Hey, you wanna come?”

  Jared shifts his weight, as if to say, “Hello, I’m standing right here.”

  “I... ”

  “There’s no time for romance, man,” C-Bomb yells, clearly at the end of his rope. “We’ve gotta go.”

  “I’m not gonna just leave her standing alone at a party, man,” Dean suddenly roars at C-Bomb. His intensity surprises me.

  “She’s not alone, man,” Jared shouts, matching Dean’s intensity. “I’m standing right here.”

  Whoa, yelling boys.

  Dean steps toward Jared, the muscles in his jaw pulsing with tension, his hand clenched into a fist.

  This is a frickin’ testosterone-fest. Watching these boys beat their chests is making me want to pull on my hair.

  I take a step back from the commotion.

  My movement attracts Dean’s attention. He turns abruptly away from Jared and steps toward me, his features instantly softening. “Are you okay?” he asks.

  C-Bomb looks like he’s going to have stroke.

  “Yeah,” I say to Dean with as much confidence as I can muster. “I’m fine. You should go.”

  Jared shifts his weight, clearly feeling ignored.

  “And Jared,” I say, looking at him—and when my gaze falls on Jared, his Tootsie-Roll-eyes light up—“I never thanked you for the soda. So, thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.” He smiles broadly.

  Now it’s Dean who shifts his weight.

  “Dude... ” C-Bomb begins, about to blow a gasket. He’s bursting out of his skin.

  I turn to Dean. “Seriously, I’m good. My friends will be back any minute.” I scan the beach, and thank God, off in the distance, I can make out Tiffany and Kellan walking hand-in-hand along the water’s edge, toward the bonfire. “See? There they are now.” I point. “Tiffany and Kellan.”

  Dean’s gaze follows my hand. “Where?” He cranes his neck.