Holding On To Heaven (Allendale Four 2)

“The truth doesn’t always matter, Heaven. If things look questionable, if they seem immoral, then that’s just as bad.”

Ignoring the irony of him telling me I needed to play nice to a shy boy in order of saving my reputation, I nodded, pretending like I was on board with his ideas. There was no way I’d ever cut my guys loose. Not for my dad. Not for anyone. I could play his game and perform his little tasks if it would keep him off my back.

9

My father’s car was barely out of sight when I pulled out my phone and dialed.

“Can you come get me?”

“Of course.”

I heard the forest green Mustang before I saw it and hopped in the front seat before Jackson could get out and open the door for me. The car smelled like a mixture of old leather and soapy skin. He sat in the driver’s seat in a three-quarter-length-sleeved baseball jersey with the word “Allendale” across his broad chest in faded letters. His tan legs stretched out of blue mesh shorts and I saw the dark purple bruise on his knee, most likely from practice that day. A stark contrast to my dress and heels.

“You look amazing.” His gray eyes raked down my body. “What’s going on?”

I shook my head. “Just spent the evening with my dad and I need a brain scrubbing.”

“You’ve got it. Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere quiet—I just can’t handle my suitemates right now or having to talk to someone in the hall.”

He laughed. “Dorm life is hectic, right? I think it’s the hardest thing to get used to.” He rested his hand on my thigh, pushing the hem of my skirt up a little. “I think I have an idea of where we can go.”

Jackson drove Oliver’s car like it was his own. His hand loose on the wheel as he drove away from campus, away from town. In a short time, we were away from the residential neighborhoods that surround the campus and he slowed before taking a sharp turn down a side road. “I was afraid I’d miss it.”

The drive was long and winding, cloaked with heavy tree branches. “Where are we?”

A small lake came into view along with a few picnic tables. A baseball field sat to the right of the parking lot.

“My little league team used to come out here sometimes. I remember riding in the back of the van, with Oliver and the other guys. We’d play a game, have a cookout, and swim in the lake. There’s a little dock.”

Before he opened the door, Jackson leaned over and kissed me. His moves were gentle, his tongue licking at my lips. “Mmmhmm, you taste like chocolate.”

He tasted like sin and the butterflies in my belly knew how much trouble I was in.

He pulled away abruptly and hopped out of the car, running around to open my door before I had a chance to blink. I kicked off my heels and stepped into the warm, late summer night. He went to the back of the car and opened the squeaky trunk, lifting out a red blanket. He came back over, linked his fingers with mine, and walked me toward the water.

“I got my first home run on that field,” he told me. “I can still remember the way the bat felt in my hands and the sound of the crack as the ball hit the wood.”

“Even then, you were a stud.”

He ran his hand through his shaggy hair and kissed me by the ear.

Sand coated my feet, and when we reached the dock, I stood on the edge and dipped my toes in the water. He tossed the blanket in the middle of the platform and wrapped his arms around me, resting his chin on my shoulder. The lake wasn’t big—just a small swimming hole, but it was quiet and the sky overhead revealed a million stars.

“This is great,” I said. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Anytime, babe,” he replied, flattening his hands over my belly. I felt the warmth build below my navel. The tiny coil and twisted from having him so close.

“One sec,” he said and I watched as Jackson stretched the blanket on the dock. He took my hand and we sat together, leaning against one another’s shoulders.

“So, your dad really stresses you out.”

“You have no idea. He’s just…he’s not a good person. He’s selfish and manipulating—I can feel myself getting caught up in his games.”

“Can’t you just ignore him? Say you won’t see him anymore?” Jackson’s parents weren’t as MIA as Oliver’s parents or as rich and perfect as Anderson’s, but they were supportive in a way that he couldn’t understand our family dysfunction.

“I wish I could but, he’s paying for my school and I know my mom wants things to get better between them again. The occasional dinner isn’t a big deal.” I don’t tell him there was more to our bargain—not now. Maybe not ever.