Nothing But Wild (Malibu University 2)

“So you’re g-gonna come with me?”

His head comes back around and he looks me squarely in the eyes. “Friends don’t let friends face important stuff alone.”

This boy…

My heart does bouncing leaps inside my chest before dramatically melting to the floor. This needs to stop. He made his feelings clear on the subject…but I can let him be my friend.

“No c-comments on my driving.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he deadpans.

Liar. A smile tugs at my lips. “Or Bernadette.”

“Now you’re asking too much.” A crooked grin appears, and despite the flutter of panic I’m feeling over this trip, I get a little lost in that smile.

“I don’t know how this is g-gonna go down sooo…”

How do I tell him I might chicken-out at the last minute without looking like a total weenie?

“No pressure. It’s just a ride-along. If you change your mind when we get there––where are we going anyway?”

“San Fran.”

“If you change your mind when we get there, we’ll go get some chow and come home.”

I’m tempted. I’m so tempted to let him come along. The truth is, although I’m committed to going, I’m not sure how I’ll react once I get there. This is scary as heck. It would be nice to have someone there for moral support. It would be nice to have him there. Dallas does not get nearly enough credit. He’s keenly aware of people’s vibes, a fined tuned instrument when it comes to reading other people’s feelings.

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I nod.

“Is that a yes?”

I nod again.

“Nah, I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“That I’m the hottest dude you’ve ever laid your big peepers on, but that’s besides the point.” An involuntary giggle escapes me. “Say you want me to come along.”

He opens the passenger side door and rests an elbow on the roof of my car, a big smirk on this beautiful face.

Rolling my eyes. “I w-want you to come along––”

“––your Majesty.”

“Get in the c-car, your Majesty.”

Grinning, he does as he’s told. One thing’s for certain, there’s never a dull moment when he’s around.

“Oh. Oh. Oh. Tenderness, where is the…

Tenderness, where is it?

I don't know where I am but I know I don't like it…I open my mouth and out pops something spiteful…na, na, na, na, na, na, na.

Words are so cheap…la, la, la, la, la, la. But they can turn out expensive…

Words like conviction can turn into a sentence…”

My carpool buddy is singing Tenderness by General Public way, way off-key. He’s been doing it on and off for an hour. It was fun for the first ten minutes, when he tried to sing along to Smokey Sings and messed up all the words. That was fun. Now it’s turned into a nightmare.

He’s got the passenger seat pushed all the way back, the seat back reclined, and his legs spread apart. I wonder if he’d mind if I crawled all over him and kissed him senseless…or at least quiet. Lord, gimme strength.

We stopped at his house and picked up a few things for him, seeing that we could be gone for a few days, before hitting the road. That turned out to be a very bad idea. Driving on the I-405 on a Friday afternoon to San Diego is sheer insanity. We’ve been at a standstill for an hour.

“I told you going to San Diego tonight was a bad idea,” says my sexy car buddy.

“I t-thought you said you wouldn’t c-comment on my driving?”

“You’re not driving. You’re parked in traffic, Kitten.”

Dang, that nickname still makes me blush every time. His gaze flickers to my mouth and a lazy Cheshire cat smile grows on his face. We both know he does it on purpose to rile me up. Why he wants to rile me up is another matter.

“And why do we have to go all the way south so we can go all the way north? Seems counterproductive.”

“I h-have to get the ad-ddress from my father’s laptop.”

“Huh? Wait a minute, why don’t you have it already?” He flips up his sunglasses.

“Because…” Cringing. I haven’t been completely forthright about my plan. “B-Because t-they don’t”––I steal a glance and am met by an unblinking, hyperaware stare––“know.”

He sits up abruptly, taking the seat back with him. “Your parents don’t know?”

How do I explain without throwing my parents under the bus? “My parents are…very p-protective––”

“They treat you like a child.”

“––of me. Can you p-please stop being so perceptive?”

“That would be like asking me to be a little less good-looking,” he answers with a completely straight face. “Try to be a little reasonable.” He flips his sunglasses back down.

That nudges a smile out of me. He always knows how to break the tension. “T-They’ve been doing everything to discourage me. They said that my mother was just a donor.”

“How did it happen? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“My dad, Evan, k-knows K-Katherine from high school. They r-ran into each other when he was attending a teachers’ conference in B-Berkley. My parents had decided to s-start a family and adoption was really difficult for gay couples back then. They were s-searching for a surrogate…she offered.”