Lianne
I CAN’T INTERPRET the expression on DJ’s face. He’s studying me, as if he’ll be quizzed later on the details of my features. I don’t understand the intensity of his gaze, but I don’t mind it, either.
Then he smiles at me in that way of his—like he sees me all the way through.
In my life, I’ve been some exciting places—red carpet ceremonies. Movie debuts. Yachts in the south of France. I’ve met more movie stars than you can shake a wand at. But I’ve never had as much fun as I do whenever DJ and I are in the same room. It doesn’t matter if we’re drinking watery beer at the pizza place or sitting on his roommate’s old sofa with books. Wherever I can see his lopsided smile, I feel happier than if I’d just won an Oscar.
Then he opens his mouth and says the perfect thing. “You really want this part, huh? This plot is so sinister.”
It takes me a second to answer, because I’m so touched that someone is interested in what I do. Even my asshole agent has never asked why I want this part—or any part. And here’s DJ, waiting to hear what’s on my mind. He leans forward, listening with his whole self. And we’re so close together! If I leaned forward, we’d be…
Wait. What was the question? Focus, Lianne! “The fact that it’s sinister is what I like about it. Shakespeare didn’t write any other female parts like this one. Lady M is much more interesting than Juliet. The plot is messy and complicated. Just like real life. There’s no magic fix.”
“No kidding.” DJ’s eyes drop to the page and stay there.
Now, I’m a decent actress. And all good acting is the interpretation of emotion. He’s got this whole dark and broody vibe working. But he doesn’t revel in it. It’s not intentional. I can see so clearly that this boy is troubled. Those big, expressive eyes don’t always shine with joy. There are shadows there, too. Something’s bothering him, but he’s not going to tell me what it is.
We probably don’t know each other well enough yet for me to ask. He’s so close to me, though. I feel our awareness of each other grow loud. It’s like the scratchy silence between tracks on an old vinyl record. Giving in to temptation, I reach up and palm my favorite part of his jaw—the squared-off bit where the stubble looks dark against his smooth skin. His eyes fall shut when I touch him, and unless I’m crazy, he leans into my hand.
A roll of thunder startles me, and my hand twitches. DJ’s eyes fly open and he gives me an amused smile.
He’s right there. We are as close together as two people can be who aren’t kissing. I’ve never planted a kiss on a guy before. But DJ makes me feel brave. And he won’t mind, right? He made me dinner. He’s reading the world’s most depressing play as a favor to me. On a Saturday night!
Yes, I can do this. I can kiss him, and it won’t end in disaster.
But I don’t do it. Too scary.
DJ watches me think about it, his smile growing wider the whole time. Then he reaches his hand out and cups my jaw. We’re mirroring each other.
Before I can finish the thought, he slides his big hand around to the back of my head and tugs me closer. And strong arms pull me against a hard chest before I can get my panic on.
Yessssss. He dips his chin and presses hungry lips against mine. Happiness is being wrapped into a kiss.
I make a ridiculous whimpering sound, but maybe DJ doesn’t notice. He gathers me closer as he deepens our kiss. His mouth is both soft and demanding at the same time. I sort of ooze against him, melting into a puddle of helpless goo as he gently parts my lips and tastes me. All I can do is lean into it. His next kiss is deep and warm and everything I ever wanted. He tastes like cola and Shakespeare and Saturday nights. I’m greedy, like Veruca Salt at the chocolate factory. But without that bitchy voice.
Loud rain beats against the window, or maybe that’s my pounding heart. DJ is kissing me and I might expire from wanting him. In fact, my hands have begun to explore his chest, which makes him groan. And I love that sound.
But then there’s another noise, and it takes my lust-fogged brain a moment to register the voices outside and the clatter of keys in the front door. I leap away from DJ, back to my own cushion of the couch.
I pick up my book just as the front door bursts open. Orsen lumbers into the room, shaking himself like a big wet dog. He’s quickly followed by DJ’s brother. They’re both carrying giant duffel bags—big enough to stuff a body inside. Before he passes us, Leo Trevi notices us on the couch, then quickly looks away. Then he looks back again in a classic double take. “Whoa! Hey, you’re—” His eyebrow quirks. “—Reading Shakespeare on the couch?”
“What. Like that’s weird?” I snap. I’m quite grumpy that he’s just interrupted the hottest kiss of my life.
Leo’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens. “Uh… I guess not.”
“Why was the door locked?” Orsen asks. Then he looks from me to DJ and shakes his head. “Never mind.” Then he disappears into his room.
The door was locked because of the asshole photographer. But the fact that Orsen believes otherwise makes my face flame. All of me is pretty much on fire at the moment, and I sure hope it doesn’t show.
DJ frowns up at his brother. “Why are you here?”
“Where is the love?” His brother chuckles. “Can I throw my gear in your room?”
DJ grunts his assent. “I meant—how are you back from Providence already?”
Leo disappears momentarily to toss a giant hockey bag into one of the doorways at the back of the house. “It was a four o’clock game. Perfect, right?” He reappears, grinning. “We finish a two-game sweep and still have time to party. Feel like setting up your stuff and spinning some discs? Orsen just invited the whole team over.”
“Oh.” DJ closes his book and turns to me. “Maybe we should hit the library.”
Nooooo! Not hardly. I’ve made it half way through my freshman year without attending an actual college party. It’s time to peel the big L off my forehead. “I’d rather play with your DJ equipment.”
It takes me a second to figure out why Leo doubles over with laughter. I replay the sentence in my head, and a flush creeps up my shoulders and neck. Play with DJ’s equipment… Just shoot me. “For music!” I sputter.
But Trevi the elder has already laughed himself into the kitchen. “Lasagna!” he yells from the other room. “Hell yes! Deej, I can have a piece, right?”
“Sure,” DJ grumbles.
My face is still on fire, but I don’t have to look at DJ yet because the front door opens again, and another trio of hockey players come trundling in, but without their gear. “Hey!” the first one says. His jacket reads RIKKER. The second jacket says O’HANE. The third face is one I know. It’s one of Bella’s besties, Pepe. “Bonsoir,” the big Canadian greets me.
“Avez-vous gagné votre jeu?” I ask. Did you win your game?
“Naturellement,” he replies.
“Merveilleux!”
“You speak French?” DJ asks me.
“Sure. One of the benefits of getting dragged around Europe as a child.”
He smiles, then stands and reaches a hand toward me. When I take it, he pulls me to my feet. “Let’s get out the turntable. I’ll teach you to beatmatch.”
“Cool! I’ve done that a few times.” I’m not letting go of his hand until he makes me.
He tugs me toward his room, presumably for the turntable and computer. “Of course you have.”
DJ’s room is small, like a little monk’s cell. The double bed takes up most of the space, and the place isn’t decorated at all. There are no posters on the wall. It’s tidy, though. The books on the desk are stacked into a square pile, and all the pens in the pencil cup point downward.
I open my mouth to remark on it, but I don’t get the chance. DJ takes my face in two hands and kisses me. Hard. It’s sudden and the way he steps into my space until our bodies are aligned is impossibly hot. He gives a sort of growl that rumbles through my chest in a happy wave.
Just as I’m really getting into the swing of it, he releases me, steps back, and leans down to fish for something under the bed. “Haven’t used this stuff in a while,” he says in a completely normal voice. A coil of cable lands on the bed where he tosses it. He kicks his brother’s hockey bag out of the way and reaches under the bed for what must be a portable turntable in its case.
Meanwhile, I’m just standing there trembling, mouth open, face flushed. I mean—after a kiss like that, I need a cold shower or at least a few minutes alone to cool down. He’s actually whistling now, going about his business as if the room didn’t just tilt a minute ago when we tried to climb in each other’s mouths.
“You coming, smalls?” DJ gives me a smile, which doesn’t help matters. Because those dimples make my insides feel squishy.
“S…sure,” I say shakily, following him out of the room.
