Root (Band Nerd Book 2) Page 8

  He grunts, shaking his head as he covers me, even tucking the edges under my legs. His fingers brush bare skin and we both freeze, our gazes meeting. Everything sort of fades away, the same way it had in Music Appreciation when he held my knee. As though we’re the only people in the world, that one spot a connection that runs much deeper than just flesh on flesh.

  Someone knocks on the door, breaking us out of the moment and he blinks before looking away. He straightens to his full height, big hands on his hips, his focus on the floor at his feet.

  “Lena?” Jolene calls out from the other side of the door, knocking once more.

  “You smell good,” Anders whispers before he heads across the room to let my friend in.

  Yup, I’m a goner.

  Anders

  The suspicious look on Jolene’s face as she enters the apartment makes me want to scramble, but I manage to stand my ground. I didn’t touch Lena. I have nothing to hide. Except my fingertips are still tingling from the accidental brush against those long, silky legs. And I’ll forever have the image of the gold stars on her red panties branded on my brain.

  Annnd, there I go trying to throw wood again. Well, there’s no “trying” involved. It just happens. I think of Lena and my dick gets hard. Shaking my head at my lack of self-control, I go to close the door when someone pushes on it.

  That’s about when I hear Jolene saying, “I hope you don’t mind, but I had to go back to the band annex and I ran into Cube and Crash there. They wanted to come check on you.”

  Sure enough, when I open the door again, Cuba, Tight, and their roommate, Crash, are standing on the landing. Cuba’s holding three boxes of pizza, Tight has a couple of two liters of pop and a six-pack of beer, and Crash is holding movies. I frown at them, not wanting to share my limited time with Lena, but they don’t seem to give a shit as they push past me.

  “Barbie, that was one hell of a fall,” Cube says, as he drops the boxes on the table and beelines for my girl, who’s in her bed looking hot as fuck. Then the little shit sits on the edge, one of his hands resting on her blanket-covered knee. “You okay?”

  Tight nudges me in the arm with a knowing grin. I ignore him in favor of closing the door. It isn’t a slam, but I shut it a little louder than necessary. Not that Cube even seems to notice. Crash stands in the middle of the apartment, looking around with a speculative expression that fades away as he sets his eyes on the records.

  “Holy shit, is that vinyl?” he damn near bellows, as he drops the movies on the kitchen cabinet and darts over to one of the stacks.

  “Don’t—” Lena protests, pushing at Cube to get him out of her way so she can swing her legs off the bed.

  But Crash is already flipping through records with a reverence that quiets Lena’s protective instincts. At least I guess that’s what has her looking like a mama bear watching her cubs.

  “Oh my fucking god, you have Cream’s Fresh Cream album! Holy shit, holy shit,” Crash breaths, his eyes big as saucers as he looks from the cover art featuring three guys with whacked out hairdos to Lena. “Do you… I can’t believe this. Do you even realize how fucking awesome this album is? Ginger Baker playing Toad is like…” He stops and shakes his head. “We have to listen to this right now.”

  Lena tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze going from Crash to me, and she shrugs. “I don’t have a record player,” she says, her eyelashes sweeping low to hide her eyes. If I wasn’t watching her so carefully, I wouldn’t have even noticed the way her body language screamed discomfort and sadness. “Sorry.”

  Crash groans. “That sucks, Barbie,” he mutters, but he doesn’t stop going through her shit.

  I don’t like it. Crash just… Well, crashed in here and took over. “Leave it alone,” I tell him in a harsh tone, because something about the way Lena’s whole demeanor changed bothers me. As though someone hurt her. “Eat your fucking food, Crash.”

  “Who the fuck is Cream?” Cube asks in a low voice, barely heard over Crash muttering to himself about Ginger Baker. Whoever the hell that is. But the drummer carefully puts the records back and starts opening the pizza boxes.

  I listen as Lena explains who the band is, but Tight and Jolene distract me from making sure the kid doesn’t climb in my girl’s lap by recruiting me to find plates, paper towels, and glasses.

  “What kind of pizza do you want?” I call out to Lena, cutting through the private conversation she’s having with Cube.

  “Um, I can—” she starts, but I shoot her a glare that has her slumping back on the bed with her arms folded and her lips pouting. “Fine. Pepperoni and supreme if they have it.”

  I shuffle half of the pepperoni pizza to the lid and do the same with the supreme. With a little maneuvering, I have one box that’s half and half. “What do you want to drink?”

  See? I can totally carry on a conversation with her as long as I’m not looking at her, or I can’t see her looking at me.

  “Coke is fine.”

  I pour her a drink, tuck some napkins under the box, and work my way through the tight confines as the others start doing the same. I’ll get myself a drink later, but there’s no way I’m letting Lena hobble back and forth across this apartment. I figure we’ll polish off this box and, if we’re still hungry, I can go back for more.

  “I can’t eat a whole pizza,” she protests when she sees me bring it over.

  “For both of us.” And I’ll still be hungry after. I burn a lot of calories.

  I put the pizza on the edge of the bed where Cube was sitting—take that you little shit—and drop to the floor next to her. She doesn’t say anything as everyone else finds a spot to sit, Jolene perching at the foot of the bed, Crash and Cube flopping to the floor and Tight at the table. Weird collection of people, but I ignore them all in favor of Lena, who spends a hell of a long time choosing the perfect slice of pizza.

  “I like the toppings,” she says, a little self-consciously.

  I smile up at her, vowing to pick all the toppings off my slices so she can have them. Yup, I’m so whipped, but I don’t mind it in the least.

  Conversation flows from music to football, with me and Lena adding very little to it. I just don’t talk a lot unless I have something to say. Lena, I think, was still a little surprised to have so many people give a shit about her well-being. Tight kept giving me shit-eating grins while his fingers flew across his phone screen. No doubt texting Savage like the gossipy bastard he can be. Still, I don’t find that I care. Lena eats well, she laughs a few times, but the best part of the evening for me was when our fingers brushed on the edge of her bed, she didn’t move away.

  Crash convinces us to watch one of the movies he brought over, something with speeding cars, half-naked girls, and a plot I’ve seen a thousand times. Which means I spend more time watching Lena as she struggles to stay awake, her eyelids drooping, her head nodding before one of the guys would wake her with a shout or laugh. Two-thirds of the way through the film, she loses the fight with sleep, her body slumping against the pillows, her head lolling on the pillow, face turned to me.

  From the first moment I saw her, I knew she was shy, but it isn’t until now that I realize she always has her guard up. Seeing her face slack and soft with sleep, her sandy-brown eyelashes fanning over her cheeks, I know I’m looking at the real Lena, the one who stays hidden behind the protective walls she puts up. And I want to find out what made her so shut off, want to bring her out more.

  She lets out a little sigh, her body turning toward me and yeah, it makes me feel as though she wants to be closer to me, as though she’s seeking me out in her sleep. What I wouldn’t give to get in that bed with her, hold her all night long. But she’s a long ways away from being ready for something like that. I just got her to realize I’m not some kind of staring, mute idiot. And, to be honest, I’m half-terrified of fucking things up with her if I let my hormones have their way.

  A strand of her hair falls over her face and I push it away, my finger lin
gering on her cheek. I’m gonna win this girl because nothing else matters. It isn’t just about sex, although I really, really want it. It’s about her smiles, her laughs, and the sweetness I see in her. First though, I need to make sure she’s better after her fall. Which means she needs to get her rest.

  I stand and look over to see the guys are still engrossed in the movie, but Jolene is watching me, a smile on her face. I nod to her. “Watch out for her tonight. I’ll be back at 7:00 to get her down the stairs.”

  “Okay, Root.”

  Glad she doesn’t fight with me about it, the way I know Lena would, I head for the three fucking amigos. “Let’s go,” I tell them with a glare that dares them to argue.

  Of course Crash is the one who protests. “But we haven’t finished—”

  “Now.”

  Tight laughs, but he’s already on his feet collecting trash to throw away, so I don’t give him the same glare I give defenders every game day. I reserve that look for Crash who doesn’t move until I’m about ready to haul his ass off the floor.

  “7:00,” I remind Jolene, as I make sure the others have all their shit.

  “I’ll make sure we’re ready,” she promises.

  Do I care if the guys give me crap as soon as we’re outside the apartment? Cube and Crash giving Titus yet another blow-by-blow commentary of me going to Lena’s aid with my friend and teammate laughing his ass off. Not one bit. She’s the only one who matters. Not their opinions, their good-natured teasing, or their scoffing about settling down with one girl. Just Lena and those shy smiles and the way she makes me feel. That’s what matters.

  Lena

  Thursday

  6:00 a.m.

  Lena: Hey, are you up?

  6:04 a.m.

  Anders: Yeah, just got out of the shower, why? You okay? Do you need anything?

  6:06 a.m.

  Lena: I’m fine, just wanted to see if you were up and wanted to know if you like chocolate.

  6:10 a.m.

  Anders: Do you take me for a heathen or something? Of course I do! Why?

  6:12 a.m.

  Lena: Well, you do have that whole Viking thing going on… So you could be a heathen. And we’re making pancakes if you want some. Chocolate chip.

  6:14 a.m.

  Anders: Why is it always Vikings?

  6:15 a.m.

  Lena: Because no one remembers the Visigoths.

  6:16 a.m.

  Anders: I love it when you speak history to me… I can be there in ten minutes?

  6:17 a.m.

  Lena: Awesome.

  Thursday

  2:55 p.m.

  Anders: What time is your last class today? I forgot to ask.

  2:57 p.m.

  Lena: 4:20… and no, that isn’t a pot joke.

  3:00 p.m.

  Anders: I have practice until 6. I can bring you home before if you don’t want to hang around for me to get out.

  I start typing out, “I can get a ride wi—” when my phone buzzes again.

  3:02 p.m.

  Anders: And no, you’re not getting one of your girls to bring you home. I’ll just tell Coach I need to take a break.

  3:04 p.m.

  Lena: No, no, don’t do that! I need to work on some homework. I’ll just hang out at the library until you’re ready.

  3:06 p.m.

  Anders: What homework?

  3:07 p.m.

  Lena: Math :(

  3:08 p.m.

  Anders: I love Math!

  3:09 p.m.

  Lena: Freak.

  3:10 p.m.

  Anders: If you ever need any help…

  3: 11 p.m.

  Anders: I’ll remember your cruel words. ;)

  Thursday

  10:15 p.m.

  Lena: Thanks for helping me today. I really appreciate it.

  11:00 p.m.

  Anders: Hey, sorry, I was in the shower. Didn’t see your text. And you don’t need to thank me.

  11:05 p.m.

  Lena: You take a lot of showers.

  I stare at my phone for the next thirty minutes, waiting for his reply, trying not to think of why he takes so many showers. I know he took one after practice; his hair had been all wet when he picked me up at the library and he smelled like Ivory soap.

  I know what I’m trying not to imagine. And it’s whether he does what I’ve been doing in the shower… Think of him while I touch myself. Because that isn’t creepy at all.

  “Are you finally finished texting him tonight?” Jolene asks in a grumpy voice from beside me. “It’s the weirdest thing. He was here after school for at least two hours but y’all barely spoke at all. The minute he left though, the phone blows up.”

  Glad the apartment’s dark, I blush and roll to my side. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

  “No you’re not, but it’s okay. If Josef wanted to text message me all night, I’d do the same,” she mumbles sleepily, mentioning the foreign exchange art student she’d just started talking to.

  She must nod off, but I stare at the phone on my nightstand, wondering what Anders is doing now.

  Friday

  11:15 a.m.

  Anders: Wanna grab lunch with me at the Student Union?

  11:17 a.m.

  Lena: I don’t know. I’ve heard the food isn’t all that great.

  11:18 a.m.

  Anders: What?! It’s 2-for-1 Sloppy Joe day! How is that not great?

  11:18 a.m.

  Lena: …

  11:19 a.m.

  Anders: Oh c’mon, you can just come sit with me while I eat.

  11:20 a.m.

  Lena: …

  11:21 a.m.

  Anders: Please?

  11:23 a.m.

  Lena: There’s a one order per customer limit, isn’t there?

  11:24 a.m.

  Anders: YESSS!

  Friday

  8:05 p.m.

  Anders: What are you up to tonight?

  8:23 p.m.

  Lena: Same thing I do every night. Plan to take over the world!

  8:26 p.m.

  Anders: Do you want a sidekick?

  8:30 p.m.

  Lena: Your love of sloppy joes could prove to be a weakness. Might be better to go it alone.

  8:35 p.m.

  Anders: Who said I wanted to be your sidekick? I was going to give Cuba to you. And sloppy joes aren’t my weakness.

  8:38 p.m.

  Lena: Bull! I thought I was going to lose a hand today!

  8:40 p.m.

  Anders: Then it would’ve been “Sloppy Lenas”.

  8:45 p.m.

  Anders: Was that too weird? I’m sorry. I was just going with the flow.

  8:50 p.m.

  Anders: I don’t think you’re sloppy, I swear!

  8:55 p.m.

  Anders: Hello? Lena?

  9:02 p.m.

  Lena: Hey, sorry. My Mom called.

  9:03 p.m.

  Anders: Okay, I thought you hated me again.

  9:04 p.m.

  Lena: I didn’t hate you.

  9:10 p.m.

  Anders: Is everything okay? You went quiet.

  9:15 p.m.

  Lena: Yeah, everything’s fine. I’m just a little tired and we have a big day tomorrow.

  9:17 p.m.

  Anders: Aw, go to sleep. I’ll see you first thing in the morning to bring you to practice. 8 a.m., right?

  9:20 p.m.

  Lena: Yes and thanks again, Anders. Goodnight.

  9:22 p.m.

  Anders: Night, Lena.

  Saturday

  For the first time since Wednesday, I’m home alone. My ankle’s well enough that Jolene felt safe leaving me on my own. Like I needed to be watched every minute. But I know she stayed because she cares, so I gave her a great big hug after the game tonight. The Spartans won, the Marching 300 had rocked on the field, and while everyone was out partying and celebrating, I came home. Although, to be honest, I’m glad I have a moment to drop the mask I’ve been wearing since she started st
aying over.

  Especially after the phone call I got from Mom last night. Staring blankly at the book in my hands, I try to calm my anger. No, it’s more like fury. Nathan’s going up on my rent again. Mom says it’s for upkeep on the apartment. Yeah, considering he hasn’t fixed anything since they bought it and the house next door where they live, I know how unlikely that is. No, I know the real reason my rent’s going up fifteen percent, which is astronomical for this crappy place. He’s been gambling and losing again, a pattern that’s been repeated ever since the day he put his ring on Mom’s finger.

  Unlike Nessie’s Uncle Deuce, who was a successful professional gambler, Nathan is a minnow trying to swim with sharks, and every time he loses he has to find some way to make it up. And he never cares who has to suffer, or do without, to get out of the holes he digs. Most of the time, that’s me and Mom.

  I put my book down and throw my arm over my eyes.

  First, it’d been Dad’s tools. The table saw he’d inherited from his dad, the complete set of Craftsmen tools he got for Father’s Day when I was five, and the zero-radius turn lawnmower he’d bought for our one-acre lot. They’d all been pawned off to cover Nathan’s debts and Mom let it happen.

  “What are we going to use any of that stuff for? You can push mow the yard and it isn’t like we’re going to build anything with those old tools.”

  That was fine. At eleven, I didn’t understand about Nathan’s gambling, or that Mom had lost complete interest in me. I missed Dad more than ever, but I could live with it. Had lived with it. And I still had the most precious belongings Dad could have left me: his record collection and the stereo system he played them on. I would sit in my bedroom for hours, listening to the music he loved so much, remembering every story he ever told me about the songs, not that I got to know every single one of them. He was gone before we made it through the whole collection, but just knowing they were his and his father’s before him, made me feel like he was still with me.

  Then came the second time Nathan lost big. Tears sting my eyes. It’s stupid. It happened six years ago. But it still hurt—