Just One Kiss novel · Chapter 3 of 24
Chapter 3: The Bonfire
Colt takes Lottie to his truck and orders her around; she walks away, and his phone lights up with a bet.
Saturday night, I wore the green shirt.
Ansel looked at it, looked at me, and said, "That's a shirt."
"It's a good shirt."
"It's a very good shirt."
He parked on the grass at the quarry, a hundred yards from the fire, and cut the engine.
"I'll be here," he said. "If you text one word, I'm there."
"What word?"
"Any word. I'll know."
I got out before I could think about how close his hands were on the wheel.
The quarry is an old limestone pit full of green water, and on a summer night the kids from three towns come to burn pallets and jump off the high ledge.
Maybe forty people stood around the fire.
Colt Rydell was in the middle of them with a red cup, telling a story with his whole arm.
He saw me and held the arm up.
"Ecklund! She came!"
His friends cheered.
I felt stupid and brave at the same time, which is a very specific feeling.
"I said I would," I said.
"Take a drink."
"I'm good."
"Come on. It's a party."
"I'm driving later."
"Your friend's driving later," he said, and winked.
He had seen Ansel's truck.
Of course he had.
"I don't want a drink," I said again.
He shrugged and tossed the cup into the grass.
"Walk with me."
I walked.
I'd like to say I had a better reason than the list and my own stubbornness.
He steered me past the fire with one hand flat on my back, and the hand kept sliding lower.
"So you're leaving for Michigan," he said.
"Ann Arbor."
"I've got a buddy at Michigan. You're gonna be wasted on those guys. They're all nerds."
"I like nerds."
"You like me," he said, and laughed like it was funny.
He walked me to his truck at the edge of the lot.
It was a big black pickup with a lift kit and a bumper sticker that said something about boats and horsepower.
He opened the passenger door and said, "Hop in."
"Why?"
"Because it's loud over there."
It was loud over there.
I got in.
He climbed in next to me and slammed the door, and the cab smelled like cologne and spilled beer.
"So here's how this goes," he said, and put his hand on my knee. "I'm gonna show you what a real guy does. Don't be nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You're a little nervous."
"I'm not."
"It's cute."
He leaned in.
His kiss was wet.
It was a bad data point, and the worst of the three.
He kissed.
His hand went up my thigh, and the other one found the button of my jeans.
"Hey," I said into his mouth.
"Shh."
"Colt."
"You came here for this, Ecklund."
"No," I said. "Hands off."
I said it plainly, the way I'd tell a customer to stay off the dock.
He pulled back and looked at me with real surprise.
I opened the door and got out.
"You're serious?" he called. "You walked all the way over here!"
"I'm walking back."
"You're a tease!"
"I'm a person," I said, "and you're out of the list."
I didn't say that last part out loud.
I only thought it, loudly.
My legs were shaking as I crossed the lot.
I wasn't scared.
I was angry in a way I hadn't known I could be, hot and clean.
A hundred yards away Ansel's truck sat dark and patient, and I was already walking toward it.
Then I saw Colt's red cup on the grass.
Next to it, on the log where he'd left it, was his phone.
The screen was lit.
I don't usually read other people's phones.
I'll say that for the record.
But it was lit, and it was right there, and my name was on it.
A group chat called "Marina Pool."
The last message came from a contact saved as Boat Bro.
"She in the truck yet? Pay up Rydell."
Under it, a second message.
"$50 says she's out in 20. She's been begging for it all summer."
And under that, from Colt, sent right before he'd walked me to his truck.
"Easy mark. Told you. Ecklund's little project."
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