Date Me (The Keatyn Chronicles)

Tuesday, September 27th

He can't be a god.

7am



I didn’t take a pain pill last night before I went to bed because I had that vodka, so I woke up at three this morning with a throbbing knee. I tried for a couple hours to go back to sleep and finally gave up.

I hobbled into the bathroom, got some water, and took a pill around five. I got ready, thinking it would help me forget that it hurts. It didn't really work then. But now, as I walk into the Social Committee meeting, I’m feeling completely relaxed and pain-free.

I sit down, pull my over-the-knee sock down, and inspect the gauze, making sure it's still in place.

Aiden sits down next to me. “Five stitches, huh?”

“Yeah,” I slur a little.

“Why did you run out of my room and pretend you weren’t hurt, when you obviously were?”

“I felt sick. I didn’t really know about the cut until I saw it was bleeding.”

Peyton and Brad start the meeting, so Aiden stops talking.

I listen to Peyton go through all the details for the Homecoming after-party. It’s interesting and I can’t wait, but I’m really struggling to keep my heavy eyelids open.

Maybe I can close them for just a second.



I'm lying in Aiden's bed looking up at his ceiling. He touches my pinkie and tells me about the sexual dream he promised to tell me. I'm turned on by his dream and he knows it, so he rolls over, pulls me hard up against his chest, and says, "Since it's a dream, we can act it out and, technically, it's not cheating."

Then he kisses me. A mouth open, full-on tongue, hot, hard kiss. The kind of kiss I didn't know he was capable of. I feel like fire and energy are rolling through my body. When he bites my bottom lip and tugs on it gently, that fire pulses directly between my legs. He rolls on top of me, but is holding himself above me. Like he's doing a push up. I run my hand across his arm, across the muscles that are all pumped from holding up his weight.

He slowly lowers his lips to my neck without letting any part of his upper body touch mine. I feel the fire on my neck, but all I can think about is what is touching. His hips have mine pinned to the bed. His legs are between mine.

He runs his tongue slowly from my neck, down my chest, and straight down to . . .



"Boots," he whispers with grin. "I think you dozed off."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say breathlessly, as I try to push the feel of Aiden's tongue and hips out of my mind.

I listen as Brad goes over more details.

Aiden leans toward me. “Will you save me a dance at the after-party?"

“I don't know," I tease. "Can you dance?”

He puts his head down. Like he can’t.

And I feel bad. Embarrassed for him. “Oh my gosh. Is that why you only wanted to dance to slow songs? Is that all you know how to do?”

He can’t be a god. I’m certain of it now.

Happy Homecoming to him and whoever he asked to go with him.

Although, I’m a bit surprised I haven’t heard about it. Or seen the stars glowing from the ceiling on someone’s Facebook page.

“I’ll get my French homework done before tutoring. You can teach me to dance instead.”

“I don’t really feel like dancing, Aiden. The knee and all."

“I’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty in Social Committee. It’s not something I really had the time to do, but I did it for you. So you owe me.”



I stop for a latte on the way to history and as I'm walking up the stairs, I decide that I'm very concerned that my subconscious believes that acting out a dream in real life is not cheating.

But then I think about it. If you were pretending to be dreaming or were possibly in a heightened state of consciousness, would it be cheating? Like, technically?

That sounds like a question for Brooklyn. If I were ever to speak to him again.

Surely, if this were the case, someone would have figured out that loophole before me. So, probably not.

Then I have an odd sense of déjà vu. I think I said those exact words to Aiden in the dream, and he said, No, you think outside the box. You color outside the lines. For you, it's not cheating.

I wonder if Aphrodite was good in bed.

I mean, we know she was clearly capable of seduction but, technically, once they were seduced, was she?

I have the sudden need to find out.



Passion, nakedness, and sex.

History



Riley and I are working on another stupid history project.

Our project is: How did transportation affect the Industrial Revolution?

Uh, hello. Who thinks up this stuff?

The answer is pretty simple: The use of widespread transportation allowed the Industrial Revolution.

Project done.

But, no.

We have to waste our time cutting out little pictures of trains, highways, cars, and boats to glue on a poster. I'm supposed to be looking on my phone for some statistics.

But instead, I just googled: Was Aphrodite a good lover?

Just as I hit the enter key, Riley grabs my phone looking for statistics. He sees my search and says, “What the hell?”

I bury my face in my palm. “Shut up.”

“Didn't you just have an amazing weekend with my brother?"

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re still obsessing over the god.”

“No, I’m not. I’ve just developed a scholarly interest in Greek mythology.”

“Bullshit.”

I roll my eyes and pretend to put my phone away but, later, when he goes to refill his water bottle, I peek at it.



Aphrodite represents the power of love. The kind of love from which you cannot escape.



No wonder she had so many guys captivated.



She rules all aspects of love, desire, beauty, and sex.



And, oh my.



She is considered the mistress of pleasure. She symbolizes passion, nakedness, and sex.



Oh, wait. There’s more.



Once Aphrodite enters into a relationship, her powers go beyond love and sex to include deep friendship and the connection of souls.



Oh. My. Gosh! That's why I thought he spoke to my soul. It is just a stupid godly love trick. He can do it to anyone he smiles at!

And now, thanks to my research, I know.

I'm not crazy.

Riley says, "I think I know how I want to ask Ariela to Homecoming."

I light up. I'm so excited for him. "How?!"

"Well, I want to do something at the football game Friday night. While I'm in my uniform and she's in her cute little cheerleading skirt. What should I do?"

"I thought you said you knew?"

"I know where. I just need to figure out how. Something all her friends will see. And I was thinking it'd be cool if whatever I do had, like, something she could keep. A memento.”

"So cupcakes and balloons are out."

"Yeah."

"You could write it on her megaphone."

"Would she see it?"

"Probably not. Plus, she'd probably get in trouble. Um, what else is out there?" I think for another minute. "Oh, I know! You could change the sign the guys run through. I could even help with that."

He shakes his head. "She'd keep ripped paper?"

"This is hard."

"I know. I want it to make her melt. For her to think it's super sweet."

I raise my eyebrows at him in surprise. “Who the hell are you and what have you done with my friend?”

"Shut up and think. What else is on the field?"

"The scoreboard?"

"Only has numbers."

I get an idea. "A football! You could write it on the football and while you're warming up, call her name and toss it to her. And you could both sign it and date it afterwards. That'd be really cute. It'd be cool to have a keepsake. Speaking of that, I'd like a keepsake to remember how Dawson asked me. Can you stand in my room with your shirt off and an M painted on your chest?”

He flicks my nose. "Hey, that was for you. I was embarrassed to be seen shirtless."

I laugh out loud. "Now that is bullshit. You'd walk around shirtless all day if they'd let you."

He smirks at me. "I'd be better off if they'd let me walk around with no pants. Now that is impressive.



Hollywood royalty to trash.

Math



While we're supposed to be doing some math problems towards the end of class, I poke Logan, who sits in front of me.

"Hey, I heard you’re trying out for the play. What part do you want?"

"I'm trying out for the Bad Prince. You know, the guy that screws everything up for the trashy girl you want to play?” He looks down his nose at me, like I'm actual trash, then turns his back on me.

I purse my lips and scratch my temple.

I have to admit, this kind of response from a guy is sort of new to me. At my old school, well, anywhere really, boys who I didn't know seemed thrilled, almost honored when I talked to them.

What happened to me?

Why isn't he flirting with me? Is he like Whitney? Does he think I'm trash too?

I look down and scrutinize myself. Run my hand down a chunk of my hair. It's still blonde and shiny. My clothes are still cute. I check my reflection in my phone. My teeth are still white. My legs still long and tan.

How did coming to a new school cause me to go from Hollywood royalty to trash?



Classy is overrated.

Ceramics



Jake folds his arms across his chest and sits on the stool next to me. "So now I have to figure out a way to ask Whitney to Homecoming that is classy but compares to what Dawson did for you. You're stealing her spotlight, Monroe. She doesn't like it."

"You must be high if you think I'd help plan anything for her."

He shakes an adorable freckled finger at me. "See, that's where you're wrong. I am asking you to help me. Because I gave you vodka for your knee. Because I came back with Dawson and because I helped him ask you. That's what friends do. They help each other."

I sigh. He's right. I need to be a friend back.

"I doubt I’ll be much help. No one did this kind of stuff at my old school. My last boyfriend didn't even ask me to the dance. He just told me to tell him what color my dress was so we could match."

"Come on. You have good ideas. Brainstorm with me. Think romantic."

"You could spell out Homecoming in rose petals on her bed. She could take a picture of it. She'd like that, wouldn't she? It'd be private. Classy."

"I think she's thinking classy is overrated."

"She wants you to top the dean's sizzling ass and a bunch of naked chests?"

"I think so."

"Hmm. You could jump out of a plane with a heart-shaped parachute. You could streak across campus in nothing but a raincoat. You could . . . You know, it's really hard because she isn't really in anything. Like, guys have put stuff in the girl's dance locker. Or one guy asked on stage during drama. It was so cute. So that leaves you with lunch or maybe at a football game."

"Keep going," he says. "You're thinking big now. And it's good you haven't been here to see all the ways people have asked. That means you should be able to come up with something new and creative.”

I shake my head. Trying to come up with something.

"Paint it on the football field?"

"I can't do that."

"Do it with rose petals then."

"They'd blow away."

"Balloons?"

"Not original."

I throw my hands up in the air in frustration. “Then why don't you just hire a freaking airplane and fly a banner over the field?"

He gets a big smile on his face and fist bumps my ceramic deer. "I knew you'd come up with something."



Embarrassment protection program.

4:40pm



Aiden is standing in front of me, expecting me to teach him how to dance. Why did I ever agree to this?

“This is silly,” I say. “I can’t teach you how to dance. Plus, I’m injured.”

“I saw you jogging at soccer practice, even though I doubt you were supposed to.”

I laugh. “I took another pain pill. Felt healed.”

He stands there and stares at me. Knows he wins whatever game he’s trying to play. If I could jog, then I should be fine to dance. I sigh and figure I'll just get it over with. I turn on my favorite dance playlist, grab his hips, and move them to the beat. Move them with mine.

He moves awkwardly. Strangely. With no rhythm whatsoever.

Um, okay.

This is not working.

I turn around, stand in front of him, push my back into his chest, and pull his arm around to my stomach, where it presses against my bare skin.

Leaving a scar, I'm sure.

I shake my ass into him, and he finally seems to be getting it. He’s moving with a little more rhythm.

What can I say? I’m a good teacher.

I put my hands on top of his and move them around on my body in the name of dancing.

This would be even funner if we were naked.

Shit.

Hello? You can’t think that.

This is you helping a dance-disabled friend.

It’s practically philanthropic. I bet I could get community service hours for this.



After about six songs, Aiden spins me out of his arms and breaks out boy band dance moves.

“What the hell?” I say, shocked. “Do you used to be in a boy band? Are you here in some embarrassment protection program?”

He gives me a radiant smile.

I shake my head at him. “Don’t tell me you can sing too.”

He walks close to me. “We’ll have to save that for another day, Boots. I don’t want to overwhelm you with all my talents at once.”

“Everyone says you have great hands,” I blurt out.

“These?” he asks, holding them in front of my face.

I look at his hands.

Really look at them.

They’re beautiful.

Seriously, is there any part of him that's not complete perfection? I run my hand across them, searching for something. Then I find a scar that runs across his pinkie and middle finger. “What happened here?”

He laughs. “Knife attack. In the war.”

“Very funny.”

“Fine. Cleat attack.”

“Now I know why you’re such a good goalie,” I say, further examining his hands.

“Because I'm fast.” He quickly slaps the top of my hands. Like the game Damian and I could play for hours when we were kids.

I slap his hands back quickly before he can pull them away. “Not fast enough,” I say with a smirk. I grab his hands again and hold them up, scrutinizing them. “They’re too big for your body.”

“What do you mean?”

“Proportionately. They’re off. They’re too big.” I tilt my head and look at him. Size up his six-foot-two-inch frame. “That, or you’re not done growing yet.”

“I’m probably not done growing yet,” he shrugs, then starts doing the robot to the music.

It makes me laugh. “You so know how to dance.”

“Naw, you’re just a really good teacher. I couldn’t do this until today.”

“You’re such a liar. How do you know how to dance like this? You dance alone in your room to music videos or something?”

“No. I have a bossy older sister.”

“So?”

“So, instead of wanting to play school or Barbies, she wanted to play dance instructor. If I played nice, she snuck me cookies.”

“So everyone at school knows you can dance like this but me, right? Very funny. Ha. Ha. You tricked me.”

He takes a step closer to me, wraps his arm around my waist, and pulls me in. His leg moves between mine. Our lower halves have never been entwined like this except for in my daydream. His leg feels even warmer than it did in the dream. Like it's radiating energy into my thighs.

“You’re the only one at school who knows I can dance like this. Well, besides my sister.”

“Why?”

“Because it's embarrassing. You asked me if I was in a boy band witness protection program or something.”

“Ohmigawd, did your mom video tape it? I'm so asking your sister.”

He tries not to laugh. “You are not. Or you'll be in trouble.”

“Oh, really?” I sass, putting my face right in front of his. “What kind of trouble?”

He grabs my butt cheeks firmly in each hand, squeezes them, and raises an eyebrow at me in challenge.

Oh, two can play this game.

I grab the back of his jeans.

Jeans I hardly ever see him wear. Jeans that sit low on his hips. The Cougars soccer T-shirt that he’s wearing just barely meets the thick band of his underwear.

I pull his shirt up over his head and toss it on the floor.

As he slides his hands down my sides, I take a moment to touch those hips. Touch the edge of the deep-V that is now visible.

I try not to think about what isn’t visible.

“You gonna do that at the dance?”

“Maybe.” I place my palms firmly on his pecs. Close my eyes and dance with him.

I run my hands over his chest, grind on his leg, move to the beat.

We dance well together.

I seem to know what he’s going to do before he does it.



Another one of my favorite songs comes on, so I push off his chest, jump up and down, then turn around and give him a booty shake. He spins me around and puts his knee back between my legs.

Which means he likes it there.

I grab his shoulders and run my hands across the muscles I have only admired.

He starts a very fast, exaggerated version of a waltz. He pulls me toward him. Spins me out, then spins me so that my back is now pulled tightly against his chest, our arms intertwining.

His hand glides across my bare stomach. I’m still in my dance clothes, and this bra top doesn’t seem as solid a wardrobe choice as it did earlier.

I need more insulation from his electrical touch.

I reach up and wrap my arm around his neck. He drops his head, placing his cheek next to mine. Even though the music is still fast, our bodies have slowed way down. His hands move slowly across my body, leaving little shocks of pleasure in their wake.

The music stops.

My ten-song playlist is over.

I turn around and face him.

Our faces are so close.

Our lips torturously closer.

His hand tangles in my hair, and he looks at me. His eyes are kissing my soul. Caressing me like a lover. They sparkle and shine with both fire and tenderness.

I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

I suck in a big breath of air and back away from him.

I need to get out of here.

Like, now.

“I think you're ready for the dance,” I say, as I grab my jacket off his chair.

He steals it from me and plops down on his futon.

“Dance for me,” he commands.

“Dance for you?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna see my Kiki stripper moves?” I laugh. “Cuz I really don’t have any.”

“No. I want to see you move. Show me your new routine. My sister’s been telling me about it.”

“I can't show you. It's totally top secret.”

“It’s either that or I pull you on this futon and make a cheater out of you.”

At first, I think he’s kidding. But the way he's leaning on the futon. The shadows playing across his face. His hooded eyes. That freaking mouth.

It stops me dead in my tracks.

I would be both pissed and hurt if Dawson danced with someone the way I just danced with Aiden.

I used to be the kind of girl that flirted with everyone and anyone. The old me would flirt with Aiden and lead him on. Vanessa would say it's smart. Smart to have a few guys in reserve that want you. That it keeps the guy you're with on his toes. And if he turns out to be a jerk, you just tee up the next guy.

That might be the kind of girl I was, but it’s not the kind of girl I want to be.

And why is he dancing with me like this when he’s asking someone else to Homecoming? It’s not fair to her either.

I should do the right thing.

“Look, Aiden. It's nice that we’re getting along better. But I like Dawson and I shouldn't have danced with you like that. I don't want to give you the wrong idea. So if I'm going to keep tutoring you, it'll have to be in the library. No more dances. No more almost kisses. No more talking on my neck.”

“But you and Dawson aren't exclusive. You still aren't wearing the key. So go on a date with me. Date us both.”

I look at him. Stare into those eyes.

But, I can’t.

I don’t want this.

“I'm sorry, Aiden, but I can’t date a guy like you. A guy that can’t decide if he loves me or hates me." He's getting ready to counter my argument, but I don't give him the chance. "And I know we had some crazy love at first sight thing, but we obviously would be a disaster together.”

He grins at me.

Just keeps grinning.

Then he taps his foot like he knows a secret and can hardly keep it inside him. His whole body is practically humming.

And his stupid grin keeps growing.

Damn that smile. I wish he would just put that thing away.

“Why are you grinning?”

“Love at first sight, huh?”

“No. It’s just an expression. That stuff doesn't happen in real life,” I say, even though I know sometimes it does.

He stands up close to me. His broad naked chest is so close to mine I can feel when he breathes. I hold my breath and move slightly backward, trying to increase the space between us.

But when I take a step back, he takes another step forward.

I take another step and back into his wall. There's nowhere else for me to go.

He puts his palms against the wall on each side of my head. I've never seen this look in his eyes before. It's hunger. And it looks so f*cking sexy on him.

I let out a little breath. Almost a sigh. And close my eyes.

I can't let him look at me like that. I won’t.

His cheek grazes mine as he whispers in my ear. “I think being just your friend will be fun.”

I don't open my eyes. I just pant out, “How so?”

Where are those damn magic Spanx when you need them?

He places his open mouth on my cheek, slowly closing it into a pucker. He gently pulls his top lip off my cheek first, the bottom lip staying in place and then—bit by agonizing bit—receding.

It's then that I open my eyes.

And need to move.

“I have to go.”

“See ya, friend,” he says playfully.

But he doesn't move. He just raises one hand off the wall, giving me a small pathway to squeeze through.

He's such a jerk, I think, as I squeeze past him.

I get my stuff together and then take one last look at his room. The twinkle lights. The smell. The memories of our dances and his kisses.

Then I glance up at the stars that are still in place. Waiting to ask a girl to the dance.

When I close the door, I know I’m closing the door on us and not coming back.

I'm not coming back here.

Ever. Again.

And I feel surprisingly good.

Like a weight has lifted off me.

Like I just battled an addiction and won.

No, it’s better than that.

I just kicked fate’s ass. And won.

It’s freeing.

And it’s official.

My silly schoolgirl crush on the god is over.



I stop and sit on the stairs, feeling proud of myself and happy with my decision. I really like Dawson and I think it’s time I let him know it.

I don't text him. I call.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“In your dorm. Where are you?”

“Hang on.” I hear a bunch of noise. A chair sliding across the floor, rustling. “I'm in my bed. Almost naked.”

Just thinking about him almost naked makes me feel warm. “Should I start stripping my clothes off as I walk down the hall?”

“Damn, that sounds hot. Can I watch?”

“No one is in your hall right now,” I say as I round the corner. “Maybe you can.”

I wait by the stairs at the end of the hall for him to open his door.

When he does peek out, I see he’s shirtless, wearing a pair of athletic shorts, and probably nothing else.

I'm shaking. Half excited and half scared of what I think I’m about to do.

He winks at me, which sets me in motion. I take a step forward, pull my top off, and toss it down the hall at him. He grabs it and throws it into his room.

I say a quick prayer I don't get caught.

I walk by another door, pull my shorts off, and throw them at him.

Now I’m in nothing but a bra and a thong.

I take another step. I'm two doors away and breathing heavily.

What on earth possessed me to do this?

But the fire in Dawson's eyes, and the fact that his shorts are now saluting me, keep me going.

When I'm one door away, I stop and undo my bra.

He grabs me and pulls me into his bedroom.

He doesn't close the door, so I kick it shut behind us. When he hears it shut, he slams me back into it.

“F*ck, Keatie. I can't believe you just did that!”

I don’t get to reply. His mouth is on mine. His hands are in my hair, then down my back, then cupping my ass and pulling me up toward him. He leans me back against the wall and pushes his shorts down. I wrap my legs around him and kiss his neck. Hard. When he thrusts into me, I gasp and kiss him again. He's as out of control as I feel.

I'm trying to be quiet. But I'm having a hard time. I don’t want anyone walking in the hall to hear us. Dawson stops suddenly and says into my hair, “Not yet.”

Then he locks the door and carries me to his bed. We're still attached in every way when we fall onto the bed.

“Ohhh, god,” I say.

Apparently that was all he was waiting for. He's out of control again.

Finally, he says, “Holy shit.” And collapses on top of me.

He kisses my cheekbone, down by my ear, and then rolls off me. He lies spread out on the bed like he just finished a marathon.

“That was so f*cking hot,” he says, kissing my fingers. Then he sits up and shakes his head. “No, that was hotter than hot.”

“It was molten lava hot,” I say, thinking about how he always makes me feel.

“You’re gonna kill me. Two and a half hours of football and then this.”

I smile at him and snuggle into his shoulder. I know I need to get dressed quickly. You never know when someone is going to knock on the door.

But instead, I lean across his chest and kiss the key necklace. “Do you still want me to have this?”

“You can have each and every part of me.”

I know what part he is specifically referring to and it's safe to say that it’s not his heart.