Read Kissing In Cars Online

Authors: Sara Ney

Tags: #Fiction

Kissing In Cars

 

 

KISSING IN CARS

 

Sara Ney

 

 

 

Copyright © 2014 Sara Ney

All the following work is owned and Copywrited by Sara L. Hassinger Ney and may not be duplicated or copied in any form.

Ebook formatting by
www.ebooklaunch.com

 

 

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

 

 

Chapter One

MOLLY

"The
best feeling is when you look at him, and he's already staring. On second thought, that can be kind of creepy..." - Jenna, best friend.

 

First off, I want to say how bored I am just sitting here.

There are a million things that I could be doing right now (such as homework) but honestly I don't have the motivation. For the sake of argument, we'll call it a run of the mill case of boredom... and, for a good solid twenty minutes I've done nothing but stare at the large industrial clock on the wall, listening to the faint tick-tick-ticking sound.

You know that saying "like watching paint dry?"

Yeah. This is worse.

This is like waiting for your second topcoat of nail polish to dry. You know, when you can't do anything but just sit there waiting and waving your hands in the air, trying to make wind because you need it dry
now
but don't want to smudge it.

Time just isn't drying it fast enough but you have stuff to do...

I shift in the stiff wooden chair, slouching down behind the table because my left butt cheek is beginning to fall asleep. Could I be any more uncomfortable? I mean, if they had these crappy chairs in the library explicitly to torture us, it is definitely working. It's 90 degrees outside, and not much better inside even
with
air conditioning (because the school is so old) and I'm wearing a short jean skirt today: a huge mistake with this humidity. No doubt my rear is going stick to the seat when I get up.

Ugh. There's nothing worse than a sweating, sticky, skirt butt. Well, or shorts. Have you ever been in a car with leather seats on a hot day, and you stick to the seat? That's what my thighs feel like right now.

It's so gross.

The library is quiet, and because it's Friday no one else in study hall seemed to be focusing either. Ericka Pierce, a freshman sitting at the next table, is texting (which is,
hello
, strictly forbidden) under her Geometry book. The tapping from her phone is almost making me insane.

Tap.

Tap tap tap.

Every so often she looks up at me. Frowns. Than starts feverishly texting again.

And I'm over here like, 'Um
,
okay
...'

I literally cannot tune the sound out!

In front of me is a hot pink 3-ring binder and thick AP European History textbook that was open to the chapter on Rome. Why am I taking AP European History my senior year? Dear lord, don't ask me why! I must have slipped into a coma the day we registered for classes, because:

1. I hardly study at all for this class, and

2. I have absolutely no interest at all in European History (sorry Europe).

I tap my boring yellow number 2 pencil and blow the bangs out of my eyes from the side of my mouth, pull out a sheet of loose leaf paper, and start doodling.

Heart.

Star.

Square box.

My initials, M and W, which stands for Molly Wakefield. Then I write "Molly (Heart's) Boys". Unfortunately, there is no
one
particular boy I'm doodling about. My best friend Jenna says I have the worst luck because I'm too picky. I'm not sure what that is actually supposed to mean, considering my dating pool is basically a group hormonal high school boys who think it's funny to burp the alphabet. Example: Last week in biology this guy named Brad Bosner actually made a spit ball and blew it at the substitute. He's seventeen years old, for crying out loud - who
does
that?!

So obviously, you can see what are my options are.

Not. Good.

I have no doubt "Spit ball Bosner" would take me on a date in a heartbeat, but do I want him to? Hell no. In my opinion, he's a good representation of what I had to work with.

So no. I have nothing to doodle except hearts, boxes and my own initials.

Here's the thing: I'm
not
at all unfortunate looking. I definitely lucked out in the looks department, and guys actually
do
find me
really
attractive. But let's be perfectly honest: guys aren't tripping over themselves to take me out. And I seem to have one other problem - the
wrong
guys find me attractive.

I pat down my auburn hair, which my mom says I've been
blessed with
(if you want my opinion, auburn is just a fancy name for "almost red"). It's long, glossy, and hangs just past my shoulder blades and if I'm lucky it has a natural wave. Today I'm wearing it down, but normally I keep it pulled back in a ponytail because I'm lucky enough to have parents that bought me a Jeep Wrangler (thanks Mom and Dad) on my sixteenth birthday, and let's face it - it's easier to drive that thing without hair whipping in my face. So yeah, my hair is almost always in a ponytail.

I have clear green eyes, a pert nose, and of course, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose.

Beautiful? No.

Pretty?
Debatable
.

Cute, yes.

At least, that's my opinion of myself.

Once again, I hear the
tap, tap, tapping
from Ericka's phone.
Seriously
? Ugh. I want to lean over, smack the phone out of her hand and send it sailing across the library. Normally I don't have such intense thoughts about people, but this chick is pushing all my buttons and she doesn't even realize it - which is
super
annoying. Shaking my head in disgust, I lean back and put my hands behind my head, lacing my fingers together for support. My tan - and yeah,
sweaty
- legs are crossed under the table and as I point my toes to stretch I can feel my already short skirt hiking up my thighs.

Eventually I lean down to unbuckle the adorable espadrille wedges on my feet, and as I do, the hair on the back of my neck prickles - I get the distinct feeling that I'm being watched.

How cliché, right?

Slowly I raise my eyes, covertly looking around without sitting up completely (kind of wishing I had a baseball cap on to conceal my own scrutiny) and sure enough, within seconds I've identified the source of my discomfort: there sitting across the library with his eyes locked on my legs is wicked Weston McGrath.

I swallow a lump in my throat as he slowly does what has been described in my smutty teen novels as 'raking his gaze' up my seated torso. And even though he is lucky enough himself to be donning a ball cap (so obviously I can't see much of his face) I can see that he is chewing on his lower lip.

It's excruciating.

Infuriating
.

And
so
exciting.

What the heck is he looking at me like that for?

Watching him watch me is like.... like a train wreck that I can't peel my eyes from, and
holy shit
I would never admit to anyone, but he's giving me goose bumps. Major goose bumps, all over my legs and arms.

Panic: I wonder if he notices.

Here's the thing: I've never
actually
met or talked to Weston, but let me tell you this: he has a terrible reputation. And by 'terrible' I basically just mean he's a real asshole, totally full of himself, has no respect for anyone - and of course, the quintessential label as a player.

God do I hate that term.

Player.

How dumb.

I mean, seriously... What does it even mean (before I get all Wikipedia on you)? The guy is what, eighteen years old? Let's be real here: how many relationships and people could he have even realistically slept with to be called that? Hey, be my guest and label a college aged guy a 'player' - at least he has the age to back it up.

So while he's been given the label as one, I'm not sure if I actually believe it's true, skeptic that I tend to be. I myself tend to be the complete opposite, and will be lucky if I get a date this year to Prom, let alone to the movies, unless it's with some creep.

But still, that thrill is there as he sits in his seat checking me out.

Calling him a bad boy is
sooo
cliché, and makes me want to gag, but I guess it's a fair assessment. And sure, it's a
tad
harsh calling him an asshole (because in actuality he's a very popular guy); but Weston gets into more trouble (so I've heard) and dates more girls (again, this is hearsay) than anyone I've ever heard gossiped about. Not to mention, apparently he's a hardcore bad ass.

Here's what I know:

1. Apparently, last year his parents bought him a crotch rocket and he races it down a dead end road on the weekends (Well, I don't know this to be a fact
exactly
...).

2. Last month when he turned 18, he got a tattoo covering his entire arm (a sleeve, they call it). I haven't seen it up close (
obviously
) but I've heard about it from plenty of people. How many kids in high school even have regular tattoos, let alone a whole arm full of them?

3. Weston once got punched square between the eyes during a hockey game and never fell to the ice. His nose and eyes were black and blue for weeks.

4. He never attends school functions. Not basketball games. Not dances. He doesn't join clubs. I don't even know if he has a job. Weston McGrath plays hockey and that. Is.
It.

5.
He has never been seen with a date in public, and I use the term 'date' very loosely. Puck bunnies (i.e. Girls whose sole purpose in life is to sleep with a hockey player) are constantly hanging on him, but I don't think he's ever taken anyone out before. My guess is he's doing a whole lotta screwing and dumping.

I mentioned my best friend Jenna before, and she just happens to be one of those girls
fascinated
by Weston. Unfortunately, I am forced to hear all sordid details about him from her whenever they cross paths. In fact, she never shuts up about it - like she's his personal factotum.

The ironic part of all this? Jenna has a
boyfriend
(poor Alex Mitchell).

Anyways, if she spots him anywhere, she will literally drive you crazy with her yammering on and on about Weston McGrath and how
hot
he is. I think if he ever approached her she'd toss her cookies on his black leather boots from all the built up anticipation and adoration.

Pfft, black leather boots.

I glance over at his feet.

Yup, he's got 'em on.

To be honest, he's scares me a little. I'm naturally a smiley, sunny person who gravitates towards happy people - like my bestie, for example: she's got such a cheery disposition that it's hard for me to ever have a bad day. Believe me when I say this: I've never seen Weston McGrath smile.
But Molly, you're thinking - you just said you don't hang out with him!
Well you and I both know you can tell when someone isn't normally a naturally, cheery person, you know?

So, his scowl must be a permanent expression meant to scare the shit out of people.

Or maybe it's tattooed on like the rest of him. Also, I wonder if maybe he's gotten his teeth bashed out from playing hockey...

Weston's a forward on the team, and has been captain since freshman year which... is really incredible.

Like I said, he's a bad ass.

He still hasn't looked away and I feel the heat rising up my neck. Whenever I get nervous this hideous rash forms on my chest. It's really embarrassing, so I look away and sit up straight, clamping my legs together. The last thing I need is him trying to look up my skirt.

Pervert.

Really, is it hot in here?

Ugh, suddenly I can barely stand it. And knowing that Weston McGrath is looking at me makes me all the more overheated. Abruptly, I am frantically trying to come up with a list of friends with pools in their backyards that I can immediately go jump in - yes, fully clothed.

Like, I am
that
hot.

I use all my self-control to not fan myself.

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