dad got into cars after I was born, hence the cool names. So I’m just Nina. Two syllables. Boring, plain old Nina.”
She shrugs all nonchalant, but I can read her plain as day. Her brows are furrowed, her eyes glassy. She’s chewing on her cheek. Everything about her screams she’s lying. And she’s upset. I can’t imagine why she’d lie about the origin of her name, but I won’t push her. Not yet, at least. I lie down and tug her against me. “We should sleep. I was thinking we might do that side trail on the way out tomorrow.”
She shakes her head. “No. I’d like to get back earlier. I’m looking forward to seeing Leigh.”
Great. Not only do I have to sleep in my own bunk without Nina tomorrow, but I have to share her with the Wicked Bitch of the West. I don’t know what Nina suddenly sees in her. Chicks like that don’t change overnight. I need to get rid of Leigh and save Nina from whatever crap that girl’s bound to pull. More important, I need to travel with Nina alone. I need to imprint myself on her and ditch this lie festering between us before I mess things up for good.
Thirteen
Sam
After traveling with Leigh, the Wicked Bitch of the West, for two weeks, I have since changed her name to the Raging Bitch. It just has a ring to it. Our first argument happened the minute she sat in my car and told me flat out, “You smell like month-old cat litter. New car rule. No wearing the same clothes for more than two days.”
Yesterday, our enlightening conversation centered on cheerleading and whether or not it’s a sport. My vote: no fucking way. Leigh’s vote: of course, asshole.
After the Raging Bitch rebutted my claim that any activity involving a guy using jazz hands is not a sport, she kicked my seat and demanded I toss her my phone. She wanted to find a video to prove her point that palming a chick’s ass before flipping her in the air trumps the jazz hands. I still say no fucking way.
So the Raging Bitch had my phone for a while, a hell of a lot longer than it takes to look up some stupid video, and she’s been bitchier ever since. And quiet. Evil-genius quiet. Something feels off. I keep checking the rearview mirror as we drive into Nelson—our first stop on the South Island of New Zealand. Leigh makes eye contact each time, glaring so hard I’m surprised the mirror hasn’t cracked. Tired of trying to figure out her bullshit, I shift the mirror and glance at Nina, who is texting her mom as usual. I have to force my eyes back on the road. The curve of her neck and her low-cut tank top are hypnotic.
It’s been two weeks since I rocked against her in that tent. Two weeks since I tasted her lips. Two fucking weeks. Aside from interruptions by the Raging Bitch, Nina and I have been inseparable. And I’m ready to explode. Every time I try to ditch the girlfriend lie and tell her about my legs, I make up another excuse. This hostel’s dirty. She looks tired. I’ll do it tomorrow.
It’s gone way beyond infatuation. Sure, I jack off to images of our dry-fucking escapade, and I spend most of my time trying to figure out how I can touch her skin or borrow her cherry lip balm just to taste her. But it’s my chest Nina affects most. The constant tightness. The ache. She’s infiltrated my bones.
She still looks at me like I’m a human Popsicle, but I need a sign she won’t freak when she sees my legs. Something, anything, to give me that last push.
I park outside the hostel, the ocean and beach across the road. Salt inflames my nose, waves crashing and seagulls squawking as I walk to the trunk. It would be peaceful and calming if I didn’t hear that nasty throaty noise Leigh makes as she mutters from behind me, “Hurry it up, gimpy.”
Heads are going to roll.
Instead of helping Nina with her pack into the hostel, which is what I should be doing, I swivel around. Leigh’s features sharpen. I try to match her glare, but this chick gives the Grinch a run for his money. “What did you call me?”
She taps her chin. “Dumbass? Gimpy? Asswipe? Which time, exactly?”
God, I want to rip her heart out, but Pops’s famous sayings are always at