No Interest in Love Read online

  Shay nods, and I grin at her silent argument. My arm slides around her shoulders, and I tuck her into the warmth of my neck. Her hand slithers up my shirt, fisting it near the collar. I’ve been with several women in positions I never thought possible, but this…this is the most intimate position I’ve ever been in.

  I like it.

  It scares me that I like it.

  Shay doesn’t cry for long. Her breathing evens out rather quickly, and I find my hand running up and down her back of its own accord. She is softer than I expected. Honestly, for a while I thought she was made of tough-as-hell shell.

  She shifts, bumping her head slightly on my chin, then settles back up against me. I edge closer in case she’s uncomfortable.

  Her hand lets go of my shirt and she pulls at her own, bumping and wiggling next to me, ruining the back-rubbing rhythm I got going on.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  She shakes her head. “Just another article of clothing biting the dust.”

  My mouth quirks up. “Huh?”

  “The wire snapped on my bra.”

  “Take it off,” I tell her.

  “I’m not one of those women who can walk around with no bra. It’s pretty noticeable.”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  She shoves my side and sits up, taking the warm and buzzed air with her. “Jace, I’m really not in the mood to be faux hit on.”

  I shake my head and stick my hand out. “I’ll fix it for you.”

  Her eyes drift to my open hand, eyeing it with uncertainty before she looks back at me. “You’ve done this before?” she asks with an attempted smirk that looks amazingly cute, even with the glossy effect in her eyes. She snakes her arms through the sleeves, stretching the material enough for me to see the bra loosen as she unsnaps the hooks. I swallow hard, ignoring the pounding rhythm in my chest, and echo her attempted smirk.

  “Darcy VanCamp,” I say with nostalgia. “Eighth-grade play.”

  “Really?” She raises an eyebrow, wiggling her arm back out, red bra settled in the palm of her hand. “I was kidding.”

  “I know.” I grin. And yeah, I try to see if I can tell she’s braless. I can’t. But she crosses her arms pretty tight after handing the bra over.

  I clear my throat and find the irritating wire. “My first time getting a bra off didn’t go very well.”

  “Darcy VanCamp. The first girl you traumatized for life,” she says in the same nostalgic tone I used.

  “Hey, hey…I was just following her lead when she took me back to wardrobe. I was a gentleman…but maybe a little too anxious with the brassiere.”

  She snorts, and my fingers get a good grip on the loose wire and I pull it from the fabric. Shay leans over me, watching my awkward hands maneuver around this thing. Her warm breath washes over my neck, forcing my pulse to increase its chaotic rhythm.

  “How long did it take you to get it off?” she asks in a low whisper. I can feel her eyes on my face, on my neck, down my arms and to my hands.

  “That’s not important.”

  “Half an hour,” she teases.

  “Less than that.”

  “Five minutes.”

  I shake my head, wanting to look at her but afraid of what I might do if I make eye contact. “More than that.”

  She grins and scoots on the cement, resting her leg against mine. I move to the other cup, my rough hands pushing on the soft and pliant fabric, trying to make a tiny hole so I can even the cups up. She watches me, breathing against my neck, not saying anything, and so I keep going with my story.

  “Well,” I say, voice shaking, and I wish to damn hell that I wasn’t losing my skull. “I-I ended up snapping one of these things.” I wave the underwire at her. “I didn’t even know bras had braces.”

  “They’re more like structural beams.”

  She gets a legitimate laugh out of me. The kind that comes from the gut, that you don’t expect. And I’m liking it.

  I’m liking it more than I should. More than I want to.

  “There you go,” I say, handing her bra back, beam free. “You want to keep these?”

  I’m teasing, but she tilts her head at the wires and says, “Sure.” So I put them in my carry-on for her while she snaps her bra back on. She tugs at her breasts, and I try really hard not to watch but can’t help it. And when she catches me, I blink away with a laugh.

  “Yeah, I was staring.”

  She’s quiet for a second. “Did you enjoy the show?”

  “Encore?”

  She rolls her eyes, sniffles, and pushes on my shoulder. It’s a touch she’s done before, but it feels like it’s the first time, and my body responds like I’m sitting on a fault line.

  After a couple of beats where we just watch a few cars pass, neither of us in the mood to try to hitchhike, she wraps her arms around her knees and says, “Was that a first?”

  “Huh?”

  “Touching a bra without touching the boobs?” Her lips are pushed hard together, suppressing her amusement.

  It’s adorable.

  It’s terrifying.

  “Congratulations. You are a first.” I try to subtly put space between us, but the more I scoot away, the more I want to close the distance back up. “So…you gonna tell me what happened in that truck-stop bathroom?”

  She rolls her eyes and puts them back on the road. Mine glue to her mouth, which has tilted up in an unbelievably gorgeous smile. I’m trying not to stare. Really, I am. I’ve seen Shay’s mouth thousands of times. It’s usually moving with some kind of order for me or sarcastic comment. But even though my brain’s saying, “Stop looking,” my eyes want to memorize that mouth. She leans back, hair covering her face as she runs her thumb under her eyes, wiping away the last remnants of her breakdown. Even her crying is adorable. I might even admit that it’s more than adorable. Everything about her suddenly seems different than what I thought before. When I looked at her, I saw a friend. (Sometimes an enemy.) But mostly…a friend I wanted to make laugh. I never realized that once I got the laugh it would mean so much to me. I didn’t realize that putting a grin on a stubborn face would hit me in the deepest parts of myself I didn’t even know I had. I didn’t see myself looking at her in any capacity and wanting her because of it. But that’s what is happening…and not just because my body wants it, but because my mind, my gut, and perhaps my heart does too.

  Right then, my heart starts beating loud and heavy, and I realize that the screenwriter has jotted a footnote next to Shay’s character.

  Miss Unlikely…will at some point feel like Miss Most Likely, and Mr. Kick-ass Lead won’t know it until it happens.

  Thursday

  5:27 A.M.

  Shay isn’t the type of girl someone could sneak out on, because her limbs become the Jaws of Life around the closest object in the sleeping vicinity. Yesterday it was my leg. Today it’s my face.

  Not that I’m complaining too much, but my nose hasn’t been this close to cleavage since the Smurfs got action. So I’m not sure what to do, but I start subtly.

  I clear my throat.

  Tap her elbow.

  Wiggle my head, but that only tightens her grip. The leg resting on my rib cage flexes and I’m suddenly swallowed by breast. Shay sighs in deep sleep and I try tapping harder on her arm because the air…it’s gone. I can’t find any bit of it, and I think back to when my eighth-grade buddy said if he could choose how he’d die he’d pick being smothered by a massive rack.

  “Shay…” I manage to say, pushing my face under her arm to get some air. How in the hell is she keeping this grip up when I’m three times her size?

  After trying more aggressive ways of waking her—pinching her side, plugging her nose, and nudging her leg from my ribs—I gather up all the volume I have…

  And bark at her.

  She shoots upright, knee getting awfully close to my face as she scrambles to her feet.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

&n
bsp; She narrows her eyes at my grin, and I slowly stretch out all my sleeping muscles.

  “You’ll be happy to know,” I say, “that I came up with a plan last night.”

  She covers a yawn. “Call my agency?”

  “See, I knew you were gonna say that.” Which is why I tossed around, avoiding sleep till I came up with something. Turns out, according to the train brochure I found near the trash, we’re only twenty miles from the airport. And since Shay likes to stay in motion, may as well push us in that direction.

  I sit up and attempt to grab my toes. I only get to my kneecaps. “You up for a bit of walking?”

  8:48 A.M.

  “The Missouri River,” Shay says, looking down on it like it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet.

  “You know there’s water in my bag.” I kick it with my foot. Shay was smart enough to fill the water bottle she stole on the train and keep it tucked away. So even though we’re both starving, at least we’re staying hydrated enough to suffer through the sun that’s about to beat down on us all day.

  “If it didn’t mean probable death, I’d jump in right now.”

  I put my hands on her shoulders and steer her back on course.

  “I wish I knew what time it was,” Shay says as we head down a sidewalk off a pretty busy road. The sun’s hitting the traffic low enough that several drivers heading east have their visors down. My bet is we haven’t even made it six miles, but I think I lost my sanity about two days ago, so what the hell do I know?

  It’s the morning rush hour, and everyone passing us on the walk does a double take at Shay’s wardrobe and the yellowing bruise under her eye.

  “I think people think you’re beating me,” she says as a dude jogging past gives me the look of death.

  “I’d beat myself before I touched you.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt you beat yourself.”

  Was that a masturbation joke? “That’s hitting a bit below the belt, don’t you think?”

  She lets out a breathless laugh. “Okay, you win this round.” Her fingers prod at her eye. “Is it bad?”

  “Nah,” I lie. She gives me a look. “Okay, it’s bad enough that if I were these people, yeah, I’d give me dirty looks too.”

  “That damn toilet. I should leave him.”

  I manage a laugh through my fuzzy brain. No food, little water, and exercise must be messing me up, because I’m finding Shay hilarious.

  “Does it hurt?” I ask.

  “No. I forgot it was even there. I thought something was on my face the first hour of this never-ending walk.”

  “Something is on your face.”

  “I kept trying to wipe it off.”

  I laugh again, and a low grumble hits my gut. Shay and I are walking surround-sound systems, because hers starts going too.

  “Our stomachs are talking to each other,” I mutter, trying to keep my grin, but I lost the energy around mile marker five.

  “Is yours begging for bacon?”

  “Always,” I say, and then ignore another round of hunger pangs. “And a big pile of pancakes.”

  “Waffles.”

  “No…I said pan-cakes,” I enunciate, and she wrinkles her nose at me.

  “Pancakes are like the saddest of waffles. They are the waffles that fell on the floor and got trampled.”

  “You’re officially delusional.” I bump into her, but I’m not sure if it’s intentional. “Pancakes are fluffy clouds your grandma makes you on Monday mornings when you know your day’s gonna be total shit. But then you have that pancake and it’s all good.”

  “For the sake of our nonarguing week, I won’t rebut your insane pancake campaign.” Then she bumps into me. Again, I’m not sure if it’s intentional. “But I do love that you think highly of your grandmother.”

  “My grandma is the sweetest woman in the whole damn world. I’m gonna buy her a house one day.”

  Shay turns her head just a tad to look at me. “Is that why you don’t have anything left of your advance from the movie? Saving up or something?”

  She catches on quick. And here I am, just trying to get one foot in front of the other.

  “It all went to her, yeah. Few years ago I lost a buttload of money doing stupid stuff. Grandma bailed me out.”

  “Did you gamble it all away like in 21? Or were you drained of all your money like Andrew Garfield in The Social Network?”

  “It’s so hot when you reference movies.” I don’t even know why I say it out loud. “But no. It wasn’t anything worth a movie script.”

  “I thought your whole life was a movie,” she says with a lift of her eyebrow. I shake my head and adjust my grip on the handle of my carry-on.

  “Well, NYU isn’t cheap.”

  “You said you blew it on something stupid. School isn’t stupid.”

  “No, but blowing all your student loan money on keggers is. What’s even more stupid is letting your sweet grandmother pay for all your classes with the money she got from selling her house.”

  She sucks in a breath through her teeth. “Um, yeah. I don’t think I can associate with you anymore.”

  She pretends to walk away, but she’s heading out toward traffic so I grab her shoulders and steer her clear of the oncoming bus.

  “I tried paying her back. She didn’t accept checks, so I started forwarding money into her account. Then she found out and stuffed it back into mine, so now I’ve got it put away where she can’t see it. She’ll get the money in the form of a house. She’s always wanted one with a green door, a big porch, a swing in the front, and room for a dog out back. I’ve been looking, found a few.”

  Shay bumps into me again, and the ripped-up shirt she’s wearing slides from her shoulder. “You’re looking already?”

  “I’m serious about it. That’s the first thing I’m gonna do if I ever make it to a bigger screen.” I shrug. “Even if I don’t, I guess.”

  “Damn,” she says, then something in Korean. She tucks a loose piece of hair back up into her elastic holder. “That’s ridiculously attractive.”

  “What was that?” I ask with a lift of my lip.

  “Huh?”

  “You think I’m sexy? My sensitive side gets your motor running.”

  “And your mouth just killed my lady boner.”

  “Payback for you killing my actual boners all the time,” I lie straight through my teeth. I wonder if she’s noticed that she’s been the cause of most of them nearly this whole week. But really, the wind could rustle and Woody would stand up and salute that he’s reporting for duty.

  She waves her arm, elbow hitting me lazily across my hollow stomach. “You want to try your card again while I pee?”

  I nod at the gas station she’s pointing at. We make our way across the parking lot, my arm tired from dragging my carry-on for who knows how many hours now. She meanders off to the restrooms while I locate the ATM in the back. Right when I swipe my card and hit Account Balances, my vision spots, and I consider stealing the bag of beef jerky hanging from the rack by my left arm.

  Checking balance: –$23.54, avail. $0.00

  Savings balance: $25.00, avail. $0.00

  VISA credit: –$3,011.92, avail. $0.00

  Damn it.

  2:12 P.M.

  We’ve gotta be getting close. At least halfway.

  At least.

  I want a meatball sub so bad right now.

  “Sometimes I want to hate you,” Shay says, pulling me out of marinara-sauce fantasies. I’m not sure where the thought comes from, but I go with it.

  “The feeling has been mutual.”

  “But I can’t.”

  Yeah…with her on that one too.

  “It’s because of the meme thing, isn’t it?” I ask, letting my eyes skate from the sidewalk to the light sweat on her face.

  “That meme sucks. It’s always there haunting me so no one at my agency takes me seriously.”

  “You can blame me for that. I’ll take responsibility for my asshole shenanigans.”
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  She blows out a long breath. “It would be easier to blame you. But I don’t.”

  Somewhere in my exhausted state, those words give me a shot of adrenaline straight into my chest. “So if it’s not that, then why…?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure why I said that.” Her eyes lock with mine, glasses making me see my reflection. I’m so surprised by the unfamiliar look in my own eyes that I dart my gaze back to the sidewalk.

  “You wanna try that gas station for an ATM?” I point my chin toward the intersection coming up. I feel her nod next to me, and even though we both know it’s pointless, we check my bank account again before heading back out.

  3:49 P.M.

  We haven’t said a damn word in about an hour.

  And I’m pretty sure I’m chafing.

  4:01 P.M.

  “I take it back,” Shay blurts, scaring me enough to misstep off the sidewalk and into the gutter. After the silence and nothing but our growling stomachs to keep us occupied, I set my body to autopilot.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, shaking off my now-soaked foot. It doesn’t even faze me at this point.

  “I don’t want to hate you.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I am a jackass.”

  “And I’m emotionally constipated.” She sighs, wiping the sweat accumulating on the back of her neck. “And you…you’re actually…”

  A few seconds pass and I look at her to make sure I haven’t lost my hearing. “Uh…you gonna finish that sentence?”

  “You’re actually one of the few people I have fun with.” And I swear it, her already flushed face turns another shade darker. “So I take it back. I don’t hate you…and not just because I can’t seem to…to hate you.”

  Wow. Normally this would be the time to think of a joke or to tell her she’s full of it. But I don’t want her to be full of it. I have fun arguing with her. I have fun dishing it out and I anticipate her tossing it back. And I realize that this is a rare moment in Miss Unlikely’s dialogue. An unexpected dose of sincerity that makes me wonder what the screenwriter has in store for her next—if I’ll get to hear something like this again in the near future. Because as much as I’m against commitment, I don’t think I’d mind hearing these thoughts from her for as long as she’s willing to hand them out.