He Says He's Just A Friend

Chapter 10 - I Knew You Were Trouble

- Emmett -

After we returned to the clearing where everyone parked, Clay cut the engine and immediately jumped off the ATV. He hung his helmet on the handlebar and raced over to join his friends, throwing a look over his shoulder at me, a deep crease of concern between his brows. He pressed his lips into such a tight line; it looked like he didn't have any.

I sighed, my heart heavy. Clay felt it. I was afraid he might when it happened, but I had no control of it. I never should have squeezed him so tight. I only did it because I was terrified I would fall off when Clay took that one hill. Would he believe it was the vibration of the ATV that caused it? Not the truth—that I'd been fantasizing about him the whole time I had my arms around him.

Jackson hopped up in the truck bed and opened an ice chest. He passed out cans of beer. "Yo, Clay. Want one?"

Clay glanced back at me before turning to Jackson, nodding.

Jackson tossed the can. Clay caught it easily. I wouldn't begrudge Clay this. I could drive his car and then walk home. He had pointed out his house this morning. It wasn't even a mile from my house. If I cut through the huge cement drainage ditch that stretched through the neighborhood, I could be home in ten minutes. I could make up a story about why I was walking home.

"Emmett!" Jackson raised a beer in question.

I shook my head as I neared the group, rubbing my hand up and down my arm.

Clay moved farther away as if we were two magnets, repelling each other, unable to connect. He wouldn't even look at me now.

I really hoped he didn't freak out too much. Even if he didn't want me the way I wanted him to, I still wanted him as a friend. He was such a sweet guy, and he made me want to open up. So few people did that for me. The list pretty much consisted of Carrie, Dr. Herrera, and my mom. Although there was a lot my mom and the good doctor didn't know. And if I had my way, my mom wouldn't find out any of it until it was too late for her to ground me.

"Look at this asshole, showing up late," Jackson said as a silver SUV pulled into the clearing.

"As usual," said the blond boy standing next to Clay—Jackson called him Brandon when offering him a beer. His teeth were too white and even though his clothes were just as tattered as the others, his jeans had a Diesel tag and his shirt was Ralph Lauren. He was the one driving that gas guzzling monstrosity we followed back here.

I was barely paying attention to any of them. I didn't care about them or the newcomer and his apparent chronic lateness. All I cared about was catching Clay's eye to make sure things wouldn't be weird between us. He just stood there, staring at his unopened beer can pensively.

"Did you dickheads start without me?" the new guy asked.

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, but I wasn't sure why.

"Relax. We just did one lap," Brandon said. "You can get in on the next one."

"Beer, Duke?" Jackson asked.

Duke must have agreed because a beer can flew across the space, startling me to take a step back.

They all laughed. I thought for a moment that they were laughing at my reaction, but one of the unnamed guys—the stout one with a shock of orangish-red hair—said, "Good thing you're not a receiver, butterfingers. Otherwise our team would be fucked."

"Fuck you, Mark. Linebackers are a dime a dozen." That voice sounded vaguely familiar. It wasn't deep enough to be Jackson. Nor the raspiness of Brandon. And it definitely wasn't the honey sweet tone of Clay's voice.