Crush Crush

Chapter Nine

I woke to the sound of a cell phone ringing. I blinked against the sunlight streaming through the wide windows of Ryder's bedroom. I glanced around, finding the room completely empty. I rolled over, looking at the nightstand, where my cell phone sat vibrating incessantly and blaring the most annoying ringtone.

I grabbed the phone and answered groggily. "Hello?"

No answer. I quickly glanced at the caller ID—unknown name and number.

I put the phone back to my ear. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

The sound of a phone being replaced in its cradle. Then nothing.

I stared at my phone for a fully minute. That was weird.

. . .

I went home after finding a note from Ryder on the kitchen counter—he had to go to work early and didn't want to wake me. I was welcomed to stay and lounge around the house on my own, but I needed a shower before calling my anchor to reality, Chloe.

I locked up the house behind me. Before I left, I stole another shirt from his closet and a pair of silk boxers. I grinned as I folded my stolen goods and placed them in my dresser. I quickly showered and called Chloe, but then remembered the time—almost eleven, way too early for Chloe to be awake. I didn't bother leaving her a message. I sent her a quick text, telling her to call me if she ever decided to wake up and face the new day.

I grabbed a box of cereal and dragged my backpack to the dining room table. I might as well get some homework done. Ryder's note said he would be home by seven. While I ate and worked on calculus, my mind kept drifting to Ryder and the girl from the night before, Mindy.

It was almost like she knew who I was, the way she accused Ryder of me being there: "She's here, isn't she?"

Did Ryder tell her about me? I mean, it wasn't like we were a couple, right? Or were we? I hadn't seen girls parade out of his house in weeks, maybe months, now that I really thought about it. And none of the girls that had left his house in the wee hours of the morning ever returned for seconds. Never. If you looked up the definition of 'one night stand' in the dictionary, Ryder's name would be used in the example sentence. Hell, his picture should be right next to the definition of 'player' or maybe 'man-whore.'

Surely, though, he never treated the many girls who slept with him the way he had been treating me. Or, was he so protective and so passionate with all of them? Maybe the only reason he was sleeping with me was because I was easy pickings—I mean, I lived right next door, I liked to think I was relatively attractive, and I didn't need a lot of sweet-talking or cheesy pickup lines to get me into bed. Like I said, easy. 

My hand tightened around the pencil. I didn't want to be easy. God, Chloe and I had agreed that I needed to play hard-to-get with Ryder, but every time he was around me, I could just barely maintain my flirtatious alter ego. When he touched me, the whole facade crumbled and I was pudding—hot and bothered pudding.

Was I weak for letting him take me? I mean, I dated Brody for six or seven months before I even thought of giving him my virginity. And even after I had, I felt like complete shit. Brody had convinced me that if I truly loved him, I would sleep with him. I gave the cherry to a douchebag and he used sex against me for the rest of our relationship, which didn't last very long after that, mind you. After a while, the coercion wore off and I finally realized how disgusting Brody was.

But with Ryder . . . I never felt the things I had when I was in his bed—ahem, and couch. Definitely not with Brody, the only other guy I ever actually had sex with. And after, when Ryder had stripped my cheer uniform off of me and took me to bed, he was the one who pulled me close, tracing soft patterns into my bare back. He was the one who kissed me good night and held me as I drifted off. Not the other way around. I was too afraid of rejection to even make a move on him—like, he would suddenly kick me out like all his other conquests if I dared to cuddle against him.