Free The Sound of Us by Ashley Poston Page B

way he looks at no one but me, his eyes filled with more than what his mouth can ever say. But I feel myself inexplicably drawn into him, like the opposite side of a magnet. We are so close, the heat from our skin hovers between us like a force the chilling beach breeze can’t sweep away, electrified a thousand times over. The smell of the sea mingles with his scent, so intoxicating it feels like a dream. Cinnamon and merlot. All I want to do is sink into him, my heart so full of sound and sea and sky it could burst.
    His voice grows softer as the song finally winds to a close and my stomach dips because I don’t want it to end. I am in big, big trouble.
    “Roman?” My voice is timid and foreign to my ears. His fingers brush lightly against my cheek as he pulls a stray strand of pink hair behind my ear. My face turns toward his hand to feel his warm fingertips against my cheek again. Caspian is ten thousand leagues out of my mind.
    “Yeah, Junebug?”
    “I’m glad I met you.”
    Down the beach, a group of college kids light a squadron of fireworks into the night sky, sparks of white that, from a distance, look like shooting stars. They howl as the sparks fade into the darkness. I almost jump out of my skin, startled by the sound. Roman blinks and shakes his head as if snapping out of a daydream.
    “It’s getting late,” he mutters suddenly, and jumps to his feet. “Aren’t your parents worried?”
    Anger flushes over my cheeks. “I’m not a kid!”
    “How old are you?” he calls over his shoulder as he begins to leave. “
Sixteen
?”
    I fist my hands, marching after him. “Almost
nineteen
! Fuck you very much!”
    “Same differe—” His foot catches a sinkhole and he faceplants into the sand. I squat down beside him. He props himself up on his elbows and gives a long, tired sigh. “Karma’s a bitch.”
    “Apology accepted,” I reply, and jut out my hand to help him up.

Chapter Twelve
    You’d think Roman would drive a Bentley or a BMW, a sleek car with
way
too much money spent on the rims. Nope. He drives a crappy-ass apple-green hatchback. And when I say crappy, I mean that very modestly. This car looks like it runs on duct tape and prayers. Mid-90s. Rusted hubcaps. Tan pleather seats—
the works.
I glance into the backseat to make sure there aren’t any serial killers waiting under the massive amounts of fast food wrappers and dirty clothes.
    “Are you sure there aren’t any...murderers? Rapists? Homeless people back there?”
    He doesn’t even glance back as we get inside, and he pulls the seatbelt over his shoulder. “Nah. Just empty Taco Hell wrappers and my moldy socks.”
    Because that makes me any less frightened.
    “Charming,” I reply.
    “Boaz contributed. I think he left some underwear back there, if you’re interested.”
    “That’s gross.”
    “And knowing my face is on your...” he flicks his gaze down to my lap, then back up again quickly, “is awkward.”
    I calmly put my hands in my lap, my cheeks prickling with embarrassment. “Touché.”
    He inserts the key and the engine whines as it tries to turn over. “C’mon baby...,” he begs until, after a squealing noise akin to the death of Wilbur, the engine roars to life. He kicks it into drive and we pull out of the parking lot. “So, taking you back to the condo?”
    “Yeah,” I reply, like there’s any other place I could go.
Back to his place, maybe.
But wouldn’t that be super sketch? Or an invasion of privacy? “Where do you stay, anyway?”
    He gives a stiff shrug. “A motel off the interstate.”
    “Not your parent’s—” I stop myself before I finish, but I’ve already let too much slip. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry...”
    “No, it’s fine,” but I can tell by the tightness in his voice he’d really rather talk about something else. “My dad lives in Myrtle. So does Holly’s family, but let’s just say I’m not welcome within a hundred yards of their house and leave it at