So why was a shiver creeping along my spine despite the sweltering heat?
Her arms came up to cover her chest, breaking my stare. “Yeah, I think I’m okay. Are you?”
I winced at her catching me gawking. “Good. Yeah, I’ve never been better.”
Not like that.That did nothing but make me sound likemoreof a pervert—like I’d never been better because I’d never seen Blair’s boobs before.
“I mean…yeah, let’s go put Chief away.” I gulped.
“Could you? I think I need to sit for a minute…my ankle.” Her eyes were watery when they met mine, and she slowly interlaced her fingers around her left ankle to cradle it.
“Yeah, of course. Do you…uh, d-do you want me to carry you somewhere?”
She shook her head no. “I watched you struggle to pack a square bale across the barn last week. I think I’d rather be left here to rot than trust you wouldn’t injure me more.”
Normally, I’d make a snarky comment back, but my thoughts had turned to soup—brain matter was likely about to start oozing from my ears. Plus, it was taking every ounce of willpower I had not to steal another glance at her chest.
Gingerly rolling her ankle under her palms, she squinted up at me. “You gonna put Chief away or not?”
I nodded like an idiot, springing to my feet and leading the gelding to his paddock. Taking deep breaths ofhay-scented summer air, I tried to scrub the thought of Blair in her see-through shirt from my brain. She was my friend. My partner-in-crime. A complete weirdo.
When I strolled back around the corner, I found her lying on the grass. Sun strewn across her, she had an arm draped over her eyes and one knee bent. Catching a sunbeam, her charm bracelet scattered a kaleidoscope of color across the ground. Blair Hart was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. And, even though she had no interest in me, I couldnevercomfortably say I thought of her like a sibling again.
Blair
(fourteen years old)
Denver and I peered out the thick, musty curtain of our motel room, struggling to see beyond a swarm of moths hovering around our yellow porch light. The rural motel parking lot was filled with trucks and stock trailers, and not a soul was loitering outside.
“Your turn,” Denny whispered, careful not to wake his mom sleeping on the other side of the room.
After a long Saturday at the rodeo, we penned the horses, grabbed pizza, and settled into our outdated motel room for the night. It wasn’t long before Lucy fell asleep, and now, at a little past nine o’clock, Denny and I were getting antsy. Unable to sit through another episode ofThe Simpsonsairing on the small, grainy television, we decided it was an appropriate time for one of our favorite motel games: Nicky Nicky Nine Doors.
The game was simple. Immature. Stupid. But we loved it. Something about knocking on a door and running away—the thrill of potentially being caught by an irate adult—filled us with immense joy.
“Nuh-uh,” I protested. “I did it last weekend. Remember that big guy wearing only tighty-whities answered the door and yelled at me? Your turn.”
His lips pressed together, and he let the curtain fall to cover the window, leaving the television as our only light source. “Okay, I’m gonna try to get room twelve.”
The door he was aiming for was at the very end of the row of rooms. If he didn’t want to get caught, he’d have to sprint—a serious feat in clunky cowboy boots.
Stepping into his boots, Denny shook out his jitters and released the door’s safety chain. With a shiver-inducing squeal, the motel door popped open, and I held tight to the knob, watching Denny creep down the concrete sidewalk in a fitted gray T-shirt and plaid pajama pants.
He shot a devilish grin over his shoulder at me and held a closed fist in the air.
One, two, three loud raps reverberated through the door.
And then he ran. Barreling toward me, his boots hit the ground with a thunderous sound. Just as he started to slow, expecting to leap through the open doorway to the safety of our motel room, I shut it and flipped the deadbolt.
“Oh, you’re going to pay for that.” Denny’s voice was clear, but was quickly followed up by a muffled sentence in a deeper tone.
“Oh no, no, no. They got me, too,” Denny replied to the stranger. I gently pulled the curtain aside to get a glimpse of Denny’s back and the front of a tall, irritated man in his fifties. “I opened the door to see who was knocking and accidentally locked myself out. That’s all.”
After another few seconds of chat—the man clearly not believing any of Denny’s weak attempts at a believable lie—the irritated room-twelve resident turned to walk away, and I let the curtain fall.
“Blair, I’m going to kill you if you don’t open up.”
I pressed my cheek against the door. “What do I get if I open it?”
