The Right Moves (The Game #3)(17)
Author: Emma Hart

“I’m guessing you consider yourself more than a boy?”

“I know I’m not a boy. I can probably use my hands better than boys can use their tool.”

She coughs and looks away. “Point taken.”

I watch her, still smiling. “I’m guessing you’ve only ever been with a boy.”

“Who said I’ve been with anyone?” she asks quietly.

“No one can look the way you do and be a virgin.”

Her lips twitch. “This conversation is getting real personal, y’know.”

“We’re here to get to know each other.” I grin. “And I maintain my last statement. There’s no way you’re a virgin.”

“I think I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“Good. It’s meant to be. But, uh…” I nudge her and she looks at me. “If you are a virgin…”

Her lips twist upward, and she shoves me off the boulder before I can finish my sentence. I laugh as I try to steady myself on the small pebbles underfoot.

“Idiot,” she mutters, smiling.

I take a step but get my footing wrong and fall backward. Pebbles dig into my butt and Abbi doubles over with laughter. Hell no. I put my shoes on the boulder next to me and crawl across the small but strong stream of water toward her. My hands find her bare ankles and tug on them.

“Blake!” she cries, sliding down the rock. I laugh at the shocked look on her face as she falls into the water. It splashes as she lands in front of me. I grin.

“Not so funny now, huh?” I tease.

“I’ll give you funny!” She shoves me again and I fall sideways. My hand grabs hers at the last minute and I pull her with me, both of us laughing. She lands half on me and half in the water, and freezes.

Her body and her eyes tell different stories. Her body is frozen and the only part of her that’s moving is the rapid rising and falling of her chest. Her hand, pressed against my chest, trembles in something akin to fear. But her eyes aren’t wide and scared. They’re hooded and full of laughter. They’re focused on mine, intense, unrelenting, unwavering. They’re beautiful. She’s beautiful. My hand on her waist twitches, and water rushes past us as we lie here.

Slowly, Abbi pulls herself off me and stands. She grabs her shoes from the boulder and takes tentative steps over to mine as I get up.

“Careful,” she warns softly. “The pebbles are loose.”

“You don’t say,” I say dryly when she hands me my shoes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She steps up onto the rocks and puts her shoes on the bridge. I follow her up, and she pauses just before she climbs over the bridge railing to speak in a quiet voice. “I’m not, by the way.”

She doesn’t look at me.

“Not what?”

“A virgin.”

For some reason, that annoys me.

Chapter Nine – Abbi

“Mom, it’s been a year.”

“I know, darling, but I’m worried.”

“I’m not perfect, but I think I can shave my legs without feeling the need to retrace all my old scars.” My mouth twists, and I feel a sting of annoyance towards her.

“I didn’t mean-”

“You know, if you really want to, you can come and watch me do it. Just to make sure.” It comes out snarkier than I intended, but sooner or later she’s going to have to start to trust me. “Whatever it was that made me cut, I’ve got it under control.” Almost. “I can fight the urges. I’m strong enough now.” Nearly.

“I’m just worried about you, Abbi.” She rubs her forehead.

“Oh, for goodness sake, Miranda. Let the girl shave her legs like a normal eighteen year old,” Dad butts in from over his newspaper. “She’s already said you can sit and watch her do it if it makes you feel better.”

I curl my fingers around my glass, dropping my eyes to the table. I wish she would trust me. The mistakes of my past are exactly that – mistakes. I know the pain they caused her and I don’t want to do that again.

Mom sighs. Dad puts his paper in his lap, takes off his glasses and levels his gaze on her.

“Miranda, dear, she’s not going to get better if you keep wrapping her up in cotton wool. I know you’re worried. I am too, but we have to let her have some of her freedom. If Abbi wants to shave her legs instead of using that dreadful smelling cream you buy her, let her. She isn’t a child anymore. She knows the consequences of her actions.”

“And she is sitting right here,” I mutter, tapping the glass instead of holding it. I breathe out and meet Mom’s eyes. “Dad’s right, Mom. I’m not made of china. I’m not going to break at the sight of a razor blade. Honestly, I just want to shave my legs. That’s it. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think I was strong enough.”

Mom presses the heels of her hands into her eyes and sighs deeply. It’s a pain-filled sigh, and she’s probably doing what Dad refers to as “The Kindergarten Thing” again. The one where she gets more agitated and upset over letting me do the growing up all kids do. (No kidding, on my first day of kindergarten she bawled for half an hour before leaving me. I just wanted to play in the sandbox.)

“Fine. Fine. You can shave your legs, but I’m not showing you where the razors are.”

“Fine.” I grit my teeth together. This is the best I’m gonna get. It’s all she’s gonna give, but something is better than nothing.

I press my fingers to the pulse point at my wrist as she leaves the room and remind myself I’m not the only one struggling with my recovery. It must be hard for her to feel so helpless. And, as frustrating as this whole protecting me thing is, if it makes her feel better, I guess I just have to deal with it. I have my way of coping. This is hers, I suppose.

She comes back into the room and hands me a bright pink razor with what looks like a hammer-proof safeguard on. I swallow the sarcastic comment, thank her quietly, and take it as I get up.

My hands shake as I enter the bathroom. I put the razor on the side of the bath and sit on the closed toilet seat, focusing on the lather I have to work up with the shaving foam. I focus on my movements right now instead of the ones I will make.

Tap. Sponge. Legs.

Because no matter how confident I was just two minutes ago, no matter how much bravado I put on for the sake of my parents, I am scared. I’m scared of the urges that build inside me.