The Art of Taking Chances Page 18

  He cringed. “Let me have it.”

  “Okay. Go take a cow patty, put it on your head—” At the shocked look in his eyes, I burst out laughing, but held up a finger. “—put it on your head, and walk with it until you get to the water. Then you can jump in and clean off.”

  “Wait,” he said, “are you calling me a shit head?”

  I laughed. “If the poo fits.”

  He wagged a finger at me, chuckling. “I think this might be worse than eating cake.” He laughed gain. “You proud of yourself?”

  I shrugged, smiling sweetly. “At least I let you clean off. I’m going to be tasting this thing all night!”

  “Fair point.” He put his hands on his hips, drawing my eyes to his muscled torso and the line where his boxers met his skin.

  My heart pounded. “Go on, find it.”

  With his back turned to me, I bit my bottom lip. Curt was so hot! How was this happening?

  He bent over and picked up a flat, dried out cow chip and walked toward me, pinching it between two fingers. “I have to put this on my head?”

  “Yep.”

  “And walk to the pond?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And fling it away.”

  “You got it.”

  “And then get wet again?”

  I laughed. “I think you got the hang of it.”

  “Oh.” He looked to the side, then sprung forward, grabbing me at the waist and hoisting me over his shoulder.

  “Hey!” I screamed, suddenly seeing the ground below me. I twisted to find him holding the chip over his head with his free hand.

  “You never said you weren’t coming along for the ride!” he gloated.

  “Oh my gosh.” My heart pounded, giddy. “You’re crazy!”

  “Yep!”

  He flung the cow pie away like a frisbee and crashed into the water, taking me with him.

  I plunged under then came back up, gasping, laughing.

  His head broke through the water a few feet away from me.

  “You’re insane!” I smacked my hand on his chest, but he caught it and pulled me closer.

  “And?”

  My cheeks felt hot, but I couldn’t look away from him. His lips were slightly parted, and I wanted to dare him to kiss me, but that would be too cliché.

  “Truth or dare?” He asked, the movement of his mouth mesmerizing.

  I closed my eyes to clear my head. “Truth.”

  “What’s your idea of a perfect date?”

  Anywhere, anything with you, I wanted to say. I opened my eyes again to see his growing darker, intense in the fading evening light.

  “My perfect date?” I hedged.

  He nodded, his chin dipping into the water.

  “Wildflowers. And a movie. And buttery popcorn. And something under the stars.”

  His lips spread into a smile.

  “Truth or dare?” I asked, very aware of his smooth skin and soft chest hair under my hand.

  “Truth.”

  Feeling unsteady, I chanced it. “Earlier, when I said there wasn’t a guy within a hundred miles interested in me, you said that wasn’t true.”

  He nodded.

  “Yeah, well.” I looked down at the water then back to him. “Who’s that?”

  “You’re looking at him.”

  “You’re kidding.” No way could this guy—this handsome guy with a smile that could melt the polar ice caps and a frame built from hard work on the farm—no way could he be interested in me.

  But he was staring at me with those eyes that said he meant it. “Not even close.”

  “Really?” It came out as a whisper and blended with the soft colors of sunset.

  He nodded and held my hand between both of his. “But that’s not how you ask a girl on a date.”

  My eyes flew open.

  “Harleigh.” His fingers traced a strand of hair behind my ear. “Will you go out with me?”

  So soft I almost missed it, I heard the rumble of an engine. My heart dropped. Dad’s truck.

  Six

  I pulled my hand out of his and ran through the water to shore. “I gotta go!”

  Without waiting, I flew over the bank toward Midnight and my pile of clothes. I was still sopping wet, but I yanked on my jeans, fumbling with the button. I didn’t even bother with socks or my shirt, stuffing them in my saddle bag instead.

  Curt caught my arm. “Harleigh, what’s going on?”

  I looked toward my hill, forcing my dripping hair back into a ponytail. Dad’s pickup crested the hilltop, barely a fuzzy red spot in the distance.

  “You want to go out with me?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said, emphatically moving his head up and down.

  “Want to explain to my dad why we’re out here half naked?”

  Understanding dawned across his expression, and then he took my arms in both his hands, looking me square in the face. “I’ll come by your house at seven tomorrow.”

  I looked from his hazel eyes to his full lips, reveling in the words he’d said. Before I could talk myself out of it, I touched my lips to his. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  His finger brushed his lips, and I grinned at the sight.

  Midnight pawed at the ground. She knew we had to go.

  I hooked my foot in the stirrup, swung into the saddle, and started Midnight out of the trees, toward Dad’s pickup. We reached open pasture, and I started her at a lope. Wind whipped through my hair, cooling my skin, evaporating the water. We worked in cadence—my horse, the wind, and me. The thunder of her hooves, the chaos of the breeze, and my pounding heart formed a melody sweeter than any song.

  We met Dad in the middle of the field, along the trail. He had his window rolled down and his arm hanging out the side. He took me in, wet hair, damp jeans, and the grin I couldn’t wipe away.

  An amused smile turned up the edges of his mustache. “Everything alright?”

  “More than alright.”

  I couldn’t wait for the rest of summer.

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  Tickets on Himself

  Kat Colmer

  “have tickets on yourself”

  Australian informal: to think highly of yourself, be conceited

  One

  The moment I open my birthday card and the tickets fall out, a shocked hush chokes the room.

  Nanna Yola beams at me. “It’s to see that hottie Sam Stokes. Such a glorious voice. And the way he moves those hips! Now that’s what I call talent, Ally.” She wiggles her penciled-on eyebrows, and I have to quash the impulse to give her an updated definition of the word talent. “You were such good friends for so many years. I know you must be desperate to see one of his concerts.”

  I force my lips into something I hope resembles a smile. “You shouldn’t have.” As in, she shouldn’t be using words like “hottie” when talking about Sam Stokes, and she definitely shouldn’t have bought me tickets to his concert.

  Everyone knows how I feel about Sam and his artificially sweetened, boy-band vocal chords. The awkward silence and the oh-crap expressions on my parents’ and Bea’s faces are proof of this. But Nanna’s memory has been taking more and more frequent vacations lately. Still, her heart’s in the right place. And anyone else would be ecstatic to receive Sam Stokes tickets for their eighteenth birthday.

  Anyone but me.

  I shove Sam and his swinging hips out of my mind and lean in to hug my well-meaning Nanna. “Thank you. These are… They are…” Stuck for words that aren’t of the curse variety, I kiss her papery cheek. She smells of roses and kindness. “I don’t know what to say.”

  I’ve got to do something, though, because any more of this awkward tension and someone is likely to pass out from holding their breath for too long. Desperate, I throw Bea a “help me” look over Nanna’s shou
lder.

  “Cake!” my best friend booms into the silence. “Isn’t it time we did the cake?”

  “Yes!” Mom jumps to attention and dashes into the kitchen. The sudden movement acts like the flick of an “at ease” switch, and everyone relaxes.

  I give Bea a grateful smile as we edge over to the table at the far end of the room. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Your face looked like it might crack under the weight of all that pretending.” Bea plucks two glasses from the table. “So I’m guessing you’re not planning on going to the concert?”

  “Hell no!” Not even if Sam was the only singer alive and this was my last chance ever to listen to live music.

  Bea purses her lips. “Maybe you should go.”

  My mouth slackens. How can Bea even say such a thing?

  She shrugs and unscrews a bottle of lemonade like her suggestion is no big deal. “His music’s really changed over the past year. It’s not that awful boy band pop. It’s…I don’t know…different.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s any different.” I cross my arms, but Bea holds out my drink and I have to uncross them again.

  “And you know this because you actually spoke to him at the last Brinski-Stokes get-together?”

  I give the tiny bubbles jostling for space in my glass my full attention. Bea knows I only suffer through those annual meetups because Mom and Sam's mother are such good friends.

  “Well?” Bea presses.

  I lift my eyes to meet Bea’s. “You know full well I can’t talk to him without it ending up in a shouting match.”

  At least, that’s how the first Brinski-Stokes get-together ended after he hit the big time. Thankfully, he was on tour for last year’s. I don’t have high hopes for this year’s.

  Bea’s mouth opens like she’s about to comment, but she takes a drink from her glass instead. “What are you going to do with the tickets then?”

  Set them on fire. Flush them down the toilet. Cut them up into tiny little pieces the way Sam cut up our friendship three years ago. But as much as flames and scissors and the sewer are an appealing fate for anything relating to Sam Stokes, I probably should give someone else the chance to go to the sold-out concert.

  I huff and take a sip of my soda. “Don’t know. Give them away, I guess.”

  Bea’s brows almost disappear into the party streamers hanging from the ceiling. “Have you got any idea how much those tickets would’ve cost? They’re A reserves. You can’t just”—she waves a hand in front of her face like she’s swatting a fly—“give them away like that.”

  “You have them then.”

  She’s never hidden the fact she listens to Sam's music. At first it hurt, but our friendship is bigger than our differing opinion of Sam Stokes and his fake, out-of-tune pop. Besides, he’d been her friend back then too. It wasn’t Bea’s fault I’d started to see him as something more.

  Eyes gleaming with an idea, Bea looks over the top of her glass at me. “You should sell them. Online. To the highest bidder.”

  I frown. The idea feels wrong, like I’m making money off Nanna.

  “You could buy your nanna something really nice for Christmas,” Bea says, as though she’s heard my thought. “And you’d probably still have enough left over to go see that singer Pearl something-or-other you like so much. It’s a win-win, Ally.”

  “Pearl Strickland.” I rub at the condensation on my glass and consider Bea’s argument.

  It would be nice to treat Nanna to something special. Almost as nice as it would be to see the very jazz legend Sam and I both worshipped before Australian Idol made a pop idiot of him. The irony is sweet and tastes a little of revenge.

  Behind us, a chorus of Happy Birthday erupts. I turn to watch Mom carrying a Nutella cake decorated with eighteen candles. Bea bellows out the song, deliberately off key. The image of Sam singing beside her flashes across my mind before I can stop it.

  The last time they stood side-by-side at my birthday was three years ago. That afternoon, Sam had given me tickets to see Pearl Strickland along with my very first kiss. Two days later, we’d had the mother of all arguments and then…

  No. I wasn’t wasting any more time thinking about the stranger Sam had become. I was putting the tickets up for sale online tonight and ridding myself of Sam Stokes for good.

  Two

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I put my cereal bowl on the pile of sheet music next to my laptop and refresh the TicketBay page with my Sam Stokes listing. Wow! Looks like Nanna will be getting a nice little trinket from Tiffany’s under the Christmas tree this year, because some insane person is willing to pay triple the original price for the tickets.

  I shake my head and check the buyer’s details. Jeremy24. Also based in Sydney, Australia. And clearly a guy with more cash than brains if he’s clicked the “buy it now” button instead of putting in a conservative bid like any other sane person. I only put that crazy price up on a whim. I didn’t think anyone would actually pay it.

  What is it with Sam Stokes and his stupid music? It’s like he’s brainwashed everyone on the planet into hero worshipping him. Ugh.

  I compose a quick message to Jeremy24 between spoonfuls of soggy Cheerios, telling him he’s the lucky (if mentally unstable) buyer of two Sam Stokes tickets, which I’ll mail after he’s paid. No point organizing anything until I see the color of his money. He might still come to his senses and back out.

  But by the time I’ve showered and dressed, there’s a message from Jeremy24 saying he’s already paid.

  I check my account, and whaddayaknow, the money is there. I type a reply:

  Me: Hey there! Thanks for paying so quickly. If you give me your address, I’ll post the tickets first thing tomorrow.

  I’d post them today—that’s how much I’d like to be rid of them—but it’s a Sunday, so it’ll have to wait. I turn away from the computer and grab my phone. Bea’s probably not up yet, but I message her the news that my bank account just had a very healthy deposit.

  When I turn back to the computer, Jeremy24 has responded again.

  Jeremy24: Actually, I’d rather not risk the mail. My sister would kill me if they got lost in transit! I’m in enough trouble for missing out on the tickets when they first went on sale. She’d be shattered if I somehow messed this up as well. LOL. I’m away for the next two weeks, but will be back in Sydney a couple of nights before the concert. Could I maybe pick them up then?

  So the tickets are for his sister. That kind of makes the triple payment sweet. Still stupid, but also sweet. Almost makes me feel bad for taking the guy’s money. Almost.

  I chew on the inside of my cheek; I don’t like the idea of a face-to-face with a stranger I’ve met on the internet. Then again, he’s already paid, so it’s not like he’s planning to run off with the tickets. If we meet in a public place and I have Bea with me…

  I place my fingers on the keyboard.

  Me: That should be fine.

  Jeremy24: Great! You’re a life saver :)

  A life saver, eh? His sister must be a huge Sam Stokes fan. No different from most of the female population between the ages of twelve and twenty. I cringe at the thought, not quite sure why it’s twisting something in my stomach.

  I go to log off the computer but there’s another message.

  Jeremy24: Sorry you’re not able to make the concert yourself. Hopefully you can do something fun with the money.

  I snort. Better set this guy straight so he doesn’t think I’m missing out on anything.

  Me: No need to be sorry. I’m able to go, just not a Sam Stokes fan.

  Three dots appear in the corner of my screen. He’s typing.

  Jeremy24: Really? According to my sister, every female between the ages of eight and eighty thinks he’s great.

  This time I bark a laugh. Eight and eighty. Sam wishes!

  Me: You’re being way too generous with that age range. And what makes you think I’m female? Maybe I’m a tattooed guy who’s into hea
vy metal and wouldn’t be caught dead at a boy band reject Sam Stokes concert.

  Jeremy24: Boy band reject. Harsh. But are you? A guy, I mean.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard. That’s really none of his business. Still, I’ll have to give him a description at some point for when he picks up the tickets so…

  Me: No. Are you?

  Jeremy24: LOL. Yes, I’m a guy. Name’s Jeremy, but you’ve probably guessed that already. No tattoos. I’m eighteen, in case you’re wondering.

  I may have been wondering, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  Jeremy24: What about you? Any ink? A lover of heavy metal?

  Me: Nope on both fronts. But I’d still not want to be caught dead at a Sam Stokes concert.

  Jeremy24: So how’d you end up scalping Sam Stokes concert tickets? ;-)

  The wink at the end of his question tugs at the corners of my mouth. The guy might not have any brains when it comes to money, but his sense of humor is intact.

  Me: The tickets were a present. Nanna meant well.

  Jeremy24: Well, you can tell your nanna they’re going to a huge Sam Stokes fan.

  Me: So how do you feel about Sam Stokes’s music?

  Three dots appear in the corner of my screen. Then disappear. It’s a good couple of minutes before they show up again.

  Jeremy24: His music is better than when he started. It’s moved on from boy band pop, but he’s still got more to learn.

  I frown. He more or less repeated Bea’s words from yesterday. Maybe I should listen to a recent Sam Stokes song and see if—I shake my head. What am I even thinking? Then the last part of Jeremy’s message catches my attention.

  Me: You make it sound like you’re some sort of music expert.

  Jeremy24: Not an expert, just got a serious interest in it. Am enrolled at the Con for next year.

  I jolt up in my seat, almost knocking over the music stand next to my desk. The pages of my latest composition flutter to the ground—a kaleidoscope of black and white butterflies that make up part of my Sydney Conservatorium of Music admission portfolio.