After class, I scoot out quickly. Carrie runs behind me, calling my name. “Booker, give me my phone back.”
“You can have it after school. Meet me at my car.”
“No. I can’t live without my phone!” she yells.
I wave to her and then disappear down the hall. Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands. Three classes later, I find her sitting on the hood of my navy blue Porsche, a birthday gift from my parents when I turned eighteen.
“Hand it over.” She jerks her palm out.
“Get in the car.”
“No. I have homework and then I’m going to The Sugar Factory.”
“Let’s go to the Factory now. I’ll do your homework and you can make me some dinner.”
“You don’t even know what homework it is.”
I shrug. “What does it matter? We both know that as long as it’s not art, I can do it.”
“Don’t you think I should do my own homework?”
“Definitely not. You’re a senior. You’re already set on going to community college and then taking over The Sugar Factory. What’s the point of doing your calculus?” I lift her off the hood of my car with ease and carry her to the passenger side.
She wriggles in my grip. “Put me down, Booker.”
I set her feet on the ground and place my palms on the roof of the sports car, caging her between my body and the car door. “You never used to care that I lifted you up and carried you around. I spent an entire year giving you piggyback rides from middle school to The Sugar Factory.”
“We were twelve, and it was five blocks, and you needed the exercise. You said it was for baseball training. We’re not twelve anymore.” She tries to slide down and escape, but I just lower my arm and block her.
“Right, but we’re still friends. Friends can carry each other.”
“Like you carry Trish?”
“Why would I carry Trish?”
“Because you’re friends!”
It’s the loud voice and her anxious face that make me back away. “What’s wrong, Carrie? Is something bad happening at home?”
This isn’t like her. Not at all. Something’s changing between us, and I don’t know what, but it’s not making me feel good or right inside.
Chapter Six
Carrie
He’s too close. Even with him having backed off a little. My body went haywire when he caged me against his fancy sports car. I sat on his hood on purpose to annoy him. Any other guy would have lost their minds if you dropped down on the hood of their very fancy sports car. All Booker did when he saw me was smile.
“It’s not right. You can't be picking me up and stuff when you’re dating Trish,” I blurt out.
“What? I’m not dating Trish. I’ve never dated anyone.”
I roll my eyes, pushing past him. His response doesn't help matters. I should have known better than to think he would commit to only one girl. That thought really sours my mood. His arm loops around my waist, pulling me so that my back hits his chest.
“Stop. You’re driving me nuts here.” I find myself relaxing into him even though I’m upset with him.
“Fine. Not dating. Hooking up or whatever.”
“I’m not hooking up with her or anyone, for that matter.” He turns me in his arms. I have to drop my head all the way back to look up at him.
“Oh, but you said…” I trail off.
“She’s been hanging with my mom. I mean, my mom is pretty cool. Can you blame her? Trish’s mom forgets she’s a mom most of the time. At least that’s what my mom told me. She’s not even my type.”
“You have a type? Is it anything with a vagina?” I needle at him. Gosh, I sound like a bratty bitch. Why does he even want to be friends with me at this point? I keep lobbing blows at him. He bats them away so easily.
“Are you implying I’m a manslut?” He pretends to be offended.
“You do have a thing for strippers.”
He actually cringes. “You've heard about that?” His cheeks turn red. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him blush before. I didn’t know he could get embarrassed.
“Half the baseball team brags about it.”
He releases his hold on me, running his hand down his face. “It’s all my dad’s doing. It’s embarrassing, but when he wants to do something, there is no stopping him. Hell, even if someone doesn’t want any of it, there still is no stopping him.” I can tell that his father doing things like that bothers him. “I stopped trying long ago. Now I roll with the punches, but that doesn’t mean I partake in any of it.”
“Booker.” I say his name softly, guilt hitting me at my jealous assumptions.
I’d never thought about him not wanting his dad to hire those strippers. It actually makes sense. I’ve never seen Booker be anything but a gentleman to girls. I know his dad is hard on him when it comes to baseball. He’s the father that stands on the sidelines screaming most of the game. He’s always been a bit much. I’m not even sure Booker loves playing the sport anymore. He nowhere near enjoys it as much as his father. That I know for sure.