Read Online The Best Laid Plans by Tamara Mataya - Free Book Online
Authors: Tamara Mataya
Ads: Link
competed a while in kickboxing tournaments, and done well. Self-confidence meant he didn’t move like a victim anymore, either.
He wasn’t that kid. Didn’t even go by Dylan anymore. His real name was gone, and so was that scrawny, pathetic victim. He shook the remnants of the dream from his mind and focused on the present. On Jayne.
Now that she’d gone, the reality of last night – and this morning – came crashing down on Malcolm in waves of triumph. He’d done it. She was completely gorgeous. They’d made love. No. Fucked. He’d fucked her. Phase one of the plan was done. If nothing else, he had known her in the second most intimate way possible. The most intimate was phase two – getting inside her heart. Making her fall in love with him. Clearly this would be a bit tougher than seducing her.
In bed she’d been amazing, but still closed off. Making eye contact, connecting with him, had been a big deal for her. Her obvious skills showed she’d had a lot of sex. But the way she shut down in bed, made it purely physical, showed him she was inexperienced in making love, in taking sex to the next level: intimacy. She could have sex with someone without being intimate at all. He needed to get past those barriers to win her over, otherwise he’d be relegated to nothing more than a physical relationship.
Until he’d seen her again, he had truly thought he’d gotten over the bullshit from high school, indeed hadn’t thought of the torment in years. He looked like a completely different man, he felt like a different man. At least he had until she came strutting back into his life, puncturing his scar tissue with her heels until the wounds were painful and fresh again. How had he ever forgotten them?
By the time the tenth grade had rolled around, and hormones had begun clouding his teenage brain, his crush soared pretty much to worship level. He never intended on asking Jayne out, or anything that involved approaching her. He’d put her on a pedestal, elevating her until he wasn’t worthy of her attention. On some level he knew he made more of it, and he knew it was one-sided, but he also recognized that he’d sort of made Jayne his muse. In some ways it gave him a creative outlet. He’d discovered music was a better way for him to release emotions than anything else. While he still wasn’t very good at it yet, guitar was his instrument of choice.
It wasn’t just the way the instrument sounded, or how the vibrations beneath his hands calmed him. Guitars were fucking cool, and he’d hoped if he got good enough at playing, he could look a little less losery. He was under no illusions that he’d be homecoming king. He just hoped that maybe he’d transition from invisible nothing, to that guy who kicked ass at the guitar.
It was a Thursday. He’d been practicing in the band room at lunch. A song he’d written – it wasn’t the first, and it wasn’t the worst. It was about Jayne, and he’d called it, Angel. He’d started to add fingerpicking in with the strummed chords and thought it sounded pretty awesome, except for a tricky transition in the bridge. The thin walls at his parents’ apartment had them restrict his playing to an hour a night, which definitely wouldn’t get him anywhere.
He’d just finished limbering up his fingers by playing some scales, when the door opened, and a backpack had flown into the room and come crashing to the floor. The seam split along the zipper, and papers, books, and other educational paraphernalia spilled out onto the thin grey carpet.
“Thanks a lot, asshole!”
She stomped into the room and began stuffing her things back into the backpack.
Jane.
He hadn’t been this close to her since Ms. Redlich’s English class last semester. He had no idea what to do. Say something – but what? Ignore her and pretend he hadn’t noticed the bag? Why was her bag in there? Who’d thrown it? Was someone picking on her? A glance to the door showed it was empty. No
He wasn’t that kid. Didn’t even go by Dylan anymore. His real name was gone, and so was that scrawny, pathetic victim. He shook the remnants of the dream from his mind and focused on the present. On Jayne.
Now that she’d gone, the reality of last night – and this morning – came crashing down on Malcolm in waves of triumph. He’d done it. She was completely gorgeous. They’d made love. No. Fucked. He’d fucked her. Phase one of the plan was done. If nothing else, he had known her in the second most intimate way possible. The most intimate was phase two – getting inside her heart. Making her fall in love with him. Clearly this would be a bit tougher than seducing her.
In bed she’d been amazing, but still closed off. Making eye contact, connecting with him, had been a big deal for her. Her obvious skills showed she’d had a lot of sex. But the way she shut down in bed, made it purely physical, showed him she was inexperienced in making love, in taking sex to the next level: intimacy. She could have sex with someone without being intimate at all. He needed to get past those barriers to win her over, otherwise he’d be relegated to nothing more than a physical relationship.
Until he’d seen her again, he had truly thought he’d gotten over the bullshit from high school, indeed hadn’t thought of the torment in years. He looked like a completely different man, he felt like a different man. At least he had until she came strutting back into his life, puncturing his scar tissue with her heels until the wounds were painful and fresh again. How had he ever forgotten them?
By the time the tenth grade had rolled around, and hormones had begun clouding his teenage brain, his crush soared pretty much to worship level. He never intended on asking Jayne out, or anything that involved approaching her. He’d put her on a pedestal, elevating her until he wasn’t worthy of her attention. On some level he knew he made more of it, and he knew it was one-sided, but he also recognized that he’d sort of made Jayne his muse. In some ways it gave him a creative outlet. He’d discovered music was a better way for him to release emotions than anything else. While he still wasn’t very good at it yet, guitar was his instrument of choice.
It wasn’t just the way the instrument sounded, or how the vibrations beneath his hands calmed him. Guitars were fucking cool, and he’d hoped if he got good enough at playing, he could look a little less losery. He was under no illusions that he’d be homecoming king. He just hoped that maybe he’d transition from invisible nothing, to that guy who kicked ass at the guitar.
It was a Thursday. He’d been practicing in the band room at lunch. A song he’d written – it wasn’t the first, and it wasn’t the worst. It was about Jayne, and he’d called it, Angel. He’d started to add fingerpicking in with the strummed chords and thought it sounded pretty awesome, except for a tricky transition in the bridge. The thin walls at his parents’ apartment had them restrict his playing to an hour a night, which definitely wouldn’t get him anywhere.
He’d just finished limbering up his fingers by playing some scales, when the door opened, and a backpack had flown into the room and come crashing to the floor. The seam split along the zipper, and papers, books, and other educational paraphernalia spilled out onto the thin grey carpet.
“Thanks a lot, asshole!”
She stomped into the room and began stuffing her things back into the backpack.
Jane.
He hadn’t been this close to her since Ms. Redlich’s English class last semester. He had no idea what to do. Say something – but what? Ignore her and pretend he hadn’t noticed the bag? Why was her bag in there? Who’d thrown it? Was someone picking on her? A glance to the door showed it was empty. No
Similar Books
