He Says He's Just A Friend

Chapter 4 - Fearless

- Emmett -

Clay drove past the shopping center that popped up on the address he'd sent me. I looked around, wondering where exactly he was taking me. Maybe it was a bad idea to go off with a guy I barely knew. Mom was at work. No one even knew I had left home. I should have at least told Carrie. I was just so excited at the prospect of hanging out with him, it slipped my mind to be wary of him.

"Where are we going?" I asked. My stomach churned. This wouldn't be the first time someone lured me to a secluded place under false pretenses, only to lead me into a beating.

Clay glanced over, his brown eyes raking over me with what seemed to be concern. "Are you okay, dude? You look kinda pale."

"Where are we going?" I repeated, a bit more forcefully. I would not let another pretty face fool me.

"It's just right up here." Clay unfurled his index finger from the steering wheel to point straight ahead.

He turned onto a side street that curved around behind the strip mall.

My heart raced, my palms slick with sweat. It astounded me how fear and attraction caused the same physical response.

The bubble of fear choking off my breath shrunk when I saw the building ahead and read the sign out front. "Go-karts?"

Clay smiled. "I had a dream about them last night." There was a strange lilting to his voice. It must've been a pleasant dream. "I thought you might like it."

"I've never driven go-karts."

"What!" Clay stared at me, slack-jawed. "Dude, seriously?"

"I've never really been a car guy."

"You don't have to be a 'car guy' to enjoy a good adrenaline rush."

I already had one adrenaline rush today. I didn't know if I needed another, but Clay seemed so excited. And I wanted to make him happy. Because apparently I was a masochist.

Clay unhooked his seatbelt and opened his door. He paused with the door cracked. "Look, if you really don't want to do this, we can go somewhere else."

Shaking my head, I unfastened my seatbelt and opened the door. "Let's do this."

After Clay paid for our entry—he insisted—we passed by the large meeting room off to the side, full of rambunctious twelve-year-olds at a birthday party, stuffing their faces with hotdogs and pizza.

The attendant at the track wore a costume version of a NASCAR fire suit—I couldn't believe I actually knew the name of those damn things; I'd lived among straight people for too long. He read off a list of rules to the five people awaiting a car, including Clay and myself. The others were all kids whose parents waited at the railing with raised phones, taking photos and videos to capture the moment, rather than living it.

The man instructed everyone to put on their helmets as he helped each person into their car. I stared down at my helmet, wondering how many sweaty, lice-ridden heads had been in that thing.

"Do you want my hat?" Clay asked.

"What?" I looked at him.

Clay's brown eyes gleamed with amusement. "You're looking at that thing like it's going to give you a disease. I figured having something between it and your head would make you feel better."

I shrugged.

Clay removed his hat and ran a hand through his messy brown hair that was flattened against his head. Even with hat hair, he was sexy. It was so unfair.

Clay placed the hat on my head, smiling.

It was damp around the rim from sweat, which was gross, but it smelled like Clay, which was nice.

"It looks good on you."

I snorted.

Part of me was yelling, Do not fall for this straight boy, dumbass!

While another, smaller part whispered, But what if he's not?

I put on the helmet, which fit snugly with the hat beneath it. The little button on top of the hat pressed into my scalp uncomfortably.

Clay clapped me on the shoulder when it was my turn to load into a car. His smile was so bright and sincere, it actually made me smile a little.

After the first lap, which was nerve-wracking with all the younger kids passing me by, I began to relax and enjoy myself. The buzz of the motor, the vibrations humming through my body. The wind whipping at my face. I jumped every time a car zoomed past with an ear-splitting roar, leaving the stench of burnt rubber and gasoline in their wake.

When our turn ended, Clay stood at the side of the track, offering a hand to help me out of the tiny car. It was harder getting out than in. My legs had jellified from the constant vibrations rattling my bones. Standing up, I got light-headed and tripped over the guardrail that all the children easily crossed without issue. Clay reached out for me, but he wasn't fast enough. My knee connected with the pavement, sending a fiery pain shooting up my leg.

I cursed, which made the parents around us shoot daggers from their eyes.

Clay wrapped his arm around me to steady me as I stood up, his hand resting flat on my chest. He smelled so good. I took a good whiff while I had the opportunity.

"You okay?" Clay asked with a laugh.

I pulled free of Clay's hold, straightening my posture. "Fine," I blurted, adjusting my shirt.

Clay made a concerned face, looking down at something. He pushed my shoulders to make me sit back on the railing and knelt down to examine the prefabricated tear in my jeans over my knee. The frayed edges were tinged with red. As soon as I was aware of the wound, it started to sting.

Clay stretched the material, a deep line forming between his brows. He bent forward and gently blew on the raw skin. His breath was cool and soothing.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"My mom always did this whenever I hurt myself as a kid. It always made it feel better." Clay's thick lashes flicked up as his big brown eyes met my gaze. "Did it work?"

Why are you so fucking adorable?

I couldn't say that to him, so I pressed my lips together and nodded.

We returned the helmets to the check-in, and Clay said, "I'm starving. How about you?"

"I guess I could eat." I didn't mention that I ate breakfast an hour before Clay picked me up.

"Got any particular taste you want?"

"We could steal some pizza from the sixth graders back there."

Clay laughed. "I think we can do better than cold pizza."

"What did you have in mind?"

"You good with Mexican food?"

"It's my favorite."

Clay's lips slid into that easygoing grin. So painfully charming. "You and me, we're just like—" Clay raised his hand to show his crossed fingers "—so in sync."

I gave a small shake of my head when Clay turned to walk down the ramp to the parking lot. Clay might never cause me physical pain, as I had briefly worried, but I could not say the same about the emotional kind, which in my experience had a much more long-lasting effect.