A girl about my age was onstage, belting out a Kelly Clarkson song. When no one booed during her totally off-key, laughing-through-the-lyrics rendition, my muscles relaxed a fraction. All the same, I reached for Beck’s hand, needing something to hold on to. He looked down at me, the colored overhead lights reflecting blue, yellow, and red across his skin at intervals. His face was even scruffier than it’d been yesterday, and I wanted to run my fingers across his jaw again. Feel the coarse hair against my palm. Have his breath skate across my wrist as his blue eyes pinned me in place. My skin heated at the memory, the warmth traveling up my arm and spreading through my entire body, the same way it did yesterday. On top of the residual sensation, he curled his fingers over mine, the tight grip giving me the sense of security I needed right now. The list must be working because I’d definitely gotten bolder, if only by a fraction.
What do You think about Getting Lucky Number Seven?
