Part 32 (1/2)

”Deja vu,” I say, rubbing the shoulder that rammed into his painfully solid chest.

Dean looks down at me, amused. ”What are you doing?”

”I'm looking for a bathroom,” I say. I know my voice is grumpy, but I can't help it. I look him up and down. He's dressed head to toe in black: long-sleeved black s.h.i.+rt and black jeans that hug his trim hips and long legs. ”Do you live in this hall?”

”My room's right there.” He gestures to the double doors behind him.

”Oh?” I start edging past him, curiosity replacing my grouchiness. ”Can I see inside?”

Dean chuckles at my eager tone. He takes a step backward, and twists the handle. He shoves the doors open for me, and I go right in.

Wow. His room is large, and...inst.i.tutional-looking. Actually, I think I've seen nicer prison cells. Not that I've actually seen a prison cell, but I'd think that if anyone had to be incarcerated in Dean's room, with its glaringly blank white walls, and drab spa.r.s.e furniture-they'd jump out the window.

There is nothing in his bedroom. Okay, the bed looks like a king size, with a plain oak headboard, and olive green sheets, made to military perfection. There's a huge chest of drawers the same color as his headboard, and a small utilitarian desk with a laptop on it. The sliding gla.s.s doors lead out to a balcony, and a fancy little alcove for a fireplace are the only indications that this room is part of an elegant mansion.

I turn to Dean, horrified. ”Are you being punished for something?”

He looks around his room, confused by reaction. ”No.”

”Okay, this is not a normal boy room,” I say, wandering further in to inspect his desk. ”I've been in a few of them in my time, and-where's the mess? The game systems? Sports memorabilia?” I'm describing Johnny's room, but his is so typical of the teenage male-maybe more of a disaster than most (and they have housekeepers!).

”I don't like clutter.”

”Obviously. Dude, you don't even have a bookshelf. Don't you read?”

”Yeah, I read.” Dean smirks at me. ”I use my laptop, or my phone.”

”But...” The lack of...stuff is bizarre, as disturbing in its own way as-as my room. ”Your room is suppose to reflect your personality. This-” I gesture widely around me. ”-is a cry for help.”

Dean leans against a wall, arms crossed in a typical hot guy pose. ”I don't spend much time in here,” he says with a shrug.

”So? It wouldn't kill you to add a few personal touches. Where are your trophies, and c.r.a.p? I know you have them. Why don't you display them? Dean, this is so sad.”

He shakes his head at me, smiling slightly. ”It bothers you that badly?”

”It does,” I say firmly, planting my hands on my hips. ”I have this urge to decorate it. This room has such potential!”

”Go ahead,” Dean invites, his expression completely serious. But this is Dean-he could be joking.

I narrow my eyes at him. ”I might.”

”Okay.”

We eye each other like gunslingers at high noon-then I am painfully reminded that I need a bathroom. ”Can I use your bathroom?” I ask, already heading toward the door I a.s.sume is what I'm looking for.

”Sure. But that's the-”

”Closet.” I shut the door, and reverse direction to see what's behind door number two.

Dean's bathroom is an almost exact replica of Johnny's, layout-wise. They both have the big gla.s.s-encased showers, the big jetted tub, and the really cool frosted gla.s.s tiles. And the double sinks. I'd never need 'em, but they're cool to have.

I quickly freshen up, noticing the room smells like Dean-clean masculine scents combined with the fragrance of the woods. I feel vaguely dirty picturing him in the shower. Honestly, though, the image just absently popped into my head, kinda like when I see a picture of a really hot celebrity and wonder what it would be like to make out with him. I'm not the only one who does that, right?

I'm really fast in the bathroom because I don't want Dean to wonder what I'm doing in there. When I zip back out, he's doing something on his phone.

”Can I hang out in here?” I blurt out when he looks up at me. ”I just-I don't want to go back out there. Uh, you don't even have to stay with me. I promise I won't touch anything, or snoop around.”

I give him my most pitiful look, big eyes and all. Seconds tick by as Dean considers this. Finally, he gives an almost imperceptible sigh, and looks back down at his phone. ”I'm not leaving you in here by yourself,” he mutters. ”I'll stay.”

”Yay.” I give a little clap. ”What should we do? Oh, I know! Truth or Challenge!”

His brow furrows slightly. ”Truth or what?”

I start to go for his bed, then hastily flop down onto the plush carpet instead. Some people are weird about having other people on their bed, and Dean strikes me as one of them. Also, I don't want to wrinkle his sheets.

”Truth or Challenge is like a sober Truth or Dare. Heather learned it from Bible study camp...”

Dean eases down on the desk chair, facing me. ”Heather went to Bible study camp?” he asks, clearly surprised.

”I know. Anyway, it's basically a tame way of getting to know someone. Instead of daring someone to do something stupid, like crush a beer can on his forehead, you give them a challenge.”

I give him examples of when Heather and I last played. I challenged her to stare at herself in the mirror for five minutes every morning for a week (a week being the maximum duration for a challenge), and tell herself she's beautiful. She challenged me to bond with my mother over an eighties movies marathon.

”Oh, and no direct orders, like you can't challenge someone to stop drinking, or smoking, or whatever,” I say. I push my long hair back and peek up at Dean to see if he looks annoyed yet. ”You know what? We don't have to play-so cliche, right? It's really more fun when there's a bunch of people,” I add lamely.

”Somers.” Dean nods his chin at me. ”Truth or challenge?”

Chapter 33.

I beam at him. ”Truth.”

”Have you ever done anything illegal?”

”Um...sort of. I swallowed a Minnie Mouse earring at a store when I was seven, and I didn't pay for it. Truth or challenge, Youngblood?”

”Truth.” Why is he smirking?

”What's the significance of the lighter?” I ask promptly, nodding to his ever-present Zippo. ”You don't even smoke, right?”

Dean looks down at his hand as if he's surprised to find something in it. Then he glances up at me with a self-deprecating half-grin. ”No significance. You never know when you'll need a light.”

”Hm. Cryptic. Truth or challenge.”

”It's my turn,” he protests.

”Yes, but the rules state that if a question isn't answered to your satisfaction, then you get another turn,” I lie. ”I'll just ask you another question. So, football. Is that really what you want to do with your life?”