And that hurts. Knowing that Mom has only a couple of reasons in the first place to want to see me, and both of them suck.

“What’s the other reason why she wants to see you?”

“Money. She always needs a handout. She can’t save up even a dollar. If she has change in her pocket, she rushes out and spends it.” I haven’t heard from her in a while. Last time I told her not to contact me for two weeks, and so far she’s holding to it.

But those two weeks are up soon and I don’t doubt for a second she’ll be back in a hot minute, sniffing around and looking for another payout.

“You know if you get rid of the weed, she’ll just ask for more money so she can get it somewhere else,” Wade points out.

I’ve already thought of that. I’ve thought of everything. “That’s fine, then at least it’s not on my hands.”

“Not completely.”

Hell. Wade is right. I hate this. Hate what my mom’s become, what she forces me to do. I’m mean to her and I despise it, but she’s always mean to me first. She gives me no choice. This is our fucked-up relationship, and I’m jealous as hell of Fable. At least she doesn’t have to deal with Mom. She was strong enough to cut the ties and walk away.

Why can’t I do that? Why do I always feel so damn guilty when she looks at me, begging me for money, for drugs, for a light for her fucking cigarette, for Christ’s sake?

Why does she have to be so fucked up? Why can’t I have a normal mom like everyone else? I can’t fucking stand her. And it hurts me to even think that, let alone say it out loud.

“Let Des know I’m not mad at him. Just tell him … I need him to stay back, only for a little while. I gotta try and get rid of my mom,” I say, feeling like an asshole.

“I’ll let him know. I just gotta tell you that if you’re going to try and cut him out of our lives, it would piss me off. I like Des. He’s one of my best friends, too, you know,” Wade says.

“I get it, man. I like Des, too.” Despite the fact that he’s a drug dealer. But who am I to judge, with my white-trash mama and crazy-ass life?

There’s a knock at the door and I leap from the couch to answer it. I find Chelsea standing on my doorstep, cute as hell wearing the 49ers sweatshirt I bought her and black yoga pants, her hair in a high ponytail. She’s clutching a giant brown bag in one hand, a tiny smile teasing the corners of her mouth.

“Hi,” she says softly, her eyes warm, everything about her … beautiful.

Shit. I am so gone over her. I wonder if she feels the same.

“Hey.” I take her free hand and drag her inside, slamming and locking the door behind her. “You look good.”

“I’m dressed like a bum,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Way to knock the sweatshirt I gave you.” I bring her hand up to my mouth and kiss her knuckles, enjoying the way her eyelids flutter the slightest bit when my mouth touches her skin. “And way to show you’re out to impress me tonight.”

“Owen.” She flicks her head toward where Wade’s sitting on the couch.

I keep forgetting she’s not 100 percent comfortable with us being together in front of someone else. I could care less what Wade says, but that’s because I’ve known him forever.

But my poor, nervous Chelsea hardly knows Wade at all. So I guess I can’t blame her.

“It’s just Wade, Chels.” I drop a kiss to her lips, then take the bag from her hand, surprised it’s so heavy. “What did you bring for dinner?” Whatever it is, it smells damn good. My stomach is growing more demanding by the second.

“Indian food.” She looks pleased with herself. I think she has me all figured out meal-wise. That my diet consists of pizza and fast food and … pizza. Beer and soda and beer and … that’s about it. “I hope you like this place. I’ve only tried them once.”

“I’ve never had Indian food,” I admit as I carry the bag over to the dining table.

“Really?” She sounds incredulous as she walks into the kitchen. “Well, I brought a huge variety of dishes, so hopefully you’ll like something.” She’s grabbing plates and utensils as though she lives here, and I like seeing her move about my house so comfortably. She fits in. I want her here.

I like having her with me.

“Wade, you can join us if you want. Do you like Indian food?” she calls from the kitchen as she pushes up her sleeves, turns on the faucet, and washes her hands.

“I’ve never had it either,” he answers.

“We have so much. You need to come over here and try it. I think you’ll like it.” She shuts off the faucet, dries her hands, then grabs another plate before she brings everything to the table and starts setting it out.

I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s a completely different girl from the one I met only weeks ago. The first version of Chelsea had been shy, quiet, unsure of herself. This version is still a little shy, a little unsure, but there’s something different about her now.

A confidence. It’s in the way she moves, the way she talks, how she looks at me. I can feel it, see it, hear it, and I realize my sweet little Chelsea Rose has blossomed.

And I can’t help but think I’ve been a huge influence in this change.

CHAPTER 17

Chelsea

“God, that was torture,” Owen murmurs the minute his bedroom door shuts behind him. He pulls me into his arms, pressing me against the door as he leans in and kisses me.

I melt into him, curling my arms around his neck, burying my hands in his hair. His mouth on mine, firm yet soft, hot and damp, his tongue sliding against mine—relief mixed with desire floods me at the connection. I’ve waited for this, wanted it all night.

We spent hours out on that couch with Wade sitting right by us, watching some movie I really didn’t pay much attention to. I couldn’t. Owen kept touching me. Innocent little touches that should have meant nothing but instead meant everything.

Fingers on the back of my arm, his warm breath stirring my hair every time he spoke, he sat so close to me. The rumble of his laugh vibrating through me, making me shiver. His whispered words in my ear, griping about Wade being clueless, his lips brushing against my skin and sending a tremble throughout my body that I felt down to the very depths of my soul.

Dramatic. Silly. I know it, but I don’t care. I’m in the throes of an Owen obsession and I’ve never been happier.

Though I’m scared, too. I’m just … me. And he’s so … him. Easy to smile, easy to laugh, easy to show me exactly how he feels. Like now, being wrapped up in his arms, his big, capable hands sliding down my sides, I can feel him. Every hard inch of him pressing into me, and I’m scared and exhilarated and overwhelmed and ready.

So ready.

“I can’t believe Wade didn’t catch on I wanted to be alone with you,” Owen murmurs against my neck, pressing tiny kisses there. “Thank God that shitty movie’s over so we could bail.”

His hands feel so good on my skin. He’s slipped them beneath my sweatshirt, beneath the thin T-shirt I’m wearing under it, and his fingers dig into the pliant flesh at my waist. He’s drawing little circles with his thumbs as he slowly kisses his way up the length of my neck. I close my eyes, my arms tight around him, my fingers tugging his hair as I lose myself so completely in his embrace.

“Fuck, Chelsea, you smell so good,” he whispers just before he settles his mouth on mine. I open to him easily, gasping in surprise when he pushes me away so he can tear off my sweatshirt. He tosses it on the floor, irritation flashing in his eyes as he reaches for me again. “Who’s the jackass who bought you that bulky thing anyway?”

Laughing, I shake my head. “I don’t know. Some hot guy I just met who’s the best kisser on campus?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Only on campus?”

“The entire town?” When he doesn’t say anything I laugh even more. “The whole state of California?”