“Ashtyn, wake up. We’re here.”
I’m not really awake, and just want to go back to sleep. That’s not going to happen, because Derek pats me soundly on the shoulder.
“I’m up,” I say groggily.
He keeps patting me on the shoulder until I sit up and look out the window. In front of us is a big sign that reads:
Oh, goodie. Nature. Should I mention that I’m not fond of spiders, and just hearing the sound of crickets creeps me out? “Umm . . . why don’t we ditch the camping idea and go to a hotel? Between your gambling money and my meager savings, I’m sure we can scrape up enough to stay at a decent place.”
“Don’t act all innocent. Monika found a bunch of money stashed in your boot and poker chips in your suitcase.”
“So that makes me a gambler?”
“Yep.”
“Listen, Sugar Pie. Don’t be a diva and be quick to judge other people.” He steps out of the car and heads toward a sign that reads REGISTRATION AND GENERAL STORE.
A guy at the front desk greets us with a crooked, toothy grin as he produces a site registration form. Soon we’re assigned a small campsite with running water and electricity.
While Derek buys a bundle of wood and matches, I buy hot dogs and buns. In the end, I splurge and buy stuff to make s’mores. As long as I’m stuck here, I might as well make the best of it.
Outside, Derek leans against the car while checking the map for our campsite location. He has no clue that two girls sitting on top of the picnic bench a few feet away are staring at him like he’s some sort of conquest.
He peeks into my bag. “What’d you buy for dinner?”
“If you’re thinking I got organic turkey burgers or flax seeds, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“What about apple cider vinegar?”
“For what?”
“A detox.”
I look him up and down. “You don’t need a detox, Derek. You need hot dogs.”
His response is a laugh. “Let’s pitch the tent and make a fire so I can fill up with those nitrates. Yum.”
“You’re seriously getting on my nerves.”
“That’s the point, Sugar Pie.” Derek drives down the winding gravel road until we reach campsite number 431. It’s got a few trees, but mostly it’s an open, flat grassy area. “Home sweet home!” he announces.
A couple of our neighbors are playing football, a family is cooking over a fire, and a few girls are sunbathing in bikinis.
Derek practically jumps out of the car and pulls our tent out of the back.
I read the description on the side of the box. “This is for three people.”
“Right. We’re two people, with a tent for three. We’ll have plenty of room to stretch out.”
I’m not convinced. “This looks small, Derek. I don’t think my blow-up bed will fit very well in this thing.”
“Blow-up bed?”
“Yep. I need to be comfortable.”
Being around guys in close quarters is second nature to me. I’ve had to sleep on the bus with the guys when we’ve traveled long distances for games, and I’ve been in the locker room when most of them were half-dressed. But this is different. I have to be in a tent with a boy I have a crush on who I don’t want to have a crush on.
Derek pulls out the tent and spreads it on the ground.
“Need help?” I ask.
“Nope. I got it.”
I sit on a tree stump and watch Derek expertly pitch the tent. It’s hot, even though the sun is going down. He takes off his shirt and wipes sweat from his face with it. When he shoves part of his shirt into the waistband of his jeans, his deep blue eyes meet mine and I feel butterflies in my stomach.
I look away, not wanting him to know I was admiring his naked, bronzed chest and perfect physique. I feel guilty for looking.
The domed tent is green with a purple racing stripe going down the side like a sports car. Most sports cars are bigger than our tent. Most closets are bigger than our tent. All the tents around us are bigger. When Derek refuses to put the blow-up bed I brought in the tent, I lug it in there and inflate it myself. It takes up most of the space, but at least I’ll be comfortable.
In the woods, I gather little sticks to kindle the fire as Derek places firewood in the pit. One of the guys in the campsite next to ours tosses a football near me. On instinct, I drop the sticks and catch the ball.
“Whoa,” a boy with curly blond hair says. “Nice catch.”
I throw it back in a perfect spiral. Curly’s friend, who’s got a tattoo of a skull on his forearm, says, “Good throw. What’s your name?”
“Ashtyn.”
“I’m Ben. Where you from, Ashtyn?” the guy with the tattoo asks.
“Chicago.”
Curly waves me over. “Want to hang with us?”
Derek looks ready to intervene, as if I need some hero to rescue me if I get myself into trouble. I don’t need his help. These are just a few guys having fun. “Maybe I’ll meet up with you guys later.”
When I come back to our site, Derek shakes his head.
“What?” I ask.
“You fell for it.”
“Fell for what?”
He nods in the direction of Ben and his friends. “Those guys were checkin’ you out way before that ball was thrown your way, Ashtyn. It wasn’t an accident.”
I arrange the sticks in the fire pit along with the wood Derek bought. “So?”
He kneels down and starts to light the kindling with a lighter. “So I’m gettin’ paid to drive you, not to babysit you.”
“I don’t need a babysitter. I don’t need anyone.”
He shakes his head and sits back on his heels. “That’s what you think.”