First Love by James Patterson Read Free Book Online Page B

used to.
    I met her pale blue eyes and smiled faintly at her.
Who are you? What do you want?
I mouthed. But she only offered me that strange smirk.
    When I came out of the bathroom, Robinson was already in bed, though it was barely after eight. He was wearing an ancient Bob Dylan T-shirt and pressing buttons on the remote. The TV was on but muted.
    “Axi Moore,” he said, smiling at me, the blue light from the screen flickering on his handsome face.
    “Robinson,” I said, barely above a whisper.
    “What do you want to do now?” he asked.
    I almost cracked up. That was the question to end all questions, wasn’t it?
    For a moment I stood there, caught between the hallway and the bed, between fear and desire. On the one hand, I wanted to sink into Robinson. Reach my fingers into his hair. Feel his lips on my neck. Hold his smooth skin close against mine.
    But then I thought of the dream I’d had among the redwoods—how something could be both perfect and terrifying, both mountain and abyss.
What was the right thing to do?
    “Hey, look,” Robinson said suddenly, his voice brightening. “It’s
Puss in Boots
.”
    Just like that, the tension in the air snapped. We loved that movie, even though it’s for kids. Robinson insisted—I think seriously—that it was Antonio Banderas’s best role.
    So the fuzzy orange cat with the big boots and the Spanish accent banished my questions and doubts until another day. I crawled under the covers next to Robinson. The sheets were silky white and smelled like bleach. I took a deep breath, and I scooted right up against his side. Then I tipped my head onto his shoulder.
    Robinson seemed to stiffen. I froze, too. My heart sank in my chest, and my eyes closed in shame. Had I read the situationso wrong? I told myself I would count to five and then pull away to the far side of the giant bed.
    But then I felt Robinson’s body shift. He curved toward me. And he leaned down and kissed the top of my head. Under the covers, his hand found mine. Our fingers intertwined.
    That’s enough
, I thought.
That’s all I need.
    For now.

13
    O VER BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING, Robinson told me he had something to confess.
    We were in Starbucks, eating microwaved Artisan Breakfast Sandwiches, which, FYI, have nothing artisanal about them. At the table next to us, a Stormtrooper and an unconvincing Michael Jackson sipped Venti dark roasts before taking up their posts along the Walk of Fame.
    “Spill it,” I said. I felt a slight fluttering beneath my rib cage.
He’s going to say he’s sorry, that he should have kissed me last night.
    “I want to see where Bruce Willis lives.” Robinson looked up at me from underneath his bangs, his expression only slightly sheepish.
    I felt like knocking my head against the table. Why did I keep expecting some profound declaration from him? Sometimes he made me wonder if the human adolescent male was acompletely different species from the human adolescent female. (Different as in significantly less evolved.)
    But this was his trip as much as mine, and I wanted to be a good sport. So after breakfast, we flagged down the nearest open-top tour van. The guide promised it would give us an
incredible
look at the stars’
jaw-dropping
homes, and a
secret window
onto their
enviable
lives.
    I thought it might make me feel like a Peeping Tom, but Robinson had no such worries.
    “If you don’t want strangers staring at you, don’t get famous,” he said.
    “I guess I should cancel my
American Idol
audition, then.” I began to sing “I Will Always Love You”—a tough song for a good singer, and a devastating one for someone like me.
    Robinson yelped and covered his ears.
    Since we’d bought tickets for the Deluxe Route, we took our time on the tour, getting off one van, wandering around, and then hopping back on the next. We drove along the shopping districts of Melrose and Rodeo Drive; we passed beneath the towering palms of the Sunset Strip; we saw the La Brea Tar