Finally! I posted it! I cannot express how many hours of planning I have put into this fanfic. Most often ideas only exist in my mind but this time I actually organized them on paper.

This story is set after my last fanfic, A Thick Line, but not right after. It would help to read that story, but you don't have to. All the characters are the same as in the Mediator. On a separate note, today was my last day of school! Woo woo.

Then there's next year. :( Oh well...

I do not own The Mediator. The Mediator and all characters belong to Meg Cabot.

Enjoy your read…

I m A g E s

Mmm…that felt good.

Now if he could just – ahh, a little lower…there. That's it, that's the spot.

No, wait come back, don't stop. Lower, lower, keep going!

Holy…shit! That just felt too good.

Now maybe if I just…and squeeze gently. Ooh, he seemed to like that, if his increase in pressure was any indication.

I don't need air, what's oxygen? My breath is always this heavy.

Wait – what is he doin – Ooooo…this is new.

Oh my freaking God where does he LEARN these THINGS?

Okay, okay, just come up higher…and stay…

So if I just move a little this way…o that got him.

I could try rubbing with my other hand. Then if he could just…

Yesssss…damn who needs sanity Paul Slater?

These are the thoughts running through my head during the average – which is way beyond average – make out session with Paul. Today was no different. The past half hour had been spent on his bed exchanging saliva in many various and stimulating ways.

First we were just sitting next to each other, looking out at the ocean. His hand was in mine. Then his arm was around my shoulders. Then his hand was on my waist. Then our lips were touching.

Still sitting, my leg was hooked across his lap. One of his hands was behind my neck. The other was still on my waist. My hands were gripping his shoulders. Our lips were still touching.

At some point we moved to a familiar position: me lying down on the bed, him on top of me, suspended from his elbows. This is usually where his hands move up from my waist to that extremely sensitive spot on my sides, above my rib cage – right by Courtney and Cathy.

Just kidding! I didn't really name them that. A guy naming his…male part is weird enough. Whoever thought of naming their breasts based on size - me being a C - was either very much in love with herself or a former man.

Anyways…While he was on top of me I may have started to curl one of my dangling legs around one of his. This normally prompts him to bring his hands down to further explore the skin of my navel by sneaking his hands under my shirt.

Of course I do what any normal, hormonal teenage girl would do: I slip my own hands beneath his shirt and happily explore his grand expanse of stomach muscles. Let me tell you, Paul Slater does not have a six-pack. Paul probably succeeded that petite manly form before his sixteenth birthday. Ladies, Paul Slater's abdomen is very close to reaching twelve-pack status.

I myself have developed a good amount of muscle as well. Don't worry, nothing obscenely fleshy and creased. But while I was imprisoned in my bedroom for the past the month due to an excruciating amount of grounding, I broke out the kick-boxing videos, borrowed Doc's mini-TV and gave my body one hell of a workout everyday.

By the way, did you know that excruciating means 'equal to the pain of crucifixion', which is exactly how I would describe that punishment. Knowing that the world was going on without me everyday outside my window was torture. Or maybe it was knowing that Paul existed in that world and I couldn't continue to promote our relationship until my arraignment in mid-July.

Two weeks before school got out we talked for a quite a long time on the phone about a vast variety of things. It was both painful and liberating. I cried, he might have cried - and tried to hide it. But the obvious thing was our mutual attraction to each other. When Paul realized I was ready to let go of my inhibitions and finally act on my feelings for him, he was ready to forgive me. A few days later, we enjoyed several low-scale make out sessions before school ended and I was effectively grounded from seeing him.

He still called me every night though. That's not to say I talked to him every night. It all depended on who answered the phone when he called. If it was Mom or Andy they responded with a quick 'She's grounded and can't come to the phone' and then hung up. If it was Brad and he was sober, he would never give me the phone. Only David and Jake ever snuck the phone up to my room – and occasionally Brad when he was intoxicated and didn't know the difference.

I looked forward to those phone calls. For a while they were my only connection with the outside world. Of course CeeCee and Adam tried to ring in too, with about the same amount of success as Paul. It felt good to know that there were people who cared about me.

Back on the subject of Paul and me, we'd obviously moved happily along with our relationship since my punishments was lifted – to three hours a day allowed outside for activities of my own choice – one month ago. To be specific, nearly every 'activity of my own choice' has included Paul, with the exception of two beach days spent with CeeCee. And this liberation required strategic negotiations with my mother. She had to approve these activities.

So presently, I was lying on my back with Paul above me, wreaking havoc on my neck. Both of my hands were up his shirt, as both of his were up mine. His knee was between my legs and one of my legs was wrapped around his. As his lips slowly swept across the expanse of skin between my shoulder and jawbone I felt every inch of my body increase in temperature.

When he pulled back – presumably for a breath of fresh air – I quickly pulled him back down towards to me and began laying a line of kisses from his chin down to the last available square inch of skin peeking out from the V of his button-up polo shirt. Ralph Lauren. You can't say the guy doesn't have style.

His hand beneath my shirt tensed and I knew he liked what I was doing. Paul rarely let his guard down, especially during moments like this when he usually led the charge. But occasionally I was able to surprise him. I knew by his hand movements that he was enjoying this very much so.

We returned to normal mouth-to-mouth kissing – although no version of kissing with Paul Slate could ever be considered normal. He had this way of paying extra attention to my bottom lip, not nibbling so much but gently sucking, making the skin tingle. I looooovvveeeeee it when he does that.

Of course, Paul knew exactly how much of an effect this has on me. So he only used it occasionally. Today was a lucky day.

Another thing about Paul was that he had exceptionally good breath – all the time. Seriously, every time I've kissed the guy or been in close proximity with his mouth there's been nothing but a minty fresh aroma. How does he manage this? Unless he's popping a tic-tac every time I turn around the guy was born with a super-rare gene that many people would pay big money to have.

Good breath wasn't the only unique characteristic Paul was blessed with. His teeth for one thing were an architectural work of art. There wasn't a single blemish anywhere on his skin – believe me, I've been close enough to know. When he tanned, he tanned perfectly evenly.

And just in case you're wondering…Paul chest? Not a single hair, just a smooth, glorious expanse of pure manhood. Although there was this thin, ever so faint trail of brown hair that started just below his belly bottom and traveled down to his…Mr. Paul.

But I'm going by assumption here. I haven't seen anything down there yet to verify exactly where that happy little trail of hair ends up. Some people are grossed out by hair anywhere on a person's body. I'm actually quite fine with his hair – all except that curly mess of unknown that lives inside each armpit.

Seriously, I hate my own armpit hair so much that I sometimes shave there twice a day.

I don't care how un-masculine it is, all men should sheer that stuff right off this instant!

So that brings me back to our wonderful, lip-nibbling version of kissing. I could do this all day, seriously. I don't need food or water when I have this man to entertain and sustain me. Paul used his tongue to gently coax my own into his mouth. By now we were both breathing in a rugged, heavy fashion.

Then for some unfathomable reason, Paul pulled his lips off mine and placed sweet pecks on random areas of my face – cheek, chin, eyebrow. He's weird like that sometimes. Then he pulled a hand out from beneath my shirt and cupped my cheek. He raised his head so he could look down on me and smiled.

I kept my eyes closed and just enjoyed the caring touch of his hand, the way he warmed my skin and molded his fingers so perfectly around my cheekbone. This gesture somehow felt more personal than any action I'd received in the upper body region.

Then he said, "You're beautiful." Just like that, a simple compliment that meant so much. The way he said it, with conviction, almost made me believe it. I opened my eyes and looked at him quickly before looking away to blush. He chuckled. "Really…you are." I smiled and wrapped my hands around his neck, massaging the skin just before his hairline.

Paul nodded, as if that covered it, and returned to kissing me. With my newly improved self-confidence I happily let my tongue play hockey with his. His hands were on my hips now, and my fingers were pressing quite roughly into his back. There was more vigor to our motions than before.

When did it get so hot in this room?

I'm sweating. I think I'm sweating. Since when do I sweat? Oh my God. This feels too good. Being sandwiched between a nice comfy mattress and a more comfy Paul Slater is a very wonderful feeling. We're kissing faster now. I feel his hands getting lower on my hips. One hand is running down my inner thigh.

Holy shit! I love kissing! Kissing is so great. I'm in Heaven. I'm on cloud nine. More like cloud 1900! The only though going through my mind is Paul. Beautiful, wonderful, Adonis Paul. And of course Paul's clever, tasty, acrobatic lips. Along with Paul's masculine, powerful hands which feel so warm and so –

Which are now currently undoing my belt?

Oh crap.

Why does this have to happen now? I know he's a boy and it's harder for him to control his physical desires. But right now, is not the time. The kissing is great. The touching is welcome. And I suppose I can understand why, in his mind, – which ever mind that may be – that undoing my belt would be the next step.

But we've only been together for…three months. Barely. Three months seems so short. Granted, the portion I spent locked in my room was not short at all. But looking at the big picture, three months is not very long. I just can't deal with any below the belt action…not yet. I'm not ready.

"Paul," I try to say, but his lips are still on mine, making speech nearly worthless. "Paul, stop," I speak louder, but even I can't just end the make-out session that was rocking my world up until several seconds ago. It feels too good.

He's got my belt undone and I can feel his fingers dancing on the button of my stretch Levi's. I know he wants to…and maybe I should just give in. Especially when he…mmm kisses me like that. Maybe Paul's tongue is double-jointed.

"Paul," I try to remember why I'm calling his name. I completely forget where I am and what position I am in. Paul is with me and I feel happy and that's all that matters. I trust him. Of course I trust him.

But with his body pressed up against mine I can tell – due an obvious stiffness that wasn't there before – that Paul is definitely thinking with his other brain. Do I trust that part? What kind of person would that make me if I did?

Okay. Just let go. There's some sort of inhibition hanging over my head. For some reason I think I should stop what it is I'm doing. But why would I want to stop kissing Paul? Why would I want to stop pulling Paul's shirt up and up past his glorious abs? Why would I want Paul to stop unbuttoning my jeans? Why should we -

"No!" someone yells out in the hallway, a raspy old rheumy gurgle. The interruption completely breaks the mood we were in. I dig my fingers sharply into Paul's ribs at the same time he grunts and stops, pulling back from me quickly. For a moment I see a look of disappointment flit across his face. But he quickly gets off of me and angrily storms toward his door.

Dr. Slaski is awake.

"What now?" Paul calls as he fixes his shirt – which I had almost succeeded in removing – and marches to his grandfather's room. I lie back and giggle. We did turn off the TV before settling in for our kissing fest. A random burst of audience laughter was not effective background noise. Plus Mr. Slaski was out cold when we put the TV off. Even Mark, who was dozing in the corner of the room, didn't mind.

If Dr. Slaski weren't psycho because of his gift of gab with the dead, he would definitely warrant a one-way ticket to the nut house due to his TV detachment issues. After spending several afternoons at Paul's house, I've become grateful for Dr. Slaski's meds. At least when he's doped up, Paul and I don't have to worry about being interrupted.

I heard Paul shouting about volume and the thickness of glass walls. Of course, Dr. Slaski barely responds, his communication skills had seen better days. Mark is trying to negotiate a lower volume. "It keeps him occupied…" I faintly hear him say.

It wasn't until I sat up and realized that my belt and the button of my jeans were undone. That little sight was enough to bring me back down to earth and realize just how close Paul had come this time.

Well, how close we had come. Quickly and shamefully I redid the button and buckled my belt. Taking a deep breath I ran a hand through my hair. Then I looked around at the rumpled sheets and my jacket, which had been quickly discarded on the floor.

I jumped off that bed so quickly you'd have thought it was covered in blood. God how could I have let my guard down that easily? Jeez, he'd nearly had his hands in my pants and I was just too high on life to notice.

It wasn't Paul's fault though. Neither of us was thinking – well Paul was, just not with the appropriate mind. It's not like I was naked or anything. Still, it scared me how just one kiss from Paul could completely shut down my sense of reason.

I can still hear arguing in the next room. Paul's grandfather has said nothing since his initial outburst. I go over to the window, as far away from the bed as possible. There's a picture of Paul and me taken at the beach sitting on the edge of his desk. He had the film developed in black and white with color accent on our eyes. My green and his blue stand out brilliantly. But they look good together, complimenting each other.

I know that I'm attracted to him, as he is to me. But there must be something else that makes that statement true than just mere physical desire. I'm not quite sure what that is yet.

Still, I'm glad Dr. Slaski stopped us. It's getting harder and harder to say no.

I meet Paul down in the kitchen. He's rummaging in the refrigerator as I sit down in a stool at the counter. Even from the back and fully clothed, Paul's body is firm and sculpted. While he's busy searching for an unknown substance in the confines of his stainless steel Kenmore, I take a few minutes to appreciate the view.

"Chocolate milkshake?" He asks over his shoulder.

I nod and Paul shuts the fridge and sets the items he's retrieved – milk, chocolate syrup, and a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream – on the counter in front of me. "You know what the guy said to me?" Paul asks incredulously, placing both hands on the counter, "Well, of course he didn't say it in any coherent fashion. But the minute I walk in there he starts snoring again! Mark had already turned the TV back on and he just falls asleep!"

I get up and walk around the counter to Paul, wrapping my arms around his waist and giving him a giant hug. "It's okay," I say, "We should have just left the TV on."

"It's not okay," Paul turns and brings his hands to my shoulders. "He's not the only person who lives here. Just because he's handicap it shouldn't mean that rest of the world bows down to him."

This is quite an offensive statement. I frown behind him. Paul's lack of tolerance for his grandfather is nothing new. But he's never been so blunt about the man's disabilities. Normally, Paul likes to pretend that his grandfather doesn't exist. I've overheard him tell people that he lives alone. Sometimes it surprises me how detached Paul can be of his family. Whenever a friend or someone asks questions about him, he just ignores them. Of course, when Dr. Slaski interrupts our personal make out session it's pretty hard to ignore him.

"Well, I can see why that bothers you," I choose my words carefully. Pulling back from Paul I get two large cups down out of the cabinet above the sink. I've enjoyed so many meals here – I say enjoyed because Mark really is quite the chef – that I know exactly where everything is located in the kitchen. "But Paul, we could just stay downstairs."

"But he was sleeping," Paul continues, "no one needs the TV on when they're sleeping. It's not like he understands what's going on even when he's awake!"

"Mmmhmm," I respond, which is really the only way to handle these situations. I agree that Dr. Slaski does not need the TV on when he is asleep. But Paul doesn't have to get so worked up about. Normally he wouldn't care as much – but we both know what would have gone down if Dr. Slaski hadn't chosen that minute to interfere.

I pour some milk and chocolate syrup into the blender. Paul scoops out ice cream beside me and plops it in there too. When the mixture is complete I put the blender on 'whip' and shut the lid securely. While the blender does its thing, Paul puts the ingredients away.

When the shakes are finally ready I sit down beside him at the counter, and sip my milkshake. Instantly that song – you know which song – comes into my mind. Considering today's events – or what was almost today's events – I push the tune away and out of my head.

"So," Paul asks after he downs a considerable amount of his drink, "what are you doing tomorrow? Busy?"

"Tomorrow is sewing day at the Mother-Daughter Art Guild," I respond, reminding him that part of my punishment is to bond with my mother over the summer. She signed us up for classes at the local art store. I knew the bonding idea was inevitable. But I'd been hoping for something like facials at the spa or beach trips.

Things haven't been so bad, though. Thankfully there were no macaroni necklaces to be made. There are seven mother-daughter pairs in the class, and one mom with twins. Most of us were the same age, except for two girls who were still in middle school.

I've only had five classes so far. Two consisted of drawing, which I am convinced is a talent you are born with, or you simply learn to copy and paste clip art from the computer. The teacher, Mrs. Avery, insists that every person has a 'pinch or punch' of talent in every artistic field.

I have less than a pinch. In every field.

The other three classes focused on ceramics. After my first class with the pottery wheel, I decided I like drawing better. Less messy. I ruined a perfectly good Charlotte Russe blouse with the icky clay stuff. Plus, my ceramic vase looked more like a ceramic blob. Of course mom still displayed it proudly on the shelf at home, next to all our other art projects.

My mother had succeeded nicely in every class. I never realized how artistic she was before. I guess good sketching skills aren't required for broadcasting on television. Still, I was amazed at how patient she is, slowly molding every bit of clay, erasing and retracing every detail on her sketch. Some of the stuff she's made is really beautiful.

"Sewing," Paul said, "Like with a needle?"

I roll my eyes, "Yes smart one, with a needle." Men. Seriously, they have no clue.

"Well it could've been with a sewing machine," he reasons, loudly slurping his milkshake.

La la, la la, la. Stop it Suze.

"And a sewing machine has a needle!" I laugh. "Jeez Paul get with the program. How do you think Ralph Lauren makes all those polo shirts you're so found of? With Velcro?"

This is a complete lie. Ralph hasn't sewn anything. Ever. He just started a clothing business by designing clothes and paying other people to slave away for hours in a sweat shop in China. I don't think Ralph would know what a needle is either.

"Very funny," Paul says loudly. Then he proceeds to use his spoon to flick a chocolate glob of milkshake at me. I dodge it just in time.

"Oh no you don't mister," I jump out of my seat and wag a finger in his face, "This is a brand new camisole. I got it half off at DEB!" Paul laughs and threatens me with another glob of goo loaded on his spoon. "Don't you dare!"

He dares.

And it lands smack on my face.

"That's it," I feign anger, "I'm leaving." And I march myself out to the hall where my purse is waiting on the table by the door. The sticky chocolate is dripping down my cheek. But if I go to wipe it off I could get some on my shirt - which happens to be a pale baby blue. I'm almost at the door, flipping my hair over my shoulder for good measure until Paul comes up beside me and grabs me from behind.

"Suze, I'm sorry," and he scoops me up, simply by wrapping his arms around my waist and dragging me into the living while I kick for freedom. This is not very romantic, but I'm laughing all the same.

Paul places me down on the couch and climbs over me. "Let me get that," he says. Then he begins to slowly lick the chocolate off my face.

Now, I always thought that having someone lick my face would feel gross and disgusting. I don't even let Max, the family dog, lick my fingers after I pet him. I hate spit of all forms, including baby drool, dog drool, and the slimey stuff that little kids get in the corner of their mouths while eating a Popsicle.

But having Paul's lips – and tongue – slowly move down the side of my face ever so slowly and gently feels quite good. And Paul is so skilled with his lips – he he he – that there is no slurpy noise to be heard.

When the offending chocolate smear has been removed, he proceeds to kiss me full on the lips. I am only too happy to reciprocate. The couch is comfy, but squeaky so we don't move much. We don't have to either; simply kissing is perfectly fine by me.

After a solid fifteen minutes Paul comes up for air. Then he looks down at me with the most sincere expression on his face. The way he looks at me…it's like I'm the only thing he sees. The only thing he wants to see. I feel so…special. His sky blue eyes glisten down through long, dark eyelashes. I smile, but he stays serious.

"All better?" he asks.

All I can do is nod. I reach up a hand to cup his face. His skin is smooth and flawless. Slowly, I trail my fingers down to the scar on his jaw line. It's just a faint, barely visible line now, a little red maybe, but much better than it was three months ago.

I still can't believe I did that to him. I regret it every time I see the scar, which is every time I gaze at his face. I hate to think I caused him pain. But at the time, I was so confused, and so scared. About everything.

Subconsciously, I trace the same spot on my face with my other hand. Paul is still for all of this. It doesn't hurt him anymore. But the mark itself it still there, reminding us of the events leading up to the start of our relationship.

When I look at it, I'm reminded how destructive pain can make you. Even when you don't realize that the things you're destroying are really the things you care about the most.

We stay like that for a few moments, just staring into each other's eyes while I rub my thumb across his scar. The room is dead quiet. The sun seeps through a window to my right and paints the hardwood floor a golden brown. I don't notice any of this because the only thing I see is the crystal blue of the eyes in front of me.

Then my cell phone rings and the moment is shattered.

I groan and reach for the tiny pink razor phone in my pocket. Paul climbs off me and we both right ourselves, sitting properly on the couch.

The phone was not an early Christmas present, or even a gift for winning senior class president. It was a leash – a stylish one albeit – that my mother used to keep track of me 24/7. She called me every two hours while I wasn't home. If I didn't answer by the fourth ring, I was grounded for the next two days.

I'm not joking, that rule has been tested and my mother stayed true to her word.

So I quickly flicked the phone open and saw from the caller ID that my mom was right on her two-hour mark.

"Hi mom," I try my very best to calm my breathing down before speaking much more. Mom knows I'm at Paul's house, but she doesn't need to know what we've been doing for the past three hours.

"Hello honey," she's speaking loudly, shouting over something in the background. "How are you?"

"Fine mom," I respond. This is part of her new standard conversation; asking me how I am doing. From what I understand, most parents do this as well. But it seems so informal, so unnatural, coming from my mother. She's a news reporter; she's supposed to have good conversational skills.

"That's good. Listen there's a breaking news story and I'm going to be home late tonight. Andy's making dinner so I expect you to be home by five thirty," she pauses to tell someone, presumably her cameraman, to set up on the other side of the road. "Then tomorrow we have our art class."

"Right," for good measure I add, "I'm looking forward to it."

"That's good," she says, "I need to go now, I'll see you tonight."

"Okay, see you tonight," I let my voice sound just a little more excited than I actually am and hang up. "God," I say to Paul, "All this constant 'checking in' is really getting irritating."

"She only wants to make sure you're okay," Paul says, scooting closer to me on the couch.

"Are you taking her side?" I ask astonished, "The woman who interrupted your hot and heavy make-out session?"

Instead of coming back with some type of innuendo as I expected, Paul just shrugs and says, "It means she cares about you. What's so bad about that?"

I'm about to open my mouth and ask him why he's suddenly supporting the extra parental force in my life when I realize this isn't about me. It's about his parents, and their lack of involvement in Paul's life. Sometimes I forget Paul even has parents. He doesn't mention them often.

"I just wish she trusted me more," I wanted the conversation to end there, so I curled up on the couch and rested my head in Paul's lap. "Let's talk about something else."

"Okay," he said after a short minute, "What would you like to talk about?"

"I don't know," I said lazily as he ran stray fingers up and down my side, "What do you want to talk about?"

He laughed, "Is our relationship so boring already that we have nothing to talk about?" He let his hand move closer and closer to my butt. I was lying on my side with my legs curled up towards my chin. "Come to think of it, I don't really want to talk."

"Really?" I asked, feigning surprise, "What would you like to do then?" I swear to God if he said 'you' I'd slap him.

"Well," the hand kept getting lower and lower, "We could just lie here," his other hand was slowing raking through the tendrils of my hair, "Or you could kiss me."

I snorted. Seriously, leave it to Paul to expect a service. I knew he was only joking, just trying to get me started. Two could play that game.

"Okay," I said slowly, twisting around and leaning up so my lips met his neck. But right before I kissed him I said, in a breathy voice, "Where would you like me to kiss you?"

I swear I saw him swallow. His Adam's apple – another strange part of the male anatomy – moved up and down. "Umm," he started, "Anywhere's fine."

"Well," I placed one single kiss on his neck, "Maybe," another one on the jugular, "You should be," two more in the same spot, "More specific," a long kiss with just a hint of suction, "because you might not like it." I continued with a series of kisses, all on the same spot, each one harder than the last.

Paul rolled his head back against the edge of the couch, exposing as much neck skin as possible, "I like it, I like it," he assured me. I was surprised to find such a sensitive spot so early in the game.

"Well," I nibbled just a little, "That's," back to kissing, same spot, "too," little kisses, "bad," one big long obnoxious lip squelching kiss, "Because you need to drive me home now."

And I got up off him and started walking to the door. He groaned loudly, "You're kidding me," he said with frustration, and I could tell by the glazed look in his eyes that paying special attention to his neck had quite the effect on Paul.

"Pace yourself Paul," I laughed, patting him on the shoulder, "I think you've had enough excitement for today."

I gathered my purse form the hall table and put the milkshake cups in the sink. Paul refused to move from the couch. Finally I jingled his car keys and walked out the front door. Instantly he was behind me, snatching the keys out of my hand. Paul knew what happened when you put me behind the wheel: bad things. He wasn't about to watch his precious BMW suffer.

Boys and their toys.

"So you have class tomorrow until six," Paul restated our plans for tomorrow, "Then family dinner," he said this with a hint of sarcasm in his voice which I chose to ignore, "After that I'll pick you up around eight for a nightly stroll on the beach. Sound good?"

"It sounds just fine to me," I replied smiling. Then I wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and kissed him over the armrest in his car. He followed suit. We were parked along the curb outside my house. I had three minutes until the clock hit 5:30.

We spent two of those minutes happily enjoying each other's mouths. Paul kept tilting his back, trying to get to work on his neck again. But I refused. Now that I knew what that could do to him, I'd have to be careful when I used it.

I've discovered that there are certain buttons which yield better results than the others. The idea that kissing can be broken down to such a rudimentary equation is new to me. It feels like manipulation, but I know that when Paul pushes my buttons I don't feel manipulated.

I feel good.

I came up for air just for a minute when I glanced out the windshield and noticed someone staring at us quite rudely. Jake was standing on the front lawn, Pizza Chef jacket thrown over his shoulder and the regulation hat still on his head. His mouth was shut tight but he was starring wide-eyed at us.

Paul hadn't realized this yet because he was currently tracing my jaw line with his lips. "Paul," I said, pulling away slightly and glancing nervously at Jake – what was his deal?! – but Paul just leaned over more to stay in contact with my skin. So I jammed my foot – which was happily sporting a wedge, braided leather espadrille – on his toe.

Paul jumped and whacked his head on the window behind him, "Jeez Suze what was that for?"

"Shh," I shushed him and glanced back at Jake. I was surprised to see that Sleepy's expression was not very sleepy looking. He actually appeared to be contemplating something. What made me really nervous was that he was sizing up Paul, glaring at him specifically. Since when does Sleepy have an issue with my boyfriend?

Since when is Jake allowed to have an issue with my boyfriend?

My sudden indignation to protect my privacy – and my God given right to make out in front of my own house – made me wave obnoxiously at Jake and mouth 'Go away'. The waving was to get his attention and show him that I obviously didn't care if he saw us making out. The 'go away' part was to direct him in that process.

He got the hint and started walking towards the house, but not before sending one last mildly disapproving look at Paul.

"Okay," I said when Jake had shut the door behind him and was safely inside the house, "That was weird."

Paul was rubbing the back of his head, "but you didn't have to go and stomp on my foot like that."

I glanced over and saw that Paul was obviously not as unnerved with Jake's presence as I was. So I decided to just let it go, maybe I was over analyzing.

"Sorry Paul," I said, trying to sound sincere. The clock now read 5:30. My time was up. "So I'll see you tomorrow. Put some ice on it." I didn't explain which injury I thought he should put ice on – the foot or the head – because personally I thought he was being a big baby.

I went to get out of the car but Paul grabbed my arm and pulled me back for a single, nice, sweet, kiss on the lips. "Yeah Beautiful, I'll see you tomorrow."

I smiled and got out of the car, walking across the front lawn to the door. As I was approaching the steps Paul started his car, rolled down the window and hung his head out, whistling like a truck driver – loud and long and crude. Then he beeped his horn and pulled out onto the road. I couldn't stop grinning.

Until I came inside and saw half of the varsity wrestling team cramming in around the dining table. Various versions of the Ken doll – without the neck – were hunched over, elbows on the table, leaning in towards the Lazy Susan that was filled with appetizers. Brad was in the center, surrounded by five of his cronies. Each one had their hair shaved in the appropriate buzz cut. They were all thick, square headed, and dressed in Nike warm up suits.

Due to the wrestling team's lack of ability to win anything over the past three years the coach, Coach Vanders, instituted summer practice sessions. Every member of the wrestling team was required to put in at least eight hours at the gym each week. This new set of regulations had caused several members to quit and instead go out for the hockey team – which didn't have any summer practices because there was no ice.

Personally, I find wrestling a complete waste of time. There seems to be very little point in watching guys squirm around on the ground. It can't possibly be considered 'macho' because there isn't any direct punching, blood, or name calling. It's like censored fist-fighting. But your not even supposed to use your fists in the regular way.

Although there are probably some members of the JSMA student body who are thrilled to hear that the wrestling team could possibly bring back some trophies this year, I am not one of them. The summer sessions required Brad to stay in touch with his thick-headed friends. A strange bond was formed between Brad and several of the other senior wrestlers. They hung out together almost everyday.

And since Brad had the biggest house, this is where they came.

Brad had been on the wrestling team since before I came to Carmel, so the odorous smell of sweat was already imbedded into the house's aroma. Now multiply that by five and you have Andy running around the house after they leave with a bottle of Febreeze. But I could handle that; I simply kept my bedroom door shut and lit an Airwick candle when I got home. I could even handle the slobbering and obnoxiously loud chewing at the dinner table.

But what I could not handle was Scott Winchell.

As I sat down in my usual seat, preparing for a quick meal so I could hide in the safety of my room, Scott looked up from the huddle around Brad. He nudged Brad on the shoulder, which got the rest of the team's attention. Brad burped. Scott smiled.

Now let me just point out that Scott was not so fortunate as to have parents who cared about his dental hygiene. When he smiled, you were looking at two rows of crooked, yellowing teeth. Not a pretty sight.

It wasn't pretty when he winked at me either, or moved his eyebrows up and down in a not-so-subtle suggestive manner. Most men do not pluck their eyebrows because they feel this is too feminine of an action. Some men should because the stray hairs are slowing creeping closer to each other from opposite sides of their face while they're not looking.

Scott is one of them.

Brad saw none of this, of course. He was too busy starring off into space – something he did a lot now lately. I'm sure he was just imaging what that wrestling belt would like in his room. Isn't that how they do awards with wrestling? Like you see on WWF, or Wrestle Mania? Whatever.

Andy came out with a huge bowl of pasta. One of players tried to stick his hands in the bowl – Andy slapped his hand away. I snorted with laughter. The kid glared at Andy, and Andy, being the hostess that he was just smiled. He went back to the kitchen and returned with more pasta.

Seriously, the nerve of Brad inviting all these people over when he knew his father already had to cook for four kids and himself. Jake came down from the bedroom and helped Andy carry out the sauce, bread, and meatballs.

Finally, with a heavy sigh and a clearly tired brow Andy sat, and we ate. I noticed that grace was skipped at this meal. Primarily because Scott and the rest of his buddies grabbed every piece of food within sight and began overflowing their plates as soon as possible. Their manners made the rest of the Ackerman clan look like refined citizens.

I froze with my fork midway in the air. Andy's hand lay paused on his glass. Even Jake and Doc seemed shocked by this display of primitive eating. The four of us just sat there while Brad and his friends continued to add more and more to their plates, oblivious of the disrespect for those around them.

I tried to eat, really I did. I even put some spaghetti on my plate. But the sounds of grunting and slurping coming from the other end of the table just couldn't be tuned out. Andy simply folded his hands and bowed his head, as if praying. Possibly, he was asking god where he went wrong with his middle child.

The spectacle ended with a loud belch from somewhere deep within the group of wrestlers. One by one they all got up, patted Andy on the shoulder and walked out the front door.

"Brad," Andy called after his son, "Where are you going? Isn't it your night to do the dishes?"

"We're just going out for a drive," Brad continued to shuffle off towards the door, "Suze can clean the dishes."

"Unless Suze wants to come with us…" Scott suggested from behind Brad, his eyebrows wiggling.

I shuddered. Andy's hand gripped the edge of the table with white knuckles. He paid Scott no attention but continued to frown at his son. I admired Andy's ability to remain calm in situations like this. Although I'm sure that wouldn't last much longer.

"Brad when you get back – by curfew – you and I will have a serious talk about -" He was cut off.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Brad slurred, "whatever."

With the slam of the front door the group was gone. I was absolutely disgusted. Not only did they barge in here and make a complete mess of the dining room but they didn't even thank Andy for the food! How can Brad hangout with such pigs? It shouldn't surprise me, but still – Andy was his father. And David and Jake were respectable people. Why didn't Brad end up with the same manners they did?

"Wow," I said, "Did anyone else think that – "

"Let's just finish eating," Andy suggested, scraping what was left of the spaghetti onto his plate. "Would you mind doing the dishes tonight, Suze? Bradley will repay you by filling in for two of your chore nights."

I was taken aback by Andy's lack of interest in discussing tonight's events. He looked drained, more tired than usual.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. When I finished I gathered the plates and took them to the kitchen. The ones left by Brad and his friends were filled with pieces of previously chewed food and some other spitty substances. Was it that difficult to chew with your mouth closed?

The dishes took an extra long time tonight because of the added guests. I ran the garbage disposal twice to grind up the left over food. I tried to make it easier by reminding myself that there was no way Andy would allow any of these people set foot inside his house again.

While I was drying off the rest of the plates Jake ambled in. He opened the fridge and pulled out a can of Coke. Max was at his heels, presumable hoping for a few scraps left over from dinner.

I found it odd that Jake stayed in the kitchen, leaning the wall while drank his coke. I tried to dry the towels faster, not wanting any kind of confrontation tonight. I still had to run through my kickboxing video and take a shower. Plus, I really didn't have any energy to argue with Jake.

"So…you and Paul are for real now?" he asked. My awkwardness must have been evident. Jake had never taken any interest in my social life up until now. His whole 'gang' theory had quickly been dispelled after my mom overheard him mentioning it once before.

"Why do you want to know?" I asked, still drying the same dish. I have to admit; normally I would just answer the question. But this was none of his business and I wondered why Jake would suddenly start commenting on my dating habits.

"I just heard – " He was cut short by Max – in a rare leap of courage – jumping up and knocking the coke can all down Jake's front. I laughed. All the males in this house were acting so out of character lately. Thankfully Jake's swearing and preoccupation with his now drenched shirt gave me the chance to sneak up to my room.

I should have questioned his interest more. While Jake had saved my life once and we maintained a fairly pleasant relationship, we exactly in the habit of discussing the personal sides of lives. I knew he was dating a girl name Chrissy through CeeCee who overheard someone talking about it at the end of the year barbeque. This knowledge did not prompt me to investigate why Jake had chosen Chrissy. So why did I need to explain my choice with Paul.

Not that I could even explain that if I wanted to. That was thing I realized about Paul and I when I first mentioned to the CeeCee that we were more or less dating. We couldn't tell anyone how we ended up together without lying. No one else in the world knew about my ability or Jesse – except for CeeCee, but she didn't know the whole story.

Thankfully, we hadn't been in the position yet where this questioned would be asked. But I'm sure it would come eventually and I didn't have a clue how I would answer it. It was easy to tell my mother that I had met him at school, hung out with for a while and decided to try going out with him. She had known about Paul since I met him at the Pebble Beach Hotel and Golf Resort.

But she would never really know the truth.

On my way upstairs I caught sight of a new addition to the family photo gallery. For Jake's high school graduation, my mother bought a digital camera. She's been 'click' happy ever since. Her specialty is candid shots. The first week after she bought the thing was filled with sudden flashes and instructions to "SMILE" while performing the most perfunctory tasks. She has at least ten pictures of me emptying the dishwasher.

But thankfully she decided to let the professionals set up a family shot on one of the cliffs overlooking the ocean. It's a very pretty picture. She had it printed in black and white, which complemented the boy's suits and the simple white dresses my mother and I wore. The framing center had just finished with it yesterday. It took up a lot of space on the wall, and I noticed a few smaller pictures had been relocated.

After about ten shots that day, we all managed to smile at the same time. Strangely, it didn't look posed – although it's not exactly typical of four men and two women to climb a cliff in formal wear. But there was honesty in the picture, happiness in our faces that could seriously cause the viewer to believe we were a family.

And standing there, on the landing, looking at that photo, it wasn't such a crazy idea anymore. Sure we had our moments, like when I decked Brad the other day for taking my hair dryer. But over the past year and a half, we'd been through a lot together: the car accident, courtesy of Michael; a police report, resulting from Brad's wild party; first girlfriends – David and Shannon; and of course certain things my mother and Andy will never know about, like my midnight rescue from the collapsed breezeway of the academy.

Even if they didn't know everything about me, they knew enough to care. And I'm sure I didn't know everything about them either. My siblings and I did not share a childhood, trips to Disney Land, or kindergarten field trips to the park. We were thrown together at the most hectic point of our lives. And yet, we still made a pretty picture.

I smiled to myself and continued on up the stairs to my room.

I was just about to open the door when I saw it: blood. A thick puddle of gooey red liquid was slowly spilling out from under my door. I suppressed a scream. Mentally I ran down the list of my family members, knowing I'd seen or heard from all of them and that they could not be source of the blood behind this door.

This was more than likely, supernatural work. My hand was already on the doorknob. As much as I dreaded what was behind that door I was more afraid of having to explain it to Andy or Jake.

I didn't have to open the door though, because the door opened itself. Inside I saw that my entire room was covered in toilet paper. Yes, someone had TP'd my bedroom. What's more, they'd hung Popsicle stick Blair Witch dolls from the ceiling. Turning, I saw the word DIE written repeatedly on my mirror in red lipstick. My favorite red lipstick.

My door shut. Inside me, a primitive instinct told me to run. I wanted nothing more than to bolt from my standing position and run through that door as fast as I could. But I couldn't. I was glued to the floor, starring in open-mouth horror at the person – make that ghost – who was sitting on my bed wearing a ski mask.

And laughing his head off.

So this is it, my new fic. This has been in plans for over a year. I'm looking forward to writing it this summer. Support from the readers would be wonderful. Please review, tell me what you think. What do you like? What do you dislike?

I m A g E s

I promise the fluff won't be as overpowering in future chapters. It just seemed like a good way to lead in.

Happy Summer,

-LeFay