by Erin Noelle
Even the things we didn’t agree on seemed to fit together in a weird way. She liked the cake; I preferred the icing. I had to have a window seat; she wanted to be by the aisle. One night while we were talking on the phone, she’d even given me a quiz from one of her girlie fashion magazines called “What Kind of Sexy Are You?” Once we’d finally caught our breath from laughing so hard at the insane questions, the results said I was Strong Sexy, while she was Sweet Sexy… whatever the hell that meant.
“Someone I know?” she prodded, as I rinsed out my glass and loaded it in the dishwasher. Her perceptive gaze locked in on me as invisible bullshit-detectors sprouted from her head. The woman had the most innate ability to tell when I was lying — it was almost scary, like some weird voodoo Mom-magic or something.
I turned around and shook my head, opting for the selectively honest route. “Nah, new person at school I helped show around and we ended up hitting it off and becoming friends.”
She took a long sip of her coffee then cocked a suspicious eyebrow at me. “This new person have a name?”
“What is this? 20 questions?” I acted offended at her interrogation, defensively crossing my arms over my chest. “Ashlynn stays out all night sometimes without calling, and she gets grilled less than this. I really am going to help a friend put together some furniture, and then we’re gonna hang out. I’ll call if my plans change, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. Just let me know if it gets too late. I’ll stay up worrying,” she replied with a smug grin curling the corners of her mouth.
I nodded, relieved she was dropping it. “You don’t need to worry, Mom,” I assured her. “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”
After giving her another peck on the cheek, I grabbed my keys from the drawer we kept them all in and headed toward the back door. I almost made it all the way outside before I heard her call out, “Don’t forget, big boys use condoms, Everett!”
I didn’t stop walking.
“HOW MANY OF these bookshelves did you buy? And did you remember to buy any other furniture?” I asked, as I winced at the number of cardboard boxes on the floor in Belle’s new apartment. The Ikea delivery guys were on their third load from the moving truck, and I still hadn’t seen any sign of a couch or a bed or a table and chairs.
“Ummm, I’m not sure.” She chuckled, peeking her head around the wall that separated the living room — where I stood directing the workers, making sure they didn’t drop or mess anything up — and the kitchen, where she was putting away all the cooking and eating stuff. “And of course, I did. I can’t sleep in a bookcase, silly.”
The truck had arrived almost a half hour earlier than scheduled, pulling up right behind me in the driveway, thwarting my plan to have a little bit of time alone with her before the craziness began. When I first saw her bounding down the stairs in clingy blue yoga pants with a matching t-shirt and her hair in pigtail braids, I’d cursed them under my breath and mentally cut their tip in half.
The good news was the niggling concerns that bounced around in the back of my mind on my drive over, that she may act standoffish or be hesitant to be physically close to me, were immediately chased away when she flew at me, grinning from ear to ear, and greeted me with a kiss that said it’d been too damn long since we did that last. I’d picked her up off the ground and squeezed her tightly against me, inhaling her heady scent. I hoped that was how she’d welcome me every time I showed up at her place.
The bad news was I caught one of the delivery guys staring at her swaying ass as she walked up the steps in front of him and I nearly lost my damn mind. I’d never felt possessive over anything, definitely not anyone, so it was strange battling my overwhelming desire to pick her up and throw her over my shoulder, yelling “MINE!” as I ran away. Somehow, I managed to bite my tongue and not say anything, but I was pretty sure Belle knew my “suggestion” that she work on setting up the kitchen was more about keeping her out of their sight and less about her making progress on the most important rooms. But she never called me out on it.
“Speaking of sleeping,” I said, as I swaggered over to where she sat on the tile floor next to the oven, digging through the sea of Target bags surrounding her, “what size bed did you get anyway?”
She peered up at me through her thick, dark lashes, her brown eyes sparkling with amusement. “One that’s big enough.” She giggled, playing coy.
“Big enough for what?” I crouched down next to her and tugged lightly on one of her braids. “For you, my little pixie? Because I think you’d probably fit just fine in one of those pink princess beds.”
Sticking her tongue out at me, she pretended to be insulted, but a grin skirted around her mouth. “Just for that, you’re sleeping on the small two-seater couch while I roll around in my spacious bed that was made for a queen, not a princess or a pixie.”
Laughter rumbled deep in my chest as I rocked forward and nuzzled my face against the side of her neck, a thrill jetting through my veins at her mention of me spending the night. Even if it wasn’t this night, at least I knew she wanted me to stay at some point.
“I’ll call you goddess, if that makes you happy. Lord knows I think you’re one,” I murmured against her soft skin, my cock stirring to life, “but my ass is going to be in that bed next to you. I don’t care if it’s a damn cot.”
She hummed her approval, the vibrations tickling my lips. “Is that so, rockstar?” she mused as she grabbed a couple handfuls of my shirt and pulled me closer.
“Fuck yeah, it is,” I groaned, peppering open-mouthed kisses up her throat, over her jaw, and straight to her waiting mouth.
Her tongue met mine stroke-for-stroke as we made out on the kitchen floor, forgetting all about the task at hand, and it wasn’t until we heard the sound of someone clearing their voice behind me that we abruptly broke apart. She blushed a bright pink at having been caught, but I didn’t give a shit. Pushing up to my feet, I made no attempt to hide the bulge in my pants from her or the delivery guys. They all needed to know she was fucking mine and what I planned to do as soon as we were alone.
“All the boxes are in,” the man announced, diverting his gaze from mine. “We’ve got the couch and the mattress left, and then we’ll be done. Where do you want us to put those?”
I paused at first, not sure if he was joking or not, but when he stood there waiting for a response, I shook my head with bewilderment and answered him, “Uh, yeah, so the mattress needs to go in the bedroom and the couch in the living room.”
“All right,” he nodded, “we should be finished in about fifteen minutes.”
As he walked away, I turned around and gave Belle a puzzled look. “Is there some new trend where people don’t set up their beds in the bedroom or their couches in the living room?”
Shrugging her shoulders, she twisted her mouth playfully and snickered. “Maybe he thought we needed the mattress in here, since you were ready to strip my clothes off and lay me out.”
“Oh, my little goddess,” I teased, bending back down and feathering my lips across hers, “I’m gonna do a whole lot more than lay you out on that mattress. Better get ready, beautiful.”
SIX BOOKSHELVES, A couple of end tables, an entertainment center, a desk, a matching dresser and nightstand, and a platform bedframe later, Everett and I collapsed on my new brown leather couch—which wasn’t a small two-seater like I’d joked with him about earlier in the morning. I liked vegging and watching movies too much to be uncomfortable in my living room, so I’d splurged and bought the L-shaped sectional, where I’d have plenty of room to sprawl out and even sleep if I wanted to. Though I had no intentions of him spending the night anywhere but in my bed.
“If I never see another screw, bolt, or wrench again, it’ll be too soon,” I groaned, laying my head on his chest and closing my eyes. Even though we’d both gotten a little sweaty throughout the day of assembly and moving furniture, he still smelled fresh and clean, like whatever mixture of soap and cologne he used.
“It wasn’t so bad, beautiful.” He chuckled as he lightly trailed his fingers up and down my back. “At least not after you stopped trying to read the directions in French.”
My head shot up and I stuck my tongue out at him. “I do know French,” I argued, but when he lifted his eyebrows at me, I added, “Well, some anyway. I did live in Paris for a semester during grad school and managed to get around.”
“Did you like it when you lived there? Ever think about moving there or anywhere else?” he asked, a contented smile resting on his gorgeous face as he continued to rub my sore muscles.
I rested my chin on his ribs, so I could still relax but also look at him while we talked. “No, I enjoyed my time there, but I was definitely ready to come back home. The art, of course, is incredible, as is the overall history and architecture throughout the city. I could spend months just visiting a different museum every day, but the lifestyle just wasn’t for me. Everybody moves at a snail’s pace, the people aren’t very friendly — especially to Americans, and it costs an arm and a leg to live in a place we’d consider the slums here.”
“Yeah, I was so young when I went I have no memories at all. For a long time, my mom kept a picture of mine and Ashlynn’s first birthday that we celebrated at the restaurant at the Eiffel Tower on our mantle, but I haven’t seen it in a while. I’m not sure where it is now,” he said wistfully, in one of the few times he’d talked about his family.
I wanted to ask more about his childhood, but didn’t risk pushing too far. He’d told me a couple of days ago on the phone that his dad was the lead singer of Jobu’s Rum, one of my favorite bands when I was a kid, and even though I was a tiny bit star-struck by the news, I didn’t want him to think I was interested because of who his father was. I just wanted to know him better. Everett Templeton — my own rockstar.
“Wow, now that’s what I call a first birthday party. I think mine was in the backyard with family and friends eating hamburgers and hotdogs,” I joked casually. “When is your birthday anyway?”
“February twenty-seventh. Yours?”
“July second,” I answered then paused, still hung up on his answer. “Wait, so you’re going to be eighteen or nineteen next month?”
His eyes flashed with something that looked a lot like concern before he hesitantly replied, “Eighteen.”
“Oh, dear God, I really am going to Hell,” I murmured, as I face-planted into his shirt.
With a soft laugh, he cupped under my arms and dragged me up his body until we were eye-to-eye, brushing back the stray hairs from my face that had fallen out of my braids. “Why do you say that? Either way, I’m of consensual age, assuming you weren’t my teacher.”
“Yes, but I’m da—” I didn’t know what to call what we were doing together, so I stopped myself and reworded my thought. “I’m still nearly eight years older than you. I used to make fun of those women on the news who got involved with their students, wondering what in the world was wrong with them that they’d want to be with someone so much younger than them. What does this say about me?”
“It doesn’t say anything except that you met someone — not in a classroom setting — and there was a spark. Two people that made a connection,” he answered, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Plus, my mom has always said I’m an old soul. My body may be almost eighteen, but I feel like my mind is eighty most of the time. I’d pick a quiet night in to a party any day of the week, and I love antique stuff like vintage chests and instruments, wondering about where they’ve been and who had them. I mean, look at what I drive. My dad wanted me to get a souped-up sports car, but I wanted an antique truck. I prefer classic rock and old school blues to the shit they play on the radio these days, and believe it or not, the stuff you’ve been teaching us in class, I find really interesting. Hearing about the stories behind ancient artifacts, whether it be paintings or a piece of jewelry or whatever, just does something to me, brings this sense of nostalgia that makes me feel… I don’t know, good inside.”
As Everett talked, I stared at him with silent wonder, hoping that maybe he was right. Maybe age was just a number. He certainly didn’t talk or act like any other high school senior I knew.
“Is your sister like this too?” I asked curiously.
Shaking his head, he scoffed, “Shit, no. We’re like polar opposites. She’s the wild one, never wanting the party to end. The band for her is more about the fame and popularity than the music. She just happens to be a fucking brilliant drummer and vocalist, probably the most musically talented person in our family. If she put the time and effort into it, her boundaries would have no limits.”
“Really? More talented than you or your dad?”
“Yeah, and my mom probably ranks right under her.” He wore a proud smile when he talked about his family and it melted me. “When we were younger, the four of us would have these jam sessions in our music room, and the girls, they would just go off on another level, Mom on the keyboard and Ash on the drums. It was wicked. Dad and I would stop playing our guitars and just watch and listen, and when they’d finish, one of them would always say, ‘It’s a good thing you guys are cute and can sell tickets.’”
I smirked, gradually lowering my face to his. “I think it’s better than good,” I whispered, just before our parted lips met in a soft, unhurried kiss.
His arms engulfed me as our tongues slid slowly together and I moaned into his mouth, desperate for more. More kisses. More stories. More time. More him.
Just as things started heating up with his hands cupping my ass and pressing me against his growing erection, my stomach growled at such an abnormally loud volume and with such ferocity, we broke away, cracking up laughing, neither of us sure the sound was humanly possible.
“Why is your stomach always growling when I’m around? Do I need to do a better of job of feeding you, beautiful?” he teased, as he pushed up to sitting, holding me close to him so I ended up straddling his lap.
“Hey! You had three pieces of pizza for lunch, and I only had one,” I reminded him, playfully slapping him on the shoulder. “Plus that was like six or seven hours ago. It’s almost nine. We need to eat.”
“I know, my dear goddess Belle,” he smarted, pressing his lips to the tip of my nose. “Do you wanna eat the pizza leftovers? Or I can go grab takeout from someplace close?”
I twisted my mouth as I contemplated the options, causing him to chuckle. “It shouldn’t be that tough of a decision. Pizza or not pizza?”
“Well, it depends,” I said, hoping to God I wasn’t about to fuck this up. “If you have to go home in a bit, I’d rather just eat the pizza, because it’s fast and it’s here. But if you’re gonna stay for a while and watch a movie or something…”
Everett pushed to his feet with me still attached to him then snagged his keys and wallet from one of the end tables, stuffing them both in his pocket. “You good with Chinese?” he asked, while gently sliding me down his body and setting me on my feet.
“Yeah,” I breathed, my stomach fluttering.
“Pick a movie and get things ready here. I’ll go get dinner and some snacks and drinks,” he bent down and stole a quick kiss from my mouth, “then later,” he stole another, “I’m eating my dessert in that bed back there.”
THAT NEXT TUESDAY was the senior class field trip to the Alley Theatre, where we were scheduled to watch the morning matinee of the award-winning musical Wicked, then go on a behind-the-scenes tour of the theater, since all of the students were extremely talented in at least one of the arts, and most of them would probably pursue some sort of career in the industry. Those teachers who had senior homerooms were the assigned chaperones, which meant I was one of the lucky ones who got to escape the classroom for the day and wear jeans twice in the same week. Bonus!
“All right, guys. Time to line up for the buses,” I informed the twenty rambunctious teenagers after the morning announcements were over. “Please try not to sound like a herd of elephants as we move thro
ugh the halls and down the stairs. Remember, there are some people who are actually trying to learn today.”
I slipped my cell phone in my back pocket and propped my sunglasses on my head then made sure my grading laptop and purse were both safely locked away in my desk before leading my crew out of the school and to the parking lot, where a group of kids were already waiting near three yellow buses.
“Ms. Sloan, over here! Our classes are together on this bus!” I heard Liam’s British accent shout as soon I stepped outside under the bright mid-morning sun.
Waving my acknowledgement to him, I lowered the shades over my eyes and steered my group over to where he stood holding a clipboard. After our first date that ended in my pretend sickness, thanks to Everett’s bathroom “lesson,” I’d told Liam I really enjoyed his company and thanked him for being so nice and welcoming to me, but explained I didn’t think it was a good idea to date a coworker in case things didn’t work out. Obviously not mentioning the part about currently being involved with one of my students. He seemed to have taken it well, saying he understood then continuing to be his same friendly self at school the next Monday.
“Good morning, Mr. Carroll!” I greeted him with a smile as I walked up. “Are we ready for this?”
“Not a chance in hell,” he chuckled under his breath, as he checked off students’ names while they boarded the bus, “but these field trips always make for some good laughs later. Mark my words, there will be at least one couple who tries to sneak off and make out at some point today. We always play the game that whichever teacher finds them wins free drinks at happy hour this Friday.”
I shook my head and snickered. “I’d say I’m surprised, but pretty par for the course with a bunch of seventeen and eighteen-year-olds. Not getting caught is part of the fun.”
“You say that as if you can relate, Ms. Sloan,” he chided playfully. “Don’t tell me a few years ago you were one of those sneaking off with your boyfriend at a school event?”