Cry Baby

by Ginger Scott

  “No, it took me a while to get the hang of it,” I say, holding the rest in until one look from him forces out my laugh. “It took me at least ten minutes…maybe fifteen.”

  He sighs and falls back into the seat, the entire truck shaking as it idles.

  “I’m kidding; I’m kidding,” I say, hugging his arm with both of my hands. I feel where his muscle is thickest, and in a brief second or two I lock away how hard his bicep is. I wonder what he does to get his body like this.

  “You aren’t really kidding. I can tell,” he says, still sounding a little dejected.

  I lean in close, unbuckling to move my entire body closer to his, lifting the torn arm rest out of the way and pushing it into the back seat so I can drive along with him. I slide one leg over the hump that houses the shifting stick and straddle it so I’m more in control. The position has also made my body rush with heat, and Tristan’s arm has grown more tense.

  “Let me help,” I say, my voice cracking from the rush of feelings that tangle in my chest and drip down my insides.

  I hear Tristan swallow, and he moves against me, positioning himself so he’s ready to drive. My right hand covers his on the shifter again and I reach to my left, tentatively resting my hand on his thigh. He gasps quietly, and it makes my lip quiver. I’m being forward, and I probably didn’t have to do this to get him driving a stick shift within the hour, but I also don’t have a lot of time, and…and I wanted him to touch me.

  I wanted to touch him.

  “Ease up on the brake.” My voice is low, and his body is rigid. He nods, but barely, and slowly lets up his hold on the pedal.

  We start to rock forward, and without my direction, he gives the truck gas, moving us forward in a jerky motion that teeters on stalling out, but he shifts just in time, his foot on the clutch and my hand guiding his right palm through the gears.

  “Good!” My heart is pounding with the rush of climbing to the top on a roller coaster, and as my engine begins to whine with the need for more power, Tristan pushes in the clutch. The truck whirs for a second or two as we float in neutral, but I maneuver his hand between my legs until the shifter slides into place for third.

  “More gas, let’s hit fourth gear,” I say, leaning into him as he turns to the left to give us more room to speed up.

  “Okay,” he pants out nervously, racing forward and this time shifting all on his own.

  “Woo whoo!” I scream and lift my hand from his. He glances at me briefly, his grin filling his face, his eyes bright with joy and his breathing rapid and elated.

  “I did it!” he shouts, roaring through the empty lot, my truck bouncing over divots and valleys as he reaches the end and slows down, turning and lowering the truck to third and then second. He moves forward and speeds up so he can shift again, this time making it the entire way on his own, finally coming to a stop near the same place we started his lesson.

  We jerk forward as he shifts down, and the engine dies roughly, but we stop and Tristan did it.

  “That was awesome!” He slaps his hands on the wheel and runs them around the curve a few times, rocking back and forth in the driver’s seat, his smile only growing bigger.

  “Woo!” he hollers, slapping his hands on the wheel again.

  “I’m so proud of you,” I say, squeezing my palm along his thigh, and realizing that my palm is still there…on his thigh.

  My touch shifts Tristan’s mood, and his smile morphs into something more uncertain—his expression hungrier yet more timid.

  “I should get you home,” he says, the words hardly making a sound. He swallows again, the movement labored and uncertain. Everything about him is uncertain right now, and I’m not sure what direction to give.

  “I still have a lot of time,” I whisper, my fingers clawing into his leg slightly. His thigh flexes with his strong quad muscles and it draws a small breath from my now-open lips.

  “Riley,” he says, bringing my eyes up to his face. His gaze is on the gear shift, where it sits between my knees, my legs parted in a way that I’ve never thought meant anything before but that means so much right now. My body is reacting in new and interesting ways, and I feel confident and terrified all at once.

  “Stay with me…right here,” I say, turning just enough to reach my right hand to his face. I tilt his chin up and bring his gaze to mine. The things behind his eyes match mine. I feel them—I feel him, how he’s holding back, how he’s fighting to give in.

  “Just for a little while,” I say, my tongue making a slow pass over my bottom lip. Tristan’s eyes follow the movement, the tip of his own tongue pausing between his teeth.

  His eyes float back to mine, and the longer they hold my gaze, the bolder I become. I pull my hand from his thigh and turn to move it behind his head, gripping the rock-hard headrest that’s been aged by the sun. My body twists as I lift myself up onto my knees and Tristan’s hands slowly fall away to his sides, letting me in. My body presses against his as I slide my right knee over his lap until I’m straddling him, our bodies pushed together tightly from the little room left due to the steering wheel. My hands hold both sides of the seat next to his head and I sink down so I’m sitting on him, my pelvis and hips against his, his stomach warm, his thighs flexed and his erection searing hot and intrusive against me. The rough sensation is welcome to us both, I can tell by the way Tristan’s lips fall open more, the bottom one quivering as his eyes haze and threaten to close.

  He’s hard for me. It feels amazing.

  “Kiss me,” I demand as his eyes open lazily, taking their time to focus on mine.

  “I’m still sick,” he says, his hands disobeying as his fingers begin crawling lightly along the fringed area of my shorts, sliding up my thighs and bunching the cotton material higher up my leg until his thumbs hook underneath the fabric and his fingers form fists.

  “I don’t care,” I say, no longer seeing the tired in his eyes or the paleness in his face. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s hungry.

  My hands draw in to his shoulders and I run them up the curve of his neck, my thumbs tracing the strong line of his jaw. His head tilts to the side just a little, his lips catching the inside of my wrist, and I pause there to take in his gentle kiss along my skin. His eyes close briefly then open on me as he tastes my wrist again. His lip drags along the softness as I move my hands up more, gripping the length of his hair and tangling my fingers into the waves until his chin lifts and his mouth is level with mine.

  “You shouldn’t do things like this with a guy like me,” he says, his voice rough but the pleading tone evident still. He hates himself, and he’s denying himself, but I see more than the boy in a gang.

  “You’re the only boy I should do things like this with,” I say, looking deep into him and shifting until my forehead rests on his. He exhales heavily and loosens his grip on my shorts, dragging his hands lower on the back of my thighs then up again, this time under the loose material until his palms cover my ass and he grips with a forceful hold, pulling me against his erection and pushing me into him harder. The movement makes him groan, and I dust my lips over his to feel the sound.

  I do it again, this time my lips pausing over his and my tongue making a slow pass between them until he parts and grabs my bottom lip between both of his. The rough edges of his teeth graze along my skin, and his tongue cools the burn, his hands sliding back down my legs then up over my shorts, along my back and up my sides until his thumbs flirt with the lace material of my bra.

  “Touch me, Tristan,” I say, not even embarrassed at my forwardness. I’ve crossed over too far to blush now. I want his hands on me—everywhere. I want his lips on me—kisses left on every part of my body. The buzz of traffic hums in the distance beyond the closed windows of my truck cab, and the sun is long gone, only moonlight and a few dim parking lot lights left to showcase my skin.

  The risk of being seen is small, but it’s there enough to thrill me, and I arch my back and raise my hands, pressing my palms flat against the i
nside ceiling of the truck. Tristan takes my cue and gathers the bottom of my shirt in his hands, pulling it up my body and arms and over my head, dropping it into the empty seat next to us. His hands trail down my arms to my elbows, urging me back to him until my hands return to his shoulders.

  “You really have no idea how fucking angelic you are,” he says through lustful laughter.

  My mouth stretches into a smile and I tuck my chin to my shoulder, feeling the heat of his eyes on me—on my bare shoulders and almost bare breasts.

  “Seems like a sin when you say it that way—fucking angelic?” I say.

  “It is,” he says, his eyes catching mine but briefly as he gives in to more.

  My stomach beads with a chill even though the air inside my truck is warm. I shiver from his touch, his fingertips light against my tummy and along my sides and ribs until his hands are cupping my breasts, the thin white lace transparent and leaving little for him to imagine.

  His thumbs glide over the tips, rough along the places where my breasts have become hard, drawing in to apply a sweet pressure through the fabric, bringing my nipples to rosy crests.

  “Ahhh,” I whimper, grinding into him harder, needing to relieve this growing need between my legs that wants to feel more of him.

  My sound pushes him to touch me more, his hands moving up to my shoulders and sliding my bra straps down my arms until they tickle against my biceps. I sit up tall and look down at him, pulling one arm through a strap at a time then reaching behind my body to find the small clasp. It unhooks easily, and the lace falls between us, leaving my breasts naked and exposed.

  “I’m not as big as some other girls,” I begin, and his fingertips press into my lips followed by his own hush.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says, his eyes on mine, honest and soft. He doesn’t leave my gaze, instead gliding his hands along my back and drawing me close. “You aren’t some other girl. You’re unlike any other girl. You make me wish things were different, that I was different, so don’t you ever apologize for being unlike anyone else. You’re exceptional.”

  I swallow hard, my eyes burning with a mix of happiness and nerves.

  “I think you’re exceptional, too,” I whisper, wishing for the first time since I’ve known him that his life was simpler. I wish his problems were fewer. I wish he wasn’t marked by someone so bad. I wish I’d known him in another life. It doesn’t stop me from wanting him in this one, though. Tristan Lopez is the first for me—he’s my first. He was my first real kiss. He’s become the first boy I’ve been intimate with, and I want to give him more firsts. I want him to have my heart.

  I want to keep him. I don’t know that I can, though. Even still, I’m taking what he can give me right now.

  I lean into him and press my lips against his softly, sucking in his top lip as his teeth scrape along my bottom lip. Sitting up again, I trace along his arms until I find his hands at my hips and I thread our fingers together and guide him along my skin until his hands are cupping my breasts. His touch is warm, but his eyes remain on mine. He only touches, seeing me with his hands, watching my face react with every slide of his fingers along my skin. I keep my palms on his, empowered by the control, yet also giving every move over to him. His thumbs pass over my nipples and I ache deep inside, pressing into his lap and arching, finally letting go of his hands to stretch my body back enough to give him access to taste me.

  He doesn’t hesitate, his arms wrapping around my back and drawing my breast to his lips where he covers my nipple with his kiss. His tongue flicks at the hard tip and I twitch between my legs, throbbing and wanting. He moves his mouth to my other breast, doing the same, but this time sucking in until the raw burn becomes almost unbearable.

  Unable to take it, I grab onto his messy hair and kiss him so hard that our lips quickly become pink. Tristan’s hands shift back to my thighs, sliding up under my shorts and grabbing my ass hard, pulling me into him over and over again, the movement of my most sensitive area against his hard-on building into something that nearly takes my breath away.

  Tristan’s breath grows ragged, each pull of my body against him drawing a soft grunt from his lungs. His fingers dig into me, sliding up enough to find the band of my panties and tugging them down as far as they’ll go. The roughness excites me and I lift my body enough to pull my shorts and underwear down enough for his hands to touch all of me.

  “Fuck, Riley. Is this okay? We should stop, do you want to…”

  “Shhhh,” I hush against his lips, crying out as his fingertips run over my bare cheeks and find my wet and swollen center.

  “Ohhhh fuckkkk,” he breathes into me, growing stronger at the first touch. His hands knead at my skin, inching toward my sensitive area again until his fingers push against me with more force, one dipping inside. The feeling burns but soothes this itch that can’t be contained, and I rock into him, whimpering as his finger moves in and out of me.

  He brings one hand forward and covers my hand on his neck, guiding it down his chest and stomach until it’s flat against his hard dick. His palm rests softly over mine and his eyes open to me as he licks his lips again.

  “Only if you want to,” he says, and I let my eyes dim seductively, spreading my fingers out then gripping him through his pants.

  “Ahhh,” he releases, his head falling back with parted lips. His fingertips stroke me up and down, sliding over sensitive areas that somehow reach higher and higher as I sink my hand inside the band of his pants and boxers.

  He’s warm, and I wrap my hand around him feeling his dick throb in my hold before I begin to stroke. I’m acting on instincts, feeding off his happiness and sounds. I’m not sure if what I’m doing is right, or if I’m doing it well, but it feels good. I want to feel more of him, but I also know that this is enough. This feeling of him touching me, seeing me, my hand on him—the control and the lack of control crash into one another as we kiss and move together in a deserted parking lot somewhere on the edge of the scariest part of town.

  My body starts to quiver, and he senses how close I am and begins to work me faster—pressing harder and grabbing my left breast in his palm, applying light pressure on the tip until I feel the waves take over and my hips grind against his hand. He sinks his finger in deep, and I work my hand on him, trying to maintain my hold while giving over to the recklessness between my legs.

  “Like that,” he says, finally leaving my insides and holding at my hips while I grab him with both hands now and run my palms up and down him until I feel him begin to pulse again. His breathing stops and his eyes squint closed hard until hot cream spills over my palms and his body exhales. His hair is slick with sweat, and my skin is as well. I lay forward against him as his hands trail up my back, fingertips tickling me. My clothes are barely on, and I may as well be lying naked on him. I feel less like a virgin, and in many ways, I think I no longer am.

  I’m not a lot of things anymore. I’m not innocent. I’m also not naïve. And I’m not letting go of Tristan. Not through this night, and not through his nightmares. I want to fall in love with him. I think I already am.

  And I think he is, too.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tristan

  * * *

  Riley wasn’t at the courts all weekend. For two weeks, all I wanted was for the girl to stay away from that damn park, and now when I’m dying to see her, she won’t show up. I couldn’t visit her again. Her dad was home this weekend, and I think if I showed up so soon he’d hate me more than I’m pretty sure he already does. Riley says he just doesn’t know me, but sometimes snap judgments aren’t too far off. He’s probably right about this one.

  I have nobody to talk to about this, though. Not that I ever talked to Joker about serious things, really, but I could have told him that I really like Riley, that I more than like Riley. He would have given me shit, but deep down, he also would have understood. Where the fuck is he?

  I got up early this morning, beating the sun. I’ve been dribbling down at th
e courts for nearly two hours, and the only cars that have gone by have been driven by guys just like me. I knew every face I saw, politely nodding at most. Only one person stopped to ask if I was holding.

  “Nah man,” I said. “Try Dub’s party later.”

  Dub always has a party. Every night is a party in his world. He gets high and gives up his weed and other things he’s managed to land for way too little. It’s why he’s always strapped for cash. He’s a sloppy user. But who could tell him that? I can’t.

  Paul has been missing for five days now, four that everyone knows about. I still haven’t seen his mom, even though my mom told me to go visit her all weekend. She doesn’t want to see me just like my mom wouldn’t want to see Paul. All I symbolize to her is this massive clue that can’t do shit.

  I talked to Riley about it, and even she thought I should visit Paul’s mom. She doesn’t know what the anguish looks like on this side of life, though. When you know things that go on, when you suspect everyone and start to question yourself, if you had a part in someone’s disappearance or death. I talked to her about it anyway though and it was the single thing that made my heart feel whole. I hid in my bed all weekend, talking to a girl I liked on the phone. There are guys out there that get to do this for their whole lives until they find some girl they want to marry, and then they get to live with that person and talk to them until they fall asleep every night. Not even my mom knows what that’s like, because my dad was never home. And he cheated. A lot.

  I want to talk to Riley now. It’s why I’m out here. She drives by this park every morning on her way to school, and she’ll do it again today. She’ll see me, and maybe I can get a ride with her. I just need more time. Her voice wasn’t enough.

  I dump my bag on the ground and dribble out to center court then rest the ball under my foot while I check the time on my phone. Probably ten minutes, tops. I get excited when I hear the echo of a ball on the concrete, and I think maybe she’s come to the park after all, but when I turn around I’m disappointed to see Jaden. He’s a sweet kid, but I wish he wouldn’t hang around here so much. His parents both work long hours, and that kid is never supervised. His mom and dad stamp cards and ride buses all day and night, kicking homeless people out of the depots and tolerating them on board. Even staggering their hours, there are long periods of time when nobody’s home. It’s a miracle Jaden hasn’t been swallowed up by Dub yet. I wait for it to happen every year.