The Dare

by Elle Kennedy

  “Mrs. Gardner will be back soon and the bell’s about to ring,” I remind the class. “You better be done with your collages or there won’t be any smiley faces going on the chart today.”

  At that, their heads snap down and they furiously return to cutting and pasting. They’re only a few days away from earning a pizza party if they maintain their positive behavior streak. And I’m only a few days from passing my co-op evaluation if I can keep them docile. We’re all slaves to the system.

  I don’t know what’s gotten into Conor today, but even on the drive to his place he can’t keep his paws to himself. Driving with one hand, his other finds its way under my skirt, up my thigh, and then he’s rubbing my pussy while I clench my teeth and try not to alert the dude on a motorcycle who pulls up next to us at a red light.

  “Pay attention to the road,” I tell him, even as I open my legs wider and slouch in my seat.

  “I am.” He presses his fingers against my clit, rubbing through my panties.

  “Pretty sure this counts as distracted driving.” I want his fingers inside me. So badly that my chest aches with the tightness growing in my muscles. My eyes fall closed as I imagine grinding on his hand while his teeth tug on my nipples.

  “I’m always distracted when you’re sitting there.”

  When we make it to his house it’s a mad dash to his room. His roommates aren’t home yet, so hopefully we have some time to play before they show up.

  Conor barely shuts his door behind us before he’s pushing me up against the wall and prying open my cardigan. He doesn’t open it all the way, just leaves the last few buttons intact to spread my sweater around my cleavage.

  Fine. Maybe I wore this today just because I know he likes it.

  Conor licks and kisses across my collarbone, then slowly pulls down one bra cup to expose my breast, while squeezing and massaging the other. He licks my nipple, sucking. My thighs squirm with the need to feel him inside me. I wrap one leg around his hips and grind on his thick erection.

  “You’re so damn hot,” he mutters, yanking my bra farther down to suck on my other nipple.

  He presses himself against me, urgent and hungry. Then I feel him working to free himself from his jeans. He opens them just enough to pull out his cock, which he holds in one hand while rubbing the tip against my pussy.

  “There’s a condom in my pocket,” he mumbles.

  I find it and rip it open, then roll it down on his dick. Bringing his mouth to mine, he kisses me deeply as he tugs my panties to the side. A happy, relieved moan escapes my throat when he enters me.

  Conor fucks me against the wall. Gently at first, letting both of us get used to this position. Then harder, deeper. My hands tangle in his hair, nails digging into the back of his neck to hold on. He wraps one arm under my leg to bring it up higher and open me wider for him. Every thrust causes a burst of pleasure to cascade through my body. I lose control of my voice, overcome by the intensity.

  Suddenly he stops. He turns me around to face his bed and bends me over the edge. I’m panting, out of breath, while he flips my skirt up to expose my ass, running his hands over my bare skin and squeezing my cheeks.

  “Is this okay?” he asks softly, running the head of his cock against my ass.

  “Yes,” I say, desperate for him to be inside me again.

  He shoves my panties down and plunges deep, holding onto my hips. I moan at the sensation of fullness and push back against him. Wanting, needing him to get me off.

  It occurs to me that my butt is right there, out in the open, impossible to be missed in the rays of late afternoon sun streaming in through the open blinds. And yet it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. What I’ve learned during all my naked encounters with Conor is that the man doesn’t care about my soft tummy and the dimples on my butt.

  Hell, forget care—he doesn’t even notice. The other night when I was complaining about cellulite on the backs of my thighs, he stood there behind me and humored me for five minutes, searching and squinting and insisting he couldn’t see anything. Then he ate me out and I forgot what I was complaining about.

  Great sex has a way of building your confidence, I suppose. Or maybe I’m just growing up a little.

  With every stroke our voices grow louder. I fist the sheets in my hands, legs trembling, pushing back to meet his deep thrusts.

  “Fuck, babe. You feel so good.” Conor reaches his hand around me to rub my clit as he urges me to my orgasm.

  Biting my lip, I still can’t muffle the sound when I finally come, riding his dick.

  “Hey!” Three loud knocks pound against the bedroom door. “Some of us are trying to study. Keep it down in there unless you’re going to invite us to join!”

  “Fuck off, Foster,” Conor shouts back.

  I stifle a laugh, which makes Conor groan through his teeth as my body clenches and shakes around him. He stands me upright at the foot of his bed, squeezing my breasts in his hands from behind, as he makes short, quick thrusts to find his own climax. Soon he’s shuddering, hugging me tight as he comes inside me.

  “Why does it only get better?” he croaks, dropping his chin on my shoulder.

  After he’s discarded the condom, we lie together in his bed recovering from the elated exhaustion.

  “We should probably start doing this at your apartment more,” he grumbles. “I think they’re coming home earlier just to catch us.”

  “Yeah, you’re going to have to make them leave so I can walk out of here. Hmmm. Or maybe we should get a rope ladder I can hang out your window.”

  I like drawing little shapes on Conor’s abdomen as I lie across his chest. His muscles contract under my touch as I tickle him ever so lightly. He hates it, but tolerates it because he knows it amuses me. Then I really hit a ticklish spot and he pinches my ass as a warning not to start something I can’t finish.

  “Nah, don’t sweat it,” he says in response to my escape ideas. “It’s not a walk of shame so much as a strut down the red carpet. After today, expect applause.”

  I laugh. “I don’t know if that’s better.”

  “Or I can threaten them.” Conor kisses the top of my head. “Whatever works for you.”

  About an hour later, Foster bangs on the door again to ask if we want to grab a bite with them at the diner. I’m starving, so we take turns in the shower of Conor’s en suite bathroom and then get dressed.

  “So,” I say, wrapping my hair up in a bun, “have you talked any more to your mom and Max?”

  Conor sighs as he sits on the edge of the bed pulling on a fresh shirt. “No. I mean, I’ve spoken to my mom. And she’s texted me a couple times to call Max. I’ve made an excuse about class or studying or whatever. Said I’d do it later.”

  “So you’re avoiding him.” I know this isn’t easy for Conor. Confessing was a huge step in the right direction, but the hard work isn’t over yet. Right now, though, his anxiety about talking to his stepfather is winning out over his better judgment.

  “I keep thinking if I wait another day, I’ll figure out how to talk to him, you know? I’ll know what to say. I’m just…” He rubs his face, furiously combing his fingers through his damp hair.

  “Nervous,” I supply. “I get it. I would be scared, too. But eventually it’s going to happen. My best advice is close your eyes and bite down.”

  “I’m embarrassed,” he admits, leaning forward to slip on his socks. “I’ve always known that Max doesn’t think much of me, and now I’ve gone and proved him right. I knew better. Back then, I mean. I just got so angry and I fucked up.”

  “That’s all you have to say.” I stand between his legs, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders. “Tell him the truth. You made a dumb mistake that you regret, it got way out of hand, and you’re sorry.”

  Conor draws me closer, hugging me to his chest. “You’re right.”

  “Have they said anything about what’s going to happen to Kai?”

  “I didn’t mention his name. I told Kai I w
ouldn’t if he left me alone. As it is, Max doesn’t want to press charges since insurance paid out. It’d be more hassle than it’s worth. So that’s a small victory, I guess.”

  “You’ll do the right thing.” I kiss him on the cheek. Because I have faith in him. And I know as well as anyone what a difference it makes when there are people who believe in you. “In other news, my birthday is on Thursday. I was thinking about getting people together at Malone’s. Nothing big. Just hang out, have a few drinks.”

  “Whatever you want, babe.”

  “Yo! Let’s go!” Foster bangs on the door again. “Or I’m coming in there and getting weird.”

  36

  Conor

  By the time I leave campus after class on Thursday, I have two missed calls from Max. I know I can’t avoid him much longer, but boy do I keep trying. When I first confessed to him and my mother, I was kind of in a blind stupor of guilt and panic. Now that my head is clearer, I realize there’s no part of me that wants to have the conversation that’s coming. Especially not today.

  I put Taylor through hell over this bullshit with Kai. The only thing I’m worried about now is giving her a perfect birthday. I know she’s never had a serious boyfriend before, and I’m taking that to mean all the usual clichés are still new to her. That means flowers.

  An obnoxious number of flowers.

  An ecological massacre of flowers.

  At the florist in Hastings, I try to relay this request, which for some reason is more difficult than I expected.

  “What’s the occasion?” the middle-aged woman asks. She’s got a Vermont hippie vibe about her, and the whole place smells like a head shop. A flowery head shop.

  “My girlfriend’s birthday.” I walk around the store, studying the pre-made arrangements and bouquets in the refrigerators. “I want a lot. Something really big. Or maybe several.”

  “What are her favorite flowers?”

  “No idea.” I feel like roses would be fine, but then I’m thinking maybe something more unique. Less expected.

  What says I’m sorry I dumped you because I was afraid you wouldn’t respect me anymore when you found out I was a liar and a criminal but also it turns out I love you so take me back? And sex with you is pretty fantastic and I’d like to keep having it?

  “Favorite colors?”

  Hell, I don’t know. She wears a lot of black, gray, blue. Except when she’s teaching. Then it’s the opposite. I feel like after two months of dating I should know this. The hell have I been doing this whole time? Eating her pussy, mostly.

  Seemingly sensing my discomfort, the woman says, “Well, she’s a Taurus, so pink and green are usually a good bet. She’ll appreciate something earthy yet sophisticated and refined.” Hippie Lady weaves about the store between displays of flowers, touching them all, tilting an ear to them as if she’s listening for something. “Snapdragons,” she declares. “Foxglove and pink roses. With succulents. Yes, that’d be perfect.”

  I don’t have the vaguest idea what those are. But I understand the word roses. “Sounds great. Something big,” I remind her.

  The bell over the front door jingles as the hippie darts into the back room. I glance over my shoulder to see none other than Coach Jensen walk in.

  “Hey Coach.”

  He has a nervous aura about him, like the night of the family dinner. It’s odd seeing him that way, when in the locker room or on the ice he’s a stone wall of confidence. I guess women do that to us.

  He lets out a heavy sigh. “Edwards.”

  Yeah, relations haven’t warmed since the infamous fire. I get it. During the off-season Coach would rather not have to deal with his unruly band of misfits. Running into him around town is a lot like seeing your teacher at the mall during summer vacation. Once the season’s over and the semester ends, they don’t want to know us.

  “Here for Iris?” I ask. “Taylor told me she and her mom share a birthday.” Which further supports my theory that Taylor is in fact the product of a Russian human engineering experiment to create some sort of super sleeper agent. She has neither confirmed nor denied.

  “No,” he mocks, “I just like to come in a few times a week to gather petals for my bubble bath.”

  I like to think sarcasm is Coach’s way of showing he cares. Otherwise this guy can’t fucking stand me. “You two got big plans?”

  He turns his back, exploring the arrangements in the cases. “Dinner in Boston.”

  “Well, you two kids be safe, and don’t stay out too late. Remember, arrive alive.”

  “Don’t be cute, Edwards. I still got a trashcan with your name on it.”

  My asshole puckers right up when he says that. “Yes, sir.”

  We stand around in awkward silence for a few minutes, both of us pretending to browse the tiny shop while we wait for the florist to return. I can’t imagine what it must be like for Brenna’s boyfriend, Jake. He’s lucky they’re in a long-distance relationship while he’s playing pro for Edmonton, because Coach strikes me as the kind of man who might sit polishing a gun at the kitchen table when a guy comes over for his daughter. And then Brenna struts out the door after a kiss on his cheek with a pocket full of bullets.

  Iris was easy as far as meet-the-parents horror stories go. I mean, what’s one little fire between family, right?

  “What are your plans with Taylor?” he barks, so abruptly I wonder if I’ve imagined it.

  “Dinner first. Just the two of us. Then meeting friends later at Malone’s.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, then clears his throat. “Well, don’t show up at the table next to us, you got that?”

  “No problem, Coach.”

  Finally the florist returns with a heaping armful of flowers in an enormous vase. Perfect. The damn thing is almost as big as I am. I’m going to have to put a seatbelt on it.

  Coach looks from the flowers to me and rolls his eyes. The arrangement is so enormous and cumbersome I end up needing his help to get it out the door and to my Jeep parked at the curb. I’ve just got the flowers strapped into the front seat when across the street I see a face that doesn’t belong. And he sees me.

  Shit.

  He waits for a couple cars to pass before jogging over to us. My heart’s in my throat and I’m seriously thinking of hopping in the driver’s seat and peeling out.

  Too late.

  “Conor,” he says. “Finally caught up with you.”

  Fuck my life.

  A glance at Coach. “Hey there. Nice to meet you.” He offers his hand to Coach as they both look to me for a response.

  “Coach Jensen,” I say, feeling like I’m going to choke on my own tongue, “this is Max Saban, my stepfather.”

  “Great to meet you, Coach.” The thing about Max is, he’s so goddamn nice all the time. I don’t trust it. No one smiles that much. It’s fucking weird. Anyone who’s in a good mood that often is hiding something. “Conor’s told his mother a lot about you. He really loves your program.”

  “Chad,” Coach says, introducing himself. “Good to meet you.” He slides me a questioning glance, which I can only take to mean he senses the awkwardness of this shitshow and wondering why the hell is he getting dragged into more of my personal drama. “Conor’s a great addition to the team. We’re glad to have him coming back to us next year.”

  Ha. If only he knew. I can’t bring myself to meet Max’s eyes to read his reaction.

  “Well, I’ve got to get going,” Coach says, leaving me out on this floating ice sheet alone. “Nice to meet you, Max. Have a good one.” Coach strides back inside the shop, and I’ve got nowhere left to hide or anyone to hide behind.

  “When’d you get in?” I ask Max. I keep my tone casual, because he’s here now and I can’t avoid him anymore. The last thing I want is for him to see me squirm.

  So I tamp down the anxiety. I got good at this when I was a kid, following Kai around through abandoned buildings and dark alleys. Getting into shit that scared me, all the while knowing I couldn’t show
weakness or I’d get my ass kicked. It’s the face I put on every time I hit the ice, lining up against a guy ready to do battle. It’s nothing personal, but we mean to cause some havoc. Pain is part of the game. If we didn’t want to lose some teeth, we’d stay home and knit.

  “Just this morning,” replies Max. “I took the red-eye.”

  Fuck me, he’s pissed. In that quiet WASP-y way. The softer they speak, the more your life’s in danger.

  “Stopped by your place but you’d already left.”

  “I have early classes on Thursday.”

  “Well,” he says, nodding at the diner a few storefronts away. “I was going to grab a coffee before trying you again later. Since we’re here, will you join me?”

  Can’t very well say no, can I? “Yeah, sure.”

  We grab a booth by the windows and the waitress comes around right away to fill our mugs. I don’t even like coffee, but I drink mine too fast, too soon, scalding my tongue because I don’t know what else to do with my hands and it stops my knee from bouncing.

  “Guess I should start,” he says.

  The second most obnoxious thing about Max is how he always looks like he just walked off the set of an early 2000s family sitcom. He’s one of those perpetually cheerful dads with an upstanding gentleman haircut, plaid oxford shirt, and a vest from an expensive outdoor brand, not that you’ve ever seen the man hike.

  Maybe that’s part of it—I can’t take him seriously when he looks like a character from a show I never watched as a kid because we didn’t have cable. Those dads who ruined us for the real men missing from our lives. Kids like me were raised on lies told by TV writers fulfilling the fantasies of their own broken childhoods.

  “Obviously, I came out here because we haven’t been able to connect on the phone,” Max continues. “I also thought perhaps this was a discussion we ought to have in person.”

  That’s never good. Now I’m thinking I should have had this talk with my mom first. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that given my lack of cooperation, she had no choice but to leave me to Max’s mercy. Cut off financially, no more school, no more house. Set adrift on a raft of my own making.