I let myself slide down to the floor, keeping my eyes squeezed tight and trying to think. Think. Think.
I can't just hop onto the back of a motorcycle and take off (though I have to admit, there is quite the appeal there). I have Christy to think about, and money, and a future. Plus, if I just disappear, my family will never speak to me again. Never. Despite their shortcomings, I do love them. Could I live with not seeing my mother again? I think about that, really think about that for a moment, and am surprised to find that my mind drifts right back to Austin Sparks and his hot hands on my hips, his body thrusting inside of mine
I shiver and stand up quickly, moving into the bathroom and stepping into the shower without even bothering to take off my clothes. I turn the water on cold and bite my lip to hold back a scream when it hits me hard and sends goose bumps springing up all across my body.
I don't have time to fantasize about Austin right now.
But all I want to do is fantasize about him. About sex.
I touch the sweet soreness between my legs and try not to groan at the flicker of pleasure that ricochets through my blood. Wow. Let's just say that I had high expectations and Austin Sparks did not disappoint. I keep my eyes closed and start to explore myself, feeling with my hands what Austin felt with his cock, brushing the hairs gently with the tips of my fingers and then sliding easily into that hot heat. I imagine that my hand is Austin's dick, falling to the floor of the shower and spreading my legs wide. I think of his lips moving, groaning my name, and then my vision goes white and my back arches, sending another spiral of la petite mort up my spine and into my brain, knocking me silly. Oh yes, orgasms certainly are the shit.
I move my hand away, up to my mouth, and slide my fingers inside.
I hope Austin Sparks says yes, that he hasn't had enough of me, because I certainly haven't had enough of him. I taste myself, letting the icy water soak my hair and clothes and knowing that what they say is wrong – even a cold shower can't make you forget if the memory is hot enough. And Austin Sparks is hot enough to melt.
I just hope that he doesn't melt me.
I wake the following morning to my mother's gentle raps on the bedroom door.
“Amy?” she calls, voice neutral with no sign of the anger that was boiling beneath the surface last night. “Time to get up.” She pauses. “And unlock this door. It makes me feel like a common criminal.” I listen to her footsteps as she moves away from the door and wish fervently for a cell phone. But I don't have one of those either. Papa says that the only people who need cell phones are people who have secrets to hide. The rest of us, he preaches, can use the phone in the hallway like good, honest, normal folk. I sigh and swing my feet out of bed, remembering as the warm air kisses my skin that I slept naked for the first time in my life. I slept naked and dreamt of men with tattoos on their arms and secrets in their eyes.
I rub my hand across my face and stand up, moving over to my window and peeking out at the quiet street. Last night, each time a motorcycle went by, I woke with a start, heart pounding, and entertained fantasies of Austin climbing the trellis and ravaging me in my bed. I smile and drop the curtain, stepping over to my dresser and dreading what I'm going to see inside each drawer. There will be neatly folded cardigans, camisoles in pastel colors, and skirts with floral prints. The outfit I wore last night had been made up of old Halloween costumes and honestly, was the sexiest thing I owned. I sigh and dress myself in a beige skirt, yellow top, and white sweater. I wear the same shoes, though.
“Did you sleep well last night?” my mother asks as I come down the stairs slowly, trying to ignore the soreness between my legs. At least you didn't bleed, I think, imagining how embarrassing that would've been. At least Austin doesn't know that he was my first, and I definitely do not plan on telling him, thank you very much.
“I did,” I lie, wondering how Christy's doing, thinking that maybe I should head over there now and check on her, drag her to town with me to talk to Austin.
My mother pours me a cup of coffee and adds milk and sugar, not bothering to ask how I'd like it; she never has.
“I have some good news,” she tells me as she stirs the cloudy liquid with a spoon. I stare at her face, at the purple bags under her eyes and the twitch in her cheek. She's still mad at me, but she's hiding it well. I wonder why? “Your aunt and cousin have decided to move the date of the wedding.” Oh, good, I think. Then maybe I can get out of here before I'm forced into going.
“That's nice,” I say, trying to be pleasant, wondering if my father is still here somewhere or if he's left already. I sure hope he's gone. “What's the date?”
“Tomorrow,” my mother says and I try not to let my jaw drop.
“Tomorrow?” Mama pushes my coffee across the countertop, but doesn't look at me.
“We decided a wedding would do the family good, bring us closer together.” My heart starts to pound, sensing a trap.
“Oh?”
“And besides, Jodie is … ” Nobody in my family will admit aloud that my cousin is pregnant out of wedlock. I try to remind myself that we're in the twenty-first century, but it isn't easy. “Getting antsy to start her family.” Uh huh. “Your aunt's bringing over your dress later. I assume you'll be here to try it on?” I stare at her, but I don't know what to say. I think about Austin again. Fuck no, beautiful. That's what he'd say; I know it is. I start to get tingling feelings in my … how do I say it? … my vagina? Too clinical. Down there? Too Fifty Shades. My cunt. My pussy. I smile. It feels quite good to be bad, doesn't it?
My mother notices my smile and gives me a strange look. I cough and straighten out my features into a duller, more neutral expression.
“Christy and I have plans,” I tell her, scrambling for something useful to say. “To go shopping for new shoes for the potluck on Saturday. I assume that's postponed?”
“It's going to function as the reception,” she says curtly and then looks down at my white heels, wrinkling her nose in distaste, even though she's the one that bought them for me. Of course it is. Couldn't possibly break that special, little tradition, now could we? “And pick some up for the wedding while you're out.” I try to smile at her, but my lips feel broken, like I've abused them with fake expressions for so long that they no longer wish to obey my instructions.
I take a quick sip of my coffee, decide that next time, I'm going to try it black, and head out the front door and straight over to Christy's.
Her mother answers and politely tells me that my friend is unavailable, sending me away with a sniff and a sneer. Oh dear. I pretend to walk away, doubling back when Mrs. Hall finally stops peeping out the curtains, and slip through the back gate, tiptoeing around to the deck and looking around for a rock to toss at my girlfriend's window. She's right; Christy's right. We stopped maturing and are stuck in a perpetual cycle of being sixteen years old. I pick up a small white rock and chuck it at her glass, cringing at the loud ping as it ricochets back and nearly hits me in the head.
The window slides open and Christy leans out with a sad smile tainting her pretty face.
“Hey there, stranger,” she says and winces, rubbing at her eye. I don't see any actual bruises, but then, her father is as good as mine at making sure nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors. My hand unconsciously lifts to my cheek. It's sore, but forgettable. Honestly, the gentle ache between my legs hurts more. “What's up?”
“We're going into town to shop for shoes,” I say, pausing as Christy's mom appears on the back deck, squinting her green eyes at me like she wishes I would disintegrate right there on the lawn. Then again, she probably wouldn't want to harm the perfect sea of green, so maybe she's just wishing I would drop dead and go to hell. Yes, I think. That sounds a bit more like Mrs. Hall's style.
“Sneaking around other people's backyards, Miss Cross? What would your mother say?” I suspect that she already knows what my mother would say because I'm certain that they've just spoken to one another over the phone. Mrs. Hall snorts an
d shakes her head like I am so ridiculously unbelievable. She tried to ban me from hanging out with Christy once because I put black eyeliner on at school and she saw me, calling me a Satan worshiper. Today, she has a similar facial expression. “But you both are in desperate need of new shoes, and I am not about to go down to that … that festival.” She spits the word out like it's poison and lets it sizzle in the warm, morning air. “So go, but don't dawdle.” Already, Christy is disappearing from her window, and I know that she's halfway down the stairs. Mrs. Hall smooths her hand over her blonde hair and touches her bun, just to make sure it's still in perfect order, before turning away and fading into the darkness of her house, slamming the back door in my face.
I move back through the yard and wait on the front porch for Christy, smiling as she emerges dressed in an outfit that's nearly identical to mine. Pale blue sweater, white camisole, floral print skirt.
“Please tell me that you've come up with something?” she asks unlocking the doors to her car and opening the passenger side for me. “And that we're not really shopping for shoes.”
“Get in,” I tell her, wondering exactly what it is that I'm going to say. She movies hurriedly around the front of the car and gets inside, immediately bursting into a surprise shower of tears. I see her mother watching through the window and pat her arm lamely. “Come on,” I tell her, lowering my voice to a whisper. Is it just me or did I see the upstairs curtains move at my house, too? “I have something exciting to tell you.” Christy sniffles and nods, ignoring the rush of salty wetness that's pouring down her face, and starts the little, blue car with a turn of the key.
“It better be good,” she says, trying to smile through her sadness. I promise myself that I'll hug her as soon as we get into town. “Because I had the worst night of my life last night.” She doesn't elaborate, and I don't ask. If she wants to tell me more, she will, but if she doesn't, I'm not going to press her. This is how we've always been and how I hope we'll always be – easy, honest, truthful. Well, for the most part anyway. I still don't think I can tell her that I'm not a virgin anymore. We've both been for so long that it just seems like that's the way things should I be. I almost feel like I've betrayed her somehow, as stupid as that sounds. “Tell me.” I smile.
“What do you think about motorcycles?” I ask her as we wind through the streets towards the center of town where the one and only shoe store is located. The next closest is about seventy miles away, at our nearest mall. Christy nibbles her lip and lifts one eyebrow suspiciously.
“Why?”
“How would you feel if we just … I don't know, hopped on one and left?” I imagine my arms sliding around Austin's thick body, tangling in the leather of his jacket while the wind stings my face and the hot eye of the sun looks down on us with envy. I shiver. That's a romanticized view to be sure, but I can't help to entertain it. Everybody needs a little fantasy in their life; why do you think romance novels are so darn popular?
“Spill,” Christy says, looking both terrified and excited at the same time. “Did you buy us motorcycles?” I laugh.
“Not exactly.” I think of Austin again, and in the bright light of day, my request actually seems sort of … ridiculous. I don't have his number; he doesn't have mine. He never even asked for it. I don't know even know how I'm supposed to find him today. That thought hits me suddenly, like I've just run into a brick wall, and I immediately find myself short of breath. “Shit.”
Christy gives me a look.
“You alright?” I touch my hand to my belly and try to think. I guess I just assumed I'd find him in the crowd. I mean, he isn't difficult to spot. I could see Austin Sparks from a mile away.
“I … I asked Austin if we could join his motorcycle club.” Not we, I. Me. I asked Austin if I could join his club. I'm going to have to amend that to us as soon as possible. Christy laughs. She doesn't think I'm serious. I look down at my hands and then back up at her, studying the dimple in her chin and the way her earrings sway in the breeze from the air conditioner. “I'm serious, Christy,” I tell her, and she stops smiling. A horrible, awkward moment of silence stretches long and heavy between us.
“With Beck's group?” she asks, and it takes me a moment to respond because I want to say Austin's group. I remember that Austin introduced the redhead as his friend and assume that they're one in the same. Triple M he called it. I wonder what it stands for?
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Another moment of awkward silence.
“I thought you wanted to leave?” I ask her, wondering why her face is suddenly going all red and her eyes are starting to water again. She shakes her head and doesn't speak to me for awhile, not until we hit the downtown area and snag a prime parking space just a block away from the yellow tape that marks the festival's borders.
“I do, but I … ” She stops talking and turns the engine off, dropping the keys into her purse with a sigh. “I do, and I don't.”
“But you just said you wanted to? And last night – ”
“I know what I said!” she snaps, and then she gets out of the car and starts off down the sidewalk like she can't be bothered. I watch her disappear inside the shoe shop – Heavenly Soles (yes, that's its true name) – and climb out with a sigh of my own. Things seemed so different last night, less complicated. Now that the hot Southern sun is blaring in my face, pulling beads of sweat from my skin the instant I step outside the car, it feels like a tangled mass of heart strings and uncertainties. Maybe I'm being childish? Maybe I should just forget any of this ever happened and move on?
But then I see him. I see Austin Sparks moving down the sidewalk towards me.
I'm coming out of the hotel with a headache the size of Texas, when I see Amy Cross climb out of a small, blue car and turn towards me. The second I catch her gaze, my body goes up in flames, and I find myself jogging down the Goddamn sidewalk to meet her. She keeps me locked in the whole way, using those round baby blues to tease me into a frenzy that makes me wish I could just slam her into the nearest wall and fuck the living daylights out of her. What in the shit is it with this damn girl, Austin? You need to get her out of your system and fast. I force myself to slow down when I get closer to her. Or take her with you. Shit.
“Good morning, sugar,” I say, and I smile when I see her shiver. Sure as shit ain't the weather that's pricking her skin with little goose bumps; it's hotter than hell out here.
“Good morning, Austin,” she says, all proper like. Her eyes keep flicking over to a shoe shop with a picture of Jesus H. Christ himself plastered across the window. Weird ass little town. And somehow complicated, too. I gotta find Gaine and quick; this isn't a pleasure run. Things are tough. After I left the bar last night, the shit hit the fan, and it didn't stop spinning. Bikes got trashed, and people got hurt, and I didn't have anything to do with any of it. I was too busy upstairs rubbing my cock and thinking of Amy while Gaine and Beck and who knows who the fuck else were doing my dirty work for me. “How do you do?” I laugh because the words slip from her mouth automatically, making her blush and then putting this real angry look on her face like she wants to stop, but doesn't know how. I've got a couple of ideas on how to keep that mouth occupied, but I keep them to myself. I don't have time for that right now, much as I'd like to get to know Miss Amy a little better. “Um.” She pauses and nibbles her lip, reaching up to brush some of that golden brown hair behind her ear. “Thank you.” I stare at her, and she rushes to explain, using her hands to emphasize her words. “For last night I mean?”
“Are you thankin' me for fucking you, darling?” I ask with a laugh, and she wrinkles her nose.
“I just … I don't know how these things work,” she begins, but I'm already stepping forward and hooking my fingers beneath her jaw, drawing her face up to mine and pressing my mouth against hers. She tastes sweet, like maybe she's wearing some of that flavored makeup crap that Mireya likes, but her mouth is hungry, pressing against me with a vigorous fury that I didn't expec
t. We tangle tongues and soon my arms are around her and I'm trying to figure out where the closest place is that we could fuck.
Amy pulls away first, stumbling back and wiping at her mouth like she can't believe what she's just done. Her eyes flicker around like a pair of fireflies, searching for anybody that might've seen. Granted, there are loads of people around, swapping rides, exchanging cash and drugs, chatting, gawking, breathing, living. But there's nobody looking at us.
“Stop,” she says, shaking her head and clutching the strap of her purse so tight that her knuckles go white and her lips purse angrily. “Don't.”
“Why not?” I ask, stepping forward and reaching out to brush some stray strands of hair away from her face. She might not want to, but I have to. I have to touch her and kiss her and fuck her because she's somehow got herself wrapped around my mind, and I need it to stop. I met the friggin' girl yesterday. I wonder briefly if I should go find Mireya, tell her I'm sorry, and just try to forget Amy Cross.
“Just stop,” she whispers, letting me run my thumb across her lower lip. God, what I'd give to have her bent over that pool table again. “Not in public.” I raise my eyebrows.
“You wanna go somewhere else, beautiful?” She looks up at me sharply, drawing her thin brows together angrily.
“You don't even remember, do you?” she whispers, but I do. I do remember and I know exactly what it is that she's talking about. She wants to join Triple M, and, fuck me sideways, but I want to take her with me. Bad idea, Austin. What happens when you get tired of her? What're you gonna do then? Dump her on the side of the road? Your Mama raised you better than that.
“You don't know me,” I tell her honestly. “Or the shit I've gotten myself into. You don't want this.”
She slaps me then, hard, right across the face.
“Fuck you,” Amy says, voice low and tough as leather, not exactly what I was expecting. She looks down at the cement for a moment and then back up at me. “You don't know me either, and you don't know what I want, what it's like here, living in this … this … fucking bubble. You can do whatever you want, whenever you want. You get to see places, meet people, screw whoever.” She throws her hands up and turns a bright shade of pink when she says this. “And I get stuck here with a dad who beats me and a mom that doesn't care, and I lose my virginity to some asshole in a bar.” She snaps her mouth closed suddenly, and I can't keep the grin off of my face.
Losing Me, Finding You Page 7