With a newfound determination, I grab my cup from the counter, downing the rest of it with a gulp.
“Whoa. Maybe you should take it easy?” West touches me again, a hand on my shoulder, and it’s like my skin catches fire. Or maybe it’s a bad reaction to the alcohol. I don’t really care.
I swat his hand away, immediately regretting the decision because it means he’s not touching me anymore, but I need to refill my cup before I stop to think about Mom or the circus of my devolving life.
“It’s a party, right?” I ask, my shaky hands filling my cup.
“That it is,” West agrees.
I slam back the second cup, pausing only to cough halfway through. When I set it down, I feel the liquid slosh around my stomach. It’s weird, but my head is light, my neck loose, and for the first time tonight, I don’t feel the urge to count anything or run and hide.
“O-kay.” West takes the cup from my hand. “I think we need to pace ourselves there, buddy.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him, though my face is feverish. “Is it warm in here?”
“Uh, not really.” West presses a hand to my forehead, and it’s freaking awesome. “Hey, Lock. This isn’t your first time getting drunk, is it?”
I nod before I can think about looking dumb.
“Oh, honey. Just a night of firsts, isn’t it?” West pats my head like I’m a child. I don’t like the condescending look he’s giving me. I’m not a toddler needing a nap and a juice box. Even though a juice box sounds so good right now.
The music from the other room changes and I actually recognize the pulsing rhythm.
“Hey!” I say, much louder than intended. “I know this song!”
West just smirks at me, utterly amused. “Good for you, Lock.”
“This is my night,” I tell him, feeling like I have to explain myself. “This is my night for fun. This is my night to forget all the bullshit that—Holy shit, I just said shit.”
“You just said it again.”
“Oh my god!” I slap a hand over my mouth.
“Dude, relax.” West’s hands are on my shoulders, and he squares with me, the Puget Sound in his eyes.
“Sorry,” I say, holding his gaze. My head is swimming and I can’t remember why I don’t do this all the time.
“So, you want to have fun?” he asks me.
I nod vigorously. “I wanna be a fun guy, for once.”
“Then come on, fun guy. Let’s dance.”
Holy shit, this kid is a mess. An incredibly cute mess who can’t dance, no matter how much he’s had to drink.
I hold onto his hips to keep him upright as we move together to the music. He closes his eyes, getting lost in his own world. His body brushes against mine at every turn, hands drifting from the air to my shoulders, back into the air.
“How are you feeling?” I ask him between songs, releasing my hold on him momentarily.
“Like I could fly.” He says through a bout of giggles.
“Okay, I don’t encourage that thought process. But are you having fun?”
“Yasss.” He grins at me, and another song triggers his definition of ‘dancing’.
I can’t help but feel responsible for him, so I keep my eye and at least one hand on Lock as the night wears on. After about an hour, we’re both sweating something fierce, so I suggest we take a break.
“But I wanna daaance,” Lock whines as I drag him into the kitchen. I push him onto a barstool, filling a cup with water from the tap.
“We can dance in a second,” I promise him, handing over the water. “But first, you need to drink.”
“I want punch,” he says, sniffing the water like I’ve given him poison.
“After you finish all of that. Now drink.”
He takes a sip and must realize how thirsty he is because he drains the rest in seconds.
“I have to pee,” he announces, hopping down from the stool.
“Alright buddy.” I point him toward the bathroom. “Aim carefully, please.”
He gives me a thumbs up, trotting off to urinate. I let out a sigh. Here’s hoping Lock is having a good time because he’s a lot of work. I don’t know what kind of ‘bullshit’ he was referring to earlier, but I’m fairly certain it has to do with his mom. You could’ve cut the tension in the room with a knife when I was there last week. Not that I’m on the best terms with my folks either, but at least you can’t feel it when you walk in a room. At least, I hope you can’t. My family is great at hiding their dysfunctions.
And I’m the best of all.
“Weeest!”
I expect to see Lock sprinting toward me, but it’s Chels with Shay’s brother, Eddie. He’s a head taller than all of us with this Clark Kent dimple in his chin that makes me happy.
“I haven’t seen you in forever!”
“We’ve been dancing,” I tell her. “Where have you been?”
“Getting to know each other,” she says through the giggles. “Isn’t that right, Eddie?”
Eddie just nods with a big grin that tells me more than I needed to know.
“Where’s your cute boy?” Chels asks, detaching herself from Eddie.
“He’s in the bathroom.”
“Why didn’t you go help him?”
“Because it’s not like that,” I snap.
She just laughs, stumbling over to the fridge. “Lighten up, West. It is a party, after all. And I think I have just what you need.” She opens the door and rustles around until she pulls out a tray of tiny clear cups. They’re filled with a rainbow of colors. “I made Jell-O shots!”
She hands me a green cup—my favorite flavor—and taps her own red against it before slurping it down. I follow her lead, loosening the blob by running my finger around the edges of the cup before downing the squirmy, deliciously tart shot.
“Woo!” cheers Chels, crushing the cup on the counter. She goes to hand me another one, but I wave her off. “Come on, West! It’s my birthday, and I need you to get on my level here.”
I hug her neck. “If I was on your level, I’d be in orbit.”
“What did I miss?”
Lock is teetering dangerously beside us. Breaking away from Chels, I wrap an arm around his waist to keep him steady.
“Easy, buddy.”
“Let’s do a shot!” the birthday girl declares.
“Yeah!” Lock agrees.
“I’m not sure that’s a great idea,” I caution, but Chels has already handed him a blue-tinted cup. Within a second, it’s gone.
“Yummy,” he muses, licking the remnants off the plastic edges.
“Another!” Chels says, and I have to step in.
“I think you’ve had enough,” I say.
She pouts. “Come on, West. This is the last one. I promise. But only if you do one with us. Right, Lock?”
Lock gives me an enthusiastic nod.
With another sigh, I accept my second green shot. Chels grabs a red, Lock chooses blue, and Eddie joins with a purple.
“To friends!” Chels toasts.
Another shot down and I’m starting to get dizzy.
“Let go dance!” Lock pulls me back towards the pulse of music, and I don’t have to strength or desire to fight him.
My head is swimming and the lights are flashing. Parts of my body are numb, like my cheeks and the ends of my fingers, while other parts feel as if they’re on fire. Each time West touches my waist, waves of heat radiate through my body, feeding the flames.
I don’t want this night to end. Ever.
Chels and Eddie are dancing with us, but their dance is different. West and I are attached by his fingers in my belt loops, but a distance remains between us, West constantly readjusting to keep friction at a minimum. That distance doesn’t exist for Chels and Eddie as she folds herself against him, like two puzzle pieces coming together to complete a bigger picture.
I want to dance like that. I want to dance like that with West.
I step closer to him, but he counters and adjus
ts to keep the distance the same. I try it again, but he moves when I do. That only makes me want it more. I need to feel him pressed against me.
Finally, I grab his hands, wrapping them around my back while slinking into the dead space. West’s eyes widen when he realizes what I’m doing. Once his hands are in place, I move mine, sinking fingertips into his hips.
The music slows, and we dance, eyes locked on one another.
Holy shit. My hands are on Lock’s ass. It’s definitely not a bad thing, but not how I saw this evening transpiring. I shouldn’t be doing this, but those stupid Jell-O shots pushed me over the line of caring, so I go with the flow.
Lock is locked onto me, and I study his face. The flashing lights catch in his chocolaty eyes, warming them to sweet honey. His nose is wider than mine, but it fits his face nicely, with a line of light freckles running across it. There’s a patch of scruffy hair just under his chin, and his lips are full, just waiting for someone to kiss them.
Oh no. This is bad. I’m too drunk to fight the urge overwhelming me.
My hold on him tightens, and he reacts in turn. He looks down at me as our bodies connect, noses nearly touching. His eyes are still watching me, but there’s something else there now. Is it fear or excitement?
I can’t tell.
I stretch to speak into his ear. “Is this okay?”
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. Then nods.
I pull off my ridiculous hat, letting it fall to the ground. He tilts his head, eyes closing as our lips meet for the first time.
West is kissing me.
I’m kissing him.
I’m kissing a boy. And it’s everything, all at once.
My eyes are closed, but they crack as West pulls away.
“Are you okay?” he asks again.
How could he be asking me that? Doesn’t he see how happy I am right now? Or maybe he’s asking because I’m not a good kisser. Oh no… I’m probably the worst! Great, now he’s going to tell everyone I’m a terrible kisser, and then I’ll have to—
“Lock?” I blink, and he’s still looking at me. “You still with me?”
“I’m sorry I’m not a good kisser,” I blurt out.
He doesn’t respond, just stares at me for a moment longer. Then he’s laughing, a whole-hearted laugh that makes his body shake against mine because we’re still that close to each other. His arms don’t let me go but tighten as he pulls me into another kiss.
The second kiss is different from the first. It’s not everything. It’s heat, surging through my body and melting my bones until my knees quake and my fingers tremble to cling to the source of this ecstasy.
When he breaks away, I know I’m in trouble.
But I’m too drunk to care.
The dance floor rages on downstairs, but we’re not downstairs. I close the door to Chels’s bedroom, joining Lock on the edge of her bed. The pile of pastel pillows sinks beneath our weight.
“My head is spinning,” he says, rubbing his temple.
“Mine too,” I admit, shoulder brushing against his. My shirt is slick with sweat, so I decide to shed it, discarding it to the floor. Lock is looking at me with wide eyes, and I realize that I’m probably sending mixed signals. “Wait, no I’m not—”
He kisses me, lips urgent against mine as warm fingers trace my chest. A part of me wants to stop this, because I know exactly where it’s heading and we’re both too trashed to be making these kinds of decisions, but that part of me is squashed by the rest of my body which aches for Lock to keep touching me.
Strong hands push me back onto the bed. Lock straddles my hips as he leans down to keep kissing me. I fumble with the buttons of his shirt, and he helps me unfasten them. It peels off, and then there’s skin touching skin and it feels so real and hot and I can’t even think straight right now—ha, not too drunk for a solid pun.
After timeless moments in heaven, we come up for air. Lock looks down at me, chest heaving. I’m sober enough to know where this is headed.
I lean over the side of the bed, digging through Chels’s nightstand drawer until I find what I’m looking for. I offer it to Lock, waiting to see if he takes it.
I may be a drunk homeschooler, but I know what West is handing me right now. The plastic crinkles in my hand as I run a finger over the circular contents.
My heart is hammering so fast I think it’s going to burst out of my chest.
How did I get here? Am I really going to do this?
The world swirls under me.
“We don’t have to,” West says, brushing blond curls out of his eyes. “It’s totally up to you.”
I’m faced with decisions. Just like Jill said I’d be. The trouble is I’m making said decisions with alcohol drowning my judgment and an incessant boner.
So, what do I do?
The tearing of plastic is my answer.
Light pours through the window, triggering pain behind my eyes. An obnoxious bird’s song drills into my ears.
It takes me a second to realize where I am. I recognize the soft down blanket and fluffy pillows. My head is killing me—not surprising—and details from last night filter slowly through the haze of my hangover. Someone moves to my left in the bed. Chels and I must have fallen asleep after the party wound down. It’s not uncommon for us to share her bed when I sleep over.
“Morning, Chels,” I stage whisper, pulling back the covers.
Lock’s mouth hangs open slightly, a soft snore coming from him as he sleeps.
Oh, fuck.
It’s all coming back to me now. The condom wrapper on the bedside table makes it all too real.
I do a quick search of the immediate area, finding my underwear discarded under the bed. I pull them on, feeling incredibly exposed. I’m still looking for my pants when Lock stirs.
I freeze, holding my breath.
Please turn back over. Please turn back over. Please.
He sits up in bed, eyes cracking open.
“Uh… Morning?” I say.
He blinks slowly. I imagine he’s trying to make sense of things, just like I am. Then the light comes on and his eyes bulge like a cartoon character. He scrambles to get out of bed, but stops short, clawing at the blanket to cover his naked body.
“Wha-When-How-What the fuck?!”
“Whoa.” I laugh, though I’d rather die. “I didn’t think you knew that word.”
“Fuck.” He says again, this time rising from the bed with Chels’s sheets wrapped around him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Alright, let’s not freak out here.” I fold my arms to cover my bare chest. As if that will help. “We were both really drunk. But hey, we were safe, so it doesn’t have to be a big deal.”
“Not—Not a big deal?” he repeats, and I think he’s broken or something because he just keeps mouthing the same words over and over again.
“Lock, it’s okay.” I step towards him, but he flinches. “Easy, man. I’m just trying to help. Let’s just breathe for a minute, yeah?”
His chest is heaving like he’s about to hyperventilate.
He stops muttering for a second and takes a few deep breaths. I bend down to retrieve his boxers from the floor, tossing them over. He pulls them on quickly, and then it becomes an Easter egg hunt for the rest of our clothes. Snippets of last night keep popping up and my cheeks are burning by the time we’re both dressed. I can only imagine what Lock is thinking right now.
God, I fucked this up so bad.
“I can give you a ride home,” I offer, but he’s already shaking his head.
“I’ve got a ride.” He holds up his phone.
We walk down the hallway and descend the stairs, stepping over the two guys passed out on the bottom rung. All the while, I’m wracking my brain for a way to fix this. The living room looks like a scene from Jonestown, bodies piled up left and right. I have to jog after Lock to catch up as he barrels out the front door.
“Hey!”
He stops just shy of the car, not turning to
look at me.
“I guess I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”
No response. After a moment, he opens the passenger door and they speed off.
I run a hand through my tangled bedhead.
In the words of Lock: Fuck.
My anxiety attacks always start the same way. With my hands. Just a slight tremble at first, but soon it balloons to full-on shakes. Then comes the temperature drop, sucking every bit of warmth from my body. Fingers and toes turn to ice, teeth chatter, and bones quake even in this heinous Georgia heat.
I try to combat most attacks with a hot shower. The water eases the symptoms while the solitude allows me to try to wrangle the derailed train that is my brain. I stand under the spray, adjusting the temperature as high as I can stand it.
Aunt Jill and Jack are still asleep, and that’s for the best. I don’t want them to see me like this, crying and shaking and ashamed. The poor Uber driver… He got the worst of it.
I’m desperate to dodge the flashes of last night, but the more I want to forget, the more vivid each memory gets. Pulsing light and pounding music. A white t-shirt spattered with paint and a straight-bill hat. Lips and teeth and blond curls wrapped up in my fingers. Pain and excitement and heavy breathing—
There are fifty-seven tiles in this shower. Fifty-eight if you count the cracked one twice, which I sometimes do when the thought of odd numbers makes my heart race. I trace patterns in the tiles with my mind. It helps keep me from drowning in my own thoughts.
But counting isn’t helping. And no matter how hot the water gets, it doesn’t stop the trembling. No patterns I imagine can press down the details of last night.
How it felt to be so close to West…
And now I’m hard, which is literally just the cherry on top of this sundae of shame.
I sink to the floor, wishing the water could just wash everything away.
Jill stares at me from across the table, spooning a heap of Marshmallow Mateys—Jack’s favorite cereal—into her mouth and chewing loudly.
Lock & West Page 5