Untouchable: A Bully Romance

by Mariano, Sam

  “Eh, part of growing up,” he says dismissively. “You and your little group of Bible-thumpers are just a little behind in the process, that’s all.”

  “We aren’t Bible-thumpers,” I mutter.

  “Grace would thump me with a Bible in a heartbeat.”

  “Someone should thump you with something,” I shoot back.

  Carter smiles another one of those smiles that starts slow and spreads, drawing me right into his mischief.

  “Can I ask you something?” I inquire.

  He grabs another fry. “Shoot.”

  “It’s personal,” I warn him. “I was just wondering… how many girls have you been with?”

  “How many have I actually had sex with? Or that plus girls who have blown me, but I haven’t fucked them?” My eyes are wide, so he doesn’t wait for my response. “You know what, let’s just go with the first number.”

  “So, I won’t be part of this count,” I state.

  “Correct.” He pauses in thought, running through a mental list and ticking off fingers on his hands. I watch all 10 get used up quickly, then he starts over. Oh, shit.

  I grab my Diet Coke and take a sip, eyeing his fingers.

  “Nineteen,” he finally says.

  “Nineteen,” I repeat, a bit dumbly.

  “Wait.” He runs back through the count again, then he shakes his head and grabs another salty fry. “Twenty. I forgot Melissa. That was a one-nighter. Still counts.”

  “Wow. That’s… more than one for every year you’ve been alive.”

  Shrugging, he says, “It’s spread out over six years. It’s not that many. Could have been a lot more, but football keeps me busy.”

  “Your first time was 13?”

  He nods. “Two that year. When I was 14, I dated a 16-year-old. Then 15 was the year I got a little more active, 16 was pretty active. Last year was the highest. Not the best year to date Erika; I fucked around on her a lot.”

  I grimace. “Wonderful. I love hearing that.”

  “Hey, I assumed you wanted the truth.”

  Nodding reluctantly, I assure him, “I did. I do. I’m just not terribly excited about the prospect of dating a serial cheater.”

  “I am not a serial cheater. She was a pain in the ass. I tried to break up with her a bunch of times and she wouldn’t let go. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I wasn’t going to be forced into a relationship, so I did whatever the hell I wanted, and if she wanted to keep being crazy, then she would have to deal with it. Otherwise she could accept that I didn’t want to be with her and I could do my own thing.”

  “Like the teacher,” I offer.

  “Yeah, that one really pissed her off. Anyway, as long as I’m being honest with you, you don’t have to worry. Honest men don’t cheat.”

  “Who cheats?” I ask, curious to get his viewpoint.

  “Well, men who don’t want to be in the relationship, obviously. Bad communicators, or men too timid to tell a woman what they really want—clearly not something I struggle with. There are exceptions to every rule, but generally men who cheat are the cowards, the weaklings, the needy assholes. No one worth missing once they’re gone.”

  His brutal dismissal of unfaithful men brings a relieved smile to my face. “Oh, good. I assume you don’t consider yourself any of those things?”

  “Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to manhandle you, not cheat on you.”

  I think I can handle the former far better than the latter. I’d dump him on the spot for the latter, but since he’s already expressed his stance, I see no reason to add that.

  “Have you ever slept with your rally girl?” I ask him.

  “Yes.”

  I tense a little, but I nod, trying to stay grounded. “But you won’t now?”

  “Of course not. That’d be a lousy way to earn your trust, wouldn’t it?”

  He’s saying all the right things, and it makes me want to kiss him. I will refrain since we’re in public, but I do currently want to. This is a nice change from him saying all the wrong things, and me trying to deflect his missiles of impropriety like an indestructible human wall.

  That thought triggers a rogue strain of doubt. My mind digs through the Carter files and reminds me that I know he has been manipulative before, that I watched him play Jake like a fiddle, saying exactly the right things to turn the tides in the direction he wanted. Jake walked into that classroom wanting me to recant my story, got me desperate enough to give in and give him exactly what he wanted, and Carter convinced him not to take it by playing to his weaknesses.

  Keeping my eyes on the French fry I’m breaking apart, I ask Carter, “What do you think my weaknesses are?”

  “What?”

  I glance up at him, but he looks genuinely confused by my question. “My weaknesses. When you look at me, when you appraise me the way I’ve seen you do other people, you sum me up and slide my traits and tendencies into boxes. We all do it, it’s how we process people. In your opinion, what are my weaknesses?”

  This question makes him uncomfortable, I see it in the way he shifts his position and breaks my gaze. Uncomfortable because he wants to get into my pants and figures offending me isn’t the best way to get there, or uncomfortable because he’s using my weaknesses to his advantage, and doesn’t want to tip his hand?

  If it’s the latter, he’ll lie. Try to misdirect my attention to some weakness he doesn’t find useful, maybe something that isn’t even a weakness at all.

  “I don’t think you’re weak. I told you, I think you’re strong as hell.”

  “I know. I believe you. But every person, no matter how strong, has weaknesses. That’s part of being human. People are imperfect. What do you think mine are?”

  “You don’t like football.”

  I slant him a mildly unamused look. “I’m serious.”

  “You steal all the flat wings and leave me with the drumsticks,” he states.

  “That’s what you get for making me share. Come on, something real.”

  He ignores me, as is his way. “Why are they called drumsticks, anyway? Drumsticks are long and skinny, they don’t look a thing like chicken legs.”

  “I will Google it later,” I state, cocking an eyebrow. “Come on, Mahoney, answer my question. I promise not to feel attacked. I’m the one who initiated this conversation; I’m inviting you to answer my question. I won’t hold it against you, I just want to see myself through your eyes.”

  “Fine.” He sits back in his seat, crossing his arms and meeting my gaze across the table. “I’m not complaining, I actually really like this about you, but I’ll label it a weakness because it makes you easy to take advantage of. You try too hard to see the good in people, which is weird as hell, because one of the things I like most about you is that you don’t seem to give a single fuck what anyone thinks of you. I’ve seen people bullied with far less venom than you have been fold under the scrutiny, but you sail through the halls like a queen, like we’re all beneath you, and our opinions legitimately don’t matter. People call you stuck-up, but you’re not stuck-up. You’re too nice to be stuck-up. I don’t know what you are. Well-insulated, maybe? Secure as hell in who you are? It’s awesome, but if you’re so isolated, so apart from the rest of us, why do you care so much about other people? Why aren’t you selfish? You should be selfish.”

  “My flaw is that I’m not selfish enough?” I ask, skeptically.

  “You’d be a hell of a lot safer from people who seek to hurt you if you were more selfish. You make yourself vulnerable. It’s not like you’re oblivious to the danger around you. You know you’re doing it, but you’re willing to; you’ll take that risk for someone else’s sake, to try to help them, even if they’ve never helped you.”

  “Bravery,” I deadpan. “Bravery and unselfishness are my worst qualities? This isn’t a job interview. Don’t bullshit me, Carter.”

  “I’m not bullshitting you,” he tells me. “I like your flaws, so maybe I’m putting a ni
cer spin on them. Someone who didn’t like you would probably call them something different. They’d say stuck up instead of secure, they’d call your bravery stupidity because they don’t have your guts. They’d put you down because they don’t like you, or they don’t like those things about you, but I do. They’re beneficial to me, because they’re the only reason you even talk to me, but… if pressed, that’s why I’d call them weaknesses.”

  He regards me across the table to see how I’m taking this. When he sees I’m not offended, he goes on.

  “Technically speaking, I’m someone you shouldn’t have let into your world. After our first interaction, you should’ve locked yourself away from me and barred all the doors, but instead you let me in to see what I’d do. You knew the danger I presented, but… I don’t know. You’re like the vet brave enough to tend to wounded animals even though they might bite you, because you know they’ve been hurt, and you know no one else will help them if you don’t. Those qualities are like chinks in your armor, but you know they’re there, and you don’t care to fix them. You’re willing to take a little damage to reach out to someone else.” He shrugs. “I don’t know, I like that about you, but you asked, so there it is.”

  I like his comparison. I picture myself with a medical bag, coming across Carter Mahoney with an injured limb in the woods. “I can handle a few nips. I’ve got thick skin.”

  “Exactly,” he says, smiling at me. It’s a real smile, not his golden boy bullshit smile, not his mischievous smirk. “It takes some serious balls to be that brave. Either you’ve never been hurt before, or you’ve got balls of steel; either way, I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  “Of course I’ve been hurt before,” I offer, a tad dismissively. “You know that, you’re one of the people who hurt me. I just don’t let bad things that happen have enough power over me to keep me down. It’s not my natural inclination, it wasn’t always easy; I just learned at an early age I needed to fight my own human instincts on some things or I’d be an unhappy person. I chose not to be unhappy. I fought my natural instincts, I fought teachings that had been instilled in me from birth, and I won. I guess maybe that’s why you perceive me as being so strong. I am strong; I can even conquer myself, if I set my mind to it.”

  “That’s why you’re not afraid of me?”

  I shrug. “Sometimes I am afraid of you,” I offer, since we’re being honest. “I don’t know exactly what you’re capable of, what your limits are, if you even have any. You’re definitely a gamble. But as long as you don’t actually, physically kill me, I’ll survive you. I’ll survive everybody. I don’t give outsiders enough access to my inner world to destroy me. They could torch everything they’re able to reach, and I’d still have a lot left. I have an abundance of mental strength, gained the same way all strength is acquired—by working out the muscle. Physically you can overpower me, but not mentally. I’ll always rise, from everything. I’m unconquerable.”

  Shaking his head with a fond smile on his face, Carter reaches forward for a fry. “If I didn’t like you so much, I’d take that as a challenge.”

  Reaching for another fry, I flash him an answering smile. “Then let’s hope you keep liking me.”

  “Let’s.”

  Chapter 19

  In front of me, Carter holds up a bag of Twizzlers and a bag of Jolly Ranchers.

  “Which one?” he asks.

  “Trick question? We should obviously get both.”

  Tossing both bags of candy into the blue shopping basket on his arm, he nods. “Respectable choice. I would’ve picked Jolly Ranchers.”

  “I think it would be mean to make the Twizzlers homeless,” I offer.

  He smiles down at me, wraps an arm around me, and leans in for a kiss.

  A heavy sigh of irritation interrupts us as Erika Martin drops a box of 100-calorie snacks into the shopping basket. “Must be nice not to think about keeping your figure,” she comments. “We’ll have to meet up when we’re like 30, see if that sweet tooth catches up to you.”

  I sigh, wrapping an arm around Carter’s waist. Erika narrows her eyes at me like I did it on purpose, but I don’t really care. She’s been such a bitch all night long, confirming my suspicions that hanging out with Carter and his friends was not a good idea.

  He insisted, though. Made a good point that if we’re going to date, I’m going to have to be around his friends sometimes. Tonight, Cartwright invited a few people over to have a bonfire in his backyard, then watch a movie afterward. That sounded more accessible than one of their parties or a football game, so I decided this was the time to give in.

  Even the least terrible thing I can do with these people is unpleasant. Carter I have such vastly different taste in friends.

  “Got the marshmallows,” Brianna announces merrily, dropping them into Carter’s basket. “Oh, my God, I cannot wait for these s’mores.” Flashing me a smile, she asks, “Do you like s’mores, Zoey?”

  “I do, but I don’t like my marshmallow burned,” I tell her. “I like it just warmed up, maybe a little bit brown.”

  Brianna seems pretty okay. I was prepared for her to be standoffish like Erika since Carter called her out as someone he has also been intimate with, but theirs must have been a more casual arrangement—or she just didn’t care when it ended—because she has made several pleasant attempts to talk to me since Carter picked me up, and no one else has.

  “So particular about what you put in your mouth,” Erika remarks.

  “Can it, Erika,” Carter says.

  Raising innocent eyes, she shoots him a wounded look. “What? We were talking about s’mores.”

  “Keep being bitchy, you can haul your ass home,” he tells her.

  Cartwright has no warmth for me either, but you wouldn’t know it now as he joins Carter’s team, dropping a pack of Hershey bars in the basket and mocking her. “What’s wrong, Erika? Is it that time of the month? Maybe we should open up these candy bars right here. When we get to the register, we can just tell ‘em it was a lady emergency.”

  Erika rolls her eyes at him. “Ugh, spare me, Sparky. Do you fetch Carter his house slippers and the Sunday paper, too?”

  “Pretty sure you’re the one who used to be his bitch, not me,” Cartwright offers back.

  “Can we not start this again?” Brianna pleads. “Can you both just take a chill pill? Honestly.”

  “Let’s see what Jake thinks—oh wait, he wasn’t invited,” Erika says, feigning surprise. “Bunch of fucking traitors.”

  “Keep it up,” Carter tells her, his tone light enough, but carrying enough legitimate warning that she finally shuts her mouth and walks ahead of us.

  Leaning in closer so I can address him without Erika overhearing, I say, “So, hangin’ out with your ex is super fun. We should do this more.”

  Carter smirks. “See why I fucked the art teacher?”

  “I might’ve fucked the art teacher too, if it was the only way to get away from her,” I admit.

  “Oof, would watch,” he murmurs.

  I grin, my cheeks flushing, and bump him in the side. “Behave yourself, Mr. Mahoney.”

  “Never,” he murmurs back.

  “Do we need anything else?” Erika calls back to us, halting at the end of the aisle, unsure which direction to turn.

  “Yes,” Brianna volunteers. “Nail polish.”

  “Nail polish?” Carter questions, looking over at her. “I said I’d buy you snacks, not make-up.”

  Brianna rolls her eyes. “It’s not for me, it’s for Zoey.” She nods at my fingernails, bare of shiny, pigmented coating. “We need to get her a bottle of Longhorn blue. Duh. She’s gotta show her support for the team somehow, doesn’t she?”

  “Good call,” Carter tells her, nodding. Glancing back at Erika, he says, “To the nail polish, wherever that is.”

  Erika sighs as loudly as she can at him, but turns and leads us to the cosmetics anyway.

  I did not sign up for supporting the team in any way, shape,
or form, but I suppose since Carter is the quarterback, brushing some blue polish on my nails won’t kill me. As Brianna squats down and compares shades of blues to find the right one, she asks me, “You’re comin’ to the game tomorrow night, right?”

  It’s a home game, so it would be an easy one to go to. The problem is, I really don’t want to. Not only because I can’t think of anything more boring than watching a football game, but because showing up at the sporting event that got me terrorized in the first place seems like a terrible idea.

  “Of course she’s coming to the game,” Carter answers for me, his arm around me tightening ever so slightly.

  Erika disappears for a couple minutes while Brianna outfits me with Longhorn-appropriate cosmetics, but I don’t think much of it. I know Erika doesn’t like me being here. I don’t entirely blame her; I wouldn’t like hanging out with my ex and the girl he’s dating now either, but then, I wouldn’t date someone in my friend group for that very reason. If I did and it bothered me, I would stop hanging out with him. I didn’t even know Carter when he dated her, so it’s not like I was one of the girls he cheated with. If she wants to be nasty to someone, she should be nasty to him. He’s the one bringing a new girl around with no consideration for her feelings. He’s the only one of us who might owe her something—I sure don’t.

  When Erika comes sauntering back over to us, it’s with a sly smile on her face, the kind that belies a trick up her sleeve. She stops in front of us, her audience, and dangles a blue thong from her index finger.

  “Something else for Zoey’s new Longhorn kit,” Erika offers, smirking at Carter. “Remember last time we bought these for her? I bet she never got to wear that pair.”

  The sight of the panties didn’t register, but her words do. I look at them again and realize they’re the same panties that someone dropped off on my doorstep with the “slut” message stapled to them.

  So, those were from Carter.

  It’s not like it’s news that he was in on my weeks of torment, but having it thrown in my face like this sours my mood. I ease my arm from around him and step away, moving forward to look at some eyeshadows as a cover. I don’t look back at Carter over my shoulder, but I do catch a glimpse of him in one of the cosmetic mirrors. His features are hard as he looks at Erika, his eyes cold.