We Belong

by Evie Bennet

  “What about you?” He sighed, spoon clattering to the side of his bowl.

  “Nothing too wild. Business has been a bit slow, so…” I trailed off, one shoulder rising to my cheek. “I might go in later this afternoon, just to tidy things up.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  Did he care about me or my business? I blinked into a frown, accidentally mirroring his own expression. “About the garage? No, I should be fine, even if I’m not overcharging like that guy in Knoxville.” My mug only slightly obscured my teasing smile.

  Reed’s mouth twitched incrementally upwards. “Good. Because I could probably help you out a little if you needed it.”

  The intensity of his gaze, stripped bare of pretense, was a refreshing, rich sensation to energize my day. It was just the two of us in underwear, bare toes tentatively touching as we gripped our respective mugs. I could marry him, happily.

  “Thank you.”

  It was the only appropriate thing I could think to say.

  “I’m gonna go shower. Do you have a spare toothbrush?”

  “Yes.” I brightened, practically tripping over myself to get to the closet. Every six months, I changed my toothbrush, usually after a cleaning, so I had a few spares from those visits and spread the color selection out for him. If he chose his own, that meant he could keep it here. Not that I minded if he wanted to choose to share, instead.

  Whatever he used for his teeth, it felt like he was choosing me. Physically, he chose the blue one.

  “It matches your eyes.”

  He flashed me a quirk of a smile before slipping past me into the bathroom, not bothering to shut the door all the way as he brushed and gargled away.

  I tried not to hover in the hallway, tried not to watch the way the muscles on his back moved when he was shoving the brush against the back parts of his molars. Definitely tried not to take a video of it.

  I was such a fucking freak.

  In an attempt to be productive, I washed our cereal bowls. The showerhead turned on in the background, my eyelids growing heavy under the strain of my imagination.

  He was naked in there.

  I scrubbed harder, toweling the dishes dry instead of leaving them in the rack.

  Last night he jerked himself off in my bathroom and now he was naked in there. Wasn’t that a sign that he wanted me to join him? Or was I projecting again?

  I creeped towards the bathroom door.

  Water sloshed against the tiles like he was sudsing himself up, but I didn’t sense any particular jerky rhythm. Still, the idea of his hands moving over his bare skin did something to me. Maybe we could do something later. I didn’t want to put him off with bad breath.

  “Is it okay if I brush my teeth?”

  His voice was muffled through the shower curtain and obvious stream of water. “Huh? Yeah.”

  Was it okay if I watched him? Should I ask? Or was the fact that he fingered me pretty much a free pass?

  I snuck in, steam infiltrating my pores as I stared at his shadow. Long, lean lines moved in attractive patterns that I was half tempted to record for later.

  But that wasn’t what I came in here for and that wouldn’t be fair to him. I had to keep functioning beyond my desire.

  Watching his reflection in the mirror, I brushed my teeth. Minty freshness was just a background while I admired his dance behind the curtain. Foam built up enough that I had to spit.

  That probably wasn’t attractive. Or polite. Neither was checking him out in the shower.

  “Thank you,” I chirped, making a speedy exit before I did something stupid like peel my own clothes off and join him.

  But would that be foolish? He clearly liked me, at least enough to desire me naked at some point and comfort me when that didn’t go all the way.

  “Are any of these towels fine?”

  I hadn’t been aware of the sound of water stopping.

  “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  Gathering my hair into a loose bun on top of my head, I tried to think of what else I could tidy up. Anything to get my mind off of the wet, naked man five feet away.

  “Hey.”

  Two feet away. Dripping. With a low-slung, white towel.

  “Hi.”

  Almost shy, he swallowed, pushing his rebellious curl to one side. “I couldn’t find your comb.”

  “I only have brushes.” My tongue felt swollen.

  For a few heated seconds, neither of us said anything. I was terrified to let my gaze drop any lower than his lips, which were already tempting enough.

  “Betty? Come here.”

  He wanted me.

  Thuds registered as I made my way across the hall to him. His chin dipped at my approach, but he didn’t close the gap between us.

  I reached into the towel knot at the downy trail of hair below his belly button and felt the heat of his skin pulsing against my knuckles.

  Curls still dripping onto his forehead, Reed slicked them back, painful longing surging through my veins as I got a glimpse of a sweet, boyish smile.

  The smile meant it was okay, right? Looking at him? Wanting him? I thought to myself.

  He nodded, my gaze drawn to the constellation of beauty on his cheeks, water droplets tracing his body in ways I wanted to chase with my tongue. I kissed him and smiled at the minty freshness underlying the salt of his flesh.

  Unknotting the towel was like unveiling a masterpiece. Slim bones, pubic hair ...Reed. He wasn’t fully hard, but the soft sack and its corresponding appendage twitched at the reveal, perhaps reacting to the air, perhaps just because they were being seen.

  He trusted me with these intimacies.

  It probably wasn’t the way he wanted to present his dick to me—somewhat flaccid, neat and tidy instead of eagerly wrapped and ready to be pushed inside of me. But I loved it. I loved him.

  My nails trailed down his midsection, his hips, tempted to reach around and cup his ass. There was hair on his legs, and I needed to explore it. I got on my knees, placing open-mouthed kisses down his abdomen, worshipping this intimacy and privilege.

  With the underside of my palm, I lifted his dick to the altar of desire.

  “Betty!” he gasped, rocking unsteadily on his feet.

  It was nothing to be afraid of.

  Even as he grew, thickening and hardening in my grip, I felt a strange sort of tenderness for serving him. I may not have been the one to tend to him last night, but I certainly would today. A wet kiss for his tip.

  His gasp was so sharp that I snapped my head back to check how he was, afraid I’d hurt him maybe? He struggled for better footing, eyelashes fluttering quickly. “It’s okay. You’re—that feels good. But you don’t have to.” When I spread his precum with my thumb along his head, his eyes darkened. “Use your mouth, Betty.”

  My tongue reached out, tasting him, swirling my name and various shapes into the velvet of his skin.

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” His palm slapped the wall next to us, his other firmly weaving into my hair.

  Sucking was fun. Not on this hard floor, not for my knees, but drawing that kind of passionate, viscerally pleased reaction just from hollowing my cheeks, from fitting more of him in, it was wonderful.

  I tugged the towel from behind his feet, unable to smile or speak because of my mouth’s activities. I hummed, pleased, when he helped me put it under my knees.

  “Oh my God, Betty, if you keep doing that, I’m gonna come.”

  Good. I wanted him to come.

  Moaning, I lifted his balls in my other palm, weighing them with a certain roguish delight.

  He was literally in the palm of my hand, down my throat, his tip on my tongue.

  It was almost poetry and it was definitely satisfying. He came with a warning grunt, his hips jerking. A new sweat erupted on his skin that had nothing to do with the shower and everything to do with the way I was helping him, learning him, knowing him in all kinds of new ways.

  “Betty,” he panted, reaching for me. Spending his
fluids seemed to weigh on him, the major curl of his hair gone slack and desperate.

  I wiped my mouth, trying to determine what he really tasted like, despite the lingering mint of toothpaste from earlier. His flavor would change, anyway. It wouldn’t always be milky or sour or sweet, even. This first time at least, though, I wanted to swallow. To learn.

  Dazed, he helped me up, kissing my forehead, nose and mouth. “Is it okay if I lie down?”

  “Mmhm.” This time I dragged him to my bedroom, hoping the sheets would absorb his scent, even if right then he smelled mostly like my soap and shampoo. There was something comforting in that too—that he’d smell like me all day, that I might taste him for hours if I didn’t re-brush my teeth.

  That was unsanitary.

  It was romantic, too.

  He cuddled me and passed out, his lips against my hairline, the towel forgotten. I wished I had a camera to keep the moment with me forever.

  My chapped lips buzzed with glee, fingers cleaved into his jacket collar.

  “Betty, stop, I have to go.” A chuckle betrayed his serious request.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I told you, I’ll call you tonight. I’ll—” He licked his lips, staring into my eyes with that focus that made me feel like I was floating. “If you’re good, I’ll do some writing, too.”

  “Okay,” I conceded, not sure if I could invite him over again so soon without seeming desperate. “Be safe.”

  He rolled his eyes, giving me one last peck before hopping out of my car and sidling back up to his motorcycle.

  With a satisfied sigh, I rested my chin on the steering wheel.

  So he was my boyfriend now, right?

  Desperation wasn’t a good look on me. These things took time.

  Not for me, though. I was ready.

  I closed my eyes.

  He seemed different. This was different.

  He probably baited me into that blowjob this morning. He had all of his clothes in the bathroom. There was no other reason to come out that way unless he wanted sex. But I wanted him anyway, because I was a stupid sl—

  Stop, I commanded.

  I sat up and plugged in a song for the drive. Music helped, sometimes. So did love.

  I spent most of the day experimenting. In my mind, in the kitchen. I was so distracted that I cut my fingers and had to wrap them up with the secret savior first aid kit that helped me a few weeks ago. The garage had a few projects to tinker with to give me something to focus on besides the next time I could see Reed—how he was feeling. The projects weren’t earth shattering, so I could daydream a little more than usual. I sang under my breath, not our song exclusively, but whatever was on the playlist.

  Some guy with a muscle car who needed his bumper reattached and taillight replaced checked out the mark on my neck. It itched. I was torn between covering it with the collar of my jumpsuit and proudly holding my head high.

  “Got a spot there,” he teased. “Bet a girl like you is used to getting dirty, though.”

  Tightening my ponytail, I yanked out the wires of his taillight and wound them together. Maybe I should be more careful.

  Desperate for an element of healthy interaction, I messaged Reed, not quite sure what endearment to use. ‘Hey, you! :)’

  It stayed on read for a few minutes before he had a chance to reply. ‘Hey, Betts.’

  That was sort of formal.

  ‘Just checking in. How’s your dad?’

  Did Reed have a job outside of whatever the Rattler’s club had him do?

  There were a lot of things I should probably already know about him, but they just hadn’t seemed important to who he was as a person. He was more than his job the same way I was more than mine. Being a mechanic implied a certain technical proficiency, a desire to diagnose and fix things. It was a delicate balance of logic and precision. Unlike a stereotypical mechanic, I didn’t like to rip people off, not even the idiot who checked me out and made comments about rear bumpers.

  My job didn’t hint anything about my poetry or that I sometimes had trouble expressing emotions.

  No, that wasn’t true.

  I loved Reed. Pat Benatar. Singing while I worked.

  I was definitely expressive.

  Reed’s reply caught me off-guard about ten minutes later. ‘He’s fine. Last night kinda threw him off, but we’re talking it out.’

  Why would last night throw his dad off?

  A curling smile lit up my face. ‘Sleepovers not your thing? Should I feel special now? ;)’

  Another few bashful minutes of dancing ellipses. He was very careful about what he chose to say, to reveal. I liked that about him. It didn’t seem secretive. He was thoughtful.

  Even as my brain tried to twist things, I reassured myself that Reed was good to me.

  My spine straightened when I finally heard my phone ping again. ‘Something like that.’

  Maybe his dad didn’t approve. Or did Reed not usually like to stay? Was he not going to stay?

  I needed to calm down and stop overthinking before I hit a spiral and dug in with my nails or into Reed’s private family matters.

  ‘Oh, okay! Hopefully nothing I should be worried about. Do you want me to come over to your place?’

  ‘No, don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to you later. Gotta go, Betts. x’

  I stared at the x in his text message. A kiss? Or just another part of the dismissal? Maybe I should send him a sexy selfie. No, he might be with the Rattlers, and I could only imagine Chewy and Milo leaning over his shoulder to glance at his screen.

  Fine. It was fine.

  With a big huff, I texted him ‘xo’ and closed the app.

  I’d been dancing around my laptop screen for the better part of an hour. Shaving things, watching things, writing things. But Reed’s laptop was just there, only a sentence or two every few minutes, usually to be deleted.

  What was wrong?

  I was being good, waiting for him to come to me.

  It would work out.

  Sometimes people just needed space.

  Space, I chanted idly, tracing the long key in the hopes I could understand it better.

  The harsh smell of lemon cleaner felt like it was stinging my pores as the words twisted in my head. Maybe I should text Reed. I had plenty of words. Finally, lounging on the couch and wishing it still smelled like him instead of lemon cleaner, I wrote a little.

  X

  A treasure map, your beating heart, or what lies at the end of your trail

  So oft hid and buried

  But you butterfly me open

  An incision

  A dismissal

  A kiss

  A mark on our necks

  Or is this X a monster? A person? A thing?

  All I see is you, “xo”

  All I hear is “wait”

  I posted it, browsing for aesthetics that suited the sentiment. X marked the spot. The exact thing a person was looking for. Like Reed.

  Frustrated, I went to the bathroom and stripped naked. The handle of my bathtub screeched in protest as I spun it full force, the water coming out steaming, scalding.

  Why did we have to wait? Shouldn’t I know him better?

  He loved me. He said he’s not leaving.

  But he left.

  He had a home. Somewhere. I didn’t even know where he lived! What kind of relationship had one person dropping the other off down the block like they were ashamed? He didn’t even want me there!

  Pain jolted at my scalp, my fingers curled around my hair.

  Stop, I begged myself. That didn’t matter.

  In the mirror, my face was flushed, eyes bright and unfocused.

  I could do this. Take control.

  X marked the spot he kissed me.

  Soap was clean. Soap was good. Not to wash away, but to mark. My neck. My breasts. My wrists.

  A phantom grip shot through my memory, quickly exorcised by the fact that Reed was the last person to touch me. I was safe.


  Veins thrumming, I tried to remember where else. My ear! Yes! My ear! And of course my brow and lips.

  Milky trails dotted my body, the soap sudsing in my hand. Fog rose up to distort my image. But it was a nice map. My fingers ran over my unmarked skin. There was so much more to know.

  The sound of flowing water changed, shortened.

  “Shit!” I dove for the handle, staring at the swirling hot water that had risen farther up than I would’ve liked. “Shit.”

  Still. It was all right.

  Fingers trembling, I took a selfie. Then a video, a map of the soap trail. Of Reed’s impact.

  Was I clean? Of him? For him?

  That wasn’t what I intended.

  Reed and I were good. We were great, even. I just wished I was more sure that what we had was real. Then again, no one could predict the future. Part of me wished I could call up my old neighbor Frank and get his opinion but then I’d be putting my new life at risk.

  Placing my phone on a towel (his–the one that braced under my knees) on the floor, I slid into the water hot enough to turn my skin red and raw. I couldn’t back out now without feeling like I was on fire. Better to sink in and get acclimated. Mouth open, muscles protesting, I closed my eyes and bore it.

  I didn’t know how exactly how long I sat, head tilted back, the ends of my hair getting damp, only that it didn’t feel like I was burning alive anymore. My phone chirped. I hadn’t changed Reed’s ringtone to Pat Benatar yet, just in case the Rattlers heard it when I hung out at Sidewinders. It was normal. Totally normal.

  “Hello?”

  “Betty? Hey, it’s me.”

  It’s me. Like we had known each other all our lives.

  “Hey, how are you? How was the rest of your day?”

  Why was his brain all blocked up when mine couldn’t seem to stop?

  “Um, fine, I guess.” I could almost imagine him wiping his face, leaning back in his chair. But what chair? I still didn’t know…

  With significant effort, I focused on the conversation.

  “Sounds like you might be struggling with your muse.” I flicked the water, distorting the image of my body underneath. The ripples spread and faded, so I did it again, looking at the ever-changing pattern. Sounds of splashing, just tiny ones, reminded me of fish jumping out to say hello. To him?