I know I have fans. I’ve performed enough to know that they’re out there. They come to my shows and scream my name. Say obscene things. Flash their tits at me while in the audience. Some of them even come backstage and proposition me after a performance, and we hook up.
There were a lot of hook ups over the summer. Quick, frenzied sex in a dirty bathroom. A dimly lit hallway. A cramped dressing room. On the tour bus. A lot of blow jobs. More than the actual sex. I was drunk. High. Whatever. Alcohol, weed, pills.
Coke was readily available while I was on tour, but I only did that a couple of times since it made me feel too out of control. And downright exhilarated, like I couldn’t jump off the roller coaster ride no matter how hard I tried. That’s a feeling I know I’d want again and again, which scared me. I laid off the shit after the second time I tried it.
The ultimate high though?
Being wanted. Adored. Screamed over. Your name on their lips as they chant it over and over again. And when you’re some low rent, wannabe rock star and they still lose their shit over you? It’s heady fucking stuff.
The younger fans, though? Not so much. They’re a little scary. Rabid in their adoration. A bunch of little detectives, searching for you on the internet and finding out all your private information. That shit worries me. I don’t know why. Losing my privacy is a precarious thing. You want people to find out who you are and listen to your music. I’m not just writing songs for myself. I want to share my songs with the world.
But sharing them with the world, and the world loving them, that all comes with a heavy price.
Having Ellie there while those girls lost their shit over me calmed me down. She’s a touchstone. My touchstone. Someone who’s been supportive of me from the start. Who’s always adored my songs, yet also calls me out on my shit when I act like a dick, which is most of the time. She’s real.
Just about as real as a person can get.
We finish our food mostly in silence. Me still thinking about what happened, her probably realizing hanging out with me comes with a lot of baggage. By the time we’re back in my car and I’m pulling out of the parking lot and onto Clovis Avenue, the tension between us is thick, and I don’t know why.
I decide to break it first.
“Are you mad I took over your car situation?” I ask.
A soft sigh escapes her, and it’s like a sock to the gut. A straight hit to my dick.
I can deny it to myself all I want, but I’m still drawn to this girl. And as more than just a friend, too.
But she’s moved on. Found someone else already. Right?
“I was mad at first,” she admits. “But not anymore. I know you just want to help.”
“I was kind of bossy about it,” I say.
“You totally were.” She sounds amused. “Which made me mad. Not gonna lie. I’m over it now, though. I appreciate your help. And I want to pay you back.”
“No. I don’t want your money.”
“Jackson…”
“No,” I repeat firmly. “It’s a gift.”
“Like for the next five years?”
“Nah, you’ll be indebted to me for maybe only two years.” I laugh when she sends me a look. “Seriously, I expect nothing in return. I want to help you. You need a car that runs.”
A better car than the one she currently has, but I keep that opinion to myself.
“I definitely need a car. Not sure how I’m supposed to get to work the next couple of days. Public transportation?” She makes a face. “I suppose I could take the bus.”
“That late at night?” I shake my head. “No fucking way.”
“How else am I supposed to get home, hmm?”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“Come on, Jackson. You’ve already done enough,” she says. “I can find a ride from someone else. Maybe one of my roommates.”
She barely knows those girls. I haven’t met them yet, and I’m sure Ellie wouldn’t ask them because she doesn’t want to impose on people. Even those she’s known for years.
“It’s no big deal. Though I probably can’t take you to work because I’ll be at practice when your shifts start,” I say.
“Yeah. I start work at four.”
“I can definitely pick you up after though,” I say.
“Won’t you have plans?”
“With who?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs.
“Video game sessions with the boys? Yeah, that’s about all I’ve got going on this week,” I say, chuckling.
“No dates with random girls?” She says this to her lap, as if she’s afraid to look at me.
I’m quiet for a moment, letting her words sink in. My mind immediately goes to the kiss we shared. When I was a drunk dick and said shitty things.
It was a good kiss.
Fuck that, it was a great kiss. But I shoved her away because she scares the hell out of me. She makes me want more.
So much more than I deserve.
“Like your date with a random dude?” I throw back at her. I’m suddenly feeling hostile about her date with that guy.
“Carson isn’t random,” she says, defensively.
“Random enough. You don’t know him that well.”
“We had a coffee date over the weekend,” she says.
“Oh really?” A foreign emotion rises up inside of me, settling in my throat. Threatening to choke me.
“Yes, we talked a lot. He’s nice,” she says.
“Is that when he asked you to out?”
“No, he asked me at the party Friday night,” she admits.
Carson moves fast, the asshole.
“What do you even know about that guy?” I clear my throat, hating how irritated I sound.
“He’s perfectly polite.”
Perfectly boring if you ask me, but what do I know?
“And I want to get to know him better,” she adds.
I frown. I’m frowning so hard, I can feel my forehead wrinkle. “You’re actually interested in that guy?”
“Why else would I agree to go on a date with him?” She glances over at me.
“I don’t know. Because you felt sorry for him?”
She laughs. “Um, no. Why would I feel sorry for him? I do actually like him. He’s sweet and funny.”
“Uh huh.”
Whatever. He sounds dull as shit to me, but I’m not the one who has to date him so…
“You’re not dating anyone right now?” she asks.
I actually scoff. “When do I ever date anyone?”
Her smile is small. “Never.”
“Exactly. I’m not going to start now.”
“I want a boyfriend.”
Her voice is so low, I almost didn’t hear her. “You what?”
Okay, I heard her. I’m just making her say it again. But why? So I can torture myself? I can’t be her boyfriend. I can be her friend and that’s about it.
“I want a boyfriend. I’ve never really had one,” she says, her voice louder, her gaze sliding to mine. “So I want one. But I don’t know exactly how to get one.”
“What do you mean? Carson seems interested in you,” I say. Little fucker definitely seems interested in her. Probably not worthy of her though.
No one really is.
“I’m the girl who’s always the friend to guys,” she stresses. “They never see me as anything beyond that. I’m terrified he’s going to think the same thing.”
“Then you have to do something about it,” I tell her.
She frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you think he’s interested in you as more than a friend, you have to give him non-friendly vibes.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I don’t want to encourage this. If she gets with this guy, our friendship will fade fast. He won’t want her hanging around me, and I wouldn’t blame him.
If I lose her to some other guy, I’ll miss her so damn bad. More than she’ll ever know. Can I risk that? If I tell her she shouldn’t date this Cars
on dude, then I have to give her a reason why. Because I don’t want her to—because I want her to be with me. But am I ready for that responsibility?
“What do you even mean, send him non-friendly vibes? I told you I’m not good at this thing. I’m kind of hopeless at it, actually,” she says, her voice getting stronger. “I don’t know why guys can’t see me beyond being a friend to them. You do that. You put me in the friend zone all the time.”
“Ellie—”
“Don’t bother arguing. You know it’s true. You kissed me once and then shoved me back in the friend zone corner, where you keep me at all times. You talk about how much you need me in your life. How you can’t imagine me not being there for you, yet you won’t give me what I want,” she says.
Her words are terrifying. Only because I want to give her what she wants. I’m desperate to, but I know in my heart, I would ruin everything.
I always do.
“And don’t give me those excuses about you fucking it up. I know how you operate. How you think you’re this giant piece of shit who can’t be loyal. Who can’t commit. You think I’m a scared little virgin? Well, you’re a scared little boy pretending to be a rock star who’s terrified of responsibility. It’s called being a grown up, Jackson.”
She crosses her arms in front of her chest, making a little harumphing sound that is decidedly not grown up.
I got so caught up in our conversation, Ellie’s apartment complex is suddenly right in front of us. I turn into the parking lot and pull into a space, throw the car in park and turn to look at her.
Ellie keeps her head averted, as if she doesn’t want to look at me.
I’m heated. I could continue this argument, but she’s right. And I don’t feel like fighting with Ellie right now.
I decide to switch gears.
“You’ve really never had a boyfriend?”
She turns her head slowly in my direction, her gaze meeting mine. The interior of my car is lit by an outside light, casting her pretty face in an orangish glow. “Yes, Jackson. I’ve really never had a boyfriend.”
A thought occurs to me and my eyes nearly bug out of my head. “I wasn’t your first kiss, was I?”
She looks vaguely horrified. “No.”
“How many guys have you kissed?”
Ellie chews on her lower lip. Something she does when she’s nervous. “Uh…three.”
“Three.” I nod, thinking of my own number. Way more than that. Though my hook ups over the summer didn’t involve much kissing. Feels too personal, lips on lips. “That’s a decent number.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not.” I send her an earnest look. “I swear.”
I don’t know if I necessarily believe her, but I’m going to get her to tell the truth.
Any way I can.
Fourteen
Ellie
I lied.
Jackson definitely wasn’t my first kiss. But I inflated my numbers. I’ve kissed someone before. But only one someone. Technically, that makes Jackson my second kiss.
Well, the second person I’ve ever kissed. The first person was during my sophomore year in high school. He was a year older. Played on the drumline in band. Marshall. Kind of cute, super nerdy, but not in a bad way. More in that shy boy who has potential way.
I asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance, and we went out a couple of times after that. We kissed at the end of every date. Nothing earth shattering, but it was good practice. His lips were kind of dry though. And he did this slightly creepy thing with his tongue—it reminded me of a flickering snake tongue, ew—and yeah.
That was it.
Jackson, of course, kissed like a master. I can’t dwell on how many girls he might have kissed in his life. Just last summer alone. It’s too many. This is why he’s so good at it. Our kiss might’ve been brief, but it was by far the best kiss I’ve ever experienced. He knew just what to do with his lips. And his tongue.
Especially his tongue.
Now here I sit in Jackson’s car, and he’s looking at me in this funny way, asking me really personal stuff. Face-to-face, which is not normal for him. He keeps all the personal stuff for over DMs or texts.
The little chicken shit.
“So these three guys, how were they?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Kissing-wise. Too much tongue? Not enough?” He raises his brows.
“Not enough,” I say immediately, thinking of Marshall’s flickering tongue.
Gross.
“All of them weren’t enough?”
“Most,” I say with a shrug.
“Okay, okay.” He nods. “Too much slobber? Too dry?”
“Slobber?” I repeat.
Jackson chuckles, and the gravelly sound wraps all around me, settling right between my legs. “I gather you haven’t kissed someone who slobbers all over your face.”
“Um, no.” I grimace.
He’s quiet for a moment, contemplating me. Studying me a little too closely, probably searching for the lie. I keep my face as impassive as possible. “Are you sure you’ve kissed three other guys?”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
He shrugs.
I bristle at that shrug. At the fact that he knows me so well, he can probably tell that I am, in fact, lying. “You’re being really rude right now, Jackson.”
“I want names, El.”
“I’m protecting their privacy.”
“Ha!” He laughs. “Come on. Give me names.”
“Marshall, Bobby and Justin.” Bobby was the kid I adored when we were in the first grade. He was so ridiculously cute. I just wanted to hang all over him and kiss his rounded cheeks. He moved away when we were eight.
I wonder whatever happened to Bobby.
And Justin is a general enough name that it feels safe. Yeah, of course I kissed a Justin. We all know about a bazillion Justins, it seems.
“Justin who?”
Damn it. He thinks he knows him. Of course he does.
“You don’t know him.”
“I might.”
“You went to another school,” I remind him. “This guy was older.”
“How much older?”
“A year older than you,” I answer.
“So you were kissing a guy who was two years older than you. When you were a sophomore,” he says, his voice flat.
“Yeah. I was. Justin was super-hot. The only one out of the three who was good with his tongue.” I nod. My lie just keeps growing.
He pins me with a look, his gaze serious. His entire demeanor serious. “Ellie.”
“It’s true! We hooked up at a party,” I tell him, exasperated. More with myself because I’m a complete liar, and I don’t lie. Not ever.
Well, I lie to Jackson on a consistent basis because I hide my feelings and pretend I don’t care about him. Which isn’t true. I care about him too much and if he asked me to be with him forever right now, at this very moment, I would say yes without hesitation.
I’m that much gone for him.
Deep down, I think he knows it. That’s why he keeps me around. Why he helps me out. He probably feels sorry for me.
Oh God, that’s the worst thing ever.
“Okay. Cool.” He’s nodding repeatedly, going along with my story. “So it’s true. You hooked up with a senior at a party your sophomore year. Meaning you two probably did—other things. Am I right?”
I fold in on myself like a flower closing when the sunlight disappears. “That’s none of your business.” My voice is prim.
“Aw, Ellie. Come on. We’re close. You’re like one of my best friends,” he says, his voice extra deep as he studies me. “You can tell me the truth. I can keep a secret.”
It’s the best friends comment that’s like a douse of cold water, waking me up. Reminding me that’s all I’ll ever be to him. A friend. “I don’t need to let you in on all of my secrets.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there. “Really.”
>
My lips part. He leans in. What is he doing? “Yes. Really,” I say shakily.
“So when this Justin guy kissed you at the party, did he touch you anywhere?” He reaches for me, his hand settling on the outside of my thigh, his fingers perilously close to my butt. “Like here?”
“Yes,” I whisper, sucking in a breath when he tries to drag me closer.
It’s a little awkward in the front seat of his car, the console in between us, but he’s managing.
“And I’m guessing he didn’t just kiss you here.” With his other hand, he touches my lips, his index finger dipping in between them for the briefest moment before he removes them. If I were quicker, I would’ve bit him. “But maybe…right here?”
Jackson leans into me, and I go completely still when he presses his face against my neck. I can feel him inhale, his mouth moving against my sensitive skin, feather light.
“Y-yes,” I say, because I can’t stop continuing the lie.
He kisses me, his damp lips clinging to my neck, making about a million shivers course through me. What is he doing?
“Did he touch you here?” he whispers against my neck, his hand coming up to gently cup my breast.
I close my eyes, falling under his spell. I have him all over me. Right where I want him. His fingers tighten around my breast, his thumb lightly tracing along the top edge of my bra, over my T-shirt. This is by far the most intimate a guy has ever had his hands on me. And it’s Jackson.
Of course, it is.
“Ellie,” he whispers, close to my ear. “Did he do this?”
He releases his hold on me to slip his hand beneath my shirt, his fingers skimming up my bare stomach. A jolt runs through me at first contact of his fingers on my skin, and I brace myself for more.
“Jackson.” My voice breaks. My breath quickens.
“Did he?” His fingers trace the underside of my bra slowly, back and forth. Putting me in a trance. “Tell me. What did he do next? After he touched you here?”
“He kissed me,” I say because that’s what I want Jackson to do. What I want to feel.
The Sophomore Page 11