by Jordan Grant
A hiss escapes my clenched teeth. My dick feels like it could hammer through a wall at the moment. God, I could probably come buckets if I would just give in, but I’m not in the mood for self-indulgence.
Not that I have never indulged. I am a hot-blooded, all-American male after all. But now I’ve tasted her skin, felt her wetness slick on my fingertips, heard her mewl my name, and nothing—not one damn thing—could ever compare to the real thing. I am an addict, and she is the fix I crave.
Early morning sunlight streams in from the window on the opposite side of my bedroom, spilling rays of gold across the hardwood floor. I snatch my phone from the nightstand at my side. It lights up to a photograph of the Academy’s stadium, taken by Raven and spread around like herpes by our proud parents. It’s the gridiron, blazing green and white under the lights of the field. I am front and center with my brothers at my side, seconds before the final play of last week’s game, but we aren’t the main attraction.
No, we are blurry, the lens focused on the crowd standing and cheering behind us. Center row of the bleachers is the siren that hijacks my dreams and steals my every waking thought. Stormy’s attention is on her neighbor, her mouth open as she laughs at something Mr. Balding-Sweater-Vest said, her hands raised as though she’s been clapping.
When she thinks no one is looking, she lets her guard down—that two-inch thick armor of cocksure comebacks and smart-ass retorts—and it is beautiful to behold. She is a white-haired angel among men, and none of us—me included—deserve to even look at her shadow.
Not that I won’t stop trying…I am a selfish bastard after all. Even thinking of her with someone else, makes the beast that hides beneath this pretty face roar and snap its chains tight. I knew it the moment I first saw her—and I’m sure as fuck certain of it now—I have to have her. Without her, I am nothing. She is an unwavering light I stumble toward in the darkness.
Still in bed, I take a moment and enjoy the photograph before I unlock my phone. Aurora sent me something in the middle of the night. I’m pretty sure it’s a nude, and I swipe it away like it is a spider. I don’t check the time. I’m going to split wide open if I don’t speak with her. My thumbs fly across the screen.
Me: good morning, beautiful.
Her response is instantaneous, and the ugly thing inside my chest purrs in satisfaction.
Stormy: What are you planning for me today, Beckett?
I smile. As I type the words, I know they are true.
Me: nothing u can’t handle.
Then I add,
Me: Actually, I was thinking about giving u the day off.
Those three little dots—those infuriating little dots—appear on my screen, and I sit in agony as she types and erases for over a full minute.
Stormy: You sure Aurora will be okay with that?
Smart girl.
Me: The 5 horse(wo?)men r off campus for the long holiday weekend.
Thank you, E.G. Voclain, founding father of the Academy, for your 179th birthday.
It takes her less than three seconds to respond.
Stormy: There are only 4 horsemen.
I snort. Most girls would have ignored the error, if they even knew enough to call me out on it. Harlow is the exception. She always calls me out on my shit.
Me: Aurora isn’t my keeper or my gf or my whatever u r thinking.
Plus the Rules don’t say shit about weekends. Of course, it’s only a matter of time until Aurora realizes I haven’t been tormenting Harlow on Saturdays and Sundays, but that’s exactly why I need to act now before fire and brimstone befall us both.
Me: lemme come over. I promise 2 not behave. *winky face*
I’m like eighty percent certain she’s going to tell me to fuck off, but she surprises me.
Stormy: Okay, but only because I need help with Adaptive English. Don’t get cocky on me.
Me: Oh, sweetness, we both know I am always cocky for you.
I feel her blush giving me sunburn from across campus.
I spring out of bed with a smirk and go take a piss, which is difficult given that my thoughts keep sliding like an avalanche back to Stormy.
I brush my teeth, tug on a pair of navy blue chinos, and choose a white button-down out of my closet. I complete the look with a pair of lace-free trainers. When I’m done, I check myself in the mirror and grimace when I notice a lapel of my collar sticking up like I'm a Martha’s Vineyard fuckboy. I flatten it quickly and run a hand through my hair.
Then I shrug on my Burberry puffer jacket and head to the door. I snatch a surprise for Stormy before I leave and toss it into a duffel bag.
Time to take it up a notch for my perfect storm.
— Harlow —
I shouldn’t want him to come over. I shouldn’t have accepted his invitation, but then again, I am doing lots of things I shouldn’t be doing lately.
Like dreaming of him and his perfectly kissable lips and his gaze like rolling thunder.
Like letting him devour my mouth until all I taste is him and my lungs burn for breath.
Like letting him touch me and then coming all over his fingers.
He’s a bad habit I can’t shake, and he’s claiming my firsts one after another, like we are marking through days on a calendar.
First making out with a half-naked boy in a locker room? Check.
First kiss that I felt all the way down to the throbbing pulse between my legs? Check.
First orgasm by a boy’s hands? Check.
First true…I can’t say the word because if I say the word then it’s real, and it can’t be real.
I can’t crave the boy who allows the torment of my friend.
I can’t ache for the touch of my bully.
I can’t love my enemy.
But no matter what I say, no matter what I tell myself, the truth is, I’m not strong enough. I am weak. I can’t say no to the raven-haired king of Voclain Academy.
I spring out of bed and tidy up, though there’s not much to tidy. Molly is always so clean like she believes she’s an unwelcome guest who will find herself homeless at the first infraction. She texted me last night, letting me know she was spending the night out of town with her parents after Atticus cried when she tried to leave.
She’s such a wonderful sister, completely there for her little brother, and that makes my heart squeeze. I should have been there like that for William. Maybe if I had, he would still be alive.
I brush my teeth and comb my hair, but in an act of defiance—like I really have any control when I’m with Ian—I leave on my pajamas, soft pink lounge pants patterned with the outline of little flowers and a matching long sleeve top that’s a little baggy.
I rub on cherry Chapstick and set out my Adaptive English homework, first on the bed—no, too much temptation—then on the desk—no, too crowded and he’s already hard enough to resist—and then finally in the center of the room on the floor. A knock at the door sends me scrambling to stand.
I open the door and find Ian staring down at me, holding a duffel in one hand, with his other stuffed into a pocket of his jacket. He eyes me lazily from head-to-toe, a hedonistic smirk playing on his lips.
“Cute PJs,” he says, and he leans in, the mint of his toothpaste fanning over my face with his next words. “I’m up for studying in bed if you are, Stormy, but I have to warn you, I don’t think we’ll be doing much studying.”
I move out of the doorjamb and point to my Adaptive English notes scattered on the carpet. “We better stick to the floor, Beckett.”
He chuckles as he moves inside the room, his shoulder brushing against mine. “If you insist, dearest.”
The endearment hits me like a dagger straight through my bleeding heart.
The room feels crowded. He looks like he’s up for going on a stroll through the Hamptons, and I am sure he can see through my shirt to my nipples, which rose to attention at the mere sight of him. I cross my arms over my chest reflexively and wish I had thought to put on a bra.
> Ian opens his duffel and deposits a glass bottle on my desk. He adds an electric teakettle, a canister of hot chocolate, two mugs, and a bag of marshmallows alongside the bottle.
“Cocoa?” I say, my lips twitching with the hint of a smile. It’s literally my favorite part of cold weather. “It’s not even November yet.”
He scoffs at me as he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back of my chair, but amusement ignites in his gaze. “Halloween’s tomorrow, Stormy, and it’s never too early for hot chocolate.” He holds a hand over his heart like he’s been mortally wounded. “I don’t think we can be friends anymore. Who doesn’t like hot chocolate? Are you one of those girls that only eats like”—he switches to a high-pitched falsetto that sounds 100% basic—“free-range kale salads and alkaline water?”
I snort. “I’m more like a cheeseburger and milkshake kind of girl, thank you very much.”
He grabs my wrist and tugs me closer. “Mmm,” he groans, “what I would give to watch that.”
I meet his dark gaze, but my words are more breath than voice. “You want to watch me eat? Is this like a fetish thing?”
He tucks a strand of hair near my temple behind my ear. “What can I say? You make me want to do things I’ve never done before.”
I am a paperclip and he is a magnet. I arch up on my toes to meet his lips. He tastes like the mint toothpaste I smelled on his breath. His stubble tickles my skin, but I love the scratch. His hands wrap around the small of my back and draw me closer until we are flush together. My fingers slide up the hard lines of his stomach and chest to wrap around his neck and tangle in the silky strands of his hair.
I am breathless and achy. A ball of heat coils in my belly and sinks low. His tongue slides through my lips and meets mine. He is delicious and decadent. I am spiraling out of control, losing myself to his savory sweetness.
I force myself to pull away. “We better study,” I manage.
His tongue flicks out and tastes his lips before he smiles. “If you insist, but I’m making us drinks first.”
“What’s in the bottle?”
“A special surprise.”
He gets to work, heating water in the kettle, and soon enough we are each sitting on the floor with a steaming cup of hot chocolate.
He has me translate while he watches. He doesn’t look at his phone or even look bored, though I am slow and the work is tedious. He examines my most recent translation for a moment and frowns.
“You’re confusing third-person present singular with third-person present plural,” he says. “Try again.”
I groan, letting my head fall into my hands. “I’m going to fail. This is useless.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Harlow. No way Ms. Edmonds will give you anything less than an A.”
I take a sip of my hot chocolate and swallow. The burn that flares in my belly surprises me.
My eyes go wide, and I look up to see Ian already staring at me. He smirks and it’s entirely devilish. “It’s good, right?”
I sniff the cup like I’m smelling for poison and take another sip. “What’s in it?”
“Peppermint schnapps.”
I choke, barely managing to not spew over my notes.
Ian laughs, deep and throaty and mischievous.
The threads that mended my heart after William begin to give way, tearing apart one by one like teeth on a zipper separating. I swallow away the lump at the back of my throat and take a big gulp.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I nod and take another sip and then another. Oh, no. My cup is almost empty, and the lump is still there, trying to choke me.
“It’s very good,” I manage, “like mint chocolate.”
He grins and drinks from his cup. “That’s why I like it too.”
He leans across the papers and books, his breath hot against the coolness of my flesh.
“Harlow,” he whispers, running his thumb across the line of my jaw.
The zipper tears open a little more, and a thousand thoughts pop inside my head at once.
He is so beautiful. It should be illegal to be so devastatingly beautiful.
I am betraying Molly. I should be ashamed. I am Harlow the horrible friend.
He doesn’t break hearts. He outright steals them and never gives them back, so that when he’s gone, you’re not even a human being, just a shell of skin and bone.
I am selfish. Maybe if I thought about anyone but myself, William would be alive.
Tears spring to my eyes and then fall.
Ian’s mouth drops open. He looks shocked, and he should be. I am a mess.
“Don’t cry, sweetness,” he breathes.
“We can’t do this,” I manage, blinking away the tears. I am suffocating from the inside out. The darkness peeks out from the tornado of thoughts swirling in my brain and waves a shadowy hand. “I can’t do this, Ian.”
I try to pull away, but he holds me firm.
“Why, Harlow?” he growls, his fingers biting into my forearm. “This doesn’t help Molly. No one can help Molly, not even you.”
“You are fire, and I am paper,” I manage with a sob. “If I give in, then I lose everything I am, everything I stand for.”
He shakes his head violently as he rips away from me and stands. His hair is a little messy, unruly black strands poking everywhere.
“You’ve got it backward, Stormy,” he growls, his teeth baring with the words. “You are consuming me alive, but I don’t want to exist without the burn.”
Then he leaves, slamming my door behind him.
24
Ian
As the door shuts behind me, I glimpse the tears and splotches of crimson marring her otherwise perfect face.
She looks devastated, but devastation fits her like she was born for ruin. Only she’s bringing me with her, chewing me up and spitting me out like a goddamn wood chipper.
I am going to be nothing when she’s finally done with me, a dickless pile of splinters and shreds. I must have lost my fucking mind. Since when do I let anyone or anything bother me? Yet here I am, letting a girl destroy me.
I don’t even see the hallway I walk down or the doors I pass. Her angelic image clouds my vision as her scent, apples and cinnamon, clogs my nostrils. My fingertips remember the feel of goosebumps bespeckling her skin. My tongue recalls the minty bite of toothpaste lingering on her breath. The sound of her breathing, soft and steady against my throat, hums inside my ears.
I am submerged in her existence.
I am suffocating.
Fuck.
My fists curl at my sides while my head pounds like a jackhammer is doing its business against my temple.
I want to punch something.
I want to go back in time and beat the shit out of fourteen-year-old me.
I screwed up everything, and I’m not used to screwing up anything. There’s that platitude we have all been told: with wealth comes power. Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news—fine, honestly, I really don’t care either way—but it’s true. And to my benefit, I was born with both.
It was my literal birthright to go through life not giving a shit, worried about nothing, fucking invincible to the concerns of other men. Well, that was until Harlow shot into my atmosphere and obliterated my entire godforsaken existence.
I bound down the stairs, my arms swinging at my sides like I’m running the bleachers at practice. I reach the bottom floor, and I’m out the door in less than three seconds flat. Cold air slaps me in the face. I forgot my jacket upstairs, but I don’t hesitate. I am a train, and I’ve got no mother-fucking brakes left.
Who am I anymore? What would my brothers say if they saw me now, cold, angry, and gutless because of her? I can imagine.
Chase would roll his eyes and tell me to fuck her out of my system. Archie would crack a joke about starting a search party for my missing balls. Everett would tell them both to shut up though, because he knows I am weak. He knows I’d have alread
y fucked her away if I could.
But I can’t.
There are other distractions though and maybe if I distract myself long enough, she will disappear like the specter she is.
Some freshman who looks like he just rolled out of bed nearly collides with me as I barrel toward my dorm.
I mean to say, “Watch where you are going, asshole,” but all that escapes my lips is a growl that makes the kid cower and scamper like Molly the Mouse. Speaking of the girl who started it all, who committed the ultimate sin, she locks eyes with me as she crosses the quad.
She doesn’t look afraid. Hell, she doesn’t even look mildly anxious at seeing me. She just looks sort of sad, like she pities me, and that pisses me off even more.
Screw you too, Mols.
I didn’t get my Hell delivered in a tidy, rule-enforced hand basket. Mine crashed into me with hair like white lightning and eyes of ocean waves.
And it hit me like a fucking hurricane.
— Harlow —
Molly’s voice washes over me like a gentle tide coming into shore.
“Harlow, are you okay?”
I sit on the floor of our room, surrounded by my notes as tears dry on my cheeks.
Why did I stop crying? When did I start?
I tell myself that the loss of...of whatever I had with Ian Beckett is not the end of the world, but then why does it feel like it?
I’d rather feel anything else right now than the pain that splinters apart inside my gut like twine drawn too taut. If given a choice, I would welcome the darkness willingly. I’d give myself to it and let it take over until I lay hyperventilating in a ball on the floor, my nails digging into my scalp.
But the darkness never saved me from the pain before, and it’s not going to start now. Pain, fear, anguish, whatever is stronger always wins out, and this wound feels damn near fatal.
I am bleeding, only you can’t see the gaping hole in my chest or the blood pooling on the floor.