by L.H. Cosway
“A pair of lesbos then. Sometimes I forget what a little bitch you are.”
Sam stood from the table, riled. “I’d rather be a little bitch than the son of a dirty crackwhore.”
Shane blinked, and something like pain crossed his expression. A second later it was gone, his voice low and threatening when he spoke. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me.”
At this, one of the teachers on supervision approached. “Is everything okay here?”
I swear, this school needed security guards. There was always a fight brewing somewhere. Shane and Sam eyed each other intently for a long moment, like two dogs about to go at it, then Shane cut the teacher a look.
“Everything’s fine,” he snapped and walked off.
The teacher retreated, probably glad to have quelled a second fight, and I glanced at Sam.
“You’re starting to try your luck with him.”
Sam ate a bite of his sandwich and mumbled, “Just getting sick of being pushed around.”
I studied his expression and sensed there was something he wasn’t telling me. It was troubling, because Sam had always been an open book. We didn’t keep secrets from one another.
By the end of the day, word got around that all four boys involved in the fight had been suspended. I tried to find Dylan to check if he was okay, but he must’ve been sent home early.
I walked through the gates, planning on paying a visit to Gran on my way home, when he appeared from behind a fence. My hand went to my heart in fright.
“You scared me.”
He scratched the side of his head, looking sheepish. “Sorry. I was waiting for you, but I didn’t want to get spotted by any teachers. I’ve been suspended.”
“Yeah, I heard. It’s so ridiculous. It’s not like you’re the one who started the fight. You were only defending yourself.”
He glanced away as his expression grew even more sheepish.
“Dylan,” I gasped. “Please tell me you did not start a fight with three known gang members.”
“They needed to see I mean business.”
“Well, they mean bigger business. There’s only one of you and who knows how many of them. It’s not a fight you can win.”
“I’m not giving up. I’d rather be dead than work for them.”
“Oh, my goodness, can you please stop with all the death talk?”
“I told you, honesty is a problem for me.”
“Yes, well, a little censorship every now and then wouldn’t hurt,” I sniffed.
It was confusing how much the idea of something happening to Dylan scared me. He wasn’t anything to me. Well, he was a friend, just barely. I shouldn’t be so terrified of him not being around anymore. I mean, he would probably leave at the end of the school year anyway.
“Where are you headed?” he asked, noticing I wasn’t walking the usual way home.
“To visit my gran. You can come if you want.”
“Okay,” he said, and I glanced at him in surprise. Most people would pass on that kind of offer. Care homes weren’t exactly the most enticing places to visit. At least he didn’t seem to have any visible bruises from the fight. I wasn’t sure the nurses would be too keen on letting a bruised-up teenager into the building.
“These homes always smell like piss and disinfectant,” Dylan said as we walked inside and I waved hello to Zara, the receptionist. She knew Yvonne and me now, so she didn’t make us sign in to visit anymore.
“Yep,” I replied. “You don’t need any heightened senses to smell that, unfortunately.”
“There’s an awful indignity to it,” Dylan went on sadly.
“Very little dignity in sickness,” I said, before knocking on the door to Gran’s room.
“Come . . . in,” she called, her words slow. Over the years her speech had deteriorated. Every time I noticed her condition worsen, I cried a little. It was amazing how you could cry without tears when you didn’t want the other person to know you were upset.
I opened the door and stepped in, Dylan behind me.
“Hi, Gran. I hope you don’t mind that I brought a friend along today. This is Dylan.”
“I . . . don’t mind. Hello, Dylan.”
“Hello, Mrs Flynn. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he replied and stepped forward.
“Oh . . . look . . . at you. Your . . . mother . . .”
“What’s that, Gran?” I asked and pulled a chair up next to her wheelchair. She sometimes got a little muddled when she tried to say things. Her thoughts were clear, but her body was incapable of articulating what she wanted to say. Some days she could speak perfectly fine, and then others she had trouble with basic sentences.
“You look just like your mother,” Gran enunciated finally.
“You knew my mam?” Dylan asked, a catch of emotion in his voice.
Gran nodded ever so slightly. “We were neighbours at the Villas, and I used to work . . . as a florist. She bought flowers . . . from . . . me every week. Loved lilac.”
Dylan closed his eyes for a second, his voice hushed when he replied, “Yeah, she did. She used to make me describe how they smelled all the time.”
“How did you describe them?” I asked, eager to know.
“It’s a strong, heady scent, sometimes cloying, but I love it because it reminds me of her so much. It can be very sweet, too.”
“You really look . . . just like her,” said Gran. “I’d recognise that face anywhere. It’s uncanny. The lady . . . who couldn’t smell who . . . loved flowers.”
“Definitely ironic,” said Dylan sadly.
“I’m sorry . . . to hear about her passing. She was taken too . . . soon.”
Dylan nodded but didn’t speak, his features solemn. I thought of my own mother and the new knowledge that it had been Dylan’s parents who brought her to the hospital when she went into labour. I wanted to ask Gran about it, but wasn’t sure how to bring it up.
In the end, I simply asked, “Have you heard from Mam lately?”
Gran nodded. “She . . . called . . . just last week. Said she’s doing okay.”
“Oh. That’s good. Dylan’s dad told me he was the one to drive her to the hospital when she had me. Do you remember?”
“Of course. It’s the day you were born, after all. I was working . . . and Yvonne . . . was at school when it happened. There weren’t mobile phones back then, so we didn’t find out until she was hours into her labour.”
I nodded thoughtfully, then asked, “What was she like, you know, back then?”
“My Lily? The opposite of you in every way. She was my wild daughter, and Yvonne was my little angel. But I loved them both the same.” She paused to sniff. “Still do.”
I knew it upset Gran how Mam left me, something she still struggled with. When I glanced at Dylan, he was studying me closely. I decided the conversation was getting too personal, especially with him sitting there, so I endeavoured to change the subject.
“Oh, by the way, Gran, did I tell you how well my bluebells are doing this year? I’m going to cut some to bring to you.”
We chatted flowers for the next half hour, and I prepared tea and biscuits at the small kitchenette in Gran’s room. Dylan watched me a lot, and he always seemed interested when I spoke about my allotment. I’d never known anyone to be so rapt by the subject. Even Yvonne was bored to tears by me at times.
It started to rain on our way home, so we had to run all the way back. I laughed when we finally got inside, because we were both soaked to the skin. Dylan leaned against a wall near the staircase, a faint smile on his lips.
“I don’t want to go home yet,” he said, and his expression sent a wave of pleasure through me.
“Why not?” I asked, my voice unexpectedly croaky.
“The school probably called my dad to tell him I was suspended, and I’m not ready to face him.”
“Yvonne’s at work. You can come up if you like. I’ll make us something to eat.”
His throat bobbed
as he swallowed. “I’d like that.”
I turned, and he followed me up the stairs. I somehow sensed him looking at my arse, but I didn’t turn around to confirm it. A tingle skittered down my spine. When we reached the flat, I grabbed some towels from the airing cupboard to dry us off, then went to see what there was to cook for dinner. I popped a frozen pizza in the oven before joining Dylan on the sofa. He’d turned on the TV, and I noticed his knuckles looked a little red. The skin wasn’t broken or anything, but it was probably painful.
Worrying my lip, I gestured to his hand. “That looks sore.”
Dylan glanced down then flexed his fingers. “Yeah, hurts a little.”
“Do you want some ice?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“A massage then?” I blurted.
He arched a brow. “A massage?”
I cleared my throat. “A hand massage, I mean. It probably won’t do much to help the pain, but it’s just something Sam and I do for each other when we’re stressed. It’s okay if you don’t want one. I know some people don’t like to be touched like that.”
He gave a light chuckle. “Believe me, Ev. Any way you want to touch me, I’m certain I’ll like it.”
I had no reply for that, other than blushing furiously, so I just took his hand into mine. I liked how he called me Ev, the same as Sam and Yvonne did. His breath hitched a little as I started to knead his palm, and I momentarily regretted my offer. Touching him felt far more intimate than when I did this for Sam. With Sam it was friendly, but with Dylan there was something else. Something that made my chest ache and tingle at the same time.
“Feels good,” Dylan said on an exhale. He sounded relaxed.
“I’m the best at hand massages,” I said, then winced, realising my error. “I mean, uh, never mind.”
His lips curved in a smile, but he didn’t comment on my fluster. I continued to massage him, admiring how large his hand was, then imagining what he could do with it. The very thought heated my cheeks. I wondered if he’d had sex before. I mean, when you looked at him, it was easy to believe the opportunity had come along at some point. But was he experienced? How many girls had he been with?
Dylan let out an odd, groaning sound and I paused my movements to glance at him.
“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“You definitely aren’t hurting me,” he replied.
“Oh. Okay. Good.”
Tentatively, I started to massage him again, but I felt more self-conscious than before. Me touching his hand was hardly turning him on, but the way he looked at me . . .
I glanced at him again and he was staring at my mouth. I turned away quickly, pulse thrumming, then asked a question that had been weighing on my mind.
“Dylan?”
“Hmm?”
“Why do you think I’m wonderful?”
His voice was slow, almost sleepy now. “Think you’re—”
“You told Yvonne the other night that you think I’m wonderful. I was just wondering why.” My words came out in a rush.
He was silent for a long moment, and I pushed my finger down the centre of his palm. He emitted a sound of pleasure, and there was something about touching him that made me feel peaceful and electric all at once.
Finally, he answered, “When you smile at people and say hello, you really mean it.”
Was that it? Disappointment filled me. Somehow, I was expecting something a little less . . . mundane.
“I think most people mean it when they say hello, Dylan.”
“Not like you do. You have this glow, this inner spirit that makes me feel . . . I don’t know, lighter somehow. Like, it reassures me there’s still good in the world,” he explained, and a fluttery sensation claimed my chest. Maybe his reason wasn’t so mundane after all. His expression turned a little shy as he continued, “How you look doesn’t hurt either.”
My voice became a whisper as curiosity overtook me. “How do I look?”
He hesitated, considered his answer, then spoke with a fervency I’d never seen in him. “You look like a sunny day at the beach when you get sand in your toes and build sandcastles. And when your dad is happy instead of freaking out over every creak he hears from the floorboards, thinking it’s woodworm, rats, or a serial killer hiding in the closet.”
“Oh, um, thanks, I guess,” I said, frowning. I knew what he said was a compliment, but it was such an odd way to put it. I worried for him. Worried he was too young and too full of potential to always be so weighed down.
He swore under his breath, shaking his head. “Wait, that came out wrong. What I mean to say is, you look like a life away from here. A happy life. And you’re the most beautiful person I know, so there’s that.”
I stared at my lap for a second, heart racing. No one had ever said anything like that to me. Not even close. “I have no idea where you get these high opinions of me,” I said shyly.
“Maybe it’s because I’ve always watched you. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t.”
“I’ve only lived here a few years,” I said, backtracking through my memories, to all the times when I’d noticed Dylan around. I studied them through a microscope, trying to rewind and hit playback in slow motion.
I remembered one day when I’d first started living with Yvonne. I was carrying groceries home and put the bags down for a second to rest my hands. When I glanced to the side, there was a boy hanging out by the staircase. Dylan. He’d looked at me like he’d wanted to say something, maybe offer help with the bags, but instead shook his head, turned around and walked away.
He was telling the truth. He had watched me, and had often looked me in the eye. Before now I didn’t pay it much attention, just thought he was a staring sort. Now I was looking on it all in a new light.
“When you still lived with your mam and only came to the Villas to visit your aunt and gran, I watched you then, too. You always seemed so happy. I thought life with such a happy girl must be a pretty sweet life to live.”
It was true. I’d always been cheerful. Not to the point of irritating people, but I liked to think I was a positive person. The exact opposite of Dylan, you might say. Maybe that was why we interested one another so much.
“That’s a very nice thing to say,” I finally replied, my thoughts flustered. His attention was making my skin feel too warm.
His lips quirked when he responded, “I’m a very nice person.”
I narrowed my eyes at him playfully. “No, you’re not.”
His attention went to my lips again, this time with intent. “No, you’re right, I’m not,” he murmured, right before he took my face in his hands and kissed me. I gasped into his mouth, completely blindsided, hands fumbling for something to hold on to.
I’d never been kissed before, so my movements were awkward, sloppy. Dylan seemed to know what he was doing, because he tilted my head to get a better angle. And then . . . and then . . .
And then he slid his tongue into my mouth. It felt slippery and wet, but the way it moved was like a massage, a little like how I’d been tending to his hand a few moments ago. A tingling sensation travelled throughout my body as a tiny whimper escaped me. Something about the noise made Dylan kiss me harder, his tongue speeding up as he moved over me. He shifted closer until my back was flat to the couch, and he held himself above me.
I grasped at his shoulders, lips still unsure, and tried to match the way he kissed me. Tentatively, I slid my tongue against his, and he emitted a low, sexy groan. I trembled. I tried again, and again he groaned, this time palming my thighs and pulling them apart. He settled himself between my legs, and the stiffness in his pants panicked me.
I didn’t break the kiss though. I was far too eager for it, and I didn’t want the moment to end. Who knew if he’d ever kiss me again? I needed to make this last, so I could etch his taste into my memory, fold his smell in crepe paper and save it for a rainy day when I needed some sunshine.
That’s what he tasted like—bottled sun. Golden, like
the flecks in his hair.
Time passed, but he didn’t break our kiss. Not even to catch his breath. It felt like he didn’t want this to end either. Like he’d been waiting his entire life for this kiss, and nothing or nobody was going to rush him. His mouth warmed my mouth. The way his tongue moved made my entire body feel hot and languid, like I could melt into the sofa.
The kiss grew more and more frenzied, until he pushed his hard crotch firmer between my thighs, his hips moving in a way that built a pleasure in me. A coil of thick arousal coated my insides, and a sharp, luxurious sensation filled my entire lower half.
Dylan licked and nipped at my lips, making low, masculine sounds to match my keening whimpers. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I knew I liked it. Kissing him made me feel whole, even though I’d never known there was a piece missing.
I wanted to feel his erection with my hand, undress him and explore the possibilities of his body. I wanted to know what he looked like naked.
I squeezed my thighs around his hips, pushing into him, needing something I couldn’t quite describe. My skin was hot and flushed, my breath fast like I’d run a marathon, and my heart felt like it was beating a million times a second.
Between my legs an acute pleasure built. To what, I didn’t know. But I did know that if it didn’t happen soon I might spontaneously explode.
Dylan’s erection rubbed against the seam of my pants, but I wished for it to rub harder. I wished for him to slip that large hand of his inside and feel my skin. He groaned again and something about the sound combined with the friction sent me over the edge. Starbursts, fireworks, and comets went off behind my eyes. I squeezed them shut and shook as several wonderful tremors took my body.
It was a few long moments before I opened my eyes and Dylan stared down at me, his gaze dark with lust.
“Did you just . . .?”
I shook my head and bit my lip. “Nope. Nu-uh. Definitely not.”
But I did. I so fucking did.
I just had my very first orgasm.
That had to be it, because if it wasn’t, then an actual orgasm must be something truly mind-blowing indeed.
I couldn’t believe he made me come without taking any of my clothes off. Without touching me. He’d only been kissing me.