by Kirsty Eagar
Mitch held up his hands. ‘No, you’ve got it wrong. I don’t want to sleep with you. And you’ve just outlined all the reasons why you shouldn’t sleep with me. That’s what makes this perfect. Besides, if we don’t have sex, what have I got over you, anyway? This way works for both of us. No sex. No relationship. We get each other out of our systems and move on.’ Mitch ended his spiel confidently, and then stared at Jess with an expectant face, as though waiting for her to sign on the dotted line.
She blinked. Several times. ‘Sorry, I don’t get it. What exactly do you want?’
For the first time Mitch seemed nervous. He coughed, bowing his head. When he looked at her again, his blue eyes snapped with electricity. ‘I want to touch you. That night—the toga party—I really got off on it. And I keep thinking about it, all the time. I just want to … do things to you.’
Jess, suddenly weak, leaned back in her chair, drawing a hot breath.
‘I’m talking about a couple of time-outs, that’s all. On the quiet. What do you think?’ Mitch waited for her to answer, muscles working in his jaw. ‘Come on, Jess,’ he urged. ‘What do I have to say?’
Then everything went black. They were in sudden darkness, the only illumination the rectangle of light coming through the doorway to the lecture theatre, a long way down, and the green exit sign above it. Jess was frozen, swamped by her worst fears—this was all an elaborate ruse Mitch had planned with his Knights friends to get her back. She was about to be humiliated in the worst possible way.
But then Mitch swore, and said, ‘The lights must be on a timer.’
And Jess listened, but she couldn’t hear anything except the sound of their breathing. As far as she could tell, they were still alone. But in the dark something changed.
Mitch shifted, turning towards her, his voice bolder: ‘Can I touch you?’
Jess’s voice sounded like she was in pain. ‘Can I trust you—to keep it quiet?’
‘Yes. Yes. But I don’t know how to make you believe it.’
‘Well, you’re going to have to somehow, Mitch, because the thought of guys like that Dud person finding out and turning it into something else makes me sick.’
It seemed they’d reached an irresolvable stalemate.
But then Mitch exhaled. ‘I know how.’ And there was something horribly bitter about his voice as he said, ‘I swear to you on Julian’s ashes that nobody is going to know about this from me. And I won’t try to sleep with you, either.’
Jess’s hands went to her head. ‘Oh God, I didn’t ask you to—’
‘I know you didn’t,’ Mitch snapped. ‘But I want to hold myself to that. No sex. So what do you think?’
Again, he waited; again, she didn’t speak.
‘Look, I’m not going to beg. If it’s a no, just turn the lights on when you leave, and—’
Mitch didn’t get any further with his instructions, because Jess gripped his forearm, his lovely, golden-haired, muscular forearm, and said, ‘I’ve got one condition.’
‘Anything,’ Mitch said, his voice strangely hoarse.
‘No matter what we do, no matter what happens, please don’t ever slap me on the arse. I hate that.’
There was a surprised pause. And then, ‘You got it.’
•
Sometime later, Mitch followed Jess down the stairs of the lecture theatre, his hands on her shoulders. Getting him down was easier than it should have been. Maybe because it was dark. Or maybe because, like her, he was feeling too dazed to worry about falling. By unspoken consent, they staggered to the bathrooms, and Jess stared at herself in the mirror while she patted water on her flushed face. Her eyes were too bright and too big. Her denim skirt had twisted around to the side, and she straightened it, but she left her hair the way it was—pulled loose from its ponytail.
They shared an awkward hug, then Mitch followed her back to Unity to make sure she got there okay, staying well behind in case anybody saw them. And Jess was glad, because it meant they didn’t have to talk. She wouldn’t have known what to say. But when she stopped at Unity’s gate, she hesitated. There was nobody around, so it was probably okay to at least look back at him. Was that the etiquette in this situation? Or was she supposed to pretend that nothing had happened? As his footsteps approached, she was in an agony of indecision. What to do?
In the end, Mitch solved the problem for her. As he passed, she heard a low wolf whistle.
After that, Jess left earth and flew, flew, back to her room, bolting up the seven flights of stairs to T-floor, her legs a blur. She passed a group of fresher boys and something about the way she was travelling made them stop in their tracks, yelling, ‘Flash! Ah-aaah!’, and they clutched their hearts, pretending to fall at her feet as she passed, and she laughed but didn’t stop, because she could hear music blasting out from T-floor—‘This Head I Hold’ by Electric Guest—and by the time she was running down the corridor, the sidelights blurred lines in her peripheral vision, she’d realised it was coming from her room, and when she ripped the door open at exactly the moment when the song progressed from piano to full band, Leanne and Allie cheered and hooted like maniacs, and Jess had no fucking idea why they were in her room, but that sort of shit never bothered her. They were lying sideways across her bed, their legs up on the windowsill.
‘Who happened to you?’ Leanne demanded, sitting up and looking Jess over.
‘Nobody. Just in a good mood.’
‘Uh-uh. Jessie’s got a luuuurver,’ Allie purred, viewing her upside down. ‘Look at you. You’re glowing, girl.’
‘I wish,’ Jess protested, but she couldn’t stop smiling. She jumped on the bed and started bouncing up and down between them, and after a moment they joined her, and none of them fell out of the window, so it was a golden moment, the three of them shouting out the chorus of the song. But then Leanne leaned across to sniff at Jess, who pushed her away, suddenly paranoid she’d smell what she’d been up to.
‘Fahrenheit, hey?’ Leanne said, with a shit-eating grin.
‘What?’
‘Your aftershave.’
•
One o’clock in the morning and Jess was smoking out of her window, not even attempting to sleep. T-floor was quiet, her neighbours’ windows in darkness, but somebody on the floor below was playing alt-J softly, the music climbing to her on a ladder of still air.
She sucked on her cigarette, hearing the paper crinkle, watching the tip flare, but it was nothing compared to the way her heart was blazing in her chest. Everything with Mitch had been worth it for that bonfire, flames that made her hungry for things she couldn’t define. And she realised that feeling was the thing, the reaching not the getting, but thoughts were slippery and all Jess really wanted to do was burn. Burn for the light it made, burn for the ache it gave, burn so she could breathe the smoke and feel alive.
She watched the night prowl past like a giant dark beast, and she wished she could slip out of her window and ride its back. To where? To him?
No. She just wanted to ride.
Was he awake now, thinking about her? He’d better be. She ran her fingertips over her thigh. Can I touch you? The thought made Jess smile. She ground out her cigarette and lay back on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. She’d overheard a discussion between the Z-floor boys once, about how they sometimes wanked with their less adept hand so they could pretend it was someone else. That’s what Jess did then, remembering what had happened in the lecture theatre.
She used her left hand and pretended it was Mitch.
•
His hand stroking her inner thigh, fingertips circling their way up sensitive skin, reaching the V of her legs only to retreat again, so that she grew impatient, and when he finally pulled up her skirt, she helped him do it. His hand nudging her legs apart. His hand brushing ever so lightly across her mound, and then returning to her thighs, as though she’d only imagined it, teasing, because by then it was all she could think about, her whole body thrumming for him to touch her there. Sh
e slid lower in her seat. And, finally, his palm cupping her, feeling her push into him. His hand, sliding into her underpants, a finger slipping inside her. His sharply inhaled breath. ‘God, you’re so wet.’
‘Don’t start that again,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘I can’t help it.’
Mitch’s voice was rough: ‘No, it’s great.’
He found her clitoris and rubbed it gently with a fingertip, making the tiniest circles, keeping up a light, steady pressure without trying to make her come, like they had all the time in the world. It took away the need to perform. Jess stopped feeling self-conscious, stopped thinking, and instead just concentrated on the sensation, the whole of her body responding to that tiny spot. Eventually her breathing caught, and her legs shifted restlessly, and she tilted her head back, pressing on his hand, wanting him to rub her harder, faster, directing him; and she’d never been like that before, at least not while she was sober. She came abruptly and violently. And that was different, too, because normally it was something she had to work towards, a peak that had to be climbed.
In the aftermath, Jess turned towards Mitch, breathing hard, wanting to tell him that she’d never come with anyone but herself before. But of course she couldn’t say that. Instead she gripped his wrist, and said, ‘More.’
‘More?’ he asked, surprised.
Jess might have got embarrassed then, but there wasn’t time, because he’d leaned across and was using both hands, hampered by her underpants, which somehow made it better, his fingers on her and in her, bringing her to another orgasm, eagerly and quickly, as though he was curious to see if it could be done.
It could.
‘That’s fucking great,’ he whispered.
‘It’s no big deal. Most girls can.’ Jess sighed the words, slumped in her seat, not quite returned to him yet. ‘It’s not just me.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I mean, through touching they can,’ Jess corrected herself. ‘We talk about it at college. Some girls can make themselves come just by crossing their legs in lectures. Again and again. It’s just a thing.’ She yawned sharply, a reaction to holding her breath. ‘Called the clitoris.’
‘That’s good to know.’ Mitch reached down once more.
She pulled weakly at his arm. ‘It wasn’t a challenge.’
‘Let me,’ he said. So she gave in, her head falling back. This time, he took things slower, teasing her, holding off every time he felt her stiffen, and laughed when she slapped his wrist. ‘Wait.’ He shifted, unbuttoning his jeans. Jess heard the rasp of denim on skin, the snap of elastic. He reached for her hand and she tensed. ‘Is that okay?’ he asked.
‘Yes. But can you show me …’ Jess’s voice failed her and she swallowed. ‘I’ve never done that before.’
‘A hand job?’ he asked, sounding amused. ‘Seriously?’
‘Don’t laugh at me,’ she wailed. ‘I’m just being honest.’
‘Shh. It’s okay.’ His hand slipped back into her underpants, his fingertip resuming its slow circling, but Jess couldn’t relax, feeling miserable now. He whispered, ‘Lick your palm.’
So Jess did as he said, understanding why he’d told her to do it, feeling stupid for not knowing in the first place, and then reached down to touch him. His hand closed over hers, and he rolled her palm over the head of his penis, and then guided it down the length of him and back up again. As she got the rhythm of it, he let go, leaning back in his chair. He was still touching her, but Jess hardly noticed, stopping to lick her palm again, loving the feeling of him responding to her, wanting to make him helpless to it. When Mitch climaxed, he groaned, and his hand closed over hers, making her grip the head of his penis, and she felt it swell as he came.
Then they were still. Jess drew her hand back, wiping at it. And as their breathing returned to normal, and the silence between them stretched out, she began to feel worried.
But then Mitch said, ‘I knew I should have done economics.’
And she laughed, suddenly lighter.
CHAPTER 20
SO WHAT?
The next morning, Jess woke feeling irritated and anxious. She sat on the edge of her bed, flicking her Zippo on and then snapping it shut, over and over. That’s how the big kids play, she told herself, getting the weird flare of pride that sometimes accompanies spent innocence. It faded quickly, though, and when it did, the gnawing feeling in her stomach returned. Sick of being alone with it, she trudged down the other end of the hallway, passing one of her floormates, who raised her eyebrows at what Jess was wearing: the shirt from the previous night’s lecture and a pair of panties.
Half a minute passed between Jess’s knock and Farren unlocking and opening her door. Farren was wearing her Valley markets find-of-the-century, a genuine Pucci dress—which didn’t make sense to Jess until she spotted Davey Walters in Farren’s bed, bare-chested and obviously naked under the sheet that was pulled up to his waist, and she realised the dress was probably the first article of clothing Farren had pulled out of the open suitcase on the desk.
‘Have I interrupted something?’ Jess asked, sounding sulky.
‘Sleep,’ Farren said, equally sulky. ‘What are you doing up?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s six-thirty.’
‘Is it? Sorry, I’ll go.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ Farren returned to the bed, pulling the pillow out from under Davey, his head hitting the mattress abruptly. She doubled it beneath her neck so she could see Jess, who’d curled up like a cat down the other end of the bed, resting her head on Davey’s bony knees. Farren’s room had a definite aesthetic: scarves and pot plants hung from the window; gig posters for My Morning Jacket, Sonic Youth and Pretty Girls Make Graves lined the walls—not because she’d been to the gigs, but because she was a fan of Travis Bone, the artist; and orange-spined Penguin classics were trapped between the textbooks on the shelf above the desk, alongside wine bottles topped by the wax of dozens of candles.
The window was open, but the room had the smell of sleepy bodies and a hint of what they had been doing before they went to sleep.
‘This place is a sex nest,’ Jess said. As an afterthought, she added, ‘Hello, Davey.’
‘Flash.’ Davey craned his neck to see her, his bleary eyes having trouble focusing. He was tall, so tall his feet reached the edge of the bed, and he had a head full of dirty-blond corkscrewed curls. When he danced, he looked like a crazed scarecrow. He was also, singlehandedly, bringing back the goatee. Like Callum, he was an engineering student.
Farren nudged him. ‘You can tell the guys you woke up with me and Jess.’
Davey gave a sheepish grin, eyes closing again. ‘Already thought of that.’
‘Just don’t tell them you tooted your morning horn,’ Jess told him, and she and Farren laughed as his hand clamped down on his nether regions.
Then Jess groaned. Loudly.
‘That’s it?’ Farren asked. ‘You woke me up for that? I’m catching a plane home in four hours, so speak now or forever hold your peace.’
‘I went for a drive last night,’ Jess said, shooting her a significant look.
Farren looked blank. Then she made an Oh! face and held up her hand.
Jess shook her head. ‘Not a high-five situation.’
Farren frowned. ‘Did you use an air bag?’
Jess rolled her eyes. ‘Always so subtle, Farren. And no—we didn’t go that far. You know I don’t do one-night … crashes.’
Davey, suddenly wide awake, pulled the pillow out from under Farren’s head, and doubled it up under his own neck. ‘Tell Uncle Davey all about it—vroom vroom. Manual or auto?’
Jess had to laugh at his enthusiasm. ‘Manual. Definitely manual.’
‘Handled well?’
‘Very responsively.’
‘Many previous owners?’
‘Dunno, but the vehicle in question has given a lot of rides. A lot of rides.’
‘But who was it?’ Farren asked, her tone puzzled.
‘That wasn’t very good,’ Davey scolded. ‘You should have asked something like, Big gearstick? Or, Do you think you’ll try the backseat next time?’
Farren ignored him. When Jess finally met her eyes, she asked, ‘Do I know him?’
Jess shook her head, feeling incredibly uncomfortable and incredibly disloyal. Maybe she should have stayed quiet rather than lie, but she’d felt so bleak, and Farren always made her feel better. Besides, Farren would hear Leanne’s and Allie’s aftershave theories at some stage, so it was better to volunteer the information and control it. And behind the obvious reasons for not being honest—how hurtful it would be to Farren, and how humiliating to admit she’d broken her own very publicly announced code—there was another reason, wrapped around something more vulnerable. If she thought about it too much, Mitch telling her that he was happy to muck around, but had zero interest in getting involved, didn’t feel very good. Even if she didn’t want to get involved either, his certainty on the subject had been a kind of dismissal.
‘It was a guy in my lecture,’ she said eventually. ‘We left last.’
‘Knew I should have done economics,’ said Davey.
Farren slapped his arm, giving Jess a penetrating look. ‘That’s unusual for you.’ When Jess said nothing, she asked, ‘Well? Was it good?’ And Jess nodded, looking miserable. Farren frowned. ‘What’s the problem then?’
‘Why, just because there was something physical, do I want more? We had a moment—so what? Why can’t I just enjoy it for what it was?’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Farren assured her. ‘You’re going up against years of conditioning—this idea that for every woman there’s a singular male who will haunt her, fascinate her, for the rest of her life. Look, from the moment they start reading fairy stories to us, we’re encouraged to isolate ourselves, put ourselves in a tower, or in a deep sleep, hang out in our room at college, and wait for this mythical being to turn up.’