Tell Me Something Real

  Colt and I look at Grier, who’s now walking beside us. “Angry is better than apathetic,” I say.

  Grier looks to Colt. “What about you—you angry enough to play without killing anybody from our own team?”

  “You’ve seen me angry, Grier. Does it make me better or worse on the field?”

  Landon rolls his eyes, slapping on his helmet. “Let’s win, boys. I’m taking the head cheerleader to homecoming and I’d like to not hear her bitch at me the entire time about cheering for losers.”

  “Gonna be hard since she’s dating you.” But Colt offers Grier a half smile and the quarterback returns it. I wait on the sidelines as the kickoff goes, hating the urge I have to turn around and look for Lincoln. She works most Friday nights, and I know she was supposed to work tonight. Doesn’t stop me from wishing she was here.

  “She’ll be done at nine-thirty. She’s not closing.”

  I look over at Colt. He rolls his eyes, rocking up and down on his toes a few times. “I know who you’re thinking about. Evie talked to her—she’s going to get Lincoln on her way to the river, and meet us there.”

  I nod, pushing her to the back of my mind and clicking my chin strap into place. Then, I look to Colt again, and see that he’s vibrating with barely controlled energy. “You good?” I ask him.

  He nods, shaking his limbs out like a boxer. “Ready to win. And then I’m gonna get fucked up.”

  I pause and stare at him a little longer, because Colt… he’s not the happy, go-lucky, football Colt right now, and he’s not the menacing guy he becomes when someone’s messed with Lincoln and he’s set to destroy them. The longer I watch him, the more I notice that he’s the Friday Night Lights, my life is destroyed so I’m going to destroy someone else, Colt, and I don’t know when the shift happened.

  “Wacko’s an idiot, you know that.”

  He doesn’t even look at me. “I’m going to win this game, Ford, and then I’m going to get drunk. If I kick Wacko’s ass somewhere in between those two things, all the better.”

  “Colt,” I start, but the whistle blows and Coach calls for defense.

  “Don’t worry about it, Rich Boy. Only worry about winning.”

  +

  We pull out the W, but it isn’t pretty. By the time I’m dragging myself from the field to the locker room, and stripping out of my sweaty gear, a party is the last thing on my mind.

  “Kaz’s older brother is making a beer and bud run. You in?”

  I look up at Colt, noting his energy is still as high as it was on the field. And it’s not because he didn’t play like a maniac—he had three sacks in the second half, and two fumble returns. While I’m feeling every minute of both sides of the ball, his eyes are wide and bright, and he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet while he stares at me, like he could play another forty-eight minutes.

  “Rich Boy—booze or no booze? Kaz needs an answer, and cash, if we’re going to jump in with this order.”

  I nod my head, reaching into my locker for my wallet. “Sure.”

  I hand him money, and strip out of the rest of my gear before heading to the showers. I listen to Colt chatter and shout and laugh the entire time, noting that his anger has all but disappeared, replaced by this euphoric kind of high from the win.

  “You good?” I ask him when we get to his truck. He doesn’t look at me, just dumps his bag in the back and jumps in to gun the engine. “You seem a little jittery.”

  “Just high from the win,” he says, cranking the wheel and checking over his shoulder before pulling out. “Nothing a little drink and smoke won’t cure.”

  “You driving later tonight?”

  “You worried about me all of a sudden?” His expression stays amused, but there’s an underlying force in his tone that tells me he doesn’t want to be questioned.

  Before I can find the right answer, Colt slams his fist against the steering wheel, laughing off the tension.

  “Relax, Rich Boy. I’m gonna go and party, and then I’m going to let Evie drive me home, where she’ll hopefully let me kiss her a little bit more.”

  His mention of Evie has me pulling out my phone to check for Lincoln. It’s just now getting to be near ten, so I’m hoping she’s already off work.

  Me: Hey.

  Lincoln: Hey yourself. Coming to the river?

  I smile, thumbs moving over the letters with rapid-fire response time.

  Me: Yeah. With Colt now. He’s got beer on the way.

  Lincoln: Ok. I’m sitting in Evie’s car with her, waiting for you guys.

  Me: Be there in ten.

  Lincoln: Counting on it.

  I put my phone away and tap my fingers on the thigh of my jeans while Colt winds the truck through town and to a spot near the river where we usually post up after games. It’s secluded, with enough parking people can line the roads and walk in.

  When we finally arrive, both of us jump out. “What does Evie drive?” I ask him.

  “Gray Camry.”

  I spot it immediately, the doors already open while Lincoln and Evie get out.

  Colt and I head over, but before we get there, he puts his hand on my shoulder. “You drinking tonight, Rich Boy?”

  I look at him, and then back to Lincoln.

  “I’ll take that as a no. Here.” Colt holds out his truck keys out to me. “Take my truck to the farm. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

  “I don’t have a license.”

  “And I’m not old enough to drink alcohol, but I’m about to.”

  “Point made.” I grab the keys just as Lincoln and Evie stop in front of us.

  Colt whistles long and low, raking his eyes up and down Evie. She looks good in her dark jeans that are all but painted on to her long legs. It’s cold, so her North Face is zipped up all the way, but there’s no rain, and I can see she’s left her brown hair down to reach her shoulders.

  There’s nothing exotic or amazing about Evie—but I can see her appeal because this, how she looks now, is how she looks every day. Nothing about her is false, and I find that it makes me appreciate her more.

  The more attention she gets with Colt staring, the pinker her cheeks get, until she’s looking down at the ground instead of all of us. “Goddamn, Evie girl, you look good enough to take a bite out of. And I think I want to.”

  “Colt!” she says, but then she’s laughing when he dips a shoulder and hoists her over it, saying something else asinine I’m sure he considers to be flirting while he carts her off.

  Lincoln raises her brows, watching them as they go. “He okay?”

  I watch them, too, wondering how to explain that I’m not sure. “Just jacked,” I settle on, because it’s the closest to the truth I have.

  Then I look at her, and I forget about my cousin, and only focus on the girl I’ve been thinking about touching since earlier this afternoon when I had her pressed up against the back of the school, kissing her goodbye.

  She’s changed from her work uniform, and her hair is damp and long around the shoulders of her red hoodie, telling me she found time and a place to take a quick shower. I continue my perusal, taking in the denim snug on her hips, and following it all the way to the soles of her converse.

  “You feel like partying tonight?” I ask. She looks over her shoulder to the slowly growing line of people walking down toward the water, and then back at me.

  “Not really.”

  Relief blows through me, and I show her Colt’s keys. “Field?” I say, holding out a hand. She puts hers in it, smiling when we link fingers.

  We don’t talk much while we drive away from the party and toward the spot we’ve both started to consider ours. When I park the truck, she reaches behind the seat and comes up with a blanket. “Don’t ask what he does with it. Let’s just be glad it’s warmer than the metal truck bed.”

  I cringe a little and then nod.

  And then I think of little else, because we’re laying on the blanket, Lincoln’s hea
d on my chest, zipped into my jacket, my arms around her, while we look up at a mostly clear sky.

  It’s freezing, but that doesn’t matter. Not when we’re like this.

  “Tell me something about Seattle.”

  Lincoln’s words are lazy, a little slurred, and I have to ask if it’s because of her levels. “Do you need insulin?”

  She laughs out a sigh. “Checked my levels and did a bolus after dinner when Evie picked me up from work. I’m just tired—and really comfortable.”

  “Sorry,” I say after a second. “I just…worry.”

  “I know. And since I can’t stop you, I’ll just get used to answering. Now, tell me about Seattle. Good things.”

  I like that she specifies that—like we’ve both shared horror stories, and now she wants the good parts.

  “The water is incredible. Moody and vast,” I say as I think back. “Everywhere you look, there’s water: the Pacific, the Sound, Lake Washington… taking a ferry to one of the islands used to be my favorite thing to do. At night, when taking a ferry away from the city, you can look back and all you see are lights.”

  “And the city?”

  I think of Seattle, and the Public Market, the crazy traffic when the Sounders, or Hawks, or Mariners are in town, and the expressway that goes different ways depending on what time of day it is. I think of the restaurants and parties and houses and everything that exists on a grander scale there.

  “It’s big,” I finally say. “Which is nice because, when you walk somewhere, you’re a no one. There’s always a sea of people driving or flooding the streets to get to the Public Market, and no one stops to look at you and tell stories about you. It’s anonymous.”

  Lincoln laughs. “God, what’s that like?”

  Lonely. Crazy how lonely I was without realizing it, in a city where I had people to party with or sleep with, but never a person to be like this with.

  But that’s not what we’re doing tonight. “It can be good.”

  “I always wanted that,” she admits, picking her finger up to trace a pattern over my jacket. “When I was a middle schooler, and I’d stopped dreaming of what it would be like to have a mom who did normal things instead of drugs, I started dreaming of moving away from here and going somewhere like L.A.—somewhere glamorous and busy, somewhere people just ignored me.”

  “L.A. is fake,” I tell her.

  “I heard Seattle is all hipsters.”

  I laugh. “You’re not wrong. But it’s beautiful. And, unlike L.A., you can walk to the water from the city.”

  “I’ve never seen the ocean,” she admits, and I pull away to look down at her.

  “No shit.”

  She shakes her head. “Remember: never been out of Albany, other than a school field trip.”

  “We’re going. Christmas break, or spring break, or after we graduate. You’re coming with me, and we’re going to Seattle. We’ll be tourists and do the Public Market and go on ferry rides. We’ll go to a baseball game, and buy Sonics gear even though they haven’t been in Seattle for almost a decade.”

  Excitement spurs through me the more I think about taking Lincoln somewhere and showing her everything I once loved. She smiles, but it’s small. “What?”

  For a second, she hesitates, and then she shrugs. “Graduation. Are you…going to still be here? I figured you might leave at semester, as long as you behaved yourself. Wasn’t that the original plan?”

  It was… one I haven’t thought of since my first month here. Since I saw Lincoln as more. “It was. Things change,” I tell her, wondering if that’s what I want. And then I look down and wonder how I could leave her. “Would you go with me? After graduation. Would you go to Seattle with me? Let me show you?” She hesitates again, and I roll so I’m on my side and she’s on her back. “Pretend that there’s nothing else in the way—would you want to go with me?”

  She nods.

  “Then let’s make a pact—Seattle after graduation. No matter what happens between now and then.”

  “Okay.”

  We stay like this, me hovering over the top of her while she stares up at me. I can see her face clearly, the high cheek bones and tiny, sloped nose. I roam my eyes over her face, pausing when I get to her bow-shaped lips. “I want to kiss you, Lincoln.”

  Her breath catches on its release. “I want that, too, Ford.”

  “I want everything,” I tell her, leaning down to brush my lips over hers. “I’m not telling you to rush you—I’m just telling you so you know what this means—what you mean. I’ll wait, however long you need, because I want everything.”

  She arches her neck, bringing her back off the truck so she can reach my lips and press against me. I snake a hand underneath her, keeping our lips locked while I roll and settle between her legs, holding myself with one forearm to keep from pressing too much of my weight on her. With my other hand, I skim under her hoodie, groaning when I meet her heated skin, not stopping until I’m at the side of her breast and I can feel her trembles.

  Releasing her lips, I nip at her jawline, and then her neck, all the way down until I’m at the zipper of her hoodie. Last time, I was patient, careful. This time… this time I need whatever she’s ready for.

  “On or off?” I ask her.

  She looks at me, eyes wide, lips swollen, and body trembling. Worrying that her energy level spiked, and is now taking her sugar levels too high or low, I’m about to apologize—to roll back over and bring her with me so I can hold her the rest of the night, when she speaks.

  “Off.”

  My body gets ten times tighter, and I think I my hands might be shaking.

  I go slowly, watching her expression the entire time, losing my breath when the material parts and I push it open. She’s wearing a thin white T-shirt underneath, and though I want to sit her up and strip it over her head, it’s too cold for that. Instead, I skim my fingers under the hem, pushing it up as I follow the beautiful lines of her hips, the gentle curve at her waist, the outside swell of her breasts.

  With every inch of smooth stomach revealed, I become more and more certain that Lincoln Brewer is the only girl I’ll ever want to touch again.

  She’s porcelain—beautiful and smooth, so delicate I’m almost afraid to touch her. The first time I do, running the tips of my fingers along the sides of her body from hips to breasts, tracing the gentle shape of her, we both stop breathing. Goosebumps spring up over her flesh, and I know, in this moment, we’re together.

  Everything she feels, I feel.

  Everything she wants, I want.

  Everything she needs, I need to be the one to give it to her.

  “Beautiful,” I say, eyes still on her. She smiles, hands going to my jacket when I lean over to kiss her.

  I touch her everywhere, lips fused to hers before they follow my hands. Her fingers tangle in my too-long hair when my lips meet the slight swell of her breasts, and soon, her hands are adventurous like mine, streaking under my jacket and shirt to splay over my abs.

  “We should pause,” I say after several heated minutes. Resting on my forearms, I look down at her, wishing I didn’t have to stop. “I have a juice box in my bag over there.”

  She smiles, but before I can move, Lincoln’s hands cup my face and she brings my lips back to hers. The kiss is slow and thorough, her tongue tangling with mine, and soon, I’m not reaching for the small box of apple juice in my football bag, but for more of her.

  “Lincoln,” I say, hands sliding between the band of her jeans and her skin.

  “I promise, I’m fine. I’ll tell you.”

  God, I just hope I can stop. Now that I’m touching her, my fingers brushing her over her cotton panties, I don’t know if I’ll be able to hear anything over the roar of my own desire.

  I didn’t know it could be like this.

  I’ve hooked up before. But, in two years, every time I’ve done more than kiss, I’ve been high in some form. Now, I’m sober, and so is For
d, and the way he’s touching me has my body trembling, needles of anticipation and want, mixed with a healthy dose of fear for what’s spiraling through me.

  “Lincoln,” he says, and his voice is low, like gravel on tin.

  “I…” My hips arch when he touches me, those needles fanning up from my toes to my knees, into my hips and belly. Everything about me is on fire, my body instinctively moving to a rhythm that only makes the trembles increase.

  “I can’t,” I say, the precipice I’m standing on too large. Fear coats my skin, and my breath starts coming in fast pants because my body is telling me it’s about to shatter if I don’t stop what’s happening, at the same time it craves leaping from the ledge.

  “I got you,” Ford says, and his lips are there, on mine, but his hands are gone. Before I can blink, he’s tugging my shirt down and leaning over, grabbing something. Soon, there’s a straw at my lips. “Drink, Lincoln.”

  I do, feeling the rush of sugar. And then I realize what he thinks—that I was crashing. Embarrassment mixes with everything else and I close my eyes, hating the tears that gather behind my lids. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I don’t… I don’t know what happened.”

  “Lincoln, look at me.” I shake my head, but then his fingers are at my chin, stopping me. “Please,” he says. When I finally open my eyes, his are right above me, dark and intense and so beautiful with their thick black lashes. “I trust you to tell me when you need something—or I’m learning to,” he amends. This gets a small smile from me. “But that means you have to trust me when I say I want to be the person to give you what you need. And I’m not just talking about juice boxes.”

  Now, my embarrassment is entirely different. “I… Everything was overwhelming, and I guess, maybe, I panicked.” Feeling stupid, I clear my throat and take another sip. “I guess I just wasn’t expecting to feel like that.”

  His eyes change, and his breathing goes ragged. “Take another sip, Lincoln. Because it’s about to get a whole lot better.”