The Fifteenth Minute

by Sarina Bowen

  I calm down slowly, listening to the beat of his steady heart until mine matches it. We are cuddled up together in exactly the way I’ve always wanted to be.

  Nobody says anything, and that’s okay. We’re soothing each other without words. I brace my hand on his tight chest. I love the feel of him, and he knows it. And he cradles me in strong arms.

  After a while, DJ leans in and places a soft, thoughtful kiss on my cheekbone. It’s so sweet that I have to take a deep breath to keep from crying again. But then he kisses me a second time, and I make myself focus on the softness of his lips on my face, and the scrape of the evening whiskers on his chin.

  I turn like a flower toward the sun, fitting my mouth against his where it belongs. Our first kiss is slow and sweet. We both just savor the connection. It’s like finding an object I thought I’d lost—I have to stop and admire it for a moment, wondering how something can be both familiar and unexpected.

  But then DJ makes a hungry, bitten-off noise at the back of his throat. His next kiss is deeper. And then deeper still. And I’m waving him in like those guys on the tarmac beckoning the jetliner with those orange…things. Whatever they are. And where was that thought going? Because…oh. Oh, yeah. His mouth is the only place I want to be. I’m going to climb inside and never leave. I’m about to start picking out curtains and rearranging the furniture.

  He opens for me on a sigh, his palms warming my lower back.

  But I want more. Much more. So I plunge my hands down his abs, lifting the hem of his T-shirt so that I can connect with skin. My fingernails scrape lightly across his belly, sifting through his happy trail, and he lets out a happy moan.

  That sound is all it takes to turn me into a crazy, desperate person. I tug at his T-shirt until he gives in and yanks it off. The bare-chested DJ stops to kiss me again. Big hands cup my face while he worships my mouth. His tongue makes long, drugging pulls against mine. Then—finally—he lifts my top over my head. When he discovers I’m not wearing a bra, he makes a low sound of approval. His fingers trail up my skin, leaving shivers in their wake, until the pad of one of his thumbs teases my nipple. I practically leap off the bed because I’d forgotten how incredible his touch feels.

  I’ve spent too many days hiding from all the affection I feel for DJ. What a waste. Now I only have tonight to make up for lost time.

  DJ isn’t chuckling anymore. He’s admiring my body with such tenderness that I feel a tightness in my chest. I love it, but it steals my breath. So I drop my eyes, allowing my hands to slide down to the waistband of his athletic pants and push them down. He raises his hips to let me strip them off. While he’s still kicking out of them, I push down my yoga pants and my underwear in one go.

  “Jesus H,” he breathes, taking my waist in his hands. He rolls to his back, lifting me on top of him with as much ease as he’d lift a pillow. And—wow. I’m stretched out on a gorgeous nearly nekkid man. He’s still wearing his black briefs. But his hardness is right between my legs. I’m kissing him and touching him everywhere while practically panting into his mouth. Losing myself in all this wanting.

  “Please,” I say after many more kisses. There’s no doubt in my mind where this is headed, so I’d like to get there sooner rather than later. (There must be no doubt in my neighbors’ minds, either, because Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky” is suddenly playing next door. Loudly.)

  “Please what?” DJ asks, smiling up at me. “You don’t like saying what you want, do you?”

  Busted. I shake my head.

  “Why not?” he asks, ruffling my hair playfully, as if now was a convenient time for a chat. Meanwhile, I’m ready to combust.

  “Because,” I gasp. “If I say it, I won’t sound like a nice girl.”

  His eyes go soft. “You are a nice girl—the nicest one. And that will still be true even if you scream along with the soundtrack for As You Lick It.

  This makes me snort with laughter, and it’s not sexy. But DJ smiles anyway. And, God, there’s nothing quite so potent as DJ smiling up at me from under my nekkid body. He’s still smiling while he runs both hands down my bare sides onto my hips. And he’s still smiling as he reaches between my legs to caress me with one smooth, slick sweep of his fingers.

  “Oh geez,” I gasp, and he grins. “Ohhhh,” I moan. My hips can’t resist the urge to move, increasing the contact with his hand. So I give in, shifting and practically writhing against him. It’s so dirty but so irresistible that I just don’t care.

  With his free hand, DJ gathers up my hair which has fallen in my face. Holding onto it, he kisses me again, then sucks on my tongue. The moan I make is probably loud enough to be heard over Daft Punk.

  It takes all my willpower to shift off DJ and dive for the drawer to my nightstand. I plunge my hand inside and find one of the Welcome to Harkness condoms I received on move-in day. DJ sits up and takes it from me, and a few seconds later he’s shed his briefs and the condom wrapper. The second he’s covered, he lifts me into his lap. Straddling him, I brace my hands on his shoulders and slide him exactly where I want him.

  There’s a pause while we stare into each other’s eyes, just getting used to the idea that we’re here and this is real and it’s wonderful. It’s like a brilliant moment in slo-mo, with golden light and a perfect view of his warm eyes. There’s a whole lot of naked affection looking up at me, too.

  And then? It’s as if someone fired a starting gun. Our lips crash together and I lever up on my knees, straining against him. And it’s not just me who’s suddenly urgent. DJ pumps his hips as we reach for each other in every conceivable way. It’s not graceful, but energetic. We’re like that last chase scene at the end of Speed, where the bus knocks everything out of its path. We are arms and legs and heat and friction.

  “Jesus,” he grunts out, but I muffle it with another of my kisses.

  Somehow I end up on my back without even knowing how I got there. DJ over me is at least as amazing as DJ under me, because I can see each muscle flex as he moves and trace the precious crease in his forehead as he works us closer together. But when he slips a hand between our bodies, everything gets so much more amazing that I forget how to think. I just let it all go, arching up to him, cresting and then sliding down a wave of pure pleasure. I’m vaguely aware of DJ making a sound that’s half growl, half grunt, and then all the muscles tense in his neck and chest.

  Seconds later, he’s collapsed onto the bed, breathing hard into my hair.

  It’s a really long time before either of us speaks. But it’s a good kind of quiet, and not at all sad. He shifts on the bed to make us more comfortable, and then I’m drifting on happiness and the smooth skin of his shoulder.

  “I need you in my life, smalls,” he says in a whisper. “No matter what happens tomorrow, that won’t change.”

  “Mmm,” is all I can say. Some minutes later I decide to contribute to the conversation. “I’m still worried,” I admit. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes and no. I don’t want to lose. But I’m not panicked anymore. It took me a while to get over the fact that sometimes shitty things just happen.”

  “But…” It’s hard to put into words how much this bothers me. “This shitty thing must have an explanation. Doesn’t it kill you to not know why?”

  “It did,” he admits. “But then I realized that it was killing me to be so angry about it. If I never get to know why, I still have to keep going, you know?”

  “I guess.” Personally, I doubt I could ever be so Zen. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

  “The meeting is at eleven-fifteen. My family is coming up. Even Violet, though I wish she didn’t have to hear me tell what happened. My cynical lawyer says that family is good, though. And Violet called me a sexist pig for wanting to exclude her.”

  This makes me smile, because I can picture it.

  “The dean’s office has been really vague about who will be there—the dean, or the full disciplinary board. My lawyer’s plan is to get them to listen to all the ways th
ey’ve dropped the ball on the investigation. And he’s got a statement from my roommate in support of my side of the story.”

  “Your roommate?”

  “He’s in Tibet this year. But he was, uh, there when it happened.”

  I don’t press for more details because I do not want to picture him with another girl. “That’s good, right?”

  “Yeah, but it might not be enough to convince ’em that they don’t have the story straight. My lawyer also reached out to Annie’s sister, but he didn’t get a response. If this were a trial, he could interview her, no question. But it isn’t.”

  I give him a squeeze. “Will you let me know what happens? Because I won’t be able to think of anything else.”

  “Of course I will. But enough about tomorrow. Come here and kiss me. There’s still twelve hours until I face the firing squad.”

  I do exactly as requested, and he smiles as I lower a kiss to the corner of his mouth and tease him. I kiss my way up the side of his face, and he closes his eyes and pulls me closer.

  “Will you stay tonight? I mean…” That sounded awfully eager. “I know you’re not supposed to be here.”

  “But I want to be,” he says. “Can I set my alarm for six? Nobody will see me leave. And I have more packing to do in the morning.” When he catches my panicked expression, he kisses me on the nose. “For midterm break, remember? It might not be permanent. And even if it is, you’re not allowed to panic yet. Not tonight.”

  “Okay,” I promise. And then I kiss him again, because it’s easier to be happy when we’re making out.

  * * *

  Later, we get up and take a shower together, which is funny because it used to piss me off when Bella let guys use our shower. Hello, hypocrisy. And with DJ and I all wet and slippery together, things got a little heated. We have to go back to bed to finish the job.

  After one more clean-up, it’s late and we finally tuck ourselves into bed. DJ folds me against his chest, and it’s perfect. “I like you here,” I whisper.

  “I like it here, too.”

  Neither of us says I hope we get a chance to do this again. But we both hear it anyway.

  29

  Nobody Wants to Talk About Fierstein

  Lianne

  My goal was to get to twentieth-century theater early today, so I can ask the professor a question. But after DJ kisses me goodbye at six, I roll over and sleep for another three hours. Who knew that good sex was so exhausting?

  So when I eventually arrive in the classroom, I’m only ten minutes early instead of twenty. But at least there’s nobody else around yet. “I have a question for my paper about Brecht,” I say without preamble.

  The professor looks up to squint at me through his wire-rimmed glasses. “You’re writing about Brecht?”

  He sounds amused, and I am immediately pissed off. “What, you’ve already decided that I can only handle Neil Simon?”

  The professor holds up two hands in surrender. “First, let’s not bash Neil Simon. He has more Oscar and Tony nominations than any other playwright. And I didn’t mean to imply that Brecht is over your head. It’s just that I’m bound to get a dozen Brecht papers, most of which will be regurgitations of my own work. I thought I could count on you to break it up a little.”

  “Oh,” I say slowly. “Too bad I didn’t consider that.”

  He smiles. “Now what is your question?”

  I’ve only begun to explain when the next student arrives. It’s Hosanna, and she’s out of breath. “So sorry to interrupt,” she gasps. “But I have a situation.”

  “Is your situation the fact that we’re discussing the Fierstein today?”

  She flinches. “I said I’d attend, and I want to. I swear. But there’s a meeting in the dean’s office. My parents flew in for it. I’m really sorry.”

  The professor’s annoyance shows through in his tone. “Get a dean’s excuse, then. If your meeting is legit, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Okay. Thank you. Maybe I can…come to office hours and review the Fierstein discussion?”

  It takes me way too long to realize who Hosanna is. But just as all the right connections are firing in my brain, a greying man appears in the doorway and snaps, “Annie. We’re going to be late.”

  I can actually feel my jaw dropping. Mr. Impatient wears a preacher’s collar and an ash-gray suit. He’s the dad who forbade his daughter to read a play containing gay sex. And his daughter is Annie. That Annie.

  After one more muttered apology, Annie follows her father out. The professor asks me if we can discuss Brecht another time. “During office hours?”

  “Sure,” I say slowly. Other students are streaming into the room now. In slow motion, I drop my bag onto the conference table and then stare again at the doorway where Annie and her father just disappeared. It takes a moment for me to reconcile my idea of Annie with the girl who was just here. I’d imagined DJ’s Annie to be quite obviously evil, probably with horns and a tail. The college equivalent of Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada.

  But she’s not. And now several more ideas are crowding my brain. DJ said he might never get an answer to his “why.” But maybe he can. That conversation I overheard…it’s a clue. It has to be. And the fact that her father forbade her to read the coursework? That’s just weird.

  Isn’t it?

  With shaking hands I pull out my phone. But DJ isn’t going to read his texts while facing the dean. So I jump out of my chair.

  The professor looks up, cocking an eyebrow at me. “I…” Breathe. “Sorry, I forgot to do something.”

  He squints. “Nobody wants to talk about Fiersten?”

  “That’s not true,” I say, my voice shaking. “I loved the Fierstein.” But I turn my back on him anyway, dodging the incoming students. I run out into the hall and then out of the building.

  That’s when I come to a screeching halt, because I realize I don’t know where the dean’s office is. Another three minutes are lost as I tap on the screen of my phone, consulting the Harkness website.

  Then I run.

  Eventually I’m pounding up the marble steps of an imposing building. I press on through a big foyer, finding an assistant at a desk. “Um, there’s a meeting? Uh, Daniel Trevi?” I stammer.

  She directs me down a corridor toward the chapel room. I try to slow down, so I won’t be panting like an Iditarod contestant when I find him.

  I’m late, though. The door is mostly closed, and I can hear a man’s voice already addressing the room. “This is highly irregular. My client and I need some clarification before we begin. Since the complainant and her family have suddenly appeared at our meeting, should I assume I’ll be allowed to question Ms. Stevens?”

  “No!” another man’s voice shouts. That’s probably Hosanna’s father.

  “Then why is she here?” the lawyer presses.

  “Gentlemen!” a woman’s stern voice cuts in. With a pounding heart I peek through the crack in the door. At the front of the room I see Dean Wilma Waite, affectionately called Whomping Wilma by the students. “The complainant’s family became available on short notice. And since it’s in everyone’s best interest to clear up this case in a timely fashion, I asked the Stevens family to appear today.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” the first man insists. I can only see the back of him. But it has to be DJ’s lawyer.

  “I have not yet decided who—besides your client—will be addressing me today,” the dean says. “So why don’t we begin?”

  “There’s only one way this works.” I can almost feel DJ’s lawyer’s irritation through the oak-paneled door. “My client is here to tell the truth and clear the air. But he can only do that if the other party remains silent. If they can’t do that, we can’t proceed.”

  “Fair enough,” the dean says.

  “If the complainant’s family is allowed to jump in with questions, that amounts to a de facto cross examination,” the lawyer continues. “After which we should be entitle
d to our own cross exam.”

  Ooh, tricky. I like this guy.

  There’s a rumble of whispers and disgruntled voices from inside the room. I swear I hear someone say, “total shit show,” and I wonder if it’s DJ’s dad.

  I sink to a bench outside the door. There’s no way I’m bursting in there now. But neither can I leave without knowing what happens.

  “Now let’s get started,” the dean says. “We’ll begin by asking Mr. Trevi to recount the night of last April eleventh. So please come up to the front where we can all hear you.”

  I look up fast, because I hear footsteps approaching me. There’s a girl pounding her way down the hall. I’m so jumpy that I automatically assume she’s here to bust me for eavesdropping.

  But she’s not dressed like an employee of the dean’s office. She skids to a stop in front of me, wearing a leather jacket and tight jeans. I notice the streak of blue in her hair and the stud in her nose as she demands, “Is this the meeting? Hosanna Stevens?

  I nod like a ninny.

  Satisfied, she pushes open the door, and I hear her say, “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Caroline!” The preacher sounds startled. “What are you doing here?”

  “Stopping Annie from doing something stupid.”

  I’m on my feet, my toe wedged in the door so I have an even better view inside. But then I pull my head back quickly because everyone has turned to stare at the newcomer, even Annie’s own family. “You’re not supposed to be here,” her father says. “Get out.”

  “No way. I just took a three hour bus ride to tell Annie something important.” I risk another look inside, and see the newcomer staring her sister down. “Don’t let Dad do this. You’ll regret it.”

  “Who are you?” DJ’s lawyer asks.

  “Caroline Stevens. The sister.”

  “Shut your mouth! Shut it right now!” the preacher yells.

  “I want to hear this,” the lawyer argues.

  So do I.