STRIPPED

by Brooklyn Skye

  “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this,” he says, lips cracking a smile. “’Cause I wouldn’t want you to run out in that outfit or anything, but I’m willing to take the risk.”

  “Risk?”

  “To tell you...” His finger runs across my cheek. “You’re amazing. A little crazy, but amazing.”

  I inhale a deep breath. I can handle this. I can. Then I meet his gaze.

  “You’re not so shabby yourself.”

  His smile grows all the way up to his eyes, and he steals my words from earlier. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  I do the same: “It was nothing less.”

  I don’t shut the bathroom door completely. Mainly because I kind of want to see him change too.

  “Have you ever been to Paco’s?” I say through the crack, exchanging his long-sleeved shirt for my flannel. “They have the best burritos ever. They put a taquito inside.”

  “Eww. Why?”

  “For extra crunch, I guess. Don’t knock it till you try it.”

  “Never been. Where is it?”

  Sweats slide down. Jeans up. Shoes on. “Near the mall. If you don’t want to drive we could go somewh—”

  A folded red T-shirt on the counter catches my attention—the logo to Sal’s embroidered in grey a few inches below the collar. I lift the shirt as Torrin pops his head in, looking at me.

  “You okay?”

  I glance from the shirt to him to the shirt. Sal’s. Sal’s. Sal’s.

  It has to be a coincidence.

  “Hmm?”

  “Sounded like a seagull was asphyxiating in here.”

  I hold up the shirt, trying to keep my voice even. “You work at Sal’s?”

  “A few days a week.” He tugs his shirt over his head with a grin. “You want to go there instead? Free meatball subs, can’t beat that.”

  Something’s not right. “Why? It’s not like you need the money.” God knows I’d love to have money simply handed to me, my tuition paid without hassle—or stripping off my clothes.

  He shrugs. “My dad thinks it’s important to learn the value of a dollar.” I set the shirt back on the counter and he extends his hand to me. “Ready?”

  His name’s Torrin Hastings. His grandfather’s name Andrew, not some variety of John. I don’t know why I’m letting this red shirt get to me. Sure this means I could ask him about Kingsley, but probably not without disclosing who I am and how I know a boy named John Kingsley works there too.

  “Yeah,” I say and take his hand.

  ~*~

  “You sure this is safe? It looks like all the grease could give someone a heart attack.” Torrin pokes the crunchy taquito peeking out from the beans and cheese. I reach across the low brick wall we’re flanking and squeeze his rock-hard bicep.

  “Pretty sure you don’t have to worry about clogged arteries any time soon, Batman.”

  Hesitantly he takes a bite, chews, swallows, and then pinches a goofy-looking grin. “Mm-kay. You might’ve been right.”

  Half a humongous burrito later, Torrin settles his lunch on the paper wrapper and cleans his hands on a napkin. “Can I ask you something?” The unsaid without you running away floats between us. I lick a drop of salty grease from my lips.

  “Ask away.”

  “What happened…I mean, why’d you come find me today? I thought you…”

  Didn’t want a boyfriend. I don’t want him to say the words aloud.

  I set my burrito down and wipe my face. “You were in my dorm last night. When you came to return something to Lindsey.” I pause, giving him a moment to process the personal information I’ve been avoiding telling him. Loyola, Garrett Hall. “I saw the two of you talking. And laughing. And then she kissed your cheek and I—” Jesus, how do I say this without sounding pathetic?

  “Was jealous?” A strange look comes over his face. He sips his soda then hops over the low wall, standing just inches from me. “You? Miss I-Don’t-Have-Feelings were jealous of another girl talking to me?”

  I scowl. “Mock me and you’ll spend the evening shampooing salsa from your hair.”

  Laughing, he holds up his palms. “Not mocking. Just…” Slowly, he leans in, smile falling from his lips, eyes connecting with mine in a way that makes my head feel like it’s swimming. “Would it be okay…” Closer. Shoes and knees bump mine. “If I kissed you in public?” His fingertip trails over my jaw, down my throat…

  Shoulder…

  Arm…

  Wrist.

  I stare at him, not thinking about the words—what he means—and nod.

  It’s not like those in his room, the urgency and insistence and firmness. Or even sweet like the first. This kiss is everything I don’t have a word for. In a way it feels protective. A boy claiming a girl. And it’s tender and confusing and beautiful and for the first time in my life I think: So this is why Zoe went off the deep end.

  Torrin’s finger rests beneath my chin, another traces a line across my forehead and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Slowly he pulls away, leaving my lips burning for more.

  I open my mouth to tell him it’s okay if he does that anytime, anywhere, but we’re interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing. To our left, a homeless man holds out a dingy, dented can.

  “Spare some change?”

  “Don’t have any,” Torrin says, irritation lingering in his tone. I reach for my wallet, unfold it and find a few dimes under the flap.

  “It’s all I have. Sorry.”

  The coins clink into the can. The man mutters a toothless ‘thank you’ and shuffles further down the wall where another couple sits with their tacos. I drop my wallet on the wall and face Torrin, but something’s caught his attention. I follow the line of his gaze to the plastic film highlighting my driver’s license.

  “Your last name is Montgomery?”

  Everyone who’s been at Pacific Rim for the past few months knows what happened with my dad. If Torrin finds out I’m related to the biggest scandal in state college history he’d be gone in seconds.

  I fold the wallet and return it to my bag, steal a breath and say as confidently as I can, “Not as common as Smith or Johnson, but yeah…I’m just your average girl with an uninteresting last name.” For a minute he’s quiet, eyes running over my face, my neck, my shoulder then falling to his worn shoes. Eventually he nods, accepting my answer.

  He gathers our trash, tosses it into the metal dumpster a few feet away and says without looking at me, “We should probably get going.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Well, that’s a sad face if I’ve ever seen one.” Nikki straightens the stack of papers on her bed and unfolds her legs. “What’s going on?”

  I collapse on my bed and cover my face with my arms.

  “Don’t tell me Derek tried to get you—”

  “I was with Torrin,” I say, hugging my pillow to my chest. A grin spreads across her face.

  “Hottie from the sandwich shop? And…?”

  “I went down to the harbor to talk to him and he took me for a ride in his boat and then I fell in and he saved me. I begged him to give me another chance and he did. Then we went back to his room to change and it got a little hot, but he wouldn’t have sex with me because he said he wanted to take me on a date first. So we went to get something to eat and he kissed me so gently it hurt and—”

  “Someone’s in love,” she interrupts, clapping giddily.

  I press my hands harder over my face. “Uggggg. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  “What’re you so afraid of? Being in love is natural and wonderful and you shouldn’t deprive yourself.”

  I slide my fingers through the clumps of my salt-encrusted hair and stare at the ceiling, not thinking about the words I’m ready to tell her. “You know my sister committed suicide over a boy? She was in love and he broke her heart and she swallowed a bottle of pills because she couldn’t stand to be without him.”

  The room grows quiet for a moment. Then su
ddenly the bed dips beside me. Her hand takes mine. “And you’re afraid you’ll do the same?”

  It sounds stupid when she says it, but yes. That’s what I’ve been afraid of. I nod without looking at her.

  “Quinn…” Her legs shift, folding into a pretzel. “That’s not really—”

  “I know, Nik. I know it’s not normal to think. And that was her, not me and I know I make my own decisions.” I roll my head and look up at her. “Torrin said all that too.”

  “Sounds like a smart guy,” she says with a nudge to my arm. “I assume this is the reason for Derek then? An A-hole boyfriend who’d be impossible to love?”

  Andrew Hastings’ dog tags burn against the skin beneath my shirt. It’s like an ‘I told you so’ coming directly from Torrin. “Don’t judge, okay?”

  “Never.”

  “That’s not all that happened today either. When Torrin and I were at Paco’s, a homeless guy asked for some change so I pulled out my wallet and he saw my driver’s license.”

  Nikki stares at me blankly. “The homeless guy?”

  “Torrin. Now he knows I’m a Montgomery.”

  Under her curls, wrinkles crawl across her forehead. “Not everyone knows about that.”

  “He goes to Pacific Rim. You’d have to be blind and deaf to go there and not know. Besides, he started acting weird after—brought me here with only a ‘See you around’ when he let me out.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. Jared says ‘See you around’ all the time.”

  “Jared?” I ask and her face flushes.

  “I forgot to tell you. I may be seeing Jared. Anyway, give Torrin a few days. See if he calls you. Maybe his reaction was nothing.”

  I roll onto my side and hug my pillow, trying not to think about Torrin’s lips on mine or what it would be like to never feel them again. “Yeah.”

  “You wanna go to Sal’s? Take your frustration out on the junior Kingsley?”

  I shake my head. “Not today.”

  ~*~

  A full week passes. Four days of work. Four days of watching for Torrin with not a camera lens or gym bag in sight. Finally, sitting in my room alone, I can’t take it anymore. I lift my phone and type out a message.

  Did I say something wrong?

  For a few minutes I just stare, waiting waiting waiting for my phone to light up with a response. It’s too late for practice, but maybe he’s working. Or at the library studying. It’s easier than thinking he doesn’t want to talk to me because of who I am.

  My eyes burn. I scrub them with the heel of my palms. Then Lindsey pops her head in the room, dreadlocks pulled back into a thick ponytail. “Not going out tonight?” It’s the first she’s said to me since embarrassing me down at the dock. I’ve been pretty successful at avoiding her otherwise.

  “Long week,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m exhausted. Plus I’ve got homework.”

  “Okay then.” Smiling, not looking like she’s going to explain the random check-in, she shuts the door. I lift my phone. Torrin still hasn’t replied. As the minutes pass, it becomes painfully obvious Torrin suspects my name is just as toxic and off-limits as it is.

  Save yourself.

  “Got what you wanted,” I whisper to Zoe.

  For a while I busy myself with Sociology, reading about absurdist humor and how it’s come to manifest itself in cartoon shows. How the primary purpose behind the trend is to motivate people to find purpose in their own lives, escape absurdism and go into existentialism, but every word I come across ending in –ism just reminds me of Torrin and how his voice sounded when he said the word ‘realism’. And how when he said it back in his room I thought about the confusion in my head and how I wished all these thoughts of my dead sister were simply a depiction of real life and not real life.

  An hour later, a light tap at the door draws my attention from the darkening ceiling and I answer it half-expecting Bellamy or Matisse looking for Nikki, not the broad-shouldered, hazel-eyed boy who’s been ignoring me for the past week for a reason I’m not sure I want to know.

  “Um, Lindsey directed me to your room.” His gaze skips over my shoulder for a split second, allowing me a moment to take him in. Black T-shirt, snug around his biceps. Hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans. “Can I come in?” he looks back to me and asks. “Or do you have a strict no boys allowed policy?”

  “The school doesn’t care about boys in our rooms. Lindsey doesn’t either.”

  “But do you?”

  I swing the door wider, not sure if I should relax because he’s here or prepare for bad we-can’t-see-each-other news. “You can come in.” I latch the door behind him and watch as he takes in our room. Nikki’s ridiculously organized half, then my ruffled bed and small piles of clothes. There’s nothing in here connecting me to Pacific Rim or my dad, and for that I let out a small breath.

  Hesitantly, he crosses the room to my desk where the Mickey Mouse ears picture of my sister and me sits. He lifts it, takes a minute to scan it then turns. “Your sister?”

  I nod. “She’s the one without ice cream all over her face.”

  It’s quiet, the walls and furniture and ceiling all feeling too small and constricting for such a large presence. Carefully he returns the photo and clears his throat.

  “Listen,” he says, taking a small step toward me. The walls press in further. “I don’t want you to think you did anything wrong. It’s me. I’m just…” He looks away, lips pinched together. It’s like he’s holding something back—wondering how to tell me he knows who I am, most likely. Or maybe feeling sorry I’m pathetically in my room, alone, on the approach of a Saturday night. “I’ve had a busy week. Sorry I didn’t call.”

  I’m not who you think I am.

  I don’t agree with what he did.

  Screwing people over isn’t genetic.

  All these excuses fly through my head. And before I can decide which one to say, I’m swallowed in his arms. Warm, safe, smelling like soap—

  He’s acting normal again and I don’t want anything to take this feeling away. I stand on my tip-toes and put my lips to his ear.

  “A bit pretentious, I’d say, assuming I wanted you to call.”

  This summons a head-tipped laugh from him, his chest vibrating against mine. “I’m starting to understand this stabby side of you is just your way of telling me you like me.”

  I snake my hands around his waist, feeling his body relax just the slightest bit. “And Mr. Pretentious becomes Mr. Cocky.”

  Slowly his breath crawls closer and closer to my ear. It disappears for a moment as if he’s holding his breath, and then a hot gush of air escapes with the whispered words, “I really want to kiss you right now.”

  Chills skitter down my neck. “You don’t need to ask permission every time.”

  “Really,” he says, challenging—or, perhaps, not fully believing—me, but he’s already sliding his lips across my cheek to my mouth.

  His tongue dives into my mouth. Arms around his neck, I pull myself closer until there isn’t an inch of space between us. Legs, chests, his tense fingers gripping my ribcage like it would physically pain him to let go. Cinders leftover from the last time we kissed flare, blazing with a swell of desire so powerful my knees start to give out.

  After a minute, he lifts me off the ground and walks us to the window seat. Sitting, my eyes now level with his, he takes my face in his hands and runs his tongue along my lower lip then sucks it into his mouth.

  Mother of God where did he learn how to kiss?

  With a feather-light touch, he traces his fingers along the thin straps of my tank top, gently cupping my breasts. “Why do you have to be so irresistible?” he says, breathless. His tongue follows the line of his fingertips down to the center of my chest and back up and I think my insides have melted.

  All of a sudden, the door bursts open. Nikki freezes, taking in the two of us—our twisted, tangled bodies.

  “Shoot,” she spouts, forcing a look of disappointmen
t. “I, uh…think I left something in the library. Hi, Torrin. I’ll be back in an hour, Quinn.”

  The door closes and Torrin chuckles. “That was subtle.”

  “My roommate’s Queen of Subtlety.”

  He combs his fingers into my hair. “Have you had dinner yet?”

  “Can’t say I’m hungry after,”—I lick my lips, undead and still tingling from his touch—“that.”

  “Coffee then.” He tugs my arm.

  “We don’t have to leave. You heard Nikki. We have an hour.”

  Halfway across the room he stops, turns into me. A finger hooks under the steel-balled chain draped from my neck. “If I want to keep my word and take you on a proper date first then yes, Quinn, we need to leave.” He smirks, and I start to spout something about being irresistible because my tightening lungs suddenly want nothing to do with his compliment, but then I don’t, pinching my lips shut at the last second. Deep breath.

  In the Commons, Nikki’s sprawled out on the couch, talking and laughing with Bellamy. Matisse is there too, sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest, but not looking quite as wretched as last week. She grins at something Nikki says then flicks her gaze to me, the boy next to me, and the way my hand sits cradled in his.

  I will not pull away. I will not pull away.

  It’s not like my friends haven’t seen me spend time with a guy before—up until lately, Derek’s been a pretty convenient accessory, but this one I have feelings for. Waving, I mumble something about getting dinner then yank Torrin out the door before either of them blurts a mind-changing sequence of words. Being with Torrin is one thing, but listening to them talk about me being with Torrin—

  “Quinn?” a voice says just as the warm evening air blasts my face. “What the hell—are you cheating on me? With this dickwad?” Derek, with Kennedy Ryan on his heels, stops near the large oak in front of the building and glares. A cigarette dangles between his reedy lips, his black pleather jacket catching the falling ashes, and I can’t believe I ever let that boy lay a hand on me.