by Megyn Ward
Conner
Well, Shit.
“Conn—”
I hold my hand up. “Just wait.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. Trying to find a way to dispute what suddenly makes total, perfect sense. “Just… give me a minute.” I look at her, and she shrinks away a little like she’s afraid of what I might do next.
She goes wild, raising herself up on her hands again, pushing back on me, moving against the pressure of my cock. The closer she gets, the harder it is to hold on. I grip her shoulder, trying to keep her still but it’s no use. The walls of her pussy squeeze around me until my own orgasm is nearly impossible to fight off. “I need you to come for me, Daisy,” I say through gritted teeth. “Come for me now.”
That pretty pink stain on her cheeks tells me she’s remembering it too. My non-compliant cock jerks in response. This isn’t going the way it’s supposed to go. Not at all. I’m a one and done kinda guy. I’m not supposed to want her again.
And now I know why I do.
This is Henley.
That means all bets are off.
Jesus Christ.
I look at her hands, folded on the table between us. “Christ, Hen—” I drag a hand over my jaw. What hadn’t been there last night was there now. Platinum band, studded with diamonds. One in the center had to be sporting a carat weight in the double digits. “You’re married.”
Sweet mother of Jesus. My mom is right.
I’m going to hell.
She looks down at the ring on her hand like she can’t figure out how it got there. “I am not married,” she says, dragging her fingers across the table to hide them in her lap but I’m quicker. I lunge across the table, catching her hand, pulling it toward me until she’s nearly standing, leaning into me, full breasts pushed against the pale pink silk of her blouse. More lace, ivory scallops caressing the soft swell of them. The dark, sweet scent of her hits me again, and my mouth goes dry. All I can think about is the taste of her. What it felt like to be inside her. Surrounded by her. Consumed by her.
“I need you to come for me, Daisy,” I say through gritted teeth. “Come for me now.”
“I don’t know shit about diamonds, Daisy,” I say in a low tone, gaze aimed upward, mouth twisted into the grin that has become my armor. I press my thumb into the center of her palm, circling slowly because she has to feel it too, the helpless need I’m drowning in. The desperation she ignites in me. It’s the only way I’ll survive this, knowing that she’s suffering as much as I am. “But I know enough to know a guy doesn’t give hardware like this to a woman unless she says yes to something.”
“It’s not what you think,” she whispers before catching her lower lip between her teeth. Her chest hitches slightly, and I can hear the rasp of lace against silk, see the taunt push of her nipples through whisper thin fabric. “Jeremy is my best friend.”
Jeremy. Jeremy Bradford. I know exactly who he is. Met him once, a long time ago.
She’s marrying him.
Well, isn’t that fucking perfect?
“And what?” I let go of her and lean back as far away from her as I can get. I want her, which is ten different kinds of bad, but I’m also so fucking angry I want to strangle her. She disappears for nearly a decade and then waltzes back into my life and gets her kicks by doing a total fucking mind job on me? “You decided to come home and trick your high school sweetheart into giving it to you rough and dirty before you—”
She shuts me up by punching me in the mouth, hard and fast, with a left jab that snaps my head back. She’s standing over me, cheeks flushed, no longer a delicate pink but a deep, splotchy red that spreads across her cheeks to creep down her neck, across her collarbone. “Screw you, Gilroy,” she hisses at me, dark brown eyes spitting venom at me.
This is Henley. This is the girl I grew up with. The girl I love. She gave as good as she got and wasn’t afraid to use her fists to settle an argument.
“There she is.” I reach up, touching the corner of my mouth where her ring caught me and my fingers come away bloody. Can’t help but smile. “There’s the girl I remember.”
“I—” She looked down at her hands like they don’t belong to her. Like she’s afraid of what they might do next. The ring winks and flashes in the dim lights of the bar, and I realize she’s shaking. I don’t know if she’s angry or frightened. My guess is probably both.
Before I can say anything, she moves. Reaching down, she retrieved her purse from the bench beside her. “I’m sorry, Conner,” she says without looking at me. “I’m sorry for everything.”
Then she walks out the door.
Twenty-two
Henley
2009
Conner is waiting outside my class again, falling into step with me when I walk past him, hands wrapped around the straps of his backpack, gaze trained in front of him. To anyone looking at us, it just looks like we’re walking in the same direction, but I know what he’s doing. He’s following me.
Without warning, I duck into the girl’s room, leaving him behind. Squeezing past the thick knot of girls in front of the sinks, I set my books on the wide window ledge before boosting myself up, swinging my legs up to sit in the L of the frame.
It’s always crowded between classes, but as soon as the bell rings, it’ll clear out. I close my eyes and wish for the hundredth time this week that Tess had the same lunch period. All around me, girls chatter and gossip, primp and fuss. Smoosh their lips together in the mirror and borrow each other’s mascara. But none of them look at me. In my too small shoes and donation box T-shirt, it’s like I’m not even here.
The sprint bell rings, telling everyone they have only a few minutes left to get to class and the rest of them scatter, stall doors banging closed. Shoes squeaking on tile—and suddenly it’s quiet.
I lean my head back against the wall. I haven’t been back to Conner’s since Jessica showed up on his doorstep, which is ridiculous, really. I mean, seriously—I’m surprised I don’t have to hack my way through a forest of teenage girls to his front door with a machete. And why do I even care? It’s Conner Gilroy. He’s rude and obnoxious and completely full of himself. He stole my fucking book for Christ’s sake. He’s practically blackmailing me into tutoring—
“Is this where you’ve been hiding all week?”
The sound of his voice jerks my eyes open, and I look over to find Conner no more than three feet away, leaning against one of the bathroom sinks, legs crossed at the ankles. Arms folded over his chest. Despite his easy posture, he seems tense. Angry even.
“Holy shit,” I screech, jumping down from my perch. “Are you crazy?” looking around, I’m relieved to see we’re alone but this is a girl’s bathroom in a public high school. It won’t stay that way for long. “You can’t be in here.”
“Am I crazy? Probably,” he says with a shrug. “Why are you avoiding me?”
“I’m not.” I shake my head and turn away from him, swiping my stack of books off the window ledge. I’m back to carrying them unless I want to put them in a pillowcase.
“I’ve tried to talk to you in class, and you ignore me.”
“So?” Books in hand, I hurry toward the door. “I always ignore you in class.”
“I’ve waited in the library for you at lunchtime all week. You haven’t showed.” He’s following me out the door and into the hallway. It’s deserted.
“And?” I say, biting into the word before I spit it out, walking as fast as I can.
“You haven’t come over.” He sounds angry again. When I don’t answer him, he continues. “Is it because of what happened last week?”
I think about Jessica and her friend, the way they whispered and laughed as I crossed Conner’s porch and hurried down the steps. The way they cooed his name when he stepped onto the porch after me. The way he leaned against the porch post, smiling at them while they giggled and flipped their hair when I took one last look before I turned the corner. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve been bu
sy.”
“Yeah.” He nods his head. “Busy avoiding me.”
That one stops me in my tracks. “I’m not avoiding you, Conner,” I say through clenched teeth. “Believe it or not, my life doesn’t revolve around you and your stupid calculus grade.”
I am avoiding him. After the way I ran off like a whipped puppy in front of Jessica, I couldn’t face him. I still can’t, and I hate him for making me do it now.
“I never said it did,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “But we had a deal, and if you can’t hold up your end of it, then I’m going to have to find another tutor.”
My throat squeezes tight when he says it. I tell myself it’s because I’m not even close to earning the money for my book and if he finds a new tutor, I’ll never be able to afford it. It’s not because I want to spend time with him. Because I enjoy his company. Because I like him.
It’s not.
“Find a new tutor? You should totally do that,” I say, my voice loud enough to bounce down the hall. “Matter of fact, you should get one of your groupies to tutor you, I’m sure you’ll pass calculus with flying colors.”
“Groupies?” he looks at me like I slapped him in the face.
“That’s what I said,” I say, pushing the words out between clenched teeth. “Want me to spell it?”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “You’re jealous.”
My mouth falls open, and it flaps a few times while I try to push sound out of it. “Oh my god,” I finally manage to sputter. “You’re the most conceited asshole I’ve ever met in my life.”
“Again—probably,” he says, laughing at me. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re jealous. Just admit it—” He’s not laughing anymore. “you like me.”
“Fuck off,” I say, yanking the door to the library open so hard, it feels like I jerked my elbow out of joint. “And good luck passing calculus.”
Twenty-three
Henley
When I hear tapping on my window, I thinkit’s Ryan, waking me up to let him in. He gets locked out at least three times a week.
Rolling over, I contemplate leaving him out on the fire escape until morning. I know he won’t knock loud enough to wake my dad. You could break the sound barrier next to my dad when he’s passed out and he wouldn’t so much as twitch. My mom isn’t here. I beat her home by about five minutes, long enough to dump my books in my room and change my clothes. She breezed through the door, heading straight for her room where she took a shower and changed her clothes, all while giving me a lecture about the expected behavior of ladies.
“I don’t know why you insist on running the streets, Henley,” she says to me, tilting her head to fasten her earring. I’ve never seen them before. They look like diamonds. They look real. The dress is new too. “Quite frankly, it’s embarrassing.”
She’s not embarrassed by the fact that I run the streets. She’s embarrassed by me. Period. By the fact that I like books and baseball. By the way I look.
Because I don’t look like her.
“I wasn’t running the streets, Mom,” I said to her, watching her from the doorway while she ping-ponged around her room. “I was at the library.”
She gives me a sour look. “The library,” she says, her tone telling me that hanging out in a library is just as bad as running the streets.
“Don’t tell me,” I say dryly. “Ladies aren’t supposed to read, either?”
She stops flitting around her room long enough to land a good, hard slap across my face. “Go to your room,” she says, standing over me. “I don’t want to see your ugly little face for the rest of the night.”
She was gone fifteen minutes later.
He taps again. I should leave him out there. That’s what he gets for always taking off and leaving me to deal with our parents on my own. Angry, I roll over again to face the window.
It’s not Ryan at my window.
It’s Conner.
I know it immediately, even though it’s dark. Even though he and Ryan are similar in height in build. I know because my heart starts banging around inside my chest and I suddenly can’t breathe. After what happened at school today, I was sure he’d never talk to me again.
He stops tapping and waits while I swing my legs over the side of my bed and pad my way across my room to open the window. “It’s 3AM,” I say softly, trying to smash my crazy clown hair flat against my head.
“I know,” he answers in a stage whisper that instantly annoys me.
Giving up on my hair, I fold my arms over my chest and glare at him. “What are you doing here?”
He grins at me and shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.” Holding out his arm, I see something hanging from the end of it. “So, I brought you something.”
“Why?” Caught off guard, I drop my arms.
“Because I’m sorry about today and I want to make up.” He holds what he brought out for me to take.
“What is it?” I say, instantly skeptical.
“A bag full of snakes,” he says, impatiently, pushing what I now see is a backpack into my hands.
Taking it, I back away from the window to lower myself onto the edge of my bed. He brought me a backpack. One of his old ones but practically brand new, compared to mine.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” My voice sounds weird. Tight and scratchy, like someone has me by the throat.
“Come in, Conner,” he says to himself while throwing his legs over my windowsill. “Thanks, Hennie—don’t mind if I do.” He walks into my room, stopping in front of me. “It’s a backpack. You put books in it. Or snakes. Whatever you want.”
“I can’t carry this.” I hold it out to him, showing him the front pocket where his name is written in bold black marker. “It has your name on it.”
“So?” He reaches over and turns on my lamp. There’s no shade on it, and the light is bright, revealing my saggy mattress and particle board dresser. The milk crate I use for a nightstand. My cheap desk with the broken drawer.
“So?” I drop my arm and stand, the sudden movement bringing us much closer than I’m comfortable with. “So, people will see it. They’ll know where I got it. They’ll think—”
“What happened to you?” He isn’t laughing any more. He takes my chin in his hand and turns my face to catch the glare of the lamp. “Who hit you?”
“No one,” I say, trying to push his hand away from my face. “I fell.”
“Bullshit,” he barks at me. “Who?”
“It’s not a big deal,” This time when I push, he lets me go. “I just bruise easy—it’ll be gone by Monday.”
“Who, Henley?”
Something about his tone tells me he’s not going to let it go. I sink back down onto my bed. “My mom.” I put my hands up because I don’t know what he’s going to do or where he’s going to go. “She’s not even here. She came home, showered and left again. I doubt if I’ll even see her again before Sunday.” She’s been doing that a lot lately. Staying gone for long stretches of time.
“Was it because of me?” Conner drops his hand. When it falls against his thigh, it’s clenched into a fist. “Does she know about us?”
Us. The word, hearing the way he says it, so casually like there really is such a thing, makes me angry. “Why do you keep saying things like that?”
“Like what?” He looks genuinely perplexed.
“Us. We,” I hiss up at him. “There is no us. We aren’t friends. You don’t even like me. Not really.”
“Yes, I do,” he says.
“No, you don’t,” I shoot back. “You like girls like Jessica. Pretty girls who trip all over themselves to impress you. You don’t like girls like me, Conner. You need girls like me. You’re using me. There’s a difference.”
“Using you?” the words fall, hard and flat, against my ears. “Using you for what, exactly?”
I shoot up off the bed to stand in front of him again. “Yes. Using me.” I focus on his fist when I say it, the way it clenches and relaxe
s, beating against his thigh like a heart. I force my eyes to his face and meet his gaze. “You came here to butter me up so I’ll keep tutoring you so you’ll pass calculus and get your precious car.” I lift the backpack and jab at him with it like it’s a weapon. “Nice try, but giving me your backpack was a bit much—maybe you need someone to tutor you in subtlety.”
He swats the backpack out of his face and takes a step toward me. “Seriously?”
“Yes, Conner—seriously.” I drop my hand and shake my head. “And I already told you, I don’t want to tutor you anymore.”
“Okay.” For some reason that makes him laugh. “What will people think if you use my backpack?” he says, switching gears on me so fast I can feel my brain scrambling to catch up.
“You know what they’ll think,” I say, my face flushing red, I can feel the dose of blood color and tighten the bruise on my cheek. “They’ll think… They’ll think you feel sorry for me.”
“Wrong answer,” he says, his tone drawing my gaze to his face. He looks angry. “Try again.”
He’s going to make me say it, just so he can laugh at me. Tongue glued to the roof of my mouth, I shake my head, refusing to be played with.
“What are you so afraid of?”
“I’m not—” I say loudly before lowering my voice. “I’m not afraid of anything.” Just because my dad is so drunk he’s practically dead, doesn’t mean our neighbors need to hear me yelling at 3AM.
“Then just say it,” he says, challenging me. “Say you don’t want to carry a backpack with my name on it or people seeing me walk you to class or carrying your books because you’re afraid people will think that I like you. That we’re together.”
“They will,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s exactly what they’ll think.”
“And?” He’s not laughing. He’s just standing there, staring at me like he’s waiting for me to catch up.
“And you don’t want that,” I say, my jaw tight. Throat aching. “You don’t want people to think that, Conner. You don’t.”
He stares at me for a few seconds before turning away from me. I think he’s going to leave, but he doesn’t. He picks his way across the cramped room to my desk where he roots around until his finds a piece of paper and a pencil. Stooping over, he starts to write, the tip of the pencil flying across the paper without hesitation.