BONE DEEP

by Brooklyn Skye

  She drags her fingernails lightly across my chest, tracing the ridges of my pecs then lower, lower, lower to the waistband of my jeans. “It is what I want. Please…don’t stop.” And there it is again—that pleading tone in her voice—and goddamn if it doesn’t make me want to touch her more. “Please, Krister.”

  I focus on her jawline, the way her creamy skin glows under the dim light. “It won’t help, escaping into the arms of someone you don’t know. It won’t take whatever you’re running from away.” God knows it doesn’t even work with someone I do know, like Jess.

  She shifts her hips against mine, the hungry look that says she’s throbbing inside just as much as I am lingering in her imploring eyes. “I’m not running. Now will you pretty please with a freaking cherry on top put your hands on me?” Legs lock around my waist, and the heat from her skin and smoothness of her hands traveling up my back are enough to toss any gentlemanly cell in my body out the window. For the next half hour, anyway.

  Her mouth meets mine halfway, and she darts her tongue past my lips instantly, grinding her hips into me in a rhythm that is much too easy to match. Her neck arches back as I suck her bottom lip into my mouth, a heavy sigh echoing in the small room.

  “Keep going,” she whispers into my mouth.

  Fuck. Me. I might go to hell for this, but I am drowning in the sweet taste of her and completely unable to stop.

  No.

  I can’t be a total douche. I won’t be that guy. “I’m not sleeping with you,” I say in between kissing her jawline and palming her breast.

  Her eyes open for a moment, skimming from my mouth to my eyes then back again. And then she nods. “Okay, no sex. But…”

  “Yeah, but…” My hand slipping beneath her skirt finishes the sentence, and by the brightness in her eyes, she approves. Muscles in her legs tense as I drag my fingertips along the inside of her thigh up and up until they find the silky, wet-hot triangle.

  Dear Jesus.

  My mouth waters with the craving to taste her, to run my tongue under the line of her panties until she screams against my mouth…

  Instead, I flick my tongue over her nipple, and her hips arch in my hands, desperate for release. Underwear aside, I dip my finger along the folds of her wet clit, drawing a long, slow groan from her.

  No sex. No sex. No sex.

  Her hips pulse against my fingers, begging me to enter her, take her deeper. She closes her eyes, and I use the moment to kiss her ear, her jaw, and chin as I stroke back and forth. I draw out the moment for as long as I can, the words no sex on repeat until she spreads her legs wider, a clear sign she’s ready for more.

  And then I slip one finger inside her, biting away the overpowering urge to reach for my wallet and take her fully and completely right now. God knows I could lose myself in her scent, her touch, her wild auburn waves. I add another finger and watch the exquisiteness of her body spiraling tighter and tighter, her muscles tensing. Of all the girls…I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as Cam on fire. I run my cheek along hers and rest my head there. Her nails dig into my skin again, and her hips grind my hand, seeking her release that is so close.

  She moans, and I press kisses to her cheek, breathing in her aroused scent. Then I gently pressure her clit with my thumb, pinch her nipple, and watch her explode. Long enough to see her through her climax, little tremors contracting every muscle in her body as she clutches my arms, I kiss her gently and hold true to my words. No sex.

  Awkward as it is, I leave shortly after, claiming a test in the morning. No numbers exchanged. No kiss goodnight. Just the realization that this girl—the one with the pleading brown eyes and confident yet unconfident words—used me. And I will never see her again.

  Chapter Seven

  I’m at school Thursday morning fifteen minutes early because Wrenn needs to meet with Jamon, Dad’s lawyer, in the valley at eight. Today they’re going to discuss more details about the appeal case, and I’m just glad she believed me when I answered “test” to her “can you come?” I will stab both my eyes out with one of Wrenn’s sculpting tools before I voluntarily sit in a room where I have to witness someone else believe my dad when he says with an eye roll, I shouldn’t be in jail for sending a message. So I lean against the marquee as it scrolls through announcements about midterms and spring break and swim-this, soccer-that while I wait for Ditty, chilled despite the sun.

  Cars park and the walkways start to fill up with cliques of friends, none of which seem especially interested in me. And then I see Jess, wearing a tight dress and boots up to her knees, getting out of her mom’s car in the lot. She gets halfway across the lawn before she spots me, and I think to myself don’t turn, don’t turn, don’t turn, but then she waves and turns and four seconds later is standing in front of me.

  “The Audi?” I say, pushing away from the marquee. “What’s the special occasion?”

  “My parents left for New York today. Some business meeting for my dad, and Mom couldn’t stand to miss the shopping opportunity. Apparently, Mary Boone and Pace Wildenstein,”—she gestures air quotes—“are to die for.”

  “Doesn’t your mom have enough clothes?”

  “Art. And you’ve seen our walls. She’s going to have to start hanging stuff from the ceiling. Anyway, they’re gone till Sunday meaning I can pretend for a few days I’m not eighteen and still living with them.” I nod, and she adjusts the backpack on her shoulder. It’s funny how you can know somebody. Their quirks or movements or whatever. Like when Jess lets her hair fall into her face I know she’s thinking. And when she chews on the corner of her lip I know there’s something she needs to tell me that maybe she doesn’t want to tell me.

  I wonder if she knows my movements, too. Like my shoes making small, scraping sounds on the cement means I don’t really want to hear what she has to say. Time to make my escape.

  “Don’t get a ticket racing around town in that thing.” I start to take off toward Ms. Huckins’s room, make it all of two steps when she grabs my arm. Damn.

  “Hey,” she says softly, standing on her tiptoes to nibble my ear. The feel of her teeth on my skin draws up a memory of Cam, and how she nipped at my lip and gripped my skin tightly, and then let me leave without saying a word about seeing me again. I stayed up all night wondering if she does that all the time—bring guys home, wondering if I’ll ever see her again, wondering if I even want to. “Sorry,” Jess interrupts the thought, “about the other night, that I freaked out on you. I just…I don’t know, I guess I was PMSing.”

  Whatever, she blames everything on girl problems. I don’t point this out and instead step back and tell her not to worry about it. She tells me that she’s thinking about having people over tomorrow and by “people” she means the ones I used to hang out with when we were together and she thinks it’d be fun if I came, too, and it’s been so long since we all sat in the Jacuzzi together and will I come?

  “Come where?” Ditty asks from behind me. His voice is an airy version of the sound that normally comes out of his mouth. Nothing like the biting words from after Monday’s concert, but forced enough to know what happened is still brewing somewhere inside him.

  “My house. Tomorrow,” Jess says, drawing up a small smile. She tucks her hair behind her ear. “You should come, too. Like old times. Bring your suit, okay?” She gives me the I hope you can make it caress down my arm, turns, and walks away.

  Ditty watches her, and I swear his eyes follow her ass until she rounds the corner, which should upset me but doesn’t. Then again, maybe he’s watching her limp and noticing how it’s improved since she started physical therapy and thinking, like me, that with a few more months she may be walking normal again.

  He raises his eyebrow. “Like old times, yeah?”

  I was planning to tell him sorry for not being honest with him about the article and the concert, but the truth is he has no idea what it’s like to be the star lead in The Fucked-up World of Krister Ledoux, and I’m not all that sorry so I shrug an
d we start for class. “She wants to get back together again,” I tell him and he goes, “I think you should,” to which I say, “Not gonna happen,” and he says, “Why not? She’s hot.” And that’s when I stop, look him in the eye.

  Because it’s like that one time we were throwing a football in your house and knocked over your mom’s horse statue and even though we superglued it all back together, it didn’t exactly fit because a little piece got lost. The entire shape changed. And like that statue, Jess and I don’t fit together anymore, too many little pieces have been lost. Plus, asshat, did you forget I almost killed her? And she, at the very least, deserves the right to not worry every time she gets in the car with someone if he’s going to space out and run a stop sign. And don’t even get me started on the whole like-father-like-son bullshit. At least I wasn’t texting and driving.

  “Not. Gonna. Happen,” I say.

  He stares at me blankly. “You’re a dumbass.”

  “Better than a smartass.”

  “There’s a test in statistics today. You may want to show up.”

  ~*~

  I rush through the test, grab my folder, and slip out of the room once I’m finished, Agudelo eyeing me from behind his trying-to-be-cool-but-look-like-a-wad black-framed glasses.

  The train station is overly crowded today and Cam’s not here. I sit on the bench for a few minutes, but don’t stay long and when I get home another envelope is waiting for me in the mailbox.

  I shall make dust of history.

  Dust of dust.

  Meaning what, exactly?

  Inside, Wrenn’s in the kitchen, sitting at the wheel she set up right in the middle of the floor. The wheel’s not spinning, but she’s already got the clay centered and shaped like an urn. A lighter draws up to the end of the joint dangling from her mouth. A little dearth in brain cells to help decipher the cryptic message?

  I’ll take what I can get.

  “Hey,” I say, holding up the square of paper. “Got a sec?”

  She pulls in a humungous lungful of smoke then holds up her finger to tell me to wait until her face turns a darker shade of red and she sighs out a veil of smoke. “Just who I wanted to see. I need to talk to you about your dad.”

  Hmm, tempting, but no thanks. “Can it wait?”

  “Not really.” She sets the burning joint in an ashtray and spins her chair to face me. For a minute, we stare at each other without talking, her tongue running against her dry, cotton-mouthed teeth and me wondering when she’ll just blurt out whatever she needs to say. Fractured beams of sunlight stab through the window, into the urn-shaped figure of clay like skinny bolts of lightning, and I think how the last time I saw lightning was also the last time I saw my dad. A late summer storm, moisture-thick air, and a dad smiling—genuinely smiling—as he sat across a bench from me with a guard standing a few feet away, close enough to see my eyes roll ever so slightly when the one in the gray jumpsuit breathed out the words, I miss you, buddy.

  Wrenn licks her lips. “You understand the purpose of this appeal case, right?”

  “Sure. Is that all? You just double-checking?” I start for my room, letter still folded in my hand.

  “K, wait.”

  Damn.

  “Jamon wants you to testify.” Her words hold no sympathy. No worry. No fear that it might send me completely over the edge. I close my eyes. Breathe.

  “I’m not a witness.” My voice stays even. I am in control. “The last time I was at work with Dad was almost ten years ago.”

  Wrenn shakes her head, pinching her lips around the flattened edge of the joint. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. “As a character witness,” she chokes out. “Actually, it was your dad’s idea. He wants you to sit on the stand on his behalf.”

  “And say what? I think he should’ve gotten more time?”

  Wrenn smiles. She thinks I’m joking. If only. “You’ll need to talk to Jamon about the details, but your dad has another chance at beating this and if we make a strong case that he has a respectable reputation, that he’s a positive influence in our community, we might have a better shot.”

  He stole the lives of eight people. I’m sure no one in their right mind will find that respectable. But Wrenn doesn’t see it this way. She thinks it was a genuine accident. It’s pointless to have this conversation with her.

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  She looks at me, red-shot eyes, slack mouth.

  “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

  “Not exactly.” She nods to the paper in my hand. “A note from your professor? Saying you’ve been coming to class every day and he’s so proud of you?”

  I roll my eyes, secretly thankful I’m no longer in high school and don’t have to deal with shit like that. “I went to all my classes today,”—not a lie—“and I doubt Mr. Agudelo has ever told any student he was proud of them so you can quit the hopeful, puppy-dog eyes.” I set the paper on the counter and reach past Wrenn for a cup. “It’s another message. Something about making dust of history. Any idea what that means?”

  The door in the apartment above us slams. And then Wrenn says it: “A suicide note.” Like it’s no big deal. Like the words don’t actually have meaning. As if she’s telling me about a bird in the sky.

  “You sure?”

  She sets the joint in the ashtray and, with her foot on the pedal, gets the wheel spinning. One finger slowly presses into the urn, narrowing the base of the neck. “Not really,” she says, dipping both hands into a bowl of water. She cups them around the body of the urn and with the slightest of movements changes the shape. “But turning history into dust?” she continues, focusing on her hands. “Like demolishing your very existence? I’ve heard it before. In a poem, I think. Something about dying and everything disappearing when you do. The stars, the night, the universe.” Then she stops and, with the most intently confused look on her face, turns to me. “Why would someone want to kill them self? And tell us about it?”

  A more important question would be “Why am I the only one who sees this?” That the “reason” calls her every week to tell her he loves her. That someone who looks just like the “reason” is staring at her right now from behind the counter.

  This is so fucking stupid. I fill my cup at the sink, grab an apple from the fruit bowl, and head to my room, ignoring her call over my shoulder that we’re having dinner with Jamon.

  ~*~

  “—integrity, attention to detail, professional attitude, what sort of influence he had on you growing up.” Jamon lowers his salmon roll and looks at me. “Krister, are you following me?”

  “Hm? Yeah. Of course I’m following you.” I shake the image of Cam’s hands on my chest, her eyes rolling back as my touch let her escape for a bit from my mind and focus across the wooden table at Jamon—in his gray suit—glowering at me. His stick-straight eyebrows tilt toward his nose, connecting in the center like a pencil-thin unibrow.

  “This is important, K,” Wrenn taps the table with her chopsticks and says, all parental sounding. For the purpose of Jamon, probably. “You need to pay attention.”

  Right. It’s just easier to think about her, wonder why she let me touch her in the first place. I plop a spoonful of rice in my soup and swirl it around. “You see…I’m not sure I’m the right person for this.”

  “You’re the only person,” the two of them say at the same time and then meet each other’s gaze, smiling. I pinch a few edamame pods, watch the green circles plop into my soup broth and bury under the rice.

  “And that fact right there,” I say, “that I’m the only person on this planet available to paint Dad as some perfect, take me outside and teach me how to pitch a ball sort of guy is exactly why I can’t. I don’t remember him like that.”

  “Wrenn mentioned you two built a car together. What about that?” Jamon snags the last salmon roll and sets it on his plate, and I give Wrenn a WTF glare. She smiles and shrugs. “Krister,” Jamon says, “we just need to give the jury the impression that he’s an et
hical guy. One who wouldn’t intentionally hurt someone.”

  Or eight.

  Wrenn sips her beer then clears her throat. “Coming from you, K, it’d mean a lot more to the jury.” She pats my cheek. “You up on the stand, looking innocently handsome.”

  I pull away from her hand and make a face. She laughs. “It’s just,” I say, watching the rice and edamame tornado settle in my bowl, “I don’t really want to talk about that, okay?” I don’t explain that those memories are part of the old me, the one I can’t seem to get back to, and instead push away from the table.

  Chapter Eight

  Friday. Another envelope with just Wrenn’s address. A tiny, crumpled square of paper inside.

  Your angel called in sick today.

  What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

  I ball it up and throw it to the floor. Jess’s get-together is suddenly sounding tempting. She called earlier asking if I’ll be there.

  Like old times.

  I text Ditty a message to grab me on the way and thirty minutes later he’s standing in the living room, pretending to watch as Wrenn paints glaze onto a pot but really stealing peeks down her shirt as she leans and reaches across the coffee table.

  “God, she’s hot,” he says as we climb into his truck. “I don’t know how you can live with her and not jizz in your pants every time you see her.”

  I roll my eyes. “She sleeps with my dad. Knowing that pretty much eradicates any desire to jizz.”

  He stares at me, grazing his inquisitive eyes over my face. “Still…”

  “I think I just disowned you.”

  Laughing, he pulls out of the complex. “You could never do that.” He’s right. Not completely, at least. “Oh,” he says after a few blocks of country music slating the silence, “you know Carly Mason? The chick screwing Jordan Liu? Anyway, she sat next to me in Spanish today and we got to talking and she said she saw you at The Rocks the other day.”