“Know what?” he asks through his teeth, capturing my fist.
“That Mixie is pregnant. That she’s getting an abortion.” I pull my hand loose and walk away. He lets me. I move past the bathroom, and before I turn the corner into the kitchen, I say, “If you get Valarie pregnant, she'll do the same.”
Love is revoltingly blind.
I DON’T know how much time has passed since my run-in with Thomas. I just spin, spin, spin my finger around my cup, wondering why I do this to myself. Wondering what Thomas hasn’t told me. What he hides.
Because he does hide. I know he does.
Oliver’s warm palm glides up my spine before settling on the back on my neck. I look over at him and smile. I blink for what feels like the first time in an hour. My eyes are dry. I close them and shake my head. I sit up and stretch my arms. I look around and notice that the party has thinned considerably. It must be late, because the air’s crisp, almost cold. The music is still on, but not as loud.
“What time is it?” I ask anyone.
“Twelve-thirty,” Oliver answers.
Valarie’s obnoxious laughter grabs my attention. Mixie, who was not so long ago crying in the restroom, acts like nothing is wrong. Too many empty glasses to count, sitting in front of them.
The birthday boy sits at his table with Petey and Ben, quietly sipping from his drink. There’s an energy around him that vibrates and sparks and burns, warning me not to fuck around, because he will not be fucked with.
I smirk.
Up from my seat, knowing his eyes are on me, I say, “What happened to getting stupid drunk?”
Becka’s smudged red lips spread into the biggest smile.
A few shots later, Becka’s in her bra and underwear, swinging her hips, standing on the edge of the Jacuzzi. With her arms extended and wide, like she wants to fly, she screams, “I fucking love you!”
I’m beside her, dying from laughter.
“Rebecka Castor!” Lucas shouts from the porch where he’s sitting with his wife. Thankfully all of his co-workers and clients have left. The only people still hanging around are the boys, the Sluts, and Smitty and Oliver. “Put your clothes back on!”
She flips her dad off, drinks the rest of her drink, tosses the glass, and jumps in. Water splashes all over me, but I don’t give a fuck.
This is how Thomas must feel all of the time, about everything.
I just don’t give a single fuck.
I don’t care that Oliver and Smitty are looking at us like we’re two girls that they don’t know at all, or that Lucas is running toward us, or that Thomas just pushed his chair back, watching me with the anger of the entire world in his stare.
“I don't fucking care!” I shout to the stars.
My voice echoes off the house and trees as my girl rises from the water. She reaches out and grabs me, stripping me from my top, leaving me in my black strapless bra. I step out of my shoes just as Becka pulls me into the warm water with my pants on.
When I come up, Luke’s pissed and yelling, “Have some respect!”
We sink back under.
Only to be pulled out by her older brother and his friends.
I laugh as Thomas grabs me by my arms, pulling me over the edge of the gazebo. He shoves a towel into my chest and says, “You’re a Slut now, or what?”
Overcome with anger, I throw my towel in his face. Then I pick up one of my heels and chuck it at Valarie. My aim’s for her face, but it collides with her chest.
“Fucking leave!” I scream in her direction.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Lucas mumbles. He starts to laugh, so he covers his face with his hands.
Father of the year.
Frustration I’ve kept hidden for years surfaces. Bathroom gossip and “I told him I loved him, but I didn’t mean it,” send me into a rage not even Thomas can hold me back from. Liquor-brave and love-scorned, I run.
Just as Val starts to cower and the other girls move away, Thomas swoops in and wraps his arm around my torso, spinning me around. He carries me kicking and screaming toward the house.
“I hate you!” I shriek toward my worst enemy until my voice breaks, fighting to break free from love. Val stands straight, expressionless. “I hate you so much!”
Thomas drags me up the porch and opens the back door with one hand while holding me with the other. He pushes me inside and slams the door shut behind us. I don’t try to shove past him. It would be a wasted effort.
Never taking his eyes from me, he unbuttons the rest of his dress shirt and tosses it in my direction. It falls to my bare, wet feet.
“Pick it up, Leigh,” he says with a finality that leaves no room for argument.
I take my time buttoning each button with quivering hands and heavy deep breaths. My jaw aches and my eyes sting, begging to let go of this resentment in the form of tears.
Unstill, mischief moves his hand through his hair, pats his pockets for his cigarettes, and paces. Tension is thick between us, but as I button up love’s shirt, the door opens, and Lucas walks in with Tommy and everyone else behind him. We do a good job at pretending like nothing is happening. Thomas opens the fridge and tosses me a bottle of water; I take it. I even say thank you.
“I didn't know you had it in you, Leigh,” Lucas says with a sarcastic smirk.
My cheeks warm, and I somewhat smile as everyone laughs at my expense. Occupying bar stools and chairs at the table, the party goes on as if I didn’t lose my mind.
“You don't leave until you get fucked, or what?” Becka asks the Sluts and pulls out a seat beside Kelly.
Disregarding the people who don’t take me seriously, I go right to the boy who gave me his sweater when I was cold and let me borrow his bike because I can’t skate.
“You okay?” Oliver asks quietly. He scoots over to give me room to lean beside him against the counter.
“Yeah.” I nod and smile, taking a sip of the drink he’s had all night.
“Are you going to apologize?”
My heavy eyes snap up at him. His soft expression and all-over goodness make me feel like I don’t have a choice.
“My shoe wasn’t supposed to hit your chest,” I say. It’s as close to an apology as Valarie’s going to get from me.
Thomas scoffs, smiling into the neck of his beer. He takes a drink before setting green glass on the kitchen table. “Princess Bliss had too much to drink tonight,” he says.
Just like that, the incident is forgotten, and Valarie forgives me.
“I know how it is.” She turns her attention to Mixie, who is still drinking. “Remember that one time—”
And nothing I did matters, because I’m just the little fucking sister.
SOBERING UP and sleepy, I’m rocked away on the front porch swing with my head on Ben’s lap and my feet on Thomas. The familiar sound of Petey and Becka’s skateboards rolling up and down the driveway is a lullaby pulling me under.
The air is soothing cool, filled with sounds of crickets and breezes through the trees. The occasional car drives down the highway in the distance, and the swing has a tiny squeak that sings softly every time Thomas and Ben move us with their feet. My breathing slows and my eyelids grow heavy. I’m almost asleep with thoughts of skinny ties and monumental birth days.
Until perfection is interrupted by a crash and break.
Becka's board is on its deck, and its pink wheels spin. On her bottom, Becka holds her wrist, and Pete bends down in front of her.
“Let me see it,” he asks softly.
“It hurts!” she cries, cradling her arm close to her chest. Tears roll down her rosy cheeks.
The front door bursts open, and her parents run out, sleepy faced and in pajamas. “What the hell is going on now?” Lucas asks, disoriented.
Pete explains that he and Rebecka were skating when she jumped on his back, and he lost his footing. They went down, and he fell on her. She tried to break the impact by putting her arm out, but they both landed on her wrist and heard a s
nap and … and—
He’s scared.
“She has to go to the ER, Lucas,” Tommy says, taking a look at Rebecka’s wrist, which swells fast.
He runs his hands through his hair like I’ve seen my boy do so many times before. “Let me get my shoes.”
Becka cries soft little tears while I put her socks and shoes on for her. I think we all should go, but no one agrees. It’s decided that Lucas, Tommy, and Petey will go to the emergency room.
“Stay here and get some sleep for the both of us,” Tommy says, coming down the stairs in a hoodie and leggings.
“Your dad doesn’t need to find out we had you at the ER at three in the morning, Bliss. Stay here with Ben and Thomas,” Lucas says, grabbing his car keys.
“Are you sure?” I ask Rebecka, feeling terrible. I want to be with my friend.
She nods with a quivering chin. Thomas sits beside her, not saying a word. When Becka stands, he stands with her and walks his sister to the door. Everyone rushes out, but I stay on the couch and pull my knees up to my chest. Ben sighs, sitting up from the loveseat across the living room.
“I'm going to take off,” he says with a yawn. “I'll see you, princess.”
“Bye, Ben,” I whisper.
Engines start and headlights illuminate the inside of the house through the windows. When the cars have pulled away, Dusty comes in and locks the door behind himself.
“Come on,” he says.
I follow him upstairs, keeping my footsteps careful and noiseless. I’m not so brave anymore. I care now. And I don't want to fight.
His room is warm, like home, and I’m surrounded by the sweet smell of our secret and a darkness that keeps us hidden.
My boy steps out of his shoes with his back to me. He takes off his undershirt and unbuckles his belt, finally turning to give me his eyes.
Three steps is all it takes to reach me. Thomas wraps me in his arms and carefully lowers me to the bed, climbing between my legs.
He reaches under me, unhooking my bra. Sugar-sweet and feather-soft lips slowly move from my mouth to the side of my neck. I close my eyes and curve into him, begging with my body.
He doesn’t leave marks. Or use his teeth. It’s all mouth and tongue and whispers so low I can’t make out his words.
Then he’s up on his knees, slipping his fingers into my sweats, pulling them down my legs. I kick them off my feet and lean on my elbows. Thomas’ eyes match the room: dark and full of feeling. His skin is warm, and when I reach for his wrist, wrapping my fingers around until I find his pulse, it races.
“Calm down,” I whisper. “Calm.”
His pulse is too quick, his breathing too demanding. I bite my lip, giving him what he needs—surrendering my body to his too tense touch.
“Thomas,” I whisper, kissing the side of his face while he kisses the side of my neck. “Thomas.”
Without words, the assault with his lips stops, and his uneven breath is right above my ear.
“Let me,” I say, climbing onto his lap. Pushing him back, I place his arms on the mattress over his head. “Keep these here.”
“Leigh,” he pleads.
I kiss hot skin easily from the hollow point of his throat to his navel, dragging my nails down his sides. Love’s chest rises and falls as I lower his zipper one notch at a time. When he doesn’t stop me from going further, I pull his slacks to his knees and stand on the floor.
Pushing my underwear down to my feet, cool air touches where I'm warmest as I part my legs and straddle my boy again.
With his grip on my sides, I move up until his hard length isn’t in me, but against me.
I gently circle my hips, as if I know what I’m doing.
Slow, slow, slow.
Steady, steady, steady.
Dusty shifts under me with hazy eyes and heavy breaths.
“Show me,” I say lowly. “Show me how to do it.”
He rolls me over, pushing my legs open with a hand on my knee. When I’m wide enough, lost and in love handles his cock, slowly guiding his tip to where I hurt for him so sweetly. And I want it. I want him there. Inside me.
I hold onto his biceps and arch and moan and spread wider.
“You’d let me?” he asks. His voice is rough, thick.
I don’t answer. He pushes in more, giving just a little more than the tip, splitting me open.
“Why? Because you think this is how I want it?” he asks.
I open my eyes and try to find my boy in his face. It’s hard, but he’s there, behind Her. Thomas is in the freckles on his nose and the small ring of blue around black.
Thomas is in his unmoving hips, no longer pushing, because he knows.
He pulls himself out and pushes against me like I had him before he rolled me over: between and against. His thrusts are hard and strong, with his hands gripped into bed sheets beside my head, powerful with frustration and denied need.
“I don’t want you partway, baby,” he says. “I want all of you, Leigh.”
Tears slide down from my eyes into my hair. “You have me.”
I clutch onto his moving hips, falling into tingles and explosions and constricted muscles and stuck voices. I move with him, rocking while I come. My cries and heavy breaths fill his room, and he leans in, hovering his lips over my open, moaning mouth, taking my air as I exhale.
Just as I’m coming down, soaring, he whispers, “If that were true, you would have already said yes.”
“Sweet, sweet Jesus …” Becka's bottom jaw is slack. Her sunglasses are 1970s huge and the lenses are almost opaque dark brown, but I know she’s staring.
It’s taking effort on my part to not stare, too.
Lifting her candy necklace, she gets it halfway to her lips before she stops, staring so hard she actually forgot what she was doing.
“Seriously?” I ask. Sitting up a little straighter on the bottom back porch step we’re sharing, I nudge my girl's shoulder. “Earth to all gawking Martians.”
Becka catches her balance and leans back on her elbows, letting her pink cast-covered wrist rest between us.
“Go ahead,” she dares, her smile taunting and totally disbelieving. “Act like you don't see it.”
Smiling, I look down at my feet instead of what she’s referring to.
My toenails are peaches and cream, and my feet are bare on Smitty's sidewalk. We’re in the shade, but at the end of August, every day is the hottest day ever. Concrete is warm under my soles, and I can smell charcoal fires and just-cut grass in the breeze. Mariachi music carries from a few houses down, and while robins chirp to each other above us, panted-chuckling and shoe-shuffling echoes from the driveway.
“Liar,” my best friend says. “Tell me this isn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.”
Rolling my eyes, I rest my phone in my lap and unbind my hair from my ponytail so I can pull it higher off the back of my neck.
“They’re just boys,” I remind her.
“Lies,” she declares.
I pop my toes.
“Oliver looks damn good today, and you know it.”
Across from us, damn good looking jumps, blocking a lay-up and sending the basketball to Smitty. It bounces once before it’s in hands that were made for talking, and then through the basket.
Trash-talk and easy laughs fly in front of Smitty’s garage hoop. Stephen, his brother, is home from college, and other boys from around the neighborhood are here too. We’ve been watching them play for about an hour now, and Becka’s right.
My shelter from the storm does look good.
Turning to watch his best friend’s shot, the person I’ve only ever considered as a comparison has his back to me. His tee shirt isn’t really tight, but his shoulder blades stand out underneath gray cotton, and I like it.
It couldn’t have happened over night. Backs don’t broaden and jaws don’t square in the blink of an eye, but when Becka and I pulled up today, and I saw quietly reliable turning and reaching and playing in the sun, that’s exac
tly what it was like.
Bam.
Oliver isn’t just an alternative to my boy.
He is a boy.
“Have you finished your paper yet?” I ask, rerouting my train of thought.
“Of course,” Becka answers. “Like, a month ago. The whole idea of summer homework is twisted, but you might as well get it done and out of the way.”
The sound of high fives and Oliver’s upbeat, deep laugh drift from the driveway. Glancing, I catch his grin and the line creases around the corners of lit-up dark eyes.
My brain says looking’s okay.
My heart beats no way.
Pausing for a drink of water, Smitty holds the ball between the inside of his forearm and his hip while Oliver lifts the front of his tee to wipe sweat from his face. His stomach looks smooth and strong in the sunlight, and there are these two sort of dips, like muscle lines–
I brush my hands down the front of my little pink dress and look over at my friend. She’s not even trying to hide her ogling at this point.
“What book did you read?” I ask, tugging her candy necklace for a bite.
“1984. Julia is a badass motherfucker."
In my lap, my phone vibrates with one new message from Dusty.
Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone.
“What about you?” Becka asks without looking over.
Looking up from Bill Withers’ lyrics, I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“You haven’t started?” She studies me through oversized lenses. “There’s like, three days of summer left. Have you even picked a book?”
My heart beats, but I shrug again.
“Slacker,” she says, pulling baby-bright pink hair over her shoulder and looking back to the boys. “Just read Catcher in the Rye. It’s an easy A. Oliver can help you.”
Back in my lap, my phone vibrates again.
Are you coming to the game?
I glance from love’s question to his sister, to sharp shoulders, and then back to my phone.
Let me talk to Becka about it.
Dusty’s reply is immediate.
Come on your own.
Delinquents (Dusty #2) Page 6