Delinquents (Dusty #2)

by Mary Elizabeth Sarah Elizabeth

  I drag her along myself and groan again, rolling my hips up and into her. Leigh whimpers through bite-to-keep-quiet lips and leans down to hold onto my shoulders.

  “You know I love only you. You know it,” she says, grazing her teeth over my chin. “Tell me you know it.”

  I turn my face away, not ready, and impatient love sits up. I think she’s going to let me feel her. I think about the rest of our clothes coming off, and my body throbs at the thought of sliding along where I need so badly, but she doesn’t take anything off. She shifts lower, dragging her open lips down my stomach. She kisses my belly button and lower, over the waistband of my boxers.

  My pulse dips and I’m deaf to everything for a second.

  Then it picks up twice as hard, and when this girl wraps her hands around me, my whole body lights and lifts for her touch.

  Lush and penitent, she kisses everywhere, from my hipbones to the base, and I lean up. Replacing her hands with my right, I hold my cock for love's amends-seeking mouth, and her lips are the softest, sweetest sensation ever.

  Beyond gentle and so warm, Bliss opens and kisses with eager, effortful sincerity, laying all her yearning bare and making my fingertips tingle. Exhausted muscles and bones melt, and my ragged-raw nerves surrender. My sore heart unwinds, calming and collecting its beats between baby’s lips.

  Loyalty and her apology and shared yearning flow through her as she learns me and shows me all the devotion there are no words for. She kisses me as deeply as she can, and when she leans up for a breath, meeting my eyes in the almost-light, she smiles, first-time shy and blushing in love.

  My chest fills and I love the pressure. Nothing compares to or comes anywhere close to this. I’ve never, ever felt like this, and I love how baby gets me.

  Tucking stray strawberry-blond hair behind her ear, Leigh gives me more, and when she hums around my cock, I almost fucking come. But she takes me deeper. And sucks so Heaven-soft I could die.

  My spine burns and hot chills slide down the back of my neck. I shake inside and open my eyes, finding made-for-kissing lips wrapped so pretty around me, vulnerable and unselfish in this moment. She swallows around me, taking all of my doubt and beleaguerment and ability with her, and my vertebrae liquefy one by one. Ache dissolves into euphoria, and I hear my voice.

  “Baby, baby, baby …”

  She hums again, and everything in me stretches, straining, and when she slides her lips to the head of my cock, covering me with soft kisses, everything ignites. No one’s ever touched me like this or loved me like this or can be this—

  “Bliss …”

  Nothing hurts or has ever hurt, and as pure relief rushes from behind my eyes and down my back, it shakes my whole frame. Love adores me as I give her everything, and after I do, when her chest-swelling, heart-surrounding, soul-filled and high-spirited laugh resounds through kisses and into me, I smile for the first time in days.

  I can’t help it.

  “Leigh, you have to push in the clutch before shifting gears,” Thomas says.

  “I did!” I stall the car and throw my hands up. “I give up. I can’t drive.”

  “Calm down,” he mutters, scrubbing the palms of his hands down his face. “Stop being dramatic.”

  “You calm down,” I say quickly, squeezing the steering wheel. “You’re making this hard. Maybe I should ask someone else.”

  Because I’ll hit him if I look at his arrogant face, I keep my eyes straight ahead on the empty parking lot. We’ve been in the car for over an hour, exchanging digs and dirty looks. This isn’t what I expected when he offered to teach me how to drive.

  “Like who, Bliss?” Dusty opens the door, kicking it when the ocean wind shuts it on his leg. “Call that motherfucker. I guarantee he won’t make it out of his truck.”

  He slams my door and walks away.

  My car rocks, and the old windows rattle under the force of his anger. Thomas might not think much of my old Volkswagen, but this car is precious to me. He can treat his things however he wants, but I refuse to let him disregard mine.

  I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out. Cold November beach air smacks me in the face, stinging my eyes and burning my cheeks, but the smell of driftwood and salt takes me back to a time before my boy was so intense and unstable, and a place for secret-stolen kisses and just us: our dock.

  I should have known this is how my lesson would turn out.

  Thomas paces with the wind blowing through his little-bit-too-long hair. He has a cigarette in one hand and his cell phone in the other, probably calling Casper.

  “Hey!” I call, walking toward him.

  Dusty hangs up his phone, looks back at me with sinister, deep dark eyes that match the night sky and lifts the hood of his hoodie over his head before turning away.

  I lift my own hood from the sweater love gave me years ago. The cotton is worn thin, and Castor is faded on the back, but it doesn’t mean any less to me. And when I’m in bed and Thomas is out doing whatever it is that he does, it’s all I have to remind myself that he wasn’t always this way. There was a time when we were innocent and genuine, and young, stupid in love.

  “I’m not doing this with you,” I say loud enough I know he hears me and head back to my car.

  I wanted to do this together, but it’s cold and well after midnight, and I didn’t sneak out of my house to slam doors and chase him around. Risking everything for love is one thing, but this is a waste of time.

  Fueled by stubbornness and back inside the comfort of my Rabbit, I recall what Thomas has managed to teach me and pray I can start this car on my own. With the clutch in neutral, I press in and start the car successfully.

  I flip on the headlights, and a faded yellow glow illuminates the moonlit parking lot, lighting my path. I hold my breath and release the clutch, shifting the car into first gear. Four tires move five feet before the clutch pops and the engine stalls. Shaking and stranded, I hit the steering wheel with the palm of my hand, honking the horn.

  My car door opens. “Get the fuck out, Leigh.”

  I try to close my door, but Thomas reaches over me and pulls the keys from the ignition.

  “Get out of my car!” I hit and push, and grip and keep.

  As if I’m not fighting him, he lifts the emergency brake and unbuckles my seatbelt. Trouble grabs me by the front of my sweater, clutching onto soft cotton and sweet memories, and pulls me out from behind the wheel. I scream, using lungfuls of salty ocean air for momentum.

  “You’re not driving my car!” I yell in his face, but my cries lack conviction.

  “You're not driving,” he snaps. Cold, white air blows from between his lips. Behind him, waves crash on the shore as the tide rises. Dusty walks me to the other side of the car and opens the passenger door. “Get in so we can go home.”

  I shove my hands into his chest, pushing him back. “I hate you.”

  As I’m getting into my Volkswagen, Thomas grips onto the back of my hoodie and pulls me against his chest.

  “You hate me?” he whispers harshly, in my ear. “I wish I could hate you, Bliss, because this”—he squeezes me harder—“this is killing me.”

  Love’s too dope-numb to feel, but I press my fingernails into his skin until it breaks and four crescent-shaped wounds bleed from his right hand.

  “You’re such a little girl,” he says, letting me go with a small push.

  Irrational anger straightens my spine and reddens my cheeks.

  “You’re a sixteen-year-old brat who has me stuck in this bullshit town.” He spits on the ground and pats his pockets for his cigarettes. Thomas drops his pack of smokes, and instead of picking it up, he kicks it and throws his lighter into the sand. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  I stand silent, breathing in through my nose and out my mouth. Tonight’s argument is years of frustration stacked and hidden, too tall to push away anymore. A little trigger is all it takes, and we end up like this, saying things we don’t mean, taking our aggravation out on each other.


  My heart pumps misguided love.

  “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” it beats. “But that’s your boy—aimless and crazy for you.”

  Knowing that I had a role on his spiral to the bottom kills me. As his parents continue to fail him, I should be the one that steps forward and says, “This is wrong.”

  But to do so at this point in his madness would be betrayal, and I have to handle his trust with care.

  Inhaling an uneven breath, I watch him. His already pale complexion glows under the silvery moon. Icy wind blows my boy’s white tee against his slender body under his unzipped hoodie, and his hands shake.

  I place my hands on the sides of his cool face and whisper, “Tell me a secret.”

  His body relaxes.

  “I don’t want to be a secret anymore, baby.”

  This is the part where I should tell him, “It’s too late. We’re too wrong.” Instead, I say softly, “Do you really wish you could hate me?”

  His arm circles around my lower back, and Thomas turns his face until our noses touch. Gripping onto my sweater, it lifts and frigid air kisses my bare skin.

  I slip inside of my boy’s unzipped sweater, reaching around until my arms overlap. Tight and rock-steady, I bury my face into his shirt until the smell of salt water is replaced with vanilla and heartbreak.

  Love is never breaking completely.

  Thomas chuckles. “Do you really want someone else to teach you how to drive?”

  SPINNING IN the cycle of dependence with Dusty, time takes on a different meaning. It’s not kept in normal seconds, minutes, hours, weeks, months, or years, but in how many days at a time he’s gone; how many hours it’s been since I last spoke to him; how many minutes it takes him to apologize this time; the seconds until I see him next.

  Seasons kind of, sort of blend. Holidays come and go.

  October. November. December. January—I don’t remember anything about the actual time passing, but I remember how many weekends I spent alone in his bed because he didn’t come home. I remember the hours I spent calling his phone over and over until he answered, and I remember how many minutes those conversations lasted before he said he had to go.

  His time away becomes more frequent.

  Because I’m usually the only person who knows where he is, I sit back and watch his parents stress and his sister worry. He forces me to lie to them more than I already do, because when Tommy asks Rebecka and me if we know where Thomas is this time and I say no, I’m lying straight to her face, looking right into her blue eyes. When I hear her cry, I could so easily ease her concern … but I never do.

  “Come over tonight and eat left-over spaghetti with me,” I say softly, pushing pink-faded blond hair behind Rebecka’s ear.

  Three weeks into January, standing in front of the school that was dismissed an hour ago, my best friend’s nose is red and her eyes water. Bundled up in a yellow hoodie under a black leather jacket, she types into her phone, mumbling under her breath.

  I know who she’s trying to reach.

  He won’t answer.

  “Did you see him at all, Bliss?” Becka asks, shoving her phone into her pocket. She picks her backpack up from the ground and hooks it over her left shoulder. “Because he was here. He drove me to school.”

  I bite my bottom lip and shake my head. Lie.

  I tighten my cobalt blue scarf around my neck and button up my dark-gray peacoat to keep my hands busy. “He wouldn’t leave you here, Rebecka.” Lie.

  Disgust for my boy is all I feel when a lonely tear falls down Becka’s pink cheek.

  “I’ll drive you home,” I offer, pulling on her backpack.

  She runs her hand through her long, three-day dirty hair, searching for a Lincoln that won’t be pulling up. I hope for her and her family that this won’t be another weekend they have to calls hospitals and police stations looking for their runaway.

  And ten minutes later, Thomas isn’t here.

  Madness lurks behind their son’s black eyes, and anything sets love off. He misses school … he misses meals. Trouble deteriorates right in front of us, thin and never sober. Thomas is eighteen, but I thought after the second time he took off, Lucas and Tommy would stop this from happening again.

  I bite my thumbnail, about to offer my girl another ride home when Petey strolls out of the school office, high and wandering.

  The moment Becka’s cry-red eyes catch his pitch-black ones, she’s up.

  “Where the fuck is my brother, Pete?” she yells, shoving her hands against his chest.

  Icy air bites my lungs as I chase after her, and my eyes water. I want so badly to admit, he’s with Casper!

  I reach for her hands as she reaches to hit Pete again. He puts his shades on and looks right at me when he says, “Why don’t you call him?”

  Becka frustratingly groans, breaking my hold on her. Petey’s smile wavers, but he holds his stance—indifferent and protecting.

  “This isn’t funny anymore, Petey!” she cries. “You say things to me, but then you do this.”

  She walks away.

  “Rebecka,” he calls out. I walk past him after my girl. I don’t look until he calls for me.

  I only give him my eyes long enough to show disappointment.

  In both of us.

  THREE MORE weekends. Hundreds of phone calls. Too many seconds to bear. Countless minutes of asking myself why. More lies than I can count.

  March.

  “WHY ARE you here?”

  “Leave with me.”

  I scoff. “No.”

  Thomas scoots his chair a little closer, pulling mine to the side until I’m between his knees. “Don’t make me beg, princess.”

  I drop my pen and push my Calculus book away. I look over to him and try not to smile. His smirk is silly-high and contagious, like whoa. My boy smells like cinnamon gum and cigarettes and vanilla-delicious. He plays with the ends of my strawberry curls, reeling me in.

  Keeping my voice library-low, I whisper, “I’m not leaving, because I have to study, and you’re not leaving, because you have a game after school.”

  “I can make it a rule,” he says slyly.

  I smile back. “I like to break our rules.”

  “You like to break me.” Thomas kisses from my wrist to my elbow. He rubs my arms when he gives me goose bumps.

  I roll my eyes and look around, making sure no one can see us. “Anyone can walk back here, Dusty.”

  He pushes my hair away from my shoulder and kisses my neck. I turn in my chair, moving closer to him. My boy holds on to the side of my chin, pushing his thumb under my jaw to tilt my head back.

  “Touch my cock, Leigh,” he says loud enough to be heard. My eyes snap open and mischief laughs. “Do you think I give a fuck if anyone sees us?”

  I make a noise of playful disgust and push him away. Thomas ignores me and shuts my book.

  “Leave with me before I go to the lunch room and tell your boyfriend you like it when I finger fuck you from behind,” he says.

  I sit back in my chair and let him pack my stuff into a white with pink hearts backpack. I cross my arms and pretend to be mad.

  “Come on.” Thomas holds a hand out for me with my backpack over his shoulder.

  Snatching his sunglasses from his face, I slip them into the pocket on his shirt and say, “I’m driving.”

  My boy drops his arm over my shoulders and leads us out the back. “Whatever you want, strawberry-blonde.”

  After a short drive, we enter his house through the kitchen door. All of the shades are drawn and the TV is off. Dirty cereal bowls from breakfast sit in the sink and someone left the coffee pot on.

  Upstairs, my boy closes his bedroom door with us inside, and the comfort of our space makes it easy to forget how tricky we are being right now. We fall right into low hushes and soft laughs.

  Trouble pushes my hair over my right shoulder and kisses my neck, walking us toward his bed. When my knees hit his mattress, his touches
are tenderly firm and effervescently alluring, and I feel more alert than I have all day. My heart doesn’t beat blood through my veins, but sparks and fire and tingles and Thomas.

  Standing over me, my boy bends at the knees to look me straight in the eyes with his delightful, dark stare. Bent and sure, he presses his thumb against my lips. I kiss it. He pushes until he pulls my bottom lip down. I bite him. He laughs.

  With a gentle shove, my back falls flat on mattress, and I stretch my arms above my head. Thomas takes my foot and unbuckles my right shoe. Then my left.

  I wiggle and stretch my toes.

  “Lift,” he bids carefully.

  I place my feet at the edge of the bed and lift my hips. Crazy love places a knee between my feet and reaches under my light teal skirt for my underwear. White lace brushes against my legs on their way down, and when they get stuck at my ankle, we both laugh. I kick, but they won’t go.

  “Stay still,” Thomas says, gripping my calf, pulling and dismissing my unders with my shoes.

  Disappearing below my skirt, he presses the palms of his hands to the insides of my thighs and opens me up.

  “It’s better like this sometimes,” he whispers, slipping his leg off the bed until he’s lower. “When I can’t see everything, but I can feel.”

  Dusty tugs me to the edge of his mattress; above and between me, I can feel him hard under denim. His heart quick-beats beneath tee shirt cotton, and I slip my hands under it, sliding them up until he gets the point. His hat comes off first, then his shirt.

  My stomach dips and somersaults, and my knees come up trapping him within me. I circle up against hard slim-straights and hold my arms around his neck. Thomas’ tongue parts my lips, and he strokes so hard my entire body shifts up.

  I hiss against his kiss and bite on his bottom lip until he groans and pushes again.

  This boy reaches between us and brushes his knuckles over my center. The rumble in his chest curls my berry-pink toes and tingles the tips of my fingers. Standing, he pushes my skirt around my hips until he sees me and holds the top of my shoulder with his free hand. With his other, he presses two fingers inside. He isn’t measured or soft or easing, but swift and heavy and unapologetic.