“We have reservations at Franchino’s. You’re more than welcome to join us.” Tommy slides her arms across my shoulders and tucks me into her side.
Dad smiles politely. “As good as Italian food sounds, I have some work to do tonight.”
“We’ll take care of Leigh. We always do.” Tommy smiles.
Ben and his family, Petey and Rachel—who’s in large sunglasses and baggy jeans—all of the Castors, and my parents and I walk to the parking lot together.
“Are you staying with Rebecka tonight?” Mom asks, twirling one of my curls around her finger.
“Yeah,” I answer, looking around for my friend.
Off to the side with her parents and Thomas, Becka crosses her arms across her chest and rolls her eyes. Dusty lights a cigarette and blows white smoke over his shoulder while he speaks to his mother and father in a defensive posture. Lucas keeps up with appearances and projects calm and cool, but his false smile is weak.
Walking away from the people who gave him life, even as they call him back, love flicks his smoke across the lot. He approaches my parents and me with the scent of nicotine on his clothes.
“Can I ride with you?” His voice is short, and he doesn’t look at me as he speaks.
“I guess,” I answer with shrug.
Since we’re all going to the same place, Ben and Pete ride with us, too.
“Drop me off at my house, princess,” Thomas says from the seat beside me. He avoids my eyes, but his tone isn’t so short.
“Mom’s going to flip,” his sister says from the back.
He looks over his shoulder and smiles, but it’s untrustworthy. “I want to get my car.”
“We’re almost to the restaurant.” I stop at a red light and look over at my boy. “Can’t you get it after dinner?”
“No.”
That’s all he needs to say.
Since the top is down, Petey and Ben don’t wait for the car to stop before they jump out once we’re in the Castors’ driveway. The Lincoln’s parked in front of the house, and I secretly hope it doesn’t start so Thomas can’t go anywhere.
“Thanks for the lift, kid.” He smirks, opening the car door.
“Bliss, I’m going to run up and get my phone charger. Wait for me.” Becka jumps over the side, and I turn the car off.
Since we’re alone, I ask, “What’s wrong?”
Thomas gets out and shuts the door, leaving me inside.
“Nothing.” He reaches in for the flowers and picks the card off the stem. He folds it in half and sticks it in his pocket. “Put those in water for me.”
He leaves the peonies in the passenger seat and walks away.
In the time it takes Becka to come back out, the boys pile into the Continental. It starts, and when they drive away, it’s in the wrong direction.
“TRY HIS phone again, Tommy,” Lucas orders lowly.
I spin my fork into my spaghetti, keeping my eyes down.
“I’ve tried ten times,” she says.
“Dad, he’s not answering,” Becka speaks up. She’s annoyed, like her parents should get a fucking clue.
But no one will say what we all know: Thomas isn’t coming.
Across the restaurant, Ben’s family suffers from our same worries.
Rachel didn’t come at all.
Another fifteen minutes pass before Lucas surrenders and pays the bill.
On the walk out, my girl takes my hand.
“I can’t go home,” she whispers into my ear.
It’s not easy being the kid who’s here while the other is missing … run away—whatever. Thomas doesn’t see the sadness he leaves behind when he decides to disappear. He receives the anger when he gets back, but that’s nothing compared to the hopelessness his sister lives in his absence.
“We can go to my house,” I say.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I already called Smitty.”
IN A house more like mine than Rebecka’s, the couches are old and the carpet’s worn. Smitty’s mother’s coffee table is chipped and scratched from years of use. The air smells like laundry detergent, and the curtains over the windows, the clock on the wall, and the throw blanket over the arm of the rocking chair in the corner are all rooster themed.
“Want a beer?” Oliver asks at my side.
Becka’s on Smitty’s lap in the recliner beside the couch, hands linked and bodies completely touching. Her head leans back on his shoulder, and he whispers into her ear.
“Sure,” I say, praying for numbness.
He gets up, and I check my phone.
Nothing.
I hear the sound of the refrigerator opening and the clink of metal bottle caps hitting the counter. I consider shooting Thomas a message, but Oliver comes back before I think of what to type.
Side by side, we drink our beers and keep our eyes on the TV. Oblivious, I’m back to the place I go when Thomas is gone. I count each inhale and pace my exhales and make sure not to breathe too hard or too deep or too fast.
Anxiety presses a hole into my chest, and when I think about Thomas, it constricts painfully. The empty spot throbs and beats, reminding me that my other half is away, and I don’t know where he is.
I place my palm on my forehead and close my eyes. Setting my elbow on my knee, I hang the half-empty beer between my pointer and middle finger.
“Do you want to go upstairs?” Tenderness asks quietly.
I turn my head and look, unsure of how to answer. Oliver smirks, and his eyes shift over to our best friends. Smitty slips under Becka’s shirt, and the recliner rocks back, and they laugh. I know they want to be alone.
My phone rings.
Dusty, the screen reads. Answer or decline.
Without thought, I stand up and press answer without greeting my caller. I take the stairs two at a time until I reach the only door I know.
“Where are you?” I ask.
There’s muffled noise in the background—music, voices, and running water. I can hear Thomas moving around, but he doesn’t answer.
“Thomas,” I say a little louder. I leave the door and sit on the edge of Smitty’s twin bed.
“I’ve been calling you,” Thomas finally replies. His words are slow and slurred, like it’s taking him a huge effort to speak.
“You haven’t called me at all.”
“Whatever.”
My boy shuffles and shifts, curses and spits. He speaks in half-sentences and unfinished phrases, repeating the same thing three or four times before he switches to something else.
“Can you come here? Can you come get me?” he asks.
“Where are you?”
Nothing.
His mood shifts between sniffs. One second he wants to be found, and the next he wants to be left alone for good, forever.
“You’re killing me, you know?” he argues. “Why did you call me?”
“You called me, Thomas.” I breathe out.
“Because I love you so fucking much.” His voice is desperate. “My chest hurts, babe.”
With tears in my eyes, I ask, “Why didn’t you come to dinner?”
“Because of you!” he shouts. “You and those orange flowers, Leigh. Shit.”
I push my hand through my hair and stand up as panic devours my heart.
“Do you still want me to ask you again?” Thomas asks cruelly.
He sniffs.
“Not like this.”
“Be my girlfriend, Bliss. Be my fucking hidden heart, baby.”
Suddenly there’s a voice on his end of the phone I recognize too well.
“Are you hiding?” Valarie asks, faintly at first. But as she get closer to my boy, my nightmare’s slurred tone becomes crystal clear. “Come out here with us.”
Bitterness creeps up my spine, and disappointment I never get used to feeling presses down on my shoulders. As the burden of our secret pangs, I ask breathlessly, “Who is that?”
Smoothly, he answers, “The devil.”
I hang up.
&n
bsp; In need of composure, I straighten out my dress, hold my shoulders back, and lift my chin. I transform myself into this Bliss—happy, secure, complete—and walk out into the hallway.
Oliver waits for me at the top of the stairs. His forearms are on his knees, and his head hangs low. I sweep my fingers across the back of his neck and sit beside him.
“Are you good?” he asks. I nod.
I lean my head on Oliver’s shoulder and inhale until my lungs are full of air I’ve deprived them of.
Tilting my head up to find comfort in soft brown eyes looking down at me is simple.
Pressing my lips to Oliver’s warm neck is easier.
When our lips almost touch, I close my eyes and settle.
He’s slow and soft, but I press my hands against his shoulders and push Oliver’s back against the wall. His head hits with a small thud, and we laugh, but for only a second before I cover his lips with mine again. I sit up on my knees, one step below where my skater boy is, and put my palms on his hips and slip my fingers inside the waist of his jeans.
“Bliss,” he whispers, shuddering.
“Take me to Smitty’s room,” I say into his ear before pulling his earlobe between my teeth.
Oliver holds my face in his hands, and my stomach spins. To avoid watching him search for something he’ll never find in me, I shift my eyes toward the ceiling. Careful and caring kisses the corner of my mouth as he rubs calloused thumbs across my cheekbones.
I bite down to keep from screaming.
“Come on.” He stands up and goes into his best friend’s bedroom.
I follow, swallowing sickness.
Undeserving of this boy’s thoughtfulness, I don’t give Oliver a chance to ask me if I’m sure about what’s happening between us. I push him against the hollow door and dig my nails into his sides over his tee shirt, ignoring when he hisses. Harshly kissing up his throat, I reach between us and unbutton his Levi’s.
“Um...” he starts, pulling his hips back a fraction of an inch. “Leigh.”
“Shh,” I smile, pulling the zipper down. “No talking, okay?”
When his pants are undone, I pull his shirt over his head and drop it on the floor. I bite my bottom lip and look at him through the dark.
Wrong chest. Wrong skin. Wrong person.
I touch his stomach and laugh when his muscles flex.
“Bliss, come on,” he says softly, stepping away from me.
Indifferent to his conflict, I lift my foot to unbuckle my shoe, letting it drop to the carpeted floor. As I undo the second one, I turn around and say, “Unbutton my dress.”
Silence.
“Oliver, help me,” I say as the other shoe falls from my hand.
His hot breath tickles the back of my neck, and his fingers caress my spine as he undresses me. When my dress is loose enough, I curve away from a touch my body doesn’t want and hide shame behind a deceiving smile.
What I need is to forget my life is fucked up for a night. I need this boy to prove to myself that I have choices.
And right now, I choose to forget.
I choose who really taught me how to drive.
My bra and underwear don’t match, but when my dress comes off, he looks at me like I’m the most cherished thing he’s ever seen. Tenderness reaches out and touches my hand and links our fingers before he pulls me against his body.
I’m shaking. Literally trembling.
He kisses me airless. He kisses me thoughtless and numb. He kisses me until I have to pull away and gasp, only to sink right back into his lips.
Held as if I’m made of glass, I say, “Tighter,”
He squeezes, but it’s not enough.
“Harder,” I groan, pulling the hair at the nape of his neck.
I step back until my legs hit the mattress and fall to my bottom. With his hands in his hair and his jeans undone, he looks good without a shirt.
I think about him kissing Casey like he kisses me.
I open my legs.
Between my thighs, he climbs over me before I have to ask. I slide my hands up his chest and use my feet to push down his denim. I kiss his jaw, nibble on his collar bone, and ask, “Do you like her?”
With his hands beside my head, dipping the old mattress, Oliver looks down at me. His eyebrows come together, and it’s so fucking wrong.
“Who?”
“Casey.”
“I don’t know. No,” he says. The sweater giver brushes his lips across my neck.
Closing my eyes, I whisper, “Why do you love me?”
Oliver just kisses my body softly, slowly, like he’s making love to me. But this is too slow, so I reach down and hook my thumb into the waist band of my underwear and pull them down as far as I can.
He’s on his knees right away, and he’s hard. I can feel him against the inside of my thigh. His eyes follow while my hands lower cotton to my knees, but that’s as much as he can take before he lowers his lids.
“Leigh—” He sounds unsure. His hand’s back in his dark hair, and he’s not looking.
Robbing him of choice, I sit up and push my underwear to my ankles and kick them off. I kiss his chest. “Will you look at me?”
I slip my hand into his boxers and wrap my hand around his length as my mouth pools with saliva repulsively. My jaw aches, and my stomach somersaults.
Oliver sucks in a sharp breath and tries to back away, but I grip firmer and stroke harder. His head falls back, eyes closed. His Adam’s apple moves up then down as he swallows.
There’s beauty in the boy who allows me to touch him without restriction, and it’s freeing to know I could keep this easy affection just by saying I want it. To be cared for not only by necessity but because of sincere fondness is something I don’t know.
This would be a love that doesn’t only take.
When he finally opens his eyes and looks at me, I like his depth. I like his sincerity and openness. His soul is mine to have.
I lie back and open my knees and reach for his hips, pulling him over me.
“You get this from me,” I whisper. My eyes fill and tears run down my temples into my hair. “You can have it.”
“Leigh, we don’t—”
I reach for him, wrapping my small hand around the base of his length. Unsteady and unsure, I guide him to my opening. I lift my hips, but Oliver pulls away.
“Why?” he asks in a shaken voice. “Why do we have to right now?”
“Just do it,” I insist.
My escape gets off the bed and pulls on his jeans. “I’m not going to just do it, Leighlee.”
I close my legs, but it’s too late, I’ve already bared my sad, true self. The ache in my chest splinters and devours, hurting me until I finally sob.
Oliver slips my underwear up my legs and lies beside me. Once my tears slow, he whispers about things that aren’t important, like how his mom accidentally washed all of his whites with a red shirt.
“Don’t judge me if I’m wearing pink for a while,” he says quietly.
Hiccups quickly turn into laughs. We don’t kiss, or touch or go back to where we were, but we talk. We reminisce about peanut-butter-scented teachers and Sublime all summer long. Then he shows me his socks and they’re pink, and it’s so funny I laugh until I cry for a whole different reason.
“I GOT a summer job,” Oliver says. His voice is loud in the early morning air.
It’s a quarter past three, and once my tears dried, I needed air. After telling Becka I was ready to go, the sweetest sincerity lead me outside.
“You did?” I lean against the trunk of my car. He lifts me up, and I let him settle between my legs. He doesn’t push or advance or take advantage. It’s innocent.
“Lifeguard,” he says shyly. “Me and Smitty.”
I push dark brown hair behind his ear, and he relaxes his forearms on the car beside my legs, leaning his face between my arm and side. I rub his back, and we don’t talk any more until our friends come outside.
“I didn’t realize
how late it was,” she says, opening the passenger door and getting in. Smitty leans in and kisses her mouth.
Hopping off the car, I smile at Oliver as I walk away. Before I can get in, he reaches for my elbow and turns me around. He kisses me three times before his tongue parts my lips.
“I’ll see you later,” he says, letting me go.
Becka stares at me on the drive home.
She wants dirt.
I let her suffer a little longer, and when we come to a stop light, she squeals.
“Ask,” I say, shifting the car into first when the light changes.
Her cheeks are freshly-fucked red, and her lips sweetly swollen
“What did his cock look like? Did you touch it?” She shakes my arm.
I tell her that he was nice and unselfish. “He has the prettiest lips.”
“Do you love him or what?” Her eyes and ears are all mine.
I chew on the inside of my cheek but ultimately shake my head. I more than like Oliver. We have a simple, sweet history, and we could have a simple, sweet future. But I love Thomas—absolutely, utterly, completely—and it’s all I have room for. He’s all I want.
Love is that simple.
“You’re stone cold, you know that?” Becka laughs and reaches for my hand.
When we get home, the Continental is parked in the driveway.
“Fucking asshole,” she spits, pulling her hand from mine and unbuckling her seat belt.
I follow her up the front porch and stand behind while she unlocks the door. The entire house is dark and sleeping. The only sign of Thomas is his keys on the coffee table.
Becka and I quietly pass through the living room and up the stairs. Tommy and Lucas’ door is shut. Blue-silver light from their television shines from underneath. She places her ear against the wood.
“My dad is snoring,” she whispers.
My best friend and I are soundless as we enter her room. I sit on the edge of the bed and unbuckle my wedges for the second time tonight as I pretend my heart isn’t about to beat out of my chest.
“Did you notice if Dusty’s light was on?” she asks. “Should I talk to him?”
“No. It was off.” Lie.
My girl lifts pink tresses into her hands and ties them up high with a black hairband. She shimmies out of black leggings and slips into bed wearing Smitty’s shirt. I undress myself and fall in next to her, wearing the same underwear Oliver saw me in tonight. Holding my arms open, Rebecka clings close, wrapping her arms around my lower back, and I run my fingers through her hair until she’s heavy and snoring.
Delinquents (Dusty #2) Page 13