by Angel Lawson
They definitely don’t make out with trash like Gwendolyn Adams in the co-ed locker room.
If anyone heard I’d done such a thing, every ounce of my credibility would be gone. All the work I’ve done up to now, wasted.
My unit was down at the end, with a view of the lake. My father may have made me live with the commoners, but no Bates was ever going to live in a dorm’s shitty single. Nah, I unlock the door to my suite, and something within me unwinds, even if only slightly. Even when it came to punishment, I had the best.
“Yo!” Xavier peers at me over the back of the couch. “Where you been?”
I clear my throat, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as rough as it feels. “Gym.”
I make a beeline for my own room, grabbing a banana and sports drink from the kitchenette’s counter along the way.
But Xavier isn’t far behind. He leans casually in the doorway as I toe off my shoes. “Hey, you good?”
What? Why? Can he tell?
Hoping he doesn’t notice the way I freeze, I twist the cap off my drink. “Sure. Why?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs and finally enters the room. “You’ve just been distracted all day. Emory said you were coming to play Madden with us after dinner, but you never showed.”
“Ah, right. Sorry about that.” I peel the banana and take a bite, talking around my mouthful. “I just forgot I had some PT scheduled.”
His eyes shift to my shoulder. “You worried about making captain?”
I scoff. “Against Adams? Fuck no. That shit’s in the bag.”
My father’s donated so much money for the new natatorium that there’s no way they pass me up. Is she a good swimmer? Sure, I guess. For a chick, at least. But Adams doesn’t have the leadership qualities needed to take us to state. The team needs someone who understands how important it is to win.
Against my will, my mind flashes back to the memory of her underneath me, all soft curves and hard edges. That soft, eager mouth. That hot, slick tongue. The way she panted through her nose against my cheek. How her body responded to me, surging up into the kiss.
Shit shit shit.
I grab the drink and down half of it so fast, I nearly choke.
Feeling half-crazed, I clumsily offer, “Let me shower and I’ll come down and kick your asses, okay?”
Xavier rolls his eyes and starts for the door.
But before he leaves, I give in to the impulse to call, “Hey, wait.”
He looks back at me. “What?”
I glance around like a paranoid lunatic, as if someone could be listening. “So, like.” I wet my lips and keep my voice low. “That night. You know, at the party…”
Xavier’s eyebrows hike up his forehead, and then he turns, easing my door shut. None of us talk about that night. Ever. No one. The board, the headmaster, our parents—they made it clear what would happen if we did, but I just...
I need to know.
“Why did you invite Sky to the party?” I ask.
Xavier’s expression is cautious, wary. I don’t blame him. He’s my best friend. I shouldn’t be digging it up, it’s not good for anyone. But I know if I don’t ask, the question will just keep bouncing around inside my head until it drives me batshit.
I genuinely want to know. “Like, for real. The truth.”
Xavier crosses his arms and looks away. “I thought she was hot. Funny. Kind of naïve, easy to get in bed. You know?” He looks embarrassed to admit it, which is enough to make me know it’s the truth. “Why?”
I chew my lip, thinking. “So how did she go from being your date to being in that room… doing that?”
“We had a fight,” he admits. The wariness is back, his jaw tense. “She wanted us to leave the party, go do something else. But I wanted to hang out with you guys for a while. I…” He pauses, dropping his gaze.
“You what?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t want it to look like I was that into her. Because.... well, you know…”
I guess, “Because she’s an Adams.”
Xavier’s eyes narrow. The name is like a slur. “Yeah, because of that. I knew how you and the other guys felt about her. It just—” He makes a sharp gesture. “—escalated, probably from the booze. She got mad and started flirting with some dopey Northridge kid, which just pissed me off, so I called her a slut. She said, ‘If you think I’m a slut, I guess you don’t care what I do with any of these guys.’” His expression turns sour. “I guess I just assumed she was going to hook up with the Northridge kid. But turns out she was in that room, doing…well, you know.”
He also glances around like someone may hear us. I get it.
I shouldn’t need to say it, but I do. “You know I didn’t know what was going on in there that night, right?”
He nods. “Yeah, I know.”
Gwendolyn didn’t.
She honestly believed I’d been in control of the whole thing. That I’d set the whole thing up, let those Northridge kids do a train on her sister. I’m a lot of things. I’m controlling, and sometimes cruel, and probably often an entitled prick.
But I’m not a monster.
Xavier sighs, finally letting his arms drop to his sides. “Why are you asking?”
But what he’s really wondering is, why now? And I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t tell him that, fifteen minutes ago, I’d been pinned underneath the fire of pure hatred in Gwendolyn’s eyes. And I definitely can’t tell him that it somehow stoked my libido enough that I came this close to creaming my shorts as I kissed her.
I run my hand through my hair. What the fuck is wrong with me? “I guess with the swim season coming up, and being forced into close proximity with her sister, it was just on my mind. No big deal.” I tip the bottle to my lips and down the rest of my drink, waving him off.
This must appease Xavier because he nods, turning back to the door to open it. He pauses with his hand on the knob, though, adding, “Look, don’t sweat all this shit with Gwen so much. It doesn’t do anyone any good.” With that, he leaves.
After a long moment spent glaring at his wake, I toss my trash and peel off my shirt, headed into the bathroom to shower. Xavier confirmed what I thought—what I knew—that Skylar Adams had put herself in that situation to get back at him.
Just like tonight, when Gwendolyn had the chance to run, and she didn’t. She kissed me back. She touched me. She leaned into it.
Into me.
She wanted it and that’s got to be it. Having a hot willing body under me, someone who’s shaking with it, wanting a piece of me? Like I said. I’m only human. Any other guy would have done the same.
That’s gotta be why I caved.
I just can’t seem to wash it off. The scent, the humiliation, the shame. I’m on my third shower, but I still feel all of it.
I showered once when I got back to the dorm. And then again, after kicking everyone’s ass in Madden. And then I took a third shower when I woke up at six a.m., covered in sweat and caught in the spider webs of a familiar dream. I lather the soap, trying to scald that girl off my body. My mind wanders to the dream. It’s one I’m used to having, but it’s been a while, old memories tugging me back under.
It’s summer at the beach. Twilight. Lights blinking on the pier.
“Tell Mama and Daddy I’m meeting some kids at the marina, okay?”
It’s my older sister, Hollis. She’s sixteen. I’m twelve.
“Can I come?”
She peers into her compact’s powdery mirror as she paints her lips a bright, angry pink. “Sorry, bro. You’re too young.”
“I’m not that young!” I argue, feeling this is the absolute worst insult. “I’m in middle school now. Come on, Holl! I can hang. I won’t tell Mom or Dad if you’re drinking.”
She cuts her eyes at me. They’re thick with black mascara. She looks like a cat. “Like Mom and Dad care if I drink or smoke?”
I frown. “Then what do they care about?”
She squeezes a bottle, and even in my dream
I smell the flowery scent.
“Legacy,” she says simply. “That’s it—that’s all. Trust me, one day you’ll understand.”
She ruffles my hair and goes to the door that leads to a balcony off her room. The rush of the ocean fills the room, all salt-sharp scent and humid air, and she waves over her shoulder before vanishing over the railing. I follow her to the balcony, peering down to the beach where a shadowy figure meets her. I can’t see their faces, but I do see them kiss before walking hand in hand down the beach.
I turn my face into the showerhead, drowning out the imagery. It’s a beach. Two teenagers sneaking out. Who cares?
My father, that’s who.
That night, when Hollis left, was the catalyst to the skeleton in my family’s closet—our biggest shame. It’s why I have no choice but to be the best. It’s all on me, now. I’m the only one left to carry on the family legacy. There isn’t anyone else to share the weight with. Not anymore.
I scrub my hands through my hair and reach for the body soap, squeezing it into my shaky palm. The long and short of it is this: the pressure of perfection is a crushing weight. Like how some nights I wake up from this dream, but then other nights I wake up choking on it all, barely able to draw in a breath, my chest’s so fucking tight.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m up to the task. I know it. I was bred for it, raised for it, but any slip… any mistake. There are nights I could lay there in bed and come up with lists of things that could ruin it—and they go on forever. Not fucking up? It’s like threading a needle, only the needle’s in a haystack the size of China.
If my father knew about last night…
My spine goes rigid at the thought.
And at the same time, I wonder... maybe that’s why I did it? Am I cracking under the pressure? Do I just need a release?
My mind replays, over and over, Gwendolyn pressed against those lockers, the flicker of fear in her eyes when she finally realized that maybe I could be dangerous, and how scary I could be. And the frisson of power I felt when she did. She’d fought back longer than I’d expected. She’d held her own physically and mentally, matching my strength, my wit, my bite.
Until I’d stumbled—caved—given in to the impulse of imposing myself on her. Winning the only way I could, by force.
Except she didn’t freak out, or panic, or cry.
Her whimper against my mouth had nothing to do with fear. She just liked it that much.
My dick twitches, rising at the memory.
I press my forearm against the tile and exhale. I’d been hard since storming out of the locker room the night before—hard every time I thought about the feel of her body, the taste of her tongue.
What’s wrong with me?
Oh, right.
I’m eighteen. Horny. Wound up. Completely, annoyingly normal.
And hey, a pair of tits is a pair of tits.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I take my length into my hand, giving it a long, slow stroke. It doesn’t matter who they belong to. Like, I think of Reagan. Cute, perky, willing-to-please, Reagan. Reagan with the shiny blond hair, with the senator father, the girl who is more than happy to get on her knees for me. She doesn’t fight me. She doesn’t push back. She’s not…
Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuk.
Gwendolyn fucking Adams.
That’s who these tits belong to; a freak, a reject, a snitch.
But, still, my mind offers unwillingly, beautiful, strong, determined.
My balls tighten, my breath catches, and I’m just so fucking tired of holding back all the time, of always being in control. I lather the soap and tug against the tip, imagining a different hand. I think of a girl in a bathing suit, her body lean and strong and soft. I imagine a pair of hot lips, kissing along my neck, down my chest. I vividly remember those eager fingertips grazing my abs, and my strokes grow shorter, faster, hips pushing into it just imagining what it would have been like if they’d traveled lower, if she’d cupped me in her hot palm, pressing and moving as she licked into my mouth.
Leaning my forehead against my arm, I grunt and come hard enough to shake with it, gasping as my release paints the tiles.
Maybe that was it. Maybe this was just an exorcism, releasing these inconvenient, pent-up hormones, all the stress and emotions that’d built up overnight.
Had to be.
I shut off the shower, finally feeling slightly satiated, and I tell myself that was it—the encounter was over. Done. I’m not thinking about Gwendolyn “Freak” Adams for another second. I have to forget about it.
And she had better forget about it, too.
If not, I’d be forced to definitely make her regret it.
5
Gwen
I spend the entire night tossing and turning in my bed, cringing with constant flashes of memory. The little sleep I get is on and off, disturbed by dreams of angry eyes and a burning mouth, of consuming fires, of falling into the cool blue of Sky’s accusing eyes and still burning—maybe burning even hotter. Each time I surface from one, another smoky tendril seems to pull me back under.
I wake up earlier than usual, ready to be done with the nightmares, but when I dress, I can’t even stand to look at myself in the mirror. I know what would be looking back at me: betrayal. There’d be no hiding from the neon flush of my cheeks. There’d be no denying that these are my lips. These are what they look like after kissing Hamilton Bates. These are my hands, the hands that touched him with intent. This is my body, the one that responded to him, wanted him.
When I’d declared war against the Devils, against Hamilton Bates in particular, this wasn’t what it was supposed to be.
I shouldn’t be surprised he’s an aggressive sexual predator. Sexual assault fits with everything else about his entitled, demanding, and controlling persona. No, the only thing truly shocking here is that I kissed him back. I didn’t run when I could. I didn’t knee him in the balls or slap his pretty face.
As in all things, I met him beat for beat.
And I liked it.
Every step toward the carpool line feels like a walk to the guillotine. The twins are smart, annoyingly observant. What if they can tell?
I snort at myself, even if only inwardly. God, it was just a kiss. It was nothing but the last-ditch effort of a bully’s struggle to intimidate me. Nothing more, nothing less.
Debbie’s van swings through the line, and I try to shake the vestiges of smoky tendrils from my mind. I have a game face, and while I almost never use it around family, I can adapt it, right? Shoulders straight, face relaxed, lips tipped up into a grin. Nothing wrong here.
When the twins jump out, Michaela bounces forward to clutch me into a hug.
Debbie watches through the open window. “You look tired. Are you sick?”
“No.” I hug Michaela back just as hard, explaining, “I just didn’t sleep very well.”
“Here,” she says, holding up her morning latte. She gets them from the coffee shop down the street on the way to school; I know it’s a morning ritual for them. Hot chocolate for the twins. Latte for her. Back when I’d ride with them, my order was always a mocha.
I frown as Michaela releases me. “I don’t want to take your drink.”
But Debbie just shrugs me off. “I’ll stop for another. You definitely need a jolt of caffeine to get through the day.” I know it’s futile to argue, so I lean in to grab the paper cup. But she snatches it just out of reach before I can. “I know this is about more than just lack of sleep.”
I freeze, staring back at her with wide eyes. “What?”
How did she know? Dammit, this is why I don’t use a game face around family. They can always tell.
“I’d know that face anywhere, Gwendolyn Adams,” she continues, inspecting me closely. “Ever since that time when you were four, and I caught you sneaking downstairs for candy during nap time. And I’ve been seeing it for months now. That’s your guilt-face.” She sighs, eyebrows pulled low in a frown. “I’ve told you this
before, what happened to Sky is not your fault. If anything, you’re the reason she got the help she needed.”
Sky. She thinks this is about Sky. And I suppose she’s not even completely wrong.
“I know.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, grimacing at how obvious I am. “It’s just... sometimes being here makes it hard not to remember, that’s all.”
“You’re welcome to come home any time, baby girl. You know you can change schools, too. Your mama and daddy will be happy to do that.”
Oh, I know they will. There’s nothing they love better than pushing the past behind them and moving on to something shinier and new. New school, new house, new family.
“I can’t,” I insist, “swim season starts next week.”
The look she gives me is hard and wise, like she knows this is about more than just the team. Fortunately, a horn blares from the carpool line, people fed up with waiting or driving around. Debbie finally hands over the drink, offering me a comforting smile. “Just call me if you need me.”
I try to muster a smile. “I will.”
I step back and see the twins have already started toward their building. Checking my watch, I realize that Debbie and I spoke too long, pushing me perilously close to the bell. Now I’ll have to run, or Dr. Ross will give me detention for being late.
The main hall is already clear by the time I get there, which is a nice break from the usually packed hallway of people ignoring me. Shit. But I have to stop at my locker for my book—another thing Dr. Ross is a stickler about. It’s not exactly like I can ask someone to share. The whole student body has frozen me out.
I make a beeline to my locker, furiously spin my combination, grab the book, slam the door, and rush down the hall. This is cutting it close, even for me. It’d taken me weeks of careful calculating, but I’d created the optimally timed routine, all orchestrated for my arrival to class at the exacting moment of the bell’s ring. It’s an economy of tolerance. The less time I have to be subjected to silent scorn and spiteful stares, the better.
I pass a clock outside the science room and glance at it just in time to see the minute hand shift to 7:58. I mutter a curse under my breath, but I see the classroom from here. If I run, like really run, I can totally make it.