by Angel Lawson
There’s nothing in there to indicate what made this ‘the time’—the thing he has going on with me, or just because he wanted to anyway. I find myself desperately wanting to know the answer, but unsure how to ask.
I hedge, “I’m sorry?”
He breathes a low laugh, lips curving into a smile. “I’d like to think you aren’t that sorry.” He gestures for me to come closer and I do, heart hammering in my chest as his hands hook into the pouch of the hoodie, pulling me into the space between his legs. His heavy-lidded gaze flicks from my mouth to my eyes. “Just to be clear, I never fucked Reagan.”
I blink at him, caught off guard. “Seriously?”
He nods. “We never got anywhere near that far. No chemistry.”
I’m not sure believing him is the wisest thing I’ve done—he could totally be lying—but there’s no reason for him to bother. He’s already gotten into my pants. “Well, I know she liked you.”
His pulls a face. “I’m not really sure she did. I think she liked the idea of me, but she’s obviously still been playing the field.”
My eyebrows hike up in surprise. “How can you be sure?”
“Because,” he explains, reaching out to push my hair off my neck, his gray gaze locked to the skin there, “someone keeps giving her a Devil’s mark and it sure as hell isn’t me.”
I swallow loudly when his fingers press to my neck. “She’s been cheating on you?”
“Ironic, huh?” He finally ducks his head, planting a soft, teasing kiss under my ear. “Guess that makes me a free man.”
A shiver runs down my spine, spreading goosebumps over my skin. I run my hands down his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt. Whatever tension he’d had upstairs seems to be gone now, replaced by the languorous line of his body as he mouths lazily at my neck. This isn’t the Hamilton Bates from upstairs, at all. This is the boy who spent days taking care of me in my dorm room, and god, I’ve missed him.
He pushes, walking me backward, hands guiding my hips as he leads me around to the front of the couch. He doesn’t even need to pull me down with him. The second he folds himself down into the sofa, I straddle his waist, capturing his mouth in a slow kiss. He’s already hard and eager beneath me, and something inside me swells with pride that I’m able to arouse him so easily. His fingers thread in my hair, tugging me close to deepen the kiss. I think maybe he missed me, too.
He tucks his hand beneath the hoodie, fingertips cold on my belly and making me squirm, grinding down on his erection. He groans into my mouth, hips pushing up into me. His lips roam, sucking, licking. The flicker of an idea, of a want, tickles at my brain. I act before I talk myself out of it and ease off his lap.
“Where are you going?” He pouts.
I push at his chest. “Stay still.”
He does, watching me carefully as I drop to my knees and bend forward. I reach for his waistband. His eyebrow rises, accentuating the angle of his face sharp in the shadowy room. His hand stills mine. “Gwendolyn.”
I look into his eyes. “Yes?”
His eyes tighten, searching mine. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.” I wriggle my hand out of his grip. His abs tense when I dig my thumb beneath the waistband of his jeans, popping the button and lowering his zipper. “Don’t worry, this isn’t about your bullshit test. I’m not auditioning to be your girlfriend.” I reach into his pants and feel him, his cock warm and hard. I pull it free and look. It looks bigger from here, almost intimidating. I tentatively stroke down the surprisingly soft, taut skin. I look back at him again and he’s got his head pressed back into the couch, dark eyes watching me, mouth parted. His eyes seem conflicted, like he’s caught in some battle between his mind and his hormones.
He runs his fingers along my cheek, thumb pulling at my bottom lip. His cock pulses in my hand. “You get that there isn’t a test, right? It is bullshit. Campbell made it up, it’s not...” He wets his lips, squirming. “I don’t actually do that.”
I’m not sure why he tells me this. To get it off his chest? To make himself look better? It doesn’t change anything for me.
“Let me do this,” I say quietly, running my hand down his shaft. “You did it for me.”
His jaw tightens, but he drops his hand, eyes heavy and watchful. I stroke him a few more times, getting used to the weight of him in my hand, adjusting to the sound of his breathing, and the way he slowly relaxes.
“Is this okay?” I ask, shifting.
“Fuck yes,” he mumbles. “Harder is okay, too. It won’t break, Gwendolyn.”
Although he’d been the one begging for me to say his name, I’m surprised to discover how much I love hearing mine come from his lips. I tighten my grip and run my thumb over the tip. His fingers curl into fists against the couch and I repeat the motion, feeling a bit more confident.
“Take off your top?” he asks, chest moving with slow, shallow breaths. “I want to see your tits.”
His mouth his filthy, and he’s bossy as hell, but I don’t really mind. I do as he asks, pulling the hoodie shirt over my head in one go. His eyes grow heavier as he takes me in, reaching out and running a finger over the lacy strap of my bra. “Blue. Thought you left this one at school.”
“Are you checking my underwear drawer?” I laugh, and he smiles in reply, cock bobbing between us. “I had another at home.”
I reach for him again, but this time I work up the courage to lean over his lap and take a careful lick at the tip.
He shudders beneath me, hissing out a low, strained, “Fuck, shit.”
I can’t help my smile, because there’s nothing I like better than getting a rise out of him, and apparently that extends to far more than just fighting. Bolstered by this, I don’t hesitate to put my mouth all the way over him, slowly taking him in my mouth.
I can hear his head falling back, his breaths growing more strained as his hand shoots out to clutch my shoulder. I experiment a little, sucking with my lips, licking with my tongue, careful to keep my teeth out of the equation. I can’t tell what he likes better—the slow, tongue-laving strokes, or the quick, hard-sucking bobs. I get the feeling if I asked him, the answer might just be ‘yes’.
It’s not long before I feel the tremble in his thighs. His hips keep making these small, aborted jerks, as if he wants to thrust into my mouth but is holding back, restraining himself. I don’t protest when his hand winds into my hair, cupped against my skull, not guiding, but just resting there, thumb rubbing against my temple.
Eventually, his breath catches, and he starts going rigid. “Fuck, Gwen, I’m going to come. If you don’t want…”
I should release him, but our eyes connect, and the strangest wave of intimacy washes over me. I do want, I think, sucking a little harder, feeling him losing control. He groans loudly and holds my gaze as he comes into my mouth, eyes little more than two lazy slits as he watches himself pulse, salty and warm, between my lips. For a second, I think I can’t do it, I can’t take it, but I do, swallowing quickly, thoroughly.
He watches the whole thing and my face heats, feeling exposed and weirdly shy for someone who just sucked a dick. But he tucks himself back into his pants and pulls me off the floor, guiding me back into his lap.
“Jesus, Adams,” he breathes, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to my lips, my neck, between my breasts. His mouth twists into a grin against my collarbone. “That was unexpected.”
“We’re back to last names?” I ask, tugging at the hair at the back of his neck.
“Absolutely not.” He kisses my sore, swollen lips again and laughs. “And for the record, I was serious about there not being a test, but if there was one? You not only passed it, you fucking aced it.”
I have no idea why that makes me happy, why any of this makes me happy, including Hamilton himself, but it does. He does.
Can it last?
We’re about to find out.
24
Gwen
“Micha, you have to eat
!” My mom looks down at Micha pleadingly, but the day of any show with him is always a chaotic mess.
He flaps a frantic, dismissive hand at her. “You know I don’t eat the morning of a show!” He and Michaela are sitting at the counter, a whole variety of makeup and supplies spread out before them. He says matter-of-factly, “Two hours before curtain call, I’ll eat—”
We all chime in a tired unison, “Seven crackers, six slices of Swiss cheese, five slices of pepperoni, four grapes, three peanuts, two M&Ms, and a Capri Sun.” We all pause, and then add, “Strawberry-Kiwi flavor.”
Micha’s pre-show superstitions are a thing of legend.
He straightens his back primly. “It’s all my stomach can handle.”
None of us were able to sleep in today, as it’s all hands on deck, despite him being packed and ready to go the night before.
“I’ve got this.” Brayden, awake much too early to witness both the standoff itself and anything greasy going to waste, picks up Micha’s plate and dumps it onto his own. “Problem solved.”
Michaela’s plate is already empty, and at the moment, pushed aside in favor of an eyeshadow palette. “I think green and purple.”
Micha scoffs. “No way. Purple and turquoise, silver highlights, glitter in the corners.”
Michaela tilts her head, eyebrows pulled together in deep thought. She ultimately nods. “Yeah, that could work.”
Micha had probably had his look chosen and perfected weeks ago, but nobody says so.
An hour later, after we’ve all had the appropriate amount of caffeine, Micha’s face is in fine form. I know that he’ll just end up re-doing it all prior to the show, but no pre-show look can be tolerated if it hasn’t withstood his afternoon test.
Micha studies his face in a hand mirror, tilting his head from side to side. “What do you think, Gwen?”
This is a trick question. I know for certain there is never too much for Micha. If I tell him it’s too much, he’ll apply more. If I tell him it’s too little, he’ll apply more. If I refuse to answer, he’ll apply more. I venture, “I think you look fantastic.”
He narrows his eyes at the mirror and purses his lips. He declares. “More gloss, I think.”
I roll my eyes and add all the necessary pre-show snacks to his bag. Ten minutes later, my mom and dad are shuffling the twins out the door.
“We’ll meet you there,” I call, waving as they pull out of the driveway. I walk back into the house and collapse heavily onto the couch next to Brayden. “Wow. Is it just me or does that get crazier every time? I need a nap.”
Brayden holds an orange in one hand and flips through the TV channels with the remote in the other, stopping on some kind of sports ball. “It could be the fact you got home so late last night.”
I glance over at my brother and despite willing otherwise, heat creeps up my cheeks. “It wasn’t that late.”
“For anyone else? No.” He lifts an eyebrow. “For you? Definitely late.”
I’d gotten home after midnight and the house was quiet. We don’t have curfews. Mom and Dad feel like we should be responsible for our own time. In general, it’s not a big deal. But like Brayden said, staying out late isn’t something I do.
I shrug as casually as I can. “I went out with a friend from the swim team.”
Brayden leans over to put the remote on the coffee table. “A guy?”
“Yes,” I say slowly, eyes narrowing. “But his girlfriend was with us.”
“Hmm.” He starts to peel the orange, eyes trained on the task. “Michaela says some guy has been asking about you at school.”
I shake my head. “Michaela is a gossip.”
“We’re just worried about you.” He tosses me a glance, eyes tight. “Everyone knows things have been tough the last few months. Especially after what happened that day, with you getting kicked, it seems like it’s getting worse. Even the twins have noticed things are bad.”
I inwardly wince. Sharing a campus with the twins makes it really difficult to hide the fact that I’m a social leper. “Well, things are fine. Swim, classes, all that stuff. It’s fine.”
“So, no one is messing with you?” Out of all my siblings, he knows the most about my ostracization. He knows exactly how the Devils work.
“No more than usual.”
He gives me a dark look. “And no one is hurting you?”
“What happened that day in the hall was a one-off. Nothing like that’s happened since.” I huff in frustration, because it’d just figure when things started looking up, everyone would look at me like a silly victim. “Honestly, things have actually been a little better. Hamilton—” I snap my mouth closed around his name, afraid I’ve said too much.
He glances over, eyes narrowed. “Hamilton what?”
I exhale, explaining, “Look, we’re co-captains now, and I have to give him credit. He’s really stepped up. He’s just…” I pause, unable to really explain the change in him without admitting things I have to keep hidden.
Brayden gives me a complicated look—something full of dread and anger. “Please tell me you’re not involved with Hamilton Bates, Gwen.”
“What? Why would you say that?” But my ears are flaming, and I may be sweating through my shirt. “We’re co-captains. The school made it very clear they wanted us to cooperate.” I reluctantly try testing the waters with, “But if you want to know the truth, we are friendlier now. Actually, I think calling us friends wouldn’t even be wildly inaccurate.”
“I saw the car that dropped you off last night,” he says, and my breath gets trapped in my chest, like a frightened bird. He looks like he’s giving me the chance to fess up before he finally says, “It looked a lot like Hamilton’s BMW.”
I work my mouth around a reply but find that I can’t.
He places the orange on the coffee table and wipes his fingers on his jeans. “And don’t think I can’t see that mark on your neck.”
My hand shoots up to cover it, eyes averted.
He sighs. “Do you know why I quit the football team?”
I think back, and come up blank, shaking my head. “No, not really.”
“It was fine until my senior year. The guys and I had grown up together. They knew me—trusted me. Sure, I may have been a little different, an Adams, but most of them were willing to overlook that since I was a steady, reliable player, and plus, I’d been their friend for so long already. They were weird about it, but they still liked me.” He shifts, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. His voice is quiet and bitter. “And then Hamilton stepped in. Even though he doesn’t play football, the other Devils do, and you know how it goes. You know how they’re all his little puppets. He made a lot of comments about the team’s standards, and how I was only good because my father probably came from the projects or something. He twisted everything and turned the younger players against me. They complained so much, the older guys told me I was too much of a distraction to have on the team. They wanted unity. I was an outsider. It was best for the team if I quit.”
My stomach twists uncomfortably. There’s no reason to doubt what he’s saying. It sounds exactly like Hamilton.
At least, the old Hamilton.
My brother continues. “Hamilton is a player, Gwen. He knows how to get what he wants, from who he wants, all the time. I know you think he’s just an asshole, but it’s more than that. He’s really skilled at being an asshole. Manipulating people is his superpower. He comes by it honestly, from a long line of snobby-assed rich dudes who get off on the oppression of others. And no matter what he says, he will never see you, or any of us, as anything other than freaks.”
I chew on my lip as I sit there with a heavy, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Don’t you think it’s possible for people to change? To grow and become better people?”
His eyes are filled with disbelief, and I know that he sees right through me. “Do I think that?! What I think doesn’t matter! You’re the one who refused to come to dinner last night wi
th our moms. You’re the one who’s made it very clear that you don’t think people are capable of change. You’re the one who says they don’t deserve second chances. If you can’t give your mother that benefit, does someone like Hamilton fucking Bates deserve it?”
I stand up and walk away, the truth of his words stinging more than they should. Comparing Hamilton to my mother isn’t fair. Yes, Hamilton has been awful to me—to my family—for years. But what is Hamilton to me? He’s no one. He didn’t bring me into this world. He didn’t choose to abandon an inherent responsibility to me.
He stepped up, revealed himself, and he even showed some self-awareness. He grew. He changed. He defended me. My mother never did any of those things.
And that’s the difference.
Micha, on stage, is a force.
The dance performance is a modern version of The Nutcracker. Part ballet, part hip-hop, and a heavy dose of artistic license. It’s clever and filled with bright, vivid colors. Roles are gender-bent, and Micha has the lead as Clara. Or rather, in this version, Clarence.
His costume is elegantly androgynous. He was right—he did need more gloss. It perfectly matches the glitter on his tutu. The fight with Brayden fades away as I sink into the performance. Seeing Micha do something he loves—truly loves—is magnificent. And the thing is, he’s so utterly good at it. He moves like something fluid and wind-driven, yet also so amazingly strong and solid. He is a true performer, and I can tell from being part of the audience that he has them all in the palm of his hands. It’s not just because he’s adorable and charismatic, either. He’s incredibly skilled, technically-speaking, and it’s obvious by the way he moves that he’s put in the work training, that this is so much more than some childhood whim of his. It’s something he was born to do.
“Want a drink or some candy?” I ask Michaela during intermission. From the way she’s looking at her phone, texting with Micha, it’s clear that she’s planning on sneaking backstage. Sometimes I wonder if any of the others worry about her, like I do. I imagine it’d be easy to find yourself constantly feeling drowned out, having a twin brother with such a big personality.