All the Different Ways

by R. J. Lee

  It’s so hard not to kiss him, to lean down and sweep my lips over his, feel that little buzz of electricity that’s always there when skin meets skin--

  “I like being in the stands. Bye, Cullen.”

  “Bye, Beautiful.”

  NINETEEN

  Violet

  “So, your parents are coming in for the weekend? From Seattle?”

  Cullen is tracing lazy circles over the strap of my tank top, inching it down my shoulder like I won’t notice. We’re cuddled up on the couch watching Netflix; we finally made it to the middle of the last season of Sons. It only took until the end of September.

  “It’s Homecoming. They always come for Homecoming. Dad’s an alumnus.”

  I drag my finger lengthwise along the shirt covering his abs, “Are they Seahawks fans? I can’t do it if they’re Seahawks fans.”

  Cullen’s stomach tightens as he roars with laughter and then tosses me to the couch cushions. He starts tickling my sides, and I kick my feet trying to escape. Cullen covers my body with his to hold me down.

  He nips my lower lip and warmth soothes and settles us down, “Yep, they’re Seahawks fans, but I’m hoping you can overlook that one, tiny little flaw and meet them anyway. I’m sure they’ll adore you despite who you root for.”

  I suck in a startled breath. “Are you saying there’s something wrong with being a Chiefs fan?”

  “No! Never!”

  “That’s sarcasm, Metz. I’m not sure this relationship is working anymore,” I give him my most fierce look, but Cullen isn’t fooled.

  “Oh, yeah?” He pulls my leg up over his back pockets and presses his hips into me. I tighten my grip on his sides and pull him towards me more.

  “Well, maybe there’s something we can salvage,” I take his lips with mine, and he sinks into my kiss.

  I tug on his shirt, wanting to feel his flesh on mine. Cullen pushes himself up a bit so I can take it off for him. When all of his savory muscles are on display, I smooth my hands over them, releasing both a smile and goosebumps over his tanned, warm skin. While he’s above me, Cullen rests on one hand and uses the other to work my tank top up over my breasts and off my body. Lowering himself down, we are finally making the contact I’m craving.

  Cullen nibbles along my jaw and down my neck to my breast. I arch into his mouth and hook my foot behind his knee. He hums in gratitude, vibrating my skin and perking up my nipples to the point of aching. Cullen pulls the puckered skin between his lips and plays roughly between his fingers with the other little pink pebble.

  I roll my hips so that Cullen is more aligned, and I can feel his erection more deeply. The ache between my legs is nearly unbearable, so I start working on the button of his jeans. Things were so much easier when it was hotter outside and I typically only had to contend with gym shorts when fooling around in tiny spaces.

  Noticing my struggle, Cullen lifts his hips a little so I have better access to the button-zipper combination that’s impeding my progress. With a grating sound, his pants release and I slip my hand inside his boxer briefs. Hard heat and a slick tip welcome me. Cullen’s own groan pauses his handling of my body. I wrap my hand around his shaft, sliding it down to the base, and tightening my grip for the journey back up to the tip. My thumb passes over the smooth head, then I work my way back down.

  Cullen comes back to my mouth while I manually urge him on. My heel presses into his ass, further widening my legs and increasing my own need. A large hand cups my hip, then sinks into my pants. Cullen kneads my muscles for a minute while I focus on swirling the beading moisture around and around his velvety tip. A deep grunt sounds from Cullen’s throat and his cock twitches. He inches his fingers to my core and slips two fingers into my sleek opening. My walls clutch his fingers as he thrusts them in and out; his thumb presses rhythmic circles over and around my bundle of nerves in time with his other two fingers.

  I’m panting as Cullen’s hands and mouth exert their power over me, and I pump and stroke his thickening rod. I stretch down and lightly graze between Cullen’s legs with my nails, and it’s all he can take. His hips buck, releasing his creamy orgasm on my belly. He buries his head in the curve of my neck, crying out my name.

  The warmth and intensity of making him come combined with the exploratory movement of his fingers along my sensitive skin has me clamping down and riding over the edge as well. I press his hips with my knees while sparks fly behind my eyes and warmth passes over me. Cullen withdraws his fingers and holds me as I come down from my high.

  I shift, finally able to move again, and place a kiss on Cullen’s cheek, “Your fingers are like magic.”

  “So are yours,” he assures me. Then, Cullen takes his t-shirt from where it is tucked into the couch and presses it to my belly, wiping up the evidence of his pleasure.

  “So, if I badger you about the Chiefs, this is what happens?” Cullen teases.

  “This is what happens whenever we touch each other. We have no restraint.”

  “And this is a bad thing?” he nuzzles my neck.

  “Nope. But you’re gonna have to keep your hands in your pockets when your parents get here.”

  ***

  Not much gets done on the Friday of homecoming, especially in a high school centered around football. Students live the sport, breathe it, and agonize over it from the first scrimmage game through October when playoffs roll around. Today is particularly intense not only because of the pressure of the game on our 7-0 Raptors, but Cullen’s parents are coming into town this afternoon; they may already be here.

  With a pep rally shortening our day, I have a lab assigned to each of my classes. It’s an educational way to pass the time, give my kids something to do with their restless bodies, and settle my nerves with movement around the room. Everyone wins.

  “You are trying to temporarily anesthetize your Drosophila. It’s sleepy-time, people. Don’t kill your flies!”

  “Mine are twitching, Mrs. B. I think they’re waking up!” Keegan hollers.

  I roll my eyes, “They’re dreaming, and apparently so are you. Keep counting and tracking phenotypes, Keegan. That goes for everyone. We’re keeping track of multiple generations for our own data, why?”

  There’s mumbling, then Annabeth’s voice rises above the rest, “So we have our own evidence to support our claims that diversity is naturally occurring.”

  “Hallelujah! Someone was listening!” My class laughs as I throw my arms in the air and wring my hands. “Ok, get back to it. You’ve got thirty minutes and hundreds of flies to record!”

  I mill around the room in my rolled up skinny jeans and Raptors t-shirt to check on each of my groups of students and their progress. Things are going well, so I step away for a minute to check my email. Since I’m not on social media sites, Myah keeps me updated on the buzz around Cullen and me. Ever since the game a few weeks ago when the cheerleaders got wind of our relationship as we shamelessly flirted at the bleacher fence, I felt like I should know what students were saying. It is notably important to me today since the Metz’s are in town, and we’ll all be at the game.

  But nothing new is being reported. In fact, Myah’s last email from four days ago assured me that most everything she’s heard and read has been supportive. With a happy click, I minimize my email screen and return to my class. Although I won’t be able to talk to Cullen before the game for extra reassurance—not even in the gym this afternoon—I think I’m ready for tonight.

  ***

  One more win and we’ll have a perfect season heading into the playoffs. Tonight’s victory brings the crowd out of the bleachers and onto the field. Players, students, and media all trying to congratulate him on his stellar offense and get his opinions on next week’s game swallow up Cullen. From the stands, all I can see is his dark hair sticking up above the mob.

  I smile to myself with my arms folded across my coat. Fall has settled in nicely this late in the month, and it won’t be long before scarves and mittens come out to play. Luck
ily, the wind hasn’t started chipping into our faces yet, but it isn’t far away. The night air of September smells grey and frosty; the balminess of August has certainly gone away for the year.

  “Violet?” I turn at the sound of my name, reluctant to lose sight of Cullen. However, standing behind me is a man who could pass as a slightly shorter, older version of him with the same coffee-colored hair and eyes, and a beautiful raven-haired woman I assume is Cullen’s mom.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Metz?” I answer politely.

  “Ah! He’s David. I’m Olivia,” she leans in and gives me a hug. Her hair smells like roses and honey. I like her already. David waves. “We saw you waiting over here, looking towards the field, and guessed at who you were. The little smile helped, and so did Cullen’s description.”

  I touch my cheeks, slightly embarrassed, “Oh! Yeah, you saw that did you?”

  “It’s fine, honey, he better make you smile,” she assures me.

  “He does,” I confirm. “He’s one of the good guys.”

  I look back at the field as Olivia pats my arm. I don’t see Cullen anymore although the team is still out there. He must be dealing with equipment or a player issue.

  “So,” David’s voice is much lower than I expected. I turn towards him with a pleasant smile. “We hear you’re a Chiefs fan.”

  Narrowing my eyes playfully, I give him a rueful smile, “I hear you’re a Seahawks fan. Cullen told me and ever since I’ve been wondering how you sleep at night. I have to know your secret.”

  David laughs a deep, bellowing sound as thick arms wrap around me from behind. I gasp and grab Cullen’s hands as he kisses my neck. So much for not making too much of a scene.

  “Wow, ok, who started it?” Cullen looks between his dad and me.

  I raise my eyebrows and David winks. God, he looks just like Cullen.

  “I did, Son, but I don’t think Violet here needs rescuing. She can hold her own.”

  I look up behind me at Cullen. “He got a bit of the textured velvet,” I whisper loudly.

  Cullen chuckles and kisses my temple. He reaches out and shakes his father’s hand, “Hey, Dad. I’m glad you’re here.”

  I wiggle out of his grasp so he can hug his mom.

  “Hi again, Mom. We didn’t get to say much at the parade before the game, but we’ve got all weekend,” he lets her go and turns back to me. “I know you aren’t planning on staying for the dance or activities, but I have to go back with the team.”

  “Ok, just call me later?” I try to sound like it’s no big deal, but now I’m regretting not making plans to stay. I don’t want the awkwardness of intruding on his family, but I also want to avoid the weirdness of having all of them talk about me after such a short introduction once I’m gone.

  “Yeah, of course. Walk you down to the field?”

  “Ok, that would be great,” I turn to the Metz’s and offer David my hand first. Luckily, I haven’t started nervously sweating. “It’s great to meet you. We’ll have fun at dinner this weekend, I think.” He shakes my hand and agrees.

  Olivia embraces me again, “Goodnight, Violet. I can’t wait to spend more time with you.”

  “You too, Olivia.”

  Cullen smiles at his parents, “I’ll see you in a little bit.”

  Cullen and I walk down to the track surrounding the football field where hundreds of people are still roaming around talking, laughing, and celebrating. I almost feel choked up about going home. My feet are dragging like a woman on death row walking to her last meal.

  He takes my hand as we weave in and out of little groups standing around, “My mom likes you.”

  “Hmm, how do you know?”

  “I just know. It’s that mom/son connection.”

  “Oh, please.”

  The crowd actually thickens as we get closer to the end zone, so our conversation comes to a halt. Our time together is also at an end as this is nearing where I need to let Cullen go so he can get back to the Raptors. A little more disappointment sinks into my belly. I’m not sure why I’m struggling so hard with attachment tonight.

  “Ok, well, this is as good a place as any, I guess,” Cullen sighs.

  “Yeah, ok, well I’ll talk to you tonight, right?” I turn to face him. I feel the corners of my mouth turn down and my nose tingle with impending tears. What the hell is wrong with me?

  The crowd temporarily disappears as Cullen brushes my hair back from my face. The rest of the world blurs out, and all I see are chocolate brown eyes, long lashes, and a soft beard that I want to latch onto and pull towards me.

  “Why do you look so sad? I’ll call you, I promise.”

  “I know. I’m ok,” I put my hand on his chest and he squeezes my fingers. “Bye, Handsome.”

  “Violet?” he hangs on to my hand and looks at me questioningly. I can’t have him stare at me like this when I don’t have any answers for him. I have to go.

  “I’m good, Metz, really. You have to go. Call me,” I stand up on my tiptoes and brush his lips with an airy kiss. It’s a quick ghost of one; I doubt anyone notices.

  I turn away and leave him standing there, staring after me. I know he is because I turn once and see him doing it, hands in his pockets, leaning back on his heels. It looks like he ran his hands through his hair. I smile at him, but I don’t feel it inside. I really want to run back to him and bury my face in his neck. Maybe the adrenaline rush of our win and his parents being here and the overwhelming number of people crushing in on me has my emotions running in circles. I’m having a hard time leaving him to the inevitable “first impression evaluation” conversation he’ll be having with the Metz’s soon.

  Cullen

  Violet nearly broke me leaving tonight. I almost picked her up Gone with the Wind style and carried her off into the horizon, forgetting the team, my parents, the celebration, all of it. She had tears in her eyes. Fucking tears. At my football game. What am I supposed to do with that?

  There are few things in this world that I can’t fix. In fact, I’ve spent the last fifteen years training myself on and off the field in how to handle the top two worst unfixable atrocities on my list—blatant stupidity and tears. For everything else, there’s a play with moving pieces that a good leader orchestrates and completes. Stupidity, however? Nope, can’t be fixed. It requires a workaround. A quarterback sneak. Tears? Forget it. I don’t even know.

  “I’ll take a beer, kid,” Dad slaps my back.

  I’m staring into the fridge thinking about the wayward look on Violet’s face when she threw that last glance over her shoulder.

  “Yeah, ok,” I unscrew the cap and hand him the bottle, then take one out for myself. “What does Mom want?”

  “She went up to bed after she heard you come in. She’s loving that deck we built. Guess I’m gonna have to have you out to Seattle to build one for us.”

  We stand in the kitchen sipping our beers and in the momentary silence, I try not to think about the slow liquid movements of loving Violent out on that deck with the twinkle lights and the crickets.

  I clear my throat, “So, now you have a face to put with the name.”

  My bottle ticks with the same beat as my heart waiting on Dad’s reply. “You’re description sucked, Cullen. She’s stunning.”

  My smile is short-lived knowing what I have to say next. I add, “She’s fiery, too. I hope you get to like her a lot while you’re here.”

  I stare at the bottle in my hands while Dad stares at me. I feel the piercing gaze of his eyes, educated in the evasion tactics of those in their late teens, penetrating my skin. When I can’t stand it any longer, I shift on my feet, run my hand through my hair, and match his stare.

  “What?”

  His smile tells me he knows he’s gotten to me, “Damn, Cullen, spit it out.”

  “You and your mind tricks, old man.” He smirks. My tongue is thick and my flesh feels too tight. “I just want to tell you something about Violet is all.”

  “Am I going to be a grandpa?�
�� he asks flatly.

  Suddenly my beer becomes the worst hiked football ever and almost hits the tile. Almost. I recover just in time to catch my fumble.

  “What? Fuck no, Dad! Shit. No, she was married. He died in an accident last school year, that’s all. Jesus,” I slide my hand over my face, nearly having a stroke.

  “Oh. Well that’s not so bad,” he swills the rest of his drink and tosses the bottle in the trashcan. “Anything else?”

  “Um no? Should there be?”

  He rests his hand on my shoulder and squeezes, “I thought you were finally going to admit that you love her.”

  TWENTY

  Violet

  Every pair of jeans I own is somewhere on my floor. I have multiple skirts strewn on my mattress and even a few sundresses that I can wear with a cardigan are scattered here and there. Nothing seems to fit the occasion or, in my opinion, my ass. Standing in my favorite grey lace bra and panty set, I stare at my closet with my hands on my hips. I’m hot and aggravated. My freshly straightened hair is sticking to the back of my neck so that when I turn my head, the lowest strands pull and it pisses me off. I must be seriously hormonal.

  In a last ditch effort to at least show up to Cullen’s house clothed, I pull my black leggings out from the bottom shelf. The new Bohemian day dress I got online at the same time as some shoes and the tee dress I wore the other day dawns on me as the perfect top to pair with my leggings. Apparently, I had to sweat and get cranky for my brain to work.

  I dig for the white piece among my camis and tanks, sighing in relief when I pull it unwrinkled from amongst the other fabrics. I had forgotten how gorgeous it is. The dress itself is short, hitting me at mid-thigh, and the spaghetti straps and fitted top complement my curves. There’s eyelet lace along the bodice and also streaming down towards the waist like rivers. The gauzy rayon layered beneath it adds texture and swing, while the thin flair of crinoline gives a bit of lift to the very bottom.

  When I put it on, it fits like a dream and lifts my spirits a bit. I spin once just to feel the swoosh of material and a little girly. Knowing it’s cooler outside, I add my brown suede blazer that’s super soft and pliable, slip into some matching brown flats, and grab my bag. I trust I’m good enough for Cullen’s parents and the dinner table.