Harder

by Ashcroft, Blue

  Ally looks peaceful next to me, mouth slightly open, elven features relaxed and calm, silvery blonde hair spilling across her smooth forehead. One toned arm is raised above her head, the other rests across her.

  I prop myself up on one hand and watch her, knowing I should wake her up and end the moment instead.

  I reach out to touch one silvery piece of hair, but pull back. She didn’t give me permission for anything like that. I sigh deeply and touch her shoulder, not sure how much it takes to wake her.

  She snores and turns over. I shake the same shoulder gently, and she swats me away with one long, delicate hand. I exhale, unsure what to do.

  “Sighing’s not manly,” she mutters, sitting up, head in hands. She yawns and stretches her arms wide to each side, small muscles flexing, then glares at me, eyes half open, deeply lined underneath. No longer peaceful.

  “You look like you had a hard night,” I say.

  She glares at me flatly. “You could say that.”

  “You got me up here?”

  “No thanks to you, gettin’ your ass roofied.”

  “I got roofied?” It’s the last thing I expected, but I guess it makes sense since I didn’t drink anything and can’t remember anything since walking out of Amy’s last night.

  “Do you even know what that means?” she scoffs.

  “Of course.” I hate that she thinks I’m that naive. My legs feel like lead as I push on to them and stumble to the closet. Each movement makes my head hurt, like my brain is water and hates being shaken. I brace myself on one hand while I look for a shirt.

  Grabbing the one closest, I pull it on slowly, stifling a groan at the discomfort of so much movement. I should just lie back down.

  When I finish pulling it down over my abs, Ally makes a small huffing noise.

  I turn around, shirt half on. “What?”

  “Just a pity,” she says, watching me with silver cat eyes and a sly smile. She gestures at the shirt.

  Heat moves up my neck, a stupid blush.

  I’m not used to girls being that frank with me. I mean, I work out hard at the gym, and I train hard at boxing, but not so I can get ogled.

  I shake my head and look for pants. Ally may like how I look, but she doesn’t like how I am. Her words from last night are coming back to me, stinging me and ringing in my ears.

  “Sorry,” she says. “But yeah, at least I didn’t do anything sketchy while you were out.”

  “Huh?” The fact that she has to say that makes me think she at least considered it. That’s encouraging.

  “I didn’t,” she insists, misreading my expression as disbelief that she was honorable, when it’s really disbelief that she could really be so attracted to me.

  It’s a bit sad knowing she wants me physically but not emotionally. Not as sad as knowing I’m below a jerk on the totem pole, though.

  “I’m sorry about what I said last night. It wasn’t you. I was having a hard time, and I hate wearing dresses, ‘cause I hate when guys come on to me, and I didn’t like you talking to Emily, and I know you aren’t mine, but I just, I don’t know what we are. I want to just be friends, but…” She trails off.

  “But?”

  “Yeah.” She turns toward the closet. “You got some clothes I could borrow?”

  I pull out a pair of clean sweat pants with an adjustable draw string and toss them.

  “Look away,” she says. I do.

  “Need anything else?”

  “No, I have the shirt already. Kinda weird to be wearing your clothes, seeing as we’re just friends.”

  She didn’t like me talking to Emily. That seems like useful information. I tuck it away to ask Amy or someone about.

  “Okay done. You can turn around.” I turn around and then turn away again, ears burning. I rummage through the hangers, find a black shirt and toss it back to her.

  “Why?” she asks. “This one is fine.”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Why? ‘Cause my bra shows? Does that matter?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want anyone to see that,” I say, knowing I have no right to admit it, but feeling possessive because she’s in my room, in my clothes, complimenting my body.

  “Like it’s your choice.”

  “It’s not, but I’d like to make you breakfast, and you can’t go like that in front of my mom.”

  “Fine, I’ll change, I’ll change. Don’t get huffy.” I hear rustling, presumably the t-shirt going over her head. “‘Kay, you can turn around now.”

  I wasn’t ready for how beautiful she looks in my clothes. Her long, toned body make my sweats look like something that could go down a runway.

  Or maybe I’m just in love with her.

  The pants sit loose around her hips, showing a bit of skin where the t-shirt is falling to the side. The outline of her waist and chest are visible through the thin fabric.

  I want to take her in my arms, right now. The urge is almost irresistible.

  She blinks up at me with her big, silver eyes and looks so bared to me, so honest.

  But her words from last night are still rising up like bile, and it kills the attraction between us.

  “You know, you could give me a break,” she says quietly, playing with the hem of her shirt. “I mean, I know I wasn’t the best friend last night, but considering I dragged your butt off the concrete, got you into a car, drove you home, got you inside, hauled your big ass all the way up those stairs by myself. And didn’t even molest you.”

  Again with the molesting. I think she just wants to be in control, so she doesn’t get hurt. I don’t want to hear what she did for me last night. I want to take care of her, not be taken care of. I want her to apologize for what she said. I want her to take it back.

  But she’s here in my room with me, and every time I look at her, good feelings threaten to overcome the bad ones. If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t be here. It’s not the type of care I want, but I’ve been maybe expecting too much of her.

  I need to back off.

  She’s been telling me all along that she can only give me friendship, and I was too selfish to listen.

  I sit next to her on the bed. Put an arm around her and pull her close. “I’m sorry. It’s okay.”

  “It better be.”

  “It is. You want some breakfast?” I ask.

  “Oh, you’re that type, huh?”

  “Hm?”

  “Cook me some breakfast after our one night stand.”

  I blush again and rub the back of my neck. “Uh.”

  “Kidding.” She stands and reaches out a hand to help me up.

  “Ally,” I say, wanting to clear up just one thing from the other night. “I could hit someone if I needed to.”

  “Sure,” she says, but she’s already turning away.

  “No, I mean it. I could hit someone, if they were hurting you. Or you were in trouble.”

  “Alright motor mouth. I get it.”

  But I think I can see the back of her neck going pink too. I follow her downstairs for breakfast.

  I head down the stairs, still feeling a little wobbly, as if my body just isn’t quite right yet.

  A thought stops me cold, leaves me clutching the banister, adrenaline shooting through me. Whoever roofied me probably meant to roofie Ally.

  The thought makes me cold, and angry. Far too angry. I can’t even move for a second. Then Ally looks back at me, mouths the word breakfast, and skips toward the kitchen. I clench and release my free hand and slowly let go of the banister. She’s fine. I got roofied, and not her. What if I hadn’t drunk her drink? What if she had, after I was gone?

  Even a really strong person like her would have been in trouble then. I may be just her friend, but I’m going to stick like glue until we’re sure who did that.

  Probably one of the three douchebags. They probably saw me with her before I got drinks. Dangit, I did leave one while I went to the kitchen for more cups. I
groan and go down the rest of the stairs, beating myself up all the way into the kitchen.

  She sits on a stool, and makes it spin back and forth.

  I look through our cupboards. “What do you want?”

  “What do you have?”

  “Pretty much anything a normal person would have.”

  “Pancakes?” she asks softly, not facing me. “Do you have pancakes?”

  “Sure. You like them?” I grab my mom’s batter mix out of the cupboard, and pull eggs out of the fridge.

  “Never had them homemade. Seems like a good normal person food.”

  I frown and pause, because it’s another of those moments where she’s just said something really sad and not even seemed to realize how sad it was. I grab a mixing bowl and pull down the griddle. Such a simple thing, and she’s never had it.

  “Your parents never made pancakes?”

  No answer. Shoot, I forgot she doesn’t have a mom.

  “I was in foster care, pretty much until I was sixteen. And not the kind of places that make you pancakes.” She leans forward on the counter, cheek on hand.

  “These better be as good as McDonald’s.”

  I grimace. “Those are gross.”

  “Well excuse me, mister fancy pants. Some of us take what we can get.”

  “No, I just meant, these will be better, I hope.”

  I feel bad. I didn’t mean to be a snob. I’ll just make her the best damn pancakes of her life.

  Ally

  He shouldn’t look manly making pancakes, but he does. I glare at his back, resenting him for being so sexy and so off limits.

  He doesn’t look at all embarrassed to be using all that muscle to just pour and flip pancakes. They smell amazing, but take sooo much longer than fast food ones.

  I tap my fork on the table next to me lightly, beating out a drum rhythm from one of my favorite songs.

  So bored. He’s completely involved in his cooking, and I hate being alone with my thoughts. I need TV, or something. Finally he turns around, plate in hand. He sets the plate down in front of me, hands me syrup, and butter, and sits down next to me.

  He looks down for a second, like he’s trying to sneak a discreet prayer. I just do the same, hoping it counts for me too, whatever he’s doing. I already know the dude has some kind of religious hang-up. I mean damn, he was even spouting the no sex before marriage thing after being roofied, like he has it on autopilot somewhere. At least he seems to have forgiven me for last night. At least he’s still my friend.

  I need him like that.

  I spread butter all over my pancakes and drench them with syrup, then fold one up and put the whole thing in my mouth at once like I do at McDonald’s. It doesn’t work so good with real pancakes. I stare over at Ryan, eyes wide, cheeks puffed out. Shiz, this is awesome. Now if only I could swallow it. I feel like a hamster caught with too many nuts in its cheek.

  He takes one look at me and laughs. He turns away. “Go ahead and spit it out. I’m not offended.”

  I do, walking over to the garbage to do it. Regretting the loss of so awesome a pancake. “Works fine when it’s fast food,” I say, embarrassed. “You can just roll them up like a taco when you’re on the run.”

  “Yeah, you’ll have to cut these,” he says. “They’re dense.”

  “They’re amazing,” I say, plowing into the next one. “You’re amazing.”

  He just keeps eating, a slight grin on his face the only indication that he’s realized food is my weakness. I push my plate away with a frown, he pushes it back without even looking.

  “Eat, you need it after last night.”

  “True, you’re a freakin’ beast to move around.” I grab another pancake, rip in half and just dip it in the rest of the goo on my plate. Living with someone like Ryan would probably make me fat. I laugh at the thought.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I was just thinking that whoever dates you is gonna get so fat.”

  He purses his lips. “As long as they’re still happy, fine by me.”

  I just shake my head. Dude is unreal.

  “So, you don’t like me talking to Emily?” he asks, out of nowhere.

  I freeze, pancake halfway to mouth, and decide to shove it in as a way not to answer. I chew slowly, take a drink of my milk, and go for another pancake, hoping he won’t notice.

  “Ally?”

  I groan and set my fork back down with a clatter. “Yeah?”

  “You don’t like me talking to Emily?”

  This is it. He’s got me. I don’t get it myself, I just know that I do mind, and that I shouldn’t, because I have no right to. “I don’t know.”

  “You said you did. Why?”

  “Maybe she roofied you,” I say. “You think of that? That’s probably why it bugs me. Yeah, you two were talking and stuff…”

  “Is that all?” His green eyes bore into mine, like he can see straight through my skull and into my brain, but his face is gentle and relaxed, as always.

  “Yeah, that’s all. But, I mean, yeah, that’s probably stupid.” I go back to eating my pancakes to try and look casual. “I’m sure she didn’t. You should date her. I think she’s into you.” Why am I saying this? Shut up, mouth.

  “I should?”

  “Yeah, sure. I hate to say it, because she’d drive me up the wall with the goody two shoes act, but I thought you two would make a good pair.”

  He frowns at me, his face deadpan. “Why?”

  I throw my fork down. “‘Cause she’s good enough, okay? She’s freaking good enough.”

  “And you aren’t?”

  “I’m not interested.” I push away from the counter. “I need to go home. I got homework. It’s late.”

  “I’m sorry. I just, I don’t know what to say when you say someone else is good enough. But I know you just want to be friends. I get it. I’m okay with it.”

  “You’re getting real good at this talking thing. Almost too good.” I don’t come back to the counter though.

  “I’ve been good at it a long time, I just couldn’t show anyone, couldn’t let it out when I wanted to.”

  “True. Fine. So you’ll date Emily?”

  His eyes widen slightly. “Why? Why does it matter to you?”

  “It just does. I’ll feel like it’s my fault if you don’t, ‘cause I said those mean things about her.”

  “It’s not your fault. I’m not interested.”

  “Why? ‘Cause you only like girls that are bad for you?”

  “Because I’d rather be alone than with someone I don’t like,” he snaps.

  I frown and step away. “Fine. ‘Cause that’s working out real well for ya, twenty year old virginator.”

  His eyes go wide and his jaw tenses, accentuating the hard lines of his face. I’m such a douche. He just brings it out in me when he’s stubborn like that. He stands and walks towards me. The sexiest virgin ever. He’s wearing a black tee, and his hair is loose around his face. His slim hips barely hold up his sweats, and he even has nice feet.

  As he gets closer, my hairs stand up and my neck gets hot. But then he passes me, goes to the front door, and holds it open.

  “What?”

  “One virginator. Ready to drive you home,” he says, sounding flat and robotic.

  I laugh, and then wince. “I didn’t mean it Ryan. I just didn’t want to hold you back.”

  “Virginator understands,” he says, leading the way to the car.

  “Ryan, I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “You know,” he says, pausing with his key in the ignition, “just what’s so wrong about being a virgin anyway?”

  I shrug. “I just don’t want you missing out on things because you’re holding out hope for me.”

  He shakes his head, revs the car, and palms the wheel to take us out of the driveway. “That’s not really your call.”

  “I’m just trying to tell you the truth,” I say. “Trying to be honest with you.”

  “Are you thoug
h?” We stop at a light and he pushes on the steering wheel to stretch his arms. Sunlight streams through the windshield and highlights the curves and swells of his muscles. “Are you really able to say that for certain?”

  “Aren’t I the one who could?”

  “You can say you don’t want me. But you can’t say you never will. Likewise, I can’t promise I’ll always want you. Maybe we get to know each other, maybe it doesn’t work out.” He turns to me, and his eyes are striking in the sunlight. Dark green at the edges, smooth jade in the center. Surprisingly dark lashes. “But you don’t get to tell me not to hope.”

  “I don’t want you to get hurt. Someone like Emily, she’s not going to hurt you.”

  “How do you know that?” He stops at the next light and looks around. Asks me for my address. I give it to him.

  “I don’t.”

  “Right, you don’t know. You’re judging her without knowing her, just like people judge you.”

  I shrug. “I don’t want to know her. She’s too nice.”

  “People like me Ally, we’re shy. That doesn’t mean we’re nice. Or that we can’t be flawed and mean as well. Quiet doesn’t mean good, and loud doesn’t mean bad. As you’ve proven.”

  I can’t even believe how much the dude can talk once he gets going. I can’t believe I teased him all last season without him saying more than a couple of words. All that time, what was he thinking?

  “I was so annoying to you last summer. How did you put up with it?”

  He chuckles, low and pleasant. “I liked it. You were funny.”

  I fold my arms and sit back, proud. “I can be.”

  “You are,” he says. “Sometimes.”

  “Thanks.” I tap my window as he pulls up in front of my place. My building looks extra dirty after spending the night somewhere so wonderful. But I’m sure that once I get upstairs and remember it’s all mine, that I’ll be comfortable.

  “So you aren’t going to date Emily, then?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know her.”

  “Can’t know her if you won’t try.”

  “I’m not good with girls.”

  “I could help you,” I say, a lump forming in my throat.

  He shakes his head, as if to say, ‘not this again’, and just stares out the windshield.