The Tenth Girl

by Aarons, Carrie

  Harper: I turn you on?

  Cain: More than you know. Want me to show you?

  I’m pretty sure he’s asking if I want him to send me a dick pic, and the answer is a hard no.

  Harper: You know I’ve never been with anyone, right? I think that’s a little too fast for my speed.

  I might be putting a damper on the sexting, but if I was going to see him naked, I wanted it to be in person the first time. I wasn’t as technology obsessed as my age would portray me as.

  Cain: I know, I know, we’re taking it slow. But let me just tell you, you drive me wild, baby.

  I flush at the word baby. This boy could make me turn red as a ripe, juicy apple about to fall hard to the ground from its secure, but safe, branch.

  Harper: I don’t know how to do this, but …

  Cain: Stop thinking. Tell me what you want me to do to you.

  I squeal. I can’t believe I am actually going to do this.

  Harper: I want you to kiss me. Like you did that night in the car. Slow and searching.

  Cain: I’ll do more than kiss you.

  Harper: And I want you to feel me again.

  Cain: That was one of the hottest night’s I’ve ever had.

  Harper: But you’ve had many, right?

  I couldn’t help the self-doubt creeping in. He’d probably done that dozens of times with other girls. In the exact same location, the same backseat of his car.

  Cain: None of that matters. What happened in the past doesn’t matter. You’re the only one, Harper.

  Does he say that to all of the girls? Or does he really mean that? Can I trust what I’d seen in his eyes that night at The Atrium.

  And speaking of the night at The Atrium, there was something I needed to discuss with Mom. I leave my phone on my bed, not sure how to respond to Cain. I am never truly sure how to talk to him … sometimes he seems larger than life. So I go to seek out Mom, to talk to her about what else happened that night.

  I find her on the deck out back, drinking a glass of wine and scribbling on notepads. I can tell she’s doing something for work, for her students, or for the principal to look over.

  “Mom, how come you didn’t tell me you were dating Mr. Mills?” I broach the subject carefully, but dive right into it, knowing I need to get this off my chest.

  She turns around from where she’s lesson planning at the table. “How do you know Michael?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. “I don’t know him, I know his daughter.”

  She slaps her forehead and puts down her pen. “Of course you do, I completely forgot that he had a daughter in the same grade as you.”

  “Yeah, and she just happens to be the homecoming queen.” I roll my eyes.

  “Oh, Harper, I’m sure she’s lovely.”

  Should I tell my mom that said lovely girl called her a whore not more than two weeks ago?

  “Believe me, Mom, she’s not. Do you really like this guy? Because if it’s just another one of your boyfriends, can you end it now? On my behalf?”

  It’s probably selfish of me to ask this of her, and I know I’m being kind of irrational giving in to this peer pressure, but I’ve had to endure years of her men bullshit. The least she could is sacrifice one relationship for me. I mean, I did move across state lines because one of those dating adventures ended badly.

  She blinks at me. “Harper … wow. That is so … selfish of you. No, I will not stop seeing him. I really like Michael, and I think … this could be it.”

  “You say that every time,” I grumble, thinking of how I can plead with her.

  I hear something slam, and when I look over, the expression in Mom’s eyes is pure hurt. “So what if I’m a romantic? I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; If believing too much in love is my worst quality, then you should be damn happy to have me as a mother. And you know what? Yes, I realize that sometimes my relationships affect you, but I’ve always put you first. We moved here for your quality of life, not because I had a bad breakup. I knew that a senior year at Haven could give you more than we ever had in Florida. You would have a family, albeit small, here. The school was better, the town was better. We would live in an actual house, with your very own bedroom.”

  She stops, wiping at her eyes which are now shining with tears. “I raised you as a single mother, which isn’t something I want a pat on the back for, but you need to realize that I’ve done everything for you. I would do it every day, for the rest of my life … but when it comes to who I date, I’m sorry but you don’t get a say. Unless it’s harmful to me, which Michael is the complete opposite of, then you don’t get to tell me that I have to break up with him. He makes me happy, he’s a good man. If you don’t want to be friends with his daughter, then fine. But he is the first man since your father …”

  Mom breaks off, choking on a sob. I can see how much I’ve upset her, and I am quick to get up, to wrap my arms around her neck.

  “Never mind. I’m sorry I said anything. I want you to be happy.” I shush her, wiping a tear.

  My heart sinks for having put demands on her. She was right. We didn’t have the most glamorous life, but she’d always provided for me. Kept the house clean. Done my homework with me and made sure that dinner was on the table and that Friday night always held a movie and popcorn. She’s a good mother, and if dating is her one vice, I will have to live with it.

  Even if Annabelle Mills maims me in the process.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Harper

  Typically, I enjoy writing outside.

  The fresh air, the sun or the moon, just me and the landscape. In Florida, I would head to the beach with my computer. But here in Haven, I have acres in my very own backyard.

  However, for the past week or so, I’d had such bad writer’s block that any time I picked up my laptop, my brain would go blank. I’d tried it all; plotting exercises, re-reading chapters I’d already drafted, checking out a book from the library just to read for pleasure. And none of it had worked.

  So today, I decided on a change of venue. While most of Main Street in Haven was compromised of the typical small town necessity shops—a dry cleaner, a dive bar, the post office—there was one decent coffee shop. It played acoustic cafe music, had worn wood tables, and a pretty good vanilla latte. And most importantly, it was quiet and dim-lighted … the perfect haven in Haven to write.

  I’ve gotten in a solid thousand words, which makes me want to weep with joy, when I gaze off, looking out the big plate glass window I’m sitting next to. It gives a picturesque view out onto the main drag, and since moving here I’ve begun to appreciate the charm of a small southern town. Not that where I was from in Florida was any big city, but something about Haven just felt so inclusive and down home. Everyone knew everyone, there was a pride about being from here.

  As I gaze out the window, I suddenly spot Cain across the street. He’s walking with his hands in his pockets, a Haven football sweatshirt thrown over a pair of jeans. It isn’t necessarily chilly at sixty degrees, but people from warm places have a different opinion of what cold is.

  I watch him, wondering where he is going or coming from. His black hair is blowing in the wind, the hard planes of his olive-skinned face so beautiful in the streetlights.

  He’s standing under one, looking across the street, straight at me but not seeing me. I stare at him, a small smile spreading my lips. The kind of smile that forms when you see someone but they don’t see you, the kind of smile you have the second their mind clicks into place and they notice you looking at them.

  Cain sees me, and his eyebrow raises, as if to ask how long I’d been staring at him. I raise a hand and wave, and he starts over toward the coffee shop.

  I try to slyly check my appearance in the computer screen that’s gone black in my absence, but I feel those green eyes on me. Looking up, there he stands.

  “Hey, gorgeous.” Cain slides into the empty seat across from mine.

  “Well, hello. What’re you doing toni
ght?” I can’t control my jiggling knee or the nerves lighting up my stomach like fireflies.

  “I was just visiting my gramps at his nursing home around the corner. What brings you here?” Cain picks up the last piece of chocolate croissant on my discarded plate and pops it in his mouth.

  “Just wanted to get out of the house.” I shrug, not wanting to get into what I was actually doing.

  But, like everything else in his universe, what Cain wants to know or see just simply presents itself. He slides the computer away from me and wiggles the touchpad on the keyboard, turning the screen to him.

  “Hey!” I protest, trying to grab it back.

  He tsks at me and brings the laptop onto his knees, where I can’t reach it. For a minute or two, Cain’s eyes study the screen.

  “Is this … did you write this?” He looks at me, curious.

  He’s seen the program I write in, that lays out books in chapters and sections.

  “Yes.” I blink, not knowing what he thinks and not wanting to say more.

  “You’re writing a book? An honest-to-God book?” Cain’s mouth is breaking out into a grin.

  “I am. But … well it’s only a first draft and it’s not done and I’m not even sure what I’m doing …” I start to ramble.

  He sets my laptop down, leans across the table, and kisses me full on the mouth. “I think that’s pretty damn cool, darlin’. What’s it about? When will you finish it and can I read it?”

  My mouth hangs open, because honestly, I hadn’t even seriously thought about anyone reading my book. Yes, I’d thought of the aspects of publishing, how to do it, when, the mechanics of it. But I hadn’t truly thought about someone actually reading my words. It made my whole body convulse with nervous energy at once.

  “It’s a thriller, a suspense fiction novel. I … I have probably about five chapters left to go and then it will be finished.” I didn’t answer his question about reading it.

  “And when can I read it?” Cain tries to grab for my computer again, but like a ninja, I take it, save my work and slip it into my backpack.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll make you buy it like everyone else.”

  “Only if you sign it for me. I’ll tell everyone that I made out with you when you’re a famous author.” His fingers seek my palm and he begins rubbing his thumb in small circles around it.

  “I’ll think about,” I say, flirting with him.

  “When did you start doing this?” he asks.

  “About a year and a half ago. You know about my love for books. One day I just decided to start playing around with writing. And the idea that I had just kept developing, and I couldn’t stop. It’s what I want to do. I want to travel the world with nothing but my laptop and the ideas in my head.”

  It sounded so wistful, such a pipe dream. But Cain surprises me by saying, “I think that if that’s your dream, you should pursue it full force. I think you could do anything you wanted.”

  His words are genuine, and I have to blink at him because without even knowing me that long and without even reading the book, he believes that I can publish it. That I can succeed.

  “I’m hungry. Want to go grab a burger?” Cain switches the subject, and a flicker of doubt waves through my brain that he actually did care about my interests.

  But, I’d do anything to spend more time with him. “Sure, I’m done writing anyway.”

  “I know an author … how cool am I? Come on, Ms. Austen, dinner is on me.”

  We walk out of the cafe, as the light is disappearing on Main Street. Darkness closes in, and the neon signs of the restaurants and bars glow all along the main drag. Cain links his fingers in mine, and we walk, swinging our conjoined arms like a pair of old, content married people.

  An alley comes up on our right, and Cain catches my face in his free hand, his smile curving devilishly. “Be spontaneous with me.”

  I have no idea what’s on his mind, but I can’t resist that playful grin.

  Cain pulls me into the alley, toward the back and behind some boxes stacked outside from the business whose side door leads out here. Anyone could see us, if they looked hard enough, as they walked by.

  He winds his hand in my hair, tugging back a bit so that I look up into his face. “You wanted me to kiss, to touch you. To show you more.”

  I can barely breathe I am so aroused. I’ve never felt like this, like I might melt into a puddle of lust right at his feet. All thoughts of dinner are abandoned as I make the move to close the gap between our mouths.

  My hands conform to either side of his jaw, angling his head where I need it to be. I’m not sure what’s come over me … maybe it’s that I’ve told him my dream and he encouraged it. Maybe it’s that I’m growing more comfortable with him, that we’ve been doing this flirting dance back and forth like some kind of mating ritual and now it was time to act.

  Cain has me pinned to the wall, his lower half grinding into mine as we kiss, our tongues exploring every crevice of the others mouth. My hands move down, gripping the sides of his neck and feeling the sheared hair there. It pricks at my palms and sends a shiver down my spine. They trail his sweatshirt, and I burn to feel what’s underneath. I haven’t explored much of Cain beneath his clothes. Having no real experience doing so with anyone, I don’t want to look like a fool.

  As soon as I slip my hand under his clothing and touch the hot slab of stone that makes up his stomach, a growl unfurls in his throat. It travels down my own, our mouths fused. The sound makes my knees wobble, and I’m wet in my underwear. I’ve never felt this liquid heat sticking to my underwear before.

  In my exploration of Cain’s body, I hadn’t realized that his hands were roaming too. Not until they get to the button on my jeans, working at it.

  I splay my fingers on the naked flesh beneath them and push gently. “Cain …”

  His hand stays at my button. “Is this okay?”

  I gulp, knowing that I’m about to go into uncharted territory. “Yes.”

  The word comes out definitively, but in my head, I’m shaking all over.

  He flicks it and suddenly it’s undone, a move I’ve done a thousand times over the course of my life but one that no boy has ever done to me. Cain kisses my neck, thrills of electricity striking my spine. The chilled air hits my bare stomach where his hand has inched my shirt up to get better access to my jeans. I don’t care though; I’m on fire.

  My hands, meanwhile, are skating across the planes of his abs, a light dusting of hair unfurling as I drag them lower, right to the top of his belt. I’m not ready to explore there yet, the thought of it makes me shake with nerves.

  And then, as if by some sort of stealthy magic, Cain’s fingers are in my underwear. They’re stroking the top of my mound, the skin soft and shaved. I had always trimmed it off, because I personally didn’t like the feel of the prickly, stubbly hair. Cain must like this, because he’s growling as he sinks his teeth into my neck. It makes my knees wobble again, and I have to grab onto his hips under his sweatshirt to keep myself upright.

  I moan into his mouth, aware that the alley echoes and anyone could walk past and find us. Cain responds with his own lustful noise and I feel like I might explode into a million tiny pieces of iridescent pleasure. His fingers are so close now, brushing down, exploring skin, until …

  Oh. God.

  One large digit brushes me there, the bundle of nerves that is taut and slick. It sends me reeling, has me gasping for breath, trying to grab onto a semblance of thought.

  But I can’t, I had no idea that this would feel this way. It’s like the sun shining directly onto one part of your body. Like an itch you never knew you had to scratch but when you did, the longest sigh imaginable was let out.

  Cain rubs in slow circles. So slow that I feel like he must be touching me for years, maybe even decades at a time. I can’t breathe there are so many sensations in my body. And then slowly, his finger starts to move under me, away from the dot that was making everything in me tig
hten.

  I must be a useless body right now, not that I care because I’m too focused on where his fingers are going. Suddenly, a sharp pain stabs me.

  “Breathe through it, feel my finger inside of you. Feel the fullness,” Cain whispers in my ear.

  It’s only his words, kind of dirty and Zen at the same time, that make me fight past the throbbing discomfort below. And it works. Once I push past that sting, I can feel his finger inside of me.

  Inside of me.

  He must have popped my cherry. I always thought that was just a metaphor, but I should have done more research to figure out that it actually was a thing. That it would hurt.

  But now, it doesn’t hurt at all. Cain moves his finger, slowly pumping it in and out of me in shallow strokes, and I groan. This is a different kind of pleasure, deeper than when he was rubbing me.

  I can’t believe I’m actually letting him finger me in an alley on Main Street. It feels risky and delicious, and so out-of-body because I don’t do this. Cain makes me a different person.

  “You’re beautiful.” He breathes, our eyes meeting.

  I feel where he’s hard, grinding against my leg, our jeans creating friction.

  After a while, he pulls his fingers away and kisses me, our tongues tangling once more.

  When he pulls away, he says, “Let’s go get a burger.” And smiles.

  I have no idea how I’m supposed to sit across a table from him right now and not blush like crazy, but I don’t want to say good night.

  I know that I didn’t have an orgasm, something in me still feels needy and unanswered, but maybe he thinks I did. Either way, tonight was probably one of the biggest moments of my life. Big in the sense that I would be a different Harper moving forward.

  That old me was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Two