by Alex Lucian
If that wasn’t the face of a woman who needed to have multiple orgasms, then I didn’t know what was.
My face split into a smile. I couldn’t help it. The thought of saying that to her, given that we hadn’t spoken in the last two days, was too much to hold the silence. Scarlet Jennings needed to get laid so fucking bad. I chuckled under my breath and saw her face snap over to me, which made me laugh a little bit harder.
“What?” she snapped, not taking her eyes off the road.
“Nothing.” Even though I said it lightly, I could see her small, pale hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles went white. “You’re just in such a pleasant mood this morning. Did someone take a shit in your Wheaties?”
Her cheeks flushed bright red and I could see a muscle tick in her cheek. I wasn’t normally an asshole, but I felt very much out of my element. Hence me being a dick and not apologizing. If anything, it just stoked that tiny kindling burning in my gut into a roaring fire.
The thing with Scarlet was foreign to me. She hated me. And that did something strange to me, like I wanted to pick her apart to figure out exactly why, figure out exactly how to fix it.
What didn’t help was that little scene that had played out in my head on the first day, the dirty things that her hair made me want to do to her. Fuck her hard, be so good that she’d have no choice to end up sweaty and breathless and finally fucking relaxed.
I needed out of the car. Stat. Because this shit was making me twitchy. Breathing the same air as her, that smelled like her, was making my brain melt into this weird alien person who wanted to bang Scarlet Jennings.
She didn’t say anything else, so I sure as hell wasn’t going to break the silence. Because what would I say? Oh, I was laughing because you need to get off, and I will gladly offer use of both of my hands, most likely my mouth and definitely my dick to get the job done. No, no, no.
Shifting in my seat, I pinched the bridge of my nose, like it would stop those thoughts from circulating through my brain and down into the aforementioned appendages. Her silence was different from mine though. Hers was pretty much throbbing with violence, like she’d enjoy shoving me out of the car while she merged onto the highway. Mine was … I don’t even know. A little desperate. Because while I’d thought it might be fun to mess with Scarlet at her party, flirt with her and throw her off a little just to see what she’d do, I didn’t think it would really do anything.
And the worst part was that it was only doing something to me. I couldn’t even risk a glance over at her, because I’d have a full blown erection in about four seconds, and my gym shorts wouldn’t hide that for shit. That’s what was so stupid, because what she was wearing? Despite my slamming of the car door when I first got in, I had a mental snapshot of her already. Fuck my life.
Her hair was in a high ponytail, so her face was on display in a way that showed the complete lack of makeup that she wore. Her perfect tits were covered in a light yellow t-shirt that should have looked simple, but it didn’t. Son of a bitch, it didn’t. With the red hair and the pale skin and dark jeans that she had on, she looked … summery, or something.
“Fuck,” I said under my breath, turning to look out of the window.
“You know what, Leo?” Scarlet snapped, obviously having heard me, so I pinched my eyes shut and clamped my teeth down to keep from responding. “I don’t have to drive you anywhere, and if you can’t figure out how to act like a normal, well-balanced person without cursing at me, then feel free to find a new ride.”
“It wasn’t aimed at you,” I said grudgingly.
She snorted. “Oh, I’ll bet. You must be a dumbass if you think I believe that.”
Yup. Fuck my life was right. I was a dumbass if I was thinking things like summery and perfect about this little harpy. Fire bubbled under my skin, defensiveness prickled along my scalp and the overwhelming need to make her see something else almost exploded out of me.
Never. I’d never had this feeling before. It wasn’t even about impressing her, not really. Shutting her up? Possibly. And yes, impressing her a little bit. I opened my mouth to say something snarky, but closed it again, feeling too exposed to be anything but honest. God, what was up with her fucking car? It was like being locked in confessional booth for thirty minutes. But you can bet your ass I clamped that mofo down tight.
“Yeah, it’s so easy to get drafted into the NFL. They only let us degenerates in.”
It wasn’t surprising that she didn’t immediately respond, but the fact that she didn’t apologize either just kinda pissed me off even more. I wanted to tell her how many hours of film I studied on a weekly basis during the season, how often I found myself up late looking at offensive schemes, the sheer insanity of what I put my body through to keep myself fast and strong and agile on the field.
“The NFL, huh?” Her tone was flat, not curious or consoling. Definitely not apologetic.
“I mean, I won’t be saving little Fluffy’s life or anything. No clipping a cat’s toenails or shoving my arm up a cow’s ass.”
“No. No, you won’t,” Scarlet clipped out as she turned the car into the parking lot next to the field. “You’ll be chucking a ball down the field. That’s so terribly impressive, Leo.”
Anger licked across my skin, so hot and fast that I felt it to the tips of my fingers and toes. Every muscle locked in place, and even though she’d stopped the car, I didn’t move, staring at the side of her face where she refused to look at me. With rough movements that made her shift away from me, I grabbed my backpack from the seat behind me and leaned toward her, pulling in a slow, deep breath.
She smelled like wildflowers. And right then, I kinda fucking hated wildflowers.
“You know what, church girl?” She flicked her brown eyes over to me, color still high in her face and mouth pinched shut. “I’d tell you to suck my dick right now, but I don’t think you’d know what to do with it.”
Then I pushed out of the car, slammed the door and didn’t look back.
* * *
My mood—the black cloud shrouding me—served as a pretty effective wall once I was out on the field. Instead of moving to do some passing drills like I normally would have, I stalked over to the edge of the field where Coach had the large tractor tires. Mostly our defensive backs and linemen would flip these across the field, working their arms, chest and legs with the five hundred pound rings of heavy rubber.
So I took a deep breath, hooked my hands underneath one and pushed up, using my right knee to brace under the tire when I’d lifted it enough. With a harsh breath, I surged up, muscles screaming in my biceps and shoulders. Again and again and again, I flipped the tire, sweat building up on my forehead and neck, the shaking of my muscles the only thing making me feel better.
I’d told Scarlet Jennings to suck my dick. I would have laughed if I wasn’t still so fucking pissed off. When the tire smacked against the grass of the field, I stopped, bracing my hands on my hips and breathing hard. About forty yards away, I could hear the chatter of my teammates, but I didn’t look over.
“Madsen,” Coach Cook called from behind me, the sharp bark of his voice making me close my eyes. I’d known him long enough now that I could tell he was pissed, just by how he said my name.
“Yeah, Coach?” I turned and wiped the sweat from my forehead with my forearm.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” His sharp, beak-like nose, dark eyes, and white shock of hair always made me think of him as a bald eagle. Majestic when they wanted to be, but completely capable of fucking you up if they wanted. “Did you even warm up?”
Clenching my jaw, I shook my head. He sighed, tucking his clipboard under his arm. When he shoved the bill of his hat up to rub at his hairline, I relaxed a little. That was his I’m disappointed in you, not rip you a new asshole angry tell.
“I need you to be smarter than that, Madsen.”
Shame made me look away from him, because he was right. I was the starting quarterback, and if I fuck
ed up my arm from doing a stupid exercise that I hadn’t warmed up for, then the impact on my college career and our team’s season wouldn’t be good. “I know, Coach. Sorry.”
“If you know, then why did you do it?”
“Just … just had a shit morning. It won’t happen again.”
The assessing look he gave me was enough to make me stand up straighter. He was that kind of guy. He didn’t scream at us, didn’t berate us, but if he was disappointed in us, we’d all break our backs trying to make it up to him.
“Good,” he said after a few more seconds. “You’re allowed to have stuff in life that makes you want to work harder, train harder. Sometimes that’s the shit that will win you games, too. But you’re the guy that needs to try to keep your head on straight. Because if you let that stuff fuck with your head, then you start making stupid mistakes. And I expect more than that from you.”
I held his eye contact, because he’d been the guy for three years that fed the part of me that didn’t get that kind of respect anywhere else. And one of the things he’d taught me was that you look people in the eye when they’re talking to you; it’s what men do.
“I know you do, Coach.” As soon as I watched him nod and walk off, I knew he would have kicked my ass if he’d heard what I’d said to Scarlet in the car. Some coaches in college or the NFL didn’t care what kind of men their players were off the field as long as they did their job on the field, but Coach Cook was not one of them. Every guy that played for him knew to treat their elders, their teammates, and women with respect. If we slacked on our studies or broke an NCAA rule for conduct, or for drug or alcohol use, he’d bench us so fast our head would spin.
He was the one who told me I had a shot at the NFL—that if I kept my head on straight, kept my ass in line, I could probably go in the second or third round of the draft. I'd probably play backup somewhere my first few years and hopefully get a shot after learning the ropes. When he’d told me that, it was the first time in my life that the weight of someone else’s expectations felt good and heavy, a welcome burden to bear.
My shoulders slumped. I blew out a long breath through puffed cheeks. I’d probably be riding the bus home after my little outburst in the car. And I couldn’t even say that I didn’t deserve it. She had no idea what it had been like for me my entire life, and even though I loved my parents and my brother, the fact they didn’t expect a whole lot from me had dug under my skin much deeper than anyone could realize.
I’d do better. No more snapping at Scarlet for not knowing what was going on in my head. No more calling her names. At least not out loud.
Yes, I’d do better. Or I’d try to at least, if she ever spoke to me again.
Chapter Five
He’d told me to suck his dick. Hours later, I still couldn’t get those words, and the way he’d bit them off, out of my head.
Church girl, he’d said. Church girl. He’d made me feel like I was fifteen all over again, waiting with my friends by their lockers as he passed me by. “Hey church girl,” he’d said then, though with considerably less derision. Back then, it had been a joke.
If I separated the words and analyzed them individually—which I did, because overthinking was innate for me—the girl part of the nickname particularly rubbed me raw.
Three years since high school and he still saw me as a girl. It shouldn’t bother me, I knew that in the most logical part of my brain, but the part that wanted to be seen as a woman was insulted and annoyed. Things had changed considerably in the years since awkward glasses, bras with extra padding, and metal braces. I’d been the most cliché of clichés—boy figure and frizzy hair—but once the freshman fifteen hit and filled out all my womanly curves? Well, I’d seen myself differently.
Again, I chastised myself for even being bothered by it. We were talking about Leo—whose only brain seemed to hang between his legs. Why would someone like me appeal to someone like him—a guy who’d dated more than three quarters of the females in our high school class. Being in the very narrow margin of girls who hadn’t succumbed to his dimples and seemingly irresistible charm should earn me a mental pat on the back, but all it did was make me wish I’d been more daring.
Instead I’d buckled down after high school, taking classes non-stop. Filling the void of boys with books and spending my nights studying instead of discovering what was so spectacular about sex.
When I’d hit my sophomore year of college with nary a boyfriend, my best friend Liza had all but shoved me on the first guy to look my way at a bar we’d snuck into with our fake IDs. I’d dated him for an unreasonably short amount of time before I’d let him follow me back to the dorm.
Even now I cringed, remembering how I’d been over-thinking the moment while he’d been pulling his pants down, revealing his pale, white chicken legs. I’d tried not to laugh when he’d fallen over as he had yanked off his socks.
Later, when he’d fumbled with the condom and slid inside of me without even bothering to pay attention to my breasts, I’d wondered what all the fuss was about. Ten pumps and he was done, passed out beside me and snoring five minutes later on my pillow. And I’d lain there, my panties stuck around my ankles and my center sore and empty, feeling like Liza had set me up for disappointment.
Sighing, I looked at my watch and tapped my feet on the brake pedal. I’d turned the car off twenty minutes earlier while waiting for Leo outside of his locker room. I was running out of patience.
Tempted to go home without him, I put my hand on the key in the ignition. The guilt of even thinking of leaving him halted me from turning the key. But it didn’t stop the impatient tap of my feet.
Two minutes and twenty seconds later, the door to the locker room opened and Leo stepped out. When his eyes fell on my car and moved up to meet my eyes, I knew by his expression that he was surprised to see me. He had a bag slung over one shoulder and his hair was wet like he’d just taken a shower. He started for the car, slow at first and then quickened his pace when I narrowed my eyes and grit my teeth.
The passenger door opened and he slid in, bringing with him a wall of Boston heat and man. He smelled clean and just like what a man should smell like.
I wished I had just taken off minutes earlier. I was pissed that he was so late and pissed that his scent was distracting me from remembering why I was annoyed.
“Hey,” he said as he buckled. I didn’t respond, just gunned it out of the parking lot, speeding much more than I ever did. “Whoa, where’s the fire?”
Again, I didn’t say anything as I whipped around streets to get to the interstate. My anger was palpable and my attraction to him was warring with my brain, asking me why I was intensely annoyed with him.
His words from earlier came to me again. I’d tell you to suck my dick right now, but I don’t think you’d know what to do with it.
Oh, right. That.
Once I’d merged into traffic on the interstate, I started to relax. Breathing in and out of my mouth had calmed my hormones, because I wasn’t smelling him as strongly.
But I knew my rage was still ever-present when his hand reached out and turned up the air conditioning. My first instinct had been to slap his hand, but I’d waited until his hand had moved from the console before I turned the air conditioning back to where it was.
He waited longer the next time, changing the radio station when an advertisement came on. In truth, I was so caught up in my thoughts of why I was pissed off at him that I hadn’t even noticed the ad until he turned it to an alternative rock station. But nonetheless, a second later I changed it back to the advertisements, just because I could.
When he reached for the air conditioning again, I snapped, slapping his hand away. I gave him a quick glare before turning my eyes back to the road, my knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. When he reached again, I didn’t even wait to see out of my peripheral vision what he was going for before I reached out and slapped his hand hard enough that my own fingers stung.
“You should h
ave let me know you were going to be running so late,” I said, breaking my silence. I clenched my jaw again, pissed with myself for not controlling my anger around him.
“What?” he asked, and I sensed his body shift in his seat so he was angled toward me. “Got a hot date or something?”
The way he said it raised my hackles. He was always doing that—subtly or noisily expressing his disbelief in my ability to have a social life. But I wanted to be the bigger person, so I stayed silent—at least on the outside. Internally, my blood was boiling.
When we pulled on to our street, I saw him shift in my periphery.
“Hey,” he said, placing one large, warm palm on my shoulder.
I nearly ran the car into Mrs. Freeman’s mailbox from the contact. I hoped Leo hadn’t noticed the way the car had jerked and pulled into my driveway with more control than I felt. I took in the dark and empty windows. My parents had left on sabbatical the day earlier, leaving me with the run of the house for the next six weeks.
“Scarlet,” he said. When he spoke my name, I paused, listening, but not looking at him. “Let me take you out for a beer or two. An apology.”
Though he sounded genuine, it pissed me off that instead of simply saying “I’m sorry,” he wanted to take me to a bar, a place he knew I didn’t frequent as a rule, and buy me a two-dollar mea culpa beer.
“Leo,” I said, turning so that I was looking at him out the corner of my eye. “Get out of my car.”
Chapter Six
After spending three solid hours with microscopic anatomy, my eyes were tired and my brain was fried because, against my better judgement, all I could think about was Leo, and his invitation to go grab an apology beer.
I clicked out of my school email and opened up Facebook as I nursed the weak wine cooler I’d found in the garage refrigerator. It was too sweet for my liking, the sugar practically drilling a hole right through my teeth. I scrolled through the most recent posts, including all of Liza’s posts from her job at The Hole, one of the local bars. I liked her most recent photo, because it was a typical Liza shot. It was taken from behind the bar, with two of the bartenders in mid-throw, tossing bottles of liquor over her head. Her hands were on her cheeks, her bright-red lips in a surprised ‘O’ and her eyes so large she looked like a caricature. She had a dozen comments on the photo.