Breakaway: A New Adult Anthology

by Jay McLean

  “Um…” I cleared my throat, found my voice unsteady. “Yeah, yeah—all better.” I croaked.

  He laughed. Actually, it was more like a lazy chuckle.

  One of Martin’s hands slipped up my back and under the strap of my bra, where the itch had been, his fingers splayed wide. The other went to the clip on my head and released the spring. My hair fell like a curtain down my back. I felt him wrapping the thick length around his hand.

  I pushed him again as I tilted my head to the side and away, feeling unaccountably breathless. “I’m all better now. Thanks for the help. Services no longer needed.” Everywhere he touched me sent ripples of awareness and heat to my core.

  My attempt at escape was a failure because, as soon as I pressed against him in earnest, Martin tugged my hair, encouraged me to tilt my chin upward.

  Then he kissed me.

  And—damn, damn, damn—he was a good kisser.

  More precisely, since I had grossly limited experience in the kissing department, he was what I imagined a good kisser would kiss like. The kind girls fantasize about. The guy who just takes what he wants, like he’s hungry and you’re on the menu, but somehow makes it epic for both parties involved.

  No preamble, prologue, or preface; just urgent, fervent, worshipful kisses, one right after the other. I had no choice but to wrap my arms around his neck, stand on my tip-toes, and try to kiss him back. Because, honestly, the way he held me, the way he growled when our tongues met, the way his mouth moved over mine—he demanded it.

  Also, in the recesses of my mind, I realized that this entire situation was completely preposterous. Likely, he was drunk or tripping on acid or was playing some kind of joke.

  One day I would tell my grandchildren to gather ‘round while I put in my good dentures, the ones with no space between my two front teeth. I would tell them for the millionth time about how Hercules had once accidentally kissed me in the chemistry lab at my Ivy League University.

  The need for air eventually required our lips to part, though we separated only inches. If I inclined my head forward our noses would touch.

  I opened my eyes as wide as they would go and glanced at his, found his gaze alternately moving between mine and my lips. I also noted that I wasn’t the only one who was breathing heavy.

  I said and thought in unison, my voice just above a whisper, “What was that?”

  His eyes stopped moving over my face and instead settled, held mine captive. They were all heated and… hot and… intense. I was starting to understand why the blood of a thousand virgins had been sacrificed at his altar of sexual prowess.

  I tried to swallow. I couldn’t.

  “That was necessary.” He finally said. Actually, he growled it.

  “Necessary?”

  “Yes. That needed to happen.”

  “It did?”

  He nodded once and bent as though he were going to do it again. I stiffened, my hands moved instantly to his chest and I thwarted his advance—because, if he started kissing me, it was surely a sign of Armageddon. Also, I was so far out of my comfort level that I was in an alternate dimension.

  “No-no-no-no.” I twisted my head to the side, braced my hands against the imposing wall of his chest. “We’re not doing that again.”

  He tugged my hair—I’d forgotten that he’d wrapped it around his hand—and bodily pressed me against the black topped lab table. His other armed wrapped completely around me, still under my shirt.

  “Yes. We’re doing that again.”

  “No. We’re not. We’re not doing anything unless it involves measuring the composition of trace elements in surface water.”

  “Parker-” his hand left my hair and slipped into my shirt again, spanning my side and stomach.

  “Because we’re lab partners and lab partners do not kiss.”

  “Then we’re not lab partners anymore.”

  “You can’t switch lab partners in the middle of the semester.”

  “I just did.”

  My hands moved down to catch his wrists because his hands were on their way to second base; I successfully intercepted his northward progress. “Nope. I don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” he nuzzled my neck and whispered against my skin. He must’ve known that nuzzling was going to cause my insides to melt. I imagined he’d conducted methodical experiments into the fastest way to female self-lubrication.

  “I’m not one of your easy girls, or even difficult girls.” My voice wavered, so I cleared my throat. “I’m not even really a girl. I’m more like one of the boys. Think of me like a boy.”

  “Not possible.”

  “It’s true. Do you kiss boys? Because, if not, then I think you must have me confused with someone else.”

  His movements stilled and a long moment passed. Then his hands fell away, he stepped away, and I slumped slightly forward—a weird mixture of bereft and relieved.

  “You’re a lesbian.” He said the words as though they explained a mystery he’d been trying to solve for years.

  My eyes shot to his. He was four feet away and I found him watching me with a dawning something. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it looked like disappointment and frustration.

  I swallowed, successfully, and licked my lips, shook my head. The irony of his confusion not lost on me.

  My first and only boyfriend had been gay. I just didn’t know it while we were dating through all of high school.

  I was still trying to catch my breath when I responded. “No. I’m not gay. I’m just… not interested in you that way.”

  This was true—because I’d witnessed his path of devastation with my own eyes.

  This was also a lie—because I was most definitely interested in him that way, just not the aftermath where he said it was meaningless sex, made me cry, and told me to get over it.

  His eyebrows jumped a fraction of a centimeter at my softly spoken declaration.

  “Not interested...” He repeated.

  I stepped to the side, scaling the length of the table, and reached for my bag. I hefted it to my shoulder, escape now the only thing on my mind. His slightly narrowed eyes followed my movements.

  “I know, right?” I tried to sound self-deprecating, which wasn’t difficult because I truly meant my next words. “Who am I? I’m nobody.”

  “You’re not nobody.” He countered. “Your mother is a United States senator and your grandfather was an astronaut.”

  I cringed. I hated it when people brought up my family. “Just because my family is famous, doesn’t mean I’m somebody.”

  He shifted forward and said with a surprising amount of vehemence. “Exactly! That’s exactly right.”

  “I know, right?” I readily agreed. “See, I’m ordinary. And you’re you. I’m sure you’re used to the deafening sound of underwear hitting the floor every time you enter a room. But I don’t do that kind of thing, even for Hercules. Sure, I’ll think about the possibility later when I’m safely alone in bed, but I never cross-pollinate fantasy and reality.”

  “When you’re alone in bed?”

  I didn’t acknowledge his words because… mortification.

  Instead I said, “I’m not a fast and loose girl. I’m a slow and steady girl. Who knows when or if I’ll ever cross the finish line.”

  He blinked at me, at my deluge of words. I didn’t even try to read his expression because I was so focused on walking backward out of the room.

  “You’re leaving?” He asked.

  “Yep.” I threw my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m going to go now. And don’t worry about the experiment. I’ll come in over spring break and finish it up. And when I see you after the break, everything will be back to normal. We can forget that this ever happened. We shall never speak of it.” My voice cracked on the last word.

  “Parker-”

  “Have a really great spring break.”

  “Kaitlyn-” He took two strides forward as though he were going to stop me; but he halted at the sound of crun
ching glass underfoot. He glanced at his feet, noticing for the first time the broken beaker on the floor. “What the hell?”

  I seized the opportunity afforded by his split attention and bolted out of the room.

  In fact, I ran down the hall like an insane person and slipped into the elevator just before it closed. I even jogged back to my dorm, and didn’t begin to relax until I crossed the threshold of the keycard access area, climbed the three flights to my room, and locked the door behind me.

  I tossed my bag to the corner of the tiny space, threw myself backwards on my bed, and rubbed my eyes with the base of my palms. The scene in the lab played over and over behind my closed eyelids—him touching me, kissing me, scratching the impossible itch.

  It wasn’t until several minutes later that I realized I’d forgotten to tell him about the dastardly plot I’d overheard.

  PART 2: Skirting the skirt-only party

  “I can’t believe you agreed to this.”

  “Shut it, Sam.”

  I tucked my long, now curled and hair-sprayed, black hair behind my ears. Self-consciously, I smoothed the skirt of the little black dress she’d talked me into wearing; annoyed—for the twentieth time—that the hem of the skirt ended mid-thigh.

  “You look hot, hooker. Just own it.” Sam nudged my elbow with hers and I grimaced.

  If someone had asked me twelve hours ago how I’d be spending the first Friday night of spring break, I would have told them I’d be curled up in my bed against fluffy pillows, sipping tea and eating shortbread while reading.

  I would not and could not have fathomed that I’d be on my way to a fraternity party dressed in lace topped thigh highs, a black dress, stiletto heels, hair down, wearing makeup.

  That’s right. Makeup. On my face. With glitter eye shadow.

  Also, my eyebrows were plucked. Plucked! Gah!

  I rolled my eyes and huffed like the disgruntled recluse I was. I would rather shop for a bra than go to a fraternity party, and that was saying a lot.

  “Oh, come on Katy. There was no way we could get in to the party wearing band t-shirts and men’s pants. This is a skirts-only party.”

  A “skirts-only party,” I’d been educated earlier in the evening, is a fraternity party where all the girls are required to wear short skirts. Upon hearing this news, I briefly considered leaving Martin to his fate. In the end, my conscience wouldn’t let me.

  Jerk conscience. Always making me do things.

  “You act like getting dressed up is torture.” she continued, “You look hot.” Sam, who I suspected had been waiting for a chance like this since our freshman year of high school, didn’t sound at all sorry for me.

  “I don’t look hot. I look ridiculous.”

  “You’re a babe.”

  “Shut it.”

  “A hot babe. And guys are going to be wanting some of that.” She pointed at me and flicked her wrist, indicating my bosom and backside. “Especially dat ass.”

  I grumbled, but made no other audible response. Inwardly, I cursed myself for the hundredth time that I’d failed to warn Martin about the plot I’d overheard in the chemistry lab earlier. If I’d just kept my wits about me, I would be curled up with a book now instead of walking toward a den of iniquity dressed like a girl.

  Even though we were still two blocks away, I could hear the sounds of the party. My neck felt stiff and my hands were clammy.

  The plan was quite simple. I would find Martin, explain about the plot and what I’d overheard, then we would leave. Sam wasn’t a frat party kind of girl either. Yes, she liked to get dressed up, but she called sorority girls ‘sorostitutes’ and fraternity guys ‘fratigalos’. She labeled them ‘group thinkers’ and claimed they suffered from a herd mentality.

  She was kind of judgy that way.

  I hadn’t given sororities or fraternities much thought because… no point.

  “I still don’t get why you don’t have his cell number. He’s your lab partner, right? And he was your lab partner last semester, too?” Sam tossed her blonde curls over her shoulder.

  Sam was a little shorter than me, and was attending the University on a tennis scholarship. She was determined to get into Harvard Law and therefore, like me, she was focused, spending very little of her time looking for ways to sow her oats. Her all-business attitude made her an ideal best friend and roommate.

  “I just don’t. I don’t have his number.”

  “Why not?” She pressed. She’d asked me this question several times as we were dressing—or, rather, as she was dressing me.

  “Because…” I responded again, wiping my palm on the dress.

  “Because why? What if you needed to get in touch with him about a project?”

  “I’d leave him a note.”

  “A note? Where? When? How?”

  “In the chemistry lab, in the cabinet.”

  “You pass each other notes?” Her tone turned teasing.

  “No. It’s not like that. I’ll leave a note if I can’t make it on Fridays and he does the same. Or, if I’ve finished something without waiting for him, that kind of thing.”

  “But why didn’t he want you to have his cell-”

  I stopped walking and faced her. “He tried to give it to me, okay? He tried last semester to exchange numbers, and I didn’t want to. Can you just drop it?”

  “You wouldn’t take Martin Sandeke’s number?” She asked as though the words I’d just spoken made no sense.

  “That’s correct.”

  “But… why the hell not? He’s— he’s— he’s Martin Sandeke!”

  “Because he’s Martin Sandeke, that’s why I wouldn’t take it.” I started walking again, my toes protesting the movement.

  “Katy, you’ve been crushing on Martin Sandeke since the first week of class two years ago, when you stalked him outside physics, before you even knew who he was.”

  “That’s because he’s physically beautiful and pleasing to the eye.” I mumbled.

  “He tries to give you his phone number and you don’t take it. Why did you do that? Explain it to me.”

  “Because, you know me, when I get drunk—even though it’s only happened twice—I drunk dial! I called Robbie the last time it happened.”

  Robbie was my high school boyfriend, who never seemed interested in physical intimacy unless we had an audience. Since he was my only boyfriend, I figured this was normal. We’d parted as friends.

  But last year I left him a drunk message asking him why he never tried to sleep with me. When I woke up the next morning, and everything came flooding back, it took me three weeks to return his call.

  When I finally did he informed me that he was, in fact, gay. Additionally, he had appreciated my willingness to be his beard in high school. He also assured me that, had he not been gay, that he would have tried to get in my pants early and often.

  It all sounded like pity.

  Worst conversation ever.

  Sam stopped me again with a hand on my elbow. “That was last summer and Robbie is ancient history.”

  “Can we just get this over with?” I pleaded, not wanting to talk about Robbie or about my stunted romantic history.

  Sam released an audible breath. “Katy, you’re beautiful and desirable—”

  “Oh my God, no more teasing. I’m wearing the dress, aren’t I? I even let you put makeup on me.”

  “I’m not teasing you. I’m trying to get you out of this perpetual funk you’re in. You hide yourself behind baggy clothes and eyebrows so thick they could be mustaches. Robbie is a lovely person but he shouldn’t have used you like that. Now you’re all skewed in the head.”

  “Can we not talk about this?”

  “Only if you promise to get Martin’s number tonight.”

  I shook my head, shifted on my feet. “I will not. I don’t want to drunk dial Martin Sandeke a few months from now. He won’t give me pity. He’s vicious. He’ll laugh in my face and make me cry.”

  Sam tsked, rolled her eyes, and s
tarted walking again. “Fine. Whatever. Go through life repressing your sexuality because one boy—one stupid boy who was confused—used you to hide his own inner turmoil.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re not welcome.”

  I let her snarky comment slide because we were on the same block as the fraternity house.

  It was what one would expect from a fraternity house at an Ivy League school. Large, several stories, classically painted, manicured lawn littered with red Solo cups and drunk partygoers. The mass of bodies—standing, sitting, leaning—spilled out the front door, down the sweeping staircase, and onto the grass. Techno music vibrated through the air, and was markedly louder near the porch.

  At the entrance to the house stood two very large men. Actually, I got the distinct impression they were bouncer dudes. Both were dressed in fraternity polo shirts. Their necks were as thick as my waist. They were chatting up a group of five tall, sylphlike girls. Their eyes scanned both Sam and I when we mounted the ginormous wraparound porch.

  In front of us, two girls in jeans and a guy—also in jeans—began crossing the threshold of the house.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” One of the big dudes yelled to be heard over the music; he held his hand out and halted their progress.

  The shorter of the two jean-clad girls shrugged and faced the big dude. “Goin’ to the party.”

  “Nah-uh, this is a skirts-only party.”

  The second big dude tipped his chin toward Sam and me; he bellowed, “You can go in, girls.”

  Sam pushed me gently on my shoulder and we moved around the group stalled at the entrance. Once inside, Sam and I wove through bodies; I had no idea where we were going or how I was going to find Martin.

  Looking around, I started to feel a bit better about my dress. It was black cotton, shorter than I thought appropriate, and sleeveless, but it was modest in comparison to some of the dresses and miniskirts we saw as we moved into the gigantic entryway.

  I did not, however, feel better about the crowd. People, people everywhere; dancing, making out, arguing, drinking, laughing. Even given the mammoth size of the foyer, the crush felt suffocating.