Fuuuuck.
“Can you please move, I need to find Lyra.” I try for asking nicely at first.
“She’s with Josh,” he brushes a loose strand out of my face in an over-familiar way that makes me cringe, “you don’t need to worry about her. He’s taking care of her if you know what I mean.” He grins down at me. “You should let me take care of you.” He leans in for a kiss, and I turn my head to the side since he still has his hand wrapped around the back of my neck.
“Jeremy, please let me go,” I assert. Instead of listening, he plants a sloppy wet kiss on my neck and my nose burns from the acrid scent of alcohol on his breath.
I push against his chest, but he doesn’t budge. Normally, I’d have my purse, which always contains either Mace or my pocket-knife and sometimes both at the same time. But I left it in Lyra’s car, not wanting to lose it. His hand lands on my hip and slides down my rear to the hem of my skirt as I continue to struggle.
“Get the fuck off me,” I grit out, seething and body stiff as a board. His sloppy wet kisses trail upwards toward my ear as I lean in the opposite direction.
“Don’t be such a tease. Look at you. You want some dick,” he slurs into my ear. Hand still on my ass, he presses insistently, pushing me closer and grinding his erection against me.
He wouldn’t seriously take this so far as trying to rape me in a room full of people would he?
My hands find the back of his arms, and I dig my fingernails as deeply as I can into the skin as I jut out my hip hard toward his groin. He releases an oomph of air but still doesn’t stop attempting to kiss me.
“I like a little fire. Tell me, Sloane, are you the type who enjoys being choked, spanked, and having her hair pulled?” He makes a show of lightly pulling my hair back.
“You’re not going to find out you moron,” I squirm, trying to break free from his grasp.
If I could just get his hand off my neck…
Caught up in the impudence of the moment and the fear of where this might be headed, my mind hardly even registers the loud thuds of someone charging up the steps. It’s only when I’m knocked to the ground, cracking my head on the wooden floor as Jeremy lands on top of me, that I realize someone has finally noticed my predicament.
Painful pulsing in my head causes my vision to become even more distorted, yet I attempt to concentrate on and understand the scenario unfolding before me.
XoXo
Gray
Storming up the wooden stairs, I rush the motherfucker who’s currently wrapped himself around Sloane like a Python. The force of the blow causes him to crash to the floor, taking Sloane with him, and pissing me off even more. Grasping the collar of his t-shirt in my fist, I yank him off of her, dragging him back a few feet and then releasing him as I climb on top of his chest.
The confused expression on his face transforms to fear, eyes widening and mouth slightly agape, which generates instant gratification in my own afflicted soul. My mind is a dark place right now as moral lines blur, my eagerness to cause great bodily harm overriding all sense of reason.
Pop.
My fist connects with his face as I start wailing. He yelps at the impact and attempts to throw a hand up over his face.
Pop.
I swing again, busting him in the mouth this time. Molten crimson gushes from his split bottom lip, but I’m not even close to satisfied.
Crack.
He howls, writhing beneath me like a fish out of water.
Might have just broke his nose, but the loser could have hurt Sloane, dammit!
“You don’t fucking touch a girl unless she wants you to, sorry sack of shit,” the menacing growl of my voice is barely recognizable.
Movement from the corner of my eye pulls my attention away from the task at hand, my eyes clashing with my new favorite color: Moonlit-Gray. And from the way she’s staring at me, unfocused and confused like she doesn’t even realize who I am, I know something’s not right. Panic strikes me. Swiftly hopping up from the scumbag on the floor, I go to her, but not before landing one last kick in his ribs.
“Damn lucky I don’t kill your ass,” I put on the record, just in case there was any doubt. Squatting down in front of Sloane, I witness the relief flooding her eyes. The fact that she’s relieved to see me, that she was actually fearful, makes me want to go back over there and not stop pummeling his ass until I’m in handcuffs.
“You okay?” My voice is hoarse, as she nods in response, blinking slowly. Extending my hand, I grip hers, firmly hoisting her into standing position. Only, she stumbles as soon as she’s upright and collapses back onto her bottom like a ragdoll. Her face contorts.
“I hit my head,” she admits sheepishly.
“Shit, I’m sorry, Sloane. When I realized you were trying to get him off you, I stopped thinking. I just reacted. It’s my fault you hit your head.” Guilt consumes me as realize my lashing out in anger resulted in her getting hurt.
“S’okay. Could have been hurt worse,” she whispers, closing her eyes and keeping them that way. Her reminder that she could have been hurt by him, meaning she felt like this could have led to something much worse than some idiot trying to cop a feel, makes my blood simmer all over again.
But she needs me right now, and it’s the only thing holding me in place.
My fingers find their way to her scalp, massaging slow circles as I work my way over the surface of her head, searching for any lumps. When they brush against a quarter-sized knot of raised flesh, she winces and grits her teeth.
“There’s a knot,” I confirm, “but I think you’ll be okay. It’s better for it to swell outward.”
She needs rest. And I need to get her out of here now. Scooping her limp, childlike body up into my arms, I carry her down the stairs to the first floor. People are turning their heads, staring at us curiously, but I could care less about their opinions. Up close like this, her natural floral fragrance is nearly overpowered by the odor of alcohol on her breath.
Yeah, definitely need to get her home.
Tomorrow, I’m giving her and my sister the lecture of a lifetime. Bad things can happen when people get drunk, and that’s not just about them drinking. That’s the people they’re around too. I shudder to think what would have happened if I hadn’t have realized they were gone if I hadn’t have realized it was the weekend before the festival, the Connery’s elected night for their shindig they always throw.
Sloane curls herself into my side even closer.
Did she just sniff me? I witness a smile of satisfaction spread across her face. I swear I think she did.
“Oceans and cedar today,” she mumbles, not making any sense, so I don’t respond. I make my way past the bonfire, in the direction of my Jeep, where I left my guilty little sister after finding her playing Cornhole.
The fanned lashes against Sloane’s cheek begin to flutter, as she peels them open to peer up at me, my chest squeezing at their beauty. Hesitantly, her fingers skim the outline of my jaw, testing the texture of my five o’clock shadow. I should tell her to stop, but the only response that comes are the acceleration of my breaths.
My gaze catches on the thin strap of her shirt as it slides down her silky shoulder, nearly exposing her to anyone who can see her. Including me. I halt in my tracks, redistributing her weight, so that I can slide the strap back in its proper place.
Before I get any stupid ideas.
“Are you Shuperman?” she asks out the blue, her words slurring a bit. She’s buzzed, probably from the alcohol and hitting her head.
“Hardly,” I chuckle, “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. Shhtrong. Handsome. Smart. And always showing up out of nowhere, saving me just in time.” She may just be feeling the effects of liquid courage, still her words wrap around my heart, embedding themselves there.
“I’ll always save you, Sloane. Even from myself,” I whisper the last part for my own benefit, a much needed reminder. Moments later, when I glance back down, she’s asleep.
/>
Chapter Eleven
“Are you Shuperman?” I ask him seriously. At least, I think I’m being serious. It’s hard to tell at this point. This elicits a throaty laugh from him.
“Hardly,” he replies still chuckling. “Why do you ask?” He peers back down at me. His laughter tells me his mood is light and carefree, but the burning of his eyes into mine, tells a different story entirely.
“I don’t know. Shhtrong. Handsome. Smart. And always showing up out of nowhere, saving me just in time.” My words slur against my will, ineloquent and sloppy. I should feel ashamed to be in this predicament, but his Caramel eyes slice through me, bringing to mind Superman once more. Just like Superman’s laser-vision, Gray can see through things too, just in a different way.
Silence wraps around us as we retreat from the party, out towards where most of the cars are parked. I settle my head comfortably against his chest, focusing on the swaying sensation brought on by each forward step. The beating lullaby played by his heart has nearly lulled me to sleep when he finally speaks again.
“I’ll always save you, Sloane. Even from myself,” he whispers the last part so softly into the night, that I wonder if I’d imagined it.
Each consecutive night since last weekend, I’ve had this recurring dream. I wake up humiliated. God, what if I actually said all that? Since I likely suffered a mild concussion when I hit my head, it’s hard for me to discern if my subconscious is actually remembering something, or if it’s a figment of my imagination.
Luckily, Gray chose not to tell our parents, giving us a nice hour-long lecture about being irresponsible and lying. He didn’t need to though, I learned my lesson about partying and drinking. I’d say Lyra did too. The poor girl felt like she was at fault and she’s done nothing but apologize to me every chance she gets. She keeps promising this weekend at the Fall Festival, we’ll have a more laid-back approach to things.
Friday approaches more rapidly than I imagined. As we leave school, Lyra and I walk out to the Senior Parking lot together.
“Do you know Miles Huntley?” I ask her.
“Yeah, he’s like, one of the most popular people in the school. Everyone knows him. Why?” she asks.
“Well, he keeps trying to talk to me. I think he might be interested. We have horticulture together, and he tries to walk me to Lunch and if he spots me in the hallway, he’ll come up to me and try to make small talk. He asked for my number today, but I acted like I forgot to give it to him,” I explain.
“Oh, it definitely sounds like he’s into you. You should go for it. He’s pretty dreamy, like every girl in the school would kill to go out with him.”
That’s exactly what I was afraid of.
I have no desire whatsoever go beyond friendship with Miles. Don’t get me wrong, he’s definitely a hottie, but I’m kind of stuck on one guy in particular. I find myself comparing every guy to him, and finding each lacking. In looks alone he outshines every other male I know, but it’s not just about appearances because there’s way more to Gray than meets the eye. I might not know him well, but it’s not from lack of want.
“That’s what I was wondering about. What are the chances of someone giving me a hard time over just being friends with him?” I inquire.
“Just being friends? That’s seriously all you want? I’d say the chances are pretty high that a LOT of girls aren’t going to like it, so you might as well go all in and make it worth your while. You should date him,” she encourages.
I shake my head. “I really don’t want to though. I’d rather just be friends. He seems pretty cool and all, but I’m just not interested in that way,” I express. Lyra’s eyes turn to slits as she appears to be assessing if my mind is mentally sound.
“Well, if you say so. I’d be watching for Kelly Mitchell to give you a hard time though. Doesn’t matter if you friend-zone him or not. She’s going to HATE you. She’s had her sights set on him since Freshman year and if she wants you to have a hard time, it’ll happen.”
The way she says this strikes a chord with me.
“Does that mean you’ve been on the receiving end of some Kelly Mitchell scorn?” I ask.
“You could say that. Everyone pretty much follows her lead, even the teachers let her get away with anything short of murder. I don’t know why everyone is under her spell. Snotty bitch.”
“I’ll be sure to avoid her then,” I promise, “but speaking of who likes who, you never have told me who you have a thing for… the unrequited love interest of yours.”
I reach out and take her phone from her hands before she can blink.
“And now I’m holding this for ransom so you can’t give me the run-around anymore,” I smile in victory.
“Ugh! That’s so rude. Fine. I’ll tell you but only because I trust you. No one but you and me will EVER know,” she emphasizes the word ‘ever’ causing me to arch my eyebrows over her theatrics. Pursing her lips, she stares at the cracked asphalt of the parking lot and takes a deep breath.
“Okay, the guy I like is someone I’ve liked for years. I even think he may have liked me, but that was before…” she lets her words stretch out, still working up the courage to utter his name.
“Before what?” I ask, although I already have a suspicion as to her meaning.
“The accident,” she professes slowly. “The accident that injured my father almost unrecognizably, and killed his parents and older brother,” she glances over at me as the words sink in.
Oh, no. She’s completely enamored with someone she will never have.
This is a clusterfuck of messy emotions if I ever did see one.
“So, you’ve liked Nash long before the accident?” I prod, trying to wrap my head around the whole thing. She sighs.
“Yes, for like, ever. Since elementary school. We used to talk a lot back then, and he was always so nice to me. He’s a super sweet guy, you know? Even Freshman year before all this, we danced with each other THREE times at the Winter Formal. I was sure he was going to ask me out, but the next weekend was when everything went down. Now, I’ve not spoken to him since the wreck. I mean, what could I really say? He’d just turn around and ignore me or have an outburst in my face over my having the audacity to speak to him, so it’s best we just leave it at that,” she speaks morosely.
“Okay, but that sucks. I’m sorry, but it does. You can’t help who you like right?” I reach out and wrap my arms around her, squeezing in assurance before dropping the subject altogether. She continues speaking through my squeezing, but her strained voice gives me the impression I may be squeezing a little too hard.
“So, we’ll pick you up in the morning then? You’ll let me know when your mom leaves for the weekend?”
“Or I could just walk over, it’s not like it’s that far,” I argue.
Lyra scoffs. “Nonsense. You’ll be picked up from your house in the morning,” she settles with me.
“Okay, text me later then.” I hop up into the SUV, heading home to meet up with mom and get ready to have my birthday dinner. There aren’t really many choices. It’s either the diner, the Italian place, the seafood restaurant, or the town bar. I choose the Italian Place, hoping to try some Eggplant Parmesan, my favorite Italian food. When I get home, I get straight to work primping myself with purpose, all in hopes of having an early dinner since I’m already starved.
“First I want you to open this gift before you put your clothes on,” mom announces, just barging into my room while I’m standing here in my undies. I have my hair styled half-up, half-down, with loose curls cascading down my back. My make-up almost looks professionally done thanks to a few YouTube videos, my go-to ‘how-to guide’ for everything. I’ll never be able to recreate the look Lyra manufactured for me last weekend.
It’s not really my style to go all out, but I know it will please my mom, and damn if it’s not a splendid sensation. I pick up the package, a little scared to uncover what’s inside since she just hinted it was probably an outfit. When she buys clothe
s for me, it’s usually an outfit that could only be described as ‘dressed to the nines.’
“Mmm, what is it?” I ask, trying to mask the unease in my voice.
“Mmm, it’s a gift silly. Open it,” she encourages while making fun of my apprehension.
I slowly rip the sparkly pink wrapping paper, peeling it back as I obsess over what it is that I’ll be subjected to wearing. Easing off the lid of the box, I peer inside. Sure enough, it’s some sort of garment but there’s another smaller box wrapped up inside as well.
I lift out the black, eyelash-lace dress and hold it up, discarding the smaller package off to the side for a moment. I was right. It looks time-less and elegant like I could still be wearing it thirty years from now. Strangely though, as I hold it up to my body, a tinge of excitement stirs.
“Wow, Mom. This is really pretty. Am I right in my assumption you expect me to wear it tonight on our dinner date?” I ask, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Duh, it’s your birthday dinner. We never get an excuse to dress up anymore,” she pouts, and I’m reminded of the fact that she’s really not that old herself, even if she is twice my age.
I try to imagine what it’s like to go through such a vast change in your life, as she has. I’ve never encountered my mother wearing anything but the best, and she’s definitely never worn jeans a day in her life. The closest she’s ever come has been a nice pair of dress slacks. She thrived in the attention she received when I was a little girl. The very definition of a trophy-wife.
She went from being in the public eye of our hometown to making every effort to remove herself from anyone’s eye. I love that beyond all the appearances, she was always all about me. She dropped everything she enjoyed most, just in my best interests. To ensure my safety.
“Well, put it on… and I know you saw that other present too. I know you’ve never been a fan of receiving gifts, but it’s my baby’s 18th birthday. I’m going to shower you in them. You’ll have more in the morning,” she remarks, holding up the smaller box in encouragement.
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