by S. Love
I search through the suffocating darkness for someone else, but I can’t make out a single shape. My senses prickle into action, my skin humming from the manifestation of another person in front of me. Heat radiates through the air, and I can feel their presence even though there’s nothing to see.
A sharp breath slips out when a hand covers each of my knees. My thighs are pushed apart, my dress riding up from the separation.
“Ozzie,” I say without confidence. “I know that’s you.” Who else would touch me so brazenly, without regard for consequences?
No reply. No sound from them at all. I listen for their breathing, but it must be carefully controlled because I can only hear my own.
The song rolls into the second verse, but it’s nowhere near as loud in the laundry room, more crudely bass-y than anything. As whoever’s here with me—and I’ve got a good idea of who it is—stretches time with their silence, the party, the noise, recedes into a void, like it’s moving farther away and all that’s left is us.
Tentatively, almost as though afraid I’ll scarper at the slightest touch, fingers hook under the skinny straps of my dress. Slowly, they glide over my shoulders and down my arms to hang at my elbows.
Roughened palms skim over my ribs, under my breasts, and my dress is pulled down. Warm lips close over my nipple, and I groan as my body rouses from a coma into an overload of sensation. Even if he walks out of here without revealing who he is, his cologne and bodywash—the heady scent of his skin, permanently kissed with salt—gives him away instantly.
His arms circle my middle, and I gain traction by sliding my hands beneath his wife beater and acquainting my fingers with his external obliques while he feasts on my breasts one at a time, alternating between them.
My fingers roam his ribcage and the ripple of muscle as he pulls me over his erection inside his jeans. The song fades to an end, light seeps in from the crack under the door, but the darkness protecting us doesn’t lift, the light switch already in the off position before the power was cut.
Ozzie pulls back. Then grabs me by the back of my neck, tilting my head as his mouth slants over mine and he parts my lips with his tongue, demanding entry even when I’m all too willing to give it to him.
He leans into me, forcing me to arch away from him otherwise be crushed. My fingers dig into the lip of the counter, bracing under the brute force of his body vanquishing mine. My legs open themselves, giving him more room and space.
He runs the palm of his hand, his fingers, over my panties, right down the middle. Overtop of my delicate thong, he parts my lips and finds that little nub, rolling it between his thumb and finger.
I’m moaning his name, on the cusp of screaming in less than a minute. With barely any warning it’s about to happen, and from minimal stimulation, my muscles constrict and my stomach tightens, my thighs locking-up as my orgasm charges through me, steamrolling and blinding me.
Breathlessly, I push his hand from me when the pressure becomes too much to bear.
Putting it right back where it was, Ozzie slips the same hand inside my thong, feeling for himself how wet I am. He rubs my own slickness over me, kisses me on the lips.
“Damn,” he says low against my mouth. I should ask him about Rachel, who she is and why she’s coming back. But he’s got me perfectly speechless, heart still racing, trying to catch up to my body.
He slides his hand out, and I feel the loss of him everywhere, not just between my legs.
I raise my hand to pull up the straps on my dress, and Ozzie grabs it midair before I can cover myself. His silhouette’s formed now there’s light seeping in from beneath the door, and I watch as he puts my hand on his chest, his own hand coasting to my wrist. His heartbeat pulses against my fingers, steady and strong, like a code I don’t know how to crack, but desperately keep trying to anyway.
With the hand that isn’t trapped, I secure the neckline on my dress, my confidence returning now I’m no longer semi-naked.
I slide down from the counter, looking up at Ozzie.
His eyes carefully follow my movements, and I can’t look away from him either. But these games, our fights that just lead to foreplay, aren’t getting us anywhere, and I’m not sure how much more of it, of him, I can take. He’s giving me whiplash.
Dragging my hand slowly from his chest, I walk around him and open the door, making sure I close it behind me. If he thinks anything of me at all, beyond using me as his toy when he’s bored, he won’t step foot out of that room for at least another minute.
Chapter 29
My phone rings as I’m scooping floating Solo cups from the pool’s surface. I take it from the back pocket in my shorts, Mom showing on the screen. I swipe to answer.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart. What time will you be by today? I cleaned your room for you.”
The state of this place? Not for at least another two days. But this is a working day, and just because Cindy and Ray aren’t here doesn’t mean I can bail on my duties early. I still have a checklist I’m working off, and there are many boxes left to cross out.
“How about six? It’s an hour on the bus, so…”
My mom makes a noise like she’s disappointed. “That long?”
I guess I could work quicker and shave some time off, but not much.
“I’ll try and be there for four?”
“Four’s great. I’ll see you soon, then. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
When the pool’s sparkling and litter free once again, I move onto the kitchen.
Scrubbing a hand over the top his hair, a wide yawn stretching his mouth, Ozzie strolls into the kitchen same time as I do. I open both French doors wide to let in fresh air.
Black crepe shorts hug Ozzie’s hips, and he’s barefoot. I sneak glances at him while I gather what I need to start sanitizing the surfaces, and I almost drop what’s in my hands when he turns on the faucet and starts rinsing off glasses. He loads the dishwasher, and I try not to let my eyes bug at what I’m witnessing.
In silence, occasionally catching each other’s eye and then quickly looking away like two children, we get the kitchen cleaned in no time.
Ozzie disappears to another part of the house, and I pull together what I can find from the refrigerator for breakfast. Topher and Falcon must still be sleeping, and I know they’re gonna be hungry when they wake up. Mikel, the Osbornes’ chef, prepares dinner and sometimes premade lunches only, so I take on the challenge of feeding who’s currently in the house.
I fry eggs and bacon and put whole-wheat bread in the toaster. I’m not sure how much they’ll eat, so I toast six slices, two each. Once the table’s loaded with the food, I pour orange juice into a glass pitcher and set out three glasses.
If the brothers are at the table, that means I can have their rooms cleaned and their beds made in ample time for them finishing. Apart from temperamental Ozzie, of course. His mind fuckery prevents me from doing anything in his room, and I haven’t cleaned it since the first time I dared try and he stubbornly threw me out.
The greasy aroma of crispy bacon rouses Topher first, and soon after Falcon joins him at the table, both boys looking worse for wear, yet still handling their hangovers in a fitter state than I ever could.
Topher yawns as he pours orange juice into his glass. He downs the contents in three gulps and burps without apology.
I sit at the table with them, opting for a bowl of strawberries and blueberries with yogurt over what they’re having. I want to start my day off right—like a healthy, balanced meal can make up for last night’s indulgences—and my head’s clear, unlike everyone else’s here. My mom will have made too much food, like she always does, so an empty belly’s required for later.
“I told you you had the day off today.” Falcon tears apart a piece of browned bacon, then puts a piece in his mouth. He puts his forearm on the table by his plate.
“I’m going home today, and I wasn’t leaving you with all the tidying
. How’s your head?” I spear a cut strawberry with my fork, looking across the table at Falcon.
“It’s got its own pulse. Why are you going home? It’s Thursday. You never go home on a weekday. You work weekdays.” He picks up his juice and washes down the bacon.
So he’s forgotten what I told him last night. No surprises there after the amount of drinking that went on. It means I can keep my birthday secret and avoid any unwanted fuss. These boys would do it just to see me squirm. They don’t care I’m another year older.
I pop the strawberry in my mouth, chew, then swallow. “So now it’s a workday?”
Leveling his eyes on me, Falcon says, “That’s a question, and I already asked you one.”
I shove a forkful of fruit into my mouth, extending time while I chew. “I’m spending the day with my mom, since yours isn’t here and neither is Mariah. I’m not getting the bus until this afternoon.” I stand up and take my bowl to the sink, rinse it, and place it in the dishwasher. I smile at a practically zombified Topher as he tucks into what’s left of his breakfast with the vigor of the starved living dead. He hasn’t said a word to anyone, eyes only for what’s on his plate. Any girl would be lucky to receive that level of attention. From anyone.
While they finish eating, I work my way quickly through Falcon’s room, making his bed even though he’ll likely be back in it in the next ten minutes. I dust the surfaces, clean the balcony French doors, and vacuum the carpet, heading to Topher’s room to repeat the exact same routine. Except when I walk through his bedroom doorway and go to lift the sheet, there’s a girl lying underneath it. From her bare shoulders and back, I assume she’s naked, and I scarper the scene before she wakes from her snoring slumber and catches me in there with her.
“There’s a girl in your room,” I say to Topher as I stand over him to lift his plate. The food’s been cleared, not one golden crumb left. “I just walked in on her. A warning would have been helpful.”
He leans back in his chair, stretching his torso as he tilts his chin up and meets my eyes. “Is she still asleep?”
“Snoring like a wildebeest. You must have been plastered last night to sleep through that.”
Topher looks down at the table. “Yeah, I’m gonna need you to go up there and ask her to leave. Con gave you the day off, I didn’t.”
I look back at him in apathy. “Nice try. And I don’t work for you, I work for your mom.” Stacking the plates, I disregard the steady stream of glances from Falcon. “And I find it disgusting that she was good enough to put your penis in but not good enough to spend the next morning in your bed. That’s low, Topher.”
He raises one eyebrow in insolence. “That’s life, Lyla. If you were to relax enough and let anyone put their dick in you, you’d understand that’s how it works. Don’t open your legs if you can’t handle the long, lonely walk home.”
I pull my features into a deep frown at his asinine comment. “I’m genuinely surprised you can get any girl at all to open their legs to you speaking like that. You barely made any sense by the way. I think the alcohol’s sizzled what’s left of your brain.”
“Didn’t stop you,” he says, his challenging gaze drawing mine to his as I turn the faucet and hot water spills over the dirty china.
A second later, Falcon’s chair pushes back from the table, screeching over the marble floor. Without meeting my confused stare, he stalks from the kitchen.
Great. Now I’m on his shitlist. Topher and his big mouth.
“You shouldn’t have said that.”
“Probably not.” A slow, see-through grin stretches Topher’s mouth. “How can I make it up to you?”
I shut off the faucet and pick up the dish towel to dry my hands. “How about you roll over and die, and we’ll call it even?”
Topher nods in consideration, then cracks his neck. His light-brown disheveled hair flops over his forehead. He sweeps it back with a jerk of his head, releases a loud sigh and stands up. “Guess I’m getting rid of her myself.”
“You can’t let her sleep first? You’re throwing her out right now?” After everything I’ve heard from Topher, he constantly succeeds in surprising me.
“Gotta do it sometime. Thanks for breakfast,” he says in a throaty voice, either from too much alcohol or being too loud. “Make sure to let me know when you’re on the menu.”
I clear my expression. At my blank stare, he makes a breathy sound and says, “Kidding. Calm down, scrappy.”
I secure my backpack on two shoulders, grab my phone, and close my bedroom door. My skin tingles for some obscure reason, the mix of excitement over seeing my mom and the arrival of my seventeenth birthday finally garnering a reaction from me.
This day would be a lot more meaningful if Talia could’ve made it home, but I don’t begrudge her putting her studies first. Today’s just a day, the meaning’s no less important whether she’s here or somewhere else. I’ll just miss her, that’s all. I always miss her. My best friend and my sister, there’s a hole since she left that won’t be filled until she comes back, and all I can do is patiently wait for that day to come.
The walk to the bus stop will take me around thirty minutes, and the bus isn’t due for nearly an hour, so that leaves me with plenty of time.
Putting in my earbuds, I load one of the saved playlists on my phone and lose myself in Lo-fi while I stroll along the rising coast, the ocean breeze cooling the lingering heat from the unobscured sun as it starts its descent to mark the nearing end to the day.
In the center of what looks like the cornerstone of nowhere, the bus stop stands empty, apart from one elderly woman sitting in one of the plastic chairs inside the concrete and glass shelter. Other than two vending machines, one for soda and the other for snacks, the bus stop’s simple, and I imagine once darkness gets its claws on it, it turns into a place where you don’t want to find yourself alone.
White-painted pillars, chipped from neglect and the dry, salty weather, hold up the shelter. The bleached sidewalk’s crumbling at the curb, the dehydrated, sandy air a nod to the rugged coast this bust stop, for those of us who don’t drive, is a portal to.
I lean against one of the pillars and face the road, my backpack acting as a cushion against the chipped concrete. The schedule printed on one of the shelter’s glass panels says the 336 that goes through St. Charlotte should be here in seven minutes. That’s if it’s on time. It doesn’t really matter; I’m early enough that no way could I have missed it. But as an experienced passenger and pedestrian, I’m all too familiar with how unreliable public transportation can be.
I can’t wait to buy a car and stop living my life by the constraints of the bus schedule.
Sighing, I scan both directions of the sleepy road. I glance to my right, a moving vehicle growing from a distant black spot in the simmering heat rising from asphalt and distorting the horizon like the underground’s on fire. The vehicle transforms into a Jeep. I narrow my eyes as the registration becomes clear to read, and it turns into the bus stop as I realize who that registration belongs to.
“What do you want?” I say dismissively when Ozzie lets the driver’s side window down.
The engine idles, Ozzie looking me over with a supremely neutral expression. Like he couldn’t care less about my response to whatever’s brought him out here. “I’m taking you home. You gonna fight me on this or save us both some time, save yourself the sunburn, and get in?”
So it’s not that he doesn’t care, he’s immune to the word no, therefore doesn’t accept it as part of the English language.
With a last look at the empty road, I swallow a sigh of defeat, walk around the front of the Jeep, take off my backpack and climb in. I put my bag on the floor between my feet and fasten my seatbelt.
Ozzie’s forearm brushes against my bare thigh, either deliberately or on accident, as he shifts into gear and pulls away. The contact shoots fire into my belly, and I bury my hands under my thighs, putting my arm between us so it doesn’t happen again.
&nb
sp; Daylight’s revealed the true, harrowing extent of the night before, and I’ve closed off that section of my mind to the laundry room incident since I did nothing to stop it. I got carried away in the moment, swept into what I now regret, even when I’d wanted it at the time.
Up until now, Ozzie’s acted like I don’t exist in the same house as him, ignoring me at every turn. Helping me clean the house this morning was all the acknowledgment he’d given me. In a way, I’m grateful for not being dragged into an uncomfortable conversation about what we’d done. Once alcohol’s introduced, I conveniently lose my memory of how he treats me, more interested in his body and what he can do to me with it.
The journey to my house is tense, the confines of the Jeep brimming with static energy carried over from last night. When we’re outside my mom’s house, my eagerness to get out and make a run for my front door crumbles like an avalanche when my mom opens the front door first, beaming when she sees Ozzie in the driver’s seat.
He cannot come in. Nuh-huh, no way. Not today, Mister.
Obviously my mom can’t ready my mind—or my hostile expression—because she’s waving him out of the Jeep and into the house like they’re old friends.
Ozzie stays seated as I flit my gaze between the two of them, waiting for what he’ll do next. He doesn’t move or unfasten his seatbelt, just raises his hand to my mom in a still wave, the look on his face smooth and unreadable.
“I won’t come in if you don’t want me to,” he says, his gaze easing from the side window to me.
I look at him, then over my shoulder at my mom standing waiting.
“Since when do you care what I want?” I ask, not hiding how baffled I am by his flip-flopping behavior. “And after what happened yesterday… I don’t think you coming inside is the best idea.”