elanie

 

 

 

 

The second I wake up, the humiliation from last night washes over me. I pull the covers up and curl into myself, wishing I could forget how I stripped—literally stripped—for him, and he still said no.

Fucking pathetic. I don’t know if he just feels sorry for me or what, but I hate him. And it’s his fucking loss anyway. I could get any guy to sleep with me if that’s what I wanted to do.

I pull on jeans and an ancient Chicago Cubs T-shirt that Stacey’s dad bought me back in freshman year when he took us to a game at Wrigley Field. He bought hotdogs for us and beer for himself, and even though I kind of hate sports, it was fun to be there, so far away from Bells Park. I hated it even back then.

In the kitchen I scan the contents of the fridge looking for something to bring to lunch. The ham smells weird and looks sort of gray, but there’s a little bit of jelly left in the jar, so I make a quick sandwich on only slightly stale bread and wrap it up, then stick it into my backpack.

“Hey, honey.”

I turn, surprised to see my mom, fully dressed and with makeup on. She only wears makeup when she goes out, which is never, so this is a strange sight. And she’s not usually up and clothed at this point in the day.

She’s squeezed into an old pair of black dress pants with a tucked-in white button-down blouse, giving her the look of an overweight waitress instead of a recluse who sits at home on her computer all day long. The blouse is wrinkled, and the toes of her black faux-leather boots are scuffed and peeling.

Her makeup isn’t exactly right either: lips too red, blush too dark, eyeliner not quite straight. Her hair, still wet from the shower, is pulled back into a thin ponytail.

At least she tried.

“Hey, Mom. You’re up early.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head to the door. “I’ll see you.” I’m curious why my mom’s up, but I need to leave now or I’ll be late.

“I’ll drive you. The principal called me yesterday and asked if I could come in to meet with her. I wasn’t, well, up for it. So we agreed on first thing in the morning.”

Shit. Well, it’s not like she was never going to find out about the scholarship. And it’s not like she’ll even be mad at me. She never gets mad. I think she’s too numb from all the drinking she does. Sometimes I wonder if she even has feelings at all anymore.

“Do you know what this is all about?” she asks as she follows me out the front door. “Huh,” she adds, running a finger down the railing, where paint is peeling, like she hasn’t seen it in months. Maybe she hasn’t.

I shake my head. I don’t want to talk about it. “Nope.”

“How’s school going?” she asks as we both get into our shitty car, an ancient Pontiac. The duct tape covering the cracks in the vinyl seat is sticky around the edges, and I crunch up against the window so I avoid getting the gummy residue on my jeans. It’ll never come out.

“Fine.”

“And that class? The drug class?”

“Oh. Great.”

“You had it again last night, didn’t you? I’m sorry I wasn’t awake when you got home.”

“It’s OK. The class was fine. It’s good.”

“You know,” she says, putting on the blinker and waiting at the red light on Main Street. “I’m really proud of you, honey. For being a good student. And taking care of as much as you do. And with your father…” Her voice trails off. She likes to talk about him as much as I do, which is not at all.

She turns, and her purse slips from the center console onto the seat next to me. It’s this oversized fake white leather bag, with the faux outside cracking and peeling, revealing dark gray thread-worn fabric beneath it.

When I was a little kid, I used to love to rifle through her purse, because she had all sorts of cool things. A hairbrush, inevitably with strands of hair woven and stuck inside the bristles. Pens. Wadded-up receipts. Gum, some partially opened and sticking to the silver foil wrapper, but I could usually find at least one piece clean enough to chew. Random business cards and bookmarks she’d picked up at who knows where. Sales ads from the grocery store. Cigarettes and matches and lighters, usually at least three or four. I used to love the colors of the lighters, especially the neon see-through ones, and wished I had a need for one. They were so pretty.

Around fifth grade, though, I’d find liquor in there too. The individual serving sized bottles of wine. White. Red. Pink. She didn’t discriminate. I stopped looking through her purse, because I hated to see them. I’d never been through other mothers’ bags, but I was fairly certain they didn’t have wine stashed away.

Now, I hear the clink of the glass against a pen or a lighter or something, and I look out the passenger side window until we get to school.

“Bye,” I say and get out as quickly as I can.

~~~~

I’m not going to school. There’s no way. Humiliation about last night courses through me as hot as the knowledge that I lost my scholarship. I thought I could put it out of my mind, focus on my classes instead, but as soon as I see the heavy double doors, I know it will be impossible.

I head around the side of the school, passing the wrecked track and football field. Cutting across the student parking lot, I see Stacey’s white Range Rover, sparkling in the morning sun.

“Melanie!” She jogs up behind me, the scent of her flowery perfume so familiar that I wish I could go back in time to when we were still friends, before she betrayed me.

Sighing, I stop and turn. “What do you want?” Really, I should keep walking. I should ignore her. And maybe I’m being pathetic and stupid, but I’m lonely. She used to be my best friend.

“Where are you going?” she asks, slightly breathless. “Are you skipping?” She tucks some of her blonde curls behind her ear, her blue eyes open wide as a smile forms on her mouth.

I shrug.

“Get in,” she says, pulling out her car keys and clicking her car unlocked. It beeps, and she nods at it. “Come on. Let’s hang out. We’ll drive to Bolster and check out some shops or see a movie or something. Like old times. Please? I just… I’m sorry. And I miss you.” She presents me with a dramatic frown, her pink lips pouty and sad.

Fuck you, I say, but only in my head. “Fine,” I say out loud. I climb into her car, settling into the warm leather interior.

Stacey pulls her sun visor down to check her makeup in the mirror, pursing her shiny pink lips and smiling at herself. Then she snaps it back up again and grins at me. “It’s going to be like old times, like we used to be,” she says.

I nod. I wouldn’t say we’re friends again. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I need to get away. I need to be with someone. And my choices are pretty limited at the moment.

“So where do you want to go? Maybe we should get coffee? Hit the Starbucks they just opened off 51? It’s only like twenty minutes? You like Starbucks, right?” She’s so eager to please.

“Yeah. Sure.” She starts the car, and her phone rings. While she answers the call, I gaze out the window at students filtering into the building. For a moment I allow my eyes to close, to wish I was somewhere else, anywhere else but here in Bells Park with no way to get out.

“So it’s okay if we pick up Robby first, right? His cousin is visiting from out of town so he’s skipping, and we’ll all do something together.”

A few months ago I’d have loved an idea like this. A double date. A chance to hang out with Stacey and her boyfriend without being the third wheel. But today, when our friendship is shaky at best, I resent her for ruining this chance for us to bond again.

“Yeah. Whatever.”

She pulls out of the parking lot and drives away from the school. “His cousin? He’s really cute. He goes to, like, Loyola or Notre Dame or one of those colleges? I think you’ll like him.”

I can already imagine how the day will go. Stacey and Robby will be all over each other, leaving me and the cousin to have awkward conversations and ignore the fact that Stacey and Robby really want us to get along so everything’s smooth and easy for them.

With top forty blasting—Stacey and I used to fake argue about what constituted good music all the time, and she never liked the slightly obscure alternative bands I do—she heads to the nice section of town, which is also the smallest section of town. Though it’s technically part of Bells Park, it’s like being in a different world. You drive down a country road for a few miles until you get to a gated neighborhood, where fountains and lush greenery, even now in cold and early spring, surround a spotlighted sign that reads The Grove.

I’m not entirely sure how they have such a nice neighborhood and houses and are still a part of our crumbling town. I know Stacey’s dad is some sort of executive, always traveling and going to conferences, but I never cared enough to get the details. And Stacey’s mom is like an older version of Stacey herself, blonde and bubbly. But unlike Stacey, she was always wary of me, even when Stacey and I were little. I slept over there, and played at their house for hours over the summers. But I always felt her hesitance, like she wanted to like me but couldn’t quite figure out how.

We pass Stacey’s gabled, two-story house, and she pulls into her boyfriend Robby’s circular driveway and honks the horn. “Come on!” she says, opening her door and jumping out.

I thought we were just going to pick up Robby and his cousin and go to Starbucks, but I’ve known Stacey long enough to know plans can change without a moment’s notice. So I climb out and follow her to the front door, which Robby pulls open. “Hey, babe.” He kisses her on the lips, and I look away. When we spent all our time together, it was second nature to see them make out. Now, though, I feel like an outsider.

“What’s up, Mel?” He nods at me, smiling but wary; it’s been a while since we all hung out.

“Hi.” I force a smile in his direction.

“Come in,” he says. “You guys need to catch up.”

I’m not sure what he means until we get into the kitchen, large and bright with stainless steel appliances, and I see the bottle of vodka next to the carafe of orange juice. For the record, I can’t even imagine using a carafe for orange juice at my house. The rare times we have OJ, it’s in the cardboard container, and we pour it straight into scratched-up glasses from the dirty wooden cabinets. Here, it’s like being in a TV show kitchen, where everything’s shiny and nothing’s ever used.

Robby’s cousin is cute, and in another world, another time, I might have been interested in him. He’s thin and confident, with shaggy light brown hair and matching eyes that look like he’s probably a little bit of trouble. He’s wearing beat-up jeans and a Fighting Irish T-shirt, which I’m fairly sure is the football team at Notre Dame. College is the last thing I want to think about right now. Well, college and Jake.

“I’m Sam,” he says, holding out his hand like an adult.

I can’t remember the last time someone my age, or close to it, shook hands with me. I take his hand, and he grins, half cocky and half sweet. Maybe he can be a decent distraction.

“Melanie.” I take my hand away and will myself not to blush.

“So you’re a senior? What’s your plan?”

“Well, I was going to go to University…” I start.

“You going to serve us drinks or hog it all to yourselves?” interrupts Stacey, a weird look on her face. It seems like she does it on purpose. It’s not because I lost my scholarship—I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know about that yet—so it must be because she doesn’t want me to tell him I’m going to University of Chicago. She can’t stand to be in anyone’s shade.

“What? You saying we’re not gentlemen?” Sam winks at me, then fills two crystal cut glasses with ice from the dispenser on the fridge. He pours vodka and then orange juice on top, handing one to each of us.

I don’t think I should drink; not after what happened last night, not after how I felt when I got home: So lost, so shitty. But the look on Stacey’s face and the thought of my mom in front of her monitor send lurches of depression through my gut, and without thinking I sip the drink, welcoming the warmth from the liquor as much as the refreshing taste of the juice. “It’s good,” I say, glancing at Sam.

“Yeah?” His eyes are smiling but intense too.

I blush and shrug. “Yeah.”

“Let’s watch TV.” Stacey heads into the big rec room off the kitchen, where a giant flat screen is surrounded by oversized sofas, the kind that are perfect to curl up in and read. With the remote she turns it on and finds The View.

“Oh fuck no,” says Robby with a laugh, reaching over to take the remote from her.

“Leave me alone!” she giggles, bending over so he can’t get the controller.

“Fine. But turn the volume off? I can’t stand fucking Whoopi’s voice.”

I sit in the corner of one of the couches, and Sam sits next to me, not quite touching but closer than a complete stranger would be.

“Hey, hey! Listen to this.” Robby puts his hands up to shush us, then speaks, pretending to be Whoopi. “And you know, last night, I had sex with my dog. Don’t judge, people. Don’t judge.”

“You’re so stupid, Robby.” Stacey punches him in the arm, and he pretends it hurts.

“Stupid enough to go out with you, I guess,” he counters.

“Jerk.”

“You love me.” He pulls her to him and they kiss, soft smacking and sucking sounds rising above the sound of the tinny laughter from the TV.

Gross. I used to find their antics funny. Now, though, they’re just stupid and annoying. I glance at Sam, and he rolls his eyes. “Get a room,” he says, and pokes Robby, who makes a rude comment, but sits up. Stacey wipes her lip gloss and giggles.

Stacey and Robby fight over the remote for the next twenty minutes, flipping through the channels but not settling on anything, while Sam and I watch like they’re the entertainment, not the TV itself.

“You guys wanna smoke?” asks Robby finally.

“It’s, like, nine in the morning!” says Stacey, but her argument doesn’t sound genuine.

Robby shrugs. “Sam? You in? Mel?”

“Let’s do it.” Sam gets up, looking questioningly at me.

“Whatever,” I say under my breath, and I follow them outside.

Robby unstacks pool chairs, big white loungers, and sets them up around the covered pool. It’s way too early in the season for it to be opened.

The sun’s shining hard, the day warmer than any so far, and I move my chair into the light, enjoying the heat on my body. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. The feet of a side table scrape on the concrete as Robby pulls it toward him, and though I’m not looking, I’ve seen this scene enough times to know exactly what he looks like, focusing everything he’s got on making the joint tight and perfect.

A lighter clicks, and Robby inhales quickly a few times, getting the joint lit. The sweet, skunky smell fills my nostrils.

“Oh yeah,” croaks Robby, lungs filled with smoke he’s holding as long as possible.

I open my eyes to see him breathe out and grin, then hand the joint to Stacey. My drink is halfway done, and ice has watered it down. I sip it slowly.

Honking geese fly overhead, and I stare at them, at the sky, blue and filled with white fluffy clouds.

Sam gets the joint next and inhales deeply, holding the smoke in before letting it escape his mouth in tiny puffs before offering it to me with one eyebrow raised at me in a half friendly and half suggestive way.

I want to smoke, but I know it’ll just make me feel worse later, when it’s worn off and I’m lazy and even more depressed. “Nah, I’m good.”

“You sure? What’s wrong?” Stacey giggles and flips her hair back as she sits up and looks at me.

A feeling of anger starts to bubble through my malaise. I direct my gaze at Stacey, cutting off her laughs. “I learned a lot about weed in my drug class, you know?” My voice holds a challenge.

“Your drug class?” Sam sits up, his eyes seeking mine.

I shrug, keeping my eyes on Stacey. “Wanna tell them about how I got special enrollment, Stacey?” I say lightly, but my smile lacks warmth.

There’s silence, and her cheeks burn red. She scowls at me, but checks herself. “Melanie, we’re having fun now, right? Let’s not get into it?” She gives a weak laugh. “I mean, we should focus on, you know, relaxing right now. Right?” Her eyes search mine earnestly.

“So, what’s the deal?” Sam repeats.

I shake my head. “Never mind.”

When he tries to pass me the joint again, I think about Jake’s face and Principal Evans’ expressions and, for some reason, Mrs. Hart laughing with me about sneaking pineapple into her husband’s food. My stomach sours, and my hand jerks, spilling the drink on my jeans. It’s cold, and I know later it will be sticky.

“Fuck,” I hiss. It’s not a big deal, but for some reason it makes me want to cry all the same. Fucking ridiculous. I’m mad at myself for being so pathetic.

“Here.” Sam hands me the sweatshirt he brought out with him.

“Thanks?” I squint my eyes at him. “You really want me to clean up with your shirt?”

He shrugs. “It’s just a shirt. Robby will wash it for me later.”

“Fuck if I will!” says Robby, blowing smoke in our direction. “You’ll wash it your damn pussy self.”

My phone rings, and I pull it out of my back pocket. It’s my mom. I don’t want to talk to her right now, so I turn the phone off.

Sam’s offering me the joint—it’s come around again—and I shake my head. “No. I’m good.” A month ago, I probably would have grabbed it and sucked down that smoke as a reprieve from all the shit that’s going on, but right now I feel clearer without it.

“Come here.” Sam’s standing next to me with his hand out, and I take it. He pulls me up so I’m on my feet. “Let’s get away from these two for a minute.”

Holding his hand feels strangely comfortable, like someone cares about me. Behind us, Stacey and Robby are still smoking, their voices low as they speak in words I can’t quite make out.

“I’m glad you’re here today,” he says. He stops walking and looks down at me. “I’m glad I met you.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Look, Stacey mentioned that drug class earlier?”

I roll my eyes. “Locker search. I had a few joints in mine.” Let him think what he thinks. I’m tired of lying.

“Dude, it’s legal in some states,” he says. “It’s seriously not a big deal.”

“Yeah. No big deal.” I’m sort of surprised she didn’t tell him about it already. And I wonder if her own boyfriend knows the truth, that the drugs were hers.

“You just have to work harder at, you know, not getting caught.” He grins down at me, then touches my shoulder briefly. When he bends his head toward me, I shut my eyes.

I open my lips to meet his, hoping to lose myself in his embrace, or maybe find myself. But after a minute, it’s no use; I’m thinking of Jake, and I feel alone, even though I’m in someone’s arms. I pull away. “I’m sorry. This isn’t—I’m really distracted.”

He shrugs. “It’s okay. Let’s go inside. Get more drinks. Just, you know, hang out.”

The kitchen is warm and bright, and he pours more vodka and orange juice into our glasses, but before I have a chance to drink any, he backs me up against the counter, his lips grinding into mine. “Come here,” he mutters into my ear, boosting me up so I’m sitting on the cold marble, and I sigh, give it one more shot.

He smells good, like soap and cologne, but his lips are sloppy, and there’s a greediness to his kiss, an inexperience that leaves me cold. Unlike Jake. Who humiliated me last night, for sure, but knew exactly how to touch me that night we first met.

“I gotta go to the bathroom,” I whisper to Sam, sliding off the counter and pushing him lightly away from me.

“Can I come with?” he teases.

“Uh, no, I’m really going to the bathroom.” I head down the hall and lock myself in the white and lavender restroom that looks like it belongs in a spa, with the muted lighting and fresh flowers and basket of finely sculpted soap.

I pee, then wash my hands and splash some water on my face, drying it on a seriously puffy towel.

Through the sliding glass door in the kitchen I can see Sam outside again, chatting with Stacey and Robby. He’s animated, talking about something that’s making them laugh.

Before he has a chance to notice me, I hurry into the living room, grab my backpack, and slip out of the house.

~~~~

It’s about a mile or maybe two back to town, and I walk fast. I half expect Sam to come after me, but the road is silent.

Back downtown, I’m not sure where to go. Not school. Not now. My mom’s probably home from her meeting with Principal Evans, and I don’t want to deal with her right now, so I can’t go to my house.

My jeans feel sticky where I spilled on them, and I can smell pot in my hair. I run a hand through it, thinking about where I can go. And that’s when I get the bright idea to go to Jake’s apartment.

He’s probably at work, though I have no idea what his hours are. But when I knock at his door, hard, several times, nobody answers. A jolt of warning courses through me as I put my hand on the doorknob to the outside door.

This is wrong. This is wrong. This is so wrong! But I turn it all the same, and it gives, the door pushing inward. I smile in victory.

I head up the stairs to his apartment, knowing it could be locked. What cop doesn’t keep his door locked? But when I try it, it’s open too.

He’d kill me if he found me here. He’d be so pissed. I know it’s a huge violation, but something about the wrongness makes it that much more exciting. Also, even beyond that, I remember that safe feeling I got in his arms, when I was here with him in his bed. I want that feeling back, and although I know a place can’t confer emotion, thinking of him, while being in his apartment, nearly summons him up in front of my eyes.

His apartment is actually really boring—he has hardly anything here other than furniture. I check out the fridge, which holds mostly beer and a few uninteresting food items. His bed’s made, but it’s sloppy, the covers just barely dragged up to hide the sheets. Looking at it makes me suddenly tired, and I have to fight the urge to climb in and take a nap, just a short one.

In the bathroom, I strip off my clothes, glad to be rid of the sickly sweet scent, and turn the shower on hot, letting it warm up. Before getting in, I scrunch up the stained part of my jeans and run it under cold water in the sink, then hang them on a hook.

The hot water, once I get in the shower, feels fucking exquisite. I could stay in here all day long, just letting the warmth pour down over me for hours. I forget about everything—Sam, the drug class, Stacey, my mom. The scholarship. All of it. I close my eyes and put my head back and feel nothing but hot and relaxed.

“Open the goddamn curtain now.”

Jake’s voice jolts me, and I jump so hard I almost slip. “Jake,” I cry out, my voice strangled with fear over the anger in his voice.

“Melanie?” Now I hear shock.

“Yes, it’s just me! It’s me.” I stick my head out of the curtain and see him standing there, gun in hand, eyes open in disbelief.

“Fuck!” he says. “I thought it was an intruder. Jesus, Melanie, I pulled my gun on you! I could have… What are you thinking?”

“Sorry,” I mutter before disappearing back into the shower. “Can I just—I’ll come out, but can I just wash off?” I need a barrier from his anger, and the flimsy curtain is the only protection I have.

“Jesus Christ, Melanie! What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I… needed a place to go.” It sounds lame. It is lame. I can’t tell him the thing about how I felt safe here, not now, with that expression on his face.

“This isn’t your crash pad for when you decide to skip school.” His voice is trembling with anger. “And everyone’s looking for you. Your mom. The principal.”

“I know. I’m so sorry. I’ll be out in a second, OK?”

He mutters something unintelligible.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. What the hell was I thinking? Just because he let me shower here once doesn’t mean I had permission to just come here whenever I wanted.

I wash quickly and step out, dripping, onto the bath mat on the floor.

There’s no towel. My jeans are on the hook where a towel would normally hang. A small cabinet reveals nothing except a few men’s items, and I lightly run my finger over the can of shaving cream, shivering at the thought of Jake, towel around his waist, running it over his jaw and staring in a steamed-up mirror.

“Jake?” I pull the door open a crack and call for him.

“What?” He still sounds pissed. His steps creak across the floor until he’s right outside.

“Do you have a towel?”

He grumbles something I can’t make out, and then I hear him walk away, open a closet in the hall, and return.

The crack of the open door widens, and his hand enters the room, holding out a thick blue towel.

I’m not sure if I’m trying to get over yesterday’s sting of rejection, or if I’m trying to convince him not to be mad anymore, but without even really thinking I pull the door open all the way. All I know is I’m dying for his touch, right this second. He’s framed in the doorway, still holding the towel, and I’m completely naked and dripping in front of him.

“Jesus, Melanie.” His eyes spark before he turns his head, shielding his view with one hand.

“Jake, I…”

“Just take the fucking towel.”

Instead I reach out and grab a handful of his T-shirt, pulling him toward me until he’s close enough so I can shut the door. “Please.” I look into his eyes, put one hand on each cheek. “Please, Jake. I need you. You’re the reason I came here. I need you.”

At first, he resists, but it’s like pulling something heavy, something that gains more and more momentum until it’s moving so fast you can’t stop it anymore.

The towel’s on the floor, and we’re standing face to face in swirling steam.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters, but the next second he kisses me, his lips hungry.

My body presses against him, his T-shirt growing damp from my still-wet body. I’ve never been kissed like this, never felt this much need from another person. It’s like he wants to devour me, and I want to let him. I want to give myself to him.

Desperate to feel his skin against mine, I pull his T-shirt the rest of the way out of his jeans, then push it up so he grabs it, ripping it off and dropping it onto the floor. His hands hold my face as he gazes into my eyes. It’s like he’s waiting for confirmation, for my consent, and instead of saying anything, I reach out, touching his hard stomach with my fingers. My hand flattens against his skin and I explore, moving up to touch his chest, then lower once more, my fingertips dipping into the waistband of his jeans, teasing.

With a groan, Jake bends his head, finding my right nipple with his tongue, which he flicks over the sensitive skin till I can barely breathe. He sucks it gently, the skin tickling, puckering, sending electric shocks throughout my body.

My knees grow weak as he moves to the other nipple, teasing it, his lips pulling gently. When I touch the front of his jeans I can feel his hardness, and when I rub him through his clothes he moans.

This time when we kiss his fingers explore, traveling down my stomach to the damp trimmed hair between my legs, which he gently pushes apart for better access. His thumb caresses my clit while a finger travels farther, dipping into my wetness. Shamelessly I moan, my head falling back as I do, the feeling so exquisite. How does he know how to touch me exactly the way I want to be touched?

“You like that,” he whispers against my neck. It’s not a question. He knows I do, and his confidence turns me on even more.

“Yes,” I reply, my voice hoarse. I reach for the buckle of his belt, but he takes my hand away.

With one swift motion he pushes everything on the sink counter into the sink: soap dispenser, toothbrush, toothpaste. Then he lifts me so I’m sitting on the cool marble surface. His eyes on mine, he touches the inside of my thigh, urging me to open my legs wider, so I do.

And then he kneels in front of me. Oh god. His fingers touch me first, gently opening me, finding my sensitive clit and ever so slowly teasing it. But when his face moves forward, I tense up.

I’ve never done this before. Had this done for me, I mean. I’ve given blow jobs, but no guy has ever reciprocated. Maybe high school guys aren’t into that. I don’t know. But here’s a man, kneeling in front of me, and for some weird reason I feel nervous.

“Relax.” He must sense my anxiety, because he continues to touch me, his fingers knowing exactly what to do, until I melt, until I don’t care what he does as long as it feels this good.

And then his tongue. It flicks over my clit and I cry out at the sensation, better than anything I’ve felt before. One of his fingers moves to my wetness, pushing in a little, then all the way, while his tongue continues to pleasure my clit.

“Oh,” I murmur, my body tensing again, but not from fear this time. Already I feel an orgasm building, quicker than it’s ever happened before.

He continues, and I can’t help my body from writhing at the exquisite sensation.

“I’m going to come, Jake,” I whisper. It’s almost like I’m warning him, like I feel the need to let him know it’s going to happen, and soon.

“That’s the plan.” He stops only long enough to respond to me, and then his tongue finds the spot again, his fingers too, and just as quickly as before he builds me up, closer and closer to bliss.

I fight it at first, wanting the sensation to last forever, or at least for a few more moments before I crash, hard and fast. But I can’t hold on. It feels too good, and within seconds I’m there, my whole body clenching in that bliss of just-before, and then exploding, my head back, my damp hair behind me, my hands bracing myself on the bathroom counter.

His lips are salty when he kisses me, my pussy still contracting in the aftermath of pleasure, my body weak. I’m not even sure I can stand. But Jake lifts me down, holding me upright for a few seconds before letting me go.

“Get dressed.” He picks up the towel from the floor and hands it to me, leaving the bathroom without a word.

Wait. I want to say it out loud, but I don’t have the energy. Instead I pull on my clothes, the jeans still slightly damp.

In the living room, Jake’s already put on a dry T-shirt, and he’s got his holster on, as well as his leather jacket. His key are jingling in his hand like he’s anxious to get going. “You ready to go?” He barely looks at me.

“Yeah. Let me just put on my shoes.” I sit on the floor and pull on my red Converse sneakers. I try to pretend he’s not being suddenly cold.

“Your principal just called.”

Fuck.

“She and your mom are worried that you didn’t show up for school.”

“What did you say?” I ask.

“I lied, Melanie. And I never lie. I said I picked you up walking on Route 51 and I’m bringing you to school now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. This was a mistake. Again. And it’s not going to happen anymore.”

“Right.” My heart hurts when he says that, but I know he’s right, so I finish tying my shoes and stand up. “My hair’s wet, though. How will I explain that?”

“Fuck. I don’t know. I don’t have a hair dryer.”

“Wait.” I dig in my backpack and pull out a black knit winter cap that I keep in there for colder days. I pull it on over my hair. “Perfect!” I smile at him, hoping to entice him into a slightly better mood, but it doesn’t work. He just opens the front door and gestures for me to leave.

“I need to bring you to the school, where we need to meet with your mom and the principal.” His words are angry.

And suddenly I realize this position he’s in, with me like this, is dangerous for him. He could get in a lot of trouble, or, at the very least, lose the respect of a lot of people. And I don’t want that for him. I was only thinking of myself; what I needed. God, I hope it’s not too late to change that.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, and this time it’s not just words. I follow him out to the car, and he opens the passenger door for me.

“Just get in.”

As soon as he gets in too and slams the door closed, I say, “Look. I’m not going to tell anyone anything. There’s no way. OK? You can trust me.” My voice is earnest. “What we do is personal, between us.”

“It’s still wrong, Melanie.” His voice is really cold.

“I said I’m sorry! What else do you want me to do? It’s not like I forced you into anything!”

“That’s exactly it. I should have known better.” Even though he’s pissed, he’s so freaking handsome. Out of the corner of my eye I stare at him in profile, his strong jaw, his brown eyes. That messy hair, just slightly wavy, that he runs his hand through when he’s frustrated or angry. The stubble on his face fascinates me, turns me on; it’s so rugged. Such a reminder of what a man he is.

He catches me staring, and I look away quickly, staring out the window as we get closer to the school.