Being with her required no emotional investment.
Which was the safest thing with me.
After a few minutes of her going down on me, I picked her up, wrapped her legs around my waist, and took her against the wall. I grabbed her hips, tossed my head back, and before I could stop it, Dovey came to mind.
It slowed me down for a sec, and I tried to push her out … because what the hell was I doing daydreaming over some random girl who didn’t matter when I had this hot older girl?
But she wouldn’t get out of my head.
Fuck it.
I gave in and went with it, imagining Dovey pinned against the wall, her legs imprisoning me. Yeah. So. Fucking. Good. I grunted and went with it, slamming into Marissa, but wanting another.
And it was wrong, so wrong of me, but I played my fantasy in my head again, of Dovey dancing for me, of her being in love with me, of her needing me with all my rough spots and flaws, and lastly, I visualized me loving her in return.
But then my dream took on another angle, sweeter almost, as I imagined me and Dovey at my lake house in White Rock. I made a bed for us out of quilts and pillows under the night sky, under the stars and moon. I made love to her again, this time gazing intently at her face to face. Because now I knew what she looked like.
I told her I’d love her forever.
And I don’t even know why.
“Love swallows up all the good parts,
but ballet gives it all back.”
–Dovey
SEPTEMBER DRIFTED INTO October.
I continued working on my performance pieces with Jacques. He kept asking me out, but I always said no. I mean, he was hot with his big muscles and French accent, but I knew I had to keep my distance. The loneliness ate at me, but I kept remembering my mother and how love had ultimately destroyed her.
I didn’t want that for me.
I was surprised Spider continued dating Becca. I began to wonder if maybe he’d finally fallen for someone. Nah. I laughed. Spider was just bidding his time until the next cute girl came along.
The first time I’d met him had been freshman year, and I hadn’t been impressed with him. Sure he was handsome and popular—with a hot English accent—but he’d had a rep as a trouble maker.
It had all began one day in art class when he’d looked across the row of space that separated our work areas and poked fun at my dandelion still life. In retrospect, my painting had been awful, but I didn’t need some smart-ass, cocky guy telling me. So after class, I’d followed him to his locker, determined to let him know he couldn’t trash talk me. I was only fourteen at the time, but being from Ratcliffe, I had a chip on my shoulders, and I was determined to not take his shit.
I’d eyed his tattoo and said, “Spider is a weird name. Did you know that spiders are almost all homosexual? The females rule and prefer each other, and the males are an afterthought. That’s also why the black widow kills the male after mating, because she views him as a genetic sacrifice. Not to mention, he’s a wimp, all weak and scared. He’s good enough to be her protein though. Yummmy,” I said, rubbing my belly.
He smirked. “Are you saying I’m gay?”
“Don’t care one way or the other. Lots of my friends are gay. The point is I may be a girl, but like the black widow, I will kick your ass if you ever make fun of me again.” Total bluff. I gave him a bright smile and turned to leave. “Cheerio, mate.”
He followed me. “How do you know so much about spiders?”
I gave him a haughty look. “Duh. I read.”
He lightly touched his tat. “So it’s true, then?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. Maybe the black widow lets the male live sometimes. If he brings her a tasty insect probably. Because females like to eat.” Yeah.
He blinked. “No. Are spiders gay?”
I tapped my chin, hiding my glee at his distress. “Meh, I made it up mostly. Just to get your attention and make a point.” And then I added, “It’s called hyperbole. Or a lie. Whatever.”
He’d smiled, his eyes crinkling and a dimple popping out on his cheeks.
I’d grinned back. He liked me. And there you go. I had a friend. “And by the way, your banana still life? It looked like a penis. So don’t give me grief for some dandelions.”
He’d barked out a laugh. “Yeah, the banana was hard to get right.”
And that had been the beginning of mine and Spider’s friendship.
The bell rang in algebra, pulling me from my memories. I rose up out of my desk and left, headed for lunch.
I turned the corner to go into the cafeteria when a tall guy with dark hair came out of the library, a pretty girl on each arm. Emma Easton and April Novak were the girls, mean ones if you listened to gossip, and each bookended Cuba Hudson, one of the most—no, wait, the most popular guy at BA.
I took him in, unabashedly, since Spider wasn’t here like he usually was, offering his critiques of the guys I thought were hot. There was no doubt, Cuba was the most beautiful guys I’d ever seen. Yeah, yeah, I know beautiful is a weird word for a guy, but when it fits, it just does. With a lethal kind of aura, he positively oozed sex, pulling your gaze into his magnetic vortex. The fitness side of me admired his physique with analytical eyes, ghosting over the broad chest and bunched muscles. But most of all, the dreamer in me got chills at his golden-yellow eyes, just like what I imagined an exotic jungle cat would have. I’d meet his gaze once or twice over the years and had shivered each time. With anticipation or heat—or dread? No idea. But his eyes did cause some kind of weird visceral reaction in me like no other, almost as if we shared a connection, like we were kindred spirits—