Very Wicked Things

I whispered to him again and again and…

“Dovey,” a voice snapped. “Look at me.”

I didn’t want to. I didn’t. I decided I wouldn’t. I rotated my hips against his, making him hiss and let out a string of curses. Was this a good idea flitted through my mind, but oh, I didn’t care about that, because he was hard and I was soft, and I wanted to feel good about something. I wanted to forget about Sarah’s illness and Cuba’s baby. I wanted to forget about all the shit floating around in my head.

I put my hands on his crotch and stroked hard, letting him know I meant business. He stiffened, groaned and said my name, and it sounded beautiful and sweet, like a benediction. And because I loved the sound of my name on his lips, I said his name. Over and over and over…

Then his voice changed, getting shrill. He shoved me off him, pushing until my bare back bounced off the couch, and I slid onto the carpet. My eyes blared open, my desire cooling at the anger in his eyes.

“What? Isn’t that what you wanted?” I scrounged around on the floor, found my shirt and pulled it on. The bra was MIA. Great. My favorite one. I didn’t doubt for a second he’d add it to his collection later.

He snapped off the couch and paced around, a tinge of unbalance in his jerky movements. “You have no idea what just happened, do you?” he said, snatching up his beer and guzzling it.

I shrugged. “We were making out and—”

“You called me Cuba, Dovey! You kissed me and called me his bloody name. Complete cluster-fuck.”

“Not possible.” But had I? For the life of me, I couldn’t remember what I’d said. “You misunderstood.”

“I’m not deaf,” he said. “Nor am I stupid.”

I rubbed my hand over my swollen mouth. I had been thinking of Cuba, comparing their kisses.

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting? It was a slip-up—”

“You were thinking about him the whole time,” he interrupted, pulling at his spiked hair, seeming to be talking to himself more than to me.

Now that wasn’t true.

“You’re overacting,” I said, feeling defensive. And sad. I wanted to forget Cuba.

“I’m not,” he said. “Your eyes follow him everywhere he goes. He shit on you, and you still want him.” He raised his hands up over his head and yelled, “I hate the way you rip me up inside.”

My ire rose, taking over my mouth. “I thought you were my friend. Was your friendship all pretend? Was I the only girl who didn’t give you what you wanted, Spider? Is that why you hung around for four years?” I seethed. “Fine, you wanna fuck? Let’s do it. Let’s taint ourselves with meaningless sex between friends. So what if I’m just one in a long line of girls. Because next month, you’ll be hot for someone else. And our friendship will be ruined.”

His color rose and veins popped out along his temple. He closed the distance between us and pulled me back into his arms, but this time his face was all wrong, hard and angry.

“Stop,” I said, twisting around trying to get some space between us. “Let me go.”

“Not until you admit you have feelings for me,” he said tightly.

I just stared at him, not understanding his emotion. It was a damn slip-up for goodness sakes. It didn’t mean anything.

“Why are you so angry?”

“I’m angry because I fucking love you,” he shouted. “And you’re too caught up in Cuba to notice.”

I shook my head. Impossible. “No. Don’t love me, Spider. Because I can’t love you back. Not like that.”

He grabbed my chin. “Remember who I am,” he muttered and kissed me, this time forcefully, his tongue invading my mouth uninvited. Our teeth knocked together, and I snapped back, but he followed, backing me up against the wall, his hips pinning me.

But I wasn’t afraid because sometimes a woman just knows things. It’s an innate sense given to us at birth, maybe because Mother Nature felt sorry for us, bestowing most of the physical strength to men. As females, we know when other girls don’t like us even when they pretend to; we know when a boy doesn’t love us anymore; we sense when a guy is inherently bad or good. And, Spider was not evil. He’d never hit me or make me bleed like my father had done to my mother.

Sure, a gentleman would have graciously let me go when I asked, but I never said Spider was a gentleman. He’s not. He’s messed up with internal secrets, but he is my friend and I’d never had many. Maybe people would say I’m too accepting of his faults, but the truth is, with the way I grew up, Spider didn’t seem so bad.

And so, I stopped struggling, softening my hands as I clasped his shoulders.

His hold on me eased. He trailed his mouth down my neck, his fierceness losing steam, his common sense catching up with his outburst. He stopped kissing me and hung his head down over my shoulder, his entire body vibrating.

“I’m sorry for calling you Cuba,” I whispered in his ear. He muttered and started banging his head repeatedly against the wall behind me, making the pictures on the wall bounce.

“Spider, don’t hurt yourself.” I skimmed my hands over his bare chest, wanting to comfort him.

He flinched, his body heaving with emotion. “Don’t touch me.”

“Spider, wait—”

His face was drawn in tight lines. “I can’t bear to look at you, Dovey. You’ve got me all jacked up because you don’t know if you’re coming or going. And I’m sick of it, sick of you. I want to forget I ever cared for you. Just get the fuck out,” he said his voice low. Final.