Jaxon

I’m not sure how long I’ve been here. Awhile. Long enough to know I shouldn’t be here. That I should do the right thing. Go home. She doesn’t even know I’m here. Neither does anyone else, really. I could just go.

Leave her alone.

With her gone, I was able to think things through rationally. Without the feel of her against me, the sounds of her, whimpering and gasping with every stroke of my cock against the center of her, urging me on, I can see things clearly.

I’m leaving.

I’m not coming back.

I can’t do this to her.

I pushed her out the back door and watched her stumble down the steps, looking as drunk and disoriented over what happened between us as I feel. I stood on the back porch and watched her cross the street to her car while my blood pounded in my ears, my arms crossed over my chest in an effort to keep myself together. Behind me, my mom walked into the kitchen, dropping her purse on the table.

For once in my life, we were over-staffed... is that Claire driving away?

Yeah. She stayed for dinner. Simon asked her to.

That’s nice...

I sit with her while she eats the plate Claire put in the oven for her, half-listening to her tell me about her day. I can hear her talking, I’m even participating in the conversation, but my mind is somewhere else.

It’s on Claire.

And even though I’m still telling myself to leave her alone, to let what happened be all that happens, I know I won’t.

I know I can’t.

As soon as I hear my mom’s bedroom door close, I take a quick shower, using Simon’s watermelon-scented shampoo because we share a bathroom and it’s just easier when your five-year-old roommate uses your toiletries as bath toys. Afterward, I scrawl out a quick note with one of Simon’s crayons and stick it to the fridge with one of him alphabet magnets—

Mom -

Went for a drive.

Jax

So here I am, standing on her front lawn while people I went to high school with are running around like wild animals. I’m getting a few errant, puzzled looks—like they see me but don’t really believe what they’re seeing. Like tomorrow morning they’ll say, I was so fucked up last night I thought I saw Jaxon Bennett.

I’ve never been what you would consider social. Could never really afford to be and to be honest, it never really felt like I was missing much. What could my peers understand about my life, anyway?

I think that’s what might’ve drawn me to Claire in the first place. Even before I started to think about all the things I wanted to do to her, I wanted to know her. Talk to her. Spend time with her. I hadn’t felt that way about anyone in a long time. If I’m completely honest, it’s what prompted me to suggest we ask her to be Simon’s sitter in the first place.

There’ve been a lot of nights I’ve laid awake, listening to Simon’s light snore across the sea of Legos and action figures, staring at her number on my phone. Thinking about calling her. Maybe ask her out to a movie. Take her to dinner. In the end, it always seemed easier to just leave her alone. But that was before. Before I felt her tremble and sigh under my hands. Before I listened to her say the one word I’ve been dying to hear her say to me.

Yes.

I can’t leave her alone anymore.

I don’t want to.

Cursing myself, I dig my phone out of my pocket and send her a text before I can come to my senses.

Me: I’m outside

your house.

Almost immediately, a light clicks on upstairs, reminding me of what she told me earlier. That she hates it when her sister throws parties and that she usually spends her time in her room. The thought of her hunkered down, hiding away from the drunk and swarming masses like it’s all some sort of natural disaster to be weathered, makes me smile.

Claire: Okay

That’s it.

Okay.

I stare at my phone for a few seconds, trying to decipher the one-word text like it’s an encrypted military secret when another one comes through.

Claire: Go to

the kitchen

I fight my way through the house, pushing toward the back of it until I finally find the kitchen. Cabinet doors are hanging open. Cups and half-empty bottles scattered across the counter, despite the fact that there’s a 55-gallon trash can—the kind I imagine their gardener uses to collect lawn clippings—wedged into the corner. Fighting the urge to clear the clutter, I pull a red plastic cup from a random stack, filling it with water from the tap and drink it because my mouth is so dry I can hardly breathe. The police chief’s kid is doing a kegstand, his buddies holding his legs steady while he does a handstand on the rim of the keg, the operator giving the tap a few pups before, thumbing the nozzle to start the flow of beer from keg to kid.

My phone buzzes again.

Claire: Backstairs are

in the butler’s pantry.

Code for the door is 51597

What the fuck is a butler’s pantry?

Feeling like a dumbass, I look around the kitchen. Spotting a door that doesn’t look like it actually goes anywhere, I take a chance, shouldering my way through the tight knot of people clustered around the keg to squeeze myself through the door, barely refraining from tossing people out of my way like a deranged ogre.

I’m not really built for crowds.

I’m in a space about the size of my own bedroom. It looks like another kitchen, only smaller. Counters and cabinets on either side. A prep sink. A refrigerator.

And a door with a keypad with a red flashing light.

I key in the code, Claire sent me and the light goes green. Palming the knob I give it a turn, opening the door.

And run right into her.

Her eyes go wide. “Oh.” She lets out a breath, her hand still latched around the doorknob, jerking her across the short distance between us.

“Shit.” My hands come up, wrapping around her upper arms, holding on to her, so she doesn’t plow her face right into my chest. I get the impression of baggy clothes, possibly pajamas. Her hair is up. Face scrubbed clean.

It takes considerable effort to keep my hands on her shoulders, especially when all I can do is think about shoving her against the wall and my hand up her shirt.

I need space. Distance. I move her back, away from me. Her hand detaches from the knob, and the door bangs shut behind me, leaving us in the dark. “Jaxon?”

“Yeah?” My voice sounds like I swallowed a handful of hot asphalt. Rough. Too rough. I’m going to scare her if I don’t knock it off. When she doesn’t follow up, I think I’m already there. She’s already decided inviting me up to her room was a bad idea. Trying to figure out a way to get me—

“I didn’t think you were going to come.”

I have to grit my teeth, set her away even further because the way she said come goes straight to my dick. “I got...” Scared. Worried. A conscience. Instead of telling her the truth, I lie. “Held up. With Simon. I—”

“Is he okay?”

The concern in her voice nearly undoes me, and I have to swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “Yeah....” I close my eyes even though we’re standing in a dark stairwell because I can feel her breath on my neck like she’s tipped her face up to look at me. I don’t want to talk about Simon. I don’t want to talk about my mom or how fucked up my life really is. “I’m here now.”

She sighs, her shoulders softening under my hands, melting like warm butter. “I’m glad.”

Jesus.

I’m in trouble.

I lower my head, opening my eyes. My sight adjusted, it’s not as dark anymore. I can see the shape of her. The impression of her mouth, inches from mine, reminding me of earlier. How close she was. What it felt like to kiss her. What she tasted like. She’s staring up at me, her eyes wide, like she’s look at something dangerous. Something that wants to eat her.

She has no fucking idea.

“Have you been drinking?”

I can practically hear her confusion. “What?” She shakes her head. “No—I mean, I had some cranberry juice but not—”

I give in.

Finally, let myself have something.

Claire.

That’s the last rational thought I have, right before I kiss her.