What the actual fuck just happened?

I stare at the door where he’s just vanished, replaying the conversation in my head. What did I say? Are his parents a sore subject or something?

After all, we were bickering and he said some pretty harsh words himself. Yet somehow my little digs had him heading for hills and acting like I’d just threatened to kidnap his baby sister.

I blink and turn back around, staring into the yard for a few seconds, waiting for a sudden epiphany. When it doesn’t come, I pull out my phone and use it to do a little stalking— now that I have his name, I actually have something to stalk with. Maybe there will be something tucked away in a tweet or Instagram post or something that gives me a clue—

Oh.

Oh shit.

I must be a total fool not to have known any of this…

My lips part in shock. Nothing about Tyson Slate is tucked away. My search results flash links to CNN, ESPN, even the BBC— and none of the articles are about football. They’re about his dad, Dennis Slate.

Specifically, about Dennis Slate being a suspected murderer.

I tap the first article and read, horrified and darkly curious. Dennis Slate is a suspect in the death of his mistress. His middle son— Tyson’s brother— had provided, but then rescinded, an alibi. His oldest son no longer supports his father. Tyson’s mother stuck by her husband, but the article paints her as something of a fool for doing so. The piece ends with a series of stats— apparently Dennis Slate was a football player as well. He had a brief stint in the NFL after college, and then went on to coach all three of his sons’ local teams.

I cringe. I’d said his father hadn’t taught him to respect women, when his father is on trial for murdering a woman. Yeah, I’d say his parents are a sore subject. Damn it. I look up, try to forgive myself, but instead replay every embarrassing mistake I’ve ever made for the next half hour before wandering back inside to look for Trishelle. I want to go home— if I’m going to sit around reliving past humiliations, then at least I want to do it in close proximity to peanut butter crackers and ice cream.

I weave through the party. Everyone has clearly been beating me when it comes to drinking— I’m barely tipsy now, and all around me I see the telltale wild eyes and pink cheeks of total inebriation. If I’d thought the scent of alcohol was overpowering inside the house before, it’s nothing compared to how it smells now; I’m pretty sure that a single match would cause the entire place to explode just from the fumes.

I spot Trishelle through the crowd. She’s leaning against a wall with a group of cheerleaders, and they’re talking in a huddle, occasionally peering over their shoulders at the rest of the crowd, then turning back to one another and giggling. I try to get Trishelle’s attention, but she’s too involved in the huddle, leaving me no choice but to tap her on the shoulder. She spins around; her eyes fall a little when she sees it’s only me, and I have to admit, it stings.

“I think I’ll go home,” I say quickly, very aware that the other girls are waiting impatiently for Trishelle’s attention to return to them.

“What? You can’t!” Trishelle says, sounding panicked.

“I really need to. I just— I’ll explain later. Nothing serious or anything,” I add, not that she’d asked.

“It’s just…” Trishelle leans in close, so that only I can hear her. “If you leave early, it’ll be weird for me— you know, I bring a friend to a party, she sits by herself outside, then she bails?”

“How did you know I was sitting by myself outside?”

“I saw you,” Trishelle says.

I tilt my head to the side. “You saw me sitting alone outside and didn’t come to see what was up?”

Trishelle winces and gives me an apologetic look. “I was in the middle of a conversation with the captain, and she’s the sort of person you don’t walk away from.”

“Yeah,” I say flatly. Trishelle doesn’t react— I think she might be too drunk to know how pissed off she’s making me.

“Just give me another hour,” Trishelle says, grabbing my hand.

“Sure. Fine,” I mutter, then turn to walk away. Tyson had a point before— I am totally letting Trishelle walk all over me. I suppose I didn’t see the warning signs since I’ve never been a doormat before— and Trishelle has never been like this before.

Or is this who she was all along, she just hadn’t made the cheerleading squad back in high school, so there was no way know?

I don’t want to go back to the front steps, since apparently I’m being watched --and judged—for being by myself out there. I duck instead out a sliding glass door toward the back of the house, which leads me to a deck lined in string lights. I weave through a decent size crowd to get to the stairs, which I follow down to the darkened— but blissfully quiet— backyard.

I admire those tough as nails type girls who never shed a tear…but I’m definitely not one of them. That said, I cry in private. I’ve learned that the more I try to fight crying, or tell myself I’m being ridiculous, or shame myself for feeling human emotions, the more awful I’ll look afterward. If I just go ahead and let the tears flow, I can usually avoid the puffy eyes, red nose, and salt-raw cheeks that trigger everyone’s curiosity and pity. When I get stressed out and feel the tears coming, I just find a place to quietly cry it out, dab my eyes, take deep breaths, and then can usually resume by regularly scheduled life without too much trouble.

Underneath the deck there are a few iron patio chairs that I don’t think get a lot of use. I dust them with my hands just in case there are spiders, then sit down and bring on the tears. This sucks. This party sucks, Trishelle sucks, and at the moment, college basically sucks. I didn’t love my high school or hometown or anything, but I least that place was routine. Here, I can apparently lose my best friend to cheerleading bitches and make an ass of myself all in the same five minutes. Why does higher education have to come with a whole new round of social hurdles?

I take a few long, deep breaths, but I’m clearly not done with the tears yet. I let out another round, grateful that the music and noise from the top of the deck drowns out the sound of my sniffling and huffing.

“What are you doing?” a familiar voice asks.

I spin around, mortified— tears are streaming down my face and I know my cheeks are red. There’s no way to play this off.

Of course it’s Tyson Slate standing there.

He’s leaning against one of the deck pillars, and I don’t know how exactly, but it’s somehow clear to me that he didn’t just arrive— that he’s been watching me sit here and weep like a little girl since the moment I began, and just now spoke up. His face is shadowed, so even if he wasn’t freakishly unreadable, I still wouldn’t know what he was thinking.

“Taking some time to myself,” I answer, emphasizing the word “myself” so he’ll leave me alone.

“Obviously. Why?” he asks, voice once again hard and smooth. He takes a few steps toward me, his hands slung into his pockets and shoulders back— his swagger is clear even in the darkness.

“Because I wanted some time to myself,” I say in a flat, nasal-voice (thanks, tears), and turn to go before he can get any closer and get a good look at my reddened eyes.

“Hey,” he says from right behind me, and while his voice is still stony, the edges are far softer than normal. I freeze, afraid to turn around lest my teary, sniffling face be close to his. Instead, I peer over my shoulder, my eyes falling on the gray fabric of Tyson’s shirt. My head only comes up to his shoulder…which means that my face sits right against his breastbone when he pulls me to him in a single, quick motion.

I’m surprised, so much so that I almost push away. His body is hard, all muscles that feel like rocks against my skin. He puts his arms around me, but his embrace isn’t exactly tender— it’s more…controlling. But not in a bad way— in a way that makes me relax. In a way that makes me feel small, and protected, and like Tyson Slate and his muscles and swagger and eyes and harsh voice are between me and the emotions that were so overwhelming just a few moments ago. I exhale and let myself cry against him, pulling my arms up to my chest so his body practically encompasses mine. He’s so broad shouldered that my entire body fits into the span of his chest.

“This night just sort of sucks,” I finally say, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths. I can’t believe I’m letting a near-stranger hold me like this— but then, he’s so clearly in charge of the situation that I can’t find it embarrassing. After all, if he didn’t want me weeping in his arms, he wouldn’t have pulled me, weeping, into his arms.

He inhales patiently, his breath a steady, even rhythm. I wish I could see his eyes. From up against him, though, all I can see are his biceps and the beginnings of a five-o’clock shadow coming in along his jawline.

“Sometimes just when things seem to be at their worst, they get better then you could ever imagine,” he whispers.

I tense and chew my lip. I feel my heart thudding, but more then that, I feel my center tightening and tingling. “That sounds like wishful thinking,” I say, trying to play off the attraction I’m feeling at his words.

Tyson chuckles, though it’s deep in his chest— so much so that were I not pressed against him, I doubt I’d have noticed. “Listen, let’s go back inside and try and make the best of this admittedly shitty party.”

I wipe my eyes as he looks down at me to see my reaction.

“Only if we both agree that we won’t insult the other. Or at least, that we’ll try not to. We seem to have a knack for it, intentional or otherwise.”

“Deal,” he says. His arms are still holding me though, and the gesture feels strangely intimate and growing more sexual by the moment.

I mean to step away from him, to start walking. My body, however, doesn’t obey me; I don’t let go. I stay pressed against Tyson, taking note of the way he feels, the beat of his heart, the smell of him, the heat of his skin. I close my eyes and tension I didn’t realize I was carrying in my jaw and shoulders melts away. He’s so strong; he’s so clearly in control. What do I have to worry about?

He slides one hand firmly up my back to the side of my head, and presses my cheek tighter to his chest. He thumbs at my hair for a moment, twisting his fingers around my curls, and then I unexpectedly feel his breath against the top of my head. He’s lowered his chin to the crown of my head, and then he kisses me there. I feel unwound; it’s hard to believe I was crying just a few moments before. That tension, that tightness that only comes with tears, is gone. It’s all gone. Everything but Tyson is gone.

Tyson shifts again, his mouth running along my hair, down to my ear. I find myself rising on my toes to give him easier access, the act instinctual rather than planned. Tyson’s breath is hot against the upper curve of my ear for a moment, and then his lips part. I expect him to whisper something, but instead he bites lightly at the top of my ear, running his tongue along the skin there.

My knees weaken, and my mouth opens, and the smallest of sighs emerges from my lips as I tilt my head more. Tyson responds by pulling me even closer to him, the pressure nearly painful, and then licks down the back of my ear, stopping to kiss me at the spot just under my earlobe. No one has ever done this before— no one has kissed me anywhere but the lips before— but Tyson so clearly knows what he’s doing that I’m not worried. That’s not to say I’m not nervous, of course, especially when I feel his mouth on my neck, his teeth grazing against my skin there. He eases my head to the side with one hand so he can kiss up and down my neck, and then, without fanfare or any discernible effort, lifts me off the ground slightly. He brings my neck to his mouth, and when I feel him sucking lightly in a way that I know will leave a mark, I moan from both the sensation, and the idea of there being some sign of this perfect moment on my body later.

He nudges my head so he can kiss the front of my neck, the other side, and then lifts me higher until our lips find one another. Tyson kisses hard and confidently; there’s no exploring, no tentative pecks, just strength and masculinity and power. I part my lips and he slides his tongue into my mouth, which makes me moan again. Who am I, even? I don’t do things like this with guys. I certainly don’t make noises like this. But Tyson is coaxing these feelings, these sounds, these wants from me, and I don’t know how to stop him. I don’t want to stop him— no, it’s more than that. I don’t want to be able to stop him. I want him to stay in control. I want to give up all the responsibility and authority and risk-aversion I wear like armor, and let him run my body instead.

I moan again, louder this time, because Tyson just licked from my collarbone up to my ear, then nibbled on it lightly.

Tyson murmurs, “I knew I needed to have you when I saw you in the gym that day.”

“Have me?” I say, startled— but still unable to twist away both because of his hold on me and the general wobbly feeling in my legs. Does he mean “have” me in the abstract, or “have” me as in sex? I assume the later, given the way he’s pressed to me, the way his mouth is on me— but I’ve never had sex before, and I don’t want to tell him that. But…I also don’t want to tell him no, because the truth is…I’m not opposed to the idea of Tyson taking my virginity. He’s so in control, after all; I wouldn’t have to worry…

“Yes,” he breathes, which doesn’t answer my question, exactly. I feel one of his wide hands sliding down my back, his fingers wrapping around my upper thigh. I moan again at how close his fingers are to the wetness between my legs, at how strange and wild it feels to have someone else’s hands there rather than my own. My thighs tighten, like my responsible, good-girl body is trying to reject him while my Tyson-Slate-addled brain is begging me to let go, to let him do this. To let this calm, powerful, strong person take the reins from me, if only for a little while.

I lift my chin, and his lips find mine again. He kisses me deeply, then begins to inch his hands farther up my inner thigh. I feebly protest the motion, and he pulls his mouth away from mine.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, voice low.

I’m taken aback by the question, mostly because I’d nearly given in entirely to Tyson’s authority. I chew my lip, trying to dredge up my saner self— the version of myself who would never, ever make out with a guy like Tyson, and would certainly never let him touch her like this. But that girls feels tucked away, and in her place is a version of myself that I don’t totally recognize, but totally adore— a girl who doesn’t have to be cautious and careful and wary. A girl who can let a man make her moan without guilt. A girl who wants to feel Tyson Slate’s fingers—

“There you are!” a male voice says, and Tyson steps away from me. I feel like I’ve been dropped a hundred feet, even though I know it was a few inches at best. I rock, unbalanced, the heat between my legs and around my heart surging and dissipating like I’ve been dunked in ice water. I blink, unsure what’s happened. Tyson has spun around, and he’s now facing away from me, talking with a group of guys who have come down to the lower yard with sparklers and firecrackers. I barely catch the conversation; my head feels cottony and confused.

“Wait, who’s that?” one of them asks. Tyson steps aside, and it’s only now that I realize his body was blocking mine. That he was intentionally blocking their line of sight to me, hiding me away.

“One of the freshman cheerleader’s friends. She was sick, I came to check,” Tyson says with a shrug, and walks toward them. “Last thing I want is a publicity issue about the house or the team right before game one.”

“Good thinking, Dr. Slate,” one of the guys snorts in response.

“I told you not to call me that anymore,” Tyson says in response, but it’s good-natured. Or at least, as good-natured as his still and steady voice can sound, I suspect. They walk into the dim light that rolls off the deck and begin to light sparklers in giant handfuls, swigging beer as they do so. I stare, confused. Did that just happen? Is he embarrassed of me? I want to shout that he can go fuck himself then, but instead there’s just a core of hurt in my chest, growing and churning until I finally shake my head and slink away into the dark.