Whatever It Takes

by Ritchie, Krista

  I nod. “How should we communicate?”

  He switches lanes easily. “By letters probably,” he banters. “I’d say two tin cans, but I don’t think the string would reach from me to you.”

  “What about communicating in ones and zeroes?”

  He feigns confusion. “What is that? Ones and zeroes…nah, I don’t like those.” He almost smiles, because after today, I know he likes the internet, maybe even more than me.

  15 PRESENT DAY - October

  London, England

  WILLOW HALE

  Age 20

  I haven’t spoken to Garrison in weeks.

  Days turned into nights. Nights turned into mornings. And time seems to seep like water between my fingers. Losing it all.

  Our videos to each other have grown more infrequent and shorter. The ones I send, I’m rushed, frazzled running between classes.

  His are more concerning. Heavy-lidded eyes and mumbled words before he dozes off.

  I lie in bed, wide-awake. My eyes pin to the ceiling, little glow-in-the-dark stars pasted to the cement.

  Call him again, my thoughts pull me. I snatch my phone and dial, but it rings to voicemail. Not surprising really. It’s only 9 p.m. in Philly, and Garrison works until midnight. He’s the type of person that zones completely into his work, loses time and sense of everything around him.

  It’s why he’s so good at what he does, and I can’t blame him for not answering. Not when there were plenty of calls I missed because I was in the library or dining hall or…Barnaby’s.

  I toss my phone aside.

  A tree branch scrapes my window as the wind picks up outside. Rain pelts the glass and tries its best to soothe me to sleep.

  But I’m too wired. Too longing.

  Too much of a lot of things.

  My fingers brush my lips. It’s been so long since we’ve even kissed. Since he’s held me. Touched me. Since I’ve run my fingers through his hair. Since he’s wrapped his arms around me like I’m the only person he wants to embrace. To protect. To love.

  I lean over and turn off my lamp, plunging my dorm room into darkness. Alone, with the sound of the rain shower, images of Garrison pop into my head. His hair that curls a little by his ears and his aquamarine eyes that always stare through me. Like he knows.

  He knows.

  What it’s like to have people who are supposed to love you unconditionally but they don’t. Who are supposed to protect you. But don’t.

  He’d touch my cheek and say, “It doesn’t matter anymore. We’re not seventeen. We don’t need them. We always have each other.”

  I’d stand on my tip-toes and press my lips to his. Warmth underneath his palms as he slid them underneath my shirt. He’s the only guy that ever touched me like that. Kissing. Hugging.

  Anything.

  Everything.

  My body hums, pulsing and clenching harder between my legs. Wanting him. Wanting more.

  Ever since I moved to London, I dream up this one single memory when I want to get off alone. This one visual is enough to make me wet and come easily. So right now, I start to think about it again.

  I think about the night I lost my virginity.

  My hand dips down underneath the sheet. Underneath my pajama shorts. Under my panties. My fingers brush between my legs, breath hitching, and I feel the dampness.

  Closing my eyes, I try to visualize every piece of that night. As if I’m back in my Philly bedroom.

  Garrison thumbed my nipple, his mouth against the nape of my neck. Sucking a sensitive spot that quaked my sweaty limbs.

  I remember the room. Bathed in candlelight, smelling of rose petals and vanilla. Soft music played in the background, and each touch between us felt tender, comfortable and wanted.

  Our legs intertwined on the plush mattress. Fluffy blankets kicked aside.

  He propped himself up on his elbow, and his hand traveled from my breast down the curve of my hip. Drinking in my bare body, and I soaked up his lean muscles that formed actual abs. Showing off his athleticism. I eyed his boxer-briefs, snug on his toned waist, and his dick pushed against the fabric.

  Watching him made me calm down. I breathed and tried to stay out of my head.

  Right now, I try not to remember how anxious I was. I don’t want to warp the best moment into one of total nervous awkwardness.

  Back in my London dorm, I rub my clit. Remember, Willow.

  I remember how Garrison did this thing—something he usually did if we were tangled up and making out. He tried really hard (pun intended) not to grind his erection into me. Like he didn’t want me to feel his hardness and pressure me to have sex if I wasn’t ready.

  Even then, when we agreed that night would be the night he’d actually enter me—he still hovered over my body. Like it was just instinct at that point.

  I trembled, a little anxious. Also hot with temptation and anticipation. I craved him so badly. Arousal ate me up inside, pulsated between my legs. Blazed the back of my neck. Aching, longing.

  His hand veered over to the soft flesh of my stomach. Shirt and jean shorts already on the floor, his fingers stopped at the hem of my panties.

  “Is this okay?” he whispered in my ear.

  “Yeah,” I replied, voice raspy. He kissed my lips, urging them open slowly. I followed his lead, and his tongue slid sensually against mine.

  I didn’t know where to put my hands.

  Don’t remember.

  But it’s hard to forget how my palms made uncertain, awkward movements. Usually I would hold his shoulders. That night, I wasn’t sure if I should touch his dick.

  “Do you need me to…?” I started, but I didn’t even know what I was offering. A blow job? A hand job? Another sort of job I was unaware of?

  We hadn’t even run all the bases together before that night. I’ve touched his dick—but I wouldn’t call it a full-on gold-star worthy hand job, and I’ve never put him in my mouth before.

  I’m always in my head. Anxious and nervous like I’m doing things wrong, and Garrison has been sweet in not pressuring me to go further. I’m just more relaxed with him touching me than the other way around, I guess. Usually, we just make out, grinding a lot, and he’ll finger me until I come.

  Back when we were in bed together, Garrison pressed his lips to mine again. More tenderly. “No, this is for you. Just relax, Willow.”

  His fingers skated below the fabric of my panties, his touch achingly slow, and when he brushed the sensitive spot, I let out an aroused breath.

  I inhaled the vanilla scent around us and held his firm shoulders. He slipped into me, and I gave myself to Garrison. I trusted him.

  I loved him—I love him.

  He pulsed his fingers in me, filling me, and his thumb teased my clit. Torching my body and nerves. His fingers would be replaced by something bigger and harder, the thought lit me on fire and brewed excitement.

  As I touch myself in London, I imagine he’s here just like that night. About to fill me to the brim. His erection inside me. Rocking. Pleasing.

  I remember how my breath staggered back. “Garrison,” I moaned at the soft pressure of his fingers. Building more arousal.

  He pressed his forehead to mine, rocking slightly. He needed friction. He wanted friction. He ached to be in me. I could see all of this in his eyes and shallow breath.

  Pleasure mounted.

  His bare chest was slick with sweat, and a deep noise rumbled inside his throat. A noise that drove home who he was. Masculine. Man. Mine. And I was his. I am his.

  How? I wasn’t even sure.

  I was bookish and quiet.

  He was rebellious and misunderstood. Guys like him usually didn’t fall for girls like me. But here we were.

  His movements grew faster, our lips skimming with hot breath, and he brushed his thumb over my clit. I crumbled against him in a crashing wave.

  My toes curled and euphoria spotted my vision. My breath staggered, moans catching in my throat.

  In London,
I grip the twisted sheets and arch my hips. Wishing he were here, touching me. He is, I pretend.

  “I’ve got you,” Garrison breathed that night, lips to my ear.

  I rolled down the blissful sensation. Eyes heavy lidded, I kissed the closest thing I could find—his forearm. A very pretty forearm.

  When our eyes met, his overwhelming desire avalanched mine, covering me in so much need that I nearly quivered beneath him.

  “You can do it now,” I said softly.

  He rubbed my thigh and searched my gaze. “You sure you’re ready? I can get you off again—”

  “I’m sure,” I said, confident about this decision. My hands drifted to the ridges of his abs. “I want to feel you inside me.”

  Arousal pinned against his heady eyes. “Fuck.”

  We were both smiling. Excitement swelled around us like a ruthless, restless ocean, and we were both happy to let the riptide pull us under.

  He rose off the bed and I watched as he made the trek to my dresser—where he knew I kept the emergency condoms. Just in case.

  He was buck-naked like me. He was twenty like me. But tattoos inked his toned body and he moved with such ease and confidence. No longer looking like the jock that I pegged him as when I first met him. He was a bad boy. Misunderstood. Mine.

  I pulsed just watching him, and I relaxed into my pillow. In quick movements, he had the foil packet and returned to me.

  As soon as he was back on the bed, Garrison drank me in again, like I was the most beautiful creature to ever grace the universe.

  “Willow.” He said my name in a way that caused every inch of me to shudder. Like dipping a toe in a cold pool.

  I glanced down at his length, his knees on the mattress as he ripped open the condom with his teeth. His dick was larger than anything that had ever been inside of me.

  I leaned up, and he cupped my cheek and kissed me. I held his arms for comfort, wanting him close. He broke apart my legs with his knees. My heart beat rapidly.

  I thought it might hurt a lot, and that was what I feared the most. Being scared and then making an awkward mess of things. But Garrison knew that already.

  I’d told him before.

  He whispered against my lips, “If it hurts too much, you tell me and I’ll stop, okay? I’m fine with that.”

  His words were like magic. Vanquishing my nerves.

  I nodded, and I rested my shoulders back to the mattress. My legs around him. Vulnerable and ready, so ready.

  For the first time, I watched him sheath himself in front of me. More confidence radiating off every inch of him. It was contagious, fueling timid parts of me.

  He climbed further over my body, his hand beside my cheek. He lowered his head, his lips fusing with my lips. His tongue tangling with mine, his breath melding with mine, his heart beating with mine.

  I was swept up into hot sensations. Into the fiery moment, and his hand slid along my hips and then pressure welled between my legs.

  A sharp pain came and went, replaced by an overwhelming fullness that dizzied and electrified. Sparking more need. More desire. More want.

  “God, Willow,” Garrison groaned like this is a very good place to be. I trembled underneath him, desiring more friction. His eyes soaked into mine. Concern wrapped in extreme craving. He was already moving his hips.

  He was already rocking against me and watching him pump inside me—oh my God. I gasped, and he held my hand in his, lacing our fingers on the pillow. “This good?” he breathed.

  I nodded, words lost in my throat. So good.

  With that confirmation, he started thrusting harder. Working me up, sweat glistened on our skin, and a high-pitched noise escaped my lips, something else tickling my throat. “Ahh.” I clutched onto his bicep, the one with the inked skull. I was riding a surge of pleasure, the end not even in sight. “Garrison…please don’t stop.”

  “Fuck,” he groaned, placing another kiss on my lips. He drove deeper in me and welled up sentiments pricked my eyes.

  He let go of my hand and clutched my cheek. His pace and the fullness absolutely annihilating me. In the best way. Obviously worthy of a mental revisit.

  I was lost beneath him.

  He was lost above me.

  We found each other between every staggered breath. Every racing heartbeat. Every aching need. Until we were both sweaty and overcome by an intense, passionate crash. Nerves firing. Breaths heaving. Bodies colliding with blissful pleasure after all those years of waiting.

  In my dorm room, I ride the same wave. I reach a peak.

  I cry out his name in a soft, aching whisper. He lights me on fire—even when he’s miles away. But there’s a difference.

  I come down, and I roll on my side. No one else tangled in the sheets with me.

  He’s not here to pull me in his arms. He’s not here to say I love you. He’s not here so I can say I love you back.

  He’s not here to ask if I’m okay. To push the sweaty pieces of hair off my face. To kiss me one last time before we fall asleep.

  So I fumble for my phone. And I try to call him again. “Please answer,” I mutter alone in London. “Please answer.”

  It rings.

  And rings.

  “Please, Garrison.” It stops ringing.

  Beep.

  “Voice-mailbox full,” an automated voice replies.

  I roll onto my back and hold my phone to my chest.

  16 PRESENT DAY – October

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  GARRISON ABBEY

  Age 20

  Halloween.

  Also known as Loren Hale’s birthday. He already texted me about some “surprise” party he’s throwing himself. Only it’s a surprise for all his guests, not him—the guy with the birthday. It’s so Loren Hale, you really can’t make this shit up.

  The elevator at Cobalt Inc. is slow as fuck today. Maybe it’s broken? It goes down and down and down like the ticking of a clock, and I’m worried that I’m not ditching out of here early enough to avoid the party. I glance at the text again.

  Loren Hale: I’m picking you up at 9:45 p.m. for my birthday party. The outing is a surprise. No questions will be answered. Participation is not optional.

  He’s such an asshole, even in text. He didn’t even ask where I’d be, so I assume Connor tells him I work until midnight. But joke is on him because I’m out of here at 9:30 p.m. tonight.

  The elevator finally makes it to the lobby, and I pull out my phone to call an Uber. Just as I exit the revolving doors, shoes landing on the sidewalk, a black limo slows at the curb.

  Fuck.

  Second option: Avoid eye contact. Maybe I can get away with ignoring the limo. I focus on my cell and notice that the nearest Uber is ten minutes away. Fuck Halloween.

  “Garrison Abbey!” Loren shouts from the limo. “Let’s go! My birthday awaits!”

  Don’t be an asshole. I let out a breath of defeat and glance up. Half of his body hangs out of the limo’s opened window. He holds out a hand like come on.

  Trying not to seem too unenthusiastic, I pocket my phone, adjust my backpack on my shoulder, and approach the limo. Each footstep heavy.

  Loren is about to open the limo door, but I grab onto the windowsill and shove it closed. Lo glares almost instantly like I just told his kid that Santa Clause isn’t real. And in the next instant, his eyes soften considerably. Like he’s trying to be nice—and that act is hard for him.

  He opens his mouth, and I cut him off. “Thanks for the invite, but I decided I’m not going.”

  His amber eyes are really fucking hard to look at. They basically scream a million things. Disappointment. Confusion. I avoid them, preferring his ruthless glares to what he’s showering me with right now. Seriously, I stare anywhere but at him.

  The street.

  The light pole.

  The revolving doors I just left.

  I can’t hang out with them like we’re friends.

  I can’t hang out with him. My girlfriend
is his little sister. For fuck’s sake, I vandalized his house three years ago. Did he suddenly have amnesia? He should be pushing me down on the curb. He should be kicking me and calling me a thousand different names. Not inviting me to his birthday party.

  Jesus. It doesn’t make sense.

  I steal one glance back at him, and he’s looking over my shoulder like he’s trying to find someone. And then he tells me, “Because you have so many friends lined up inviting you places.” In mock surprise, he puts his hand to his lips. “Oh my God, there’s your bestie waving you down. He’s so excited to see you.”

  Fuck him.

  I glare.

  He glares back, and then I think, this is stupid. He’s just trying to piss me off to get me to go. He’s a button-pusher, and the more I’m around him, the more he’s learning mine.

  I roll my eyes. “I have work, you fucking…” I let out an aggravated noise and scuff the sidewalk with my Converse. What the fuck am I doing?

  “If the CEO of the company can take time off for my birthday, then so can his employee.” Loren tries to open the car door again, but I lean my bodyweight against it.

  His cheekbones sharpen.

  “I’m serious.” I take a deep breath. “I have to finish what I’m working on and…” I stare off. What else? God, I’m pathetic. I can’t even come up with a decent excuse.

  “Just let me out for a second. I won’t force you in the limo.” The edge is still in his voice, but there’s no humor attached. He’s serious.

  I step back and pull the sleeves of my hoodie down over the tops of my hands, the wind picking up. Chillier tonight. Loren opens the door and climbs out of the car. No Halloween costume on, which kind of surprises me. Just a black crewneck T-shirt and dark jeans.

  He’s taller than me by a few inches, and I pull my hood back just to brush longer strands of my hair out of my face.

  “I want you to come,” Lo emphasizes.

  I shake my head. Why? Because I’m Willow’s boyfriend? Because he thinks I’m some loser without anyone to hang with on Halloween?

  He stares right into me. “Jesus Christ, do I need to drop to my knees and beg?”