We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  We Don’t Talk Anymore

  The Don’t Duet: Book One

  Julie Johnson

  Copyright © 2020 Julie Johnson

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names, or named features are only used for reference, and are assumed to be property of their respective owners.

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  Contents

  1. JOSEPHINE

  2. ARCHER

  3. JOSEPHINE

  4. ARCHER

  5. JOSEPHINE

  6. ARCHER

  7. JOSEPHINE

  8. ARCHER

  9. JOSEPHINE

  10. ARCHER

  11. JOSEPHINE

  12. ARCHER

  13. JOSEPHINE

  14. ARCHER

  15. JOSEPHINE

  16. ARCHER

  17. JOSEPHINE

  18. ARCHER

  19. JOSEPHINE

  20. ARCHER

  21. JOSEPHINE

  22. ARCHER

  23. JOSEPHINE

  24. ARCHER

  25. JOSEPHINE

  26. ARCHER

  27. JOSEPHINE

  28. ARCHER

  29. JOSEPHINE

  Up next…

  Playlist

  About the Author

  Also by Julie Johnson

  You know who you are.

  I love you as

  certain dark things

  are to be loved.

  In secret,

  between the

  shadow and the soul.

  Pablo Neruda

  Chapter One

  JOSEPHINE

  I stare up at the cabin ceiling, wishing I could evaporate. Through the floorboards, I can hear the telltale rhythm of Archer and Sienna screwing — those periodic moans, the tap-tap-tap of the headboard, the creaky springs in the mattress.

  What a weird term for it. Screwing. Like their bodies are instruments plucked from some libidinous toolbox, jammed together out of necessity rather than affection. Makes the whole process sound mechanical. A chore. Like fixing an IKEA cabinet, not making love.

  Making love.

  Yuck. That’s somehow even worse than screwing, in my humble opinion. Not that my humble opinion counts for all that much when it comes to sex, seeing as I’m a virgin with a capital V.

  I’m also “Valentine” with a capital V. (That’s my last name, not some fervid declaration of my favorite Hallmark holiday.) As nicknames go, it’s not terrible — albeit not necessarily one I would’ve chosen for myself. But at a house party six months ago, one of the baseball jocks said, “Yo, Valentine! Pass me that beer, will you?” and I guess it stuck, seeing as it’s all anyone at school calls me these days. Quite possibly because they couldn’t be bothered to learn my actual name after six years of classes together.

  Well… everyone except Archer. But that’s only because we’ve been best friends since we were old enough to call each other anything requiring more than those goo-goo-ga-ga syllables babies mouth at each other in daycare through drooling, toothless smiles. He calls me Josephine — a.k.a. Jo, a.k.a. JoJo, a.k.a Joe Shmoe — which is what my mother scrawled on my birth certificate after popping me out the same summer The Wallflowers released my namesake track, halfway through a mid-nineties heatwave. (My father initially wanted to name me Maude, after his dearly departed great-aunt. I send my deepest regards to gods of angsty alternative-rock for persuading him otherwise.)

  So, that’s me. Josephine Valentine. A girl named for a song no one my age has ever even heard. Which, honestly, is a pretty fitting interpretation of my entire high school experience thus far.

  Since I was old enough to notice such things, I’ve always found myself on the fringes. Too artsy to blend naturally with the in-crowd, too obstinate to whittle myself into something they’d find more palatable at their cliquey lunch tables. Like a cheerleader. Or the student council president. Or a cokehead.

  Anything, really, besides what I am — a deeply-unapologetic introvert, who’d rather spend her day out sailing or squirreled away with a good fantasy novel than on display at Singing Beach, gossiping with girls who, it must be said, are more than a little intimidating. Only partly because of the way they fill out their bikini tops, while my own frame is flatter than a freaking hardcover. (I think the phrase “late bloomer” is embedded somewhere in my DNA.)

  Much like the seagulls who roam boldly between sandy towels on the hunt for unattended snacks, the popular girls seem to travel in packs and strike the moment your back is turned. Predators with preening feathers, they smile prettily as they plot your demise.

  Count me out.

  Honestly, I wouldn’t even be here at this stupid party if not for Archer. He dragged me along, insisting it would be more fun than sitting at home all alone on the final night of spring break, binge-watching yet another season of The Great British Bake Off, eating my body weight in mass-produced (likely carcinogenic) sour gummy worms while critiquing the contestants’ shoddy use of fondant.

  “It’s senior year, Jo,” he’d reminded me, grinning in that way that makes my knees go softer than buttercream frosting. “Last chance to tear it up before graduation.”

  “Pass.”

  “Come on! Don’t make me face the zombie hoard alone.” He’d tugged a lock of my hair, then wrapped it absently around one finger, his eyes fixated on the strands as they caught the fading afternoon light. We were sitting in our spot, up in the rafters of the boathouse — our favorite hideout from the rest of the world — staring out at the ocean, our legs dangling in the wind. Below, waves gently lapped at the sides of the navy blue Hinckley picnic boat my father spent a fortune on (but is never around to use) and, beyond, the sun made its slow descent toward the horizon.

  We’ve spent a million such nights up there — shoulders pressed together, sharing secrets in the dark. But this time, something felt different. Archer cleared his throat, uncharacteristically nervous.

  “If you don’t come to this party, who else will silently mock the masses with me? I need you, Jo. I’m not above begging…”

  I folded faster than a freaking lawn chair.

  What can I say? I’m powerless in the face of that persuasive smile. And that soft hair tug. And those bright, burnt-caramel eyes, fixed on mine with such playfulness in their depths.

  Plus, I have to admit, Archer is probably right. This really is my last chance to quote-unquote ‘tear it up’ before graduation. Between the upcoming senior prom and commencement ceremony, things are winding down in a very real way. The film is turning it’s final reel. The curtains are about to close.

  Fin.

  The end.

  Hasta la vista, baby.

  It’s almost tangible. Visceral. There’s something in the air. Sure, it could just be the marijuana haze or the smoke from the fire pit drifting through the open windows… but I think it’s more than that. We can all feel it. That bases-loaded, two-strikes, last inning sort of feeling has started to creep in. Responsibilities and college orientations and full-time jobs are hurling at us full force. In a few weeks, we’ll be walking across a stage, shaking hands with Headmaster Lawrence, co
llecting our diplomas, and bidding high school goodbye.

  Bidding childhood goodbye.

  But for tonight… we are still seventeen, carefree and crazy, drinking cheap beer from tapped kegs, dancing in the moonlight, skinny dipping in the sea, wishing for a summer that will stretch on forever. (Or… if you’re me… hiding out in a spare bedroom, listening to your best friend lose his virginity through the floorboards like the worst kind of voyeur.)

  God, Jo.

  You are seriously twisted.

  Upstairs, Sienna lets out a moan loud enough to make a porn-star roll her eyes. I guess Archer is really living up to her expectations — and vice versa, since the mattress squeaks start coming faster and faster, a shrieking harmony to the pounding bass of my own frantic pulse.

  Just finish, already, I want to scream at my best friend, feeling my heart contract in a surprising amount of pain. Aren’t virgins supposed to last, like, thirty seconds? Are you trying to set some sort of record up there?

  I pull a pillow over my head to muffle the sounds of them together, wishing for the hundredth time that I had some way out of this hellish scenario. If I’d known this was how my night would play out, I’d never have agreed to come. I certainly never would’ve allowed Archer to drive us, leaving me without a viable mode of escape.

  “Oh, Archer!” Sienna screams, her voice breathy with desire. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  I tell myself to get up. To walk out of this room, back to the party, where the crappy pop music they’re blasting would overpower even Sienna’s most bombastic fake moan. But I’m paralyzed. Stunned immobile as a statue. Even more horrifically… there’s an unexpected, unwelcome pressure gathering behind my eyes.

  Why the hell am I crying?

  If I’m honest with myself, maybe in the back of my mind… some delusional part of me thought Archer and I might lose our virginity together someday. Just as we’ve done basically everything else in our lives together, from swimming lessons at five to sailing races at ten to our first contraband beers at fourteen to getting our learners’ permits at sixteen.

  Given the three-point-five minutes of humpin-and-bumpin happening overhead, it seems my bestie would rather cash in his own V-card with the head cheerleader. It would be upsetting if it weren’t so utterly predictable.

  Okay.

  Fine.

  It’s pretty damn upsetting. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t also a cliché cut straight out of some eighties movie riddled with high school stereotypes.

  Former wimp locates testosterone summer before junior year, makes varsity baseball roster, becomes chiseled heartthrob, wins affection of high school Queen B.

  No, not bee.

  B, as in bitch, which is what Sienna Sullivan has been since age nine, when she not-so-gently suggested I quit our youth-soccer team because my periodic asthma attacks were putting her chance at a plastic league trophy in jeopardy.

  Gasp!

  (Literally. Someone please pass my inhaler, would you? That last offensive play really knocked the wind out of me.)

  I hear a groan through the floorboards. Deep-throated. Masculine. I’d know it was Archer even if I hadn’t seen Sienna lead him into that bedroom. I know all his sounds. That little break in his laugh when he finds something really funny, actually funny, not when he’s just trying to be polite in front of my parents. That half-sigh he does when I’m exasperating. The catch in his throat when he’s worked up, battling back the slight stammer he had as a little kid.

  Pressing the pillow harder over my face, I scream into it — a good, long one — until I run out of air. People are always doing that in movies and TV shows, as if it somehow releases the rage and pain pent-up inside. All it does is make me feel like I’m suffocating.

  I can’t quite explain why I’m in so much agony. It’s not like I didn’t know this would happen eventually. What did I expect? That he’d stay a virgin forever? Join a monastery? Become a priest? Abuse his right hand until he got tendonitis from excessive self-gratification?

  Obviously, at some point, Archer was going to make that much-lauded thrust from boydom to manhood. Most seventeen-year-old boys on the baseball team are already well on their way to a half-dozen conquests — if not more. It’s all they talk about. Which girls they’ve already screwed, the ones they still want to nail, how hard they’ll hammer them when they get the chance.

  Who knew so much carpentry was involved in copulation?

  My point is, everyone (myself most definitely excluded) is doing it. It’s only natural Archer would do it, too. I just didn’t know it would be tonight. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t have time to steel myself against this new reality. That’s the only reason I’m so upset.

  Right?

  I should be glad Archer is getting some action. A best friend would be happy for him. Punch him lightly on the arm with a sly atta boy and roll my eyes as he relays the gory details. Listen with the attentiveness of a good pal.

  His bestie.

  His buddy.

  His BFF.

  But as I lay here blinking back tears, hands bunched into fists, heart pounding twice its normal speed… all I know is, if they carry on much longer, I think my ribs might crack under the strain.

  “God! Yes! Oh, Archer!”

  Squeak.

  Squeak.

  Squeak.

  “Yes!”

  A tear leaks out onto the pillow.

  What the hell is the matter with me?

  The sound of the door swinging open startles me upright. I yank the pillow off my face in time to see a couple stumble into the bedroom where I’ve taken refuge from the party still raging outside. They’re a blur of roving hands and drugging kisses, their mouths fused as tight as their bodies as they stumble across the threshold. They’ve nearly made it to the bed by the time they realize they aren’t alone.

  I lock eyes with the girl, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. She doesn’t look embarrassed, though — annoyed would be a more accurate description.

  “Uh, excuse me?” I bleat. “This room is occupied.”

  She sighs, like I’m the biggest inconvenience of all time. I recognize her from the cheerleading squad. Candi Ciccirelli. When she signed my yearbook last summer, she dotted every lowercase i with a ridiculous little heart.

  “Can’t you, like, find somewhere else to…” She gestures vaguely at me, flipping her glossy fall of raven hair over one tanned shoulder. “…have whatever emotional breakdown you’re currently experiencing?”

  Only slightly mortified, I scrub the tears from my face with the sleeve of my sweater and slide off the bed. Escape isn’t the worst idea. Staying here and listening to Archer and Sienna’s final act sounds about as appealing as a root canal.

  I grab my iPhone off the nightstand and head for the door, studiously avoiding eye contact with the couple as I walk out. Not that they even notice — they’re already resumed their primal grope session.

  Thirty seconds of overeager, over-intoxicated humping commences in five… four… three… two… one…

  I sigh and step into the hall.

  Chapter Two

  ARCHER

  “Oh, Archer!”

  Acrylic fingernails rake across my chest. Bottle-blonde hair, stiff from too much product, falls over my bare thighs in a curtain. It’s a scratchy distraction from the work her mouth is doing.

  “You’re so big,” she moans around my shaft, like a line she lifted straight out of a porno. Her whole approach to sex is so overblown — puns intended — I wouldn’t be surprised to look up and find a production team pointing cameras at us.

  Take 2! This time with more fake moaning, okay? And… action!

  It isn’t how I imagined it. Sex, I mean. Maybe that’s because I’ve always imagined it with a different girl. With…

  No.

  I shove that thought from my brain with brute force, a metal gate slamming down to keep it out permanently. I will not think of Jo. Not now, not here, not during… this. If I let myself remember that lo
ok in her eyes when she saw me walk upstairs with Sienna — that heartbroken awareness, that blindsided shock — I’ll never be able to stay hard.

  Sienna is lapping at my cock like it’s an ice cream cone on the hottest day of summer.

  “You like that, don’t you?”

  Her fake nails scrape over sensitive skin, and I flinch in what I’m sure she thinks is pleasure.

  “I’m gonna make you cum so hard you’ll see heaven…”

  Would it be impolite to put in my headphones, like I do at the dentist when I don’t want to hear them drilling into my skull?

  Jaw clenched, I stare up at the ceiling. My hands fist in the sheets as she picks up her pace. She pulls me all the way into her mouth, until I’m butting against the back of her throat.

  Christ.

  It does feels good, don’t get me wrong. Not great, but… good. From the way the guys always talk about head in the locker room, you’d think I’d be levitating off the bed in sheer ecstasy by now. Hell, maybe I should be. Sienna is hot, and she definitely knows what she’s doing. But whatever pleasure she’s managing to stir up is at war with the guilt and pain and regret that’s sitting like an anvil on my chest.

  Focus, fuckhead, I scold myself. Otherwise this is going to take forever.

  I grunt as her mouth moves faster. Its hard to describe the sensation. Warm, wet. A bit sloppier than I thought it would be. Like fucking a peach that won’t stop moaning theatrically every time you dip in.