“Are you close?” she gasps, pulling back with a slurping sound. She’s panting a little.
Am I close?
Not nearly.
“Yeah,” I lie, barely recognizing my own voice. “I’m close.”
I force myself to look down at her as she resumes. Her eyes are brown. They’d be pretty if they weren’t rimmed with so much makeup. Every time she blinks those long false eyelashes, I think of caterpillars crawling across her face — which isn’t helping my performance any.
Could I be any more of an asshole?
This girl is sucking me off with the enthusiasm of a Dyson, and all I can think about is how much longer it’s going to take until I can get out of this room, away from her. Away from myself. Away from this whole fucking night.
By then, the damage will be done. I’ll have accomplished my mission of pushing away the only person I’ve ever even come close to—
No.
I fortify the metal barricade around my brain with fresh bolts and iron shackles, so the thoughts can’t creep in. So she can’t creep in. I force my mind to blank, focusing only on sensation.
Sienna’s mouth.
My cock.
But it’s not working. Five more minutes tick by, and I still can’t seem to finish. For all her faux enthusiasm, Sienna knows it too. Her lips smack together with a wet pop! as the suction releases. She sits up between my thighs. My still-hard dick points up at her, a soldier at attention, awaiting his orders.
“This isn’t working,” Sienna pouts, frustration plain in her voice. I can see why. She’s probably never had to put in this much effort for something as simple as a BJ. She’s so hot, most guys are ready to blow their load the first second her lips close over their tip.
Teenage virgins aren’t exactly known for their stamina.
Brows furrowed, she contemplates me like I’ve got some kind of anatomical issue. I can almost hear the thoughts turning over in her mind.
Whiskey dick?
Mommy issues?
Secretly gay?
Sienna prides herself on being the hottest piece of ass at Exeter Academy. I know that sounds derogatory, but it’s a title she gave herself. She takes abundant pride in her so-called “body count” of boys whose v-cards she’s collected, often bragging that she’s got nearly a full deck.
Her fingernail talons dig into my skin as she crawls up my body, straddling me. With our faces inches apart, I notice her lips are swollen and red from her efforts. She leans in to brush them against my ear, a breathy whisper.
“Why don’t you just fuck me instead?”
Her hair rubs against my cheek — straw-like, reeking of artificial strawberries — and I try not to grimace. At this point, I want to screw her about as much as I want to slam my own dick in the nearest doorway, but I don’t protest as she wriggles into a better position.
She stares into my eyes as she slowly hikes her stretchy orange skirt up around her midsection. She isn’t wearing underwear, which normally would be an exciting revelation, but I can’t seem to feel anything anymore. Not turned on, not revved up, not anything at all except…
Wrong.
This is all wrong.
Wrong time, wrong place, wrong girl.
“Archer?” Sienna’s head tilts. She’s gazing down at me in a way I’m sure she thinks is sexy — duck-bill lips, hooded eyes — waiting for my answer. When I don’t immediately give it, she takes my cock into her hands, pumping with the methodical expertise of a professional. “Don’t be shy. I know you want to fuck me… ”
Her voice holds no room for doubt. Why would it? She’s fucked every guy on the baseball team. It’s basically a rite of passage.
Chug a beer at home plate, then run the bases.
Toilet-paper Coach Hamm’s house before the first game.
Prank the rival team from the neighboring town.
Hook up with Sienna Sullivan at a house party.
“Sure,” I hear myself say in a dead voice, forcing my arms to lift from their place on the mattress. They’re stiff — like I’m a robot being operated via remote control, my decisions in the hands of someone else — as I reach for the condom on the bedside table.
Tear off the foil.
Roll it on.
Reach for her.
Hate myself.
“Let’s fuck.”
Chapter Three
JOSEPHINE
The house looks like the crime scene from a multiple homicide, bodies strewn everywhere. Jason Samborn is passed out in a heap on the pool table, a puddle of drool forming on the green felt. Several couples are hooking up right out in the open — writhing against walls, pressed together in semi-dark corners, too desperate to wait for their turn in one of the bedrooms or too intoxicated to care.
Following the pounding bass, I make my way toward the back of the cabin, where an open-concept kitchen and living room area looks out over the jagged Atlantic coastline. The water looms with dark presence, pressing against the rocks just beyond the edge of the terraced lawn.
For a summer house, this place is massive — bigger than most normal people’s year-round homes. But Lee Park’s family is anything but normal. His grandfather owns half of Singapore, along with a slew of other properties scattered across the globe. (Which makes him the third-richest kid in my graduating class, second only to Eva Ulrich, whose great-great-great-grandfather patented the tube sock, and Carl McDonald, heir to a multi-billion-dollar fast food empire.)
I step hesitantly into the sunken den area. Twin sisters Ophelia and Odette Wadell are snorting lines of Adderall off the glass coffee table, their identical platinum bobs swooshing around their faces as they chase with shots of chilled Grey Goose. Someone I don’t recognize is face-down on the other half of the sectional, one hand still clutching a green Jell-O shot.
Classy.
In the kitchen, half the baseball team is huddled around the island playing beer pong with stacks of plastic red cups, a keg waiting at the ready. Every time a ball makes it in, a fresh round of cheering and chest-bumping erupts.
Amid the hubbub, one of them spots me. Ryan Snyder, varsity first-baseman. He’s probably the nicest guy on the team — meaning he doesn’t outright ignore my presence at their parties. He always waves to me when I hang out in the bleachers after school, waiting to catch a ride home with Archer when practice ends.
Ryan is attractive in that All-American, Abercrombie model sort of way — tall with sandy blond hair and six pack abs, which are currently on full display. His red bathing suit is still damp from the pool, riding low on his hips, and he’s sporting a tan despite the fact summer has barely begun. It’s hard to believe the New England sun is strong enough to produce such a deep bronze in May.
“Yo! Valentine!” he yells over the strains of the Drake song blasting from the speakers, halting me in my tracks. “Where have you been hiding? Get over here and do a celeb-shot for me. My partner disappeared.”
My brows lift. “A what?”
“Celebrity shot.” He proffers a white plastic ping-pong ball, grinning widely. “Come here, I’ll show you.”
I wander closer, hoping the low lighting hides any trace of my tears. “I don’t want to do a shot, Ryan. I’m not drinking.”
“I’m not talking about a shot of alcohol, dummy. I’m talking about subbing in for a throw on my team.” He mimes tossing the ball into a cup, his wrist snapping expertly. “Haven’t you ever played pong before?”
I shrug noncommittally.
“That’s just sad, Valentine. Truly.” Shaking his head, he herds me farther into the kitchen, his warmth pressing close at my back. He smells like chlorine and cigarette smoke, topped with a heavy dousing of canned AXE body spray. The teenage boy standard.
“Make some room, fellas. Valentine’s my new teammate and she’s about to own your asses,” he says, steering me through the huddle of male bodies. They part in a Red Sea of baseball jerseys.
I look up at Ryan, mouth twisting wryly. “I wouldn’t ge
t your hopes up.”
“Too late. I have extremely high expectations. Plus, you can’t be worse than my last partner. I’m pretty sure he’s puking in the upstairs bathroom at the moment.” He winks playfully, blue eyes glittering in the low light. “Now, it’s pretty simple. You see those cups?” His gaze moves toward the other end of the marble countertop, where ten cups are set up in a triangular formation.
I nod.
“You’re going to sink this ball—” He presses the plastic ball against my palm. “—into one of them. Easy.”
“Spoken like someone who has never watched me attempt any athletic activity. Ever.”
He laughs and I feel something inside me brighten.
Maybe I’m not entirely socially stunted, after all.
“Don’t stress, Valentine.” Ryan’s shoulder nudges mine. “I’ll help you get the hang of it.”
Stepping behind me, he slides his arms around my body and takes my hands lightly in his own. His chest brushes against my back as his head bows over my shoulder, the long flow of his hair tickling my neck.
Something nervous skitters down my spine, then pools in the pit of my stomach. I’ve never been this close to a guy before — besides Archer. And he doesn’t count. We’ve been invading each other’s personal space since long before we could even spell the phrase just friends.
“Now,” Ryan says into my ear, his voice husky. “Aim for the center cup. Then toss gently. It’s all in the wrist.”
“All in the wrist,” I echo dumbly, as if I have any concept of what that means. “Right. Got it.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against my earlobe. I squirm a little. My skin suddenly feels too tight.
No wonder I’m a virgin. An attractive guy can’t even permeate my safe little proximity bubble without sending me into a tailspin.
“Are you two playing pong or hide-the-sausage?” one of the jocks across the island calls, impatience plain in his voice. “Throw the damn ball or find a bedroom.”
“Shut the fuck up, Chris,” Ryan snaps, releasing my hands and stepping back a pace. “Ignore him. You’ve got this, Valentine.”
I suck in a deep breath, square my shoulders, and eye the triangle of cups. They’re about six feet away — not an impossible distance, but definitely not close enough to inspire confidence in my abilities.
Sending up a small prayer, I make my shot. The rest of the party fades out of focus as I watch the small white plastic orb sailing through the air. No one is more stunned than me to see it sink into the centermost cup with a decided thunk.
“Hell yeah!” Ryan yells, sweeping me into a breath-stealing bear hug. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
“Beginner’s luck.” I shrug out of his hold, laughing breathlessly. His enthusiasm is infectious — I find myself smiling as he hands me a second ball.
“Toss again.”
I do, this time missing by quite a wide margin. The ball bounces across the kitchen floor, then disappears beneath the Viking range. Biting my lip, I glance up at Ryan. “In my defense… I did warn you about my lack of hand-eye coordination.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. You hit that first cup perfectly. You’re a total natural, you’ll see.”
“What’s the big deal?” a feminine voice cuts in, laced with annoyance. “She sank one stupid ball. Anyone can do that.”
Sienna steps up next to Chris on the other side of the marble island. Her eyes are almost as sharp as her collarbones when they lock on mine. Her mouth — coated in bright pink lipgloss that matches her crop top — is twisted in a condescending smirk. I can’t help noticing that her bleach-blonde hair is thoroughly mussed, as though someone’s been running his hands through it.
Archer.
My smile falters.
Sienna grabs the white ball from Chris’s hand and tosses it adeptly into one of our cups.
“Nice shot!” Chris cheers, his eyes never shifting from Sienna’s cleavage. He’s drooling so much, a Saint Bernard would be grossed out.
Without missing a beat, Sienna picks up another ball and — in a move I could never in a million years replicate — tosses it behind her back, like a contortionist. It sinks effortlessly into a cup.
“That’s how it’s done,” she declares, planting a hand on her hip. Her bright coral skirt is so tight, it’s practically fused to her skin. There’s no way she’s wearing underwear — and I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Every guy in the room has his eyes fixed on her. They can’t seem to look away. She’s magnetic.
Maybe it’s her perfectly bronzed skin, not a single tan line in sight. Maybe it’s the crop top, stretched tight over a full set of breasts that make mine look like mosquito bites by comparison. Or maybe it’s simply her confidence — that undiluted charisma that draws everyone’s attention, whether she’s on the top of a pyramid in her cheerleading uniform or standing in a kitchen surrounded by half-empty plastic cups.
Sienna smiles coyly. “Oh, I’m not done yet, boys… unless you’ve seen enough?”
They yell louder, egging her on.
She makes several more perfect throws in quick succession, until all but one of our cups contains a small white ball floating on the surface. Turning her back to the countertop with a hip-shimmy that makes the boys roar, she blindly tosses the last ball over her shoulder. It lands in the cup directly in front of me with a tidy little plunk! that signals the end of the game.
Much as it pains me to admit, it’s pretty damn smooth.
Sienna knows it, too. She pivots around as the jocks explode into cheers, a self-satisfied smile on her face. A giggle escapes her glossy lips as Chris hoists her into the air. The other guys fall to their knees, adoring subjects chanting their queen’s name — three syllables, over and over, drowning out the music.
“Si-en-na! Si-en-na! Si-en-na!”
“That’s right, peasants!” She laughs down at her adoring fans, arms waving over her head. “I am the Queen of Beer Pong!”
Something inside me deflates, but I manage to keep the smile on my face. Ever the good sport. Never one to make a scene. After all, plain little Jo Valentine — perpetual wallflower — wouldn’t dare infringe upon the spotlight that’s been fixed in Sienna’s direction since the day she sprouted boobs, way back in third grade.
I know full-well I’ll never possess whatever magic runs through Sienna’s veins. It’s not something you can acquire; it’s something you’re born with, like freckles or allergies or double-jointed fingers. My best imitation of her carefree allure would no doubt come across awkward and antiseptic. A little girl stumbling around in her mother’s high heels.
When Chris finally sets Sienna back on her feet, she looks straight across the island at me. Her heavily-mascaraed eyes scan me up and down, seeming to pick apart every facet of my existence from my simple fishtail braid to my oversized white wool sweater to the lack of makeup on my face.
“Drink up,” she says, jerking her head at the cups in front of me. “You lost.”
I glance down at the cups. White balls bob like tiny ships atop the frothy yellow beer. It looks about as appetizing as urine.
I clear my throat. “I actually wasn’t planning on drinking…”
“God, you are such a stick in the mud.” Sienna rolls her eyes. “Why do you even bother coming to our parties? Stay home and knit something instead next time, for Christ’s sake.”
A few of the jocks muffle laughs into their beer cups.
Anger bubbles through me, undercut by a stream of embarrassment so thick, it’s difficult to breathe around. Sienna Sullivan is the worst kind of popular — the type that revels in it. She finds joy in annihilating those below her on the social totem pole. Probably because she assumes we’re plotting to steal her spot at the top. She’d never understand that some of us are quite happy on the bottom rungs; that we’d rather stay anonymous than step on everyone else in order to ascend the meaningless echelons of Exeter Academy.
“Come on, Valentine.” My nickname is
said in a mocking sneer through pouty pink lips. “Show us you’re not the total Goody Two Shoes everyone thinks you are.”
I bite my tongue to keep from snapping back at her. It would be a waste of breath. Nothing I say will make her magically morph into a better person.
“Well?” she taunts, eyebrows arching. “What’s it gonna be?”
I shift back and forth on my leather flip-flops, wishing I could disappear. Sienna notices my uneasiness; her smile widens like a cat with a canary between its paws.
She’s fully aware I hate being the center of attention. She’s known since sixth grade, when I spelled the word EXTEMORANEOUS as EXTEMPOR-ANUS in front of the entire school at our annual spelling bee, sending the audience into hysterics — and me, into a tearful rush off stage. (It took Archer two hours to coax me out from beneath the bleachers.)
The chance to humiliate me in front of the baseball team is too tempting for her to pass up.
“Well?”
I swallow hard. “I…”
“I’ll drink them,” Ryan offers, reaching for a cup. “I really don’t mind—”
“No.” Sienna’s order stills his hand. She’s looking at me, her eyes like blades. “You didn’t even throw, Ryan. This isn’t your game. It’s hers.”
There’s a brief pause between songs. In the sudden quiet, I notice that the kitchen has gone strangely silent as Sienna and I face off. I can feel the weight of many eyes on me; the pressure of impending laughter swelling in the air like a summer storm-front. Everyone is watching. Waiting to see if I’ll run away. Expecting me to bail.
Boring Jo Valentine never lets loose, never does anything unexpected.
On a normal night, that would likely be true. I wouldn’t think twice; I’d just walk away. Shrug it off. Head home to watch The Great British Bake Off in my safe little bubble.
But this isn’t a normal night. And beneath the annoyance I feel when I look at Sienna, there’s something else, something deeper — a simmering resentment that has nothing to do with a game of beer pong.
We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet Book 1) Page 2
