by Jacie Lennon
“I said it before, Landry. I’m a selfish bastard, and I want it all. But I’m also an idiot bastard, and I’m attempting to show you how sorry I am for not trusting you.” He sets his drink down and grabs mine, placing it beside his, and then he takes my hands. “Please forgive me and give me a chance. I think—no, I know we can be good together. You are the first girl who has ever made me want to dive deeper, to learn more about you. I don’t know you that well right now, but I do know that you have to be feeling what I’m feeling.”
I stare at his earnest face, the most open it has been since the day we met, and I let out a long breath. “I don’t—”
“Please. I don’t beg. I haven’t had to beg. But I’m doing it now. I want you, all of you. And I want you for myself.”
I reach up and place my hand against his cheek, rubbing my thumb against the slight scruff he has coming in. I nod once. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay. You’ve convinced me. But from here on out, I want honesty, and I want no secrets.”
“No secrets,” he whispers.
Damn, this boy can break down my walls. Maybe it’s stupid, maybe I’m being dumb, but I can’t let this go that easily. This past week has shown me that I can’t seem to get him off of my mind.
“So, where do we go from here?” I ask, drawing my hand back and grabbing my drink again.
He reaches forward, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “I don’t know. But I do know I want you by my side. You’ve made me a sappy motherfucker, but I can’t say I’m mad about it.”
“Just what every girl wants to hear.” I smile and lick my lips. I watch his eyes zero in, tracking the movement of my tongue. Heat blooms in my stomach, and my nipples tighten. I quickly take a sip of my drink, hoping to keep the feelings at bay.
I can’t help but think of the marina and what happened after we got physical. This time, I want to make sure he’s serious about me.
“So, I want to know everything,” he says, clearing his throat.
“What do you mean?”
“About you. All I know is, you are an artist.”
I blush at the word. I don’t consider myself an actual artist. It seems like an unattainable thing right now, but it’s what I want most in the world. I want to be able to paint myself out on canvas and paper and bring out the emotions in others.
I take a few bites of food, trying to organize my thoughts. This has been a whirlwind of a week. Really, the entire school year has been one. We’ve come so far in a few short months, and now, it’s about to be snatched away from me.
“I’m not an artist. I mean, I paint and draw, but I wouldn’t consider myself great. I want to go to school for it and learn. I want to throw myself into it, pour my feelings out, but I don’t want to be admired.”
“You don’t?” He furrows his brows.
I shake my head. “No. I want to be understood. I want someone to look at a picture I’ve drawn or something I’ve painted and find themselves in it. I don’t want them to think that I’m great. I want them to figure out how they see, feel, and experience it. Isn’t that what art is? An expression that everyone gets to enjoy for their own reasons?”
“Damn. You should see how your face just lit up, talking about it,” he says, smiling, one finger coming up to run down my cheek.
“I feel passionate about it,” I say, ducking my head a little. I don’t usually open up to others about my art, and it’s making me self-conscious. “But I’m having a hard time finishing my portfolio to submit.” I run my finger through the condensation gathered on my glass as I wait for him to pick up the conversation.
“What drew you to create in the first place?”
“I don’t know. I have always felt this pull toward it. To make something, to put images or colors on paper that mean something.”
“Then, don’t think about it. Create what you’ve always wanted to create.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Sure it is. What is your favorite art form?”
“Painting,” I answer immediately.
“Then, let your heart flow out in paint and submit it.”
“I want to, but every time I stand in front of the easel right now, I lose it. I can’t find my creative side, so I open my sketchbook and draw, or I go swimming. I have a mental block at the moment.”
“You need to get out and have some fun. You’re wound up,” he says.
I know he’s right. Lately, my days have consisted of classes, tests, and hardly any time to enjoy myself.
“Yeah, maybe so.” I glance off to the side.
“Landry?”
“Yeah?” I pull my eyes back to his and suck in a breath when he cradles my face in his hands.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ kiss you.”
Before I can even think, his lips are on mine, devouring me as if he were underwater and I were oxygen. I’m still for a moment, but then my body takes over, knowing his like the back of my hand. I reach and fist his shirt at his side, my knuckles brushing skin when his hem rides up, and I shudder. I’ve dreamed about touching him again, thinking he was out of my reach forever. There’s a push and pull between us, and I think there always will be, but right now, I don’t care. He’s mine.
He wraps a strong hand behind my neck, pulling me closer, and I rise on my knees, deepening the kiss. Our tongues dance together, tasting like wine. I feel heady and drunk, my heart thrumming and my body buzzing. He digs his fingers into the fleshy part of my hip, pulling in, as if he wanted me to melt into him. I push one hand into his hair, grabbing the strands at the back and tugging. When his neck is bare, I run a trail of kisses down his windpipe, nipping the skin at the very base, and he growls.
“Fuck, Landry. I need you,” he says, bringing his mouth to my ear, capturing the lobe between his teeth and biting down slightly.
I arch my back, bringing my front closer to him, and he wraps an arm around my waist. Then, he leans forward, pushing me to the ground as he covers my body with his.
“Mmm,” I hum, loving every minute of this, refusing to let my mind derail these feelings.
His hand dives under my sweater, brushing the bottom of my breast, as he continues down my neck, biting into my skin once he gets to my shoulder. I squirm a little, enjoying the sensations created by the mixture of pain and pleasure. He lets go, licking across the mark his teeth made, and then he blows cold air on the wet skin, causing goose bumps to break out down my arms.
“Do that again,” I moan, and he does.
The feeling shoots straight to my core as he pulls my bra cup down at the same time, pinching my nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
“You like it rough?” he murmurs against my skin, and I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. “Answer me,” he commands, and I throw my head back.
“Yes,” I manage to say.
He smirks. “Dirty girl,” he says, and I nod. “Only mine.”
“Only yours,” I say, not even caring how quickly this has escalated.
He knows exactly the right places to touch me, to caress, to bite and suck and lick, and I’m putty in his hands. I’m a fool for him. There was no denying that I was going to come crawling back into his strong arms and his filthy, dirty hands.
A vibration cuts off our sounds, the air around us falling silent as we both pause.
“Don’t stop,” I plead after a few seconds.
He bends back down, licking a trail from my belly button, dipping underneath my sweater to end at my collarbone.
“Trixie will kill me if you stretch out this sweater.”
I giggle, and he smiles, practically inside the sweater with me.
“Isn’t that what the huge collar is for on this one? Easy access?”
I lay my head back and roll my eyes. Then, I reach up and push his head back down inside, and he laughs, his hot breath fanning against my chest. My nipples get harder in response, and he pulls one into his mouth, wrapping his tongue around it and sucking while still
pinching my other nipple. I buck my hips, the need building in my lower half for a release.
The air is filled with moans and heavy breaths and sometimes a giggle or two from sheer happiness when Corbin’s phone starts to vibrate again.
“You can get it if you need to.” I sit up a little, but he plants a hand against my stomach, pinning me down.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he growls against my nipple and pulls his head out, fishing in his back pocket for his phone. “What?” he barks, listening for a second.
I watch his face morph into confusion and then a frown.
My heart sinks, as I know that whatever is being said won’t end well for me in this moment.
He pulls the phone away from his ear, and he looks at me, splayed out in front of him. I see the fire still burning in his eyes, but he rakes a hand down his face and groans as he rocks back onto his feet and stands up.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, righting my sweater and pushing up onto my elbows.
“I don’t know. Brock asked to see me, says it’s important.”
“It can’t wait until tomorrow?” I know I sound selfish, but right now, I am.
I feel like Corbin and I are finally getting to a good place, and damn, if the slow-building tension of actually getting to have sex isn’t going to kill me, I don’t know what will.
“He said now. God, Landry. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.”
I look at him but then cover my mouth, a giggle escaping from between my fingers.
“What’s so funny?” He stares down at me, and I giggle again.
“You. Standing there, so serious-looking, with a massive boner. It’s a little funny.”
He smiles and reaches down for my hand, pulling me up and against his body with seemingly no effort at all. He presses his arousal into my stomach, a hiss escaping his lips.
“I’d rather be taking care of this problem, preferably with you,” he says, raking a hand into the hair right above my ear.
He lowers his mouth to mine, pressing a sweet kiss to my lips, and then pushes harder, capturing my bottom lip between his teeth and biting a little. I moan, and he pulls me in tighter.
“God, you can’t make those noises right now, or I’ll never be able to leave.”
“That’s kind of the point,” I say, stepping back, and he looks so sad. “Go. I’ll still be around after.” I help him pick up the picnic stuff, our food mostly uneaten.
We take off across the south lawn, and once we reach the buildings, I turn to him and grab the bag, lantern, and blanket.
“I’ll take it back to my room; you can go see what’s so important.”
After a quick kiss, he jogs off, and I stand there, staring after him like a lovesick fool.
23
Corbin
“What the fuck is this about, Brock?” I am tired of the cryptic messages and him disappearing.
The three of us used to be so tight, and I feel like everyone has secrets now. I’m pissed that he dragged me away from Landry. I still have a half-chub, and it’s a little uncomfortable.
Standing outside our room, I stare him down, but he’s as stoic as ever. He pushes the door open, and my eyes land on a woman sitting next to Bodhi. She immediately stands as soon as I see her, fidgeting nervously, and I look to Brock in confusion.
“Meet Andrea Almadale.”
“Almadale? As in Almadale Prep?” I reach up to rub the back of my neck, still not understanding what is going on.
“The same. Her great-grandfather started our school.”
I look at Andrea. She’s probably mid- to late-thirties and pretty. But she doesn’t say anything, shifting back and forth on her feet.
“I’ll leave you two to it,” Brock says, walking out before I can say anything else.
Bodhi follows, giving me a slight pound on the back, a strange look in his eyes.
“This is fucking weird,” I mutter as I extend my hand back toward the chair Andrea was sitting in when I came in. She nods, and I sit beside her, clearing my throat. “What’s going on?”
“Corbin,” she starts and then licks her lips. “Corbin,” she says again, and I lean forward. “Can I tell you a story?”
What is this, library story hour?
“Yeah,” I say, slouching back in the chair and eyeing her as if she has a screw loose.
“When I was nineteen, I ran away from home. I’m not proud of it, but I fell in with a bad crowd and started doing things I shouldn’t be doing.” She moves slightly in her chair, placing her hands in her lap, firmly clasped. “I started seeing a guy. He was, for all intents and purposes, my drug dealer. One thing led to another, and I ended up pregnant.” Her eyes flick between mine as I stare at her. “I was scared, pretty much alone, and I started to realize that I had messed up. But I couldn’t go back to my family, afraid of them throwing me out for good.”
“Sounds like you have nice folks,” I can’t help but interject.
“They were set in their ways,” she says hesitantly.
I nod and motion for her to continue, still unsure of where this is going. I’m starting to suspect Brock is messing around.
“When I went into labor, I put my parents on the list as my emergency contact. I’m not sure why. I think part of me realized that I was about to have a child to care for, and I didn’t want that boy or girl to view me as a horrible person. During delivery, due to complications, my placenta ruptured. I went into renal failure, and I almost died. They had to put me in an induced coma. I was like that for a few weeks. I was diagnosed with HELLP syndrome, and it took me a long time to recover from it.”
Brock is fucking with me. This is a straight-up soap opera.
“While I was in a coma, my baby didn’t make it—or so I was told by my parents. I had been transferred to a private facility as soon as my parents arrived, so I couldn’t talk to the original doctors and nurses. I was devastated and sick. I didn’t even have the presence of mind to ask for records. There are no words for what a mother feels when she loses a child. I ended things with the father, not wanting to continue living in his messed up world, and I moved back in with my parents. I went through depression during my recovery, so much so that I didn’t ask any questions. I accepted things as truth. My parents never talked about it again.”
I’m starting to see where this is going, but I still don’t understand why it applies to me.
Andrea coughs slightly and leans down to pull a water bottle from her purse. After a drink, she slowly twists the cap and looks back at me.
“The father, realizing who my parents were, decided to extort money from my family, staying silent about the whole ordeal in exchange for a monthly amount deposited straight into his bank account. My parents wanted their perfect life and their perfect daughter back, so they never told me. They let me think my child had died so that they could continue being the high and mighty Almadales who do no wrong.” Her tone is angry, and she tears her gaze away from me while she composes herself. “I carried this weight around, grieving for a child I never got to meet, until a man found me one day, telling me a strange story.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your friend Brock hired a private investigator to find me,” she says, leaning forward and placing one shaky hand on my knee.
“Why? And what does this have to do with me?”
“It has everything to do with you, Corbin. I’m your mother,” she says as tears fall from her eyes.
I watch her as she blinks rapidly, sniffing, and I register her taking my hand.
“What? My mother is a drug addict. She’s gone,” I say, frowning in confusion. My whole world is sliding out from underneath me.
“Your father is Jonah Henson, correct?” She tilts her head to catch my gaze again.
“Yeah, if you want to call him a father.”
“Then, you’re my son. My baby didn’t die. For seventeen years, I grieved a living child, and I never knew it.”
I pull my hand from her grasp and
stand, rubbing the back of my neck. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“It didn’t to me at first. I couldn’t comprehend the kind of evil that would separate a mother from her child. But I’m so thankful that I know now.”
“Your parents lied to you, and they left me with my father?”
“Yes. They paid him off to keep him from telling people I had you and also to take care of you. As far as I know, it never got out, so they must have paid him quite well. I don’t know their side of things. We’ve never had a good history, and I’m estranged from them.”
“Why are you here now?”
“I know that, biologically, I’m your mother, but I can’t call myself that. I want to though. God, how I want to. It was my dream in life to have a child, but after what happened, I never did. I never married. I chose to foster children instead, giving them a life while in limbo, and it’s been part of my saving grace, taking care of others. But I have a child. I have you, and I want to be someone you can see as a mother figure. I want to know everything about you and make up for the time that was stolen from both of us.”
My head spins as I take in all of this information. I stare down where her hand reaches to grab mine in her earnestness. I let her squeeze mine as she looks up at me, and part of me relishes in the feeling of her contact. But the truth is, I don’t know this woman. I don’t truly know what she wants. Everything in me says she’s being honest because what would I have to offer her? She’s not trying to get anything out of me. But still, it’s hard to trust after growing up the way I have.
“I need some time,” I say, and she nods, dropping her hand.
“I figured you might,” she says with a soft smile, her eyes glistening with tears again.
I don’t want to hurt her; I need to figure all of this out.
I walk to the door, hand on the knob when I feel her grip wrap around my arm.
“Your father used you for money, Corbin. Please don’t think that I didn’t want you. I didn’t know about you, and now that I do, I fully intend to make up for lost time, if you will let me.”
