by Elena Monroe
He was being more bossy than normal, but I understood it. He needed to remind himself I was his, not Hunter’s. Some twisted part of me liked the reminder too.
As soon as I faced him, our lips recklessly aimed for each other. He picked me up, forcing me onto the counter. Hungrily pushing our tongues together, I tugged at his bottom lip, slowing us down unintentionally, as his hand undid his dress pants. I tugged my dress up my thighs, practically shouting for him to fuck me. His hands cupped my cheeks and his forehead pressed against mine, torturing me, enjoying the wait.
“I’m gonna fuck you… until you stop forgetting you’re mine.”
His hands smoothed up my thighs, only to rip down my destroyed panties, giving him access to me. Comfortable between my legs, I finally felt him against my sex, slipping against my clit as our kisses only got more messy.
With my arms around his neck, I felt him dive between my legs and enter me swiftly with one smooth thrust. I involuntarily arched my back, pushing me further onto his length, even deeper still. The moan that escaped my lips felt like a giant sigh of relief instead of pleasure.
We were past ecstasy and well into acting out remedies. Oliver was a remedy for everything I didn’t know I needed cured.
I gasped his name repeatedly, as I inched closer to coming around him. Rolling my hips against him, the messy kisses… all ceased, focusing only on the spoils of winning. His thrusts became more rapid, as I held onto his arms with a firm grip.
“Oliver. Oliver… I’m going to…”
I didn’t even have enough gumption to finish my own sentence, as I felt his hard thrusts become fewer.
“Say it, Layla.”
“What…?” my voice cracked failing me in this moment.
“That you’re mine… only mine.”
He was close, too. I could tell by how much harder he felt, and I melted around him, sinking into my own orgasm.
“I’m yours, Oliver.”
The waitress put down a pitcher of beer, like we won a prize. It sat like a bomb in the middle of the table, we all waited for it to go off and change the tone. Aspen was the most defensive, looking at Maddison, while he spoke, “We didn’t order this.”
The waitress’s smile was bright and welcoming, matching her barely there outfit. “The guy at the end of the bar sent it over. I didn’t think people did that anymore.”
Caden looked at the bar to see who it was. I knew before his eyes rolled and the boys exchanged this look, where you could almost make out the mental conversation they were having.
Almost.
Caden spoke out loud, which seemed like an accident. “What do you wanna do?”
Oliver was always the deciding factor. It was when he acted purely of his own violation that was dangerous. At least the guys made it seem like they were deciding with him this time, by his side, if things went wrong. I had no doubt in my mind it would.
Very few things ranked priority above his hate—all-consuming and reigned over his focus. I was privy to the one thing that could distract him: me, sex. We went months apart and had making up to do. I would never admit it to him, but practice does make perfect, even if it’s with the wrong person—someone like Hunter. I perfected my kisses; my fingers were no longer shy; and I was realizing my own power. I was no longer a mess defined by wet panties.
I was more comfortable in my own skin than ever before. I even let myself want and take without asking, silently begging, or rubbing my legs together in a way you’d hope for the friction to reach your clit. Just once. That was who I was before: powerless.
Oliver’s gaze towards the end of the bar was so intense it was like staring into the sun with sunglasses—blinding. I let my palm rest high up on his thigh, hoping he’d let whatever idea of retaliation was in his head go.
Wishful thinking, that’s what that was.
It didn’t matter that Hayley and I had it out.
It didn’t matter if Aspen and Maddison were on thin ice still.
It certainly didn’t matter that Hunter was the reason Oliver was in a room alone with his dad longer than I was prepared for.
None of that mattered if it meant releasing how he felt.
That’s the one quality I saw in his dad before I could even take the rest of him in: the dangerous temper. Oliver’s wasn’t as easy to spot until these type of situations.
His dad put every nerve in my body on edge, rubbing my sandpaper bones, and screaming in my veins. He taught Oliver how to hate, and that was enough of a reason to dislike him. After speaking with his mom more than I ever had tonight, I couldn’t figure out what she saw in him. His hand permanently placed around the back of her neck lazily and his eyes granting her permission to speak about a book rubbed me wrong. I wondered if the topic was something else, would she still be allowed to speak? She was graceful, so soft I imagined a strong wind blowing her away and her voice gentle and calm. She was exactly what Oliver needed: a mother. Yet, she chose the polar opposite in his dad. He was hard, rude, and slippery from all his hair gel and facial moisturizer. Opposites attract, that I understood… how could I not? Oliver was every experience, risk, and confidence I avoided all eighteen years of my life. My mind wouldn’t let go of this new bone: How did she justify opposites if they didn’t attract with her own son and husband?
That was the thing about hate, it wasn’t ever sold separately. It always came in a pack with violence, anxiety, and fear.
Oliver didn’t pay attention to the emotions he couldn’t fix his way. I couldn’t imagine him ever feeling helpless, but a part of me knew we both felt the same. Broken. Lost. Learning.
The fundraiser wasn’t a complete waste of time. Originally it was a distraction from my games with Oliver. To my surprise, it turned into the game board and all the pieces in the same room. Nothing made me happier when life would just fall into line, and I could sit back, watching all my intentions do the work for me.
At first, I wasn’t the focus; each one of his friends were distracted by something else—even the token jock pacing like he was waiting for bad news. I went unnoticed for hours until the host insisted on introducing me to people my age. I learned more than enough about Oliver in that one night to feed months of torture.
It wasn’t odd for a hotspot on campus to be a bar. Hell, it wasn’t even odd there was a bar on campus. Only a small percentage couldn’t legally drink, and the majority won. It was an old bar, filled with warm colors, neon signs, and too many people all stuffed in-between tall tables and bar stools. I sat comfortably at the bar digesting the information Oliver sloppily didn’t protect.
I saw the one girl I couldn’t have, as I scanned past the sorority girl sitting next to me, going on about how I resembled a blonde, young Johnny Depp with my sharp edges. I didn’t care what she said, and I cared even less after I saw Layla. The sorority girl could have offered me money or the best blow job I’d ever receive—none of that mattered, not when I was plotting to get the only thing I ever desired. I always took whatever came my way, didn’t make waves, I invited the pain close, and never desired anything, because desire was a waste of my time. Desire was the elusive bitch related to truth—both there, mocking you. Desire and truth didn’t give anyone the time of day, actually similar to NYU girls: stuck up.
I wanted my parents to stay together so badly I chased the bitch named desire. I even wished upon the stars, every birthday candle, but she wasn’t giving a damn about me. She was there to mock us. I learned the best way to get a girl’s attention was ignore they existed altogether. I made desire come to me. She even begged and crawled right up to my dirty fucking boots, giving me what I wanted after I wrote off ever conjuring up aspirations. That’s what this sorority girl was: a manifestation of desire, chasing me like a love-sick teenager. I was spoiled.
I could have been forthright and told Oliver how many times I got Layla off, without having to be inside her. That information alone would have made him walk away from sharing. He was full of loyalty. Just by the group of his fr
iends, who seemingly never left his side, it was obvious that loyalty had to be on the short list of requirements to be an “Amherst Sinner”.
I enjoyed the slow burn more than a quick win…
I slapped my hand down on the wood bar, beckoning the bartender to request a pitcher of whatever was on tap to be sent to their table. I anticipated it not being drank; that was never the point. Neither was making friends. It was the act of intrusion. None of them wanted to me here, but I was going to keep reminding them I was.
I held up my drink in a silent cheers from across the bar, when they all looked over one by one, so I wouldn’t notice the whole table was going to shift their eyes to me. Sorority girl, whatever she said her name was, joined in my private celebration with excited sounds from her full lips, while throwing her arm in the air. I watched Layla not give in to the temptation of investigating who they were looking at. She knew. Her expression didn’t match the sinners, not one strain visible. I let Whatever-Her-Name-Is steal my attention again, forcing myself to not let my eyes bore into Layla. I had to give Oliver credit: the new smirk across my face was courtesy of him and his annoyance.
I unlocked my iPhone in my hand, making sure my text message was marked read. It was a moment of weakness when I texted her how beautiful she looked.
I heard What’s-Her-Name scoff in a too loud way that made me look up to gawk at her in disgust. Before I could, I saw Layla standing there in Oliver’s hoodie, all too proud of it being on display.
“I had to convince him to let me come over and handle you before he does. Why are you provoking him?”
I laughed, letting my head drop closer to the bar top. “Let’s take this somewhere private. I can’t even hear my own thoughts above the fucking sorority house here.”
She rolled her eyes, only causing my smirk to turn into a wide smile. I desired her, even before this more confident version bloomed with college, but becoming less predictable only made her more desirable.
She slapped her hand down on the bar creating a loud slap. She didn’t even acknowledge the pain we both knew she was in from the act. “Hunter! Are you even listening? He is going to murder you if you keep messing with him.”
I let my fingers coax the knot in her oversized hoodie into my grip, playing with it the same way I would pinch her nipples through her bra during break. I rolled the knot between my fingers, pinched, and smoothed it over. I watched her mouth move intently, as I toyed with her.
I even waited before I replied, letting her soak in the memory. “What do you want me to say, Layla? He doesn’t deserve a second chance.”
Her fingers danced on the top of my hand only to push my hand away. “I gave you one.”
My hand dropped from the knot in her hoodie string with a hard knock of the wood colliding with my rings. Oliver swooped in, like she needed saving. She didn’t need saving, she proved me wrong—a good ol’ college try and every ounce of weak was erased.
Oliver pushed me, and my hands lifted abruptly, while I feigned a shout of: “I’m innocent!”
He barked, “Don’t put her in the middle of our fight.”
I picked up my drink, swallowing the contents in one gulp. He wasn’t worth fighting, not even on some verbal level. He classified jabs as fighting, and I more greatly required destroying lives. She wasn’t the pawn. She was the endgame—my endgame.
“She’s in the middle, because you’re standing behind her, like a bitch.”
This time Layla spoke, only sternly saying my name. Ollie got in my face, trying to intimidate me, like some alpha male bullshit. I sat down on the stool for this. I didn’t need to be standing for no reason. Layla grabbed my arm, forcing me up. “Outside. Now. Let’s go!”
I let her drag me behind her, enjoying my punishment. I smirked directly at Ollie, and we both knew this was the second time she chose me over him in a fight—just like in the alleyway, when she got into my car.
The outside air was frigid, now forcing me to zip my leather jacket. She turned around explosive after walking away from the bar down the street, “What is wrong with you? Do you have a death wish?!
I pulled out a joint, lighting the end, while her discontent swelled up between us. I chose action over words—sucking the scent of fresh pot.
“Seriously?! Hunter, what kind of game are you playing?”
She knew me too well to know I wasn’t a last-minute decisions kind of person to land me transferring here. In all honesty, it wasn’t last minute. I rode out two full weeks back at NYU, forcing myself to work out every negative and the small category of positives that this decision would yield me. I thought long and hard before I landed here.
“It’s not a damn game, Layla. You think I care about some fucking rich kid? I didn’t come here for him!”
My voice got louder without meaning to, as the sentence got more honest by the end. I walked away into a cut out of a store front, where the entrance sat further back, almost in a small tunnel, enclosed with brick just like the campus. I leaned against the cool brick, hoping I wouldn’t have to hear or see her react. I was well hidden enough.
It was like she knew my inner thoughts too. I contemplated this new strain of pot I bought off another student having some side effects I wasn’t used to messing me up. It wouldn’t be unheard of.
She looked at me with bewilderment, “You didn’t come here to start trouble with him? I thought because of everything you knew you wanted to make him pay or something.”
She was breathing heavily, like the realization weighed her down, following me took too much effort, and as a result, she was out of breath. She wasn’t wrong; that was the bonus of coming here: ruining him. But she was the reason.
I pushed my shoulder blades off of the brick and moved around her strategically, trading places, and forcing her against the brick. She may not be weak anymore, but manipulating her body wasn’t hard.
“I don’t need to make him pay, Layla. You’ll see it eventually.”
I pushed myself so close to her that I watched her eyelashes flutter, as I exhaled my smoke right into her.
She looked up at me, even more curious, mixed with a hint of fear in her mouth as it began to pout. “See what, Hunter?”
I wanted to kiss her, but I held myself just back enough for her to eat my words. I felt like I was speaking them right into her lips, letting her taste them against her tongue. “He’s not me.”
I wanted to tell her he wasn’t sober and destroy the broken boy perception with grown up problems—ones she didn’t know how to handle and ones beyond her ability to fix with love. There wasn’t enough time or privacy to explain how I knew and fill in all the blanks.
“Hunter…” rolled off her lips, but she didn’t push me away. She didn’t crave more space.
The silence was broken as the music of people nearby rang so fucking loudly, as she realized it was never a game for me.
I whispered in a gruff voice, “I always wanted you, Layla. That night… I thought I got lucky, not a new title for my criminal record.”
Ollie wouldn’t be far behind her, after seeing her drag me outside to metaphorically slap the shit out of me—maybe even actually. Still, I stayed planted this close, not moving, when I heard his footsteps. He barked her name, and my fingers tingled with the need to change his tone. I didn’t bother to stay and argue like he wanted. I held the joint to my lips and walked away. He wouldn’t stop me. I knew his secret, and I was guessing no one else did.
He made me untouchable. He gave me the power to do whatever I wanted without a lame-ass sorry attached to it—all because I knew.
Classes weren’t ever a priority, if I made it on time, great; and if I didn’t, well, then I wasn’t filled with worry about it. I watched Layla rushing to our class, even though she was early, as I sat on a bench in the square. I just left What’s-Her-Name’s bedroom to grab coffee and possibly go to class. It was the one class we shared on my schedule. A class I never planned to miss, ever. I pulled out a joint, not caring who’s body
weight made the old wood jump against my ass when the person sat down. I was going to ignore them either way. I was busy with a joint coming to life for me with a flame.
They coughed in that annoying way that begged for attention. Half of me was pleasantly surprised when I shifted my focus, leaving my body, where I originally was, to see a girl with teal colored hair.
I’d bite, curious is to who she was, I asked her, “Can I help you? I don’t share.”
She kicked up her feet, sitting like a child on the bench, with her legs tangled up together. She looked at me with intention I couldn’t just ignore at this point. “I sell here. This is my territory.”
I laughed, knowing one day I would be confronted with this exact moment. I didn’t respect anything but myself, not rules or boundaries. Holding back a stale laugh, I said, “I don’t sell here. I’m not small time and college campuses.”
She punched me in the arm harder than I expected, making my head jerk up in anger.
“I was being nice and calm. Don’t touch me. Oh, and I’m done talking.” I continued to drink my coffee between drags, completely aware she hadn’t left yet.
“Couple of my clients bought from you at some party in the burbs.”
She wanted to look tough, but I was distracted by a girl with a baby face, despite the ripped stockings and Doc Martens. She looked to be about my age and could easily blend in on campus. It made her gig here nearly perfect.
“I sold some bags at one party, just lightening the mood. Relax. You have a whole campus.”
She snatched the joint right from my fingers and let her lips wrap around it, exactly how I imagined her lips around other parts of me. She was beautiful, but she was damaged in ways I didn’t find appealing. Layla was damaged in the ways that only highlighted why I desired her. I let her take the joint, not bothering me, if it meant being enough to end this conversation. I must have been lucky, because she didn’t budge an inch after hitting my joint.
