“Where is he?” Dane shouts. “Where did he go?”
The audience laughs and boos good-naturedly.
“What?” Choo asks. “Do you see something?”
They both turn to look at me and I self-consciously lower myself back into the box until I’m lying completely flat.
“I don’t see anything,” Dane says, swiping his hand through the space I just occupied. “And I don’t feel anything.”
They turn in a circle with the curtain, swiftly shifting it in front of the box and buying me a few seconds to drop into the cellar and pull the door closed. Just as quickly, the curtain is dropped to reveal the brightly painted wall of the shop.
I hear Choo mutter, “Where did he go?”
“You suck!” someone hollers from the back of the room. “He’s in the box!”
If things go as we’d rehearsed, right now everyone is turning to look at the heckler, then gasping in astonishment when they see it’s Crosbie sitting on the counter, casually drinking a bottle of water. I hear the room explode with laughter and applause, and I pray Crick takes his hand off Andi’s leg long enough to join in.
It’s dank and dingy down in the cellar, and everything smells like mold. For exactly this reason the space is unused, and I quickly dart over to the far side and scale the short ladder that leads to the supply closet.
Once inside, I strip out of the body suit, put on my original clothes, and grab the bottle of water I left behind. I slip down the hall and join the distracted crowd that watches as Crosbie, back on stage, shows them the empty box.
“How does he do this shit?” someone mutters.
“I wish I knew,” I reply, trying to appear as perplexed as they are.
“You really don’t know, Kell?” someone else demands. “He doesn’t tell you?”
“I’ve asked him,” I answer. “He won’t even give me a clue.”
Andi must hear my voice because she turns to look, locking eyes with me for two seconds before immediately turning back around. The expression on her face is so forbidding I’m glad it was only two seconds, even if I deserve worse.
I step aside as Choo, Dane and Crosbie clear the props from the stage. I congratulate them on a great performance before easing back through the crowd to join Jackie.
“Feeling better?” she asks, giving me a curious look.
“Yeah, thanks.”
She reaches over to squeeze my fingers, then arches a brow. “You’re awfully warm for someone who was outside for ten minutes.”
“I—”
She turns to watch the last performer cover Bob Dylan’s “Blowing In the Wind.” “Relax,” she says. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
* * *
Everybody’s going to Marvin’s after the show, but I make my excuses, grateful when Jackie makes the same ones and we drive back to campus together.
“That was fun,” she muses, rubbing a hole in the frosty window and peering outside.
“Yeah,” I reply, distracted. “Crosbie did a great job. So did your friend.”
She smiles. “So did you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I navigate the quiet campus streets and stop at the curb in front of McKinley. Normally when I drive a girl home I don’t even need to wait for the invite up, we’re already going at it in the front seat, fumbling with seatbelts, moving things inside only so we don’t get arrested. And while Jackie checks every box anyone with a few brain cells and working hormones could appreciate, I’m far too preoccupied by the evening’s events to even try to get myself invited in.
“You all right to get upstairs in those heels?”
She’s hunting through her purse for keys. “Of course,” she replies, holding them up triumphantly. She leans over to brush a kiss across my cheek. “Thanks for taking me tonight.”
“My pleasure.”
She hesitates for a second, then pushes open the door. “Bye, Kellan.”
I watch until she disappears inside, then sigh and pull away from the curb. I didn’t see Andi and Crick before I left the coffee shop, but assume they joined everyone else at Marvin’s to finish out the night. I stop at the corner and twist in my seat to look at the building’s second floor windows, but they’re dark.
I drive home and hurry inside, swapping my clothes for shorts and a sweatshirt. I turn up my music and start a slow jog down the block. I intend to do the first mile at this pace, but three blocks later I’m running full out, heart pumping, blood pounding, concentration narrowed to the stretch of pavement in front of me.
The song switches to something even louder, even angrier, and I run harder, faster, feeling my skin heat and sweat pour and muscles burn. I run in the opposite direction of McKinley residence, circling the library and the gym and the Klein Building. I loop around two of the campus clubs, their pulsing music loud enough I can feel it vibrate through my feet, but I keep my hood up and don’t pause.
I run until my legs are weak and I’m gasping. I circle around the far side of campus and jog the long way back, avoiding McKinley, doing everything I can to empty my brain of the urge to find Andi. I don’t know what I could say to her right now. I don’t know what she wants me to say. And I really don’t want to hear what Crick has to say about it.
I stumble into my apartment, dump my sweaty clothes on the stairs, and walk naked into the bathroom. I turn on the water full blast and brace myself against the tiled wall, letting the spray beat against my back until I muster up enough strength to wash my hair. I lather, rinse, repeat, then grab the soap and do the same with every inch of skin. But none of it changes my mind.
I pull on sweats and a T-shirt and take out a beer, then swap it for water. It’s eleven o’clock on a Saturday and I’m alone and sober. Again.
Kellan 2.0 sucks.
I flip through the TV channels but nothing catches my interest. I cue up a video game, but can’t concentrate. I even lie down on the couch and try to fall asleep, but I’m too wired for rest.
My well-used sneakers call to me from the top of the stairs. They’ve helped me cover a lot of ground, but right now they’re whispering that I haven’t gone far enough.
“She’s not even home,” I mumble to myself, because that’s better than admitting I’m talking to my sneakers.
“She’s got a date,” I add. “And I had a date with a girl who lives down the hall from her. I can’t just...go there.”
To make its case, my brain starts playing back some of the memories I’ve tried so hard to suppress, images of me and Andi that last summer in Avilla, stripping away our clothes, our doubts, our armor. And then Andi, on the drive home from that baseball game, putting her armor back on and leaving me alone and defenseless to wonder why.
I get off the couch and put on my sneakers, then grab my keys and my coat and slam the front door as hard as I can, like that will drown out the nagging inner voices telling me this is a terrible idea, a stupid idea, a fan-fucking-tastic idea.
I don’t know what it is.
I just know I’m doing it.
chapter eight
I walk to McKinley in a weak effort to buy myself enough time to come to my senses. It doesn’t happen. I’m slightly colder when I get there, but I still get there. At nearly midnight on a Saturday there are plenty of people coming and going, and with my hood pulled up I’m able to get inside without being recognized and without ringing the buzzer. I’m pretty sure I would not get buzzed in if Andi were the one deciding.
I take the stairs to the second floor and pace on the small landing, flexing my cold fingers. For two years I’ve wondered what happened at that baseball game, and now I’m ridiculously afraid of the answer. At least, I tell myself that’s all I’m here for. Answers.
I listen for sounds in the hallway outside and when I don’t hear anything I ease open the door and peer out. I’m acting so shady that if anyone saw me they’d probably call the police, but the hall is deserted and I’m halfway between Jackie’s door and And
i’s. If I go left to Jackie’s room, I’m slightly less of an asshole than if I turn right.
I turn right.
There’s light coming from the small gap at the bottom of Andi’s door, so I knock twice and cover the peephole with my hand. I study my sneakers. There’s still time to run.
I don’t.
After a second the lock turns and the door opens to reveal a wary Andi. Her hair is still down but she’s swapped the gauzy tank top for a T-shirt and her feet are bare. I notice all this in the first second, because in the next second I’m wedging my foot in the door so she can’t close it in my face.
“Wrong room,” she says flatly. Her lipstick is gone and her brows are drawn together in annoyance, and this is the Andi I know. The one I don’t really know, not anymore.
“Where’s Crick?” That’s the wrong question. I’m supposed to be asking about the baseball game, but I can smell toothpaste and suddenly I can’t think about baseball or basketball or any games at all.
She shrugs, the gesture too tense to be casual. “Where’s your date?”
I copy her shrug, then step forward, my shoulder pushing open the door. She doesn’t fight to close it. I take another step, then another, and then I’m inside and she lets go of the door and I hear it click shut behind me. I try to remember my excuse for coming here, but I can’t. The small room has the same mismatched wooden furniture as all the others, but it’s sparsely decorated and strictly functional. The desk is neatly organized, the bed made with a gray comforter and a single white pillow. The curtains are drawn and music plays very quietly.
I take one more step and Andi backs into the cinderblock wall. She holds my stare defiantly, but that’s her only show of resistance. I lift one hand to push her hair behind her ear, then maintain the eye contact as I lower my head until our mouths are a millimeter apart. There’s something in her gaze now, something I can’t identify, and though it’s her, though we’ve done this before, this feels nothing like the other times. Not new and uncertain and hopeful. It feels raw.
More than two years after our last kiss, I kiss Andi again. For ten long seconds I just press my lips to hers, her mouth soft and stubborn all at once. I can’t remember the last time I did this when I wasn’t drunk and horny and willing to get off with anyone who was equally willing.
Finally Andi exhales, a ragged breath I hear and feel, and she fists her hands in the hem of my T-shirt and tugs. I know what that means. Andi wasn’t a girl who said things like “Do me” or “Fuck me” or “Yeah, baby.” Her actions spoke for her and this one says all of the above. Relief courses through me, then adrenaline, then hormones. Arousal as sharp and heady as I’ve ever felt it.
I kiss her better now. I kiss her like I’m showing her what I’ve learned over the past two years, like it justifies something. But Andi’s never been one to let someone else take the lead, and she kisses me back like she’s gotten in some practice too. I kiss her harder. She rises onto her toes and my cock notches in between her legs and sensation rockets up my spine. There’s no way that should feel as surprising and right as it did the very first time, but it does. I grab a fistful of her hair and tug her head back, dragging my teeth over her jaw and her throat, trying to regain some of the control I’m supposed to have.
Andi shoves my jacket off my shoulders and my sweats over my hips so they pool at my feet, leaving me in boxer briefs and a T-shirt. I pull off her top to reveal a lacy white sports bra, the shadows of her nipples visible through the flimsy fabric. I fumble around in the back for some sort of fastening, but there isn’t one.
“It just comes off,” Andi mutters, hooking her fingers under the elastic band and tugging it over her head. I catch her arms when they’re stretched up, pinning them to the wall and lowering my mouth to her chest. She doesn’t have much to speak of, but her nipples are pink and small and I missed them. She moans and writhes and I suck harder, switching sides and repeating until she manages to get her hands free and shove me back.
I yank off my T-shirt and then we’re both standing in our underwear, breathing hard, facing off. She looks fierce and gorgeous, lean and strong, her hair tousled. I think about Crick touching her, kissing her, whispering to her, and I grip her around the waist and toss her onto the bed, in full caveman mode. I shuck my underwear and climb on top, scooping one hand behind her neck to hold her in place as I kiss her, our tongues at war. I feel her stubby nails digging into my shoulder blades and slide my free hand over her stomach and into her panties, cupping the damp heat waiting there. Andi twists her face away and cries out, her legs going slack. I use the advantage to knee them even farther apart and slowly ease a finger inside.
This.
I missed this.
Not fingering Andi, not kissing her, not fighting her.
This.
This moment when her gaze goes glassy and her muscles relax and the bravest, most terrifying girl I’ve ever known gives me a glimpse of her soft side, something very few people have ever seen. Ever deserved to see.
“Open your eyes,” I murmur, nipping her earlobe. I move my finger, feeling for something I didn’t know existed that first summer, and she squeaks when I find it, eyes flying open to lock on mine. “Let me see.”
She bites her lip and does as asked, even as I work in a second finger alongside the first. Her lashes flutter but she holds my stare and I stretch her and stroke her until her back arches and she grinds her head into the pillow. “Condoms,” she gasps, straining to point at the desk drawer, just out of reach.
“In a minute,” I say, working her harder with my fingers. I search for her clit and find it with my thumb, moving in slow circles and watching the flush on her chest spread into her neck and cheeks.
She lets out a sound that’s half-sigh, half-moan, and everything I hoped to hear. My erection bumps her leg and her eyes come back into focus. “Kell,” she says. “You—”
“You first.”
I kiss her to end the argument, but she has both hands free and she uses one to reach down and find me, wrapping her devious fingers around my cock and stroking expertly. Far better than she used to, and she used to be pretty good at it. I’m slick with her juices and some of my own, and the wet, sure jerk of her hand is going to kill me.
“Andi,” I say through gritted teeth. “I can’t—”
“Condom,” she repeats. I don’t know why she’s so leery about coming first—most girls seem pretty happy with the arrangement. But she was always reluctant to come before me, to let me have some perceived advantage, so I drop the argument and reach for the drawer she indicates, finding a box of condoms.
“Get a ribbed one,” she orders, continuing to stroke me.
I fumble through the assortment until I come across an orange package and Andi tells me it’s the one she likes. I rip it open with my teeth and flip onto my back, dislodging her wily hand so I can roll it on. We had a lot of practice that summer, fumbling around, figuring out how to be fast, be quiet, be good, and like riding a bicycle, it’s all coming back to us, just like we never stopped. But if Andi keeps touching me like that, the only thing this is going to be is over.
I kneel up to see her white lace panties covering all the good parts, complaining even as I pull them down. “Why are you still wearing these?” The question comes out more irritated than I intended.
“Because you didn’t take them off,” she replies.
I toss them over my shoulder and then for a long moment I can’t move. The last time we did this I didn’t know it was the last time, and I mourned that loss for far longer than I want to admit. I don’t know what’s going to happen after this and I want to remember it. I want to laser this image into my brain so I can pull it out for personal use as needed.
I take in the miles of leg, the flat stomach, the muscles of her shoulders, the spill of golden hair on the pillow. I memorize the slope of her throat and the precise shade of pink of her nipples, the baby-fine dusting of hair that leads down to the darker blond patch between her l
egs. Then I let my gaze zero in right there, slick folds peeking out and luring me in. I slide my hands over her inner thighs, slip my thumbs between that soft flesh and open her up for my eyes, my mouth, my everything.
She slaps a hand over her pussy and scares the crap out of me. “Kellan!” she snaps.
I jolt backwards and just barely manage not to topple off the bed. “Fuck! What?”
“Don’t stare at it!”
“Why not? I’ve seen it sixty-four times.”
Her mouth falls open. “You counted?”
“You were the first one! Of course I counted.” I crawl forward and brace an elbow in the pillow next to her, positioning myself between her legs. “The first four times were in your bed...” I circle her clit with my cock, a trick I’ve learned since we last did this. “Times five, six and seven were in mine...”
“Did you keep track of this in your diary?”
“Eight was in your basement when we were supposed to be looking for the Fourth of July decorations... Oh, nine was down there, too, with the washer on the spin cycle...”
“Overrated,” she gasps, nudging me with her hips, telling me to hurry up.
“Ten was on the couch in my living room when my parents went to Vegas, and we all got lucky because that was the first time you let me do it from behind... Times eleven through fifteen were that same awesome weekend...”
She groans. “Just make it sixty-five already.”
I push in slowly, feeling her body cede to mine. I’m vaguely aware of the sweat at my temples and the trembling in my weak muscles, but I nudge my hips forward until there’s nowhere left to go, Andi’s legs bent and splayed wide to accommodate me.
I hear her soft sigh as I bottom out and for a long time I don’t do anything. I can’t do anything. This is what I’ve looked for in far too many places and failed to find. It’s what I’m terrified I’ll never find again.
The scrape of her short nails over my scalp spurs me to move. She urges me on with moans and gasps and sloppy kisses and I lift onto my knees and thrust into her again and again and again. It changes from sex to fucking and back, the transition effortless, until it’s everything and nothing, until all I can see and feel and hear is Andi, her whimpers as she comes, the clench of her body trapping me inside, letting her use me until she can’t anymore.
Undeclared (Burnham College #2) Page 12
