by Mariano, Sam
Swallowing down a ball of embarrassment, I snap, “I didn’t willingly show your dick any attention.”
“No?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. “I seem to remember you saying you wanted it.”
“You made me say that,” I remind him, wide-eyed.
“Nah, I gave you options and you made your choice.”
“You’re insane,” I inform him, aghast.
Not sounding all that concerned, he says, “Maybe.” Then, barely missing a beat, he changes the subject. “So, where do you sit for lunch? I noticed yesterday I never see you. Not that I expect you’d be sitting with the cheerleaders, but I took a quick look around the cafeteria and didn’t see you anywhere else, either.”
“I don’t eat in the cafeteria. Not since all this… stupid Jake stuff started. People stare and make disparaging comments. Your cheerleader friends can be real bitches, and I don’t even know why they care. They should be offended on my behalf, not taking his side. They need their girl cards suspended until they take a remedial class on girl power or something, I swear.”
“Birds of a feather,” he says simply. “Jake is one of theirs, you’re not.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“You could be,” he says, giving me a once-over. “You’re attractive enough, and even though you keep to yourself, you’re clearly not shy or you wouldn’t be able to spar with me the way you do. Get yourself some Longhorn gear, one of those sparkly pony tail holders, and slap a smile on that pretty face, I’m sure you could find a spot at their table.”
“I’ll pass,” I tell him. “I used to sit with Grace and the youth group kids from our church, but they became quickly offended by the ‘ho’ coughs your jock buddies would walk by and deliver. I didn’t want to make Grace uncomfortable anymore, so until it all blows over, no cafeteria for me.”
“Well, you’ve gotta eat.”
“Last time I tried to sneak off somewhere solitary to eat, I got cornered by three jock assholes and—wait, I think you know the rest of this story,” I say sarcastically. My tone dropping to its normal decibel, I conclude, “Now I eat in my car with the doors locked.”
“That’s sad, Ellis.”
“It isn’t sad. Well, today it is, because I didn’t have a chance to pack my lunch, but most days it’s actually quite peaceful. A little bit of quiet time in the middle of the day, I can read a couple chapters of whichever book I’m reading. It’s like a little mid-day break from people. I enjoy spendin’ time by myself. I don’t need company all the time.”
Carter nods his head. “Well, today you’re gonna have company.”
“No, today I’m gonna read the whole time, not even interrupted by the sound of my own chewing.”
“Nope. You like wings?”
“Wings?” I question, glancing over at him.
“Chicken wings. You’re not some kind of vegan, are you?”
I shake my head. “No, I like wings.”
“Great. Let’s go get some.”
My eyes widen and I slow down. “What? No. It’s—We’re—The school day isn’t over, for one thing, and if you think I’m goin’ anywhere alone with you—”
Holding up a hand to halt me, he says, “Relax, Ellis. I’m not going to fuck you at Wingstop, I’m only going to feed you. You just said you didn’t bring your lunch, and as I mentioned before, I feel like I owe you a meal.”
“I am not getting in a car alone with you,” I inform him.
Unconcerned, he shrugs. “Drive yourself, then. I mean, it’s literally a one-minute drive so I think driving separately is pretty stupid, but if that makes you feel safer, knock yourself out.”
I shouldn’t even consider going anywhere with someone who has to add “if that makes you feel safer” to an invitation to hang out with him. The thought of wings does make my mouth water, though. It’s been ages since I’ve had them. We used to order wings on a Friday night once every month or so for a treat, but then Hank had to get his car fixed, it was an expensive repair, and my parents haven’t caught up enough to be able to afford even the occasional wing night at home.
“You promise this isn’t a trick?” I ask, that icky vulnerable feeling hitting me again.
Carter offers a reassuring nod. “Temporary truce.”
This is probably a terrible idea, but as if on cue, my stomach rumbles, begging me to let the nice man buy it some chicken wings. I tell my stomach he’s not a nice man at all, but my stomach decidedly doesn’t care what kind of man he is, so long as he’s buying it some chicken wings.
Sighing, I clutch my books tighter. “Fine.”
Chapter 10
I don’t know why I told him the story of my parents no longer being able to afford wing nights. I don’t know why I let him drive, or why I even agreed to come, but by the time I’m polishing off my paper-lined tray of boneless BBQ wings, I’m sort of glad I did.
If you ignore the things that make him repugnant—like his whole rapey jock thing, for example—Carter is actually pretty all right to hang out with. The 95 seconds of exposed vulnerability I felt when I slid into the passenger side of his Mustang and wondered if he might pounce on me were stressful, but he kept to the driver’s seat just like he said he would, and he has behaved himself ever since.
Instead of torturing me or trying to make me uncomfortable, he has behaved like a respectable human being. We’ve talked about Mr. Hassenfeld’s uncanny resemblance to the host from that restaurant rescue show on the Food Network, my love for iced coffee (he doesn’t get it), his love for hot wings (I don’t get it), our mutual preference for orange Popsicles (why do they even make any other flavor?), and the new comedy we both want to see, currently playing at the local movie theater.
I’m wary of admitting to the last one, because it seems like the next step from “You want to see that, too?” could very easily be, “Well, we should go together,” and I would prefer not to be put into another situation where I have to shoot him down.
As nice as this lunch is, I can’t bring myself to agree to go on a date with him. How can I? It would be so twisted. Literally the first time he ever spoke to me, he made me go down on him. He showed up at my house with soup when he knew I wasn’t sick. He showed up where I work with his sister, so I couldn’t be mean to him. He’s manipulative and potentially dangerous, and I can’t let myself lose sight of that.
Even coming to lunch with him today, I worried I was putting myself in a dangerous situation. A date would give him the wrong idea. A date would make him think I’m open to maybe possibly sleeping with him someday, and I’m not trying to mislead him. Not least of all because, knowing what I know about him, I can’t be sure he wouldn’t take what he wants from me if he thinks it’s owed to him.
Damn entitled assholes.
My fear proves valid when the next thing out of his mouth is, “Well, I’ve got practice tonight, but if you’re not working tomorrow, we could go see it.”
I shake my head. “Can’t.”
“Because you work?”
I sigh, feeling mean, and then get angry at myself for feeling mean, because he certainly deserves it. “Please stop makin’ me tell you no, Carter.”
“I’m not making you say no,” he says easily. “You could start saying yes. It would be much more fun.”
“I disagree. I was stressed out about spending two minutes in a car with you. If I agreed to sit in a dark theater with you, I would have gray hair by the time the movie ended.”
“I’m not gonna pounce on you in public, Zoey. I do have an image to maintain, you know. I’ve pushed the limits, definitely, but even I can’t get away with that level of misbehavior out in the open. A movie theater is crowded. Lots of people around. You could call for help, if you felt the need to. I would behave myself. I want to see the movie. I’d invite you to my house if I just wanted to fuck you.”
“No.”
“How about we take someone else with us? I can bring a couple people so you won’t be alone with me.”
“A
gain, you brought people last time.”
“Fine, then you can bring people,” he offers. “Does Grace have a boyfriend? Bring them. I might want to shoot myself in the face if she likes the kind of guy I think she probably likes, but hell, I can survive alongside them for a few hours.”
“Grace doesn’t have a boyfriend anymore, and yes, you would have hated her last one. He’s a goody two shoes. He even got on my nerves, and I’m friends with Grace.” Looking at him as I grab my drink cup and take a sip, I add, “But the answer is still no. In fact, if ‘bring Grace’ is your suggestion, my answer is an even more vehement no. She was already scandalized that she saw me talking to you in the hallway, so something that looks like a date is out of the question.”
“It would look like a date because it would be a date,” he informs me.
“I’m not going on a date with you, Carter,” I tell him, plainly.
“Why not?”
I stare at him for a long moment, then sigh and shake my head. “You are relentless.”
“Yep,” he agrees, before popping a salty French fry into his mouth.
“You know why I won’t go out with you,” I tell him. “You can ask 20 more times, the answer isn’t going to change. If you wanted to date me, you should have started there, not… where you started.”
“Well, I didn’t know I wanted to date you then,” he states, somehow reasonably. “I just thought you were some shy, boring nerd who grossly overreacted to Jake wanting to bang you. It took a couple interactions before I noticed what he must have noticed first. Now I see it. Now I want you. I’m much more persistent than Jake Parsons, I’ll tell you that now.”
“See, that sounds like a warning,” I point out. “I don’t go out on dates with guys who exude such willingness to do harm. My type is ‘not a dangerous sociopath’ and I’m not convinced you fit the bill.”
Carter smiles like that amuses rather than offends him. “I’m not a sociopath.”
I press my lips together with exaggerated firmness. “That’s just what a sociopath would say.”
“I’m aggressive when I’m going after something I want, that’s all. That doesn’t make me a sociopath.”
I tick off fingers. “Superficial charm, intelligence, grandiose sense of self, ability to harm others without any apparent remorse, relentless pursuit of your own desires at the expense of others, liar liar pants on fire...”
Before I can continue my list, Carter laughs. “Was that last one a technical term, Dr. Ellis?”
“It was,” I say with a nod.
“I haven’t lied to you,” he says.
“You lie to everyone,” I state. “From what I can tell, your whole entire life is a lie.”
“I didn’t say I don’t lie to anyone, I said I haven’t lied to you,” he repeats, meaningfully.
My stomach bottoms out and I break his gaze, grabbing a French fry to distract myself. I’m not sure what to say to that.
On one hand, it could be a manipulation. He must know I have some kind of soft spot for him, because by all rights, I should be seething with anger and discomfort every time I see his face, not skipping out on lunch to go get boneless wings with him.
On the other hand, it could be true. If he’s actually being sincere, I don’t want to be mean and shut him down. If he’s actually trying to reach out, I don’t want to swat his hand away.
But I also don’t want to be one more dumbass who has fallen for his act, and for all I know, that’s all this is. For all I know, he knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly how conflicted he’s making me feel, and this is all intentional, just the best way he could figure to get what he wants.
His horrible words from that classroom float back to me, reminding me that this person acting like he’s opening up to me in a way he doesn’t with other people is the same asshole who told Jake Parsons to hold me down so he could rape me, the same asshole whose interest was only stirred by the knowledge that I’m a virgin, and who said he wanted to hurt me, that he wanted my virgin blood to be the only lube when he stole my innocence.
Regardless of the words out of Carter’s mouth, I’ve seen him weave a web before I was emotionally involved, and he could easily be doing the same exact thing to me now, only I can’t see it. My judgment is cloudy because deep down I want to believe he’s not as bad as he proved he was that day, and when you want to see something so badly, sometimes you invent evidence to support that belief.
Carter’s mind moves fast even when he hasn’t had time to prepare—I saw that in the empty classroom, when he turned a routine bullying into sexual assault with a hint of potential murder if I didn’t keep my mouth shut, when he hijacked Jake’s crusade because he discovered I appealed to his particular appetites. That all happened in the space of a few minutes; Carter had no idea what he was walking into or that any of that would happen, and he still directed it like a fucking maestro.
He has had much more time to figure out how to play me. He’s not winging it; he has had time to study me like I’ve studied him, time to gauge my reactions, time to learn how to get what he wants—which is possibly still me alone somewhere so he can hurt me.
That reminder is like a bucket of cold water dumped over my head. I toss the rest of my French fry into the empty wing boat and grab my phone, checking the time.
“We should head back. Lunch is going to be over soon, and I can’t be late to my next class.”
He regards me studiously, like he’s trying to pinpoint where he went wrong. At least, that’s how his gaze feels. Maybe now I’m being paranoid, seeing calculation where none exists, but I can’t be sure and I’d rather be safe than sorry.
“All right,” he says, easily enough. Looking at my mouth, he points to the corner of his. “You have a little sauce right there. Might wanna go fix it in the bathroom first, or everyone will know you had BBQ wings for lunch.”
I cover my mouth, jumping up and running to the bathroom.
There’s no sauce on my face. I see that immediately when I get in front of the mirror. It also occurs to me the bathroom is down a hallway, more removed from the dining room. Isolated.
I swallow, looking at the door, half-expecting for it to swing open and Carter to bust in, smirking victoriously at how easy it was to get me alone. Visions of being attacked in this bathroom flood my mind and the walls start to close in on me.
Rather than stand here and work myself into a panic, I pull the restroom door open, braced to see Carter on the other side, waiting in the hall.
He isn’t. The hall is empty, so I quickly escape it and head back to the relative safety of the dining room. Carter is lingering by the door, behaving himself. He threw out our trash and the table we sat at is empty now.
“Ready?” he asks me.
I nod my head and walk toward him, my stomach still rocking from the stress. He opens the door for me, and I murmur a distracted thank you. If he didn’t send me to the bathroom to wipe away phantom wing sauce so he could corner me alone, then why?
Carter opens the passenger side door for me, too. I’m surprised, and even more guarded by his gentlemanly behavior. Carter Mahoney is not a gentleman, I know that to be true. Pouncing on me in this driveway would also be ill-advised; we are out in the open here. Even the high school parking lot would be a better spot, though given there are security cameras on the outside of the school (just not the inside, where they could have helped me) even that would be ill-advised. The football team would probably get him out of that one, though. My understanding is Carter’s position on the team is crucial to their success, so if I turned another football player in for their foul play, the tapes proving me right would probably mysteriously turn up missing. They already lost Jake Parsons for the season for the sake of my honor; they’re not going to lose Carter Mahoney, too.
Plus, if I legitimately tried to get Carter in trouble, the whole town would turn on me in such a way that their response to my problem with Jake Parsons would look like a welcome wagon. Just like Carter tol
d me the cheerleaders sided with Jake over me even though they’re girls, and as vulnerable to sexual harassment as I am, it all comes down to who they like more. It will never be me. Grace is probably the only person in town who would stand beside me if I stood against Carter, and even she might struggle. We’re good friends, but she has many more, and most of them would turn on me. Remaining loyal to me in that scenario would be stressful for Grace, and I’m not sure I could ask her to do it.
I’m not cut from the right cloth to fit in, while Carter Mahoney seems to be a chameleon. I don’t know if I’ve actually seen the real him, or if this is just some other facet of The Carter Mahoney Show, but I do know he has a ready supply of charm and amiability, and I lack both. No one sides with the unlikable loner over the town’s golden boy. Hell, my own mother struggles to support my defense of myself, and she should be my champion, she should be in my corner, no matter what everyone else thinks.
Carter pulls me right out of my thoughts when he drops something into my lap. I blink at the piece of plastic, the size of a credit card. Another gift card? I cast him a questioning look as I pick it up. “What’s this for?”
“One of those family wing nights you told me about. Give it to your mom, she can use it to pay for dinner one night.”
“Why?” I demand, frowning at him. “Why do you keep buying me gift cards?”
His lips curve up in amusement. “I’ve bought you two, Ellis. It’s not exactly a habit.”
“Why?” I ask again.
Carter shrugs. “Why not? I have money and you don’t. Can’t I just do something nice for you? It costs me nothing.”
I lift my eyebrows, turning the card over and seeing $50 written in permanent marker on the back. “It costs you something. Between the two cards, you have given me $100. I’m startin’ to feel like a low-class hooker.”
