“This is my favorite band,” I tell him as he puts the car in reverse and then pauses to glance my way. He says nothing though, taking us back down the drive and pausing to get our phones at the gate.
Part of me wants to ask where we're going, the rest doesn't dare. I decide to lean back and enjoy the ride, surprised when we end up at Thorncrown Chapel, the glass and wood church near Eureka Springs.
“There's a lock-in here tonight,” I say, but Barron just shakes his head as we pause at the bottom of the driveway, just in front of a chain that's hung across the road. The sign reads Closed.
“There was supposed to be, but nobody showed up. By eleven, they decided to cancel, and everyone went home.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, my heart thundering as I consider the possibility that Barron is on a time loop of his own. But of course not.
“My parents are friends with the owner of the chapel.” Just that, a succinct response. Barron sneaks a honey-colored sucker from a bag between the front seats, and then climbs out, tearing the wrapper off and sticking it in his pocket as he goes. He slips the sucker between his lips, and then bends down to unlock the bolt on the chain with a key.
It seems that Barron has keys to everything.
He gets back in the car and drives us the rest of the way up the hill. We park and climb out into the moonlight, Barron's rainbow-colored hair impressive in the ambient silver glow. He pauses to slip into the detached bathroom to wash his eyes while I stand at the end of the walkway and look up at the steep spires of Thorncrown Chapel with gently parted lips.
“Impressive,” I say as Barron pauses beside me, stray droplets of water catching on his lip. As I watch, he swipes his tongue across it to clear them away.
“Isn't it?” He takes off walking, his sketchbook tucked under his arm, the long, curled white tails of his coat bobbing across the ground as he moves, barefoot, to the door, and unlocks it. Tonight, I'm down for any challenge.
I follow after him and inside, to the rows of pews, the dais at the fair end, and the Jurassic-like ferns decorating the interior. All the lights are off, but we don't need them. The entire chapel is framed in wood, and the walls are glass. We can see the woods from in here, the moon, the stars.
“How did you get the keys to this place?” I ask, briefly surprised that the chapel hasn't already been broken into. I mean, it's Devils' Day for fuck's sake. But then I remember that Devil Springs is the only town in the world to officially acknowledge the holiday. The world's loss, I suppose.
“My parents wanted me to chaperone tonight, so they got me a set of keys.” Barron looks back at me, his wicked mouth curving into a slight smile. “Let's draw something.” He heads up the aisle and takes a seat on the frontmost pew. After a moment of hesitation, I move up to sit beside him. “I like the new hair color,” he says casually, glancing my way and admiring the half-black, half-red locks cascading over my shoulders. “Very Devils' Day of you.”
We sit close, our thighs maybe six inches apart.
Barron flips his sketchbook to a fresh page and lifts his pencil, his already-stained hand smearing charcoal as he starts drawing the dais, and the giant ferns on either side. He sketches me as I am now, wearing the ballgown and gloves, sitting on top of the podium. After a moment, I decide to humor him, and take up the same position.
“How do you know about the butterflies?” he asks me, still sketching. “Did you follow me?”
“Don't rationalize or justify tonight,” I tell him, feeling my skin sparkle with moonlight and magic. “It's Devils' Day. Nothing makes sense.”
Barron's smile gets a little wider as he continues to draw, finishing the picture relatively quickly and then standing up to bring it over to me. I'm perched on the edge of the podium, my booted feet crossed, my skirts frothing in black tulle around me.
“What do you think?” he asks, handing me his sketchbook.
The rawness in his face as he passes it over, the look in his dual-colored eyes … I can tell that he knows the jig is up. You don't just draw someone you don't like over and over again, for years. And you most definitely don't draw them so passionately. All the coldness and impersonal feeling I've seen in Barron's other art … that’s missing here. What’s in this sketchbook brims with possibilities, with passion. There’s an organic fluidity to it that speaks of understanding, of both his subject and how he sees her.
How he sees me.
Barron moves around behind me, so we can look at the drawings together.
“It's beautiful,” I whisper as he presses a kiss to the side of my neck, and I exhale in a wild rush. Sensation shivers across my skin as Barron reaches around me and hands over the necklace. “A male Diana fritillary, in orange and black, encased in resin and spattered with blood.” I open the box as Barron curses under his breath behind me. “Thank you, Barron.”
“I still don't understand how you know all these things,” he says, but there's a dark wonder in his voice that says he's willing to leave it to the devilish spirits that are supposedly roaming the earth tonight.
Barron takes the necklace and hooks it around my neck, my eyes closing in pleasure as his fingers tease over my clavicle. The necklace sits heavy above the mounds of my breasts, propped up by the corset portion of the dress.
“I remember when you wore this for Halloween last year. I got home at dawn, and I started to draw you. I didn't stop until my hand was bleeding from rubbing across the paper so much.” I shiver, realizing that in its own way, Barron's love is just as dark and dangerous and toxic as Raz's.
Love. Did I just think the word 'love'? This isn't love; it's obsession.
And it isn't sweet or lovely, it's nightmarish, wicked, lurid at best.
There's no part of me that wants to leave right now.
“That's how you knew it was me?” I ask, almost disappointed. “The dress?”
Barron comes around to stand in front of me, and I open my thighs so he can step between them, cupping my face in his right hand. I lean my cheek into his palm, leaving it to my mask to keep me safe here, to protect me. Because this obsession, it's going to hurt in the best possible way.
“No, it wasn't the dress,” he says, leaning in, wearing the red devil’s mask. He seems to only wear the butterfly mask on days when I've managed to impress him before the party starts. “It was the curve of your lips, the shape of your face, your eyes. I've drawn you enough times, Karma; I could pick you out of any crowd.”
Barron leans in, teasing my mouth with his, cupping my chin in tight fingers as he licks my lower lip. For a long time now, my bullies have been hiding just this side of confession, hovering, waiting with their secret desires while they burned me on the outside by taunting me with mine.
Here we are, stripped bare together.
Just like me and Raz.
Is there some way to get them both to confess on one day? Even if they did, what would I do with that? How would I ever survive a tomorrow knowing I had to choose between them?
And then there's … Calix.
I'm not even sure how to feel about Calix.
I lift my face up desperately towards Barron, but he pulls back, teasing me with his warm breath and the smell of honey from the lollipop. He kisses the edges of my mouth, moonlight shimmering off his rainbow hair and his mask, the glitter decorating his chest.
“Raz and Calix are both in love with you, just thought you should know,” he says, almost matter-of-factly, but with a deep longing making his voice crack. “If that changes anything, I'll take you back to the party.”
I pause as he lifts my chin up to look at him, standing between my legs in that white coat with the butterfly tails behind it, his pants low-slung enough that I can see the 'V' shape indents on his hips.
“You all treat me like shit,” I retort, and Barron's mouth makes that beautiful smile again.
“Jealousy, maybe, has something to do with it.” He leans in closer, teasing my mouth with his lips, brushing our bodies together without
committing to anything at all. It's infuriating. I close my legs on him, squeezing his body between my thighs.
“Jealousy?” I ask, my voice thready and husky with desire. How could I not be turned-on in this moment? We're in a beautiful chapel in the middle of the woods, moonlight streaming through the glass panels in the walls and ceilings, the whisper of some Devils' Day magic in the air.
“Mm. Jealousy.” Barron slips his tongue between my lips, cupping the back of my head, fingers digging into my red and black hair as he brings my face toward his. Our mouths slant together, fanning that ember in my belly to a raging flame. My fingernails dig into the glittery surface of Barron's chest, marring his butterfly tattoo with angry red lines.
His left hand sneaks behind me, reaching for the laces that crisscross down the length of my spine. With an expert little tug, he manages to undo the knot, and I breathe an immediate sigh of relief as the pressure of the corset loosens.
“What are we doing here, time traveler?” he whispers against my mouth. His words are meant to be teasing, I think, but there's something else in them, a distant sort of hope that I might actually be telling the truth. I mean, it is Devils' Day. Who knows what's real and what's not?
“Why don't you tell me? You've been drawing me since freshman year. There must be a reason for that.”
Barron chuckles against my lips and then draws back, pushing my frothing black skirts up, so he can see the length of my leg, naked and silver beneath the moonlight. He props my heeled boot up against his chest and starts to undo the laces, looking over at me from behind the safety of his mask.
“What do you want to do, Karma?”
“Not Trailer Park tonight then?” I ask, and Barron smiles tightly.
“Not tonight.” He pulls my shoe off and tosses it aside, removing the sock underneath, and then digging his thumbs into the arch of my foot. For a moment there, I'm too shocked to move. Not only have I never had a foot massage before, I most definitely never thought I'd be getting one from the boy who bullies me for fun. “Does it bother you? Knowing that I've been watching you, drawing you all this time?”
“Considering you told me a sea of dead butterflies made you think of me, I'm not bothered or shocked by anything you might say.”
“You see,” he starts, really digging into my foot and making me groan. “That's what I'm not understanding. How do you know about the butterflies? You must've followed me. That, or you really are a time traveler.” Barron releases my foot and moves to grab the other, pausing as I lift my own foot up and put the toe of my shoe to his lips. He grabs my foot and pushes it back down toward his chest. “Either way, I guess you've been paying attention to me. Why?”
“I have no idea,” I respond honestly, letting him take my other shoe off. I always thought I was in love with Calix Knight. Maybe I still am? But what does that mean for me, that I can break these boys of their cruelty so easily to see what lies underneath? I shouldn't have to put up with their bullshit, just because they’re too afraid to admit that they’re into me. “Why don't we just see where tonight takes us?”
His smile is slow and dark, full of temptation and secrets, as he strips my lace gloves off. He takes his time, plucking them away from my pale flesh, finger by finger, before tossing them aside. By the time he’s finished, I’m shaking with need. Who knew having one’s gloves taken off could be so … erotic?
Barron kneels down between my legs, like a faerie prince, one who commands butterflies, who crushes them beneath his bare feet and wears their pretty ruined pigment like jewelry.
“Too bad you spent your first night with Calix; we would've had so much more fun.”
I gasp as Barron's hands slide up my thighs, curling around the black lace panties I wore, just in case. He retrieves them with his teeth, grazing the swollen flesh underneath as he takes a bite of the lace. I'm not sure what he does with them after that, since he's basically swallowed up by the mountain of black tulle and lace, but I don't care because his lips are on my inner thigh. Barron kisses his way up one leg and then the other, going out of his way to avoid touching the one place where I want his mouth and hands. I put my own hands back on the smooth surface of the podium, letting my head fall back, red and black hair cascading around my shoulders. I can see the crescent moon, as sharp as a scythe in the dark sky, the stars twinkling like the galaxy is being cheeky, winking back at me.
He's been drawing me all this time, I think, closing my eyes against the sensation of his mouth against my thighs. It's a bit of a surprise when he finally touches those fervid lips of his to my core, kissing me and dragging his tongue along my wet heat. A gasp escapes me, echoing in the quiet space, our only audience the stars above and the giant ferns on either side of us.
Barron's hands grasp onto my hips, holding me in place as he teases me with his breath, clearly in no hurry whatsoever.
At least that's something I have right now, time. I mean, as soon as I fall asleep, it's over, but as long as I'm awake, the here and now is all that matters.
He uses his tongue to tease my folds before sliding up to my clit and working around it in a circle, causing my breath to skitter and jump with the sensation. The only time I've ever done this was that first night with Calix; it's all new to me.
Slowly, Barron introduces new movements, slipping his tongue briefly inside of me before adding a finger, then two, then three. By the time he begins to move them in and out, I'm lost to the feelings of pleasure collecting in my lower belly, making my muscles tighten around his fingers. My nipples are so hard they hurt, and if I didn't need my hands to help keep me balanced on the podium, I might reach for my breasts and squeeze them, tease the hard, pink points with my fingers.
“Shit, I can't take it anymore,” I whisper, my voice hoarse but velvety, pleading. My right hand grabs for Barron's hair, fisting in the lacy skirts instead.
“You're not a guy, are you?” he asks, lifting his head up and pushing the skirts aside as he stares up at me with one brown eye, one blue. “Based on my research down here, I'd say … no. So, let the orgasm come and stop fighting it.” He smiles at me, a smile made of shadows and unsaid things. When he puts his head beneath my skirts again, I lose control to his lips and tongue, to long fingers stirring up friction where I need it most.
My climax rides up and over me like a wave, and I cry out, the sound echoing in the glass chapel as Barron continues to push his fingers inside of me, leaving me a hot, shaking mess. Sweat beads between my breasts and on my forehead as he stands up and pulls me close, kissing me with a sweet taste on his tongue, the taste of my own body clinging to his lips.
“You're so wet and so hot, so tight,” he murmurs, taking my mouth for his own, cupping my face with a possessive hand. His other hand kneads my ass with wet fingers. “Let's keep this going, shall we?” He picks me up off the podium and I cross my ankles behind his back. “This hard-on I'm nursing is going to kill me if I don't do something with it.”
Barron lays me down on the smooth stone floors, kissing me and rolling his hips at the same time. A groan escapes me, swallowed up by yet more kissing. I'm surprised by the gentle possessiveness in his touch, the way our bodies fit together like we were made for each other.
“We don't need a condom,” I murmur as Barron grinds his hips to mine, ruining the front of his leather pants as he pushes the hard bulge of his cock against my aching heat. He pauses briefly to look down at me, balanced on his elbows against the stone floor.
“Why not?”
He's the first one to actually ask me that, and I have no idea how to respond. I figure the truth is as good as anything.
“I told you: I'm living in a time loop. It doesn't matter if we use one or not; there's no such thing as consequence tonight.” At least, no physical consequences. I can't stop these moments from being etched into my heart and soul, can't stop them from bleeding me dry when they disappear forever. “It's Devils' Day, Barron Farrar.”
He looks down at me, clearly trying to puzzle o
ut my motivations as I dig my fingers into his rainbow-dyed hair, fingertips teasing the shorn sides of his head and the dark hair there. He has EKG lines buzzed in on either side, like the lines on a heart monitor.
Like everyone else at Crescent Prep, he was sent away for failing to comply with his parents' wishes. I don't know much about the Farrars, other than that they own a series of superstores similar to Wal-Mart, with an online shipping business that's up-and-coming. The rumor is that Barron threw a Molotov cocktail through the front window of their flagship store during a drunken bender mid-freshman year. That's when he showed up at Crescent Prep, climbing from the back of a white limo with a red lollipop between his lips, sketchbook tucked under his arm.
Raz, Calix, and Sonja took him in right away, and within just a few weeks, he was one of them. A part of the fucking Knight Crew.
“It is Devils' Day,” he agrees, biting my lower lip and sucking it in between his teeth. “But I also don't want a baby, do you?”
“I've got that taken care of,” I lie, rocking my own hips up and against his pelvis, encouraging him to keep up the not-so-dry-humping we've got going on. “And I'm clean.”
“You've only slept with Calix?” Barron guesses, not entirely inaccurately. If this had been the real Devils' Day, the first one in this never-ending timeline, that'd be true. Technically, I only slept with Raz in a dream, right? I nod my head and Barron chuckles. “He got tested twice after that, neurotic fuck. So you should be good.”
“And you?” I ask, wondering how he knows about that, and why Calix got tested twice. Was he concerned that I'd given him something? He knew I was a fucking virgin. Also, apparently a big mouth. It's quite clear he kept almost nothing about our encounter a secret. Not that it matters, considering there's a video floating around out there now, too.
“Me?” he asks, his eyes bright as he lifts the red leather devil's mask up and then off of his head entirely, tossing it aside. Baring himself to me. He looks tough, but I imagine his true feelings, the ones he keeps so carefully locked away, are as fragile as the wings of those dead butterflies. It’d be so easy to grind them into the dirt beneath my feet, but he’s lucky: I’m not like him, and I’d never do that. “My parents make me get tested every six months, whether I like it or not, whether I've had sex or not. But are you really going to trust me when I say that?”
Devils' Day Party: A High School Bully Romance Page 21
