Punk 57

by Penelope Douglas

  I don’t wait to be dismissed. I shoot Trey one last scowl and walk away, the crowd of students clearing as I head to my truck. I dig my keys out of my pocket and yank open the door, climbing in.

  This isn’t over.

  Ryen climbs in the passenger side, dropping her bag on the floor, and I can feel her eyes on me.

  I bite my tongue, too fucking angry to deal with her right now.

  I start the engine and lay on the horn, barely waiting for the nosy little shits to move their fucking asses before I step on the gas. Students squeal and rush out of the way as I speed out of the parking lot, putting as much distance as possible between me and everyone there.

  Everyone except Ryen.

  I pull out onto the road while light sprinkles of rain hit the windshield, and I stare at the paint and shit all over my hood, my hands gripping the steering wheel. I’m going to kill him.

  “Here,” Ryen says. “I don’t want this.”

  I’m glaring ahead, but I shoot a glance over, seeing her hold up Annie’s blue scarf. She must’ve seen it in her Jeep before the fight happened.

  “Just take it,” I bite out. “It was a dick move, ruining yours. I owed you.”

  “I don’t want it,” she insists and tosses it at me. “Another girl’s perfume is on it, so you should let your skank know she left it in your backseat.”

  I shake my head.

  Bitch.

  I take the scarf and stuff it in the center console. “Fine,” I grit out.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her. To let her know that it was my sister’s and somehow I liked the idea of Ryen having a part of her and what a dumb idea that was, because why would I want a vile brat like her to put her hands on anything that belonged to Annie?

  But I would never show her weakness. I never want her pity.

  I take a left on Whitney and drive down the road, sparsely populated with a few gas stations and trees, and pull into a self-service car wash, parking in one of the empty bays.

  Actually, they’re all empty, since it’s raining. The light sprinkle has turned heavier now, and the sky looms with dark clouds, rolling on top of each other and sending down a steady shower. The white noise actually feels good. My heart and breathing starts to slow, and I roll up my window and turn off the engine but keep Mudshovel playing on the radio.

  We sit there silently, neither of us moving.

  I look to Ryen. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  I lean back, locking my hands behind my head and relaxing. “You’re the one who fucked up the car.”

  She frowns. “You know I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I reply, amusement lacing my voice. “And it’s real touching and all, you taking the fall for your man, but you’re washing it.”

  Her lips twist in a little snarl as I catch half an eye roll. She pushes open the door, plops down onto the ground, and slams the door shut, heading up to the display on the wall and digging in her pocket. I close my eyes, leaning my head back in my hands, and try to quiet my head.

  I’m suddenly so tired.

  Ever since I can remember, I’ve had others’ voices in my head, trying to tell me what to do. I fought back, stood up for myself, and I’ve been proud of the decisions I’ve made, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t had doubts. My dad and why he can’t love me as much as my sister. The guys at my school who thought it was cooler to play sports and bang five girls a weekend. My mother and how she left when I was two and Annie was one and maybe the reason she left was because she didn’t want us.

  I’m glad I never listened to others’ voices in my head, but…I still hear them. They’re still noisy, and I’m still walking against the wind.

  Don’t change, Ryen wrote in a letter once. There’s no one like you, and I can’t love you if you stop being you. I guess I shouldn’t say that, but I’m a little drunk right now—just came back from a party when I saw your letter—but what the hell? I don’t care. You knew I loved you, right? You’re my best friend.

  So don’t ever change. This is a big ass world, and when we leave our small towns, we’re going to find our tribe. If we don’t stay true to ourselves, how will they recognize us? (Both of us, because you know we’re in the same tribe, right?)

  And even if it’s just the two of us, it will be the best.

  God, I loved her. Whenever my worries or anger got the best of me, she always said just the right thing to put everything in perspective. There were times growing up that I felt aggravated or tortured by her letters, especially when she’d talk about Twilight or how Matt Walst was just as good of a lead singer for Three Days Grace as Adam Gontier—I mean, what the fuck?—but I never felt bad after reading a letter from her.

  Never.

  I hear spray hit the car, and I open my eyes, finding her in front of the truck, blurry through the water she’s shooting onto the windshield.

  Why did she never take the advice she so readily gave me?

  I keep my hands locked behind my head and watch her, moving around the hood and fanning the hose up and down, spraying every inch. I notice some of the paint coming up and running down the truck as she tries to remove as much shit with the hose as possible.

  She then releases the handle, stopping the flow, and drops the gun to the ground. Grabbing the hem of her loose black shirt, she pulls it over her head, revealing a thin white tank top with glimpses of a dark pink bra peeking out from underneath. Heat floods my groin, and I feel it start to swell. Shit.

  She walks to the passenger side door, opens it, and barely glances at me before she tosses her shirt inside and slams the door closed again. Taking the brush with the long handle off the wall, she shuffles her feet, like she’s taking off her sandals, and heads for the front of the truck, stepping up on the bumper.

  I didn’t think of that. She’s probably too short to be able to scrub the middle of the hood if she stands on the ground. Maybe I should help her.

  But I look out the windshield, streaked with water, and see her beautiful body leaning forward over the hood, scrubbing so hard her breasts shake just enough to send me reeling. This was a bad idea.

  And I can’t take my eyes off her. Her tanned thighs bob against the grill as her tank top rises up with the exertion, and I can see inches of toned stomach, her hair hanging around her and her chest in perfect view. My cock starts to grow hard, and I want her in here, not out there. I want her straddling my lap, close and in my hands.

  She jumps down and rounds the car to my side, stepping up again, this time on the tire. Leaning into the hood, right in front of me, she scrubs the paint off, the small muscles in her arms flexing and her scowl getting deeper the harder she works. My eyes flash to her stomach again, and my hands are begging to touch her skin there.

  What a double-edged sword. Am I angry she’s a fake, weak-assed, little liar? Yes. But am I happy she’s also got the body of a porn star? Hell yes. She doesn’t have to talk for me to look.

  All of a sudden I see her turn her head, and I meet her eyes, hers looking like she wants to kick me in the nuts. She flips me a middle finger, seeing me watching her, and I start laughing to myself.

  Trey is nearly forgotten. For the moment.

  She hops down and takes the brush back to the wall, and then she picks the hose up off the ground again. Spraying the truck, she washes away all of the paint, the white-tinted water spilling off the hood and onto the ground. I close my eyes again, enjoying the sound of the rain and the water covering the truck.

  But something cold and wet suddenly hits my face, and I jerk, opening my eyes. Ryen stands on the passenger side, spraying the side of the truck and hitting the inch-wide slit in the window left open on the passenger side door.

  Dammit!

  She fans the hose, spraying more, and I growl as water splatters all over the inside of the cab and the leather seats.

  “Shit!” I yell, opening my door and jumping out. “Knock it off!”

  My black T-shirt is damp, and I
round the truck, glaring at her. She casually sprays the hood of the car, pretending to whistle. “What? What did I do?”

  “Give me the hose.” I hold out my hand.

  She shrugs, feigning innocence. “I didn’t know the window was down. Water can be dried. Relax.”

  I stalk toward her, because she’s the one with the weapon. “Give me…the hose.”

  She purses her lips, clearly trying to hide a smile. “Come and get it.”

  I inch toward her, knowing she’s going to spray me, but maybe if I’m quick I can—

  All of a sudden, she swings the gun toward me and sprays, the cold water hitting my arms, hands, and making my shirt stick to my chest.

  I growl, lunging for her, and she squeals, throwing the gun at me and yanking open the back door. I pick up the gun from where it dropped and swing around the door, seeing her lying on the back seat, her head arched up, breathing hard, and holding out her hands in defense as she watches me.

  She licks her lips, out of breath with a hint of a smile. “Don’t, please,” she begs. “I’m sorry.”

  Her body shakes with a silent, nervous laugh, but I can’t move. The sight of her there on the seat, her breasts rising and falling and her thighs slightly spread with one foot on the floor and the other leg arched up, sends my body reeling.

  Jesus.

  Sweat—or water, I’m not sure—glistens across her chest, and a blush covers her cheeks.

  I step up and set the hose, still locked on, onto the roof. The water spills in a wide, steady stream down the front windshield.

  I hold her eyes. “You got me wet,” I point out. “Fair’s fair.”

  Her breathing falters, and she stares at me, frozen. Will she run away?

  I lean down, bowing my head into the cab and hovering over her body, holding myself up with my hands. Her eyes flash to the windshield; she’s probably nervous we can be seen. But the water distorts the view, creating a blur.

  She arches up on her hands, meeting me halfway as her hot, little breaths fan across my lips. Her eyes fall to my mouth.

  “What does it feel like?” she asks quietly, reaching a timid finger out and touching my lip piercing.

  I groan, challenging her. “You tell me.”

  She locks eyes with me as if scared, but then her gaze falls again to the piercing. Opening her mouth just slightly, she darts out her tongue and flicks the ring.

  I groan again, unable to keep my eyes from falling shut. The wet heat from that small spot filters across my face, down my neck, and swoops low in my stomach, making my fingers dig into the leather seats.

  Her breath hits my skin again, and I open my eyes to see hers watching me intently as she goes back for more. Her tongue slowly traces a trail over the ring before she darts out and bites my lip around it, pulling the whole thing in her mouth.

  My skin burns and tingles everywhere, and I nearly lose the fucking strength to hold myself up. Her eyes stay open, watching me pant and groan at everything she’s doing. She sucks and bites and licks and tugs as I just hover there, not moving and not kissing back as I let her explore.

  A horn honks, but I barely register it.

  “Masen,” she whispers, running her lips over the ring, again and again, and snaking a hand around the back of my neck.

  Masen.

  I reach out and splay a hand across her stomach, finally taking her in my hands. I want her to say my name, dammit. I want to hear my name from her lips right now.

  “Yo, idiot!” A car horn honks again, and I blink, realizing someone is here. “Where’s my girl at?”

  Oh, shit.

  Ryen pulls away, hearing Trey’s voice, too, and stares up at me, a hint of fear in her eyes.

  I glance out the window, seeing the blue blur of his Camaro sitting in front of the bay. I can’t see him, though, so he can’t see us through the water. If he could, I’m sure I would’ve felt him before I saw him.

  I look down at Ryen, still feeling the desire roll off her.

  “She’s right here, Burrowes.” My voice is low so only Ryen can hear me as I run my hand across her stomach. “And she feels really good.”

  Ryen bites her bottom lip and shakes her head, pleading.

  “Hello! Wake up, asshole!” Trey barks again.

  I stare down at Ryen. “Are you wet now?” And I climb off her and out of the truck, shooting her a smirk. “Stay down.”

  Slamming the door closed, I see Trey sitting in his car with his window down. The rain is still pouring and the clouds have grown darker.

  I grab the hose and shut it off, hanging it up. “She bailed,” I bark. “Walked home. Now fuck off.”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, man. You can have her all you want after our baseball game against Thunder Bay next week. I like a little pussy after I win, so until then, you wait your turn.”

  What the fuck did he just say? I watch as he speeds off and disappears down the road, curling my fists.

  I will not wait my turn.

  He can’t have her.

  I lick my lips, feeling the warm metal graze my tongue.

  Misha.

  But then I blink awake, my room coming into view and the fog in my head slowly clearing. Misha? I was kissing Masen in my dream. Why did I call him Misha?

  Damn. I take my pillow out from under my head and cover my face with it. I’m a mess. I’d fantasized about Misha before, in one of my kinky alternate realities where he writes me dirty letters and finally sneaks into my room, and that’s the first time I meet him, when he’s sliding into me.

  But he never has a face. I always got the impression he was tall and dark, though, but I never knew for sure. I guess after everything last night, and how this new guy is in my head now, my brain made a connection.

  My fantasies finally found Misha a face.

  Taking the pillow off my head, I drop it to the side, yesterday’s events playing in my mind. I bring up my hand, twisting it around to see the remnants of his Sharpie on the inside of my finger. I glance at my chalk wall ahead and see where I added Shame to the bottom of the list.

  Alone

  Empty

  Fraud

  Shame

  The words hurt, but last night I realized something. There’s more I’m not seeing. The first word, Alone, was written in his bunk at the Cove. That’s not about me. It has to do with something else. These words mean something else.

  And then the car and the fight… I’d walked out to the parking lot after school, immediately spotting Masen putting something in my Jeep. I’d charged down the steps, ready to tell him off, especially after what he did to my scarf, but when I saw what was sitting on the seat of my car I paused.

  Of course it was tacky to give me another woman’s scarf, but I was a little thrown off that he would feel guilty enough to want to make up for it in the first place. It was beautiful and soft and I wanted to keep it.

  And then the car wash. How excited I felt when he stalked me like I was prey. How the smooth curve of the piercing felt when I slipped the tip of my tongue through the hoop. How he was so patient and not greedy or selfish, just letting me explore.

  How his hand inched possessively up under my shirt, sending me reeling.

  I bring my fingers up to my mouth, grazing the tip of one with my tongue. It tickles a little, but it’s teasing, too. Did he like it when I did that? I wanted to feel good to him, even if I only admit it to myself.

  I trail my hand across my cheek and down my neck, wishing it was his hands. Wishing I could go back to last night and not cut him off, making him take me back to school, so I could get my car and run away.

  But the truth is…I’m starting to think about him. A lot, and I don’t know why. Especially when he’s constantly in my face, telling me what I’m doing wrong.

  I’ve never been in danger of losing my heart to guys like Trey, but with Masen, I find him consuming my attention. I’m always aware of him.

  And the closer I get to him, the further away
from Misha I feel. It almost feels like I’m betraying him. Not that we’re romantic, but he has my heart, and I don’t want to give it to anyone else. I feel like Masen threatens that.

  I said I would give Misha a few days, but I need to know. Is he safe? Is he alive? Has he just moved on?

  Pulling off the covers, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I look at the clock and see that it’s after nine.

  It’s Saturday. I have the whole day free. I could just drive by.

  Not like an obsessive stalker girl who just can’t take a hint. No, I can just drive by. Make sure the house hasn’t burned down or isn’t empty, because his father committed some gruesome murder and left town, on the run, with Misha and his sister in the middle of the night.

  Who knows? Maybe I’ll see a young guy pulling into the driveway and entering the house, and I’ll be able to tell that it’s him, and then I’ll know that he’s alive and well. I don’t have to have any more answers than that, do I?

  Standing up, I throw on a pair of workout shorts, a T-shirt, and a fleece jacket. Pulling my hair up into a messy ponytail, I’m not going to worry about how I look. If I go shower and fix my hair and make-up, I’ll be tempted to knock on his door. If I look like shit, then I won’t leave my car.

  After I brush my teeth, I jog down the stairs and swing around the bannister, heading into the kitchen.

  “Morning,” my mom says.

  I look up to see her and Carson sitting at the table, looking through a magazine together. Probably some home renovation thing, because Mom wants to expand the garage. I open the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of water. “Morning,” I reply.

  “The principal called last night,” my sister’s voice rings out.

  I falter, slowly closing the fridge door and not looking at her. Shit. That’s right.

  Did she tell them about what I did to Masen’s truck? Or what I told her I did?

  Dammit!

  But no. My mom would’ve reamed me last night when I got home. She wouldn’t have waited until this morning.

  Plus, I doubt the principal really believed me, but there was little she could do.