Summer Skin

by Kirsty Eagar

  ‘Full time. All of last year.’

  ‘You weren’t here?’ It tallied with what Diamond Girl had said, Jess realised. What’s it been? A year? And it was firm confirmation that he’d had nothing to do with the sweep. She sat on her bed, waiting for him to say more. He didn’t, flicking through the rest of the hangers. ‘Where’d you work?’ she asked.

  ‘Sugar mill.’

  ‘Why?’

  Blondie ignored her, peering into the wardrobe at the floor space beside her dresser, the part where she kept her shoes. Then he pushed the slatted doors across to reveal her fridge. It opened with a smacking sound, the glasses inside clinking together.

  He glanced at her, eyebrows raised. ‘You keep T-shirts in your fridge?’

  ‘Only when it’s hot.’ There were bras in there, too, and Jess was mildly disappointed that he didn’t comment on it. ‘You said you weren’t a fresher. Does that mean you took a year off?’

  Blondie poured a hefty slug of rum into one of the cold glasses. ‘Ice?’

  ‘Yes, please. Wait. Aren’t you having one?’

  He screwed the lid closed and returned the bottle to the fridge. ‘I haven’t had a drink in over a year, and even if I was drinking, I wouldn’t drink rum. Can’t stand the stink of it.’

  ‘Sugar mill, hates the smell of rum … You’re not from Bundaberg, by any chance?’

  Blondie dropped a handful of ice into the glass, then looked at Jess. ‘On second thoughts, let’s not get to know each other. How about that?’

  He was so cold. Jess felt off-balance, intimidated. It occurred to her that he’d probably just leave when he couldn’t find the jersey, and she also realised it might be a good thing. She was starting to doubt herself.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, turning away so he couldn’t see the look on her face, pressing keys on her laptop. Jackie Onassis started faintly, then the brass kicked in and Jess jumped, hastily turning it down.

  ‘Tell me you don’t really like that shit,’ Blondie said, slamming the fridge closed.

  ‘I’m playing it, aren’t I?’

  He moved to the desk, topping up the glass with Coke. ‘Yeah, but you like City Calm Down.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I can’t like Aussie hip hop. I might have democratic tastes.’

  ‘Yeah, and you might also have a pair of cowboy boots, hardly worn, a pair of Doc Martens, hardly worn, and a pair of stripper-stacks, hardly worn. Adidas high tops and Asics running shoes. In other words, you don’t know who the fuck you are, or what the fuck you like. My guess is you play that in an attempt at irony. That’s part of the whole Unity deal, isn’t it? And being different … along with all the other people being different.’ He handed Jess her drink, looking down on her.

  Jess blinked, stung by the attack. ‘Yeah, that’s the Unity thing,’ she told him, placing the glass on the floor. ‘You’re probably also threatened by the fact that the guys here can cope with women in contexts other than porn. Not like a bunch of little lords who hate women because they secretly prefer getting hot and sweaty with each other under the guise of chasing a leather ball around a field.’ Jess tightened her ponytail. ‘Killer.’

  ‘Pitch.’

  Jess, mishearing him, fired up. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘It’s called a pitch.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  ‘Oh, that’s ladylike.’

  The sneer in his voice. As though she wasn’t worth even a pretence at courtesy. It hurt. Jess dropped her gaze, reaching for her drink, the fizzing Coke burning her nose and making her eyes water.

  ‘You forgot to say that a lot of your friends are guys,’ he said after a moment, still standing over her.

  ‘A lot of my friends are guys,’ Jess said, sliding out from under him. She stood at the desk, emptying her pockets—not just the loose change and her Zippo, but also the cable ties. She wasn’t up to this. Her eyes were still watering.

  ‘They’re not your friends. They’re just guys who wouldn’t mind doing you, and they’ve worked out that familiarity gives them an advantage.’

  Jess flicked her Zippo on and stared at the flame. ‘You’re telling me this because a lot of your friends are girls?’

  ‘None of my friends are girls.’

  She snapped the Zippo shut. ‘And that’s a good thing, is it?’

  ‘At least I’m honest.’

  As Jess turned to face him, he made a motion with his hand, obviously expecting her to resume hostilities. But there was a flicker of confusion on his face when he noticed her eyes.

  ‘Well, what do you want me to say?’ she said in a dangerously quiet voice, her cheeks burning. ‘You don’t even know me, but you hate me anyway. Because I’m a girl. And I can think that you probably hate a lot of things, but that doesn’t make me feel better. You have humiliated me by laughing at me when I thought you were going to kiss me, you have insulted my taste in music, and, somehow, my taste in shoes. I’m not only unladylike, I don’t know who I am, and you’ve also gone to the trouble of assuring me that none of my male friends respect me either. Basically, you have made me feel the opposite of special in every possible way. But guess what? You’re too late. Because somebody’s already done that.’

  There didn’t seem to be any oxygen in the room. All Jess could see were unblinking blue eyes. When she couldn’t bear it anymore, she groaned, covering her face with her hands. ‘We’re done. Just go.’

  ‘Jersey.’ His voice was completely different.

  ‘Please,’ Jess said into her hands.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, all right?’

  ‘Whatever. And don’t worry, I’m not weepy. It’s just been a pretty full-on night, what with Brendan, and you, and all the drinking, and all the other nights.’

  His hands closed on her wrists, as if he was about to uncover her face, and Jess knocked them aside before he could do it, squinting at a spot just to the right of him.

  ‘Hey. Jersey.’ He leaned forwards, trying to get her to look at him. ‘Sorry.’ The word sounded just as rusty the second time around.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Jess blinked several times, and then focused on him as the thought occurred to her. ‘But I genuinely do like Aussie hip hop, so you can go suck it on that one.’

  He nearly smiled, but squashed it.

  ‘Go,’ she told him, pointing at the door.

  ‘I would …’ Blondie sat down in the study chair, his long legs trapping her between him and the desk, ‘but now I don’t want to.’

  ‘Well, you should, because there’s nothing for you here. You won’t find the jersey, and you won’t win the sweep. I might have been going to kiss you, but I would never sleep with you. Not in a million years.’

  ‘That’s all right. I wouldn’t sleep with you either.’ It should have been an insult, but something about the way he said it meant it wasn’t. He leaned back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head, exposing tufts of fine, golden hair, still holding her hostage.

  ‘Honestly, I’m too tired for this shit.’ As Jess said it, she felt it. ‘Exhausted. Do you know I’ve been out every night for the last six nights?’

  ‘You’re a legend.’

  ‘That’s what I was aiming for. Legend status.’

  He smiled, squeezing her with his thighs. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘No.’ Jess paused, overcome by a yawn. ‘And you should go.’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re not what I expected, Jersey.’

  ‘What’d you expect?’

  ‘You know. Just a chick.’ Jess’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. ‘Oh, come on. It’s a compliment.’

  ‘Right,’ Jess said. They stayed like that, her trapped between his legs, and if Jess’s face was thoughtful while she studied him, Blondie seemed perfectly comfortable with the scrutiny. ‘Okay,’ she said eventually, and he eased the squeeze just enough for her to perch on one of his thighs. ‘Now what?’ she asked, looking sideways at him.

  ‘Now
…’ He repositioned her so that she faced forwards, straddling him, one arm hooked across her waist like a seatbelt. ‘I make it up to you. Give you a massage.’

  Jess giggled, in spite of herself. ‘Oh, wow, you’ve got all the moves.’

  His free hand closed on her shoulder, starting to knead the muscles there with a quiet assurance, and she grew still, wary. He paused long enough to push her ponytail out of the way, and resumed using both hands, and Jess realised, surprised, that he genuinely intended to give her a massage. When that sank in, she leaned forwards, resting her forehead on her folded arms on the desk, surrendering until further notice; yielding. She wasn’t stupid. She knew it was probably the next stage in a strategy: flirt, flay, soothe and lay. But it felt so good she’d take it anyway.

  Besides, it would have been hard to knock back something so unprecedented. She’d never been touched like that before. Her high school hook-ups had been furtive territory wars, with the exception of a sweetly sincere boyfriend at the start of Year 12 who’d done nothing but kiss her for months—eventually scoring the jackpot one day, just because she was so bored. And with Brendan, touching had been passed over entirely in favour of elaborate, competitive sex; the two of them moving through a series of strangely sterile positions, more posed than felt. If high school was all about whether or not you’d give it up, uni seemed to be about nothing but giving it up. Suddenly, inexplicably, the rules changed, and—bam—you were Adult-with-a-capital-A. There was no means to the end, there was just the end, just sex, and you pretended to keep up. Sometimes Jess had felt it, the flaring of her own appetite, but she’d rarely let herself go. Too busy performing.

  She remembered something: Brendan slapping her arse, right in the middle of things. Her mouth filled with spit. Out of all they’d done, that (relatively minor) act needled her still. Because he hadn’t asked. Because she’d been reduced to a prop, while he pretended to be something he’d seen. She should have slapped him back. No. She should have laughed her head off.

  ‘It’s just a massage,’ Blondie said, and Jess realised her fists were clenched.

  She exhaled, trying to leave her head and return to her body. Slowly, under the firm, continual pressure of Blondie’s hands, she did it. Anger, resentment, a biting sense of the ridiculous—it all faded. A lot of things faded. Even the awareness that she was being massaged.

  Until her head was finally, blessedly, empty.

  CHAPTER 8

  YOU CAN BE THE BOSS

  Eventually, though, something pulled Jess out of her pleasure coma. It wasn’t that her playlist had finished. Or that the storm had arrived and was close to breaking, thunder reverberating through the air. No, what made Jess resurface was a change in pressure of a different kind: Blondie’s hands were softer, slower, more thoughtful, somehow. Then he wasn’t massaging her at all, but rather stroking her flesh with his fingertips. Her one-piece was low-backed and he drew patterns all over her skin, sometimes dipping below the gaping waistband of her denim cut-offs in a way that was delicious, but also only just bearable. Soon he was stroking the skin under her arms, the sides of her breasts, circling her armpits … Areas so sensitive that Jess couldn’t help it: she squirmed.

  And he stopped.

  Jess waited, breath held, hoping he’d keep going. But he didn’t, resting his palms on her shoulders where they’d begun. She shifted, turning her head to the side as though listening, and her gaze came to rest on a small group of objects she’d laid out in preparation for the night. Hair dye. A razor. Shaving cream. More cable ties. They looked like pieces in a game of chess.

  The words were so low she hardly heard them, scraped from the back of his throat: ‘Can I touch you?’

  Hot white light flashed in the room, and the thunder accompanying it was so loud and so close that Jess jumped, wondering if the sky had cracked apart. Next came the first few drops of rain, the gin smell of it wafting through the window.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I got a fright.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ His voice, like hers, jarred.

  ‘My heart’s beating so fast.’

  His hand snaked around her body and pressed against her chest. ‘I can feel it.’

  Jess cringed. But then the rain came down hard, drowning out their sudden awkwardness. Blondie slid an arm beneath her legs as though he was about to carry her off, and turned her sideways across his lap, so that her knees were hooked over the armrest. Jess pressed her flushed face to his neck. She’d known it would go this way—was counting on it, in fact—but things seemed confusingly real. The beat of his pulse against her lips: a rapid, hot rush. He felt it, too.

  Blondie tugged on her ponytail, pulling her out of hiding. She thought he was about to kiss her, but he said, ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘I’m not going to sleep with you.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked. I just want to touch you.’

  After a moment, Jess nodded. She was turned on. It was that simple, and that complicated. Blondie reached for the zip on her one-piece, and she watched the shiny purple fabric split apart to reveal vulnerable white skin. Her nipples were hard, visible through the material. His hand slid inside, and as he cupped and squeezed her he started to breathe through his mouth. Then he was tugging at the straps, pulling them over her arms so that she was bare-chested, sitting on his knee like a lap dancer. For a moment he held her away from him, staring at her body. He said, ‘Oh, that’s beautiful,’ as though he was talking to someone else.

  Then he leaned over, grabbing the unopened can of Coke from the desk.

  Jess grabbed at his wrist. ‘No!’ Half-laughing.

  ‘You taught me.’ Blondie held the can there, just out from her breast, until she looked at him. And when she did, his eyes were so intense that she released his wrist. She gasped when he pressed the can to her nipples, first one and then the other, but then he replaced it with his mouth, sucking each nipple in turn, his hands supporting her, and Jess closed her eyes, her breath catching. She arched her back.

  ‘You like that?’ he asked, but it wasn’t a question, because he knew. He started to suck again, his mouth more insistent now, his stubble scratching her skin, and she wrapped her arms around his head, her fingers grasping his hair. As his mouth drew her in, she felt it all the way down below: a tugging sensation.

  Then Blondie stopped abruptly, repositioning her again so she was facing forwards and leaning back against his chest, and she could feel his erection pressing against her as he unbuttoned her cut-offs.

  Jess’s hands clamped down on his.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he told her. ‘Nothing’s going to happen.’

  ‘Liar.’ Jess shifted against him. ‘You’re hard.’

  In answer, he pushed a hand down the front of her swimmers and gripped her crotch. ‘And you’re wet.’

  It was sudden and shocking and Jess gasped, knocking his hand away. ‘God, you’re such an arsehole.’

  ‘It’s true, though, isn’t it?’ he asked in a mocking voice. ‘Admit it. You’re wet. Wet as.’

  Jess hurriedly pulled the straps of her one-piece back on, zipping it up. ‘Would you stop saying that? Anyway, so what? It doesn’t mean anything.’ Jess went to stand, but Blondie grabbed her hips, holding her there.

  ‘Well neither does the fact I’m hard. You’re not irresistible. I told you before, it’s not even on offer. We’re just mucking around.’ He wrapped his arms around her, and Jess could feel his breath on her cheek. ‘But that’s all right, isn’t it? You don’t want anything more than that anyway, do you?’

  Jess shook her head, her face flaming. Her gaze fixed again on the little zoo of objects on her desk. Blondie was too busy enjoying himself to notice. His mistake.

  As suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped. But what followed wasn’t stillness. There were voices, a slamming noise, shouting, some giggling right outside the door, and then Lana del Rey—old stuff from before she got famous, played loud.

  ‘The others are ba
ck,’ Jess said, feeling the need to explain the obvious.

  ‘We’ll be quiet,’ Blondie said, as though she’d asked a question. ‘Come over on the bed. I swear, no sex.’ He went to stand, one arm around her waist, but Jess gripped the edge of the desk.

  ‘Not yet. I’m embarrassed, okay? I can’t even look at you.’

  Blondie stopped moving, saying nothing, but Jess knew he’d like her feeling like that. He’d try to exploit it somehow. She was counting on it.

  A slow minute passed. When he spoke again, his voice was completely different. Harder. ‘Take these off then.’ He tugged at her cut-offs.

  ‘On one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You can’t touch me unless I say so,’ Jess said, placing his hands on the armrests.

  ‘You’d better get off me then.’

  Jess climbed off his lap and turned to face him, leaning against the desk. She let her cut-offs fall to the floor.

  ‘Take your hair out, too.’ A command, not a request.

  ‘What’s the magic word?’

  ‘Fuck,’ he said, drawing the word out. ‘But we’re not doing that.’

  Jess said nothing, just pulled the hairband from her ponytail and shook her hair loose.

  ‘Turn around.’

  ‘No touching?’

  He gripped the arm rests. ‘No touching.’ So Jess turned around for him. ‘Bend over.’ Jess did, resting her elbows on the desk, hearing him suck air through his teeth. ‘For the record?’ he said, his voice rough. ‘If I was going to do you, it’d be like that. Over the desk.’

  There were a number of things Jess would have liked to have said to that. Instead, she swapped her hairband for two of the cable ties, tucking them into the front of her one-piece.

  This time, she gave the instruction. ‘Now you take your shorts off.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’ he asked.

  ‘Because you want to see me on my knees.’

  There was a coughing noise. ‘I didn’t think you were that kind of girl, Jersey.’

  ‘What kind of girl is that?’