STRIPPED

by Brooklyn Skye

  The largest dorm on campus, Merriam Hall towers in the distance. According to Dad, it costs a fortune to room in the only building where students bunk solo. Apparently, it’s also the building members of celebrity and political families stay.

  My heart thumps harder when I spot the entrance and I tell it the same as when I climbed in Torrin’s car: going back to his dorm means nothing more than getting dry. Obviously, he’s just being nice.

  I finally nod. “I thought you only had one sister in Ohio.”

  Torrin adjusts his damp shirt, tugging at the hem. “I don’t really go flaunting to people that my mom had a child from an affair, you know? It’s kind of embarrassing.”

  I know the feeling: the burden a parent’s decision can have.

  “Does Lindsey live around here?”

  “Yep. Works at the Crab Shack down on the boardwalk and on the weekends she supervises high school kids at boarding schools. Johnson. Marimont. Any school within a twenty-mile radius from here. Basically, she sits around to make sure kids don’t have sex with each other. It’s a pretty lame job.”

  “Two jobs?” On top of R.A. at Loyola?

  He nods, twisting a set of keys around his finger. “It’s the only way she can support herself.”

  “Your parents won’t help her out? But they’re, like, rich.”

  “My dad’s never accepted her. Justifiably. Lindsey looks nothing like my mom, which constantly reminds him who her father is.” He looks down at me. “Do you know who Richard Harold is?”

  “The late night talk show host? That’s Lindsey’s dad?”

  “A few months after I was born, my mom came out to L.A. to audition for a commercial. It was shot on the same lot as his. Wasn’t hard for my dad to figure out nine months later when Lindsey popped out with dark hair and dimples just like him, what had happened. I guess he’d been suspecting something.”

  “So why doesn’t Lindsey ask him for help? He’s mega-rich.”

  “He denies the affair ever happened. Besides, Lindsey wouldn’t go after him for his money. She’s not really superficial like that.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “My mom’s relationship with Lindsey is off and on. Having her around used to put a lot of tension on my parents. If they wouldn’t have split over this other thing, the Existence of Lindsey would’ve done it eventually.” We reach Merriam Hall. He swipes his ID card. The door swings open and I step in front of him.

  “I’m sorry I said you didn’t know what it was like to have issues in your family before.” I force my eyes to lift to his. Uncomfortable or not, he needs to know I’m serious. “Sounds like you’ve got plenty.”

  “Don’t sweat it.”

  Past a row of metal mailboxes, up two flights of stairs and down a long hallway, Torrin’s dorm room is nothing what I expect. A bed too big for the room sits beneath the window with a chunky wooden desk to its right. Against the adjacent wall stands a small fridge with a microwave on top of it and a coffee pot on top of that. The walls are lined completely with photographs, all different sizes and in mismatched frames. Nature, architecture, body parts—including a clump of dreadlocked hair—scatter amongst more pictures of sunrises, signs of all kinds, and broken down fences.

  I stand in front of a large photo of a bird’s pinkish-colored, webbed feet in the sand.

  “A seagull,” Torrin says from behind me. Leaning over my shoulder, he points to one of the feet. “I think it was injured. See how it’s not putting weight on this foot?”

  I nod. “Did you take all these?”

  Shrugging out of his damp shirt, he then throws it over the wooden desk chair. I try to look him in the eyes, but his bare chest and the lines of muscle trailing down to his waistline pulls them down over and over again.

  “Every one,” he says, a ghost of a smile on his lips then paces to the closet and grabs two shirts. One he puts on, the other, a recognizable blue long-sleeved thermal, he hands to me.

  “Thanks.” I slide off my flannel and even though the tank top beneath is still clammy, I leave it on, slipping the thermal over it. Right away, the smell hits me. Jarring as a bucket of water in the face. His smell.

  My heart starts to beat faster and I begin to feel like I can’t breathe. Only I can breathe because I can still smell his smell, but my lungs are starting to—

  Get a grip, Quinn. You can breathe. You. Can. Breathe.

  “Is there a theme?” I manage. In, out. He doesn’t notice. I stare at the picture again.

  “Imperfection,” he says without hesitation. “Each one, if you look closely, has a flaw. Like the bird. For some reason he couldn’t stand on both feet. Whether he was injured, or maybe impatiently searching for food, shifting back and forth. Or if you look at the one of Lindsey’s hair, you can see a tiny leaf stuck between the dreads.” He chuckles as if he’s remembering that day. I have to lean in close and scan like I’m searching for Waldo in a striped shirt. It takes a minute, but sure enough I find it. A dried-up leaf tangled in Lindsey’s tangles.

  “And this one…” He points to a smaller framed photo of someone’s mouth. “…is my mom. She doesn’t realize it, but when she’s concentrating on something, like paying bills or figuring out a recipe, she chews on the inside of her lip. See how it’s dented in at the corner?”

  He takes my flannel from me and drapes it beside his shirt on the chair. I fold my arms and cup my chin in my hand.

  “So you surround yourself with imperfection to make you feel better?”

  He scowls playfully. “Because I’m so conceited?”

  “You said it, not me.”

  He slips out of his wet shoes and sets them by the door.

  “Realism. These pictures remind me something can have a flaw and still be beautiful.” He takes the towel hanging on the back of his door and wraps it around his waist then his shorts fall out from underneath. I turn and face the wall, realizing what he’s doing and that I should give him privacy.

  “That’s pretty deep.” In the reflection of the glass, I can see Torrin grab a pair of jeans from the bed and slide them on under the towel. Screw privacy. He buttons them then hangs the towel back on the door.

  “People cope in different ways, right?” He takes the space beside me. “Do you want some dry pants? I might have some old sweats.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Unexpectedly, the back of his fingers brush against my thigh.

  “Quinn, your jeans are still soaked. You’re going to get sick if you keep them on.”

  “That’s an old wives’ tale,” I say, facing him. His hand is still touching my leg. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I set my hand on his stomach. My chest is burning; a feeling I’ve never had before. Or maybe it’s been here all along. “People don’t really get sick from being wet.”

  By the stiffness of Torrin’s arm, the crease on his forehead, I can tell he’s weighing his options: take another chance with me or don’t. Stay or move on. Uncertainty won’t go unnoticed to someone like me, who’s been wavering since the moment I met him.

  The pause is one second too long. I pull my hand away. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t…know?”

  “I’m sorry.” I tug at my shirt. “My head’s just…like, really messed up. And I know you deserve better than m—”

  He presses his lips against mine.

  My lips are dead. Cold and lifeless. He brings his palm to my cheek and I feel a cage appear in my head. It traps me with my thoughts so all I can do is think about how cold and lifeless my lips really are. I want to ask Torrin if he can feel it too.

  His hand moves to my hair and his mouth lingers on mine, pressing gently again and again and my lips start to defrost and the feeling is jarring because I haven’t had feeling in my lips since that day in front of Sal’s—

  I pull away, and at the same time my mind does a complete one-eighty. I don’t want this to stop and I almost bring my hands to his waist, to pull him close to me again, but then I do
n’t because I think my chance is really gone.

  I don’t know what to say.

  “I—”

  He kisses me again. And this time I do feel his lips. How warm they are. How they suspend for the tiniest moment over the corner of my mouth before centering again. How that tiny moment reminds me of all the other tiny moments we’ve shared and that makes this kiss enormously different than the first one, like all those tiny moments added up together mean something.

  His fingers drift down my sides and he starts to guide me backwards. My legs bump the edge of his mattress and I sit down. He kneels in front of me.

  “Torrin.”

  “Quinn,” his low voice says.

  My stomach’s a little spongy—like Mom’s disgusting tofu. I take a breath and let it out. Here goes nothing.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He smirks.

  “Consider me warned.”

  My fingers dance across his cheek and I pull his face close. His hand slides beneath my shirt, replacing the dampness of the tank top with the heat of his skin. Fingers hesitate on my stomach for a moment, or two, three then skim lightly to my back and under my bra.

  A fiery explosion bursts inside me and then my hands are all over him and his all over me and it’s sweet and gentle and even though he’s wasting all this attention on me, the tingling in my body is making it impossible to want to stop. I tug at the hem of his shirt. His arm draws back, sweeping off his shirt in one quick motion.

  He climbs onto the bed beside me, his jeans riding delectably low. I snap the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs which makes him laugh. His lips skim across my jaw, down my neck, leaving a trail of hot skin-tremors.

  I reach for the button on my jeans, slide it free. The zipper crawls down one tooth at a time, pins and needles jolting me from inside. He lifts my shirt and kisses my stomach then attempts to peel off my jeans. It isn’t easy. They’re still wet and clinging to my skin like Saran-wrap. I shimmy my legs back and forth, trying to kiss him at the same time.

  After an agonizingly long minute, the jeans come off. His warm hands caress my thighs, a place that’s never before been touched so delicately by a boy.

  “Hold on,” Torrin mumbles against my mouth. He pushes off the bed and heads toward his dresser. My mind is reeling. He’s getting a condom. We’re about to have sex. Sex with someone I actually like. What a concept.

  He digs through the drawer for a moment then returns with a clump of black material. He unfolds it.

  Sweatpants.

  I watch as he slips them over my legs, kissing my knees and then the inside of my thighs which oh God takes my breath away before the bare skin is concealed. My brow falls as he struggles to get the waistband past my butt, yet I smile at the crease of concentration on his forehead as he meticulously pulls the drawstring as tight as it will go and ties a bow.

  “Better?” he eventually asks, returning his body next to mine.

  I tilt my head. “I’m no expert, but I’m fairly certain clothes are supposed to come off before sex.”

  He blinks. “Sex?”

  “Yeah. You know, when a guy and a girl like each other—”

  “Quinn…” Red creeps up into his cheeks. “I haven’t even taken you on a date.”

  I laugh. “Do people even do that?”

  He shrugs. “I do.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” I point to the fridge. “Bust out the tequila and let’s start on those body shots.” He gives me a look. I smooth my hand down the crevice between his pecks and grin as seductively as I know how. “It’s not like we just met.”

  “No.” He leans in and gently kisses the corner of my mouth, tucking a crispy strand of hair behind my ear. “But for someone with commitment issues—” he clears his throat, muttering my name at the same time. “I can’t just sleep with you. That’d be like taking the turkey out of the oven before it’s fully cooked.”

  I make a face. “Are you comparing me to a turkey?”

  “Or a chicken.” He kisses my nose. “Your choice.”

  “My choice?” I lift my chin, lips in front of his, not giving him a chance to answer. “What if I wanted you to kiss me again?” My fingers slip under the waist of his jeans, gently graze across his tightened stomach. He sucks in a breath through his nose, that ghost of a smile returning.

  “Is there an if?”

  In the tiniest of movements, I lean forward, shaking my head. His mouth crushes against mine. Hands cup my face, delicately yet with enough pressure to close the space completely between us. My chest brushes along his and I doubt it feels the same for him because he’s not sitting in a clammy bra and shirt.

  Swiftly, I climb onto his lap, straddle his hips with my legs. His eyes widen and I arch into him, unable to control the way my body insists on inching closer and closer. He groans and moves his lips to my neck, trailing them up to my ear.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he says, his words low and gravelly and clinging to my skin. Fingers slip under the enormous shirt draped over me, crawl beneath the tank top and up my sides. Derek doesn’t touch me like this. No one’s ever touched me like this. And instead of reacting with my perfected quick escape, I peel the thermal shirt from my body. I want his hands to touch more, to be over every inch of my body.

  “Jesus, Quinn. Date,” Torrin mutters, panting. Hands grip my waist. His forehead tips to mine, eyes closed. “Date, date, date.”

  I rest my palms on his heaving chest and whisper, “I’m okay with this being our date.”

  Smiling, he lifts me off his lap and sets me on the bed beside him then stands, running his hands through his hair. “Which is exactly why we can’t do this. No offense, but—” he picks the thermal off the floor, straightens it and pulls it over my head—“you kind of suck at relationships.” Then, with his eyes burning into mine, he kisses me so softly I barely feel it.

  My breath catches.

  He crosses the room and pulls two bottles of water from the fridge, tosses me one and downs half of the other.

  “Saying I suck should make me mad.” It doesn’t, and I’m not sure why that is. I open the water, take a sip.

  “One date, Quinn.” With a smirk, he returns to the bed, but not with a visible space like I expect. Our thighs touch and I fight to not feel how warm his leg is. “That’s all I’m asking for.” From around his neck he removes a stainless steel ball-chain. Two silver dog tags hang from the end. I noticed the necklace from afar earlier down at the harbor. I don’t take the time to read what they say before he lays the necklace over my head, replacing the weight of Zoe’s owl.

  “I’d like to take this slow,” he whispers.

  I almost say something about the necklace and how I don’t want it just because he’s sorry I lost my sister’s, but I’m still buzzing inside. So instead I scoot closer to him and say, “Slow is for pansies.”

  He lifts one eyebrow, biting his lip. “Take it or leave it.”

  I groan.

  His fingers twirl the bow he made with the drawstring. “It’s actually kind of adorable you’re so inept in the realm of relationships.”

  I scowl. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It was nothing less.” He pulls me into his lap. The movement feels so natural, to curl up against his warm chest, and I have to push away the abrupt thought that he’s wasting this niceness on me. He runs his fingers over my tangled hair. His breaths echo in my ear. Rhythmic. Like the distant roar of the ocean.

  In the silence of the room, we watch the shadows of gulls pass by the window. The dog tags hanging from my neck clink. I lift them, scan the words etched into the metal.

  “Who’s Andrew Hastings?”

  Torrin’s fingers cover mine. “My grandfather. These are his from Vietnam.” He points to a series of letters and numbers under the name. “His military ID.”

  I don’t have to ask. By the somber tone of his voice, I know his grandfather isn’t alive anymore. I start to lift the chain over
my head. “You should have these back.”

  His hand gently clutches around my wrist. “Ten minutes.”

  I look up at him, brow crinkled. A wry smile twists his lips.

  “I was secretly betting myself how long you’d be able to keep this on before freaking out. You didn’t even last ten minutes.” That smile makes me want to kiss him again. So I do. Then I realize what he’s said and elbow him halfheartedly in the ribs.

  “I am not freaking out.” I don’t think. I focus on the zing of electricity between our bodies—his half-naked, mine ridiculously clothed. No, definitely not freaking out. “I just…if this is special I don’t want to take it from you.”

  He slides his hand up my arm with a touch as light as a butterfly’s.

  “Keep it, Quinn.”

  I nod, resting my head against his shoulder. “Just think…if we wouldn’t have fallen in the water I may not be here right now.”

  “You fell.” His soft voice ends on a chuckle. “I jumped in after you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Wouldn’t have pinned you as a snorer.”

  Behind my eyelids, the room’s orangey glow tells me it’s sometime in the evening. “Shut up. I do not snore,” I say and pinch the first thing I can find.

  “Ow.”

  I think I have his nipple.

  “Take it back?”

  Torrin laughs. His hand scoops around my stomach, pulls me close to him. “Nope. You hungry?” he says, burying his face into my hair. I take a huge whiff of him. He still smells like the ocean. I could get used to this.

  “Starving,” I say. The burn in my eyes is gone now. The room takes a few seconds to focus. A stack of clothes rests on the bed beside me. I recognize the purple flannel.

  “Fresh as a mountain spring day. Or at least that’s what the bottle said. Get dressed and I’ll take you out.”

  “You washed my clothes? And dried them? How long was I asleep?”

  “Three hours.”

  “Thank God I didn’t take off my underwear.”

  He runs his palm over my hair, gliding his lips dangerously close to mine. “Already saw’em.”

  I resist the urge to pinch him again and bite his lip instead. He returns it with a kiss before nudging me off the bed. I gather my clothes, and just as I turn he catches my wrist, tugs me back down so that I’m lying half on top of him.