by Jay McLean
“Oh,” his brother says. Then he smirks. “Riley, right?”
I nod.
Dylan’s grip on my waist tightens.
His brother asks me, “You still got that mole on the inside of your left thigh?”
“What?” I pant.
“He’s fucking around,” Dylan says from behind me. “Get your shit and leave, E.”
Eric steps forward, his strides short and slow, his eyes staying on us. Dylan moves us as one, turning slightly to follow him across the room.
“I can’t for the life of me remember where I put it,” Eric says, index finger tapping his chin as he slows his steps even more. “Maybe it’s under your bed…” He stops moving.
So do we.
“No.” Finger on chin again. “We cleared that out for your she-male porn.”
“Get the fuck out,” Dylan snaps.
I giggle. Then trap my lips between my teeth when Dylan grunts. He adds, “I didn’t see your car out front. I didn’t know anyone was home.”
Eric smiles, his eyebrow quirked. “Baby brother, you been sneakin’ girls into your room when no one’s home?”
Dylan scoffs. “No. And girl. Singular. And still no.”
“Swear, it’s the first time I’ve been here,” I stammer.
Eric laughs, his head tilting back with the force of it. “Riley, Dylan’s a grown man. He’s allowed to bring girls home.”
Dylan sighs. “Seriously. What do you want?”
Eric’s grin widens. “Your truck.”
“What?”
“You want alone time with your girl? I want your truck. You’ve never let me drive it. Dad even hid the fucking keys while you were gone.”
“Fine,” Dylan huffs, throwing him the keys.
His brother’s face shifts from humor to shock when he looks down at the keys he just caught. “Seriously?”
“Just go!”
Eric shrugs as he pockets the keys. “I might just stay.”
Dylan grunts again.
Apparently Eric finds this funny.
Me? I’m just confused.
Eric says, “Retaliation is a bitch, Dylan. Have I taught you nothing?”
“I might go home,” I tell them.
“No,” they both say at the same time.
Eric’s tone turns serious. “I’m leaving.” He taps Dylan’s shoulder as he passes. “It’s good to see you happy, man.”
I unknowingly hold my breath as I watch him leave, only releasing it when I hear the front door close.
“You’re so cute,” Dylan says through a chuckle.
I face him. “What?”
“You were so scared, like we were busted or something.” He raises the pitch of his voice when he mocks, “Swear it’s the first time I’ve been here.” After I smack his chest, he tries to pretend to be hurt, but he’s too busy laughing. “You do realize we’re adults, Riley? I’ve been allowed to have girls in my room since I was sixteen.”
I stick my tongue out in disgust. “I guess that’s why you were so confident in your attack of me just now.”
He releases a chuckle from deep in his throat, his eyes on the ceiling as he starts to pull down the streamers. “Sorry about that. It’s your fault, though. You shouldn’t look so hot sitting in my truck.” He drops the streamers on the floor—the floor covered in glitter. “You’re lucky Eric walked in when he did. I probably would’ve fucked you against the door.”
“Dylan!”
He laughs again, louder and unrestrained as his gaze moves to mine. Then he steps forward, his hands cupping my face. “You’re blushing.”
“You’re purposely embarrassing me,” I admit.
“So you didn’t like it?”
“I didn’t not like it.”
He nods. “You want to stop?”
I shrug. “Maybe just slow down?”
He bites down on his lip, then exhales loudly. “We better do something else then because you, in my room, looking as pretty as you look right now…” He leans down, his mouth finding mine again. But it’s different than earlier, it’s slower and sweeter. When he pulls away, he curses under his breath and releases his hold on my face. “Yeah. We should really do something else. Or get out of here.”
“Eric has your truck.”
“Right.” He nods. “Want to help me clean this crap up?”
We spend the next half hour pulling down streamers and vacuuming glitter as much as we can. There’s not a lot in his room. Just a mattress in the corner—not even a bed—a desk and chest of drawers. We bag the trash and change his sheets (flannel, just like his shirts) and when we’re done, he opens a drawer and tells me to pick something to change into so I don’t have to go home covered in glitter. Then he lies on his bed, his left hand behind his head, his right on in his stomach, and his eyes on me.
I run my finger through his clothes, T-shirts with the USMC logo and even his combat uniform. I choose a flannel shirt, blue and white, like the one he wore the second day he showed up at my door. When I turn away from him, I shrug out of my top, leaving me in nothing but my bra and denim shorts. I button it up quickly and remove my shorts, not bothering to replace them. The shirt’s so big it ends just above my knees. I push away the memories of wearing Jeremy’s shirts for the past year and a half and turn to him, my gaze lowered and my thumb between my teeth.
“Riley,” he murmurs, and when I lift my eyes, I see his gaze moving down my body. “Come here.” He pats the mattress on the spot next to him.
I chew my lip as I take the slow steps toward him, trying to hide my hesitation. I sit where he indicated, one leg beneath me on the mattress, the other stretched out on the floor in front of me. He places his hand on my knee, then begins to slowly stroke up and down my leg. He smiles, his eyes on mine. “You look scared.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “A little.”
His brows knit. “Why?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. The day was just overwhelming, I guess. And now I’m here and I feel like an old weight’s been lifted and a new one’s in its place.”
He sits up slightly, leaning on his left elbow. “What do you mean?”
“I just mean the physical stuff.”
He arches his eyebrows in question.
“You’re just a lot more experienced than I am, I guess, and that’s terrifying.”
“I’ve only been with two people my entire life,” he tells me. “You included.”
“Yeah, but you’ve probably slept with that other person over a hundred times and I’m… almost a virgin.”
“Almost?” he asks, his amusement evident.
“Well, once with Jeremy and once with you.”
“Shit,” he says in a clipped tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know…”
“It’s okay. I didn’t stop you, remember?”
After a moment, he lies back down and says, “I’m not going to promise I’ll keep my hands off you because you’re beautiful, Riley. And I like you. I like being close to you and touching you and reminding myself that you’re mine. So if I get inappropriately handsy just tell me to fuck off or throw something at me. But I probably still won’t stop, especially now, because seeing you in my shirt like this, it does something to me.”
“Something?” I whisper.
He takes my hand and places it on his stomach, then slowly guides it lower and lower, until I’m grasping him, my fingers instinctively wrapping around his hardness. I inhale a huge breath and hold it for as long as my lungs can handle, then I release it with the strength of my unspoken twentieth wish.
Dylan.
I wished for Dylan.
I lean down slowly, watching his eyes drift shut right before mine do. And like he’d done to me, I kiss him, soft and slow. He removes his hand covering mine and places it behind my neck, holding me to him while his mouth parts, his tongue meeting mine. After a while, his free hand finds my bare thigh, moving higher and higher until he’s cupping my panty-covered ass. He shifts my entire body until I’m ly
ing on top of him. With each of my legs on either side of him and his cock pressed against my center, he thrusts up, pushing into me. We moan into each other’s mouths until we find a slow, perfect, rhythm. Then his hand on my butt moves, higher this time, onto my bare back where his fingers find the back of my bra.
I lift my head and look down at him, eyebrows quirked in question.
He grins, chuckling at the same time. “You know why I chose basketball when all my friends played baseball, Riley?”
“What?” I pant, confusion clear on my face.
“Because I sucked at baseball. I could only ever get to first base.”
My head drops with my laughter. “Are you telling me you want me to let you get to second base because you sucked at baseball?”
He kisses my neck, moving slowly to my shoulder. “Actually, I’m begging you to let me get to second base.”
“That’s such a pathetic attempt to woo a girl,” I tell him, tilting my head to the side to give him better access.
His lips shift against my skin. “I’m pretty sure the handbook states the wooing begins after third base.”
“Oh, you’re not getting to third base today.”
He drops his head back on the pillow. “Well, no shit. Not if you don’t let me get to second. That’s just cheating, Riley. Do you want me to be a cheater?”
God, he’s funny. And so fucking hot. I sit up completely, pressing down on him.
His hands find my waist, underneath the shirt, and his eyes are lowered, focused on our joined parts.
“My eyes are up here, Rookie.”
He smiles a lazy smile and lifts his gaze to mine.
“You first,” I tell him.
“Me?”
“Shirt off, stud.”
Smirking, he sits up and I help him remove first his shirt, and then his tank. I eye his chest, the dips of his abs—the skin covered in a golden glow. Then I eye the wound, now completely healed on the outside. “Does it hurt if I touch it?” I ask.
He runs his thumb across my lips. “Fuck, your pout is sexy.”
“Seriously,” I whine. “Does it?”
He shakes his head, his hands moving higher and taking the fabric of the shirt with it. “It’s scar tissue. I can barely feel it.” He licks his lips, his eyes right on mine and his breaths shaky.
“What if I kiss it?” I whisper.
His gaze drops, but he doesn’t respond. I reach out with my finger first and run it over the hard lump of skin, feeling his exhale fall on my neck. Then I lean down, and press my lips to it, fighting back tears that came out of nowhere. I kiss it again, and again, while his grip on my sides tightens, his thumb brushing the bottom of my breasts. I keep my lips on him, skimming from his shoulder and up his neck, kissing and licking, and sucking slightly. He groans, a sound filled with need and want and overwhelming lust.
I know because I feel it too.
Slowly, I reach up, undoing the buttons of my shirt until it splits open in the middle. Then I pull back and grasp each side of the shirt revealing myself to him—my bra and panties the only thing covering me.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Riley.”
Beneath me, his cock stirs.
As does the vibrating phone in his pocket.
He grunts in frustration and I shift to the side, allowing him access to it. Before he can read it, I take it from him, annoyed that someone had the audacity to ruin our perfect lust-filled moment. Dylan doesn’t fight it, so I read the text out loud.
Dave: I hope you’re getting money and fucking bitches. Hugs and Kisses – Your gimp.
I look over at Dylan, who’s sitting up and shaking his head. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Who’s Dave?”
“My buddy in Afghanistan.”
“Uh-huh.” I type out a quick message while Dylan watches.
Dylan: He’s trying, you cock-blocking gimp.
Dylan says, “You make it impossible not to like you as much as I do. You know that, right?”
Dave: Pic or I call bullshit.
Dylan laughs. “Just ignore him, babe.”
“Or we could have fun with him,” I respond, pulling him by the back of his neck until his face is buried between my breasts. I snap the pic and send it, all while Dylan watches me, his eyes wide in shock.
Dave: Carry on, my man. Carry the fuck on.
Dave: Also, I wish you were more technically minded. I could use you right now.
Dylan’s face turns serious when he reads the text. He takes the phone from me and I witness first hand his snail-speed typing.
Dylan: You good?
Dave: Yeah, man. We’re on base at the moment so if you can tear yourself away from your girl for a minute, set up Skype and we can organize a time to call.
Dylan looks up at me. “What’s Skype?”
“It’s like a video chat thing. I have it on my phone.” I get off him and grab my phone from the pocket of my shorts sitting on the floor. “Tell him to add me.”
He looks at me confused.
I take the phone from him.
Dylan: Hey. It’s Riley. The girl in the pic. You can add me on Skype. I have it on my phone. xoxR1L3YHxox
Dave: Oh. Seriously, it’s cool. You guys do your thing. I didn’t mean to interrupt.
Dylan: We can continue any time. I don’t mind.
Dave: Thx so much. Honestly. I kind of just want to see his ugly face, you know?
Dylan: lol. I’d miss him too.
“What are you writing?” Dylan asks.
“Nothing.”
Dave: Okay. Added you.
Dylan: I’ll get him to call now.
I open the app and accept the add request, then hand the phone to Dylan. “Just press the green video camera icon to call him. I’m going to raid your fridge. You want anything?”
Shaking his head, he says, “Thanks, babe.” Then kisses me quickly, but I can already tell his mind is elsewhere. I button up my shirt as I exit his room, leaving him to talk to his buddy.
There isn’t much in his fridge. Milk, butter, bologna, and a block of cheese. Shutting the fridge, I look around the kitchen. It’s as bare as the fridge is. The table in the middle isn’t even a real table; it’s one of those foldout poker ones. I open the cabinets, searching for the glasses and when I find one, I turn on the tap and fill it with water. I take it with me to the garage and sit it on the workbench where the engine he’s told me all about sits in pieces. Grabbing a smaller piece, I ignore the shaking of my hands, matching the shakiness of my breath. And for the countless time since we got back in his truck, I try to ignore the day’s overwhelming emotions.
Surely, it can’t be that easy to go from one extreme to another. To wake up knowing that the secrets of your past could be the undoing of your future to this—being insanely attached and falling in love with a boy I barely know—a boy who’s declared time and time again that he feels the same way. He’s shown me his heart; I’ve shown him mine. And the best, or maybe the worst part is that I haven’t felt an ounce of guilt.
Grief, yes.
Longing, definitely.
But guilt? No.
I don’t know how to explain it—what it’s like to be in unfamiliar arms, kiss in an unfamiliar way, laugh with an unfamiliar sound… but I haven’t felt this connected since the moments before I climbed that cliff. And I don’t mean connected to someone, but connected to the world.
I wipe the tears, the emotions flooding me as the excitement builds. The thrill of waking up every morning with more to look forward to than the next sip of alcohol. I want to drive in his truck, I want to see the world again, and I want him next to me, keeping me safe and sane and knowing that when things get too hard, too rough, and the guilt becomes too much to bare—not just the guilt of my feelings for him but the guilt of my past and the pain I’d caused others, he’ll do exactly what he said he’d do: he’ll be the glue that holds me together.
He calls my name from somewhere in the house, and I tel
l him where I am. He shows up a moment later, his eyes going from me to the engine. “What are you doing, babe?” he asks.
I love that he calls me babe. “Just tinkering with your engine, Lance Corporal Banks.”
“Oh my God,” he murmurs, his grin wider than I’ve ever seen. He steps forward, looking in my eyes, and then he runs the back of his finger across my cheek. “You got grease on your face, Riley. So fucking hot.”
I roll my eyes and keep him at a distance. “How’s everything with your buddy?”
Shrugging, he releases a long drawn out sigh. “He’s in a war. It’s as bad as you’d imagine it would be.”
“I don’t imagine it as anything. You don’t really talk much about it.”
He takes the part from my hand and holds it in his, palm up as he looks down on it. “You know when you’re having a nightmare and you know it’s just a dream so you try to wake up but your body fights it, so it keeps going and going until something finally happens which forces you up, and you wake up in a pool of sweat but your mind is still there, stuck in the nightmare?”
“I know it well,” I whisper.
“War is like that, Riley. Only the things that wake you up are the cause of the nightmares.”
“So why do it?” I ask.
“Because sometimes you need to have nightmares to appreciate the dreams.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I don’t. I just stare at him, watching his features soften as he stares back, his smile growing with each passing second. Then he bends down, plants a chaste kiss on my cheek and places my phone in my hand. “Your mom’s going to be home soon. I should get you back.”
“Already?” I complain, checking the time.
“Time flies when you’re having fun.”
Twenty-Three
Dylan
Riley: You know what I miss?
Dylan: Me?
Riley: Please. I only saw you an hour ago.
Dylan: I still choose the answer to be ME.
Riley: I miss playing basketball.
Dylan: You play?
Riley: I dabble.
Dylan: Dribble?
Riley: Dabble. It’s a figure of speech, Dylan.
