The True Story of Atticus and Hazel

by Fisher Amelie

  “Okay, I guess that would be cool,” I told them all.

  All Atticus’s brothers piled back into their car. Their tires squealed as they pulled out of the lot like their car was on fire. Atticus and I got inside his already running car.

  He looked at me. “Again, I’m sorry.”

  I laughed. “What the hell was that?”

  Atticus’s head fell onto the back of his seat. “That was four out of the six Kelly boys.”

  “That was insane.”

  “I know.” Atticus put the car in gear. “Listen, you don’t have to come. I mean, they’re crazy, so I understand if you want me to just drop you off.”

  I looked on Atticus’s face illuminated by the dull lights of the car. “If it’s okay, I’d like to hang out with you a little more, get to know you better.”

  I followed the line of his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down once. “Of course it’s okay with me. I-I want to know your skin again, Hazel. You’re addicting.”

  He glanced at me and held his hand out for me, so I took it. When we arrived at a stoplight, he peered down at our hands and memorized the tops of my fingers with his thumb. “You’re so soft, Hazel.”

  “It’s the cleanser I use to take the paint off. It exfoliates really well. Because of that I have to use really good moisturizer. It makes for soft hands.”

  He brought that hand to his mouth and kissed underneath the bend of my knuckles, which sent shivers throughout my entire body. He let go of my hand and unfolded my fingers before placing them at the side of his neck. My thumb found his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Atticus closed his eyes when I did this, which made me want to do it over and over again. He took my hand again and kissed the pad of my thumb, making my stomach plummet to my feet.

  The light changed, but he kept my hand in his between our seats. “Will your parents care that I’m coming over so late?” I asked him.

  “Did you see my brothers, Hazel?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think this is the first time we’ve ever brought someone over this late?”

  “I don’t know,” I told him.

  “It’s not, Hazel. Though,” he cleared his throat, “this is the first time I’ve ever brought someone over.”

  All my breath left my lungs in a rush at the thought. “I see.”

  “My whole family lives at night. Most of my brothers are bartenders at the bar we met at. My brother Aidan owns it.”

  “Ah, it all makes sense now.”

  We drove through a part of the city I hadn’t ever really seen before. He wasn’t kidding when he said it was a little run down. We pulled up to a rough-looking house, although it was the best looking on the block, not that it was saying much. The paint was chipping off to the point you couldn’t even tell what the original color was. There were kids’ toys settled all throughout the unkempt lawn. All the lights were on, though, and there were loud voices spilling out from inside. I could hear them all the way in the car.

  Atticus shut the engine off. “If this is too much for you, just tell me. I know what it looks like because I lived in it. If you want to turn back, Hazel, I can. I’ll take you home right now.”

  I looked away from the house into Atticus’s face. “This is so crazy.”

  He laughed. “I know.”

  “I’m not going to lie, I’m nervous as shit.”

  He laughed again. “As you should be. Tell me, Hazel, do you want to go home?”

  I took a deep breath. “What the hell, let’s just go inside. If I want to go, we can always leave.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  He stared at me for a few seconds before exiting the car. I made a move to open my door but he pointed at me through the windshield to keep me where I was.

  “Let me open your door for you, Hazel,” he said, swinging it open.

  My hand found his as he helped me out. He closed it behind me and we traversed the overgrown walkway to scary-looking porch steps. Those loud voices got louder and louder as we ascended the stairs and reached the front door. Atticus swung open the creaky screen door and led me inside.

  The noise was almost deafening. Boys were shouting and laughing, a television was blaring somewhere. He led me down a short entryway and around a wall to an open living room connected to a worn kitchen. All the furniture looked old but was covered in plastic. The whole place appeared surprisingly clean. In fact, it smelled like lemon Pine-Sol and a baking cake. It seemed as if Atticus’s mom did the absolutely best she could with what she had, and she did a damn good job. The inside, although not new, appeared sweet and homey. It didn’t look anything like the outside. I breathed a little bit easier before I realized the whole house had gone deathly quiet and everyone was staring at us.

  Without realizing it, I leaned closer into Atticus.

  He cleared his throat. “Everyone, this is Hazel Stone. Hazel, you’ve met Cillian, Liam, and Malachi.” I waved at them and they waved back, making me blush. “That’s Brendan. He was in the car, but I don’t think he spoke.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Brendan greeted.

  “And this is my oldest brother, Aidan,” he said, pointing to an older guy, but Atticus’s spitting image.

  Aidan nodded his head at me.

  Atticus walked toward two older people, both blond, both handsome, both with happy expressions, and brought me with him. “Mom and Dad, this is Hazel. Hazel, this is my mom, Sarah, and my dad, Casey.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  Sarah and Casey looked shell shocked I was there, and I started to get a little uncomfortable.

  “I’m sorry, I realize it’s late, but the boys said it would be okay to come over.” I started to back away, looking to flee. Atticus stopped me by swinging me closer to him.

  “Give them a minute,” he whispered in my ear.

  After another thirty seconds, they looked at one another then at Atticus. “Atticus, you’re bringing girls home now?” his dad asked him.

  Sarah shook her head as if to clear it. “I’m sorry, baby, where are my manners?” She stood and offered her hand out to me and I took it. “Very nice to meet you. Hazel, is it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered.

  Casey stood next to her. “You look like a nice girl, Hazel.”

  “Thank you?”

  “Casey, oh my God.” Sarah laughed. “I’m sorry, dear, but we don’t get many nice girls come through here.”

  “Hey!” Aidan said.

  “Except for your Ellie,” Sarah amended, rolling her eyes playfully.

  “What are you doing with this bum?” Casey teased Atticus with a wink.

  “Jesus, Dad.”

  “Oh, I’m just teasing, son.”

  “She is too hot for you, Atticus,” Cillian chimed in.

  “Cillian!” Sarah chided then looked at me. “I did try to instill some manners into these knuckleheads,” she explained, “but they didn’t stick. Excuse him.” I smiled at her. “Here, here, sit,” she said, dusting imaginary dirt off the plastic couch surface. Atticus and I sat next to each other on the sofa. I was grateful the television was on. Otherwise it would have been dead silent in that room. It seemed they were all waiting for me to speak.

  “You have a nice home,” I told Sarah.

  Sarah chuckled. “Oh, darlin’, you don’t have to worry yourself with that. I know what it is.”

  “Oh, come now, Sarah,” Casey said. “You’ve made it a real home, babe.”

  Sarah blushed a little, which I thought was sweet, and smiled. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  “Mom,” Atticus said, “I’m sorry I missed dinner.”

  “You should be. It was a good one,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll be here for next week’s. I promise.”

  “You say that every time, Atticus.”

  “I came last week, Mom.”

  “I know, but you’re not consistent enough. I raised you better tha
n that.”

  “I know and I’m sorry.”

  She leaned forward in her chair and kissed his forehead. “Fine, baby, just be here next week?”

  “A promise is a promise.”

  She nodded once. “You can bring Hazel if you want!”

  “Oh, uh, I don’t know if Hazel is going to want to do that. She might not want to come,” Atticus sputtered out.

  “What’s the matter?” Aidan asked. “Embarrassed of us?”

  “Yeah,” Liam ribbed with a blazing smile, “we promise to be on our best behavior, Atticus.”

  “And a promise is a promise,” Malachi teased.

  “This was a mistake,” Atticus whispered under his breath, making me want to laugh.

  “What do you do, Hazel?” Casey asked, ignoring his sons.

  “I paint,” I told them.

  “Lord alive, another artist,” Sarah teased. She winked at Atticus. “I can see why you two would like one another,” she added.

  Atticus abruptly stood. “Well, this has been sufficiently embarrassing,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me up beside him, “but we have to go.”

  “But you just got here!” Casey said, looking confused.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I just came to apologize to Mom. I’ve got to get Hazel home.”

  Atticus rushed me through the living room as they all stared after us. “Nice to meet you!” I shouted as we bolted through the door and down the steps.

  “She is definitely too hot for Atticus,” one of the boys said.

  Atticus opened my door for me and I sat. Within seconds, he was in the driver’s seat and had started the car.

  “That was fun,” I told him, and genuinely meant it.

  He laughed. “Sure it was.”

  “No, really, I thought your parents were wonderful.”

  As we sped down Atticus’s parents’ dark street, he smiled at me. “Thank you. I also like how you left my brothers out of your compliment completely.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Your brothers are, uh, interesting.”

  “Interesting,” he parroted. “Yeah,” he said sarcastically.

  “Where are you going?” I asked him.

  “Anywhere but here,” he said, taking a turn down a busy connecting street. He looked at me. “There’s a two a.m. showing at the Anjelika, would you be down?”

  “Yeah,” I answered without hesitation. He smiled at me. “This is the strangest night of my life,” I told him.

  “It’s a good strange, though?” he asked.

  “A great strange, Atticus.”

  The Anjelika was just down the road from him, and we bought tickets to a film neither of us really cared to see. The lobby was surprisingly full for two in the morning.

  Atticus gestured to the concessions. “You want anything?”

  “No, thank you,” I told him.

  “Are you sure?” he asked again. “We could share another Coke,” he teased, making my blood race.

  “No,” I told him, “we won’t need it.”

  He audibly gulped, which made my cheeks warm. He grabbed my hand as we approached the ticket guy. The guy tore our tickets in half.

  “Last theater on your left,” he droned out.

  The theater was pretty packed already, full of noisy and buzzed patrons. I spotted two secluded seats in the top right section of the theater. We raced up the stairs and sat down before realizing the reason they were empty was because two fence bars obstructed the view.

  “I don’t care,” he said.

  “I definitely don’t care,” I agreed.

  He rubbed the palms of his hands down his jeans and let out a shaky breath as the lights came down and the first preview began to air. He stared at me and lifted the armrest between us. I lifted and bent my left leg on the seat and turned more fully toward him, my right knee resting against his. He turned as well.

  “Can I touch you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  His incredible hands found my hips and ever so slowly, he slid me closer to him. He memorized my face before he brought his hands up and threaded them through the top of my hair. My head fell back a little, exposing my throat. He moved his hands down the sides of my neck and placed his lips just above the skin below my ear.

  “Can I kiss you here?” he whispered.

  I made the slightest nod before I felt them on my skin. My hands found the shirt underneath his jacket at his rib cage and gripped the fabric there. He moved his lips down an inch.

  “Can I kiss you here?” he asked again.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  His lips found my skin once again and my hands tightened even more. He moved his lips another inch.

  “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  He kissed me yet again and I began to pull at his shirt, making him laugh into my neck. He moved his mouth to the base of my throat, right at the top edge of my collarbone.

  “And here?”

  “Please,” I begged.

  His kissed the dip there, his tongue darting out for just a moment. “Atticus,” I breathed.

  He placed his lips at my ear. “I have never in my life tasted anything as incredible as your skin, Hazel.”

  I turned my head so my own mouth found his ear as well, but I had no secrets to tell. Not yet, anyway. Instead, I drew his earlobe into my mouth, running my tongue around the edge. I felt him shudder against my body and smiled at how satisfying it felt to have that kind of power over him.

  Atticus’s right hand found the hem of my shirt, his bare fingers located the skin at the small of my back, and a small gasp escaped my lips. His hands scorched me there, branded forever. I committed the feeling to memory, wishing I could relive the experience over and over without cease.

  “Haze,” Atticus spoke against the skin of my throat. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  “Atticus,” I answered, “neither do I.”

  He shot up a like a rocket and dragged me back down the stairs with him. We practically ran through the lobby. Atticus threw open the outside doors and we sprinted to his car. He swung me toward him, tightly against his chest; his hands found my jaw and his mouth found my lips. Atticus kissed me like he was dying, and I found myself wanting to go with him, willing to follow him into a dark abyss if that was where I could find him just so I could know his mouth, to know his hands, to know his skin.

  He pulled open the door to his back seat and swung his body inside smoothly, bringing me with him. Shrugging off his jacket, he tossed it in the front of the car. I stopped for a moment and studied the exposed skin there at his arms.

  “Oh my God,” I told him. “These are beautiful.”

  He swallowed, his chest panting. “Thank you.”

  The night was dark, the light was minimal. My hands went to the skin of one bicep and pulled it closer, shoving up the sleeve. “Oh my God, Atticus, this is Bosch.”

  “Yes,” he told me quietly, letting me run my fingers up and down the painting he’d had drawn there. “He is one of my favorite painters.”

  He dragged a thumb across my forehead, shifting a lock of hair that had fallen there. “Nobody knows Bosch’s work.” He looked on me and smiled. “I guess a fellow painter would know his stuff, though.”

  I looked at the floor of his car. It was littered with paperbacks. I picked up book after book after book after book. “You’ve read The Screwtape Letters? And Utopia? And 1984? And The Count of Monte Cristo?”

  “Yes, Hazel,” he answered, kissing my cheek.

  Hit with the unmistakable feeling I found someone I was destined to find, I also found myself overwhelmed. My hands went to his face. “Are you real, Atticus Kelly?”

  “Are you?” he asked, smashing his mouth against mine.

  We tumbled backward against the cushion of his back seat.

  And that’s the story of the night I, Hazel Stone, lost my virginity.

  The light crested through the window and I was shocked awake, not used to mo
rning sun since my studio apartment had blackout curtains. I was lying against someone’s chest. Atticus’s chest. And half dressed.

  Carefully, I pulled myself up, scaled the front seat, bent back over to retrieve my bra and my bag, stuck my bra inside, and crawled through the open window of his driver’s side door. I stood in the empty parking lot of the Anjelika, the gray morning surrounding me like a humid blanket. I took a deep breath and reached into my bag for my phone. It was dead. I peeked back inside the Impala and caught a glimpse of Atticus, shirtless, his arm thrown over his face.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered, my stomach filling with incredible butterflies again.

  I looked down at myself, at the blood that had run down my leg and dried there, at my bare feet on cool asphalt, at my blurry, disheveled reflection in the side of his car. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I wasn’t supposed to lose it to a practical stranger in an old car in a parking lot. Tears began to fall down my face. Oh my God, oh my God, I kept repeating.

  Without thinking, I ran as fast as I could, not bothering to pull my boots out of Atticus’s car. I had to go, had to run, had to leave. I couldn’t stay there anymore. I couldn’t face him, couldn’t talk to him. What if he’s not who I thought he was? I asked myself. I don’t even know him. What the hell was I thinking?

  I ran until my breaths burned cold in my chest, my limbs tingled, my bare feet ached. I ran toward the direction of my studio apartment and didn’t stop until I reached my front door. Once inside, I tossed my bag on the floor before remembering Etta was probably worried sick. I stuck my phone in its charger, peeled my clothes off, and practically fell into the shower, sitting in the tub and letting the warm water cascade over my tired, sore body. The blood on my legs ran off in rusted rivulets down the drain. I felt sick to my stomach.

  “Hazel Stone!” I heard from my living room, making me jump.

  “Etta, I’m in here!” I yelled back from my bathroom.

  Etta stormed through, tossing back the door and standing in all her heated glory, hands on her hips, her braids dangling at her shoulders.

  “What in the actual fuck, Hazel!”

  “I know. I’m sorry. My phone died.”

  “Are you just getting home?” she asked.