by Angel Lawson
My heart pounds, wondering if I should go get someone. Ezra and his dad are both big, strong men. A physical altercation could get ugly and dangerous.
“If you think I’m walking away from my house, my community and my kid, you’re dumber than I thought. The worst thing I did was take my eye off of you,” Mr. Baxter says. “Without supervision you turned into a lazy delinquent, tarnishing my name and legacy in this town. It won’t happen again.”
I’m about to dart down the stairs to get Finn, one of the adults, someone, but before I take a step, a door down the hall wrenches open, then slams so hard the walls rattle. I do my best to hide behind the chest, but Mr. Baxter doesn’t even glance over when he storms past. I wait until I hear him on the hardwoods downstairs before I creep out of my hiding spot and walk over to Ezra’s door. I tap twice, softly, and open the door.
He’s standing by the large window that overlooks the bay, chest heaving. He’s shirtless, just wearing athletic shorts, hair damp from the shower. A large bruise mottles his side—most likely from the hit he took on the field tonight. He glances back, face filled with anger, jaw tensed so hard I think it may snap in two.
“Hey,” I say, not exactly sure how to handle this. I feel way in over my head. “Are you okay?”
He jerks his head in a way that I don’t know if it’s yes or no. I’m going to just assume it’s a big fat no.
I walk over to him, reaching out and touching his arm. “Nothing he said is true. You played great tonight. Coach Chandler looked really pleased, and the team did awesome. A year ago, you weren’t even playing, and now you’re getting a lot of field time. I don’t know a lot about football, but Coach Chandler wouldn’t put you in if you weren’t a reliable asset.”
“I hate him, Kenley. So goddammed much.”
I move until he’s facing me, and I rest my hands on his hips.
“I know. What he said…it was awful.”
“He doesn’t give a shit about me. You heard him,” his dark eyes flash, “it’s all about his legacy, whatever the hell that means.”
“It means he’s an idiot because he’s worried about the wrong stuff.” I move my hand, and he winces; I got too close to the bruise. “I’m sorry. Do you need some ice?”
He looks down at me, cupping a hand behind my neck.
“No, but I feel like shit. Will you just sit with me for a while?”
We’d done this after the first game, when I took care of his split lip. Ezra doesn’t want for much; money, housing, food…but what he lacks is the stability of a family—a true home and someone to take care of him.
I know I can’t do everything, but I can do what I can. Right now, he needs me, and I’ll be there for him.
I’m surprised when he leads me to the couch pushed up against the wall in his room and not the bed. Any other guy would take a shot. It’s evidence of how bad he feels. He sits, wincing from the pain in his ribs. I move to the opposite side, lifting his arm over my shoulders and snuggling against his warm chest.
“What do you want to watch?” I ask, reaching for the remote.
“You pick.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure about that? Because I’m not going to pick a war movie or something scary.”
He kisses my temple, then reaches over and turns off the light. “I don’t care what we watch, I’m going to spend most of the time looking at you anyway.”
My heart flips. Dammit, Ezra Baxter. The smile that plays on his lips tells me he said it on purpose. The glint in his eye tells me that he means it. I rest my head on his warm, smooth chest and hear the hammering of his heart, way too fast for a boy in control of his emotions, and scroll down the options.
He’s right, I think, settling on a comedy we’ve both seen a dozen times. It doesn’t matter what we watch because just being close to him is going to take up all my attention.
The comedy is a good choice. Slowly, I feel him relax next to me. His fingers stroke casually against my side, making small circles. And I find myself fascinated with the taut, hard muscle on his abdomen, contrasted with the soft hair that stretches below his belly button.
I’m not even thinking when I touch it—that it’s particularly sensitive. His heartrate rockets, then his stomach caves, right before his hand clamps down on mine. His voice comes out in a restrained hiss, “Babe, that’s dangerous territory.”
I lift my head and swallow.
“Sorry. I, uh,” no other words come out, but my cheeks flame with heat. My lack of experience is the direct cause of this awkward situation, and the fact his jaw is clenched tight and a different sort of tension fills his features. Quickly, I shift away, but he reaches for me again, stopping me.
“I know this is new for you, and to be completely honest, this pace—it’s new for me.” He holds my eye even though all I want to do is vanish. “I like it. I like watching a movie and just being close. I like feeling your hands explore me, and god knows, I’d like to explore you, but if we’re moving slow, we need to move slow.” He stands and walks over to the bed, picking up a purple T-shirt and pulling it over his head. His face grimaces when he does it, his side that sore. “Clothes on for now.”
“Wait,” I say, feeling a little sad to see his upper body covered. “When did we decide we were going slow?”
He runs his hand through his hair. “You’re dating three guys at once, KK, and I’m down with it, but I—we—want to make it perfectly clear we’re not taking advantage.”
“You forget this was my idea.”
He laughs. “It didn’t take much persuading.”
“I like you Ez, and I can go as slow as you want, but don’t place that on me.” I eye his long frame. “Don’t make lines in the sand without my input. I may not be experienced, but this was my idea.”
He holds my eye, only wavering once or twice to drop them to my mouth. He sighs and walks back over, sitting back on the couch. There’s a small space between us, and I scoot into it, molding into his side. If it’s possible, when I rest my head on his chest, his heart is beating even harder than before.
“Promise you’ll tell me if I ever cross a line,” he whispers, running his hand down my side. Flames burst across my skin, deep in my belly. I nod, unable to speak, because what Ezra doesn’t get is that I’m not sure where that line is myself, and I’m more than willing to go right up to the edge and drag him over with me.
9
Ezra
My heart pounds in my chest, like a drumbeat to keep me alert. I’m already pumped on adrenaline, first from the game, then from the bullshit with my dad. Kenley came in here and calmed me down, but when she snuggled up to me and ran her fingers across my lower belly, she got me worked up in a whole different way.
I hate that she was embarrassed, but touching me right there, like that, with those soft little fingers. Jesus. I had to get the hell away from her warmth, her smell, her everything. It was that or pull her on top of me and show her exactly how much of a degenerate I really am.
I pulled on my shirt, like that was going to do anything, and I force myself to be a fucking gentleman, telling her I’m going to take it slow. She flipped that back on me, which I should’ve expected. Kenley’s not your typical girl. She proved it when she put on that wig and bikini, and I almost came just looking at her. She doubled down when she climbed in my lap and shot-gunned smoke and her tongue in my mouth in front of Ozzy and Finn, then asked us all to date her. Under that good girl persona is a wild child clawing at her cage. As much as I want to be the one to unlock that door, I’m not sure either of us are ready.
I like Kenley. A lot, and not just because she’s possibly a secret freak. I want to watch movies with her and take a ride in the mountains with her on the back of my motorcycle. I want to kiss her mouth, her fingers and toes. I want to stay out of trouble, just so I can be around her. I mean, hell, I even do my homework so I don’t get kicked out of AP Lit because she sits diagonally across from me and at least twice a class she looks back at me and smiles.
I wrap my arm around her and pull her close, leaving enough room to run my hand down her side. Her head presses against my chest, and I know she can feel the hammering of my heart. Although I told her to watch it, her hand is rubbing small circles near my hip. My thumb grazes her ribs and the soft side of her breast, she shifts, leaning into me so that her feet are up on the couch, and her back is flat against my side.
I look up at the TV and try to focus on the screen, but my eyes keep dragging down to the V-neck of Kenley’s shirt and her tits inches away from my hand. I swallow back the building desire, the ache growing in my balls, and how soft and warm she feels against me.
Her hand moves from my hip to my thigh, and now I’m the one that’s shifting. I steel myself, but she turns her face toward me, placing kisses along my neck, lathing the sensitive skin with her tongue. Her back arches, and my hand slides over her breast, feeling her nipple pebble and her warm breath as she shudders out an exhale.
Jesus.
Light from the TV casts a flickering glow across the room. I run my hands down her body, over her thighs. Her hips rise, and I lean my head back, staring at the ceiling. I count to five. Ten. Her mouth latches to my collarbone, and I squirm, ticklish. She wants more and I can give it to her.
I touch her chin and force her eye up. “Do you trust me?”
She doesn’t blink. “Yes.”
I move fast, settling her between my thighs, feeling her ass press against my erection. I’m not worried about myself. I get ten boners a day. The first one when I wake up. The third one when I see Kenley in Lit. The process continues through the day. This one feels especially good because it’s not brought on by my imagination but with the real, live girl pressing against me. But this isn’t about me. I wasn’t lying when I wanted to make it clear I wasn’t taking advantage. And not only that, the girl sitting in front of me is a livewire. She needs some fucking relief.
Her hand lifts over her head, back behind my neck, running her fingers along the fringe of my hair. I take my time, never going under her shirt, yet reveling in the soft curves of her body, the slim dip of her belly, all the way down to the waist band of her jeans. I take my time, licking her ear, sucking on her collar bone, skimming the tips of my fingers over her breasts. Her chest rises and falls and I massage her gently, increasing the pressure as I go.
Her shirt rides up, revealing a strip of stomach. I inch my hands down, pushing my thumbs under her shirt, feeling the soft skin underneath. With diligence I make my way upward, painstakingly slow. She opens her eyes and stares up at me, giving me a solid, “What the fuck?” glare.
“I told you to trust me,” I whisper. “It may be slow, but I promise it’ll be worth it.”
Her nails scratch gently down my cheek as I ghost my thumbs over her nipples. She moans softly, lips parted, body arching.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
With one hand I keep rubbing her tit, and the other inches downward, I slide it down her thigh, making similar circles. Her legs drop, spreading apart, one against my leg, the other against the back of the couch. Her jeans are tight, and I stroke down her thigh, brushing over the seam. Her hips rise, and I’m thankful for the barrier of fabric. I get the feeling she’s pretty impatient. A moment later she grabs my hand and lays it flat on her lower belly, fingers pointed down. My dick twitches behind her. I’m damn sure she felt it.
I run my fingers between her legs, feeling the seam and the warm heat radiating. She whimpers, and I do it again, dying to hear that sound, that little cry, a second time.
“Ez,” she breathes, looking up at me with bright blue eyes, “you’re killing me.”
I smile, feeling wicked, and make another pass between her legs, this time stopping and using the heel of my palm to apply pressure. She starts to twist, but I hold her still, only allowing her to press the side of her face into my chest. I can tell I’m in the right place, hitting the right spot, because her breath comes out spotty, and her knees bend.
It takes everything in me not to push my hands down her pants, to feel the wet heat between her legs, but I’m not going there—not tonight. Tonight, I just want to do something good for her. Bring someone pleasure. Make this girl, my girl, know what it feels like to be touched by someone. I focus on her, on her breathing, on her face, on the way her nose scrunches, and how her tongue darts out between her lips. I rub the spot that makes her whimper and hold her against my chest as she starts to shudder, writhing against my body. I watch Kenley come, eyes closed, lips parted, body curling inside out.
When she finally stills, I smooth down her shirt and run a hand down her cheek, tilting her face upward. She’s fucking gorgeous. Her face is pink from exertion, and I bend, brushing my lips across hers.
She props up on her elbow. “I came up here to check on you and make sure you were okay, not for you to do that.”
“Watching that was better than any damn movie on TV, got it? And trust me, after that, I’m more than okay.”
“But you didn’t—”
“I’m good, babe,” I say, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She doesn’t need to know that what I just witnessed will keep me supplied with weeks of erotic mental material. “Sometimes the best thing you can do is something for someone else.”
She settles her cheek on my chest, her breathing evening out, unaware of how she’s the best damned thing that’s happened in my life in a long, long time.
10
Kenley
I stretch, lifting my arms over my head, still feeling the tingling warm aftermath of the night before. Ezra had shown me a kinder, gentler, generous side, and I’d shown him what I look like turned into a puddle of goo.
My phone buzzes from the table beside my bed, and I pick it up. It’s from Ezra.
Someone left a mark on me.
A photo drops next. The first thing I notice is his handsome face and the smug smile tugging at his lips. The next is where his fingers tug down the collar of his shirt, revealing a blotchy, red bruise. I’d left a hickey on Ezra Baxter’s collarbone.
I rush to type out an apology.
Kenley: I’m so sorry.
Ezra: Don’t be. But there may be questions in the locker room about where I got it. What do you want me to say?
I consider this. None of us are “out” in our relationship. Ozzy and I may be the closest thing because we kind of started dating before anything else happened with the guys. Thistle Cove is small, and gossip runs wild. I’m not sure I’m ready that.
Kenley: Whatever you want to say is fine. I trust you.
He replies with a thumbs-up emoji, and we text back and forth for a minute. He’s going to the gym, and I’ve got homework. I promise to meet him back at float building later that day.
I’m about to get out of bed when I hear a second buzz vibrate from the drawer of my nightstand. I open the drawer and pull out Rose’s old iPod. I’d kept it, along with the SugarBabies app and profile I created. I knew there was more to Rose’s disappearance and presumed death than what people were saying, and I felt certain this dating app for sugar daddies was part of it.
I’d told the police about it, but once Rose’s death was ruled a suicide, they seemed happy to close her case for good. I was just too scared to look further into the relationships Rose had developed on SugarBabies, particularly the one with a man named BD. But besides that, I consider guiltily, I’d been busy with my own life—a post-Rose life, that surprisingly, opened a lot of previously closed doors for me. I stare down at the iPod, feeling not just the weight of the device, but the shame for ignoring finding out the truth about Rose and seeking my own happiness instead.
I’d barely touched the iPod in the last two weeks, too busy, too distracted, too willfully avoidant of the long stream of waiting notifications for Eden Dollanganger, the name I’d used, a play on the title of a book Rose and I loved when we were younger.
A twist of nerves flutter in my stomach, knowing this is a tricky rabbit hole. Rose and I had a lo
t of things in common before she ditched me, and there’s a small part of me, the one that can’t let this go, that is scared I’d start down this path and never turn back. But that same connection makes me want to know the truth. Did a sugar daddy have something to do with what happened to Rose? Shouldn’t I find out more?
I stare down at the phone. Twenty-five notifications. Twenty-five old guys wanting to, potentially, make an arrangement with a young woman exchanging support, in the form of housing, allowance, support, in return for companionship, loyalty, and sex.
One of these guys could know something about Rose.
None of these guys can bring her back.
I place the phone back in the drawer and shut it, shut out the need to dig around in something so recently settled. Rose is gone, and whatever trouble she was in has nothing to do with my life going forward.
That’s what I tell myself, but even as I walk away down to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, I don’t fully understand that secrets don’t like to stay buried in Thistle Cove.
I push myself through the next two chapters of Moby Dick, jotting down notes for the summary I have to turn in on Monday. It’s only when I’m done that I pull out the envelope of photographs Shannon gave me at the game.
I start sorting through the thick stack of black and white photos, most candids from around campus or at school events. The pictures are weird because I recognize almost everything in them: the windows on the back hall by the Home Ec room, the school crest on the gym wall; the painted Viking by the main entrance, the bonfire, floats, homecoming dance. The only difference is that I don’t recognize the faces. Well, that’s not entirely true. On a few, I catch a glimpse of someone I think I know. If I had to guess, it’s a parent or someone I know from around town.
“Holy cow,” I mutter to myself, when I do recognize one of Mrs. Gimple, twenty years younger, obviously right out of college. Her hair is flipped back in Farrah Fawcett wings. I flip the photo over, and it has her name and the date, 1991.
