by Angel Lawson
“You.”
23
Ozzy
“You didn’t.”
“Yeah,” she says. I notice her hands are still trembling an hour later. “I did.”
“What did he say after that?”
“Nothing really. He just stared at me for a long minute and then turned to go shake someone else’s hand.”
“Wow.”
We’re sitting in her car, parked on an isolated road that overlooks the water. I drove, because she was too upset. Not upset, upset, more like a rush of adrenaline and shock that she’d gone through with it.
“I guess if we learned anything today, Kenley Keene, it’s that you have balls.”
Laughter bubbles from her, and her hand reaches across the seat to grip mine.
“I’m not looking forward to this game tonight, there’s just so much potential for—”
“Drama. Yep. But we need to go.”
“I know, the guys want us there, and I suspect Finn’s going to get dragged into that halftime presentation.”
I kiss the back of her hand, while she looks out the window toward the water. I was skeptical this relationship would work—that Ezra and Finn would really be into sharing—that I could do it, honestly, but it’s been a better fit than I expected.
“Confronting Waller like that was probably easier than what I have to do next.”
“What are you talking about?”
She takes a deep breath and exhales. “I think Coach Chandler and Rose were sleeping together. I think I should tell someone. McMichaels, maybe? Mr. Russell?”
The information surprises me less than it should. “You have evidence?”
“A gut feeling. I overheard him again talking to Kayla James—it was even more disturbing.” Her jaw tenses. “He’s targeting a specific kind of girl—her dad is sick and he’s offering to find her support.”
“I know he’s a creep, but it seems pretty standard for a teacher to offer help in a situation like this.”
“From inside a storage closet outside the locker rooms?”
I feel my eyebrows shoot up. “That’s where he was talking to her?”
“Yep.”
“How did you overhear this?”
She grimaces. “Ezra and I were in there, you know, hanging out.”
“Hanging out or making out?” I ask.
“Do you care?”
“Honestly? No, but if you go to someone and tell them this, they’re going to ask questions—you heard Brice Waller talk about Jacqueline today. They’re willing to throw teenage girls under the first available bus. Making out with Ezra Baxter, known juvenile delinquent and drug dealer, isn’t going to help your credibility against the most beloved teacher and coach at the school.”
She frowns, thinking it over. It’s a bullshit double-standard to have to defend your own sexuality when accusing someone else of inappropriate behavior, but I’m just looking out for her.
“I just want you to be careful, okay? If all of this is really going on, it could be dangerous. We still don’t really know what happened to Rose.”
“That’s what Juliette said to me on the bridge. That I need to be careful about poking around in Rose’s secret life.”
“At least you never did anything with that SugarBabies account, we have no idea who’s on the other side of that.”
“Yeah,” she says, giving me a tight smile. “So, are you really not upset that I was in the storage room at school with Ezra?”
It’s a little awkward in the small Honda, but I slip my hand around her neck, tilting her face so we’re eye-to-eye. “You and Ezra have the storage room. We have Friday nights under the bleachers. I assume you and Finn have somewhere quiet to spend time with each other, too. I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to this. My only priority is you.”
She bends forward and kisses me, and I’m glad for the moment together. I doubt we’ll get to spend much time under the bleachers tonight—not with all the homecoming fanfare. Her lips part, and I dart in my tongue, feeling the want and tension taking over. I slide my hand up her side, feeling the soft swell of her breast. Her hand lays flat on my chest, fingers tugging at my shirt. A moment later we’re rising over the center of the car, kissing and fumbling for one another. I squeeze between the seat, never taking my hands off of her, and she follows, landing on me with an awkward crash.
The whole moment is spontaneous—I mean, I’m hard half the day thinking about Kenley, and when I’m in close proximity to her like this and I’m overwhelmed by her smell, her face and body, I feel like I’m coming unhinged. But this moment, rushed and heated in the back of the car, I didn’t expect.
Especially when she straddles me in the small space and sits up, removing her shirt. Her hair falls out of her ponytail, over her shoulders, trailing to the exquisite valley between her breasts.
My jaw drops and my dick twitches against her, and I unabashedly reach for the pale blue lace atop creamy skin. Her tits are perfect, round and full. I cup them both and rub my thumbs across the top, marveling at the hardened peaks that push at the fabric.
She pushes at the hem of my shirt and after smashing my elbow into the door, I manage to get it off. She bends over, hair grazing my chest, giving me the most outstanding view, and places her mouth on mine. The movement rubs her crotch against mine.
Like I fool, I push her back. “KK, what are we doing here?”
Because I need to know. There’s a condom in my wallet that’s been waiting for this moment for the last three years. There’s a shirtless girl—not just a girl—the girl, grinding on my lap. My head, my heart, my cock, are all about to explode.
“I’m a virgin,” she admits, “and I know Finn and Ezra aren’t. I don’t know about you—”
“I’ve never done this—it—before.” I cut her off, wanting honesty between us. “If you want to wait for someone more experienced, I get it.”
“No,” she says, touching my face. My fingers touch the soft, smooth skin of her stomach. “I want it to be you.”
My balls, which have run my life since I turned twelve, seize in response. I reach for her and pull her on top of me, kissing her in response.
The next few minutes pass in a blur. Hot and sweaty, we get our clothes off in the cramped space. Her jeans fall to the floorboards, a stack of business cards slipping from the back pocket. She reaches for me, running her fingers along my shaft in a way that tells me she’s done it before. I find the condom, package wrinkled over the years, and she watches with interest as I roll it down.
“Are you sure?” I ask as she hovers over me, golden hair like a halo.
“I’m sure.”
At first she moves slow, tentative, but as she lowers herself down, her jaw drops, either in surprise or pain. I run my hand down her side, trying not to force her hips, but rise up to meet her, pushing past the tight barrier.
“Okay?” I ask, rubbing her arm.
She nods, but I’m not convinced, not until she starts to move, and my body instinctively follows. It’s erratic, jerky, overwhelmingly strange. It’s also the best damn moment in my life. Soon, we establish a rhythm, and I pull her face to mine, wanting to kiss her badly, wanting to come even more. Our breath mingles and our skin slips, her tits are the most fantastic thing I’ve seen in my life—or so I think.
Kenley pulls back and rolls her hips, drawing my cock inside. She looks down at me and grins, lips parted, eyes glazed. That’s the actual most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my life. My balls tighten and my fingers grip her waist, holding on as I come; thrusting and groaning hard, while I look up at the girl I love.
I don’t say it, because I know it’s a fucking cliché and it’ll cheapen it, but I pull her into my arms, refusing to let her go—not yet. Our hearts thrum together, and I consider telling her that I know it wasn’t perfect, that I think I may have seriously fucked up my elbow, and I’m pissed that she didn’t come, but I keep my mouth shut and hold onto her and vow to never let her go.
24
Kenley
Smug happiness overshadows any guilt I have when my mom asks me how my day went, and I respond with a simple, “Okay.”
To be honest, after a bit of processing she would have been okay with a confession of losing my virginity—one of those mother-daughter moments showcased on cheesy TV shows. Although, she probably would have been a little horrified I’d done it in the backseat of my car. I’m not. That little Honda represents my freedom. My autonomy. Now it signifies something more.
I’m just not ready to share it with anyone yet—other than Ozzy.
I pause when I get to my room, realizing that’s not totally true. There’s one person I would have wanted to share it with. Rose. A strange wave of grief rolls over me. It’s weird, because even if she was alive I wouldn’t have told her. She didn’t tell me about Finn—thank god.
It’s still bittersweet, and even after three years of not speaking and four weeks since she went missing, she’s right there on my mind after a major milestone. It’s a dull ache in my belly, not dissimilar to the one I felt having Ozzy inside of me. Painful one minute, a sense of loss the next.
I shower, washing off the sweat and sex, then get ready for the game. The whole afternoon had been strange, from my finding that plaque, to confronting Brice Waller, to losing my virginity in the back seat of my Honda. Not one of those things was planned.
Something does bother me. Ozzy has been forthright and honest with me this whole time—amazing—but he mentioned SugarBabies and I’d lied, or at the very least withheld the truth. After what we’d shared, it didn’t seem right. I’d kept the account a secret on purpose, knowing the guys wouldn’t approve, but after today? It needs to stop. The little game I’m playing with BD is going nowhere. If I’m right that Rose was sleeping with Coach Chandler, and if my gut is right that her death may have been foul play? Some dude she was hooking up with in the city has nothing to do with it.
Unfortunately, just like with Jacqueline Cates, I’m pretty sure whoever hurt Rose was from Thistle Cove—not outside.
I open the drawer, pull out the iPod, and open the app. I don’t look at his last message to me, just type out one of my own.
Eden: I wanted to send you a message to let you know that I’m ceasing communication. Like they say, it’s not you—it’s me. Talking to you has been nice, but an arrangement like this really just isn’t me. The truth is one of my friends told me about SugarBabies and I got curious. Thanks for the encouraging words and support. Hope things are well—
I pause over the ending and quickly type the name he’d given me; Princess.
I unplug the device so the battery will die down, shutting the risk of temptation and the drawer behind me.
Unlike every other game, halftime at homecoming week isn’t a mad dash to the bathroom and concession stand (or for me and Ozzy, the chance to bump and grind under the bleachers.) We’re up by fifteen points, mostly because Coach Chandler scheduled an easy win for the game, which means people aren’t glued to the seats. Obviously, the main attraction of the game is the halftime program, which this year is anything but traditional.
True to their word, there is no court or escorts. The floats line the far side of the track. They look pretty good—I suspect the seniors are a shoo-in for first place. As soon as the buzzer announces the end of the first half, I feel the churn of nerves in my stomach. Rose’s presence is still felt in the stadium. Pale pink ribbons are still tied to the cheerleaders' megaphones and the fence posts. As the players run off the field, one goes to the side. Number 14. Finn. He’s still tied to this mess.
“Poor bastard,” Ozzy mutters. “Having to play the heartbroken boyfriend.”
Few people know the truth about their breakup. It’s easier on everyone, him, her family, the social hierarchy of the school to keep things in place.
Juliette also stands nearby—the look on her face unreadable. I know she thought she’d be on the field in a different capacity tonight. Everything about all of this is unfair. We’re all being held captive by a ghost.
When Mr. Waller crosses the field, I turn to Ozzy and say, “I don’t want to be here.”
His eyes drag from the spectacle. “What? You want to leave?”
It strikes me then that it’s an option. I nod. “Please. Yes. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
I don’t have to ask him again. He grabs my hand and leads us down the stadium stairs. He pushes through the crowd, mostly the visiting team, taking a chance to grab a snack. We’re walking through the exit when I hear Brice Waller’s voice booming across the stands. Just outside the gate a bright light mounted to the top of a van captures my attention.
Channel 8 News.
Janice Hill leans against the metal.
On a whim, I pull my hand from Ozzy’s and walk over.
“Ms. Hill?” She looks up, a little panicked, like I’ve just interrupted her break. “I’m a big fan,” I tell her, and her expression relaxes. A little.
“Thank you. It’s always nice to hear.”
“I’m sure you’re here to report on the halftime program—I’ve seen all your coverage of the Rose Waller case.” I glance at Ozzy. “I have some information that you may be interested in.”
“I can stop you there. I’m under strict instruction to report on the halftime program and that’s it. Any and all speculation about Rose’s death is off limits. The evidence points to a suicide. That’s where we’re leaving it.”
“I’m not here to talk about Rose Waller.”
Her eyebrow arches. “Then what?”
I take a deep breath. “I wanted to ask if you’d ever heard of a girl named Jacqueline Cates?”
Dave Reynolds lives on a huge piece of property on the outskirts of town. The main structure is an old farmhouse, owned by his family for generations, but we’re all gathered in the barn centered in a pasture a hundred yards away. It’s the perfect place for a post-game party; no neighbors to call the cops, plenty of room, and the fact his parents are out of town makes it even easier.
The barn isn’t just a barn but a refurbished guest house. Once his dad shuttered the working farm, other than renting out the pastures to other farmers, his mom remodeled, turning it into a rental that is currently unoccupied.
Ozzy, Finn, Ezra, and I get there once it’s in full swing. We waited for the guys to shower off and change after the game. I’m trapped in the car with three deliciously clean-smelling boys and halfway there I crack the window, needing to clear my head. My body has been on vibrate all evening—ever since Ozzy and I shared ourselves with one another. It’s like a switch flipped. My skin tingles every time we touch, like a current of electricity is wired between us. We can’t stop smiling at one another, like two stupid idiots. I hope it doesn’t cause an issue with the guys.
“All I know,” Ezra says, stretching his arms over his head, “is that I need a drink. Anyone?”
“Yeah, count me in,” Finn says. He’s been on edge since the game. Halftime fucked with his head. He’s more than ready to shake the label of grieving boyfriend. The problem is that half the girls in the school are also ready for him announce he’s back in the game.
That’s when things are going to get even more complicated.
Ozzy follows, but I hold back. “Coming?”
“Give me a minute,” I say, looking up at the loft. A pair of long legs hang through the railing slats. Alone. The flash of red hair gives away the owner.
I cross the room and climb the steep stairs. The loft has one big open room with comfortable-looking leather couches and a big-screened TV. Four doors exit off the room—two on each side. Bedrooms, I presume. Juliette sits away from everyone else, a bottle next to her, looking down over the party.
“This seat taken?” I ask, standing next to her.
She looks up, eyebrow arched in surprise. “Nope, it’s all yours.”
I drop to the ground and mimic her by sliding my legs through the railings. She hands me the bottle. I read the l
abel. Moonshine Farm Sour Apple Wine.
I unscrew the top, take a sip, and my tongue curls up from the sickly sweet. “Oh my God.”
“Right? It’s nasty.”
“Why are you drinking this.”
She shrugs, takes the bottle from me, and takes a swallow. “Seemed fitting on a night all about Rose. She’d sneak it over to my house in her bag, and we’d drink it at sleepovers.”
“With your parents there?”
“Well, not out in the open, but in my room. We’d get drunk, text Finn, post photos on ChattySnap. You know, typical girl stuff.”
Alice and I usually had a Harry Potter-Twilight marathon and decide which Robert Pattison we found hotter. Wizard or vampire. Sometimes it was a thorough comparison of the Dr. Who doctors. Embarrassingly, no alcohol was ever involved.
I grab the bottle and take another swig, this time more prepared for the assault of sour on my taste buds.
“Is that when she’d post on SugarBabies, too?"
She gives me a look. “I told you I don’t want to talk about that, but no, that was kind of her own thing.”
“Okay, okay.” I glance down below and see all three of the boys watching with curiosity.
“You’ve got quite the fan club down there.”
“You and I hanging out isn’t something people see every day.”
“True.” She takes another sip, this one longer and a little sloppier. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Finn likes you, you know. Always has.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
“He was too much of a boy for Rose. Too sweet. Too—high school.” She leans in, her breath sweet. “She always had a thing for older men.”
Nerves twist in my belly. “Do you think she ever hooked up with anyone here? In town?”
“Rose could have anyone she wanted—even if they were off limits. She had no boundaries.” She licks her lips and darkness flickers in her eyes. “But you know about that—she didn’t give a rat's ass about vandalizing your house or stealing the boy you loved.”
