by K. A. Tucker
Keeping my hand moving slowly, I whisper, “So, you’re still with her . . . but not by choice.”
“As far as an arranged relationship goes, she’s perfect. She’s sweet and pretty. And she lives far away.” He’s numb to it. I hear it. He’s acquiescent and numb.
“Does she know about this arrangement?”
A small derisive snort escapes. “She thinks we’ll get married. And if—” He clamps his mouth shut. But I think I know where that train of thought was going. If his father wants Ashton to marry her . . . A shiver runs from the base of my neck down my back, around my ribs, into my throat, enveloping me with icy dread. God, what is he holding over Ashton’s head?
My body instinctively curls into his, pressing against him. I roll my head just enough to lay a sympathetic kiss against his chest. Or is it more of a relieved kiss? Relieved that I’m not wrecking a happy home because it’s all a sham?
“Can’t you get away from him?”
“Eventually. It could be months, years. I won’t know until I know. I was managing okay, though.” He pauses. “And then the most beautiful girl on this planet punched me in the jaw.”
A small half-giggle slips out. “You deserved that, Jell-O thief.”
The sound of his chuckle vibrates through my body. “I’ve never had a girl tremble like that for me before while fully dressed, Irish.”
“Shut up and give me that ice cream.” I lift my body up and reach for the spoon, but his long arm span makes it impossible to reach.
“I think you’ve done enough damage to yourself for one night.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Why are you here and not at practice again?”
“Because I knew there’d be a hot chick with a terrific rack and chocolate ice cream smeared all over her face here.”
I freeze. My eyes drop to my shirt. My threadbare white cotton pajama top does nothing to hide the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. And my face? Based on the side of Ashton’s shirt, I’d say he’s telling the truth. “How bad is it?”
“You know how clowns have lipstick around the outside of their lips . . .”
Ohmigod! I jab my palm into his solar plexus as I move to get up.
His hands around my biceps stop me. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To wash my face!”
In a split second, Ashton has me lying on my back again with no effort, my wrists pinned beneath his hands and his weight. “Let me help you with that.” He leans down and lets the tip of his tongue run leisurely around the outside of my mouth, beginning at the top, going from left to right, and then the bottom, from left to right, gently lapping up ice cream as he goes.
If there’s such thing as a virgin slut, I believe I fit the description.
How did I get myself into this again? I close my eyes, the urge to both giggle and scream at the top of my lungs overpowering. I woke up this morning, as I have every other morning since I last saw Ashton, telling myself to let go, to stop thinking about him and stay on the course that I’ve set out on. The slow-and-easy Connor course.
How, then, do I end up in my bed, struggling not to pant while Ashton licks chocolate ice cream off my face, while I try my own Jedi mind tricks to get a repeat of our night in the car? I haven’t said a word to stop him and I could. I could tell him to stop. I could call him a male whore. I could tell him that he’s making me feel like a whore.
But I don’t do any of that because I don’t want him to stop.
I let out a tiny whimper as he pulls back slightly. “It’s almost better,” he murmurs, his breathing shallow. He moves on to my lips, running his tongue along my top lip from left to right, followed by my bottom lip, left to right. I can’t help my mouth parting open for him. I can’t stop my tongue from automatically sliding out, reaching for him.
That’s when he pulls back and looks at me with those sad eyes.
I think I know the answer but I want to hear him say it, so I ask, “Why did you come? The truth.”
He swallows. “Because I couldn’t stand knowing that you were upset. But . . .” I watch as his eyes close and his head bobs forward. “I can’t play this game with you, Irish. I’m going to hurt you.”
His light stubble grazes against my palm as I lift his chin up so I can meet his eyes again.
And I ignore.
I ignore his words. I ignore the guilt in my stomach and the screams in my head. I ignore the internal battle I can see going on inside him. I want to forget all the uncertainties growing in my life and make him forget dark closets and tape and belts and his silent prison.
I ignore it all as I slip my hand around the back of his neck and pull him into me to kiss and then trail my tongue along the bottom of his lip. Ashton’s breath hitches and I feel the muscles cord beneath my fingers as he hesitates, his hand fisting the pillow beside my head as he fights it.
I don’t want him to fight anymore. I’m desperate to see that vulnerable side of him again. I need to feel close to him again. I want to make him feel good. I want me to feel good. I want to just let go of . . . everything.
That’s what it feels like when I’m with Ashton.
Like I’m letting go.
And that’s why I give him a level stare and demand, “Help me forget for a while.”
He stops hesitating.
He crashes down into my mouth with an unreserved fierceness. I match it, kissing him like I need the air in his lungs to survive. A part of me is afraid. I feel that deep inside. I don’t know what this is going to lead to and I don’t know if I’m ready for it.
But I don’t think I’ll stop it.
It’s as if he can read my mind. He breaks free and looks down at me to whisper, “We won’t . . . I won’t take anything away from you today, Irish. I won’t ever do that while I’m not . . . free.” I don’t miss the fact that he’s not using words like “screw” or “fuck” in typical Ashton fashion. Then again, I don’t have the typical Ashton here with me anymore. I have the one he hides from everyone else.
I close my eyes as his lips find my throat and I marvel at how they’re both soft and forceful. By the time they reach my collarbone, my chest is heaving. Ashton tugs my shirt up and over my head with ease. Tossing it to the floor, he lifts himself up enough that he can stare down at my bare chest, making all the nerves within my breasts tingle. “That morning I woke up in here . . .” His eyes flicker up to catch me watching him before descending again. “I was ready to drop to my knees and beg you to uncover these.” A hiss escapes me as he cups and caresses first one and then the other breast, as if memorizing their shape and size and feel. His thumb brushes a hardened nipple and a shudder runs through me. With a small groan, I gasp as Ashton’s mouth closes over it, his tongue moving with skill. I can’t help but wrap my arms around his head and pull him closer, crying out as his teeth send a sharp thrill straight down to my core.
I’ve noticed that when I make sounds like that, even unintentionally, Ashton reacts. This time he breaks free long enough to yank his own shirt over his head. The second it’s off, his hand is diving beneath me to grasp the back of my pajama bottoms. He pulls them down and off my hips without delay, panties and all. In seconds I’m completely undressed and his mouth is back around my nipple.
I wrap my arms around his head again and rest my head back into the pillow, reveling in the feel of his scorching skin against mine and his erection digging into my thigh. I have the urge to reach down and wrap my hand around it, but it would involve moving and I’m too comfortable right now. So I stay put while I try to imagine what Ashton would feel like inside me. Just the thought has my thighs relaxing and tensing at the same time and wetness beginning to pool.
And that’s how Ashton’s hand discovers me when it slides down. “Holy fuck, Irish . . .” I hear him mutter, and I tighten my grip of his head against me as my head lolls back and I moan, silently t
hanking my professor for my shitty chem grade.
“This won’t work . . .” Ashton abruptly rolls off the bed.
Panic bubbles. I think I’ve done something wrong. Is he going to leave me like this?
“Sit up, Irish.”
I obey, and he lets out a groan as he turns my body and pulls my legs over the side of the bed, pausing to let his eyes drag the length of my frame. “Lean back on your elbows.”
I let out a small gasp but I do as asked. I think I know what he’s doing. Ashton steps forward, keeping his eyes locked to mine as his hands settle on the tops of my thighs. “The thing about these damn beds . . .” I feel the force against my thigh muscles as Ashton’s hands began to push my legs apart. I hold my breath, suddenly petrified.
I know what he’s doing and I’m freaking out.
But Ashton’s eyes are still locked on mine so I don’t resist him. “. . . is that they’re not good. . . .” With a quick tug, he has my hips at the edge of the bed. His fingers skate along the length of my legs as he wraps them over his shoulders. He breaks eye contact from me for the first time to start laying kisses along my inner thigh, slowing inching in, his breath sending shivers of anticipation upward. “. . . for things like this.”
I gasp as his tongue touches me. At first I’m beyond uncomfortable, exposed like this. I mean, having Ashton’s face so intimately there is, well, nerve-racking. But it feels . . .amazing. And with his expert tongue and adept fingers working in tandem, I soon start to feel that familiar build, the one where I shut out the world. I let my head dip back and my eyes close and a shaky sigh escape my lips as I try to memorize how incredible this feels. That must be a sign for Ashton, because his mouth becomes more feverish and excited and his hands squeeze my thighs, pulling me closer into him.
When the wave is about to hit me again, I can’t help but roll my head back up and look down at him. His eyes are locked on mine with that odd sense of peace behind them.
And it makes me scream out his name.
I’m a limp doll as Ashton shifts my body back onto the bed. He tucks me under the covers and then lifts his arms to rest on the edge. “Don’t you want me to . . . ?” I bite my lip as a blush heats my cheeks.
With a secretive smile, he smooths my hair off my forehead. “I’ve been tied up the last few nights and I’m behind on a paper. I should go work on it.” I close my eyes and enjoy the feel of his thumb stroking my cheek, reveling in this deep intimacy forming between Ashton and me. I drift off.
Reagan slips in at around eleven that night. I redressed at some point but I’m still lying in bed, my face buried in the pillow that smells like Ashton’s cologne, my afternoon with him on mental repeat. I’m holding on to that euphoric afterglow with two gripped hands, desperate to keep the guilt and doubt and confusion from swirling back into my lungs like suffocating black smoke.
“Hey, Reagan. How’s it going?”
She flops into her bed. “I got kicked out of the library for being too loud.”
I snort. “Too loud at what exactly?” Schoolwork isn’t a guaranteed pastime for Reagan at the library, after all.
“Studying by myself. Go figure, right?” I giggle, knowing exactly why. Reagan tends to talk out loud when she’s working through her textbooks. I think it’s cute, but most people would find it annoying. “If only they knew . . .” There’s a pause, and then she casually mentions, “I saw Connor there tonight.”
“Oh yeah?” I try to make that light and airy as the guilty virgin slut coils tighten around my chest.
The bed frame creaks as Reagan shifts beneath me. “He asked how you were doing. You know, because of a bad midterm mark.”
I sigh. “I’m doing . . . better.”
“Good.”
I pause to take a deep breath. And then I just blurt it out. “I think I’m going to end things with Connor.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe you should wait until after the weekend.” There’s another shift and the sound of tugging sheets, as if Reagan can’t get comfortable.
I find it strange that she doesn’t ask why, that she doesn’t sound at all shocked by my statement. Why not? I’m shocked. If I had written down on a piece of paper everything that I thought should comprise the ideal man for me, and then drew a caricature, I’d have a page with Connor on it. “He wants me to meet his parents.” How can I do that now? His mother will know! Mothers have radar for these things. She’ll out me publicly. It will be the first stoning in Princeton rowing history.
“So meet his parents and then break it off. You’re not promising marriage. Otherwise you’ll make things really awkward for Connor and yourself the day of the race. It’s already going to be awkward.”
“Why?”
“Because Dana will be there.”
That name . . . it’s like a punch to my sternum. “So what if she’s there. There’s nothing going on between Ashton and me.” Liar! Liar! Liar!
There’s a pause. “Well, that’s good, because Ashton’s going to be dead by tomorrow anyway.”
“What?” Panic bursts.
“He skipped practice tonight. My dad tracked him down. He’s probably still out running laps, and it’s cold out there.”
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about that. Guilty, definitely, because he’s being punished for being with me. But . . . my hands press flat against my belly as my heart ruptures with emotion. He knew it would happen and he did it anyway.
Reagan is still talking. “And don’t forget there’s the Halloween party that night. You don’t want to make that super awkward. It’s not like you and Connor are sleeping together yet . . . .right?”
“Right . . . Is Dana going to be there?”
“No, I overheard Ashton saying that she’ll be visiting her family in Queens.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Anyway, that’s my vote. Wait until next week before you dump your pretty boy.”
I sigh. “Yeah, I guess.” What’s another few days of festering guilt? It’s a good idea, actually. Punish myself. I deserve it. I roll onto my side, my brain worked into exhaustion. “’Night, Reagan.”
“’Night, Livie.”
There’s a pause. “Hey, Livie?” Reagan clears her throat a few times in a way that tells me she’s struggling not to burst out in laughter. “Next time can you please hang the sock on the door to warn me?”
“They’re beautiful,” I whisper. I’m curled into a ball on my bed with a bouquet of purple irises in my hand and Connor on my phone. And I don’t deserve them. Or you.
“I remember you saying you loved irises. They’re not in season in the fall, did you know that?”
I smile as the tears trickle down my cheek. Dad used to surprise Mom with bouquets of dark purple irises every spring. Except it wasn’t really a surprise because he’d do it every Friday night for, like, five weeks straight—for as long as they were in season. Each time, though, Mom’s face would split with a wide grin and she’d fan her face with excitement as if he were proposing to her. Kacey and I used to roll our eyes and mimic Mom’s over-the-top reaction.
Now my memory of purple irises will be tied to my treachery.
“I know they’re not.” That means Connor spent an astronomical amount of money, either on imports or special-grown. “What are they for?”
“Oh . . .” Connor pauses, and I can picture him leaning against the counter in the kitchen. “Just to let you know that I was thinking about you and to not worry about that grade.”
I swallow. “Thanks.” That grade. Since that C minus paper, I’ve received all of my other midterms back. Cs. All of them except for English lit, which earned a B. The prof even made a note that he liked the way I attacked the complex topic. He made it sound like a B is a good thing. My take on the moral dilemmas faced by the characters in Wuthering Heights and their choices was apparently fascinating to him.
Maybe it’s because I can’t seem to get a grasp of my own morals anymore that I can make interesting observations about others’ plights. I feel as though I’ve entered some strange twilight zone where everything I know has been turned upside down. I considered texting Ashton to let him know that I needed more cheering up, but I resisted the urge.
“My parents are looking forward to meeting you tomorrow.”
Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I lie, “Same here.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
October 31
Dr. Stayner once suggested that all people face a day in their life that defines who they are, that shapes who they will become, that sets them on their path. He said that one day will either guide or haunt them until they take their last breath. I told him he was being dramatic. I told him I didn’t believe it. It makes it sound as if a person is a pliable hunk of clay up until that point—just sitting around waiting to be fired, to solidify those curves and creases that hold their identity, their stability. Or their instability.
A highly implausible theory. And that, coming from a medical professional.
Maybe he’s right, though.
Looking back on it now, I guess I could agree that my day of firing was the day that my parents died.
And October 31 is the day that shattered the design.
“I am getting so drunk tonight!” Reagan announces with her arms held high and her head back, basking in the early-morning sun. She doesn’t care that we’re standing at a crowded finish line of spectators, waiting for the guys to climb out of their winning boat. Reagan had warned me that this race was a big deal, but I was still surprised to hear that over four hundred boats would be racing today.
“And how is that different from every other weekend?” I tease, pulling my light jacket tight to my body. Three years in Miami temperatures has spoiled me for the crisp northern air that I grew up in. The fact that it’s mid-morning and we’re down by the river only adds to the chill.
