by Claire Adams
“What should we do?” he asks.
“I’m not going back out there right now,” I tell him. “Just don’t come inside me.”
I feel two hands, one on the back of each of my legs, and they’re moving upward. His touch is warm, comforting and a little disorienting until he stands up, keeping his hands right where they ended up, and he’s whispering, “Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” I answer.
One of his hands moves up my body, settling between my shoulder blades while the other moves down the back of my left leg. As the hand moves closer toward the back of my knee, I get the idea and I lift the leg for him to cradle, and I reach forward to find just where his body begins.
My hand falls on his chest and I move it down, telling him to keep me steady; telling him I’d rather not end up slipping, cracking my head and ending up being carted out of here on a stretcher, naked from the waist down in front of hundreds of spectators. He’s holding me firmly, but I know how my knees go weak with Ian.
My hand finally comes to his skin once more, and I take him in my hand a moment, feeling his pulse under my fingers, and then I bring his tip to my entrance and let my knee bend just enough to feel him as he parts my folds, entering me.
Now inside, Ian takes over, slowly pushing into me before pulling back out most of the way, going just a little deeper each time, and I’m just glad he’s holding me up.
Given our height difference and the lack of available light in the room, finding his lips is difficult when they’re not kissing me or running over my body, but my hands are free enough that I finally just pull his head toward me and move my mouth where it feels like he’s going to be.
My lips make contact with him, but it’s not his mouth they find.
He’s stifling laughter, saying, “Kind of got my eye, there.”
I smile, not that he’s going to see it, and we’re able to find each other’s mouths before much longer.
Ian only seems to grow harder inside me as I reach for his hand that’s holding up my leg, and I give it a slight tug, trying to let him know I want him to let go for a second, and he does. Free now, I wrap my leg the rest of the way around his body, using it as leverage to pull him toward me, to pull more of him into me.
The feeling of his skin is a bit more intense than I’d anticipated, but every time I feel my standing knee start to weaken or like I’m beginning to lose my balance, I just clutch Ian a little tighter and he pulls me a bit closer, making sure I’m steady, secure.
“You’re so wet,” he utters.
I kiss for his lips again, though from the feel of it, I end up somewhere along his jawline, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the feel of him on my lips, against my body, inside my body.
His breath starts to quicken, and I’m beginning to feel that building heat right until the moment a knock lands on the door. I should be startled, but no, that’s just the final piece of the puzzle before I’m coming, holding Ian so tight.
I know I need to be quiet, so I try to bury my face in Ian’s chest, but it doesn’t seem to be working as whoever’s standing on the other side of the door knocks again, only louder this time.
Ian’s arms are firm around me, and I’m grateful. Otherwise, there’s no way I would have managed to stay on my feet this long.
I’m sweating and this room suddenly feels so small, confining, but it’s okay because Ian and I are still holding each other.
“We should probably get out there,” Ian whispers.
“Not yet,” I respond.
“Why?” he asks. “Everything all right?”
“Do you remember how you were telling me about your pre-competition ritual?” I ask. “If I’m not mistaken, you went as far as to say that getting blue balls ruins your ability to skate. I’m not done until you’re done.”
“Just a second then,” he says, and I have no idea what he’s doing when he eases his grip on me, but doesn’t pull out of me as he cracks the door open. “Yeah,” Ian says, “any way you could just give us a couple more minutes?”
“Oh god,” I groan.
The man on the other side of the barely-cracked door just laughs and says, “Sure thing, buddy. Just remember: You’re in a janitor’s closet. There’s no reason to not clean up after yourselves.”
With that, Ian closes the door again and this time, I hear him fumbling with the doorknob before a second latching sound comes.
“I think we’ve got about two minutes before that guy brings all of his buddies over here to stand outside the door and listen in on us,” he says.
“Think we’ve got the time?” I ask.
“We’ll see,” he says.
The feeling of him inside of me is so comfortable, so natural, that I almost don’t even realize he’s still inside of me until he starts slowly pulling back before easing in again. With the first millimeter of motion, I feel every bit of him that’s in between my legs and inside of me, and I’ve all but forgotten about the guy that knocked on the door.
“That’s not going to do it,” I whisper to Ian, and I’m rocking my hips and gripping him tight with my kegel muscles.
“Fu-uck,” he mutters, and he’s holding my hips now, using the leverage to enter me so fast, so hard.
“Come for me,” I whisper to him, and his grip on me tightens.
He’s breathing heavily, his erection so slick with the wet in me and one of his hands comes up to pull my upper body tight against his.
Ian’s breath is jagged, and as I glance down toward the tiny space under the door, the gap through which all light in this little room enters, and see two foot-width shadows just on the other side, and suddenly my body’s quivering and I’m clutching Ian again, just hoping he can keep his balance when he comes.
Wait.
With my hand closest to the door, I feel against the wall until I find a light switch, and I tell Ian to close his eyes just before I flip the switch.
Now, with my first real look at the room, I find it’s not nearly as cramped as I’d thought, but that couldn’t matter less right now.
The diversion pulled me back from the brink, but Ian’s eyelids are squeezed shut and I can tell that he’s trying to quiet the sound of his own breathing as his moment draws near.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Where—”
I lift myself off of him and put both legs on the ground before lowering myself between his knees and taking him into my mouth.
I’m looking up at him and his eyes are wide open as he matches my gaze for what feels like almost no time at all before his eyes close and, with a stifled grunt, his salty warmth spreads throughout my mouth.
I swallow as he comes, and his body shudders as the orgasm begins to recede.
A few seconds later, and we’re embracing each other, breathing heavily.
“Tell me,” he says, kissing my forehead.
“Tell you what?” I whisper back, blindly wrapping my arms around the back of his neck.
“What changed your mind?” he asks.
“I got the point,” I tell him. “When I asked you earlier what your point was, what you were trying to prove by arguing with me,” I breathe, “I know what you were trying to say.”
“You do?” he asks.
“I think so,” I tell him. “Otherwise, I may have just made a huge mistake.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
Maybe I misread what he was saying. Maybe he wasn’t trying to say anything at all. Maybe he was just stalling while he tried to think of something clever to say.
I should have known.
That’s what I’m thinking right until he says it. “The point is,” he tells me, “that I think I’m in love with you.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Street
Ian
I’m leaning against a wall in the janitor’s closet, just trying to catch my breath.
There’s a lot more that I want to say, but Mia hasn’t responded to the bomb I just dropped. She said she knew what I meant, but
the silence is suggesting otherwise.
The silence doesn’t last, though, as outside the door to this room that smells like bleach and now, sex, comes the heavy thud of music over the sound system.
I look down at Mia. She looks up at me.
“You should go,” she says. “It sounds like they’re letting people in.”
“Yeah,” I answer, but I hesitate. “Should we…?”
“Just go,” she says. “We suck at talking.”
I wheeze a bit of nervous laughter and ask, “When exactly did I lose my shirt?”
“I couldn’t even tell you,” she answers, wiping a forearm across the sweat on her brow.
I find the shirt dangling from the handle of a mop and I grab it, sticking my head through the neck hole and pulling up my pants.
“Are you coming?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll be out in a minute. I’m going to try to freshen up a little so maybe I can look a touch less I just made it with a guy in a janitor’s closet.”
“You know,” I start again, “you never responded to what I—”
“I love you too, dummy,” she says, patting me on the cheek. “Now go before I change my mind again. You know how fickle I can be.”
I’m smiling, although I’m not a hundred percent sure she’s joking, and I leave the janitor’s closet, still adjusting my shirt as I close the door behind me.
I can’t really say I come out of the room unnoticed, but the people who spot me either don’t seem to know what just happened in there or they just don’t care. There’s no way to tell, and I’m sure as hell not going to bother asking.
People are still filing in through the front doors, but the place is already pretty packed.
A few people are starting to skate around the street course, but they don’t seem to be competitors.
I should be rather pleased with myself at the moment, and I would be if it weren’t for the fact that I have no idea where the hell my board ended up.
I ditched it after what happened with Abby, when I was trying to catch up to Mia. From there, who knows?
It’s not like it’s the end of the world or anything. Even if I can’t find my board, I’m sure I could borrow one from Rob—he’s always got one in the trunk—it’d just be nice to have my own.
As I make my way toward the first bright pink shirt I see in the distance, I take a quick look back in the direction of the janitor’s closet. The door’s closed. I can’t see whether there’s light coming from under the door or not—there are too many people between me and there—but I guess I’ll see her when this thing gets started.
I track down Nick, but he hasn’t seen my board. I ask him where Rob and Marci are, but he just shrugs, saying, “How the hell should I know?”
“Hey shit brick, forget something?” Rob’s voice comes from behind me, and I turn around to find him standing on my board.
“Do me a favor?” I ask and Rob rolls his eyes as he steps off of my skateboard and kicks it in my direction.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“I think you’ve got about an hour,” Nate says. “If you’re going to get some practice time in, though, you’d better do it. I think the break between street and vert is only like ten minutes.”
“Can’t even drop a deuce in ten minutes,” Rob says, pretending like someone would actually care to hear it.
“All right, I’ll see you guys in a bit?” I ask.
I get affirmative responses across the board and I stomp the tail of my board, catching the nose in my hand when it comes up, and I walk through the crowds toward the vert ramp.
There are a few people up top and one guy’s doing a practice run, but as I start to get closer, I’m gripped by cold fear. This is too real. It’s just too real.
I know it’s probably a mistake, but I take a left turn before I get to the vert ramp and head for the nearest portion of the street course. After finding the obligatory woman with a clipboard, I’m let through and I skate over to the roll-in ramp.
Over the next hour or so, I spend almost every second I’m not riding to look over at the vert ramp. Every time, I tell myself, “All right, just one more line and I’ll head over there,” but I keep finding ways to talk myself out of it and it just doesn’t happen.
I’m still trying to talk myself into taking at least one practice run now, as I may not have time between disciplines, but when a woman comes over the sound system—I could almost swear it’s Nick’s mom, although that would certainly be a surprise—I know it’s too late.
The street competition is about to begin.
I make my way down to the edge of the crowd and find Rob, who has my duffel bag complete with my pads, a beer, and the obligatory victory joint.
By the time I’m back to the starting area, unzipping the bag, the first guy is already rolling in to start off the competition.
I haven’t met everyone I’ll be competing against today, but I know all of them, at least by reputation. I’ve got a solid edge in the street competition, but I’m not going to be pulling any cute tricks like I did back at the demo. Here, that could really backfire.
My turn comes and I start off with a more relaxed run, still pulling enough tricks, hitting enough gaps, but I can tell before my time’s out that it’s not going to be a first place attempt.
The scoring for today’s competition is simple. Best two out of three runs from each discipline will be counted, highest score wins.
By the time my turn comes around again, I’m in third place: Not bad, but I’m going to have to turn it up if I’m going to cancel out that first run.
I roll in and this time, I head straight for the pyramid, coming fast up the bank and launch into a 540 hospital flip to roast beef.
Landing fakie, I push hard toward the euro gap, kicking a 180 sigma flip over the gap, landing in a manual and I big flip off the ledge onto the flat.
Approaching the flat rail, I nollie up and into a darkslide.
I get a few more lines in before the buzzer ends my second run.
The street round isn’t over yet, but I’m feeling pretty confident as I squeak into first, just ahead of Mike Onomato, who pats me on the back as I return to the starting area.
“That was a hell of a run,” he says. “Seriously, are you regular or goofy?”
“Wouldn’t you just love to know?” I ask and laugh.
Mike’s a nice guy, but when it comes to competing, once he’s up, he’s all in and it doesn’t matter who else is there. I went harder on the first run than I did at the demo, but unless I can top that and let that lower number drop, Mike could very easily walk away with the first here and if that happens, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make up the difference.
What I need out of my third run is overwhelming force.
What I get out of my third run is a solid, but hardly game-changing score, putting me a few points ahead of Mike, whose last run had knocked me into second.
He’s picked up a few things.
There’s one more competitor, Jimmy Plimpton, a redheaded pimply kid who’s going to be lucky if he ends up in the top half of the field and then it’s over. While I easily win the street competition, I’m only three points ahead of Onomato going into the vert session.
Any other day, that would be a blowout. Today, though…
It never occurred to me that I could end up going into the vert section without at least a five point lead.
There’s no time to think it over, though, as everyone starts heading over to the vert ramp.
I’m one of the last to the top, but I’ll be the first to go and whatever happens, I need to just keep my head: just focus on the moment and not get carried away by anything outside of it.
I’m thinking I’m going to have time to take a quick practice run while they get everything ready to go, but the judges are already set up and the announcer is welcoming everyone to the vert portion of the competition.
I look out over the crowd.
None of them besides Mia, Rob, Nick, and maybe Abby—if she’s even still here—will have any idea why I’m so pale, and I’m just hoping they can’t see it. That theory goes all to hell though, when I turn around to find a camera in my face.
There are no microphones or people asking for insight, so I just give a quick smile and a wave and turn back around at my earliest chance.
They’re calling my name, ready for me to start, and I get into position.
My foot’s on the back of the board, and I take a deep breath as I look down and across the ramp. Under my breath, I’m mumbling, “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”
Chapter Nineteen
Everything
Mia
Ian’s standing at the edge of the ramp, ready to drop in, and I can see just how much the blood’s drained from his face, even from where I’m standing.
“Don’t be scared,” I mutter, my voice easily drowned out among the cheering crowd. “Just take it as it comes. Don’t be scared.”
The countdown timer comes up on the board, signaling that Ian can start whenever he’s ready, and he doesn’t waste any time. His front foot is on the board and he’s leaning in.
My heart is in my throat as he comes down the ramp and everything seems to be moving in slow motion as he comes to the bottom.
He’s looking good as he goes into the curve to the flat, but his head jerks quickly to one side and a moment later, he’s running out of it and my heart sinks.
“Oh, no,” I mutter.
It’s best two out of three, but I don’t know if he’s going to be able to get past running out on his first drop in of the competition. This could go very bad, very quick.
People are laughing, pointing. They may not know yet that he’s had trouble with this, but if he can’t get it together, they’re going to find out really quick.
I’m actually pretty tempted to leave after having endured him after a loss and not really being willing to put myself through such treatment again, but I can’t go. This is such a big thing for him.
It’s not until after Ian’s getting back up to the top of the ramp that I even realize Mike Onomato is here. It didn’t even click that he’s in this thing, though his absence wouldn’t make much sense.
