Paradise City

by C. J. Duggan

  Forcing myself to breathe, my eyes flicked up to Ballantine who stood stoically, the lines of his face cast in a serious shadow.

  ‘So you weren’t avoiding me?’ I said in a low voice.

  ‘Avoiding you?’ He laughed. ‘Crazy uncle aside, Lex, I’m still crazy about you.’

  My insides twisted, as if his very words had wrapped themselves around my beating heart, clenching it to a stop in that very moment.

  Luke Ballantine was crazy about me?

  I bit my lip, another very complicated thought sobering me. ‘And what about the rumours?’

  Ballantine clenched his jaw so tight I could see the muscle pulse in his temple. My heart raced in panic as I stepped forward.

  ‘Nothing happened.’ I blurted it out. ‘It was just a stupid rumour and I didn’t shut it down because I was mad at you. I wanted you to be jealous, I wanted you to feel as shitty as I did, and I was terrified that I was the only one who was feeling anything.’

  And now you’ve said too much, Lexie. Awesome.

  Ballantine’s dark eyes bore down into mine, his entire body was coiled with tension; it was as if he was gauging if I was telling the truth, but when his eyes softened, the rigidness in his shoulders melted.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know nothing happened between you and Dean.’

  I frowned, confused, if not thrilled, by his certainty.

  ‘How?’

  Ballantine shrugged. ‘I asked him.’

  I swallowed. ‘Y– you asked him?’

  Ballantine looked bored. ‘I rang him up.’

  Oh no-no-no-no.

  Ballantine asked Dean about our mythical hook-up, and now Dean knew! Oh God, this was out of control; I was beyond mortified. I would never, ever step back into the Wipe Out Bar as long as I lived.

  I tried to seem cool, calm, as if what he had just said didn’t have me wanting to claw off my own face.

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He thought it was funny.’

  Funny?! FUNNY?

  I straightened my back. ‘Why funny?’

  Ballantine sighed, as if he really wasn’t that emotionally invested in the conversation. ‘He just said that that wouldn’t happen in a million years.’

  A MILLION years? Ouch!

  Even coming from him, it was like a full-blown punch to the ego. Was I that hideous?

  ‘He just said you weren’t his type,’ he added.

  ‘Ha! Ain’t that the absolute truth?’ I scoffed.

  ‘Make no mistake. If anything had happened between you and Dean he would have taken great pleasure in telling me as much.’

  I cocked my brow. ‘And I suppose you tell him with great pleasure about your conquests?’

  Ballantine smirked, shaking his head as he stepped closer to me. ‘No,’ he said, reaching out his hand to push a strand of hair from my face. ‘What I plan to do to you is between you and me.’

  I swallowed deeply, my eyes flicking down to his mouth. ‘And what is it you plan to do?’

  Ballantine’s wicked dimple puckered as he closed the distance, whispering his words across my neck. ‘I’m going to finish what I started, and then I’m going to do it again, and again, and again. That okay with you?’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I closed my eyes, holding my breath, expecting Ballantine’s lips to claim me. Instead, I felt his fingers lace between mine. I opened my eyes, before my attention lowered in confusion to where his hand held my hand.

  He pressed a finger to his lips as he pulled me along to follow him. He led me to the only other door in the room, a sliding, bright red, high-glossed door. It clashed horrendously with the wallpaper, but right now that mattered little. I was too busy trying to control my heart as Ballantine slid the red door open. Pulling me inside he closed it behind us. It seemed pitch black until again my eyes adjusted, enough to see there was a strip of light piercing through the venetians of a high, narrow window. There were open shelves, a bench and a sink – it almost seemed like the new common room had been converted from an old science lab. I glanced around the poky space, turning around and smiling coyly up at the shadow before me. The room was small and somehow being cramped inside it in the dark made me very aware of how close we were and what we had come in here for. I suddenly felt hot, as if there was no air; my heart pounded fiercely as worry crept at the edges of my conscience.

  I swallowed. ‘W– what about detention?’

  Before I had a chance to suggest maybe we best not be late again, Ballantine placed his hands on my waist, hitching me up onto the bench as if I weighed nothing. I yelped at the unexpectedness of it as I latched onto his shoulders that felt hot with rock hard muscle through the cotton fabric of his shirt.

  Ballantine’s eyes almost sparkled with devious intent. ‘Fuck detention,’ he said. Placing his hands under my knees he pulled me closer to him, stepping into the space between my thighs.

  The abrupt jolt and feel of heat pressed against the thin material of my knickers made it hard for me to think – to breathe – as I stumbled to try to keep talking.

  ‘You know, with us both not showing up for detention, that’s going to start a whole new set of rumours.’

  Ballantine’s hands slid slowly up the outside of my thighs, trailing a hot line under my skirt and down again. A devilish smile across his face.

  ‘Good,’ he said darkly. ‘When anyone looks at you,’ Ballantine popped the bottom stud of my school dress open, ‘when they whisper about you,’ he popped another, ‘when they imagine someone touching you,’ and another, ‘I want it to be my name they say.’ He slid his hand inside the opening of my dress as his mouth lowered on mine, hotter and needier than ever. My fingers dug into his shoulders, desperately clinging onto him, revelling in the feel of him, the taste of him as his tongue delved to tease mine. His kisses were like a drug, clouding my anxiety. It was like a dance, a to and fro of maddening senses. His hand would slide along my skin, intimately pressing and squeezing my breast through the lace of my bra, causing my mind to spike in panic. But it would quickly ebb by the sweet press of Ballantine’s lips as he kissed me passionately. I willingly opened myself up to him.

  My conscience was an annoying, insistent little thing; with every moan or grind, I had a little voice inside my head telling me that I shouldn’t be doing this, that we shouldn’t be here, that it was wrong. I blinked and breathed and was haunted by the voice in my head as Ballantine trailed his lips down my neck.

  It was a war between what I wanted and what I knew was right. Fucking consciences.

  Ballantine took my hand and guided it down to feel him through his jeans.

  Oh God.

  Giving me little time for shock, he kissed me again – deep and hard – as if knowing that his kisses eased me into any wicked moment, and they did. I rubbed the long, hard line of him that strained against the material of his jeans, feeling the power of how my touch was affecting him. I captured his groan of pleasure with my mouth. My heart leapt with approval. Suddenly I cared less about right or wrong and instead just revelled in the wicked, lost in the pleasure of what Ballantine was doing to me, wanting more and needing more. As his hand slid underneath my bra, he broke our kiss, catching his breath. His eyes burned into mine.

  ‘Please, don’t stop,’ I breathed, panicked by the thought.

  Ballantine smiled against my mouth, his breaths as laboured as mine. ‘Open your dress.’

  I moved quickly. Grabbing the material still together at the top, I pulled what remaining studs were closed, clicking them apart in one blow, exposing my white bra underneath and the flat bare line of my belly.

  A cocky grin curved the corner of Ballantine’s mouth as his heated gaze raked over my body. ‘This is so much better than detention,’ he said. Leaning forward, he clamped his hot mouth over my nipple, sucking through the material and causing my body to melt.

  ‘Fuck detention,’ I moaned, pushing into his mouth, inciting a chuc
kle I felt vibrate through his chest. He pulled away, a devious glint in his eyes; his hands moved to bunch the material of my dress up and over my hips.

  ‘Now that’s more like it.’

  I didn’t know if he was referring to my change of heart over detention, or the fact his hand was moving to pull the elastic of my knickers aside, his finger breaching the material and ghosting over the most tender part of me. He stroked and teased so gently. I opened for him. Closing my eyes, I melted back onto my elbows, the tingly sensations robbing me of all thought, until he pushed his finger inside me. I gasped, my eyes snapping open as he pushed deeper. I could see shadows dancing on the ceiling. They flickered through the window above: the shadows of people walking, running, the movement outside from the yard. Talking about sports, TV, homework, canteen orders, sleepovers; and all the while I rocked into Ballantine’s hand, legs wide open. He added another finger; I sat up, yanking his tie to pull him to my mouth, taking control and kissing him, grinding myself against him to match the rhythm of his thrusts.

  ‘Ballantine?’ I groaned it like a warning, almost frightened at what was building inside me, as his hand worked harder and my hips ground quicker. My body was greedy to release the pressure that was building – the almost unbearable pleasure – and relieve the too-sensitive area between my thighs.

  Oh God, don’t stop, don’t ever stop!

  Sensing my climb, he covered my mouth with his free hand, muffling my screams as I fell apart, my hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring myself to him as he pushed me over the edge. Only when my body became languid and defeated did he slowly let his hand fall. With my chest rising and falling, I looked into his amused, warm eyes. It took a moment for his breaths to even.

  Was it always like this?

  Ballantine slowly took his fingers away, pulling the fabric of my knickers back into place. I averted my eyes, concentrating on snapping the push studs of my dress back into place, grinning knowingly as Ballantine watched on in silence.

  What do you say after something like that?

  This wasn’t something that I had ever experienced before, a lunchtime hook-up in an abandoned room. I said nothing, hoping that Ballantine would break the silence. But he didn’t. Rather, he simply helped me slide down off the bench, then lifted my chin up so he could look down into my eyes for a long moment, as if he was trying to read my mind before giving me a slow, lingering kiss on my lips that ended all too soon. My insides burned in recognition of his touch as if I could easily go for round two, so when he pulled away with a cocky grin I felt a twinge of disappointment hit me.

  ‘There’s no need to look so pleased with yourself,’ I said.

  He bit his lower lip to stifle a smile.

  I shook my head incredulously. ‘You’re going to be so bad for me, aren’t you?’

  Ballantine circled his arms around me. ‘You know what they say about being bad?’

  I shook my head.

  He pressed his forehead against mine. ‘It’s going to feel so, so good.’

  I could feel just how so, so good it was going to be pressed up against me. I was still a little dazed and confused that this had simply been about me. We so needed to talk this out, but now obviously wasn’t the time. I hoped he was going to be good for me.

  •

  The rest of the day, the agonisingly long, drawn-out fifth period Science and sixth period English were all undertaken with a big goofy grin. I tried to disguise it as I must’ve looked like a bit of a freak, smiling all the way through group discussions on The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

  Scrawling love hearts in the margin of my exercise book, I listened less to the journey of Huckleberry and reminisced more about the screaming big ‘O’ Ballantine gave me in the Year Twelve common room.

  When Ballantine and I had parted ways – him leaving a few seconds before me, turning right down the corridor, then me turning left – we didn’t exactly have a grand exchange of numbers or make plans to catch up over the weekend or anything. At the time, our smug little act of escaping detention and getting out of the common room undetected was what occupied us.

  But now, as the day drew to an end, I felt a small bubble of anxiety. I felt it grow as I walked through the halls, glancing around, wondering if Ballantine was still here. I took the long way around towards the back of the music room, walking up the path where the outside car park was, where all the Year Twelves with licences parked, but the yellow Sandman wasn’t there, and the worry morphed into panic. I needed to see Ballantine before the weekend started, or the next couple of days would be filled with rampant paranoid thoughts and then a possible awkward Monday. I made my way to my locker, lost in my own thoughts, mindlessly turning the dial of my combination lock. I hardly even took in any of the giggles and whispers around me, as students speculated about the new girl hooking up with Dean. The falseness of the rumours meant little to me now, as all I cared about were the very real-life issues that were playing on my mind. I flung open my locker, and a folded-up piece of paper fell out to land on the top of my shoe. I reached down, picking it up, wondering where it had come from and who it had come from. My heart raced and I didn’t know if I even wanted to open it. What if it was some kind of hate mail calling me a slut or something? But then curiosity got the better of me and I slowly unfolded the little square.

  In my hand lay an A4 piece of paper covered in a black-inked mural, full of twists and circles; a large wave flowed through the centre crashing into a sun that splintered into a million tiny pieces. I recognised it instantly for what it was. It was the drawing Ballantine had been working on the entire week of detention. He had created it using my pen, and at a guess, I seriously doubted there would be any ink left in it looking at all the intricate details, with barely a white space to be seen. What did stand out was something in one of the corners – in red ink there was a faint calligraphy-styled ‘L’: an L for Lexie. I smiled so broadly my face hurt: I may not have had the chance to see Ballantine at the end of school but this, this very piece of paper I held in my hand, was enough. It was more than enough.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Basking in the solitude of an empty house, I ignored the English assignment that was due on Monday, putting that on my list of things for future Lexie to worry about. For now: first one home, first one to raid the cupboard. Not that there was really ever anything in it aside from fruit and a box of bran; um, no! I was going to need something a little stronger. Thinking I couldn’t get into any more trouble than I was already in, I raided the forbidden shelf that housed Uncle Peter’s Coke for his Scotch and Coke. I grabbed it with great delight. If he hadn’t come into the Wipe Out Bar none of this would have happened. I pulled the tab, hearing the hiss as I punctured it open. Yum!

  I slurped a big mouthful down, eyeing the flickering, flashing number on the answering machine on the kitchen bench. I pressed the play button, hoping it was a message from Mum. I really wanted to hear her voice, so when Principal Fitzgibbon’s voice came through the loud speaker I almost spat my mouthful of Coke all over the kitchen.

  Hi, Mr and Mrs Burnsteen, it’s John Fitzgibbons, principal of Paradise High here. Just wanted to check how Lexie was doing? She wasn’t present at her lunchtime detention today and there is no record of her leaving the grounds. She might not be aware of the rules when it comes to going home sick but she has to sign out. I am sure it’s all a misunderstanding. Our main concern of course is that Lexie is okay. Please give us a call back on . . .

  I quickly pressed the button.

  Message deleted.

  Oh shit, that was bad: very, very bad.

  The walls were closing in on me: there was no un-opening and putting back the Coke, there was no way of avoiding my wagging detention and fooling around with Ballantine in the common room, and the way that news travelled around here, both Uncle Peter and Aunty Karen would probably come home thinking I’d been knocked up by Dean Saville. If even a sliver of any of this got back to my parents I would be goin
g home, first thing.

  I heard the front door open and the unmistakeable sound of a bag being dropped.

  Crap!

  I quickly tipped the rest of the Coke down the sink, spinning around the kitchen looking for a place to hide the evidence. I opted for the bread bin. I wasn’t in the mood to face Amanda . . . alone!

  I readied myself for the inevitable onslaught of questions about Dean Saville. I opted for light and casual, placing one hand on the bench and the other on my hip, like ‘Hey, what’s up? I’m just hanging in the kitchen, real casual like.’ I felt about as casual as an eighties model in a knitwear catalogue.

  Amanda appeared from around the corner looking every bit as pissed off as I had ever seen.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, light and airy, my attempt to set the tone.

  ‘Oh, you’re here.’ It was more of an accusation than a statement as she walked past me and went straight to the fridge. ‘Oh goody!’ she said sarcastically.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what her actual problem was. I thought maybe if I explained the full story to her she might be less mad at me and just see it for the colossal mistake that it was.

  ‘Amanda, what’s wrong?’

  I expected to be met with her usual cagey silence, so when Amanda slammed the fridge door and spun around glaring at me, I wanted to run and hide under my bed.

  ‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong is you are embarrassing me! The whole school is talking about my slutty cousin who is fucking Dean Saville!’ she screamed.

  Whoa.

  I had expected one hundred and one questions, but not this.

  ‘I am not doing anything with Dean Saville,’ I deadpanned.

  ‘Oh, really? Because that’s not what your BFF Laura is saying.’

  It suddenly occurred to me that above all else there was a far bigger crime being committed here, something that everyone failed to see. Boon was reading Laura’s diary, albeit a fake diary. Still, he had no right and someone had to point this out.

  ‘Did she tell you this directly?’ I probed with interest.