Undecided

by Julianna Keyes

  “Nora,” Crosbie says.

  “Thanks for your help,” I tell him. “I can take it from here.” I step back as he comes through the window, pulling it closed.

  “Get out,” he says to the Cat in the Hat.

  “There you are!” comes a familiar voice. Crosbie looks pained and closes his eyes for a second, but when they reopen, he’s looking over my shoulder—at Clark Kent.

  “We’re not supposed to be seen together,” Crosbie says. “We’re the same person, remember?”

  “I thought you’d be happy to make an exception,” Kellan replies. “For Miss Maryland or Miss Louisiana?” Upon hearing their cue, the slightly tipsy beauty queens enter the room, doing their best formal waves and collapsing into each other as they giggle.

  The Cat in the Hat and I share a look, then murmur our excuses as we leave the room.

  “You doing okay, Nora?” Kellan asks.

  “Just great,” I assure him.

  Crosbie says something, but it’s drowned out in more laughter, and I’m moving too fast to make it out, even if I wanted to. It’s only nine-thirty when I get downstairs, so I grab another drink and make a half-hearted lap around the room, checking out the décor, the costumes, the couples. I see Max—The Walking Douche—and all of a sudden I just want to go home. Phil strolls by with Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, his hand squarely glued to her ass, and I sigh and set my drink on a table. Maybe the reason I was so good at this last year is because practice makes perfect—and I am now sorely out of practice.

  I zip up my jacket and make my way to the front, wincing when a group of vampire football players rush by, knocking me into the wall. Their apologies are lost in the throbbing music and I rub my sore tailbone, turning to scowl at the doorknob that bruised me. And then I freeze, because I know this doorknob. I know this closet.

  When Kellan first spoke to me that ill-fated May night, I’d been equal parts stunned, thrilled, and terrified. We were already drunk when we started talking, and two drinks later we were blitzed. The alcohol may have loosened my inhibitions but it had done nothing to calm my nerves, and as he’d led me through the house looking for an empty room, I’d rambled on inanely about every dull thing I could think of, from our unseasonably warm weather to the periodic table. I think we were both grateful when he found the closet, kissed me, and put an end to the impromptu science lesson.

  Now I turn my head slightly to see what would have once been the house’s formal dining room, but is now just a room filled with couches and cheesy posters. Forty-five minutes after our less-than-memorable sex, I’d walked by here to see Kellan standing in the center of the room, a blonde girl on her knees in front, blowing him while his frat brothers cheered him on.

  My face floods with heat and remembered humiliation and I shoulder my way through the crowd and out the front door, the icy air more than welcome. For all accounts and purposes, this is a great party. Lots of people, free booze, loud music—but the best part was when I was away from it all, drinking a single beer with a guy I shouldn’t even like.

  But I do.

  chapter eleven

  I keep my head down and hurry along the sidewalk. I dart over to the next block to avoid the groups of people arriving for the party, encountering only a couple of hardcore kids approaching houses, most of which have gone dark. Street lamps and flickering jack-o-lanterns offer a little light, but I welcome the darkness. Rather, I welcome it until I hear footsteps thudding along behind me, coming too fast to be anything other than running. I risk a terrified look over my shoulder, prepared to sprint—and very grateful Thelma favored practical shoes—then come to an abrupt halt when I find Superman bearing down on me.

  “Crosbie?” Seeing someone I know should encourage my heartbeat to slow to normal levels, but instead it keeps pounding. He’s still wearing his costume, but now he’s added sneakers and a heavy jacket, the red cape bunched up around his neck, like he got dressed too fast to think it through.

  “Hey,” he says, stopping a few feet away. I don’t know if it’s because he’s breathing heavily, but he’s having a hard time meeting my eye, so for a second I just watch the white puffs of his breath dissipate in the air.

  “What are you doing out here?” I think of the house, the beauty queens, the everything I’m not.

  “You can’t walk home alone.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, leaving pieces sticking out every which way. “People do crazy things on Halloween.”

  “I’m pretty sure all those people are at your house.”

  He smiles briefly. “Maybe. Anyway. Come on.”

  Even though it’s a thirty-minute round trip and he’ll be back at the party with plenty of time left for fun, I feel obligated to tell him to go home. “This isn’t necessary.”

  “Let me do it anyway.” He’s got his hands crammed in his pockets and I realize he must be freezing in that costume. Hell—I’m freezing in mine, no spandex in sight.

  We walk a block in silence. “How’d you do with your French paper?” he asks finally.

  “Pretty good.” I’m surprised he remembers my classes. “These past couple of weeks have been hell, but I think I’m on top of everything. How about you? How’d midterms go?”

  “I feel good about Bio and Art History, but Econ is kicking my ass.”

  “Two out of three ain’t bad?”

  He smirks and kicks a piece of smashed pumpkin off the sidewalk. “Two out of three is sixty-six percent. It ain’t great.”

  “Who says you aren’t good with numbers?”

  “Hey,” he says suddenly. “I’m sorry.”

  I look at him. “For what?”

  “For messing up your night back there. If you’re leaving because of Max or whatever, I didn’t mean—”

  I wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. Maybe tonight just wasn’t meant to be.”

  “It was your one night to blow off steam.”

  “There’ll be other nights. Like, between Christmas and New Years, or spring break…”

  He laughs at the depressing timeline. “You don’t think you’ll regret it?”

  We pass a quiet block that’s a dedicated dog park, mulch running paths and stands of bare trees marking the grass.

  “Not flunking out?”

  “Missing out on the things you want because you’re trying so hard to be good.”

  “I am good.”

  “I know you are.”

  “Well, what about you?” I counter.

  “What about me?”

  “I saw the bathrooms in the student building a couple of weeks ago. Your ‘list’ doesn’t have any new names on it.”

  He’s quiet for a second. I expect him to say something cocky, like maybe he just hasn’t updated it yet, but he surprises me when he says, “I got tired of that.”

  “What? Being popular?”

  “Being a dick.”

  The second surprise in as many seconds. “You—”

  “Look, Nora.” He stops at the corner, a tall cluster of trees blocking the street lamps and houses so we’re folded in darkness, only the faintest slashes of light making it through. I stop, my back to the trees, and when he steps into me, I feel the cold bark through my coat and my jeans. “I’m just going to do this,” he says, lifting a hand to rest on the trunk beside my head. “And if you don’t want me to, say no.”

  He’s so close. With his head dipped his mouth is only a couple of inches away from mine, and though we’ve been in close proximity before, this is the first time there’s ever been any intention in his gaze. The only time he’s ever shown it, at least. He lowers his head another inch, then another, until his lips are only millimeters from mine, giving me every opportunity to push him back, run away, not do something ridiculous.

  But my hands remain fisted squarely in the sleeves of my jacket, my feet planted on the soft grass, my head tipped up to his. Waiting for something I’m finally ready to admit I want.

  I see his eyes drift closed and then his mouth brushes o
ver mine. I’d never allowed myself to give kissing Crosbie Lucas much thought, but if I had I’d have predicted it to be hard or invasive, grabby hands and lewdly thrusting hips. But it’s nothing like that at all. The hand on the tree stays where it is while his other finds the dip of my waist and rests there on top of my coat. I feel the chill of his nose bumping mine, the contrasting warmth of his lips, and though shock and awe are currently duking it out for top billing in the feelings department, I’m starting to feel some very unexpected other things, too.

  A tiny sigh escapes and Crosbie seizes the opportunity to slip his tongue into my mouth, very gently finding mine. My fingers uncurl themselves long enough to fist in the front of his coat, and the permissive action has him stepping into me even more, so I’m caught squarely between him and the tree. The hand resting on my side slides up to tangle in my silly wig, and when he tries to tug my head back the wig falls off.

  “What the—” he mutters, frowning at the mop of hair in his hand.

  This isn’t really the time for laughing but I do, my forehead bumping his shoulder as my body shakes from the force of it. I’d hoped to do some new things tonight, but at no point was Crosbie Lucas on the list.

  “I forgot,” he explains. “I’m sorry.”

  I laugh harder.

  “Nora.”

  I feel his fingers under my chin, tilting my face back up to his, and even in the darkness I can feel the intensity in his gaze, the seriousness there, and I stop laughing when he kisses me again, this time a little harder, a little more sure. He’s not waiting for me to take him up on his offer to stop, and he shouldn’t. I rise onto my tiptoes and kiss him back, teeth and tongues and lips, feeling his raspy breath, hearing the hungry sounds he makes as he winds his fingers through my real hair and—

  “Shit,” he whispers, jerking back. “Fuck.”

  Then I hear it too. Raucous mixed laughter, male and female, approaching from the next block. They’re heading toward the Frat Farm and there’s really no way for me to step out of a copse of trees with Crosbie Lucas without starting rumors. As though he’s thinking the same thing, Crosbie nudges me backward into the trees, and then we just stand there, hot and cold, waiting for the group to pass. They stumble by a minute later, not even glancing our way.

  We stare at each other for a long time. I don’t know quite how this happened, but parts of me that have been quashed beneath my responsible new veneer have whirred back to life and they’re not ready to end whatever this is just yet.

  “Tell me what you want,” he says, his voice slightly hoarse.

  I swallow. He seems sincere and a little on edge, and I understand—certain parts of me are howling at the mere prospect of doing the responsible thing and sending Crosbie Lucas back to the frat house to bang Miss Maryland. So instead I do as he asks, and tell him the truth. “Walk me home.”

  He nods. “Fine.”

  “And promise that no matter what happens, my name will never end up on any lists.”

  He flinches, so fast I’d have missed it if I blinked. “I promise, Nora.”

  We start walking, our brisk pace due only in part to the cold. We don’t touch and we don’t speak, and when we reach my block I look up and down the street to make sure we’re alone. Crosbie glances around too. “Want me to go around back?” he offers. “Come in through your window?”

  “Oh. Would you—”

  He growls and snatches the keys from my palm, hauling me up the steps to the front door. “I’m not crawling through the fucking window. That was a joke.”

  “I thought maybe with the Superman thing—”

  “He leaps over buildings. He doesn’t break into places.”

  “Well, I really don’t know a lot about Superman, Crosbie.”

  He shoves open the door and nudges me in first. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.” And then the tentative kisses from the tree are gone, replaced by hot and wet and dirty. Soon my coat is on the floor and I’m kicking off second-hand cowboy boots, not caring where they land. Crosbie scoops me up like I weigh nothing and I wrap my legs around his broad waist, hard muscles pressed against the tender insides of my knees.

  He carries me into my bedroom, flipping on the light and closing the door. When he sees my gaze catch on the knob he must realize I’m worried about the lack of a lock because he says, “He won’t be home tonight. I’ll be gone before he comes back.”

  I nod and swallow as Crosbie toes off his sneakers and drops his coat on top. Now he’s waiting there in that ridiculous costume, a very conspicuous bulge in front making it clear where we stand. “I really wish I wasn’t wearing this,” he says, reaching behind his neck to fumble with the zipper.

  “Let me help,” I say, stepping close. He turns to face the door and I slide the zipper down, watching the fabric separate to reveal the very broad, very muscled plane of his back, dotted with freckles. Impulsively I lean in and press a kiss to the warm skin, goose bumps popping up on contact. The muscles ripple as he reaches up and shoves the sleeves down his arms, the attached cape catching and tearing slightly, though he doesn’t seem to care. When he turns around he’s naked to the waist, the shiny fabric bunched around his stomach.

  My mouth goes dry. Crosbie is almost accidentally perfect. Too broad, too big, too hot. He looks like the guy who can lift a tractor with his bare hands, hands that are now reaching for me and slowly, intently, undoing the myriad buttons on this two-dollar shirt.

  “You can just tear it,” I murmur, fighting the temptation to do it myself. I want this. It’s been too long and I want it all right now. “I’m never going to wear this again.”

  “Nora,” he says seriously. “I’m going to need you to wear this outfit on many, many occasions.”

  I fail to stop the unladylike snort of laughter that escapes, and Crosbie laughs too, though he never falters in his task. Finally he pushes the cheap denim over my shoulders and lets it fall to the floor so I’m left in a white lace bra and Thelma’s high-waisted jeans.

  He sighs and steps back, blatantly eying my chest. “Can I tell you something?” he asks, never lifting his gaze.

  “Ah, okay?”

  “I have wanted to touch these for a long time.”

  I laugh, surprised. “What?” I suppose I shouldn’t be so shocked: he’s a guy, these are boobs. It’s like peanut butter and jelly.

  He reaches around and I feel his fingers slide under the bra’s lace band, undoing the hooks. “That first day,” he whispers against my hair, “when you showed up with that tight little sweater with the buttons on the front? I think about that a lot.”

  My whole body floods with desire at the words. Because the grittiness in his tone, the feel of his erection bumping my belly as he stands so close and guides the straps down my arms—I know he’s talking about jerking off as he thinks about that cardigan.

  I want to laugh but I don’t think I can anymore. When he finally bares my breasts for the first time, the sound of his sharp breath steals my own. Very slowly he trails his hands up my hips, over my stomach, until he’s lifting a breast in each calloused palm, his touch as reverent as his skin is rough and scratchy. And while his fingers stroking back and forth over my nipples feels great, it’s the look on his face that’s really turning me on. He’s completely absorbed. Like he’s memorizing this moment. Like he’ll never forget it.

  “Crosbie.” I slip my hands up over his big biceps, his wide shoulders, his neck, his ears, before finally tangling in his hair.

  “Nora,” he replies, shifting forward so I have to step back, my calves hitting the bed frame. He releases my breasts long enough to skate a hand between my shoulder blades, anchoring the other on my ass and lowering me onto the mattress before kneeling between my parted legs. His big hands go to the button on my jeans and he looks me in the eye. “Okay?”

  I nod, not sure I can speak. My heart bounces around my chest as he carefully peels the denim down my legs, leaving me in only a purple thong. I see his throat bob as he swa
llows, then he reaches down to the floor for his jacket and pulls out his wallet, retrieving a condom and tossing it onto my milk crate night table. He smiles at me before pushing the spandex over his hips, past mouth-wateringly muscular thighs and strong calves. When he catches me looking he shyly fists his erection, the fingers of his other hand playing with the lace edge of my thong.

  “Lift your hips.”

  I can barely breathe. Just looking at him makes me want to squirm in anticipation. Never in my admittedly short sexual lifespan have I wanted someone so badly that just looking at them made me wet. But I am wet, and I know Crosbie sees it because he makes a pained little groan when I lift my hips so he can slide the silky fabric down my legs, then gently nudges my thighs apart to look between them.

  He lowers himself over me, elbows digging into the mattress on either side of my head, and pushes a stray hair behind my ear, sliding his lips back and forth across mine, in absolutely no hurry at all. I turn my head to look at the full-length mirror propped against the desk, angled just enough that I can see Crosbie’s perfect ass positioned over me, so tempting I have to resist the urge to flip him over to look at it up close.

  Not that I could budge him, even if I wanted to. Though he’s being very conscientious about not crushing me, just the weight of one of his legs between my thighs is enough to remind me how big he is. How strong.

  “Hey,” he says softly, lifting his head to look at me.

  “What?”

  “Have you done this before?”

  The question startles me, but eventually I nod. “Yes,” I manage. It reminds me of how little we know about each other. How last year if you’d asked me how Crosbie Lucas fucked I’d have said he did it like a porn star, all ass slapping and hair pulling, boasting to his friends afterward. All style and no substance. But the guy over me now isn’t the obnoxious jock I thought I knew, just like I’m not the responsible bookworm he thinks he knows. And when he nods and glides a hand between my legs, the relief on his face when he finds me wet and ready is almost palpable. I moan when he pushes one finger inside, then spread my legs wider when he stretches me with two, fucking gently as he kisses my mouth, eyes open, gauging my response.