by W Winters
“You’ve made your opinion known,” I remind him, turning around to lean my back against the wall outside of the class room. Seems like I need anything and everything to hold me up lately. It’s fucking draining, dealing with all the shit that’s gone down.
Derek sighs audibly, as if I’m the worst thing he has to deal with. God knows that’s not the case. Letting the door go, he stands beside me. The door shuts softly with a click and it’s quiet for a moment before a resounding bell rings through the hall.
Now we’re late. No one cares, though.
“I’m just saying,” he continues. “She lost someone and maybe you should just leave her alone.”
“Everyone lost someone.” The words are lost in the vacant hall. “Including me,” I turn to look Derek in the eyes. Slipping his hands into his pocket, he nods solemnly. “I haven’t forgotten,” he answers.
“It’s all different now, and if I want to deal with it this way, I need you to back it up.” I feel tense and unsure, knowing everything has changed and I need Derek there. I won’t survive without him.
“I back you on everything, but you’re supposed to trust me, and you know that means telling you when I think something’s fucked.”
A thin smirk graces my lips but it comes with a humorless huff of a laugh that sounds sick to my ears. “Everything’s fucked.” The past weekend was the hardest and the only bright light I had was knowing, come Monday, I’d have Laura to look out for again. Even if for only a moment.
I can hear him swallow thickly, and it’s quiet for a moment.
“People mourn differently, yeah?” I ask him, although it’s rhetoric. They’re his own words given back to him. Words he gave me when we stood over the ashes this past weekend.
His sneaker kicks against the cheap linoleum floors and I feel like a prick. “Sorry, I’m just being a dick now.” I tell him and close my eyes, pushing down the pain of the brutal truth we’ve been hiding.
“No, you’re right.” He brushes it off but his voice is tight. “I like the way I handle it better.”
“We should get to class,” I speak when neither of us says anything for a long moment. His words stop me from moving more than inch though.
“We’re all dealing differently and when the news breaks, I know it’ll be easier in some ways.” I hate that he’s talking about it at all. We made a pact, not to say anything. A cold prick travels over my skin. Starting at the back of my neck and working its way down slowly. My hands form into fists and press the right one against the wall, letting my knuckles turn white.
The story is that our Dad’s took off and we didn’t want to file a report. We don’t need the police getting involved. Death is a part of this life. So is getting even.
I don’t look at him when I speak. “It will get easier,” I answer him, feeling my throat get so tight the words almost don’t make it. “This is what we signed up for. We knew what we were doing.” I don’t know who I’m trying to convince anymore.
“I know. And I’m here with you. Your right hand man. I just feel like…” he scratches his jaw, staring down at his feet instead of meeting my gaze.
“Out with it,” I bite out the words.
“Everyone lost someone and we’re all dealing with it differently. But I don’t get why you won’t leave her alone.”
“I’m just protecting her.” The answer slips out easily enough. It’s what I’ve told everyone.
Derek scoffs. “Don’t bull shit me.”
“Fine,” I answer him, unconsciously nodding as I tell him, “You’re right. I want her and it’s fucked. But I’m just being there for her, I’m not pushing anything.”
He shakes his head slowly, his eyes pinned to mine. “You’re waiting. You know it’s going to happen. She wants you, you want her. It’s going to happen and you’re making sure it does.”
“It will be her call if it does,” I answer him, at peace with that decision.
“You can never have her. A lot of shit went down and more is coming. You really want to drag her into it?”
“She’s already a part of it and you know it.”
“Don’t do this to her. You want to feel better, and I get it. But this? This is wrong.” His conclusion is spoken hard and clear.
“Are you going to stop me?”
“No.” His tone drops as does his gaze. “I’ll still be here. I won’t stand in your way.”
“Good. Drop it.”
On some level I should feel relief that he’s going to drop it, but I don’t.
I don’t think I can stop myself. And he’s right; I don’t deserve her after what I’ve done. But I can’t help myself.
Laura
My shoulder’s sore. I carried around all my books today rather than going to the locker and the damn strap has been digging into my shoulder. It hurts more than I try to show.
Secretly, as I make my way through the thinned crowd to the open double doored exit, I hope Seth asks if he can carry my bag for me. I’m not a damsel in distress, but my pride is kind enough to acknowledge that it hurts. He always asks, and with my luck, I think: today will be the day he doesn’t ask and I’ll have to ask him.
I swallow the thought the moment the chilly November air hits me. Everyone disperses in front of me, but I stay where I am, my feet planted on the asphalt just outside the doors.
“Oh, sorry,” I mumble when someone behind me brushes past and I realize I’ve been blocking the doorway.
A nervous heat ricochets through my body, from my tip toes all the way up to my ears which turn red hot. I imagine they’re about as red as my nose must be when I shiver and a cold gust of wind smacks me right across the face.
Unwilling to stand here any longer, growing colder by the second, I force myself forward towards the field.
My heart drops with each passing second. I have no right to be upset. This raw tightness in my throat can get the hell out of here. And it can take my insecure thoughts with it. One step. He’s not mine. Therefore, there is no loss. Another step. I knew this wouldn’t last.
Another step and I whirl around at the sound of my name.
Seth’s face is flushed as he jogs to catch up to me. Tall and handsome, and literally running after me. Blip. My heart does a thing that feels like a mix between a sink and a flip.
“Couldn’t wait for me?” he asks although it’s obviously rhetoric, stopping just in front of me. His heat is immediate, he’s so close, and with another gust of wind, I’m hit with his heady masculine scent.
“Sorry,” I apologize and that makes him noticeably flinch. With a tight smile, I shift my weight and adjust the strap of my bag.
“Let me get it,” Seth tells me, he doesn’t ask, and he reaches for my bag before I even have a chance to hand it over.
“Thank you.” Relief is immediate.
“No problem.” All sorts of emotions threaten to show themselves, and instead, I bury them down. I shouldn’t be this happy that he’s here. We’re still nothing. I’m just getting used to it. I look forward to it even. I don’t know what I’ll do when he stops, but I don’t want to think about that either.
“Are you still stalking me?” I manage to ask, even as the gratitude fills me.
“Of course,” he answers with a cocky, asymmetric grin. “Technically,” he starts walking, his stride long enough to quickly put distance between us. He turns around to walk backwards just as we get to the open gap in the fence. I’m faintly aware of the eyes on us, but I ignore them all. “Since I’m in front, you’re the one who’s stalking me,” he teases with that handsome smile and my God, I laugh. It’s genuine and loud enough for him to hear it.
“You wish,” I tell him with a smile and feel the heat in my cheeks when he slows down so I can catch up. He made me jog a little to do it, maybe he wanted to make this chase even.
It will never be even though, I’m certain of that. As the days blend together, the tension between us changes into something warmer, something closer. It’s easier and lighter.
* * *
Day 1: He told me he’d walk me home and that day I held his hand.
Day 24: He called me Babygirl.
Day 36: he started meeting me outside my classroom and immediately takes my backpack.
Day 45: It’s too cold to walk, so Seth insists on driving me home. That’s the day the news broke about his father. I hugged him and refused to let go for the longest time. And he let me, holding me back.
Day 46: My hand brushed his more than once in the car and I swear I couldn’t breathe because of it.
Day 50: I thought he was going to kiss me over the console. But he didn’t.
* * *
50 days with Seth King so close. 50 days of subtle touches and longing glances. It’s not in my head. I know it’s not. I just want him to kiss me. I’ll be the one who loses in the end of whatever game he’s playing. Because I’m already falling. I’m tired of fighting, though. I don’t know how I can stop myself.
Seth
“You’re a bad influence,” Laura comments as she picks at the hole in her jeans. There’s a broad beautiful smile on her face though and a tempting tease in her tone. I fucking love it.
“Yeah,” I answer her, grabbing another beer, “I know.” The football game is on in the main room of The Club, so I invited her back here, to the backroom.
Weekdays are no longer enough. I need her on the weekends too. Derek warned me it’s mixing business with personal life, but I can’t tell the difference between the two anyway.
There’s a pool table in front of us, and then there’s only this amber brown leather sofa. Just those two pieces of furniture in the dimly lit back room, and just the two of us. The strong girl I know Laura to be is suddenly shy, whenever I meet her gaze. Shy looks damn good on her. It only makes her look that much more fuckable.
“I don’t really drink.” The chilled beer in her hand moves to the other. Her thumb drags up the side of it, leaving a trail in the dew against the cold glass.
“You have to at least try it,” I brush my shoulder against hers, inching closer, and then shrug, “Or not,” and take a swig of my own. Resting my elbows on my knees, I lean forward and tell her, looking over my shoulder, “You’re right, I’m a bad influence. I’ll drink it. I just didn’t want to be rude and not offer you one.” I want to ease all of her nerves, but I know part of the reason she’s nervous is because she’s waiting for me to make a move. She’s getting bolder with every passing day. It’ll happen soon; I know it. I’m fucking dying for it.
“Kay,” she answers me, and then takes a swig of her own. Her nose scrunches, but she swallows. Watching her lick her lips after makes my cock harden. I have to rip my gaze away and I focus on the cracked door as a roar of cheers leaks back to us.
“Someone did something good,” she says quietly and I can hear her take another drink.
“Did you want to watch the game?” I question her, almost praying she says yes just so we’re not alone back here. Everything is her call. But damn she’s pushing me to give in with that innocent and tempting look in her eyes.
“As much as I like it out there, no, I want to play,” she gestures to the pool table. Right. I drop my head, remembering that’s why we’re back here. It’s not so I can fuck her on this sofa like I want to do. The days going slower and slower until that moment she lets me walk her home. That short amount of time is a blur, leaving me wanting and waiting in agony until I can see her again. She’s addictive. Her soft glances and gentle touches are my drug. I want more.
More than that, she wants more.
“What are we betting?”
“What do you want?” she asks me in return, the question deliberately seductive, and I have to swallow tightly, taking a long drink of my beer. I nearly finish the damn thing.
“How about, if you win, you can pick where we go next Sunday,” I offer her, knowing it’s a win for me too.
“I like here. I told you I was curious what it was like.”
“I still can’t believe you’ve never been here,” I finish the beer and stand, grabbing the rack to get the game started before all the blood in my head moves to my dick and I forget about the pool game again.
Laura follows my lead, “I don’t see how you can’t believe that… as I’m not twenty-one so I shouldn’t be in a bar and this isn’t exactly my crew.”
“Crew,” I lean back, grabbing the cue and lining it up. “You don’t need to be in the crew,” I mock the way she said it, “to hang out in here. Didn’t you want a job? We need a new waitress and you don’t have to be twenty-one for that.”
She’s quiet for a moment, not answering and I would give anything to know what she’s thinking. Everyone knows The Club is our hang out and she’s right, not everyone is welcome. It’s only a bar, but it’s where all the cash is funneled so all the dirty shit we do comes out clean in the checkbook.
She finally relaxes her shoulders, letting the bottle sit on her knee to tell me, “I really love the atmosphere though. And the people… it’s nice to be around here, I guess that’s how I can put it.”
“Well, I’m glad you came.”
Just as I’m pulling back the pool stick, Laura calls out, “Uh, no. Ladies first.” She pulls at the stick from behind me, and playfully nudges my shoulder. She teases, “And to think, I thought you were a gentleman.”
I loosen my grip on the stick and when she has it fully in her grasp, I raise my hands, letting my gaze roam down her body, from the tight cream sweater to the faded pair of jeans with a hole in the knee, she looks utterly desirable. The cut on her sweater is lower than most of them. At school she’s always hidden behind baggy sweatshirts. It doesn’t escape my notice that she decided to wear a sexed up version for today’s venture. A not-date with yours truly.
“Whatever gave you the idea that I’m a gentleman… I take it back. You should know I’m practically a savage.” My joke is awarded with a sweet laugh and a complimentary blush coloring her cheeks.
Laura rests the stick against the table so she can take another sip of beer before telling me, “I may have picked up on the savage part.”
“You like the beer?” I ask her and she shrugs.
“So far I don’t hate it.”
I wait, taking my time for my next comment until she’s lined up and pulled back.
“I heard you liked something else today,” I start and watch her ass sway, her hips rocking as she teases the cue, letting the slim wood thread through her fingers as if she’s a pro with it. I’ve got a full hard on just watching her, and I might be a bastard, because I’m not ashamed of it in the least.
“What’s that?” she asks, squinting just so and ready to strike.
“Heard you told your girl Cami that you like my ass,” I confess just as she pushes her weight forward, barely hitting the cue ball and bumping into the table as well. With her mouth hung open although it comes with a smile she can’t contain. A vibrant rose colors her chest all the way up to her cheeks. The balls smack against one another, only three break away, not giving her a damn thing.
“Speechless?” I question when she doesn’t say anything, the butt of the pool cue hitting the floor as she holds it against her body.
My lips are on my beer, but my eyes stay on her as I drink.
“You’re not a savage,” she finally responds with more confidence than anything else, “You’re an ass.” She says it all with the most beautiful smile. I belt out a laugh, holding my hand out for the cue. She’s resistant, pursing her lips, but gives in, passing me the stick.
Our fingers brush one another when she does. Electricity strikes me, coursing through my arm and then down my body. It’s hot and the heat lingers long after she’s sulked back to sofa, sitting on the armrest with her arms crossed against her chest. I want to feel that all the time. The way she makes me feel with such a simple touch.
“I don’t remember saying a damn thing about your ass by the way,” she shrugs. I make my hit quick, lining up an easy pocket. Crack.
I move to the other side of the table, lining up another that should break the rest of the balls up. It’s a more difficult set up, requiring a little more strength.
“Is that memory of yours selective?” I ask her and immediately pocket another ball. With the stick in my right hand, I round the table, daring to look back at her.
She’s seething, but the embarrassment, or anger, whatever’s got her panties in a bunch, is mixed with desire that’s been coming to the surface more and more with every passing day.
It’s quiet until I pull back.
“You do have a nice ass,” she mutters, and I look over my shoulder to see her shrug, bringing her beer to her lips, her eyes focused on the ass in question.
“Glad I can give you a good view,” I offer and just miss the next pocket.
Laura’s giddiness is accompanied by a squeal of “my turn” and her quickly coming up behind me, her left arm brushes against my back, her fingers dance over mine. Every touch is deliberate, seductive, and I am drowning in it. I don’t let go of the stick at once. When she tugs it, her eyes meet mine and the air sparks between us, getting hotter and lighter.
“My turn,” she whispers, and I let go, not saying a word. I back up to the other end of the sofa, memorizing every curve of her body. She calls the side pocket and with a soft touch, the ball rolls lazily into the pocket. I have to wait until her back is to me to adjust myself. I’m uncomfortably hard, my cock pressing against the zipper of my jeans.
“We didn’t come up with a bet,” she reminds me when she misses her next. We trade places with little conversation, but the heat between us is there, and when she hands me the pool stick, she hesitates, forcing me to look into her eyes and see the smoldering heat that stirs in them.
“Right,” I nod when she hits the cue, misses, and makes her way back to the other end of the sofa, handing me the pool stick. I’m still standing where I was, watching her. Instead of going back to the table, I make my way to her, planting the stick down right in front of her, both of my hands around it I ask her, “What is it that you want, Babygirl?”
