by Teagan Kade
I look around but an excuse is not forthcoming. “Um, sure.”
Not dancing! my head screams. My one true weakness.
I didn’t have a date for prom, and trust me, it’s hard looking good when you’re dancing by yourself.
But I find it’s less dancing and more close swaying as we head deep into the throng of people set up in the lounge with wannabe Skrillex. It’s nice, actually, being this close to him… or maybe it’s just the fact his mouth is shut.
A mash-up of Dance Monkey and Justice starts to play. “This is my favorite song.”
It’s the truth. Mindy’s had it on repeat.
Almost without realizing, his hands around my waist. “Because you dance like a monkey?”
I slap him in the chest. “Hey, you’re no Michael Jackson either.”
He breaks away to do a quick running man followed by… the sprinkler? Others cheer around us because Peyton King, it would seem, can do no wrong.
His hands, welcome, snake back around my waist, lower now, almost at the top of my ass. He releases one to lift my arms up and hook them around his neck, pulling me tight against him and the hard buttress of his body.
It’s been a long time since I was this close to anyone, since I touched somebody that wasn’t because I wasn’t watching where I was going at the grocery store.
No, this is nice.
This is human.
Peyton twirls me around, pulls me out and in.
By the third song I realize that thing on my face might be an actual, real, gen-u-ine smile.
I’m having fun. Heck, maybe even the time of my life, but still something nags at the corner of my mind, tugging and pulling at the thread there, telling me to get away from all this before I’m swallowed whole, or worse.
Sicko Mode comes on and I let my head fall into the nook of Peyton’s shoulder, watching the world tilt sideways and feeling oddly comforted in his arms, with him against me, protecting me.
He only wants one thing, remember? Don’t forget what he’s really playing for here. It ain’t your intellect.
He only wants me because I told him he couldn’t have me. That is why all the groveling and effort. A brick could tell him no and he’d be macking on that thing so hard it would crack in two.
“What is it?” he whispers, the lingering heat of his words against the shell of my ear.
I lift myself from his shoulder, my hair matted against the side of my face. “Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” he says, expression neutral. “It’s definitely something, but I don’t know what and you’re not going to tell me, so how about we just keep dancing?”
I nod and return to his shoulder, surprised by his sudden insight. Is he reading me? Does he know what I’m up to, about the story?
No. No way, I tell myself. How could he? He’s a college quarterback, not Sherlock Holmes.
Until I remember how he found where I worked, my number…
“Shots, shots, shots, shots!”
I roll my eyes at Tony, who’s again making his way through the dancefloor with another tray of shots. Given the alien guts green of them, I don’t imagine they’re fireballs any more.
I wave ‘no’ when he approaches, but he frowns. “Come on,” looking to King. “Peyton?”
Peyton takes two and passes them to me, another two for himself. “You don’t have to,” he tells me.
He’s right. I don’t want to per se, but this is how everyone rolls at a frat party. I’ve got to get in deeper, and it ain’t going to be by sitting on the sidelines looking glassy-eyed at the participation award.
I throw the shots down. They don’t burn like the fireballs, but there’s a strange aniseed aftertaste my brain’s not quite sure how to process.
Tony moves on handing out shots and Peyton and I go back to dancing, closer now, the alcohol starting to mess with my head and loosen up my limbs. Another ten minutes and I’m really getting into it, basically grinding against Peyton’s legs — much to his pleasure. People are whooping and cat-calling and that good time’s gone from great to ‘get the fuck down and boogie, bitches.’
The more the night goes on, the more cotton wool is shoved into my head, the four shots, now six, working fast to dampen my inhibitions and so-called intellect until I’m no more than the rest of them, wild and free and thinking only of the present.
It’s a very strange state to be in.
“Who are you?” Peyton asks at one stage, leading us from the dancefloor when I complain my legs feel like penne pasta — oddly specific, I know, but the shots are doing the talking.
I follow Peyton around a corner, I think, and maybe up some stairs, tripping over a couple making out by the bannister.
I know I’m getting drunk, but I’m not completely wasted yet. I still have some faculties, though altogether surprised when I find myself suddenly alone with Peyton on the edge of a bed, strobe lighting turning the walls of the bedroom blue and indigo in alternation.
It's kind of beautiful.
“It is, isn’t it?” replies Peyton.
I hadn’t realized I’d been speaking aloud. “And you!” I jab at his face with a finger, slurring the ‘u.’ “You’re kind of beautiful too.”
He laughs, pearly teeth the brightest thing in the room. “Why thank you.”
I stare into the intoxicating abyss of his eyes, all too conscious of my hand in his and the strange pulsing heat between my thighs, the way my heart’s ka-thud ka-thudding in my chest.
I don’t know I’ve ever felt like this, balancing on that fine line between nervous and excited, scared to death but ready to jump. I hate rollercoasters. I don’t do fairground rides or bumper cars. I’ve never jaywalked or taken the late bus. I ask my brain for input, but the ‘Closed, back later!’ sign is swinging firmly in place.
Hey! I shout internally. Get back here, you.
The next thing I know Peyton’s hand is against the side of my face and I’m turning and his lips are there and they’re pressing to mine and god, my god they are beautiful and soft and there’s his tongue and it’s sort of wet, but not, and hot and…
My head starts to spin the more the kiss deepens, the lower Peyton’s free hand runs down my dress until it’s lifting the hem, his fingers drumming against the gooseflesh of my upper thigh.
I feel the tip of his tongue entering my mouth and I want to commit, I want to go all-in, but my brain’s back in business and it’s telling me — no, screaming at me — to stop, to end this before it goes too far and my precious story becomes ‘Journalist pregnant with quaterback’s baby’.
With a sudden surge of will, I yank my head away and bring my hands up, managing to stand, somewhat wobbly, and head for the door.
“Erin?” It’s Peyton’s voice, but I’ve already stumbled out of the bedroom and into the arms of another wayward jock, pushing him away and taking the stairs two at a time, even though they’re moving like a funhouse.
“Erin!”
It’s louder now, but I keep on moving, running when I get outside and tripping good over what appears to be a mailbox — why is the mailbox lying sideways? — getting back to my feet and registering my underwear’s on show, the cheeky peach briefs I’ve worn only a sum total of once.
Go! my head shouts, and I obey, continuing down the street like a hurling, whirling tornado of limbs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PEYTON
Shell-shocked — that would be one way to put it. One second we’re kissing, my cock so hard it could double as a wrench, the next she’s running off like I’ve slapped her in the face.
Tony’s shots aren’t helping.
I bring my fingers to the sides of my nose and pinch trying to pain some sense into myself.
Do not let her go.
“Erin!” I shout, but she’s already through the door.
You’re the fucking quarterback. Get fucking running, dumbass.
This thought jolts me to my feet, but actually walking without the whole room startin
g to slide off the face of the earth is proving difficult.
“God damn Tony,” I grunt under my breath, looking for somewhere, or someone to target my anger at, but I know I only have myself to blame here. I pushed too hard too fast and now I’m left at the fifty-yard line with my dick in my hand and no ball to be found.
“The King!” a girl screams into my ear, but I shoulder past her and start down the stairs, Erin just coming to the bottom and moving fast through the thicket of party-goers.
She can really move, I think, surprised by her agility given the six shots she downed like a pro.
I can still taste her on my lips, taste the bitter sweetness of it, the barest play of cinnamon from the fireballs.
“Erin!” I call again, but she’s gone.
“Who the fuck’s Erin?” one of Nolan’s buddies shouts back.
I ignore him and force my legs to move, shoving people left and right and doing whatever it takes to get to that door.
It’s starting to sprinkle when I get outside, the ominous roll of thunder in the distance. I squint but the light is poor around the Greek precinct. A flash of lightning in the same direction as the thunder momentarily lights the scene and allows me to spot her running up the street.
“Erin!” I shout, but I know she can’t hear me.
I start to run off towards her, the effects of the alcohol slinking away now I have purpose, now I’m in the chase.
I close the gap quickly, but she’s real fucking fast for a girl in heels.
“Erin. Jesus. Wait!”
This time she turns, standing in the middle of the street panting but still walking backwards.
I put my hand up and settle back to a jog. “Please, stop.”
She does, running a hand through her hair.
A car approaches from behind her, its headlights cutting her into silhouette. It honks. I wave it around us.
“The fuck, man!” the driver shouts, arm hanging by the door, rumbling off down the road.
I stop a few feet away with my hands outstretched. I’m not good at this shit. I’ve never had a girl flee after the first kiss. Usually they’re begging for more, fishing around in my pants for the main attraction.
She hasn’t spoken yet. She’s still watching me wide-eyed.
“I came on too fast. I get that and I apologize, but…” I laugh, looking up at the sky shaking my head wondering why the hell I’m standing in the middle of the road working so hard for this girl. “…You’re beautiful, irresistible, what can I say? You’re doing things to me I’ve never felt before. I’m talking virgin territory here.”
I see the look on her face.
“You’re not a… are you?”
Now she speaks. “No,” she practically shouts before back-peddling, “I mean no, I’m not a… you know.”
I slowly approach, treat this whole scene like talking someone down from the edge, because the last thing I want is for her to run again. I’d never see her again. I have to make this work. I place my hand on my chest. “This is all on me and I understand if you don’t want to see me again, but at least let me walk you home.”
The cogs are turning all right, but I don’t know which way she’s going to go.
I hold my breath, a crack of thunder overhead.
She hangs her head, exhaling before looking up. “All right, but once I’m home…”
I’ve got my hands up again. I’ll be a veritable John Wayne soon. “Of course. Can we at least get off the road?”
She looks around and finally seems to realize where she is, moving with me to the sidewalk.
We walk in silence for a minute or two, the rain abating but the storm continuing on in the distance. It merges with the slowly shrinking sound of the party until the it’s nothing but aural sub-text.
The rain’s gone but the air remains charged, the smell of ozone heavy.
Sprinklers start up on the lawn of Sigma Chi as we pass.
It’s slow torture watching her. I’ve tasted her and now I want more — need more.
One taste was not enough.
Says the guy who’s tasted more lips and pussy than most.
The thought of going down on her is too much. I have to make conversation. “I hardly know anything about you.”
She looks forward. “Except my number, where I work…”
“Hey,” I offer, “I like to be forward. I get the law of attraction and all that, but sometimes you’ve got to be proactive.”
“Like a stalker?”
I laugh. “Jesus, is that what you think I am?”
“I think maybe, and it is a big-ass maybe, you’re more than the super-jock you make out to be, and that’s honestly the most alarming thing of all.”
Interesting. “I won’t lie. It’s hard not to act the part around here, but you’re right. There’s more to me than—”
She looks down to my crotch.
“Yes,” I smile.
“What then?” she asks, finally looking at me. “Who’s the real Peyton King? Tell me something no one else knows about him.”
“Damn.” I take a moment how best to tackle this, a lightbulb going off. “I call my mother every week.”
“Doesn’t she live in France?”
“You have done your homework.”
“What else?” she pushes.
I haven’t used my brain this much since high school trig. “I like foreign cinema, but I have to watch it alone, in secret, have to pretend I like whatever superhero junk is out at the movies.”
She stops walking. “Bullshit.”
“It’s true. I was in the AV club at high school, and that you are going to keep quiet.”
“You were not.”
We’re facing each other now. “I was and no one said shit about it.”
“Because you’re Peyton King?”
“Because I was a foot taller than everyone in my grade and they probably thought I’d smash their face in.”
She’s eyeing me curiously. “All right. Favorite international directors. Go.”
I list them off on my fingers. “Akira Kurosawa, Bong Joon-ho, and,” I hunt for another, “Jennifer Kent”.
“Huh,” says Erin, starting to walk again. “Kent. Interesting. I thought you’d be more of a Tarantino man.”
“He’s great, but hardly international.”
I have her there. “I can’t say I can picture you sitting alone in bed watching Yojimbo.”
“Oh, believe it, though I suppose it’s not entirely a secret. Even had my brothers watching the odd black-and-white. I take it you enjoy cinema too?”
“I do,” she replies without elaborating further, “though I imagine you knew that already.” A knowing smirk follows.
“I prefer ice-cream cakes for my birthday too,” I tell her. “No card. It’s a waste. Just sayin’.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” she says, the smile genuine now.
“And you?” I ask. “It’s only fair you tell me something no one knows about you.”
She stops again, eyes connecting with mine and in them something beyond curiosity — something closer to sadness. But her face breaks back into a smile instead. “Whenever I argue with myself, one of us has a British accent.”
I explode with laughter. “The fuck?”
“You don’t do that?”
I put my hands on my hips. “Have some earl or lord hanging around in my head waiting for an argument? Can’t say I do.”
“You never talk to yourself?”
“I mean, sometimes it’s like my brain is sort of having a conversation with itself without my knowledge. When I become cognizant and tap in, I’ll think, ‘Wait, what the hell am I talking about?’” I laugh. “That makes no fucking sense at all, does it?”
“Plenty,” she replies, walking on. “I’m just amazed you used cognizant in context.”
“Because big, burly football bros don’t know the dictionary?”
She looks at me wryly. “Something like that.”
We talk f
or a good half an hour before we reach her place just out of campus limits. She talks about her dream to become a big-time journalist, her mother’s love of the written word and her father, or lack of, rather. I talk about my own life, growing up under the spotlight of the sports elite, my father’s indiscretions and their effect on the family. I don’t know why, but it’s so easy to talk to her. Things are spilling out of me I’ve never told anyone.
We’re shoulder to shoulder as we stand in front of her apartment block.
It starts to rain in earnest, thunder booming above louder, lighting following sooner than before.
“You better get inside,” I tell her, watching the sky. “It’s about to pour.”
“Your bum leg tell you that?” she jokes.
“My legs are just fucking fine,” I reply, “though I can’t say I’m looking forward to the walk home.”
I don’t mean for it to sound like an invitation, but Erin nods all the same. “Why don’t you come inside, just ’til the storm passes over?”
And I’m thanking someone – God, Shiva, the man in the moon — for this turn of events.
The rain really starts to hammer down, both of us making for the front door of the apartment block, Erin laughing as she fumbles for her keys in her pocket. She drops them and we both drop to pick them up. As I do, I realize her dress has ridden up, her legs parted just enough for me to see the peachy strip of material that’s covering her crotch.
I’m hypnotized, handing over the keys and standing back up quicker than I should, brushing myself off. “There you go.”
She smiles and unlocks the door, but I know she saw me looking, know that she knows I liked what I saw, like her maybe more than I have anyone.
Her apartment is smaller than I expect, just two bedrooms, a bathroom and a single living space and adjoining kitchen decorated oddly with a sea-shanty kind of feel — curious considering we’re hundreds of miles from an ocean.
Erin sees me looking at an old diving helmet. “Oh, it’s all Mindy’s stuff. Her parents raised her on an island, for real. She’s obsessed with mermaids and sea junk stuff, got pretty hot and bothered when she watched Aquaman the other night.”
