BONDED

by S. D. Harrison

  “I honestly can’t tell,” I respond, happy we’re skipping the awkward part. “You’ll never know unless you try, though.”

  “My parents would probably have a heart attack.”

  “Oh, who cares? Welcome to the twenty-first century. You’re a lesbian, so what? You’re not a serial killer.” A thousand-million pounds lift off my shoulders as I say the forbidden words.

  “I am not a lesbian,” she cries, looking at me for a second before turning back to the window. “I don’t know what I am.”

  “Well, I don’t care either way.” I realize we’re nearly at her house. I’ve been speeding. “I know I should have said that a long time ago, and I’m a horrible friend for not saying it, but I need you to know now. No matter what crap goes on in my mind, Linds, I’m always going to love you for exactly who you are. Even if I question your taste in women,” I add, unable to help myself.

  “And I love you,” she counters, giving me a trademark Lindsay smile. “Even if you end up living in a one-bedroom apartment with forty cats.”

  “I said I’d give him a chance.”

  “Yeah, but it’s you, so you’re probably going to change your mind.” She winks at me before getting out of the car. “See you at the dance?”

  “See you,” I say, rolling my eyes at her.

  “Oh, and Raye?” she hesitates, popping her head back in the car.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.” Lindsay holds my stare for a long moment before shutting the door and heading inside.

  She didn’t say it, but I know how much my acceptance means to her, even if she’s still figuring things out herself.

  I hope that acceptance doesn’t cost me my best friend.

  CHAPTER 7

  Once I arrive home, I make a quick dinner of cereal and chopped up berries before jumping in the shower and spending an hour twisting my hair into soft auburn curls that fall down to my waist. I don’t know why I care.

  I eye the red lace V-neck dress resting on my bed next to the camel jacket. Crossing my arms, I sigh. What am I thinking, considering giving T.K. a chance? Lindsay said it herself: It is against my own personal set of rules.

  Rule four: Dating is messy and pointless. Don’t bother.

  As if to spite myself, I put on two coats of mascara, highlighter, and ruby-red lipstick before zipping myself into the dress.

  I’m impressed by the way the floor-length gown and accompanying side-slit makes my legs look days long, and by the way the low V-shape makes my breasts look fuller than usual. It is a winner. Even the colour accents my hair in exactly the right way.

  I leave the house around ten after eight, ignoring T.K.’s jacket, which still lies on my bed. My mom stops me on my way out the door, stepping out of her dark car and into the light of the porch. “You look lovely, Raye.” She gives me a rare nod of approval.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I glance down at my dress. I can’t even feel the chill in the air.

  “I don’t suppose you have a date?” she asks, ruining the moment.

  “No, Mom.”

  “No, of course not.” She shakes her head as if mourning the waste of the dress. “Well, have fun, honey.”

  I watch Mom head into the house as I arrange my dress around me in the car, trying not to wrinkle the fabric. This is important for some reason.

  The school’s small parking lot is full when I pull in. It seems most people arrive early for school dances. I’m almost forty minutes late, not that anyone other than Lindsay will notice.

  As I make my way through the gym doors, the sound of some lame band fills my ears and the smell of sweat fills my nose. I roll my eyes at the tacky crêpe paper decorations hanging off every possible surface and head to the punch bowl, which is also tacky. It’s as if the teachers who organized the dance were trying to re-create their own glory days from the seventies.

  “Look who grew up,” a voice drawls from the other side of the refreshment table.

  Shawn has his thick black hair brushed back with gel, although it still looks carelessly messy all the same. Like Lindsay, he is half-Filipino and half-Caucasian. I spent many drunken nights staring up into his almond-shaped brown eyes trying to find answers to questions I would never ask. Shawn knows he is stunning, and he’s always done his best to make sure I’m aware.

  As I analyze him closely for the first time in over a year, I notice a fleck of silver poking out from the inside of his jacket. Judging from the slight slur of his words and the strong scent clinging to his clothes, the party is well underway, at least for him.

  “Look who’s still coveting what he can’t have,” I retort dryly, trying not to convey how bothered I am by his presence. Every time he’s near me I fear Lindsay will see the truth in our stances. How can she not?

  “I could have had you if I wanted you.” He turns suddenly and walks in the other direction without another word. He moves with a grace that should be impossible for someone so intoxicated. Shawn always held his own better than I ever could.

  “Raye!” Lindsay tosses her arms around me as her brother darts out of sight, unaware as always. “You’re stunning! That dress was definitely a good call.” She tries to whistle, but she doesn’t actually know how. It sounds like a small gust of wind.

  “You too,” I say, taking in her royal blue gown. Not that Lindsay needs a gown to be stunning, but it does a good job of complimenting her in all the right places. If Marcella isn’t interested, I doubt Lindsay will have trouble finding someone else who is.

  Lindsay drags me over to a place in the far corner where Marcella and Chane are talking to a few members of the football team. I roll my eyes as I watch them appreciate my dress. “You wish,” I growl at the boy closest to me, a senior who has his eyes glued to my chest. My comment does little to deter him.

  I can’t help but notice Marcella isn’t standing nearly as close to the boys as Chane is–a good sign for Lindsay.

  The sisters are wearing similarly fitted knee-length dresses, although Chane’s is cut lower in silver to match her hair, and Marcella’s is more conservative in gold sequins. Both are unquestionably radiant, as expected.

  “I love your dress, Raye,” Chane says as I approach, her accent making her words hard to understand over the music.

  “You too.” I nod toward her.

  “T.K.’s going to lose his mind,” she says. My face turns the colour of my dress. Marcella doesn’t acknowledge the comment; she must still think I can do better. As my mind analyzes that, my eyes can’t help but search the crowd.

  A few bodies to the left, I spot Mitch grinding all over Kasey as though he is trying to impregnate her. I choke back a judgmental groan and move on. Across the room, chatting with the guy adjusting the speakers, I find T.K. He must sense me looking at him, because his eyes snap up and lock on mine within seconds, a smile lighting up his face.

  I can’t help the small smile I give him in return.

  Before I realize what is happening, T.K. is making his way over to where I stand. He’s wearing a fitted black suit with a red tie, the exact colour of my dress. I twist my lips to the side to avoid smiling at our matching outfits. As he gets closer, his eyes travel down my body, taking in the deep V-shape of the bust and the long slit up the side of my leg. By the time his eyes find their way back to mine, my breathing has intensified and my heart is knocking around inside my chest, trying to escape. Somehow, his gaze feels more intimate than all of Mitch and Kasey’s dance moves combined.

  T.K. doesn’t pause to acknowledge his sisters, Lindsay, or the guys standing nearby. “Dance with me?” His hand is outstretched, beckoning me closer.

  Not breaking eye contact, I step forward and let him wrap his fingers around mine.

  “You look incredible.” He puts my hands around his neck and pulls me closer to his body, his fingers tracing my lower back. His body is like steel against mine, but someone has set the steel aflame. I can feel it burn through my dress and my skin until my bones are on fire.

  �
��Thanks,” I say, a little out of breath. We have barely started dancing.

  T.K.’s grin is wicked as he pulls me a fraction closer. He doesn’t seem fazed by my shift in temper, or by my sudden acceptance of his advances.

  His breath smells like cinnamon, reminding me of his jacket.

  Maybe he tastes like pie, too.

  “So, I take it you’ve decided to hold my jacket hostage?” He matches our steps to the beat of the music. My cheeks brighten as he seems to read my mind. I try to take the thoughts back, to restrain them and lock them away.

  You don’t like pie, you hormonal fool!

  “It wouldn’t fit in my clutch,” I say dryly, for some reason unable to admit the real reason I didn’t bring it: I had been planning to spend the night avoiding him.

  “You don’t have a clutch.”

  “Exactly.”

  I look to my left and notice Lindsay talking to Marcella, their heads bent close together. Chane is watching T.K. and me, a wistful look on her usually indifferent face. Maybe she’s not as cold as she pretends.

  “I was a little worried you were planning on hiding from me all night.” T.K. tightens his hold on my back as though he’s worried I’ll run. I trace my hand over his shoulder, enjoying the way it fills out his suit jacket.

  Traitor!

  “Why would I hide from you?” I ask, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice.

  “Because you like me, and that freaks you out.”

  “I’m not freaked out,” I lie.

  T.K. smirks. I realize my mistake.

  “I don’t like you either,” I add. He has me flustered, and flustered and I are not well-acquainted. If only he would loosen his grip, or look elsewhere, or buy different cologne, maybe I could regain my composure.

  “Okay, Raye.” He rests his chin on my head. In the back of my mind, I’m incredibly pleased I chose to wear heels. I like the way he says my name, like it is a secret, and the way his body feels pressed against my own.

  I tell myself not to like these things.

  I do not listen.

  “Do you play?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

  “Mm?” He looks down at me, his eyes a million miles away.

  “You were talking to the sound guy before.” I tilt my head toward the stage where the awful band has started to play a faster, somehow more terrible song. T.K. keeps me pressed against him, ignoring the change of pace.

  “I like the bass,” he says. “Can’t say I’m that good, though.” He nods to the stage, a glimmer in his eyes.

  “I think my ears are bleeding.” T.K.’s return smile takes my breath away.

  “I like it when you’re not all serious and grumpy,” he says, taking one of my curls and twisting it behind my ear. My body shivers in response. “Granted, I like you when you’re serious and grumpy, too.” He smiles, resting his forehead against mine. “I guess I just like you in general.”

  “You must be a masochist,” I mutter, unable to move. We’ve stopped dancing.

  “Definitely possible.” He brushes our noses together. His lips are so close I can taste the cinnamon on his breath. I let out a little, completely involuntary, sigh.

  I watch as T.K. closes his eyes. We’re so close, impossibly close, and yet not nearly as close as part of me would like.

  “It’s a good thing you don’t scare easily.” I’m not sure why I’m still talking. T.K. is going to kiss me. I want T.K. to kiss me. I want to feel his lips press against mine and feel his fingers twist through my hair.

  “I think so,” he whispers, bringing his lips closer to mine. His top lip lightly brushes mine, sending electricity through my body. He’s waiting for me to close the gap, to tell him I’m done running away from him, done pretending I don’t care.

  I pull away.

  T.K. opens his eyes, a questioning look on his face.

  “I need some air.” I step out of his arms and lose myself in the crowd of sweaty students. When I reach the exit tucked away in the corner, I slide outside, welcoming the cool air assaulting my skin. Finally, I can breathe. The fire has been dosed. Rational thought has returned.

  It has been so long since I felt this way, all warm and uncontrolled. I’m terrified. So many things could go wrong if I open myself up to T.K. The kiss seems like a monumental decision. I’m not ready. I can’t handle it.

  A sound of glass breaking makes me jump. I’m not the only one seeking fresh air.

  Shawn and two of his friends–one I recognize as Liam, a tall and beefy member of the football team with a way-too-short haircut, and the other I can’t put a name to–make their way around the side of the gym, spotting me instantly.

  “Hey there, princess; did you sneak away for a little fun?” Shawn says, taking a few more steps toward me. His breath smells like vodka and smoke.

  Definitely drunk.

  Probably high.

  “Screw off, Shawn, I’m not buying.” I shove off from the wall, attempting to make my way back inside. I’m not afraid of him, not like he wants me to be.

  “You used to be so much fun,” he pouts, blocking off my escape route. Liam and the other one laugh, taking a few steps closer as well. The smell of vodka radiating off of them is enough to make my stomach turn, memories of another life tickling my senses. “Don’t you remember all those good times we had? Under the bleachers, the back seat of my car…”

  “Yeah, well, now I’m lame and boring, so you can go find another toy to play with,” I snap, trying to think of a way around him.

  Don’t back down. Don’t show weakness. My instincts tell me something is off before my brain clicks things into place. Shawn isn’t playing around. Not tonight.

  “Why are you such a stuck-up bitch?” he asked, his voice a gentle tease like he’s conversing with a teacher or parent. He leans in closer, pulling at a strand of my hair. I don’t want him to see how nervous I am.

  Three of them versus one of me. My odds are garbage.

  “Not every girl who turns you down is stuck-up, Shawn.”

  “Most girls don’t,” he purrs, a drunken smile creeping onto his face. “No need to be nervous, princess.” He pats my cheek. It’s terrifying how his intoxicated state has intensified in such a short period.

  Before I can think of a way out, Shawn’s lips smash down against mine, forcing my mouth open with his tongue. I am flooded with vodka, ash, and smoke. With it comes a year’s worth of memories that bring bile to the back of my throat.

  Instinctively, I bite down as hard as I can. The taste of salt and metal fill my mouth along with the sting of poison. I spit on the ground as Shawn stumbles back, a song of curses cut up and broken by his ruined tongue slipping out of his mouth.

  “You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that,” he slurs, trying to right himself. I have to guess at what he means; his words are so broken.

  Liam, previously nothing more than a shadow wanting to observe, steps toward my right side and pins my arms behind my back. The other one, the one I was stupid enough to ignore, moves forward to rip at the strap of my dress, tearing the lace in two clean pieces.

  My scream is cut off by Shawn’s hand pressed against my face. “Let’s take this somewhere more private,” he hisses as he presses his mouth against the hand covering my face. “I think you owe me an apology.”

  I can still hear the music pounding from inside the gym. No one is going to hear me, even if I manage to open my mouth. I try to struggle, but three against one isn’t a match I can win. I close my eyes and try to rip my head away, my struggle still muffled. I feel my skull connect with something soft and pliable.

  I fall to the ground, my dress tearing further on the brick wall behind me. My eyes fill with tears that won’t fall as I watch T.K. slam Liam against the ground, turning to reach for Shawn, who is trying to stumble away.

  There is a lot of blood.

  So much blood.

  The rational part of my brain says it isn’t that much, considering there are three sources, b
ut the other part of my brain is saying, too much, it’s too much!

  T.K. lifts Shawn off the ground, his face bloodied and already starting to swell. “If you ever go near her again, I’ll make your death look like a horror film,” he breathes, his teeth clenched in anger. Then louder as he drops him to the ground, he says, “Go.”

  They go.

  Without hesitation, they go tripping and falling and tumbling along. I’m left against a wall, my dress torn, with T.K. kneeling before me. His eyes are wide and worried, filled with concern. It feels familiar. It feels right.

  Perhaps I’m in shock.

  “Raye,” he says, placing his hands on my shoulders, weighing me to the ground. “Raye, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, amazed at the clarity of my voice. “How’d you do that?” I glance at the blood all over the ground. T.K. moved like a warrior, like he was built to fight and defend. It was terrifying and beautiful all wrapped into one.

  “It’s nothing.” His voice is tight with worry; it makes me want to cry even though the tears behind my eyes are long gone.

  T.K.’s hands drift from my shoulders to my face, leaving goosebumps in their wake. I close my eyes as his fingers brush my temples, seemingly unaware he is getting blood in my hair. This time, when he tries to kiss me, I’m going to let him. Even though my eyes are closed, I can feel his intense stare as his eyes rake over my body, making sure I’m okay. I think my heart is going to explode as a warm current tingles over my body.

  But the kiss never comes.

  I open my eyes in time to watch him tighten as he pulls his body away. I’m suddenly aware of the horrible cold plaguing the air around me.

  “Are you okay?” he repeats. I notice a new edge to his voice.

  “I’ve been through worse.”

  I’m not sure why he hasn’t kissed me yet. I’m ready. Isn’t that obvious? I lean forward slightly, hoping he’ll get the hint.

  T.K. looks at me for a moment longer, eyes still tight. “I should bring you home; you’re a mess.” He glances down at my once-stunning dress.

  I nod in defeat, following him to the parking lot. “Keys,” he demands, holding out his hand.