Текст книги "Deeper"

Автор книги: Robin York

Соавторы: Robin York,Robin York
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

I take it. It’s sticky. “Caroline.”

He smiles. “I know.”

I decide what he means is exactly what he said. He knows my name. Nothing worse than that.

“Maybe I’ll see you at the party later,” he tells me when he gets up, damp patches on the knees of his jeans.

Maybe he will.

There’s another guy. After him, the thighs that plunk down in front of me belong to Scott.

Rugby Scott.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

“Fancy seeing you here.”

I laugh at that. Actually, I kind of snort. I’ve had … uh-oh. Some drinks. Five. Or six? They’re not very big. Quinn taught us to make them with a lot of whipped cream and not so much of the hard stuff, because a few years ago one of the ruggers had to go to the hospital with alcohol poisoning. We’re supposed to get rotated out every so often, but I’m still fine. I’m better than fine.

“Did you think you wouldn’t see me?”

“Um …” His eyes flick to mine. “Does that question have a right answer?”

“Pay up, people!” Bridget shouts. Scott extends his hand, a ten-dollar bill sticking out between his fingers.

“Where am I supposed to put this?”

I’ve got money sticking out of my pocket, and the twenty plastered to my neck is poking me in my ear. I look heavenward, feigning exasperation. “Anywhere you want, big boy.”

That cracks us both up.

He puts it in my pocket.

I wonder if he’s been drinking, too.

I wonder why he’s here. If he came thinking he’d see me. If he was looking forward to it.

One of the players sets a shot in front of me and plunks another down in front of Scott.

Bridget blows the whistle. “DRINK!”

I open my jaw wide. Put my head down, suck up my shot, knock it back. My eyes don’t sting anymore. My lips are sticky and sweet, my hands cold from being out of my pockets so long. Scott gets his shot down, too, and pulls another ten from his wallet.

“I’m supposed to do this again now?” he asks.

“You’re allowed.”

“Oh, it’s a privilege.”

I beam at him. “It’s definitely a privilege. And it’s for a good cause.”

This time, he tucks the money in my coat. It’s zipped up to my scarf, so when he wraps his fingers around the collar, just for a second, he’s touching a perfectly innocent bit of chest real estate about five inches north of my boobs. And even that through a couple of layers of clothing.

But our eyes meet, and I know what he did, and so does he.

Whistle. “DRINK!”

This one goes down funny. I start to choke, and I have to grip the train track for a second, cold iron through brown leather, sucking air into my nose. In my peripheral vision, I notice a disturbance. Movement. A ripple of aggression.

“Not your turn, dude,” I hear Krishna say.

“I get to go again.” Scott.

“I don’t care.”

I know that voice.

I look up and see West, down on one knee across from me.

He must have shoved to the front of the line. Barged right in and removed Scott, which is totally not allowed. If anyone else had done it, Krishna would have had them kicked out, but West is West, and they’re friends.

West is West, and he’s got some kind of point he wants to make. God knows what it is.

His jaw is tight. There’s a line between his eyebrows, a hardness to his mouth. I wonder how long he’s been watching and what kind of right he thinks he has here, anyway.

The muscle in his jaw flexes, his teeth grinding together.

“You’re here for a blow job?”

“No.”

I cross my arms, pouting. “Well, blow jobs are what’s on offer. Are you in or are you out?”

Someone slides a shot down the tracks to the space in front of him. Bridget shouts, “Pay up!”

West frowns, opens his wallet, takes out a bill.

He extends it to me.

“You’re supposed to put it on me.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Everybody’s doing that.”

He hesitates, and I think he won’t. He seems troubled by all this, not sure if I’m being exploited, exploiting myself.

I’m not sure, either, but I want to tell him that sometimes you just have to trust the way it feels. You have to believe that happy things can make you happy and wrong things feel wrong.

I want to tell him that tonight he has to trust me to know what I want, instead of making up my mind for me.

He’s not in charge of me. He never was.

We were never going out. We weren’t friends. And I haven’t spent every hour since I last saw him two nights ago feeling brokenhearted, furious, betrayed.

Behind him, Scott is waiting. Hopeful Scott. Nice, ordinary, possible Scott. A guy I could take home to meet my dad. He must have driven all the way from Carter tonight for me.

It’s a shame Scott’s not who I want.

I reach out, grab West’s wrist, and drag his hand to my chest. “This is a good spot.”

Our eyes meet. He stuffs the bill inside my coat, down into my cleavage, his long fingers tamping it like an explosive.

I haven’t been this close to him since before break. Only in my dreams. Only in my bed in the dark, remembering the sound of his voice in my ear, the heat of his body, the slide of his tongue.

The whistle blows. “DRINK!”

I keep my eyes on West as I bend down to take the shot. He doesn’t drink his. He just watches me.

He watches me swallow it.

He’s watching me when I open my eyes.

Maybe it’s because I’m drunk, but I don’t think so. I think it’s because I’m tired of doing what everyone expects me to. I’m tired of waiting around to be claimed, telling myself it’s what I want.

I’m tired of being afraid of what might happen.

It already happened.

So I reach across the tracks, leaning way over with my ass in the air, pick up his shot, and knock it back with my eyes closed.

Then I look right into his eyes. I lick my lips, slow and seductive.

And that’s all it takes.

West reaches out, fists his hands in my coat, and yanks me into him. We meet at the mouth.

It’s the most obscene kiss of my life. Deep and hard, gasping hot, sticky-sweet, messy.

It turns out that West doesn’t even need words to make the point he came here to make.

Mine, his mouth says. Mine, mine, mine.

But I’m not. I’m my own. And I grab his hair, pull it, scratch his neck, punishing him for not getting that. For doing this, for never having done this before—I don’t know. Punishing him for torturing me.

It goes on, and I’m vaguely aware of somebody whooping. Maybe lots of somebodys. I don’t care. My hands clench and unclench at his hips. He’s saying my name. Kissing down my neck to my throat. He’s catching his breath, pressing his forehead against mine.

And then he’s standing up, leaving me cold. Alone.

He shoots a glare at Scott and walks away.

It’s only then that I understand how deeply, righteously, incandescently furious I am.

I’m stripped to my bra, dancing in a heaving mass of shirtless, sweaty, smiling, grinding women.

I’m safe, and I’m drunk, and I’m tired of men writing their claims on my body.

Slut, Nate wrote, and I believed him.

Mine, West wrote, and I let him, I melted, I gave him my surrender and my tongue, but I’m mad now. I’ve had enough of his shit. Enough.

Quinn’s at my hip, bumping my ass, lifting my hand and twirling me around. Two girls are hugging, kissing with tongue in front of me. Bridget’s dancing with Krishna, a beer in her hand.

There’s a reason the rugby party is popular beyond the blow jobs, and it has a lot to do with the pile of shirts on the stage by the DJ. We’re down to our sports bras, lace bras, acres of exposed flesh, girls who are too fat and too thin and just right, and none of us cares. We’re here to dance. We’re here for one another.

There’s a line dance. I don’t know the steps. They’re simple, but I keep forgetting them, crashing into people, spinning out too far on the twirl and losing my balance, finding it again. When I fall, hands reach out to clasp mine and lift me up. Bodies press into me, a hugging sisterhood of thrusting hips and lifted arms, sunglasses and duckface, bathed in disco-ball light.

I’m not bad. I’m not good. I’m just alive. I’m just here, dancing.

I love everyone. Everyone loves me. We’re heat and sweat, young and beautiful, sexy, together. Not one of these women would hurt me.

I drink and I’m drunk. I dance and I’m breathing, moving, living.

We’re in the middle of the dance floor, the center of everything, and sometimes I think I catch sight of him at the edge of the room.

Boots and crossed legs, leaning against the wall. Hooded eyes. Watching.

Sometimes I think I see pants with whales on them. A smirking smile that knows too much. A dimple that made me think I was safe when I never was, no matter how nice his parents are or how good his manners.

But I’m angry and I’m dancing and I don’t care.

Fuck them.

Fuck them both.

“I don’t want to see him.”

“Shh!”

“What? I’m whispering.”

I trip over something, and Quinn gets my elbow and helps me up. We’re in West’s apartment. I’m still drunk, but I’m sober enough to know this is a bad idea.

“You don’t have to see him,” Krishna says. “He’s sleeping. Keep your trap shut, and you’ll be fine.”

Quinn turns on the TV, and a wall of sound blasts out and knocks me down. “Whoa,” I say from the floor.

“Shit!” She starts giggling.

She and Krishna are fighting for the remote. I’m thinking about whether I should leave, but Bridget helps me up and shoves a cold bottle of water in my hand, so I drink that instead. I close my eyes, savoring every freezing, quenching, amazing swallow.

The sound drops off to a hush. The apartment smells like West’s apartment, and it’s full of memories I don’t want right now—except, of course, that I always want them and I always want him and there’s nothing I can do about it.

The water soothes my throat, at least. My feelings will have to wait for some other night.

I open my eyes because my balance is off, which is much more obvious now that we’re not at the party. Bridget is right up in my face, tucking my hair behind my ear, and I have to stick a hand out and brace myself against a cabinet so her beer-smelling concern doesn’t bowl me over again.

“Why did you bring me here?” My question is supposed to be a whisper, but it sounds like a whimper. “I don’t want to see him.”

“I know, sweetie. I know. We weren’t sure what else to do with you. We have to sober you up, and you were too loud for the dorm.”

She leads me to the couch, where Quinn and Krishna are already sitting. When I sit, too, Bridget pulls my head into her lap and detangles my hair with her fingers. The air feels cool against my neck. The movie is stupid, something with cars and guns. Just when my eyes are starting to get heavy, food arrives—three huge containers of nachos from the pizza place. I sink down to the floor, wedging myself between couch and cinder-block coffee table props. I stuff chips and salt and cheese into my mouth.

“This is sooooo good.”

“Don’t forget to chew,” Krishna says. “You know that’s all coming back up later.”

“No way,” Quinn says.

“Are you serious?”

Krishna and Quinn are still arguing amicably over what the odds are that I’m going to puke before morning when the front door flies open. West blinks at us in dull surprise for several long seconds before Krishna says, “Fuck.”

“Nice greeting.” He bends down to take off his snow-covered boots and disappears from view. I’m down by the floor, covered in chip crumbs and probably smeared all over with nacho cheese. He hasn’t seen me. I don’t care.

“Dude, I thought you were asleep in your room,” Krishna says.

“Not asleep.”

“Yeah, so I gather. You been at the bar?”

There’s a dull thud. “Yeah.” Then a few seconds’ silence and a loud crash. “Shit.”

“You’re drunk.”

“No kidding.”

Krishna turns to look at Quinn, eyes wide. She makes this shooing motion with her hands that means, Get him into his bedroom. Krishna stands up, nachos in hand, and it’s the wrong move, because West zeroes in on the container, says, “You guys got food?” and walks toward the couch.

Then he sees me and stops.

“Have to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk,” I tell him.

“Yeah. I bet. Listen—” He cuts himself off. Looks at Bridget, Quinn, and Krishna. “You guys should probably fuck off for a while.”

“It’s three in the morning,” Quinn says.

“In winter,” Bridget points out.

Krishna crosses his arms. “We’re responsible for her tonight.”

“I’ll be responsible,” West tells him.

“You’re drunk.”

“So?”

“So you can’t take off your shoes without falling over. I’m not giving you Caroline.”

“Hello? I’m down here? Alive and well? Perfectly capable of making my own decisions?”

“I’m taking her,” West says.

“I’m not leaving her,” Krishna insists.

“Fine. Stay. But we’re going in the bedroom.”

“Maybe I don’t want—”

And then I’m upside down, with West’s shoulder a hard pressure in my gut, and I have to focus, because my eyes are prickling and hot and I’m afraid I’m going to puke on him.

He picked me up. Picked me up off the floor and threw me over his shoulder.

That dick.

When he sets me down, I bump into the wall. He closes the door and locks it.

He’s so dead.

“You Neanderthal. You fucking—fucking—Piltdown Man. How dare you? How dare you?”

He’s over by his desk, pulling his wallet out and setting it in the drawer. Taking off his jacket. Unzipping his hoodie. He opens a drawer and pulls out a string of condoms and puts one in his pocket.

“What’s that for?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry? How about you stop acting like an entitled caveman who can just kiss me when he wants to, throw me over his shoulder and carry me into his room and get out a condom, like that’s ever going to happen, who can just phone-sex me when he wants to get off and throw me away when he’s all done? How about—”

“Caroline.” He sits down on the bed. His voice is slow and soothing. “We got things to talk about. Could you maybe give it five minutes without the screeching?”

“I’m not screeching!”

But it comes out pretty screechy.

I turn around and face the wall, covering my face with my hands because it hurts too much to look at him.

I need to be angry, because if I stop being angry, all that’s left is disappointment and wanting, and I can’t afford either of them anymore. They cost too much. They’ve been taking too much out of me for too long.

His bedsprings squeak. Even that seems poignant, a sound I remember from being in his bed, his hands on me, his mouth. My eyes flood with tears, and I’m so disappointed with myself.

“Caroline.”

His voice is right behind me now. I’ve heard it like that, my name low and intimate, right before he comes. It’s more than I can bear—the way my heart lifts, my body responds, even as I’m trying to locate my anger and push back the tears. “Don’t.”

But he doesn’t listen. He puts one hand against the wall and the other at the small of my back. He leans in, his mouth by my ear, the heat of his body behind me close enough to feel, close enough to make me yearn, close enough to draw me back in if I let it, if I break, if I’m weak.

“Please,” he says.

There’s a knock on the door. “You okay, Caroline?”

Quinn’s voice. I can imagine her and Krishna and Bridget, lined up out there. Worried about me.

I think about the party tonight, the dancing, the feeling of being surrounded by people who love me.

I’m not weak. I’m a little drunk—getting more sober by the second—but I’m strong.

I draw in a deep breath and find that strength. Wrap it around me.

Then I take my hands away from my face and turn to face West. “I’m fine,” I call, loud enough for them to hear me. “He can have ten minutes.”

“You sure?” Krishna asks.

“Go watch your fucking movie,” West says.

After a moment, the volume on the TV goes up.

Then we’re just looking at each other, West and me. His face so perfectly not-perfect. That wide, smart-ass mouth that can make me feel electric, make me feel like I’m drowning, make me feel like I could live on him and him alone.

His mouth is a lie.

I take him apart, one piece at a time. Chin, cheekbones, nose, eyebrows. Those eyes. His pupils blown, light rims around them, dark circles beneath.

It’s just a face. West’s face.

His breath is just breath, reeking of alcohol.

He’s a man, standing there. Not a problem for me to solve. Not an obligation, not a need, not love. Maybe not even my friend.

I can almost make myself believe it.

“What do you want?” I ask.

His mouth opens. His eyes narrow. He puts his hand to the back of his neck, lowers his head, exhales.

“Yeah,” I say, because it’s easy to see right now. I’m not sure if it’s the false wisdom of all those blow jobs and beers or if it’s because I’ve been so angry, but I feel like all the pretense has been stripped away, all the cozy lies I’ve hidden behind burned off on the dance floor. I feel wise, and there are things I know that I haven’t known before.

Like this—this truth: West doesn’t know what he wants.

“That’s your whole problem, isn’t it?”

He made that speech in my room last month, told me, “I want you, and I don’t know how to stop wanting you. I want to get deep inside you, and then deeper, until I’m so deep I don’t even know what’s me anymore and what’s you.” He said that, but he hasn’t made up his mind about it. He’s afraid. He’s still drawing pencil lines around us.

I could tell him that it’s already too late. It’s been too late for a long time, maybe from the start.

Instead, I tell him, “I’m sick of waiting for you to figure it out.”

His eyes come up. Those little flecks glittering with something, some protest. Some plea.

“I’m sick of you acting like I’m just going to be whatever you want me to be. Maybe I have been so far. I guess I’ve done whatever you said, followed your rules. But I’m finished. This isn’t a game, and you’re not in charge of it. And I think—”

“Caro—”

“No. I’m talking now. You can fucking wait. I have been patient with you, but my patience is gone, West. You don’t get to barge into the line at the rugby thing and kiss me in front of everyone—in front of everyone, when you dumped me, when you’ve refused to admit we have something even to our friends for months now—and then walk away, like you’ve said your piece and that’s that. You don’t get to pick me up and throw me over your shoulder and drag me into your room like I don’t have a say in it. And put a condom in your pocket because, what? What if you feel like fucking me later? Might as well be prepared? No. You don’t get to do that. You want to be friends? We could have been friends. You want to be fuck buddies, you know, I was up for that! Probably I would’ve gotten too attached, gotten my heart broken, if we’re being honest, but so what? I wouldn’t be the first girl in the history of the world to let that happen to her. But you’re the one who said to let you know when I’m ready to see other guys, and you’re the one who dropped me after break like nothing we said or did on the phone mattered, so don’t pretend you have any right at all to play the jealous boyfriend when you’re not my fucking boyfriend.”

I’m poking him in the chest now, and it’s possible that I’m crying, but we’re not going to examine that too closely, because I need to do this. It feels like such a relief to get it out, to accuse him, to beat on him with these words I’ve been holding inside me for far too long.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You should be sorry. You’ve been a jerk to me, and I just take it. I let you. But I’m not letting you anymore. You want to be with me, make up your fucking mind.”

He catches my face in his palms. I can’t even hear over the rush of blood in my ears, my pounding heart, my fury. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. I said my piece. I should go, but he’s trapped me here between his hands, his eyes on me, and I don’t want to be anywhere else.

Everything I said is true, and I still want to be right here.

“You’re the coward.” My voice is hoarse. Low. Shocked, because I’m only now figuring this out.

“I know.”

“And a liar.”

“I know.”

“You’re playing with me.”

He shakes his head. “No. I’m not—I don’t mean to. I just can’t.”

“You can’t what?”

Another shake, and our noses bump and slide past each other. He’s not kissing me. He’s just right up against me, rubbing his cheek into mine. Scratching his stubble over my chin. I need you. That’s what he’s trying to tell me. I want you.

I need him, too. Want him, too. But it’s not fair of him to give me this and nothing else. It’s not enough.

“I can’t,” he repeats.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” I don’t sound so harsh anymore. I sound gentle. I feel gentle, because, God, I care about him, even though it’s wrong and dumb. He’s hurting, and I care. “I can’t know, because you don’t tell me anything.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Now I push his hands off me and grab his head, the way he did mine. I want him to see me. I want him to hear, to understand. I sink my fingers into his hair, hold him there. Make him listen. “You could tell me,” I say. “There isn’t anything you couldn’t tell me. God, anything—you know I’m on your side. And if you just told me …” I trail off, thinking what that would be like.

I should keep silent, but there’s too much alcohol in me, too much openness not to say all of this.

I look in his eyes.

“If you just told me, then we could get into that bed and crawl under the covers. We could take everything off, and we could really be together. Deep and then deeper, just like you said. You know how it would be, West. We both know.”

“Incredible,” he says.

I dip my thumb down, run it over the arch of his eyebrow. “Yeah. Incredible.”

I put my arms around him, gather him close, tuck my head against his neck, because I think he needs this. I’m pretty sure I’m the only person in Iowa who’s ever hugged him, and in Oregon, who knows? Maybe no one hugs him but me.

I hold him tight, and he’s shaking. Actually shaking.

I feel sorry for him. That’s a new thing. I think this is the first time since I met him that I didn’t feel like West had all the power, held all the cards. The first time I’ve ever believed he’s maybe even more screwed up than I am.

I kiss his jaw. I stroke his back one more time, because it’s broad and warm and strong, and the truth is I can’t help it. I never could.

But after all that, I let go. Take a step back. Meet his eyes and lift my chin.

“It’s deeper or nothing,” I tell him. “So make up your mind.”

This time, I’m the one who walks away.