Held: A New Adult Romance (11 page)

 "I don't want anyone else to see this," he said. "This is mine. You understand? All mine."

 I was already slack-jawed with lust. He gave me a look that could burn sugar and sucked the taste of me off his long fingers. I forgot all about the dinner that Everglade and I had worked so hard to make perfect, just like I forgot everything whenever he touched me. His fingers had rough tips from playing the guitar, something else he did almost as perfectly as he made love. When I wandered back into the kitchen I must have looked as vacant as I felt, because there was a pointed quality to Everglade's gaze. Looking back I realize she probably had a keener nose than most for sniffing out his brand of poison; after all, she was Kiersten Rowe's daughter.

 At the time I just thought she was being terrible; she and Justin brought out the worst in each other. I prayed for the moderating influence of Alex, her boyfriend at the time. He was very New York, scary smart and with the same wry, sideways cynical humor as Everglade. His father was a professor at Columbia and his mother was something big in publishing. They were both, he was fond of saying, fucking horrified at his choice of San Diego.

 He dished me out a spoonful of potatoes, a consideration not lost on Justin. Then he started talking about some author his mother had introduced him to - one of those bright young post-modernist things who was already being talked about as a Pulitzer candidate, even though he was barely older than us. "Dumb as a box of hair," said Alex. "I'm serious. That whole stripped-down prose they're all comparing to Steinbeck and Hemingway? It's actually because he's still on the See Spot Run level of sentence construction."

 "The Tale of Scrotie McBoogerballs," Everglade declaimed, in a Morgan Freeman voice.

 I laughed. Justin curled his lip. "So what?" he said. "We should all carry on reading purple prose in order to look smart - is that what you're saying?"

 Alex shook his head. "I'm not saying that at all. I'm saying the emperor's dick is flapping in the breeze and it's only a matter of time before someone points it out."

 Justin shook his head. He liked classic novels and gloomy poetry, but he could never pass up an opportunity to be contrary. It was one of the things I loved about him - he challenged where everyone else would have accepted.

 "I liked it," he said, poking at a piece of turkey. The breast was moist - all our basting and barding and butter had paid off - but he hadn't mentioned that yet.

 "What?" said Everglade. "Scrotie McBoogerballs?" 

 "Funny," he said. "I watch South Park too. I find it makes me smarter, don't you?"

 "Justin..." I felt my stomach twist and knot.

 "It's a joke," said Everglade, unintimidated. "It's funny."

 "So funny you told it twice?" Oh God. I should have known he wouldn't behave. I should have known he'd react badly to Alex. For some reason I'd told myself that Justin would love the company of someone as smart as he was. Only he was determined to be awful.

 "It was a pretty funny episode," said Alex. "What did you like about it?"

 "What? South Park?"

 "No. The book."

 Justin was pulled up sharp. I had no idea how he was going to react. "I thought it was honest," he said, after a short pause. He bit a chunk out of a buttered roll. "Unpretentious."

 Everglade's eyebrows made a break for the ceiling. I shot her a warning look.

 Alex shrugged. "I guess we differ. Personally I can't stand all that faux naive shit - I can't think of anything more pretentious."

 "I guess your baseline for pretension is different to mine," said Justin, leaning back in his chair and spreading his arms, the better to show off his tattoos.

 Everglade sighed. "You done?" she said. "Wanna beat your chest a little more there, King Kong?"

 I could feel the blood drain from my face. She'd promised to be nice. She'd promised not to bait him, but he always had to push. He could never leave anything alone. "Who wants pie?" I said. My voice sounded as thin as a birdcall.

 Justin gave one of those humorless snorts of laughter that even then I knew meant nothing good. "What the fuck would you know," he said, looking directly at Everglade. "About honest and unpretentious?" His accent was stronger when he was angry. I knew right then that he'd worked himself into a good old-fashioned sulk, the way he often did when faced with money and privilege. He was always fond of his role as working class hero, although I'd never known him to hold down a job for more than two weeks at a time; his hair trigger was always getting him fired.

 "I guess I know enough to say thank you when someone passes me the fucking potatoes," said Everglade. I could have strangled her in that moment. I thought she of all people would understand how much this dinner meant to me. To both of us. And instead she was channelling her goddamn lunatic mother.

 He snorted again. "Oh, I get it," he said. "You rich little W.A.S.P. kids wanna beat me over the head with Emily Post? How many thank yous do you think my ancestors heard when your ancestors fucking stole their land and gave them all syphilis?"

 Alex frowned. "You're First Nations? I thought you were Cajun?"

 "He is Cajun," said Everglade. "Cajun as a goddamn catfish."

 "Cajun and Cree, actually."

 "Bullshit. You're about as Cree as the Queen of England's tits."

 "Will you stop it?" I said. "Please? All I wanted is for everyone to have a good time. Is that so hard?"

 "I dunno," said Everglade. "Ask Running Mouth over there."

 Justin leapt up from the table. "That's racist!"

 She glared up at him. "No, what's racist is co-opting another culture's goddamn suffering to justify why you're in a fucking snit because someone dissed a shitty book you like. Now either sit down and shut up or leave."

 He got up from the table. I barely even heard Everglade calling my name; I didn't want him to go. This meant so much to him too, I knew, but that was Justin all over - always with a finger hovering over the Self Destruct button. 

 I found him outside, smoking a cigarette. "Why are you doing this?" I asked.

 He gave me a look of utter contempt. "I'm doing what, exactly? She fucking started it - she always does. She hates me."

 "She hates everyone," I said, trying to turn it into a joke. "I wouldn't take it personally. Please, Justin - come back in. We made pie. The filling isn't even canned."

 Justin sighed, but there was half a lopsided smile on his lips and my heart leapt to see it. "Pie?" he said, failing to hide the laugh in his voice. I reached out for his hand and he pulled me close, my ear against his muscled chest. "So bourgeois," he said. "Fucking pie."

 He laughed in despair at me and I shook as I reached up to cup his face in my hands. His kiss was slow and smoky, but I didn't care how it tasted - just as long as he still wanted me. "Let's get married," he said.

 "What?"

 "Let's get married. Let's do something crazy before we die, or start giving two shits about pie fillings."

 I laughed, but my heart felt bigger and hotter than the sun at that moment. Really? Me? Was he serious? "We can't," I said.

 "Sure we can. Drive out to Vegas. Find a drive through chapel with an Elvis impersonator."

 "Justin..."

 "What?" he said, his blue eyes full of love and light once more. "What's the matter, cher? Did you have your wedding day all figured out? Silver shoes and a pretty white dress? Shame on you - no room for the King of Rock n' Roll in that fantasy of yours?"

 Was he nuts? It didn't matter. Maybe once I would have been pissed to abandon my childhood dreams of trailing veils and lily of the valley, but the only wedding I could ever imagine now was one where he was the groom. Somewhere in the back of my mind was a soft, sane voice, telling me that I couldn't get married - was I even legal to drink in Nevada? - but he loved me again. He wasn't mad at me any more. And that was all that mattered.

 I ran back up the stairs, determined to punish him by making him wait for his answer. He chased me and I crashed through the door of my bedroom with a playful shriek, prompting Everglade to come running. She banged on the door and called my name, but Justin was already on me, fighting with the buttons of his jeans.

 "Amber? Are you okay?"

 "I'm fine," I said, trying to keep my voice normal as he entered me, roughly and without any kind of ceremony. It hurt a little - I wasn't nearly wet enough - but I loved the look on his face whenever he first pushed inside, like this look of perfect peace.

 "Say yes," he whispered, thrusting gently. "Say you'll marry me."

 I bit my lip and wrapped my legs around his back. The pain faded as my body caught up with my brain. I squeezed my muscles around him and when I saw the look of hunger in his eyes it was like my blood caught fire. Surely it wasn't normal to want someone this much.

 "Say yes." He bent to kiss me, his hips moving in time with the beats of my heart. I moaned into his mouth and his breath went ragged for a moment, before he took his cue and started to go harder.

 Then I shifted my hips and he was there - his next thrust hit that twitchy spot inside of me. "Yes," I said, rising up to meet him. It was still new to me, that something could feel this good.

 "Yes?"

 "Yes."

 He looked like his soul was about to spill out of his eyes in that moment. He buried his face in my shoulder and his voice hissed hot against my ear. "I love you. I fucking love you, baby. So fucking much."

 I made a dumb, hungry animal sound in response. His hips were all at the wrong angle now and I was on the edge. "Please," I moaned.

 He raised himself up on his hands and looked down at me, holding himself still inside me. He looked so pleased with himself, and well he might do - he could see what he'd done to me. My skirt and panties were on the floor, my top and bra tangled up under my chin, so that my nipples poked out obscenely. When I raised my head I could see the bunched muscles of his flat belly, the trail of hair where he disappeared into me. "Say you love me," he said, with an evil, teasing smile on his lips.

 "Iloveyou..." It came out all in one breath. He angled his hips and hit the spot just right, so that I had to bite my lip hard to keep from crying out.

 "Again."

 "I love you. Please. Please..."

 "You like that, baby?" He started to move with hard, sweet stabs. I never minded him running his mouth off, not when he was deep inside me and every motion of our bodies dragged filthy endearments from his lips. I was his slut, his honeyfuck, his sweet, darling whore. He did it on purpose - of course he did. When I cried out he'd won - Everglade heard me. She knew what was up. I loved him best. He'd proved it. That was the whole point of the exercise.

 It's hard to look at things in this light.

 Chapter Eleven

Jaime

I'm going too fast on Laurel.

 I can't stop. If I stop I'll think about what I'm doing and if I think about it I'll be shaking too hard to hold the wheel. Oh my God, those bends. One slip of the wheel and you'll go ninety miles an hour into a tree. You don't come back from a crash at that kind of speed. Blood, brains, shattered bone - all those lovely images from Drivers Ed come back to me in glorious Technicolor.

 Somehow I keep my head until the road straightens out, and then it's like I drove into a Hollywood version of Mad Max. Bikes, all around me. They're zipping past, in and out of the gaps in cars. And the worst thing I know is why. She's up there at the front of them all.

 And it's my fault, isn't it? If I hadn't pointed out that camera...

 I can see her - she's maybe three or four cars ahead. I see the taillights of the Escalade. They're safe, right? Everyone says those SUVs are like tanks.

 But she's driving like a maniac and I can't overtake. There's a biker to one side and a mini-van on the other. He has a bulky camera bag strapped to the back of his bike. Were they lying in wait for her, the whole time? Were they seriously lurking in the Hills waiting for her to drive out of the gates? That’s just nuts.

 The bike picks up speed and there's soon another one in its place. My problem now is the fucking mini-van, coasting along at about sixty. I catch a glimpse of the driver - a serene looking blonde. The mid lane slows suddenly and I'm left looking at the back of her van - one of those Baby On Board stickers and that little fish symbol that people like to use to show people that Jesus wants them for a sunbeam. Protestants, I guess. I've never known a Catholic with one of those things - we know you can't get out just by taking the fish sign off your car.

 I wind down the window and stick my head out. There's a light up ahead, flashing in a busted, panicky way that makes my heart nearly leap out of my chest. 

 Oh shit, shit, shit. For an insane second I think of Princess Diana.

 The midlane moves enough to give me a gap, and I take it, cutting in front of the soccer mom. As I take off I catch a brief glimpse of her giving me a very unChristian hand sign in the rear view mirror.

 There's a mess all right - three bikes piled up at the side of the road. I wish I had more sympathy, but what did they expect? I chase Amber's taillights all the way to the freeway exit, then by some miracle I'm alongside. I can see her profile through the smoked glass, then the white of her cheek as she turns round to look at me. She lowers the window and I've never seen anything quite like her face at that moment - she's so scared. She's so far out of her depth it's a wonder she can even remember to breathe.

 Then there's an explosion of light all around us. She hides her face from the flashes.

 "Leave her alone!" I yell. "Leave her the fuck alone!"

 I can hardly see - it's bright as daylight, but they yell over the sound of their idling engines. "Amber, Amber, Amber, Amber! Look over here, Amber! Amber, do you have anything to say to Mr. Theroux's family?"

 She raises her window once more. Behind me I hear the wail of police sirens. The Escalade leaps ahead at the first opportunity and I follow. Nothing matters but getting her home, away from these vultures.