Ricochet (13 page)

I approach, and my father excuses himself to go mingle with
some older corporate men. She looks a little stricken, her lips pinched and her
hand a bit shaky. “What is it?” she asks, on edge.

“Are you okay?” Why do I start with this? Of course she’s
not okay, and does she really deserve my sympathy after slapping Rose? No, not
one bit. But I can’t take it back, and her domineering posture sucks my
confidence dry.

“Fine,” she says, turning her back on me almost immediately.
She waves to her friend and acts like I’m a piece of furniture that chose to
bump into her leg.

I try again. “I think she’s just trying to express herself,
but she doesn’t know how to do it without yelling…”

My mother continues to wave at her friend in the distance.
She puts her hand on my shoulder, patting me once. “Sure, I have to go talk to
Barbara. Find Aaron. He’ll keep you company.” With this, she drifts into the
pack and wears the fakest smile. I watch her hug a bejeweled woman in a red
bandage dress.

I feel like she just punched me in the gut.

Ryke suddenly sidles next to me. “There you are.” He hands
me a glass of water, and I thankfully accept it with a smile. “You okay?
Nothing happened did it…?” His brows furrow, and he glances behind me, probably
looking around for Aaron who I’m sure has ceased and desisted. Jonathan Hale’s
warning was strong enough to listen to. And Aaron isn’t that stupid.

“No,” I say, “nothing like that.” We both stare at the party
that seems to relax—calm after the split tension. “Unchained Melody” by the
Righteous Brothers begins playing. Couples grab their significant other,
swaying to the lovely tune.

“Who was that guy anyway?”

“And old enemy,” I tell him, watching an elderly woman put
her cheek on her husband’s shoulder.

Ryke stuffs a hand into his suit jacket and nods, as though
fully understanding what it’s like to have enemies. I have no doubt that he has
his fair share.

“My mother slapped my sister,” I say, completely detached
from the words.

Ryke doesn’t even flinch. He just stares off at the dancers.
“Funny, my mother did the same thing to me when I told her I was coming here.”
He sips his own water.

“I think your father saved me tonight.”

Ryke stays quiet, letting this sink in.

We’re so fucked up. That’s all I can think and process.

And another batch of balloons begins to fall at the end of
the song. The ceiling flickers with soft-lit multicolored lights.

I made it.

No guy touched me. I didn’t touch them. Sex was the last
thing on my mind tonight.

Each day feels like an obstacle.

And a victory.

FEBRUARY

{5}

Three different pints of ice cream squeeze in
between my thighs, the chill seeping into my Ms. Marvel pajama pants.
Valentine’s Day sucks. Connor and Rose planned their date for the past week at
some fancy restaurant, leaving me to gorge on Chunky Monkey, Half-Baked, and
Cherry Garcia alone. I watch late-night cartoons on the high-def television,
being transported back to my childhood years with Looney Tunes. With each
“that’s all folks,” my heart thuds and I turn my head, about to mention how
much I liked or hated the episode to Lo.

Who’s not
here.

He hasn’t emailed yet. Fourteen days into the month, and I
haven’t heard a peep from him, not even a mention that he’s alive and well. The
last couple days of January, he sent me a bouquet of red roses. I think he
meant for them to arrive today. At least I hope so—that way I’d know he still
thinks about
us
and hasn’t planned to
end our relationship for good.

My mother’s comment at the Fizzle event hasn’t calmed my
worries either. If she thinks I need a “backup” plan, I wonder who else
believes he’ll ditch me when he returns home.

That paranoia—it festers like a sore. I glance at the glass
vase on my end table. The roses droop and wilt, but the card sits open.
Remembering the words in Lo’s messy scrawl eases me a little.

These are real.

My chest swells. These are real.

3 YEARS AGO

Reality TV blares through my flat screen. Nothing
beats faking sick on a school day and staying home in pajamas to watch trashy
television. I lazily
unwrap
the individual chocolates
from the heart-shaped Valentine’s box on my lap when a knock bangs on my door.

For a moment, I debate on hiding the sweets, but I go
against it. Too much work, and really, what’s the probability that my mother is
on the other side of the door? The last time she willfully entered my room was
probably two years ago when our housekeeper accidentally shelved one of Daisy’s
debutant dresses in my closet. I opened my door to find my mother hysterically
screaming at the air—haphazardly flinging my clothes in wild distress and
anger. When she found the maroon gown, she told me I should have realized the
dress was misplaced. And then she stomped away.

Leaving me alone.

It’s safe to say the knock did not come from her.

My door slowly swings open without an invitation, and I immediately
relax. Lo fills the archway, wearing his Dalton Academy uniform: black slacks,
white button-down, and the skinny blue tie that has been loosened at his neck.
It fits him well…maybe
too
well.

He scans me in a long once-over, and then his brows rise in
accusation. “No runny nose, no clammy skin, cough or even a wad of tissues,” he
says. “I must say, Lil, you are the worst at faking sick.”

“Good thing I’m not really trying.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to skip?” he asks,
still lingering by the door frame. Odd, but I try not to question it.

“I didn’t want you to feel obligated to skip with me.” I
straighten up and lean against my headboard. The truth: pretending to be in a
relationship with Lo consists of PDA. Lots of it. Since it’s Valentine’s Day, I
didn’t want to be in class and have a candy gram delivered to me. Or be in the
hallways trying to escalate the flirty looks and make out sessions just to show
off our fake romance. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

His eyes land on my nightstand. Twenty-four red roses bloom
in a crystal vase. The little card sticks out from the sea of petals. I already
read it out loud this morning at Daisy’s request.
Happy Valentine’s Day. With all my love, Lo.
 

“Nice touch,” I tell him after the moment of silence. “Daisy
nearly died when she saw them, and I think my mom was really pleased.” We’re
definitely selling our fake relationship well. Six months in and no one has
questioned it thus far.

“Do you like them?” he wonders, undoing the rest of his tie.

I break away to look at the roses again. No boy has ever
sent me flowers. On my birthday, the house will be overflowing with lilies to
commemorate the occasion, but they’re usually from family or friends of my
parents.

At first I thought these roses were another pretend gesture
of our fake relationship. Now that Lo asks me if I like them, I’m not so sure
anymore.

“They’re pretty and much better than lilies,” I admit.

“I’m the best fake boyfriend ever then,” he says with an
easy smile. And my suspicions sputter out.
Fake
boyfriend.
Of course. He finally closes the distance between us and plops
down next to me. He tilts my box of chocolates with his finger and grimaces.
“You’re nasty.”

“I don’t like the fillings.” All the chocolates are bitten
in half and some have been spit back out into the box. I have yet to find one
that isn’t revolting.

“Well, I can’t look at this.” He closes the box and sets it
on the nightstand. He scoots nearer, leans a little closer and gently rests his
palm on my forehead, successfully invading my space and causing my breath to
whoosh from my lungs.

“You’re not warm,” he says softly and drops his hand to my
neck and lightly presses. “Lymph nodes aren’t swollen.”

I narrow my eyes. “How do you know about lymph nodes?”

“I had the flu last year,” he reminds me. “Shhh, and let me
finish my diagnosis.”

My cheeks grow hot.

“You’re flushed,” he nods and tries to suppress a growing
smile. He puts his hands on my shoulders and leans my head back against the
pillow, kneeling and towering over me. “I have to listen to your heart.”

“No,” I retort weakly, not in the mood to play with him. Not
when it always has to end with me tense and aroused and needy. He loves to tease
me, and I worry about the day where I won’t have the strength to say
no.

He ignores me and places his ear to the bareness of my
collarbone, the place peeking from my V-neck shirt. I inhale a sharp breath, his
face too near. After a long moment, he rises a little and says, “I knew it.”

My eyes narrow. “Knew what?”

His hot gaze traces my lips, and then flits back up to my
eyes. “You’re suffering from a clear case of...” His mouth brushes my ear. “…
infatuation.
”

I slap him on the arm and try to sit up, but he’s ready for
me. He leans in and tickles my waist and hips so quickly that I never see him
coming. And I laugh and squirm beneath him until I cry out for him to stop,
happy tears squeezing from my eyes.

We settle down with heavy breath. Both lying on our sides,
our feet tangled together, we stare at each other in the easy silence.

“And what’s the cure?” I ask, playing along this time, even
though I know I shouldn’t.

He wears a crooked grin that could melt a thousand girls.

Very softly, he says, “Me.”

My eyes pin to his soft lips, begging me to press mine to
them. He leans in a little, but doesn’t close the gap, uncertainty still
lingering. It feels like his body pulls me into it, a magnetic force too strong
to fight. I scoot nearer, and my foot brushes his bare ankle. His breathing
deepens.

I can’t stop staring at his lips, imagining what they’d feel
like against mine.
Soft, forceful, hungry.
My
resilience sputters out and I bridge the distance, landing a quick kiss on his
lips before pulling away. I think I hoped the chaste, PG-rated kiss would
satisfy my desires. Nope. In fact, all I want to do is wipe that silly smile
off his face with a deeper one.

“What was that?” he asks, amused. His lips skim mine and
fall back teasingly.

“My cure,” I say, playing along. It makes this less real.
Right?
Still on our sides, our bodies have moved closer and
closer on their own mission, separating from our brains. His hand runs up and
down my back, stopping at the dip above my waist.

“That was the wrong dose,” he whispers.

“Oh.”

It only takes him a moment before he leans in and our lips
mesh together, mimicking the state of our bodies. His hand cups the back of my
head and he sucks on the bottom of my lip, making them ache all over again. My
lower half starts to move out of instinct, pressing harder into him as the kiss
deepens. His tongue slips into my mouth and a moan escapes my lips.

I have to detach. “Lo,” I whisper, trying to clear my mind
and assess what the hell my body is doing. Literally, I’m gripping his shirt
and my leg has somehow made it over his hip.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he reminds me, breaking away from
the game. “I want to give you something.”

Something
.
Vague—and in my perverted mind, I’m thinking of all types of nefarious things.

“You already gave me flowers.” But I don’t remove myself
from this position—pressed so tightly against him that I can feel the slow
rhythm of his heartbeat against my chest.

“Something better.”

I want it. Even if I don’t know what
it
is.
But there are some lines I can’t
cross with Lo, no matter what he offers me, so I ask, “What?”

He pulls my head into his chest and brushes my hair back. I
feel his warm breath as he leans into my ear and whispers, “I want to make you come.”

Inside, I am cheering at the idea but my head starts shaking
on another, different automatic setting. I move my head back while my body
stays glued to him.

“No?” His eyes rise and he props himself up just a little by
his elbow. “I thought it was the perfect Valentine’s gift, especially since I
planned to keep all your clothes on.”

My heart begins to beat even quicker at the prospect. We’ve
done things since we started “fake” dating. When we practice making out, it
sometimes leads to touching and stuff, but I’ve managed to stop before it
progressed to a climax. Sex isn’t the same thing as fooling around. The latter
of which has been a staple in our pretend relationship.
 
It’s been a couple weeks since my last lay, and
I already made plans for this Saturday to get my next fix. I strike at any
opportunity to attend a party thrown by a public school kid, and I don’t know
if doing something with Lo today would be right.

“I’m going to that bonfire party this Saturday,” I end up
saying.

I wait for him to pull away, but he doesn’t. “Me too,” he
breathes and lightly kisses me on the lips.

“I’m going to have sex there.”

“I’m going to get wasted.” He presses his lips quickly to
mine once more and then rubs his thumb over the sensitive skin on my ear. I
practically shudder at the touch.

“Lo.”

“Lily.” His fingers drop to his button. I stare in fixation
at the small movements.

Somehow I’m able to mutter, “I didn’t get you anything.”

His lips quirk but he doesn’t say anything else. I can see
the hem of his boxer-briefs, and I realize I have to move away from him so he
can slide his pants completely off. I detach myself, scooting back as the spot
between my legs throbs.

My mind charges into convince-mode.
I can do this. I can stop myself from something worse happening. He
said I get to keep my clothes on. That means no sex. That means we can do this
and it’ll still be okay.

His flask slips out of his pants as he jerks them off. I
pick it up easily, debating on taking a large swig. Maybe it’ll ease my warring
thoughts.
Silencing either the part of me that says
stop
or the other that says
fuck yeah
.

Now in his boxer-briefs, Lo turns and sees me with his
alcohol. He takes it quickly from me, his eyes still light. He raises his
drink. “Mine,” he says. He takes my hand in his and places it over the bulge in
his boxer-briefs.
“Yours.”

Ohhhhh…shit. I’m doomed.

I think I should remove my hand, especially since normal
people would probably jerk back at this point. But something keeps it right
there.
On him.

He doesn’t seem surprised by this. In fact, he continues to
strip in front of me, unbuttoning his shirt and tugging it off. It feels like
my birthday or something, only I have to keep reminding myself that this is Lo
and not some stripper in one of my fantasies.

Now nearly naked, I pull my hand away, and he playfully
folds the hem of his boxer-briefs. I gasp and he grins.
“On
or off, love?
Your choice.”

My brain zeros out into nothingness. It cannot compute his
question. “I’ll take that as
a
you
can’t handle it
,”
he says huskily and leaves his underwear on. No. I definitely cannot handle
seeing his dick right now. I can barely handle breathing at this point.

He climbs onto my body and leans in for another deep kiss.
It’s different feeling bare skin against my fully-clothed body. With my
conquests, it’s usually the other way around. I like this though.
Running my hands over his bare back and down to his ass.
My
body pulses for something more, and I hear his words like a chorus in my head—
I want to make you come
. All protests
and sensibility leave my mind completely.

His kisses suddenly turn feathery light again, teasing me a
little. When he lands another PG-kiss on my lips, I let out a long groan. I can
barely take this much longer. I am not a Disney Princess. I do not swoon over
kissing unless it involves tongue and force and leads to other lustful events.

Deciding to take matters into my own hands…or hips, I buck
up a little so that our pelvises meet. The contact feels much better. I
just…need to be closer.

Lo pushes my body down in response and presses into me, the
hardness in his pants grinding against the ache in between my legs. His lips
turn from light to determined, devouring mine with rapt attention. And as he
rubs against me, the tension escalates, pushing my body into a hyperaware
state. Every touch sets me off, and all I want right now is for my clothes to
disappear.
For me to feel him inside.
For the ache to be taken away with a thrust and a blissful high.

My trembling hands try to grip the bottom of my shirt and
yank it off. I get it halfway up before Lo stops moving and puts his hand on
mine. “No. Your clothes stay on,” he breathes. His lips are red and raw, and I
can barely move my eyes off them.

I blink.

Lo pulls each finger off my shirt and then laces them with
his. His lips find the nape of my neck and then glide to my earlobe, nibbling
and kissing. My hips lift as he presses down, and I can feel him getting harder
and harder, adding to my arousal. His lips move down to my chest, tracing their
way even further across my shirt, his hands tight against my hips.

He kisses me again, his tongue flicking into my mouth.

I’m dying inside. I want
more
.

I lift my hips and this time he grabs my ass and squeezes.
Hard.
I let out a long moan and my body shudders. He keeps
me tight against him, as his hands move and knead my inner thighs all the way
up.
Slowly.
Slowly.
Slowly.
Avoiding that one spot that
demands attention.

I let out a whimper and he sets me back down. His breathing
deepens, and he starts moving his body even faster, pushing and making sure to
rub himself against me. It works. The tension starts to build and I rock with
him as he finds my mouth again. And then all of a sudden, everything explodes.
I have to break away from his lips, burying my face into his bicep as my orgasm
bursts into waves.