She holds my gaze and then draws in a breath, another fucking air of delight written all over her stupid, fucking face. “I don’t like women who chase me anyway,” she says. “When I want them, they know.”
A tingle spreads up my spine, and when I expect to feel anger at her boldness, something else comes over me instead.
When I want them, they know. How do they know? What does she do?
But she rises from her seat without elaborating. “Excuse me,” she says, and takes her bag, trying to leave.
But I stomp down the kneeler, grab her wrist, and yank her to her knees. She sucks in a breath as she catches herself on the pew in front of her, and I pick up my backpack and rise.
“Sit your ass down,” I grit out.
I don’t stay to see her reaction. I spin around, ignoring the spying eyes from those around us, and leave the chapel just as Mass begins.
When I want them…
I blink long and hard. Jesus.
SIT YOUR ASS down.
I startle, opening my eyes as the shadows of raindrops dance across my ceiling.
Shit. My bedroom comes into view, still dim from the sunless sky filtering through the windows, and the quick vibrations of my phone on my bedstand going off steadily.
Do something for me? I hear her say.
I squeeze my eyes shut, rolling over and burying my face in my pillow. Damn her.
The fabric cools my hot skin as sweat dampens my back. Her taunting voice—her whisper against my cheek—still rings in my ears.
I wasn’t dreaming about her. God, please tell me I wasn’t dreaming about her.
But I’m throbbing.
I search my brain, trying to remember anything before I woke, but all I feel is a cloud in my head. And the strain in my body. Pools of heat swirl in my stomach, the warmth between my thighs sensitive, I’m restless and relaxed at the same time. It’s not unpleasant.
Reaching down between my legs, I touch myself through my shorts and underwear, instantly feeling the slickness.
I yank my hand away and sit up. Jesus Christ. That self-absorbed, shallow bitch... What the hell?
No. Absolutely not.
I’m over this. I’ve been over this for years now. She’s straight. I knew that years ago when I first met her, had a crush, and couldn’t stop thinking about her.
And she’s cruel. I know that plain as day now. I can’t even begin to contemplate what the hell my subconscious is thinking, but hate-fucking Clay Collins would be even less fun than bathing in lava.
You’d think with a local suicide that was probably the result of bullying, Clay Collins would back off. Alli Carpenter is dead. A queer girl who’d had enough.
Is that what Clay wants? What is her problem?
Picking up my phone, I check my social media, seeing I picked up a few new followers on Twitter.
I run across a trending tweet by Rev. John J. Williamson condemning a young, new senator who happens to be homosexual. I shake my head, appeased by the comments on the thread condemning him instead. These guys are always the ones caught in motel rooms with fifteen-year-old boys.
Prick. I retweet, punching out the caption I hope your daughters grow up and have wives, and hit Send, and then I check texts.
One from Becks. Call me.
I don’t talk on the phone. I text.
Another from Jonasy, Trace’s ex, who thinks maintaining a relationship with the family will get her back into his bed. A new vintage shop opened in Little Cuba. Come with me!
Nope. When did she ever get the impression that I like vintage clothes? I might love wearing Macon’s old motorcycle jacket with holes in the lining from when he was fifteen, but I’m pretty sure old does not equal quaint.
I toss the phone onto the bed and hop up, stretching and then pulling my hair free of my low ponytail, shaking out my hair.
“No!” I hear a bellow outside my door and twist my head to the sound. “Give it back now!”
I groan, closing my eyes and let my head fall back. Trace and Dallas. Twenty and twenty-one respectively, they were the youngest boys in the family, but still older than me. You wouldn’t really know it, though, based on their behavior.
“It’s too fucking early!” Dallas shouts back.
Then I hear squeaks against the hardwood floor, heavy footsteps, and then…a thud shakes the house, the shelves on my wall rattle, and my copy containing all of Henrik Ibsen’s plays plummets to the ground. Another thud, and then almost a thunder that vibrates under my feet.
Jesus. I need air.
Whipping my door open, I find Dallas and Trace on the floor of the hallway, wrestling. Dallas is soaking wet and wearing a towel that’s only a prayer from coming off his body, and Trace is just in jeans, laughing his ass off as they go at it.