Dark hair tangled from a roll in the sheets,
Skirt so short it shows a glimpse of tats on thick, juicy thighs,
Round little tits,
a waist to fit my hands around,
a nice big ass to bury a dick in.
Black cherry
When you bite in the juice runs
like blood down your chin,
Dark and bitter,
With just a touch of sweet
when you take the time to savor it good and deep
Where it hurts.
seven
Harper Apple
This time, the bitchy girls don’t follow me. I head for the food at the front, a buffet style setup where people mill around instead of standing in an agonizingly long line like the one at my old school. There, the popular kids cut in front until the losers ended up at the back of the line every day, a place that gave them about five minutes to scarf down whatever tepid scraps were left by the time they got through.
Here, there are no losers.
I take in the room as I make my way across. I’m used to the public school clique system, though I always hated it. Now, I can see the advantages. I don’t know who belongs where in this place, which means I don’t know where I belong. It’s not like there’s a table in the corner with a sign proclaiming it the scholarship table. The school doesn’t have a uniform, per se, but its dress code is almost the same as one, which makes it even harder to single anyone out. A sea of rich white kids mills around the food, with an occasional brown or Black person, as if they’re trying to hide the painfully obvious truth that they in no way reflect the makeup of Faulkner, where about third of the population is not white.
Thank god you’re not as dark as your father. Gary has certain opinions about that, and he’s helping me move out of this place and into a house, a real nice house, because he’s a nice guy, and he knows a guy who rents it out. You understand? You better be grateful and don’t go stirring up trouble.
Yeah, Mom, this guy who calls people like my father ‘mutts’ is a real nice guy. But don’t worry, I’ve never known any other side of myself, anyway, so I’ll pretend it doesn’t exist.
The smell of money practically makes me lightheaded as I wade into the lunch crowd.
I bite back my nerves, an ominous feeling settling at the base of my skull. I don’t like not knowing how things fit, and it puts me on edge. Instead of a roar you can barely hear yourself think over, the room is hushed. I feel like everyone’s waiting for… Something.
I use the stainless-steel tongs to pick up some lightly fried chicken, then put a roll on my plate with it. A second later, a hand snatches it off my plate.
I look up to find one of the brothers from the tracks standing there holding my roll, a smug smile on his face as he bites off a piece of it and chews, watching me. It’s the one with glasses, Baron Dolce. Though I was so hopped up on adrenaline the two times I’ve seen him that I paid zero attention to his attractiveness, Dixie is right. The guy is gorgeous, no doubt. Dark hair with just a hint of curl, dark eyes you could get lost in, bone structure of a cologne model, body of an underwear model.
I sigh and get another roll, but just as quickly, he grabs that one, too.
“Really?” I ask, reaching for another.
“I’ll just take that one, too,” he says, plucking the third one away. “Freshmen don’t get rolls.”
“Good thing I’m not a freshman,” I say, reaching in again. I consider just stopping, since I honestly don’t give a fuck what I eat. My stomach is squeezing painfully at the smell of all this good food. I could eat nothing but rolls, or I could leave all the rolls, and it wouldn’t make a lick of difference to me. I have no interest in fighting this guy for something as ridiculous as control of the rolls.
But I notice everyone watching already. It’s too late to go unnoticed. Like Dixie said, they’ll mess with me for a few days because I’m new, and then they’ll move on. At a school this small, I guess all the new kids get noticed. Even if I can’t win against the Dolces, I can show everyone else in the school that I’m not to be messed with. And I might as well have some fun with it if they’re going to fuck with me. I take another roll, and another, and another. The guy takes them all, and pretty soon, his hands are so full he has to hold them to his chest with his forearm so they don’t fall.
At last, I reach for the single remaining roll. Instead of putting it on my plate, I set it carefully atop the precariously balanced pile in his arms.
“The peasants can’t afford bread, anyway, your majesty,” I say with a wink. “But let us eat cake.” I slide down the line, toss a scoop of roasted potatoes onto my plate, grab a square of applesauce cake, and head to the table where I spotted Dixie sitting next to a pretty redhead. My heart is hammering, and my knees feel shaky, but I hold my head high and meet everyone’s eyes like a dare.