He whispers into my collarbone, "You are mine, and you better tell that to Shane, or I will. And I won't be nice."
It’s a good thing I’m about half his size, because I’m tempted to punch him. I just nod my agreement. Yeah, whatever. I'll deliver the message. My fingers caress Ty's tight abs, exploring the hills and valleys of his six-pack.
“Fuck,” he whispers into my mouth, tugging my head back. He sucks on my throat, my hair in his fist. His other hand, still clutching my top from behind, rips the fabric in one go. I hear the material tear and feel the chill of the metallic fence against my bare back.
Ladies and gents, I’m officially half-naked.
Quick recap to those of you who haven’t paid attention: I’m in my bra, thighs wrapped around an XWL fighter, dry humping him in the middle of a city street.
Yes, I need to take a long, hard look at my life.
No, tonight is not the time for it.
“I should be mad at you, but I can't, and that annoys the hell outta me.” He lowers his head, letting out a frustrated groan. His eyes are trained on my lips. They are dark, full of want, and holding dirty promises. “Come on, baby. Let’s just get you inside.”
I moan into his mouth. He holds me by my ass and carries me into his house swiftly. When he kicks the door open, it rattles on its hinges. He takes me to his bedroom and drops me right next to his bed. We stand in front of each other, panting like two marathon runners on their last few hundred yards. My knees are wobbly. There’s a warm vortex in my pelvic region. I’m flushed, I’m devastated,
I fucking need him.
“I meant what I said. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep things from you.” My voice is barely audible.
“I know.” His fingers vanish in my hair, kneading my head, making me feel dizzy, drunk, crazy. "It's a weird-ass thing, though. I get mad so easily, but I can't stay mad at you, even for a minute."
His forehead collapses onto mine. Join the club, I want to tell him. I know I’m totally ignoring crucial things, like the fact that he had enough fuck-buddies for a lifetime. Countless Nicoles, remember? Or Shane's vandalized car. I'm a pathetic mess.
"We should probably talk about Shane," I suggest. But I'm hoping talking is not on his agenda right now.
“Okay. I just need one…” His lips crush mine hungrily. “Small…” He bites my lower lip. “Taste.”
He stares down at me for a second before thrusting me with a gentle push back onto his mattress and rumpled sheets. We never spend enough time out of bed to find time to make it. He kneels before me. His mouth runs all over my stomach, his fingers unhooking my bra, and then his face dips lower.
“From one to ten, how much do you like these jeans?” His warm breath is tracing a path below my belly button…lower…lower…and melting every functional brain cell I still possess. And there aren’t that many left after the last few weeks.
How the hell am I supposed to recall what pair of jeans I’m wearing? I can barely remember my own name.
“Minus eleven,” I grunt, firming my grip on the sheets.
Plink, plink, plink. I hear what I think are the buttons of my jeans hitting the hardwood floor. Jesus Christ, he actually shredded my jeans from my body. I look down to confirm my suspicion.
My jeans are now a heap of fabric, resting near the foot of the bed, buttons nowhere to be seen. Ty inspects my underwear, a baby-blue cotton pair, nowhere near as interesting as the bimbo thongs that hung on his fence. He rips my panties from my body with his teeth. His mouth grazes my sex, making every hair on my body stand. He grabs the pillow next to my head and shoves it underneath my butt, tucking his huge shoulders between my thighs.
“Oh, God!” I yelp as his tongue runs over my entrance, top to bottom. My thighs are trembling and my core is about to explode. Ty sends one hand to stroke my nipples, and digs in, his mouth and tongue giving me no escape. He picks up intensity and speed gradually, sucking on my clit and using his fingers with his free hand.
“This is what I have on my mind twenty-four-fucking-seven, Barbie.” His voice touches everything inside me.
My teeth are chattering. Everything, and I mean everything, tingles. I stifle a moan into my forearm, worried my screams will make his roof fly sky high. I feel high. I have zero control of my mouth, my legs, yet strangely I’ve never felt more connected to my body.
My orgasm comes crashing in waves. It washes over me from the top of my head to my curling toes. A scream escapes my mouth and Ty rushes back up to shut me up with a rapturous kiss before the neighbors call the cops on us. He forces me into tasting myself. I pant heavily as his weight crushes against me and he grazes my chin teasingly.
“Shhhhh.” He plants feathery kisses over my lower face. “You'll wake the dead.”
Well, for once, I'm actually speechless. Sex with Ty is like nothing I ever imagined. It keeps getting better and better. And it’s made me realize some not-so-fun facts:
1. No matter what I previously thought, I never had an orgasm before I hooked up with him.
2. Every guy I dated previously had absolutely no idea what he was doing.
3. I, myself, had no idea what I was doing.
4. Selfishness aside, Ty Wilder should totally give out orgasms for a living.
He is lying on the other side of the bed, lips glistening sexily. I want all of him, so badly. There’ll never be enough of him to keep me satisfied. I want to drink him in, to gorge on him, to have him every second of the day. Hell, I want to know that he is mine.
I shoot him a glance, digging up my courage. “You make me happy, Tyler. Which is weird, because you’re not even my type!”
Ty smiles his blazing hot smile, half his face still smashed against the pillow. “Yet you’re here.”
“Yet I’m here,” I agree. “Guess you had me at ‘I won't hit you, but I'll hurt you'.”
“You had me at ‘Keep walking, cowboy,’” he rasps.
The room is so hot my eyes are burning like I’m standing too close to a bonfire that’s about to get out of control. Beads of sweat glue my hair to my back and both our bodies shine under the yellow light in a caramel hue.
“Really?” I laugh, repositioning myself on his bed so I can lean and watch him closely.
He nods, picks up a bottle of water from underneath his bed and takes a swig. “When I first met you, I thought you were pointblank crazy. You’re less than half my size. I could have killed you just by blowing air in your direction. But I liked how feisty you were. Also, you were pretty funny.”
"Thank you."
"And sexy. I wanted you before I even knew your name."
"Buttering me up, are you?" I grin and crawl my way to his side of the bed, shamelessly nuzzling. "So, do we still need to have that talk about me not telling you about Shane?"
“No, but you really need to work on that honesty thing."
"Are you one hundred percent honest with me?" I ask. He exhales sharply, the mist of his body heat and luscious scent prickling my face.
To my surprise, he shakes his head. My heart plummets when he stops the caressing and straightens up against the headboard. "I need time to sort some shit out,” he says. “I got myself into a sticky situation before I met you. I guess I need to share this...I just don't want to do it right this second.”
I knew this was too good to be true. This is not a love story. This is a Blaire-story. Happiness doesn't live here.
Then he looks straight into my eyes. “I need to know that you’ll stick around ‘till shit blows over, that you won't bail on me.”
Brain shuts down. Hormones have their backs against the wall, and Heart is taking over mouth before I have time to think it through.
“I love you, Ty,” I hear myself saying, and feel the flow of panic pumping through my veins.
Shit. What the hell? What made me put myself in such a vulnerable position? I run my hand over my face, acting as if my confession was HIV positive related and not a love declaration. It's not even declaration, thou
gh. More of a fact. I just do. I love him.
He pulls me into his strong shoulder and kisses my forehead. No. No, no, no, no, no. I did not just say that after dating him for less than two months. This is crazy talk.
“So stick around.” He shoots me a dimpled smile.
And he doesn’t say it back. Why would he? He’s had a longer relationship with his freaking mail lady.
“Yes,” I say gruffly, deflated. “Yes, I will.”
Chapter Eleven
I get a text message notifying me the grade for my assignment has been posted online on my student page. I rush to check it on my laptop. I’m outside on the library steps. I’ve been studying for my last exam. My computer has been slow lately, but when I finally manage to log in, a yelp escapes my lips.
I got a freaking A.
I never shine academically. Scratch that—I never shine, period. It feels nice. Different, but nice. I busted my ass on this assignment, and for once I actually feel worthy of the good grade.
I want to yell, announce my grade to my parents on a helicopter banner or take a picture of the proof and post it online on social media so everyone can see. Then I remember that I have, like, eighty Facebook friends, so instead, I send a message to my loved ones: Ty, Izzy, Mom and Shane.
I text, Guess who got an A?!
Izzy is the first to reply. OMG, sissy, great news! So proud!
Shane, who I know is in the building right now, about to take his own exam, confirms, This is epic, B. You're epic. Keep it real.
Mom is less than encouraging with Blaire, is this a joke? If not, your father and I are very proud of your accomplishment, sweetie. We knew you had it in you. You just needed to apply yourself.
I take a deep breath and force my lips into a smile. This may have hurt me a few months ago, and it's still a bitch to read, but the last weeks have taught me that if people don't believe in me, maybe it's their problem, not mine.
Ty doesn't reply. He is probably training, I tell myself. Don't be one of those girls. Think positive. I spend the rest of the hour hyperventilating over my good grade. Up until now I wasn't sure I cared much about this degree, but this journalism assignment kind of rocked.
I don't know if it was the topic, the time and place I was in my life, or the outcome of the research, but hell, overall, I really enjoyed it.
“What's up, brainy?” I hear a familiar voice. I don't know how Shane got to the library so quickly, but I'm grateful for his support. Too bad a part of me wants to strangle him, now that I know how much he hurt Izzy.
Yes, we talked about it. About all of it. But it's her story to tell, and I know I need to stay out of this.
I stand to face my BFF. “Being smart is exhausting.” I pretend to wipe my forehead. "And I'm pretty sure my head has gotten significantly heavier since I saw that A on my screen."
Shane falls in step with me as we go down the stairs. "You do have a Mr. Garrison thing going right now." He chuckles at his South Park reference.
"What did you get?" I ask.
"You mean what did you get for your other assignment." He grins. "B+. Great job, brainy."
We walk in comfortable silence across campus, until Shane clears his throat. “How’s your sister doing?”
“She got her Fairy wings,” I reply.
“Very Disney. I’m glad to hear it. And your boyfriend?”
Goddammit.
"He's not my boyfriend." But this didn't stop me from confessing my love to him.
“Still on drugs and shit?”
“Excuse me?” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. I shouldn’t be giving him the chance to poison me with lies, but my curiosity gets the better of me. Maybe it's the fact I know that Ty is hiding something from me, but instead of shutting this down, I look up at my best friend, waiting for an explanation.
Shane steps into my face, so close his cologne stings my nostrils and his clean-shaven cheek almost brushes mine. His backpack drops, his books spilling out on the ground. He doesn't even seem to notice.
“Shit, B, you don’t even know, do you?” He looks at me with eyes so miserable, they almost outweigh my anger toward him. “Remember I told you my roommate Josh had his nose broken in a fight? Well, what I left out was that the person who broke his nose was Ty Wilder. And the worst thing about it is that it wasn’t an accident. He actually hit Josh on purpose. Smashed his head into the bathroom wall. Know why he did it?”
“Why?” I demand, but my voice lacks force.
“Because Josh was at the wrong place at the wrong time. He walked into the locker room when Wilder was in the middle of a fishy exchange with a drug dealer. I'm guessing steroids because Wilder is way too self-centered to use anything that doesn't promote his career. Anyway, when Josh came in, Wilder told him to fuck off. When Josh insisted he wanted to take a shower because he was late for his night shift, Wilder punched his face and finished off by banging his head against the wall. Your precious Dawson covered for it, and Wilder and his buddy Jesse went to the hospital and threatened Josh, so he decided not to press charges. His membership at the gym was revoked soon after, and he’s now banned from The Grind. This is the man you’re getting in bed with, Blaire. Make no mistake. He's not a bad boy...he's just bad."
As much as I hate to admit it, Shane’s story is believable. He is not a liar, not a gossip, and Ty admitted himself that he is more than happy to throw fists instead of settling things with a civil conversation.
But the drug deal? No way, Jose. Ty lives healthy, eats clean and hated it when I smoked pot, so much so that he’s probably a big part of why I decided to quit. He’s not a drug user. No freaking way.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“At first I didn’t want to make a fuss. I figured this guy would get the fuck out of your life before you even blinked. Then when I realized you were spending more and more time with him, I didn’t want you to think I was saying something because I was jealous. But it's not about me. It's about you."
My phone starts buzzing in my hand, and I turn the sound off immediately. I know it’s Ty. I recognize his ringtone—“My Soul Is Empty And Full of White Girls” by Slaves, his all-time favorite song that I introduced to him.
Shane shakes his head. The phone is still buzzing, but his eyes are screaming at me not to answer. And I don’t. I just glance at Shane, my phone, and then Shane again.
"Ask him about it, okay, B? I care about you."
I know he does. Because he sees me. Like Ty said. They both do. I take a step back from Shane.
"Fine. And Shane? Please don't try to hit on me again." I rub my flushed cheeks.
That's it. I kept my promise to Ty, my loyalty to Izzy, and it feels...well, it sucks.
Shane looks up at the sky and sighs in frustration. "Talked to Izzy?"
I shrug. "You don't want me, dude. And that's fine, I don't do blonds who aren't Charlie Hunnam. But don't do anything just for the sake of crushing Izzy. I won't ever forgive you."
Shane looks tongue-tied. The tables have turned. Now I'm the one preaching to him.
He opens his mouth, his stormy-blue eyes laser-focused on mine. "I'm not —" he starts, but I learned a good trick from the master of mind-games.
I stop him mid-sentence, my hand on his heaving chest. "I'm going to kiss you now. If you truly want me—me and not my sister—give me your lips. If not, turn your cheek." I pause, biting at the corner of my lip as I contemplate my next sentence. "And I'll still be your friend."
I tiptoe to Shane, and I'm smiling, confident that he'll do the right thing. This is my best friend, here. He always does the right thing.
Third grade—Izzy and I got our hands on a pair of scissors and gave him the worst haircut in human history. He didn't rat, even when he got into so much trouble.
Sixth grade—he stood up to a bully at school, even though he didn't even know Liz Shudell, the girl who got victimized by the turd ass who wouldn't let her walk the hallways in peace.
Junior year—he tur
ned down one of the hottest girls in high school because she was drunk when she tried getting it on with him.
Senior year—guess who he took to prom? That's right, Rhonda Chan, who was in a wheelchair at the time and crazy bummed about it.
Now, we're grown-ups (sort of) standing on a campus sidewalk and getting attention, for sure, but I still trust Shane like I did in third grade. I close my eyes, my lips reaching for his skin. I smile when I feel the one-day stubble on his cheek. He didn't act on it. He is not mine.
Well, he is, but now I know he is Izzy's too.
Shane looks all kinds of pissed off, his lips thin and his forehead wrinkled, when he picks up the content of his bag.
"Thank you for the money, by the way. You shouldn't have covered for him. But you did. You always do."
"It was a misunderstanding," I admit.
"Yeah, there seems to be a lot of those whenever Ty is around."
"Jesus, Shane," I look away, not really wanting to face him. Why does he always do this recently? Rain on my parade when all I want is to dance in the puddles.
"Talk to your boyfriend, B," he grunts in annoyance.
"He is not my boyfriend." I actually twirl when I walk toward my final exam, the last one before I’m done with my degree, and send him a cheerful smile.
"Whatever, dude. Just do it."
***
After my test, I try my best to make a beeline out of the building and back to the Mini, but as it happens, I’m graceful as a blind elephant and manage to make a lot of noise stumbling in the hallway and dropping my phone on the floor. I hear Professor Penniman’s voice from an open door down the hall.
“Ms. Stern, come in.”
It sucks donkey balls to be me right now.
I wad my gum into a tissue and dump it in her trash can. Best to pretend I’m a half-decent human being. I smile to Penniman, who is a prim, New England-type in her early fifties, and wait for further instructions.
“Sit down,” she orders without lifting her eyes from the papers on her desk. I flop down into the chair opposite her, lacing my fingers together and tapping my foot against the table. I dread to think why she called me in here. Maybe she thinks I plagiarized the article. Frankly, I wouldn’t blame her. I usually suck.