Crave: Part One

  When my pulse slows, and I toss the wadded napkin out the window, I have to literally talk myself out of going again. Because I could—easily. Instead, I screw the cap off a bottle of water and chug the whole thing before throwing the truck in drive and getting back to work.

  I do what I can to keep my mind occupied, shoving my earbuds in for the rest of the day to get ahead in the next required reading for my English class. I’m deep in the Trojan War when I drop off the truck, clock out, and hop into my car. A half hour later, I’m knocking on Krista’s door, but for the first time, it isn’t her door I wish I were knocking on. Because it isn’t her I want to be getting off with. But I need something stronger than jerking off in the shower, so when she lets me inside, I grab her as I give in and hand myself over to impulse.

  With more restless energy than I know what to do with, I leave her apartment and go for a long run before finally heading home to eat dinner and shower. I debate going to the party tonight that Trent is throwing at his house. God knows I could use a few drinks and a little fun with the constant pressures of school and work always hanging over my head, but I’m also in a shit mood for a reason I hate to admit to myself.

  There’s nothing more pathetic than obsessing over a girl that is light-years out of my league. And I hate that I’ve let myself weaken because of her when I hardly even know her. I feel like a pussy, and it pisses me off.

  Time becomes my nemesis as I lie in bed and wrestle with my thoughts. I find myself going between watching mindless television, reading, and listening to music, but they do nothing for the discontent that’s keeping me from calling it a night and going to sleep.

  I pick up my cell and it reads 10:27PM.

  “Fuck it.”

  I pull off my gym shorts, get dressed, and head to Hyde Park. It’s teetering on eleven o’clock when I pull along the curb that’s lined with cars all the way down both sides of the street.

  Trent’s house is filled to the max with people—some I know, some I don’t. Music plays through the surround sound but not obnoxiously loud, and when I walk into the living room, I spot Micah.

  “Dude, I was starting to think you bailed,” he says, reaching his hand out to clap mine.

  “Long day working in this damn heat.”

  “Keg’s in the kitchen.”

  I follow him through the house and into the kitchen, where Trent is manning the keg with a joint hanging from his lips.

  “Kason, my man! Where the fuck you been?” he shouts above the crowd of people packed in here.

  Micah gives him a high five and takes the joint for himself. Trent hands me a cup of beer, and I swallow a big gulp but nearly choke when I hear Adaline’s loud giggle, drowning in alcohol.

  I look over and spot her on the opposite side of the large island, holding her cup out while Trent refills it.

  “What the fuck is she doing here?” I question a bit too harshly under my breath.

  She stumbles in her footing when she tilts her head back, downing her beer, and my first thought is that this chick flat-out lied to me about needing to stay home with her mom. Irritation ignites, and I’m pissed that I let this girl torment my thoughts all damn day for nothing.

  I watch as she hangs on to Trent, laughing at whatever it is he’s talking to her about, and I toss back another gulp of alcohol.

  “Dude, go easy on the girl. She’s had a rough couple of days,” Micah defends, and my agitation spikes over him knowing more about her than I do. That she would tell him shit she denies me.

  “Looks like she’s really having a hard time,” I sneer before turning my back to them and walking away.

  A few people say hi to me as I make my way over to a couch and plop down. I lift the cup to my mouth to take another drink but stop when I see her enter the room. Her eyes catch mine, and she smiles big as she approaches.

  I wish she weren’t so fucking beautiful.

  “Hey, buddy,” she laughs, bracing her hand on my knee before falling next to me onto the couch.

  I look at her and ridicule, “Looks like you’re really taking in this quality time with your mom.”

  It takes her a moment before the dots connect enough for her to cut through the bullshit. “You think I lied?”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  Tapping her finger on the tip of my nose, she pouts, “So mad.”

  “How much have you had to drink?”

  She leans against me and rests her head on my shoulder, and the mere touch is enough to bend the hard lines of my frustration, because even though she’s drunk, she’s giving me a sliver of what I’ve been wanting. With her inhibitions intoxicated, I take advantage and ask, “Why did you lie to me?”

  “I didn’t,” she responds without lifting her head. “My mom got called to Sarasota to meet with someone about the case she’s working on.” She’s quiet for a second before yawning.

  “Does she do that a lot? Leave you?”

  “She didn’t want to leave, but she had to. It is what it is, ya know?” she slurs and then sits up. Her eyes widen briefly before she slumps back into the couch, covering them and whining, “Everything is so spinny.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Impossible. I don’t even drink,” she declares loudly with animation.

  I look at her slouched haphazardly on the couch and crack a smile, forgetting my irritation. “You’ve never drank before?”

  “Mm-mmm.” She whips her head lazily from side to side before losing herself to a fit of giggles. “Shh. You can’t tell anyone I drank,” she whispers loudly.

  “I think everyone in this room already knows. You’re a little on the sloppy side.”

  Her jaw drops. “Oh my god. You think?”

  I look across the room and wave Micah over.

  “What’s up?”

  “She’s trashed.”

  Adaline sits up and grabs ahold of Micah’s arm, insisting, “None of it’s true. Don’t believe him.”

  Micah laughs and turns back to me. “Yeah, man. She’s wasted.”

  “I should probably get her home so her mom doesn’t worry.”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys. “Here. I swiped these from her when she started drinking.”

  “I’ll catch an Uber back here after I drop her off.”

  I stand and then reach down to help her off the couch, and she falls into me. She’s small and light, and it doesn’t take much effort to get her out to her car. I buckle her seat belt and then slip behind the wheel of her luxury car, which is a stark contrast to my piece of shit Camaro.

  As I’m driving, I sneak a glance her way and catch her staring at me with her head propped against the side window and a grin on her lips.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  “You,” she says and then squeals, “I love this song!” before cranking up the volume. She sings loudly and way off tune, and I can’t stop myself from laughing as she butchers the lyrics.

  I pull into her driveway, and she’s still at it, belting out another song just as badly. When I take the keys from the ignition and put an end to her personal concert, she nudges my arm. “Hey, that was a good song!”

  “You’re killing my ears,” I tease.

  “And you’re killing my eyes.”

  “Your eyes?”

  She reaches over and pinches my cheek, gushing playfully, “Because you’re so cute.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep!” She begins to fiddle with her seat belt, and I have to reach over to unlatch it for her because she’s too clumsy to figure it out. “Seriously, though,” she continues. “I mean, look at you.”

  “Everyone looks good when you have booze in your eyes.”

  She folds her feet under her and sits up on her knees. I know she’s lost control when she leans over, grabs my bicep in her little hand, and squeezes, belting, “Yummm!” through more laughter.

  “We have to get you under control and inside so your mother doesn’t find out you’re
trashed.”

  “You’re such a bore, Mister Man. And I already told you, my mom isn’t home.”

  “She’s gone for the night?”

  “Uh-huh. And I have a hot guy in my car,” she says in an overly flirtatious singsong voice, which has me all sorts of confused about how she feels toward me. Is this all the alcohol talking or is this her finally having the courage to hit on me.

  “We really need to get you inside.”

  “Really? So, that’s it? You’re not even going to try to kiss me?”

  The fear that she’s going to wake up in the morning and regret all of this is in the forefront of my mind. A part of me wants to take advantage of her current state of mind and kiss her to satisfy my urge to taste her, but that would make me a complete asshole.

  “I’m not kissing you when you’re drunk, Adaline.”

  “Oh, come on,” she sulks, and before I know it, she’s up on her knees and leaning over the console to get closer. She then sways, loses her balance, and topples over, falling into me.

  I catch her, and in a blur, her head pops up and her hand flies over her mouth.

  “Oh, shit,” I mutter right before she lurches off me and is barfing all over the driveway the instant she gets her door open.

  Her back convulses as her body hangs halfway out of the car. I reach over to rub her shoulder, and she hurls again. When her body calms and she’s able to stop heaving, she begins to cry softly. “I hate throwing up.”

  “Are you okay?”

  She straightens slowly and then curls into herself, entirely drained and shakes her head. Her face is ashy white and she has a few chunks of puke in her hair.

  “I need you to crawl over the console,” I instruct as I pull her into my arms to help her out through the driver’s side. She hangs on to me with her arms around my waist as I walk her up to the front door and use her keys to get us inside. Her house is impressive even in the dark, but I don’t take too much time to soak in my surroundings.

  “Where’s your room?”

  Lifting her arm, she motions to the stairs, saying, “Up there,” before letting it drop lifelessly to her side.

  She grabs ahold of the banister while keeping her other arm gripped around me. Once upstairs, she points to the door that leads to her room, I get her in and sit her on the edge of her bed.

  “Bathroom?”

  “Over there.”

  I walk across her room and into the bathroom, and the next thing I know, she’s barreling past me and falling to her knees at the toilet. She heaves again, but I can’t imagine anything being left in her stomach at this point. With her cheek lying on the toilet seat, she closes her eyes, and I step over to the shower and turn it on.

  “I feel like dying,” she moans.

  I reach down and help her to her feet before flushing the toilet, closing the lid, and sitting her down.

  “Do you think you’re okay to take a shower?”

  She nods, but just barely.

  “Can you tell me where you keep your pajamas?”

  “The second drawer in my dresser.”

  I step into her bedroom and get her some fresh clothes to change into. When I return to the bathroom, she’s already pulling off her top, and I quickly turn around so I don’t see anything she wouldn’t want me to.

  “Are you okay if I leave you alone?” I ask as I set the clothes next to the sink.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  I shut the door behind me to give her privacy, and when I’m alone, I turn the lights on to take a look around the modestly decorated room. There’s something about being in her personal space that stirs an eagerness in my chest.

  Across the large bed in the center of the room sits a desk with her laptop and schoolbooks. There isn’t much that gives anything away about her, but then I turn and see the rows and rows of framed pictures across the dresser.

  Each one is a glimpse into her life. Her with her friends and places she’s visited. I scan through them and find a picture of what must be her and her dad. She’s young, a little girl with a giant purple bow in her hair, and she’s sitting on her dad’s knee. She looks so happy in the photo, and I start to wonder what happened between the two of them that made her come home two days early.

  Before she gets out of the shower, I run downstairs to see if there’s something in the fridge that might help her feel better. Her kitchen is practically the size of my whole apartment, and I’m quickly reminded of all the things that separate us. I do my best to shake off those feelings, but it’s near impossible.

  I get two bottles of Gatorade and then head back upstairs. When I return to her room, the water is no longer running. I set the drinks on the nightstand and sit on the edge of the bed while I wait for her. The smell from her shower fills the room, and I drop my head into my hands, wondering what the hell it is I’m even doing messing with a girl like this.

  After a while, the bathroom door finally opens, and she steps sheepishly into the room. Her wet hair is tied up on top of her head, and her face is flushed in embarrassment, but this is the best I’ve ever seen her.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  “Tired.”

  I grab one of the drinks and walk over to her. “Here. This’ll help you feel a little better.”

  “Thanks,” she says, and she smells like she drank a whole bottle of Listerine. “I’m so lightheaded.”

  “You should get some sleep.”

  She walks over to the bed and crawls in. “Will you hit the lights? They’re so bright.”

  “No problem. I should probably get going, too.” I make my way over to the door and turn off the lights.

  “Kason?”

  “Yeah.”

  She lifts her head off the pillow but doesn’t speak right away. The light from her pool outback paints the room in veins of light that reflect against her skin, and I can’t stop staring at her. “Do you . . . do you think you could stay? Just for a little while?”

  There’s no way I can possibly deny her request, and I give in easily, walking back over to her. She watches me as I kick off my flip-flops. I sit next to her on top of the covers with my back against the headboard, and when she closes her eyes, she lays her head on my lap and slings an arm around me.

  She’s so damn close, I’m sure she can hear my heart pounding. Greedy for more contact, I drape my arms around her, and she lets go of a heavy sigh.

  But it isn’t only her touch I want, it’s so much more. And knowing that she’s running on the last remaining fumes of alcohol and her walls are down, I ask, “Why did you drink so much tonight?”

  She surprises me when she doesn’t hesitate before answering with so much honesty. “Because I’m really sad,” she whispers, her body tensing beneath my hands.

  Her admission hurts to hear, to know that under the cheerful façade there’s a pain afflicting her. I want to know even more. I want to know everything about her.

  “What happened in Texas?”

  She tilts her head back and looks up at me with heavily burdened eyes, which are still glossed in intoxication. “My dad is having a baby with his new wife.” Her voice strains in dejection. “When they told me, we got into a huge fight and he kicked me out. He . . . he made me sit outside on the front porch while he threw all my things into my suitcase.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She drops her head and tightens her arm around me. Having her tucked against me and being so transparent, triggers a pang deep within my chest. It’s a sharp puncture that softens me to her even more, and the feeling is so foreign that I don’t know how to respond to it.

  I continue holding her as I listen to her breathing as it begins to even out. Thoughts of getting under the sheets with her and pulling her closer to me run rampant through my head. But it stretches further than the physical. It’s an emotional neediness I’ve never felt before with anyone. Never have I thought of girls beyond the idea of sex. It’s all that’s ever called to me. Yet, with Adaline, there’s a pull she has
on me that I’m unable to ignore. It’s the desire to have her want me, to open up to me, and to trust me. God knows I want to be able to do the same with her, but as much as I want that, it also scares the shit out of me.

  After a while, she murmurs, “Kason,” as she’s on the brink of falling asleep.

  “Yeah?”

  “I really like you.”

  The moment the words fall from her lips, I lose all sensibility and let go of the many reasons why I shouldn’t be doing this, admitting, “I really like you, too, Adaline. More than I probably should.”

  Sunlight pierces my eyes when I stir awake. I turn away from the window and blink a few times until they adjust. Hazy waves of wooziness swim in my head, but it’s the thumping pain behind my eyes that prevents me from attempting to sit up. I weigh a thousand pounds yet, somehow, manage to roll onto my stomach and bury my face down into my pillow with an agonizing groan. The lingering taste of beer on my breath is nauseating, causing my stomach to gurgle as I curl into myself.

  I reach over to my nightstand to grab my cell phone but only find a half empty bottle of Gatorade.

  Remembrance strikes suddenly out of nowhere. “Oh my god.”

  Kason was here last night.

  I turn on my back and stare up as the room spins around me. Pressing my palms against my eyes, I think back to last night but can only vaguely remember bits and pieces. Trent served me my first drink ever, but one drink turned into several, and that’s where I lose track of the night. I can recall being in my car but not driving, and the more I dig to replay the night, the more memory starts serving me mortification on a silver platter.

  “Oh no.”

  I want to die right here, right now, when I recall what I said to him in the car. How hot he was and how I wanted to kiss him.