“This is me,” I said, standin’ near the hood, actin' like I was searchin’ for my fob, waitin' for him to stop me. Sweat was slidin’ down my spine, teasin’ the waistband of my too-short shorts. I didn't know if the sweat was comin’ from the summer heat oranticipation of what was about to happen: him bendin’ me over the hood, his off-limits cock inside me, my hips bruisin’ the black paint job, my name in every bitch's mouth.
But he was just standin’ under the streetlamp, five feet away—half-lit, half-shadowed, half-gone and full of shit. Swear, he was still runnin' the same cat-and-mouse game as me, thinkin' I was gonna beg.
His empty water bottle hit the trashcan, and he slid off his glasses, exhaling hard, draggin’ a hand through his hair. He sank his other hand into his pocket as he peered down the empty street, back from where we came, as if he was ready to dip out.
I unlocked the Charger with a beep and slowly walked to the driver’s side, waitin’ for him to stop me. Each step was a threat, that if I made it to my door before he spoke up, he wasn't gettin' shit. But he didn't make a move, didn't say anything.
I stepped up to the door.
Nothin’.
Then, I yanked it open.
On cue, Andrew lifted two fingers.
“Aight, Rox.”
He didn't glance back.
My hair whipped in my face, and I didn't bother movin’ it.
“Wait—seriously?”
He stopped, turnin' halfway, wettin' his bottom lip as he held up a palm. “The fuck you expect?”
He watched me, brow cocked, waitin' for me to say somethin'.
For a second, I'd gone brittle again. All the armor I built—strong thighs, brutal rejections,don’t-give-a-fuckgrins—felt paper thin. For a second, I was eighteen again on the Shore, ninety pounds, knees like knuckles knockin' together, fragile, flat, swimmin' in a T-shirt, breathin' in salt and stares frompeople writin' one of three stories on my bones: self-starvin', parent-starvin', or sick-girl tragedy.
The words echoed—stick, ghost, a thing that disappears when turnin’.A time when I was fightin’ bra gaps, loose jeans, and men swearin’ I was a twelve-year-old boy.
Except at that moment? It was worse. 'Cause at that moment I knew how it felt to be lusted after—looked at with desire, not a goddamn diagnosis. And for a fuckin' second, I thought he really wanted nothin’ to do with me. I thought I lost, felt it in my throat as I stood there lookin' stupid while a temper raged in my head. I saw myself flippin' the game board, pieces scatterin', me already blamin' the rules.
But after that second passed, I realized—nah, he was still lookin' right at me. The game wasn't fuckin' over. A frustrated breath left me, and I raked back my hair. “You really wanna walk away?”
There was an all-knowing look in his gaze, as if he wasn't surprised how this night turned out. “You thought if you got me alone I’d change my mind?” He paused, a drop of sweat drippin' down the vein in his neck. “I don’t fall for that kinda bullshit.”
I slammed the car door with a hollowclunkechoing down the dead-end street. I scanned him slowly, from the flex in his jaw to his fist clutchin’ the button-up hangin’ off his shoulder.
“All those stories…” I started. “And you run off like a little bitch the second a girl you can’t handle gets too close. Whole neighborhood talkin' 'bout you like you some fantasy. You probably started half those stories yourself.”
He laughed. "Nah—I ain't you."
“Then lemme guess.” I stepped into his space, palm flat on his chest. “You don’t fuck with fine girls like me ‘cause deep down you know the ones you want? They don’t want you or that fuckin’ mouth bitches be braggin’ about. That’s why you get with girls like Vic. Safe, easy,grateful.Makes you feel like a god.”
He stepped back. “Nah, don’t fuckin’ touch me, aight?”
And I'm thinkin'—look at this guy, still runnin' his hard-to-get game, and I wondered how unbothered he'd stay with my tongue in his mouth. So I leaned in, fingers hookin' his belt, mouth launchin' for his.
Harding dodged the kiss, my lips barely grazin’ his cheek. Then he snatched my wrist, spun me hard, and shoved me against the driver's side door, pinnin’ my arm behind my back.
My chest hit the side of my car with athud, metal shockin' my tits.
“The fuck—” My cheek scraped the dusty glass.
But then he was right there, his hard abs flush to my spine, his belt buckle kissin’ my ass, breath hot at my scalp. “Said not to fuckin’ touch me.”
The streetlight hummed above us, buzzin’, watchin’.
