Page 61 of He Hate Me

“I don’t really have anywhere else to go,” Brandon says. I look at him with surprise. He could still live with his mom, couldn’t he, but it would be pretty hard to live in Old Town and go to Briarwood. Even Mello is staying with a family in Twin Oaks during the week.

“My lips are sealed.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Don’t worry about it. We’re cool. Wanna get high?”

“Ah…”

“She doesn’t smoke,” Brandon says.

“I’ve got a vaporizer,” Rourke says.

“Maybe another time. It’s the last game of football season tonight and I have to cheer.”

“Oh, no. That’s so important.”

“Ha ha. There’s a thing after with the football team and, more importantly, our coaches. I can always get high tomorrow.”

“I didn’t say no,” Brandon says, raising his hand. I shake my head while the two of them chatter about the strain they’re about to consume and prepare the device. I’m kind of annoyed with Brandon at first, but I can see some of the tension easing from his shoulders after a few deep inhalations. I take his hand and he squeezes my fingers, turning his head to smile dreamily at me. I scoot closer, momentarily forgetting where we are. He does the thing I love, holding me by the throat and crushing my mouth with a hard kiss. For a minute, I’m completely lost but then I remember where I am and pull away from him.

I turn to Rourke, ready to apologize, but he doesn’t seem to be bothered. I’m relieved he’s not being smirky either. Brandon stands up and pulls me to my feet.

“We’re gonna head downstairs,” he says, still holding my small hand in his much larger one. Our palms kiss, feeling more intimate than such simple touch has a right to.

Rourke nods in acknowledgment and picks up the game controller. He watches us go without comment and only when he can’t see us anymore does he start playing. Formula 1 engines roar as we skip down the stairs to the second floor. Like kids, we race each other to the room, shoving and grabbing, hoping to get an advantage. I win, but obviously cause he let me. No way I can outrun a guy six or seven inches taller than me who can spend up to 90 minutes running back and forth across a field.

He closes the door and sweeps his eyes over me, from my disheveled braids to the tips of my sneakers.

“Strip,” he commands.

“No.”

“Are you trying to earn a punishment?” There’s a dangerous edge to his voice, one that would create both fear and excitement in me if I was in the mood. But this isn’t what I want right now.

“Time out,” I say, forming my hands into the letter T.

He sobers immediately, the malevolent air falling away to leave mild confusion behind it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I misread the signals.”

“That can easily happen when we haven’t discussed what we’re doing. I saw online you’re supposed to have a safe word and we’ve never even talked about that.”

“Okay,” he says. “You’re right. We do need to actually talk…sex.”

I slip my shoes off and start removing my pants.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Just getting more comfortable. You should too.”

He doesn’t move, just watches me remove my sweatshirt and tee, leaving me in just bra and panties. He takes his pants and jacket off, but not his t-shirt.

“Are you hiding something?” I tease.

His blush surprises me. “It’s nothing bad, just a little embarrassing.”

Now I’m really curious. He rolls his eyes and pull the T-shirt over his head. Written over his heart in cursive is the name Lindsey. It wasn’t there at the end of the summer, so that and the boldness of the ink tells me he got it recently. I couldn’t see it in the dark when we made love, but in the afternoon sunlight it’s bold against his pale skin.