Chapter 24 #2
He shakes his head. “I don’t care.”
“You don’t?”
“No, I’d rather hang out with you.”
I look around his room and Camdenthe a little easier now that I’m not so cold. “Your game tonight went really well.”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“You’re really good.”
He smiles like he’s flattered. “That’s what they say.”
I smirk. “I can tell you feel good.”
His face moves. “Yeah? How?”
My heart races as he walks over to me. “You look like you’ve…” I gesture with my hands, inhaling and exhaling.
He stops right in front of me. “Yeah, it’s the start of the season, so I’m excited, but,” he pauses to look down at me, “this isn’t entirely from the game.”
“No?”
He shakes his head. “No.” He smiles. “See, this girl that’s been driving me wild for weeks came to my game.”
My Camdenth stutters as butterflies surface. “Stop.”
He nods. “It meant a lot to see her there. And now I’m dying on the inside.”
I grin at his motion. His hand is squeezing an invisible heart.
“You don’t look like you’re dying.”
His hooded eyes look at me, the bed, and then his laptop. “I am,” he says, grabbing his laptop. “It’s internal, so you can’t see it.” He opens his laptop. “What do you want to watch?”
I shake my head. “Just put on music.”
He pauses for a second, and then he types on his laptop. “Music,” he mutters under his Camdenth.
I sit on the edge of his bed. He plays a playlist on low. When he turns around, he claps his hands. “Okay, this is still a party, so you have options.”
“Options?” I question. I can’t wait to hear what it is.
He walks over to his dresser and shows me that he has a pack of beers and a bottle of vodka.
I mutter, “Jesus.”
He laughs and turns back. He opens the top drawer, which I can tell isn’t used for clothes. He pulls out playing cards, Uno, and dominoes.
I sit up taller to look in the drawer. “What else do you have in there?”
“Random stuff. It’s my junk drawer.”
I turn my attention to the alcohol and feel a little sick when I imagine those contents in my stomach. “What’s the alcohol for? Are you planning on getting me drunk, Benson?”
He grabs the bottle of liquor and says, “I brought it in here in case you want to play spin the bottle with the right guy this time.”
I blush. “Really funny.”
He laughs, putting the bottle back down. “Offers on the table.” He looks down at his collection. “Do you want to play any of these?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Sure, yeah. Uno.”
He grins over his shoulder, placing the deck of cards and dominoes back in the drawer. “You’re about to get schooled.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes.
He sits cross-legged on the comforter and tosses the deck onto the bed between us. He pats the spot across from him. I fold my legs across from him with my knees almost touching his. The bed is queen-sized, and it’s appearing much smaller with him on here. He shuffles the deck.
“Are you drinking?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not tonight.”
“You didn’t have a drink at dinner tonight with your parents?”
“No.” He shakes his head quickly with a light huff. “My parents would never allow that.”
I nod, feeling a bit frightful that we’re both sober. Not that I want to be drunk. I guess it takes off the pressure, so I’m grateful.
He deals seven cards each. He flips the top card of the draw pile face up. It’s a blue six.
“You go first.”
I lay down a blue four. He drops a blue skip onto it without any commentary, and then a blue six. I lay down a blue draw-two and watch as he tries not to smile and fails. He picks up two cards. He fans them into his hand. He plays a blue nine. I have one more blue card. I lay it down.
He plays a wild and looks up at me. “Pick.”
“You’re supposed to pick.”
“I want you to pick.”
I know he’s only playing it because he doesn’t have blue. “Blue.”
“Lucy.” He clicks his tongue. “Why are you doing this to me?” He picks up from the pile. One card. Two, three, four. He groans. He finally picks up a blue card and plays it. It’s a blue five.
I place a yellow five down.
“Ooh,” he says, pursing his lips. “You did me dirty.”
I hold the cards up to my face as he plays a yellow seven.
Then, on his next turn, he plays a yellow draw-two.
Then, on the turn after that, he plays a yellow skip and watches me sit there with no yellow cards and a face that tells me he is enjoying this way too much.
I draw three cards out of the pile. I get one yellow and lay it down. He plays a wild draw-four.
“Benson.”
“Pick a color.”
“You know you’re supposed to choose the color, right?”
He looks at the card. “I think we play Uno differently. Choose a color, babe.”
My eyes flick up to his. He smiles widely.
“What color?”
I look at my deck. “Red.”
“Red.”
He plays a red four. I play a red draw-two and watch him pick up two cards.
I lay down a red. He lays down a red. I lay down a green.
He lays down a green. I lay down a yellow.
He starts staring at the deck the way he does when he’s thinking — the same way he does in 3B when I have given him a problem set and he’s reading it.
He plays a green five.
I look at my cards. I see his hand on the comforter holding his own hand of cards and observe the callus on the side of his right thumb. Then I play a green nine.
He plays a wild. I put a random card down.
He looks at it and then plays a draw-four.
I’m enjoying this quiet game time with him.
It’s more thrilling than anything I’ve ever done with a boy.
I love that his bed smells like clean sheets.
I stare at the deck, but all I can think about is where this night is going to go.
He plays a yellow draw-four.
“Benson,” I groan. “That is not — that is not how to play this game.”
“What rules?” he grins. “Where are these rules you speak of?”
“In the box.”
He picks up the box. He opens the flap and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it. The paper is yellow with age and has scribbles in three different colors of ink along the top, reading “house rules — final.” His eyes scan it, and then he looks up at me.
“These are the house rules Stanley made years ago.”
“What a weird place to keep house rules.”
His eyes look at the bottom of the page. “Here. Stanley’s rules say wild draw-fours can be played at any time, for any reason, by any player.”
“He did not write that.”
He turns the paper around. The paper says at the very bottom, in the worst handwriting I have ever seen, Uno Rule 4: Wild draw-fours are a weapon to be used.
“This is a lawless household.”
He smiles as I draw four cards. I have eleven cards now. He has four. I play a yellow. He plays a yellow. I play a yellow. He plays a wild draw-four.
“Uno.”
I throw my cards down on the comforter.
He throws his head back and laughs in a way I have not heard him ever laugh.
My entire body lights up from the sound, and I laugh with him.
He falls to the side of me. I don’t think it’s on purpose because he’s just large and the bed isn’t a king.
He glances down at my exposed cards, but I’m not look at his face because I notice his shirt is riding up a few inches above his pants.
The muscular line of his hip is showing.
Holy hell. I stare at it for a half-second longer than I need to, and then my eyes look again because I absolutely need to see this.
He’s busy looking at my deck. “Lucy. Lucy. Don’t be mad.”
“You are cheating.”
“I am playing Stanley’s rules.”
“Stanley’s rules are bad rules.”
“Stanley’s rules are the ones I’m used to.”
I notice his v-line muscle shifts, and my brain, plainly, stops.
He’s looking at me, catching where my eyes are. Heat crawls up my neck as he puts a card down.
“Your turn.”
“Yeah.” I don’t look at my cards. I look at him.
He glances up at me when he realizes I’m not going. His voice changes when he asks, “Are we still playing Uno?”
I look down at his lips as my pulse races everywhere. I don’t want to play Uno anymore. I want his eyes on me. I shake my head once.
He sets his cards down on the comforter. “You sure?”
I nod.
He moves the whole pile. The deck, the discard, his hand, mine. He sweeps them into a small stack with both palms. He picks up the stack and sets it on the nightstand next to the lamp. The movement is unhurried, but I wish he would be quicker about it.
He leans at the head of the bed and looks at me. “Come here.”
I crawl across the comforter. The distance is two feet. I get to him, and my heart’s racing so fast that it’s all I hear. I need you to touch me, I think as I look at him. I need you to tell me that what I feel is real.
He cups the side of my jaw like he read my mind. I close my eyes, leaning into his large hand. His palm is warm against my cheek. His thumb rests at the corner of my mouth. He is not kissing me yet, so I open my eyes.
“Lucy,” he whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Are you a virgin, baby?”
I close my eyes and shake my head. Will he be disappointed at my answer?
“Good.”
I open my eyes, shocked to hear that simple word.
He says, “Tell me what you want.”
I’ve been answering this question for him all along.
Maybe not in words, but in silent ways like letting him keep my pencil.
And letting his sister drag me to a Hawthorne House party and dancing in front of him.
Or kissing him when he asked me to. Now I’m here.
What more does he need from me to know that I’m at his will?
“Tell me, Lucy,” he pleads.
I swallow, feeling embarrassed. A nervous thrill shoots through my body. “You.”
He looks down at my lips. “Yeah?” His hand cups my cheeks firmly now. “Then kiss me.”
I’m relieved he’s not bringing up his sister, but I’m shaking at his command. I lean in, watching his face closely to make sure he means it. I lightly skim his lips with mine. His Camdenth tickles my lips.
“Are you sure?” I whisper.