Chapter 12 Connor #3
Drowning in his dark eyes now, I swing my arms around his neck and hug him flush.
“You’re so beautiful,” I say, teetering my body in a lazy slow-dance.
Strong arms cinch around my waist while a rich tone murmurs into my ear, “I think you’re drunk, puppy.”
“A little tipsy,” I concede.
“I got you.”
He kisses my head, and we sway for a while, just holding each other and missing the beat entirely, until the music cuts and Margot’s voice announces, “It’s Rocky Horror time!”
“Damn,” Dane chortles. “This party really is gay.”
The sofa fills up fast, and those not planning on acting out the whole movie take to sitting on the carpet.
I get the bright idea to prop a couple of throw pillows against the coffee table and sit with my back against it.
Others follow suit, so when Dane prances back with a fresh cup of something, he kicks my legs apart and plops himself right between them.
I’m about to complain about not being able to see the TV when Dane reclines back with his head on my chest. It’s heavy as a bowling ball and adds more heat to my already sweltering body, but there’s no way in hell I’ll complain about this.
I drape my arms around him to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.
So long as he’s here, he won’t be anywhere else—or with anyone else.
My eyes are on a movie my high school girlfriend made me watch with her parents once, but my mind is in my fantasies.
The rambunctious acting jobs of some of Margot’s thespian friends are as vague as a gust of wind past my ears while my focus is on the boy in my arms. The longer my palms rest atop Dane’s knit shirt, the bolder they become.
I pet him in slow swishes up and down his body while I sniff at his loose curls, smelling of herbal shampoo.
My hand glides over Dane’s heart, feeling its quick beat and the tiny bump of a hard nipple. I don’t think twice about brushing my fingers over that nub again. And again. Through his shirt, I play around the nub and stroke the thin ridge of the hoop that halos it.
In my faraway mind, I’m seeing Dane’s chest the way it looked the first time he showed off his piercings, strutting into the kitchen and beaming with pride.
But instead of his family barking criticisms at him, it’s just me in the room—him and me—and he walks straight to me, gazing into my eyes before he cups the back of my head and—
A large hand claps over mine, pinning my fingers down to keep them still. Dane vibrates between my thighs in a way that makes me wish we were alone. What was that thing he said the night he kissed me against a stucco wall? “I wanna take your boy-virginity.”
What does that even mean?
Tucking my chin down, I whisper close to Dane’s ear, “Can we get outta here?”
He’s quick to turn his head and murmur an affirmative, then I’m up as soon as he is and looking for Margot to say goodbye. After a couple of hugs, I follow Dane out onto the second floor landing, and we head down to the parking lot.
It’s awkward, and I know it’s my fault, which only makes it more awkward. Dane’s the brash, borderline inappropriate flirt, not me. Sure, I’ve done my fair share of party PDA, but only with a girlfriend—emphasis on girl.
Coming up on the Beemer, I break the tension to ask Dane if he’s okay to drive.
“I’m alright,” he says, but sounds a little unsure. That could be my fault too.
“I can drive.”
“You cannot drive.” He sends me a funny smile that makes me smile back. After a slow glance at our surroundings, Dane says, “I kinda know this neighborhood. There’s a twenty-four-hour spot close by. Wanna get some food before we head home?”
It’s pretty late, and I’m sort of wiped, but I’m also way too jittery to fall asleep anytime soon. If we go home now, I’ll just lay up for hours thinking about what a dipshit I am.
“Food sounds good.”
It doesn’t register that Dane means to walk there until his hand captures mine and pulls me in the opposite direction of the car.
Two city blocks down, I spot a twirling sign over a brightly lit building on the corner, and I figure that must be where we’re headed. My stomach grumbles with anticipation.
Now that I’m out of Margot’s hot-box apartment, my sweat dries and chills me to shivers. San Diego autumn is still warm by my standards, but it lowers my temperature enough to make the heat between mine and Dane’s palms even more noticeable. Our fingers intertwine in the space between our hips.
“I swear,” Dane exhales an awestruck chuckle into the air ahead, “I thought I was gonna come in my pants back there.”
A sudden laugh hiccups from my throat, keeling me over halfway as heat returns to my face. I should feel embarrassed, but something about Dane’s funny tone and a sky full of stars won’t let me feel anything but glee.
Peeking sideways at Dane’s flat chest, I ask, “Are they really that sensitive?”
“Like you wouldn’t fucking believe.”
As we approach the main intersection, I untether my grip from Dane’s hand and swipe our shared sweat off on my shirt.
“Chicken,” Dane calls me as we wait for the light cycle to change in our favor.
“What do you mean?”
He chuckles. “Nothing.”
But I know what he means. That I’m afraid of people seeing me holding hands with a man.
And he’s right. I shouldn’t be holding his hand anyway.
Not because it’s wrong, but because I have a girlfriend, and the implication is enough to make me want to steer clear of physical intimacy with anyone, even if it’s Dane. Especially if it’s Dane.
But I think Dane needs to be held sometimes. If I don’t do it, someone else will. Eventually. Maybe even someone from Margot’s party. Benji, maybe. The vision nauseates me.
“You were pretty popular in there,” I say.
“I guess.”
“Those guys were all over you.”
“Eh.” He shrugs.
“You weren’t into any of them?”
“Connor, I’m not interested in anyone except you.”
I look at him, dazzled by the warm glow of his skin under the streetlamp. I stare so long, I nearly eat it on the curb outside the diner. “Really?” I ask, catching my balance with a hand on Dane’s shoulder.
“Duh.”
Keeping my eyes on him, I follow him up the steps and through the glass door that jingles when Dane opens it. Maybe Benji was right. Maybe Dane really does love me.
A kind-looking woman in a lap apron and nametag floats by the hostess desk and plucks some menus from a tall stack of them. “For two?” she asks.
“Yep,” Dane answers.
The woman shows us to a four-top booth along a windowed wall, and I take a load off on the cushioned bench like it’s a Laz-E-Boy.
Dane orders us a couple of waters right off the bat before passing me one of the booklet menus.
The laminated pages are sticky under my fingers, and there are pictures of the food beside each category, which is how I know it’s going to taste amazing.
But as hungry as I am, it’s Dane I’m drooling over. If he loves me, I don’t know why. What’s so special about me? I’m just Connor Whitlock from Sacramento, California. Average, ordinary, middle-of-the-pack Connor.
Dane is the special one. There’s a whole world inside his beautiful body, and I want to know every part of it, even the parts that might scare me.
“How’s your thumb?” I reach out and hook his palm, smoothing my own thumb over the beige Band-Aid wrapped around his.
“It’s fine.” His eyes flick up from the menu to stare into mine. Clasping my hand, he asks, “Are you okay?”
“Mhm.”
“Things cool with Thalia?”
My girlfriend’s name shocks enough sense into me for my hand to loosen. I pull it into my lap. “I dunno. Things feel really complicated right now. I feel complicated.”
“Why do you feel complicated?”
Isn't is obvious? Maybe he’s trying to get me to admit it, but I’m not sure I’ve fully admitted it to myself.
“Because…I’ve always been a certain way. I’ve always fit in. Never stood out. Never been especially different or interesting. I only wear clothes they sell at Kohl’s. I only listen to music that’s on the radio. The only TV I watch is sports. I’m boring and predictable—”
“That’s not true,” Dane starts, but before he can list off compliments I don’t deserve, I continue speaking my thoughts as they come:
“My whole life, I wanted to be with girls. Ever since preschool, I’ve had crushes on girls.
Ever since middle school, I’ve dated girls.
I always knew I wanted a life exactly like the one my parents have.
To be with a woman who’s also my best friend, get married, buy a house, have kids that look like both of us, and never separate.
Every time I’ve pictured my future, that’s how it is.
But now…now, it’s like…you’re all I think about. ”
I pause, half-hoping Dane will interject, but he doesn’t speak this time.
Only stares. When our server comes back with two glasses of water and asks if we’re ready to order, Dane gets all flustered and orders a cheeseburger and fries on the spot.
“He’ll have the same,” he says and hands both our menus to the lady.
As soon as she’s gone, I lower my voice and tell Dane, “I don’t know what to do.”
This time, I pause long enough for Dane to clear his throat and attempt to answer what should be rhetorical.
The answer is obvious. I can’t, and maybe that’s what’s made me so sick lately—wanting something I can’t have, because I’m too much of a fucking coward to go against the grain for once in my life.
Dane isn’t the pathetic one.
I am.
“Well, Connie,” Dane starts, fingers picking at a notch in the wood tabletop, “I’m biased, so I can’t tell you what to do.”
Just when I start feeling guilty for opening my big mouth, Dane continues: