Chapter 11 #2
Sitting in his high-backed chair, his shoulders broad and his back straight, he looks like he belongs here. He looks like he commands the room as much as he dominates the soccer field.
Maybe it’s the way he’s staring at me, with complete authority, complete possession. Or maybe it’s the way his elbow rests on the arm of the chair and he’s clicking this pen in his hand, waiting for me to step inside the room.
Step inside his lair.
So I do. I step inside and warmth grips me from every side. It grips the back of my neck, circles my waist and slides down to my thighs.
“Close the door,” he commands, sounding every inch the coach that he is.
Every inch the famous The Blond Arrow.
Swallowing, I obey.
“Lock it,” he orders again, clicking the pen.
“What?”
“Lock the door.”
I hiccup a breath. “I… I don’t think there –”
“Lock the fucking door, Salem.”
“Okay.”
I reach my arms back and turn the little thingy on the knob to lock it.
The instant my job is done, I do the craziest thing ever. I mean, I’m famous for crazy so why stop now.
I rush toward the desk, toward him.
Which might not be such a great idea given how aloof and mature he looks. How old and teacher-like.
But it’s like ripping off a band-aid.
I need to apologize and I won’t wait for even a single second to do it. I’ve already waited four whole days without making a well-deserved apology.
I stick my arms out. “Before you say anything, I’ve got something to say.”
I’m aware that this is what I said to him at the bar, where I demanded he apologize, and the way he stares at me, without moving a muscle except to click the pen, I get the feeling that he’s aware of it too.
That he was probably waiting for me to gush words like a river and create drama like the queen I am.
“Okay so.” I wipe my hand on my thigh and lean against the edge of the desk to keep my shaking at bay.
“I know I’ve been avoiding you and it’s not cool.
That’s not fair to you, especially when I made you apologize to me in the bar.
And made such a big deal out of it. So I’m sorry about that. For not apologizing sooner.”
He studies me from his perch and even though I’m looking down at him slightly, I feel much, much smaller than him right now. “You’re apologizing for not apologizing.”
Well, when he puts it that way it sounds ridiculous.
“Yes. Sort of. But the point is that I shouldn’t have done that. I should never have done that. I…” I try to gather my thoughts. “I’m sorry I tried to kiss you. It was completely uncalled for and a huge mistake. You’re my sister’s boy –”
Why can’t I remember the correct terminology of anything?
“Ex-boyfriend and it’s super tacky. And weird. And you don’t need creepy advances by a stupid girl when you’re going through so much. And the truth is that I really wanted to be your friend, you know? I really wanted to be someone you could talk to but I took advantage of that and I’m sorry.”
I take a deep breath when I finish.
Although no amount of deep breaths will calm my heart. It’s thundering inside my chest, lurching and writhing.
I’m not sure because of what though.
Is it because our friendship was so short-lived and the pain of it is intense? Or is it because he keeps staring at me in that intimate way of his?
Like he knows me. He knows every bone and every muscle and every cell in my body.
Every secret of my witchy heart.
Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, his intense, dominating scrutiny, he leans forward and puts down the pen, shutting up the clicking, draping the room in complete silence.
Sitting back, both his elbows on the armrests now and his fingers tracing the curve of his lower lip, he asks, “Did anyone give you any trouble?”
“What?”
“After I talked to those girls in the hallway.”
I press myself against his desk even more, trying to stop the trembling of my legs. Trying to stop this running thought that he looks so… mature and big.
Older.
When he’s only about five years older than me.
Even so, I clasp my hands in front of me like a na?ve little schoolgirl and shake my head. “No. It was fine.”
Those girls only glared at me through dinner and nothing else. Besides, I was more engrossed in the fact that I had to go see him rather than pay attention to anything or anyone else.
His eyes drop to my clasped hands before nodding. “Good.”
“I –”
“You never told me how you liked the motorcycle ride that night,” he cuts me off in a soft, inquiring voice.
I open and close my mouth several times, unable to come up with anything.
“Did you enjoy it?” he continues with smooth, polished features, like him asking me all of this is completely normal.
And my chest heaves like wanting to answer him and tell him all the things about the ride and everything that happened to me since then is completely normal too.
I grab the edge of the desk and lick my lips. “It was great. Thank you. I-I have your jacket. Uh, that you gave me. I can bring it back to you if –”
“Keep it.”
“But… it’s yours.”
He traces his thumb across his lip while studying me. “You like it, don’t you?”
For some reason, my cheeks feel hot when he asks me that.
Maybe because ever since he gave me his jacket, I’ve been sleeping in it. I’ve been smelling it when I write him my nightly letter or when I really, really miss him.
I nod. “Yes.”
“So it’s yours now.” Before I can argue more, he asks me something else. “It was your first, wasn’t it? The ride, I mean.”
I nod again. “Yes.”
The first and probably the last, too.
Because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sit on a motorcycle that doesn’t belong to him. I don’t think I’ll even want to.
I don’t…
Suddenly, he unlaces his fingers and pushes his chair back. The screech of the wheels and the squeak of the old chair cause me to part my lips and crane my neck as he comes to his feet.
Without taking his eyes off me, he rounds the desk with prowling steps.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I turn my body to keep him in sight.
Not that it’s hard.
He’s the biggest thing I’ve ever seen. The tallest and the largest.
The most glorious and the most stunning too, and he’s walking toward me with a purpose.
He reaches me a second later and like at the bridge, he puts both his hands on the desk on either side of me, to come down to my level, his eyes all blue and serious.
But unlike at the bridge, he’s doing it all in his well-lit office where I can see every flick of his eyelashes, every twitch of his jaw, every little sun-burnt strand of his hair.
“Arrow,” I whisper, grabbing the desk with such ferocity that my knuckles are throbbing.
He still doesn’t answer me though.
At least, not with words.
Still looking at me, his hand reaches up and pulls at the string of my ribbon.
I look down as the clumsy butterfly knot that I’d made before coming to his office unravels and my curls spill everywhere, mostly on his large fingers, my ribbon, falling and pooling down on the floor.
Goosebumps break out on my skin and looking back at him, I whisper again, “What are you doing?”
His eyes are on my hair. “Untying your ribbon.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like it.”
My breath stutters. “B-but I thought you hated messy things.”
“I do.” He shifts his eyes away from my thick, scattered hair and focuses on me, my hastily breathing chest. “But strangely not on you. I like you messy.”
I so want to say something, do something. Let go of the edge of the desk and grab his naked shoulders, dig my nails into his honey-colored muscles.
But I refrain.
Although a second later, the choice is taken away from me because he puts his hands on me.
He grabs me by the waist, picks me up and sits me down on his desk, all in a matter of seconds, and I have to put my hands on him because I feel so unmoored in this moment, so in the dark about his intentions that I grab onto him, his flexing biceps, to make sense of the world.
And when he just leaves his hands there, around my waist, I’m compelled to whisper, “What’s happening? Why are you…” I lick my lip, my feet swaying, dangling off the desk. “Touching me like this.”
Narrowing his eyes slightly, he digs his thumbs into my belly button. “Why, you don’t like it?”
I do.
For some reason, I feel his words just behind my navel, where he’s touching me.
So much so that I drag my nails along his biceps and pant, “I-I don’t think you should.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because…” I swallow. “Because you’re my coach and…”
And my sister’s ex-boyfriend. And the secret love of my life and I’m so greedy…
“But I thought we were friends,” he rasps. “You wanted to be my friend. Didn’t you just say that?”
I shake my head. “I did. But we’re not. Not anymore. It’s better if we’re not.”
“Better for whom?”
I look at him with regret. “For you. I-I’m… dangerous.”
He stares at me for a second. “I think I’ll take my chances.”
I let out a breath, looking at his gorgeous lips that just said that and if I were a better person, I would push him away and fight him more.
I’d tell him everything in my witchy heart so he never touches me again.
But God, it feels so good. That he’s touching me. That he’s holding me with his strong hands, so only a weak protest comes out of my mouth. “I don’t think friends touch like this.”
His nostrils flare as he swipes his thumb over my belly. “Well, you’ve never been friends with me.” Before I can respond to that, his eyes drop to my lips as well and he asks, “So do you kiss all your friends, Salem?”
At the abrupt change of subject, I sort of jump.
Well, as much as I can with his hands on my waist, keeping me pinned to the desk. Blinking, I shake my head. “No.”
“So just me then.”
“I…” I duck my head, staring at the silver locket of his chain. “Yes.”
“Like the ride, was that your first kiss too?”
I clench my eyes shut as a wave of embarrassment washes over me.
Not only that, like my swaying legs, my body sways too and somehow I end up on his hard chest. My forehead presses into the arch of his pectoral and I jerk out a nod. “Yes.”