8. Margo
Chapter 8
Margo
I get home fifteen minutes before Robert. Luckily, he had a few after school meetings that delayed him, and Lenora is working late in the city, too.
He comes in and kicks off his shoes by the door and finds me curled up in the living room. Staying down here was difficult when all I wanted was to retreat to my room. But I need to make an effort with my foster parents.
If I don’t, they may as well get rid of me.
“Feeling better?” Robert asks. “You looked pale in class.”
I nod, my fingers digging into the blanket covering my legs. “I was a bit dizzy.”
They have a big open-concept house. The kitchen is separated from the dining room and living room by a large island, and the other spaces are sectioned off by artfully placed furniture. I’d bet Lenora designed it. If she did, her style is impressive. She knows how to fill a home without overwhelming it.
But it just means that when Robert heads to the kitchen, I can still keep an eye on him—and vice versa.
“It’s probably been overwhelming,” he sympathizes. “Did you have anything to eat?”
I hesitate. I haven’t thought about food—it was far from the front of my mind as I walked home, and then I didn’t want to get in trouble for eating something I shouldn’t have. I can’t really say that, though, without it sounding like a guilt trip.
“I didn’t.”
I push the blanket off and move to one of the kitchen stools. It’s counter height, the island flat with a sink in the center. He pulls a soda from the fridge and holds it out to me. I take it carefully, cracking it open, while he does the same with a beer.
“Lenora will be home soon, and I like to have dinner ready. Want to help me cook?”
I freeze. “Me?”
After I became a ward of the state, I learned to cook to survive. I can make rice and chicken, ground beef and pasta. I know how to thin out a can of soup to make it last an extra three days… But that was always about not starving. There was no enjoyment in it.
“I could teach you,” he offers. “If you had any interest.”
I swallow. “Yeah,” I manage in a hoarse voice, “that’d be… that’d be great.”
“Okay, first thing’s first.” He goes into the pantry and returns with two aprons. He slings one over his head and ties it at the small of his back.
I mirror him, but the ties are long enough to wrap around my waist and knot in the front. It’s very clearly Lenora’s, and a twinge of guilt at borrowing something without asking almost makes me take it off.
But Robert gave it to me to use… surely it’s okay?
“You look pale again.” He picks up my soda can and offers it to me. “The sugar will help until we can get some sustenance in you.”
I manage a smile.
He points to the fridge and gives me a list of items to retrieve. While I do that, he pulls out pans and a pot, gleaming knives, a cutting board.
“Have you chopped onions before?”
I shake my head.
“Okay.” He takes the huge knife and shows me how to do it. “If your eyes water, it’s totally normal. I have that effect on people.”
I laugh.
Laugh . Then stop just as fast.
The corner of his lip turns up, and he leaves me to it. I’m mindful of the safety tips he just advised, because the last thing we need is a trip to urgent care for cutting my finger off.
And sure enough, my eyes burn and water. Tears drip down my cheeks by the time I’m done. My face is hot, and I wipe at it with the back of my hand as soon as I set the knife down.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” I sniff.
“Let’s bring those onions over here, we’re going to caramelize them.”
I bring the board over and use the knife to slide the tiny pieces into the pan.
He takes both from me and hands me a wooden spoon. “Just move it around constantly so nothing burns.”
With that, I man the stove, and he chops something else.
I don’t even know what we’re making, and I think we’re past the point of asking.
It isn’t until we have a simmering, meat red sauce in front of me, with a pot of pasta boiling on the diagonal burner, that the Italian-ness of it hits me. And also, splatters of sauce hit me—well, the apron. Little speckles that are nearly orange. I changed into a sweatshirt when I got home, and I’m grateful I don’t have to worry about staining the white uniform shirt.
We’ve made spaghetti.
“A time-old classic,” Robert says.
The front door opens, and Lenora’s sing-song voice floats ahead of her entrance.
“It smells amazing in here!” She comes into the kitchen. “Oh, Margo, you’re cooking!”
My face burns, but I don’t know what to say. Sorry for using your apron? I hope I didn’t accidentally poison the tomato sauce?
She doesn’t wait for a reply, though, and comes over and hugs me.
It takes me a minute to unlock my muscles and hug her back. Touching is a weird thing in foster care. It gets to the point that you can’t really trust anyone, especially once you’re a teenager.
I survived all of that.
She rubs my back in small circles, and I lean my cheek on her shoulder. I close my eyes, absorbing her warmth. But then it’s over.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I should’ve asked?—”
“It was just what I needed,” I say.
“Margo came home early from school,” Robert says. “She wasn’t feeling well.”
Lenora tuts and touches my forehead with the back of her hand. It’s so… well… motherly , that my eyes burn for the fifteenth time this afternoon. And, unfortunately, it’s the kindness of the small gesture that breaks the dam.
Or maybe it was the onions.
Either way, I can’t stop the flood of tears. My face crumples.
“Oh, Margo,” Lenora whispers. “It’s okay, honey.”
She hugs me again, tighter, and I try to remember how to breathe. And then Robert is joining in, chuckling to himself.
“I felt left out,” he whispers above our heads.
I laugh, too, and Lenora follows.
When I’ve collected myself, I slowly step out of their embrace.
“You’re home,” Lenora says firmly. “I believe that, and I hope you do, too.”
I don’t see it, and it’s not that I don’t like them. I actually really, really do.
It’s just that I don’t believe in happily ever afters for me. Not anymore.
Lenora makes a salad while Robert makes garlic bread, and I sit and watch them move in sync around the kitchen. She talks about her co-workers—one’s in her second trimester, and another just got engaged—and articles she read. Robert details anecdotes about nameless students, including one that tripped and dumped dirty paint water across his floor.
I don’t have much to contribute, but the longer I sit and watch them, the more I realize… that’s what I want in a relationship. The comfort, the ease. The laughter.
We finish dinner at the kitchen table, and we all clean up. Lenora collects the leftovers, Robert rinses the plates, and I stow them in the dishwasher. We’re done in no time.
There’s no moment for awkwardness. Robert guides me into the living room and hands me the remote, saying to pick a movie for us to watch. Lenora disappears upstairs to change out of her work clothes.
I fiddle with the hem of my sweatshirt with one hand, pulling on a loose thread while scrolling the movie channels. I finally land on one I’d been wanting to watch and glance over to catch Robert’s approving nod.
When Lenora joins us, she sits beside me on the couch.
And it’s nice . I know I’ve been here a week already. I know I should be more comfortable, but tonight is the first we’ve had a chance to do this. The other nights were simple dinners, no big fuss or production, and I retreated to my room as soon as they were over.
When the movie ends, I stretch and yawn. I beg off to bed, and they both wish me goodnight. With a glass of water in hand, I trot upstairs and step into my room.
I close the door and rest my forehead on it in the darkness.
My heart is full, and my smile is quick to appear. It was a good night. One that I now have to strong-arm into a box, because this cannot be my new normal.
If I believe that, then being proven wrong will break me.
A long, slow exhale later, all those happy feelings are bundled up in the back of my mind. I don’t want to let go of the effervescence just yet. I keep a piece of it—like Lenora’s cheerful greeting—front and center.
Finally under control, I cross the room and set my glass down. It’s still dark, with just the streetlamps and moonlight coming through the front window. The fluttering curtain catches my attention, as does the chilled wind that sweeps in.
I didn’t leave my window open.
The lamp on my desk clicks on. I whirl toward the light and gasp. I slap my hand over my mouth.
Caleb leans against the wall. One hand in his pocket, the other hanging loose. He’s the picture of smug arrogance. His dark hair is mussed, like he’s been running his fingers through it, and the ends are damp. I can’t help but take in his olive-green long-sleeved Henley shirt, the way it fits snugly to his body. His jeans are light-washed and ripped, and his tennis shoes are white and pristine.
I can’t manage to keep a pair from scuffing in my first week of owning them—but I think that comes down to the fact that I wear my new shoes into the ground. I don’t get the luxury of only wearing a certain pair sometimes.
“You could take a picture,” he drawls. “It would last longer.”
I scowl. “Get out.”
He smirks and nudges my pajama pants from where I left them this morning. “Have you been dreaming of me?”
“Only nightmares.” I square my shoulders and smile sweetly. “That’s what you like to be, right? The monster chasing me?”
He tilts his head and pushes off the wall. The bed is still between us, and it might take him a minute to get to the door. It’s closer to me than him. But do I really want to burst out and let Lenora and Robert know?—
Caleb knows Robert.
“Any excuse you make about me being here will sound like a horny girl’s lie,” Caleb says in a low voice. He peels off his shirt. “Especially if they find me naked and you out of sorts.”
“Shut up,” I hiss. “Did you come in the window?”
He inclines his chin. His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, and he knows just how to move to accentuate that feature. I swallow sharply.
I go to the door, ready to throw it open and demand that he leave anyway. I mean, fuck it, right? There’s a slim chance…
He meets me there, keeping it closed with one hand over my head. His other goes to my hip, slowly rotating me until my back is flush to the wall.
“I think you like the idea of me in your room.” His gaze drops to my sweatshirt. It’s from The Wrecks merch line, although I was able to snag it secondhand. I fucking love that band, even though I’d never be able to afford one of their concerts.
“You and your fucking mind games.” I shake my head. “Isn’t tormenting me in school enough?”
He’s solemn when he answers, “No.”
“No?”
“It’s not enough. Don’t think it ever will be.”
I let my head fall back. His eyes are dark. “Why?”
His lips ghost along the shell of my ear. “Because you fucking deserve it.”
I laugh. “I deserve torment?”
He shakes his head. “You didn’t just get that, little lamb. You’re getting all of it. My whole self utterly focused on your sweet reactions. The fear, the excitement, the disgust. You fold when I want you to… but sometimes you stand up straight and face me.”
My legs tremble. “What does that mean?”
“It means…” He’s got his jeans undone, his dick in his hand. He’s silhouetted by the lamp behind him, but I don’t need a spotlight to see him pump his length in his fist.
Oh God.
The wall keeps me upright while he slowly jacks himself off. His thumb rolls over the top of his dick, smearing the clear pre-cum, and his grip twists as he gets to the base.
Over and over.
It’s weirdly mesmerizing.
Something is seriously wrong with you, Margo.
“It means I think of your mouth when I do this,” he finally continues. “So get on your knees and make my fantasy come true.”
I scoff.
“You want me to leave you alone. That’s the whole point. Drool on my dick, baby, and show me that you’re nothing special.” He lifts his eyebrow. “Show me that your mouth isn’t something I should fantasize about.”
Twisted logic.
And yet.
There are probably a million other girls who can give him blow jobs. A hundred at Emery-Rose, at least, who would willingly drop down and take him in their mouths.
And they’d almost surely do it better than me. I’ve never done it before.
Considering that, and his offer…
“I give you a bad blow job and you’re just going to forget about me?”
He bares his teeth. “Guaranteed.”
Butterflies take over my chest. I don’t want to cave… but I really would love nothing more than for Caleb to leave me alone.
Would you really?
Okay, well, I don’t know.
My body is already in motion before my mind makes itself up.
I don’t think the very act of being on your knees in front of a guy is talked about enough. It puts me so much lower than him; his intimidation factor automatically goes up a notch. It’s nothing he’s doing—he’s intimidating enough in his own right—but now, he looms so high above me. He could lift his knee and smash me in the nose, or…
Anything, I guess.
So the quicker I pull this off, the faster I can get out of this position.
I pull his hand off his dick, and he grunts in surprise. It bobs in front of me, not just longer than expected—I don’t really know what I was expecting, honestly—but thicker, too. I wrap my hand around it, my fingers barely overlapping, and mimic his movement.
He exhales, letting me do that for a moment. But then he grabs my wrist, stopping me, and tuts.
“Blow jobs require your mouth,” he says.
I narrow my eyes, but his lips just quirk.
His one hand is still on the wall, bracing himself over me.
I open my mouth and inch forward. The first taste is a tentative lick, a swipe of my tongue across the head. The tip of my tongue catches on his slit, and the flavor of his pre-cum is surprising. Better than when he made me taste my own arousal, but barely.
I lick again and put my hand back on his dick. At the base. I use my grip to guide it into my mouth. An inch, then out.
Drooling on it.
Right.
The wetter the better, someone once said. Another foster kid at a group home. Talking about sex was a currency all its own there. I didn’t have anything to contribute, but I tried to listen.
Some of those tricks they always talked about come back. Twisting my hand, taking him deeper as I let my saliva run down his shaft. I drag my hand up and catch the wetness, coating the rest of his length.
I try again, taking him deeper, and remember the key point of blowing a guy is to suck.
So I do, and he lets out a grunt above me.
My tongue swirls around his length when I come back up. I’ve only taken half of him in my mouth, but I don’t know that I can take much more. He’s already nearing the back of my throat when I dip down.
On the way out, I flick my tongue against the underside of the mushroom head. His hips jerk, and only my hand keeps him from thrusting deeper. Until he grabs my wrist and removes my hand, and his fingers slide into my hair.
Is that a control thing?
I ignore it and keep going. Down, suck, swirl. Flick.
Suddenly, his fingers tighten on my scalp, and he uses my downward momentum to keep pushing. His hips slide forward, and his dick hits the back of my throat.
Deeper.
I gag, my body tensing, and as soon as I relax, he slides in farther. I choke on him, my eyes pricking with tears. He pulls out, his grip firm, and I suck in a ragged breath. And then he’s filling my mouth again.
My hands find his thighs, gripping through his jeans as his hips rock forward.
He fucks my face. I guess there’s no other way to describe it.
I look up at him, catch his expression. His gaze is locked on my mouth. I am caught, gagging and choking every time he plunges too far.
“Relax,” he finally orders. “Relax your throat.”
I try. The other option is for him to treat me like a door he’s knocking down with a battering ram. And surprisingly, he’s able to get through.
I just don’t expect my air to be cut off.
“Fuck, that’s tight.” His fingers move along my hair, almost like a caress.
A caress if he was delusional and I was dead.
He withdraws and does it again.
This isn’t me giving him a blow job—he’s fucking my face. He finally hits deep enough that my nose touches his pelvis. His skin there is smooth. The pubic hair he should have has been shaved away.
And he keeps me there, his hold on the back of my head unyielding, until white spots flicker in front of my eyes and my grasp on his thighs loosens.
Only then does he continue. On and on, his movements getting jerkier and more frantic. I barely remember to suck, my cheeks hollowing, when he gives me room to breathe. My nostrils flare, greedily gulping down air when I get a chance.
Suddenly, he pauses. Pulls out entirely. A strand of my saliva connects my lower lip to his cock.
A second later, someone knocks on my door. “Just saying goodnight, Margo,” Lenora calls. “Sleep well.”
Caleb’s eyebrow rises at my silence.
I lick my lips. I’m not sure my voice will even work, but I call back a throaty, “Goodnight.”
He brushes his thumb over my lower lip, forcing my mouth open again, and… well… resumes.
It’s clinical on my side. I don’t much think about his fierce expression, or how his grip went soft in my hair for a split second. It’s back to tight, pulling at my scalp, directing my face and head in a way that suits him.
My mind clicks over into some sort of numb analysis. What I’m doing—not much—and what he’s doing. He’s taken over, which shouldn’t surprise me. It doesn’t surprise me.
Nothing surprises me right now.
Except when he finally stops, sitting heavy on my tongue, and it… erupts.
I’m not prepared for his cum to fill my mouth. I choke on it, even when he pushes back deeper. I can’t escape it, not when it hits the back of my throat. I either suffocate or swallow, and instinct kicks in. My bruised throat works around him.
He pulls out of my mouth, and I sag backward. I wipe his cum from my lips with the back of my hand. I can’t even register the taste—besides not great . Who likes this kind of thing?
Not me.
He turns away, leaving me to pant for breath on the floor by the door. After a long minute, I hoist myself up and go for the water. I chug half of it, then force myself to set it down.
My scalp aches where he tugged my hair. My throat hurts from the sheer force…
It took him a long time to come. That must mean I’m not good, right? Like, a great blow job would’ve had him coming way faster.
Pleased with my terrible attempt, I sit on my bed with a leg folded under me.
“Well,” I say softly, “I’m sorry to disappoint?—”
His laugh kills the words on my lips. When he faces me, I get a better look at his chest.
It’s all muscle, which is so unfair. His abdomen flexes, and he eyes me with renewed interest.
“Disappoint?” he echoes. “I think I’ve been waiting my whole life to ravage your mouth like that. How am I supposed to let you go now?”
Well… that’s not good.