13. Penelope
Last night is a fingerprint I can’t wipe off my skin.
Not the kiss. Not the one from two nights ago—the soft one, the asking one, the one where he lowered me to the bed and his tongue found mine and his body pressed into mine and then he panicked and ran.
That’s its own bruise, already yellowing, already being catalogued in the museum of Xander Anderson’s Exits.
Last night was different. Last night he didn’t kiss me.
Last night he stood in my bedroom at midnight and traced his finger up my thigh and asked me if I was wet for him and put his mouth on my neck—one kiss, just one—and then said “goodnight, Penelope, sweet dreams” and walked out like he hadn’t just rewired my entire nervous system with a single point of contact.
That’s the one I can’t stop feeling.
The pattern is so clear it might as well be printed on a billboard: closet—run.
Kiss—run. Touch—run. Every time Xander Anderson puts his hands on me, the exit strategy is already loaded.
He reaches for me with one hand and holds the door open with the other.
He gives me exactly enough to make my body scream for more and then removes himself with surgical precision, leaving me alone in whatever room we were in with my skin still burning and my pulse still spiking and the particular humiliation of a girl who keeps letting the same boy light her on fire and walk away to watch her burn.
And I keep letting him. That’s the part that makes me sick. My body doesn’t learn. My body is a traitor that responds to Xander Anderson the way a compass responds to north—automatically, helplessly, without consulting the brain that is supposed to be in charge.
I get dressed. The uniform autopilot. My hands are shaking—not withdrawal this time. Anticipation. The particular cellular hum of a body that knows it will see Xander today and is already preparing itself for the impact.
Downstairs. Kitchen. He’s gone. His cereal bowl in the sink, keys missing from the hook. He left early—avoiding me or giving me space, and I’m so deep in the whiplash that both interpretations feel equally plausible and equally devastating.
Iz is at my locker. The warm constant. Leaning against the metal with the easy confidence of a boy who has decided he belongs in my space and is not going to be moved from it.
“Morning, Pretty Penny.”
He wraps his arm around my shoulder. Pulls me in. Presses his lips to the top of my head.
“Rough night?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’ve got the face.” He tilts my chin up. Studies me. Brown eyes, warm, steady. “The Xander-did-something-infuriating face. I could make a flash card at this point.”
I laugh. The real one. The Iz laugh—the one he pulls out of me effortlessly, endlessly.
He leans down. Kisses me. Soft, slow, his hand cupping my jaw with the care of a boy who knows this girl has been kissed roughly and is offering the alternative every single time.
His lips are warm and his mouth tastes like coffee and his thumb traces my cheekbone while he kisses me and the tenderness of it makes my eyes sting because tenderness is the thing I’m most starved for and least equipped to receive.
Bella shoulders past us. Hard. The impact jolting me sideways. She doesn’t speak—just the glare, nuclear, aimed at Iz’s hand on my face. Then she’s gone. Dark hair swinging. Fury trailing her like smoke.
Iz watches her go. His jaw tightens. The flicker.
“Iz. The feelings you have for me are real. I believe you. But the feelings you have for her are real too.”
“Penny—”
“I’m not mad. I’m just tired of being in the middle of things I don’t fully understand. When are you going to tell me about Bella?”
He takes my hand. Squeezes. “One day, Penny. I promise.”
We’re walking—his arm around me, mine around his waist—when Xander appears from the opposite direction. The grin. Not cruelty—confidence. The new grin. The one that says “I know what your body sounds like when I touch you.”
He slows as he passes. Leans toward my ear. Close enough that I can smell him—himself again, not the eucalyptus soap.
“See you tonight, Penelope.”
A wink, then gone.
I stare after him, my chest tight. “Why does he always do that to me?”
Iz shakes his head. “Because he knows it gets to you. And because you let it.”
“It’s infuriating.”
“It’s effective. There’s a difference.”
Iz takes my hand and walks me to class as I try to push down the feelings I have for Xander fucking Anderson.
It happens between third and fourth period.
I’m walking through the science wing, headphones in, Deftones, when a hand grabs my wrist and pulls me sideways.
Into the alcove behind the trophy case—a three-foot pocket of shadow between the wall and the glass cabinet. Hidden from the main hallway by the angle of the case. Not invisible, but private.
Xander.
He presses me against the wall. His body in front of mine, blocking the gap with his shoulders. His hands on my hips. The grip. The one from the closet, from last night, from every other time my body has decided to betray my brain.
“Xander, what are you—”
“Shh.” His mouth at my ear. His breath warm.
The voice—low, controlled, the register that makes my stomach drop and my thighs clench.
“I’ve been thinking about you all morning, Penny.
About last night. About the way your skin felt under my fingers.
About the sound you made when I put my mouth on your neck. ”
“We’re in school, Xander—”
“Does he make you feel like this?” His hand slides from my hip to my thigh.
Under the plaid skirt. Fingers trailing up the inside.
Slow. Each centimeter a question he already knows the answer to.
“When Iz puts his hands on you—when he kisses you so gently in the hallway—does your body do this? Does your breathing change? Does your skin get this hot?”
His fingers reach the edge of my underwear. Trace along the seam. Not crossing. Teasing. The border between what he’s allowed and what he wants.
“Answer me, Penny.”
“No.” The word is a whisper. A confession.
Because the answer is no—Iz makes me feel safe and warm and cared for, but Iz doesn’t make my vision narrow to a pinpoint. Iz doesn’t make me forget I’m standing in a school building. Only Xander does this.
“No, what? No, he doesn’t make you feel like this?” His fingers slip past the fabric. Find me. The sound I make is involuntary—bitten off, swallowed. His other hand covers my mouth. “No, he doesn’t make you this wet? This ready? This desperate for someone to touch you?”
I can’t think. His fingers are moving—slow at first, learning me again, finding the places that make my knees weak. His thumb circling while his fingers slide inside.
“That’s my girl.” Against my ear. Low. Possessive. “This is mine, Penny. This body. These sounds. The way you shake when I touch you—this is mine. It always has been.”
My hips move on their own—pushing into his hand, chasing his fingers, the particular desperation of a body that has been touched by other people but has only ever been owned by this one.
“Iz can hold your hand. He can kiss your forehead. He can walk you to class and call you ‘babe’ in hallways.” His rhythm changes—faster, deeper, the precision of a boy who learned my body in a closet and has not forgotten a single frequency.
“But this? The way you sound right now? The way your body is begging me for more? He will never get this from you. Because this belongs to me.”
The pressure is building—low, urgent, the tension that starts in the spine and radiates outward. I’m biting into his palm. My hands gripping his blazer. My back arching off the wall.
“I’m the only one who gets to make you come, Penelope. Say it.”
I can’t say anything. My mouth is occupied with not screaming. His fingers curl inside me—deliberate, expert, finding the spot that makes my knees give out completely.
“Say it or I stop.”
“You—” I gasp against his palm. “You’re the only one.”
“Good girl. Now come for me. Right here. In my hand. Let me feel it.”
The orgasm hits like a wave breaking—sudden, total, my entire body convulsing against him.
I bite down on his palm and my fingers dig into his arms and the sound I make vibrates against his skin and he holds me through it—his arm around my waist, keeping me upright, whispering against my temple while my body shakes apart.
The comedown is slow. My breathing ragged. My legs trembling. He withdraws his hand—slow, deliberate. Brings his fingers to his mouth. Tastes them. His eyes on mine the entire time.
“You taste so goddamn sweet, Penny. Just like I knew you would.” He kisses my neck. One soft press of lips to pulse. The tenderness after the intensity. “See you tonight.”
He steps back. Straightens his blazer. Walks away with the particular stride of a boy who just proved a point and is deeply satisfied with the evidence.
I lean against the wall. Legs useless. Skirt askew. The Deftones still playing in my headphones. The hallway traffic continuing ten feet away. Nobody saw.
Except Bella…
She’s standing at the mouth of the alcove. Phone in hand. Camera app open. That angle—just close enough to see, just far enough to deny.
She smiles. Cold. Triumphant. “I’m sure Issac will love this.”
She walks away. I stand in the shadow of the trophy case with Xander’s saliva on my neck and his taste still in the air and the particular horror of a girl whose most vulnerable moment just became someone else’s weapon.
I run.
Iz catches me before I hit the bottom step.
My foot misses. Completely. I would’ve gone down hard if he wasn’t there—his arms around me, steady, immediate, like it’s muscle memory at this point.
“Hey—whoa—Penny—”
“Iz—” My hands grab his shirt, clutching, grounding, I don’t even know. “I—”
“Hey.” Softer now. One hand sliding up to my jaw, tilting my face toward his. “Breathe first. Just breathe.”
I try. It comes out wrong. Too fast. Too shallow.
“I can’t,” I whisper.