Your Biggest Fan

15. ROXANNE

Chapter fifteen

Noah groans, hanging his head down. “Are you really going to keep clinging to that?”

“I’ll certainly keep bringing it up whenever I get the chance,” I retort, happy at the way his eyes crinkle even as he tries to look fed up with me. “That shirt from the JCPenney’s clearance rack will haunt you forever, my friend.”

“Alright, alright. I’m done talking about my shirt.” He shakes his head, chuckling despite himself. “Don’t think you’re off the hook, though. I can play this game too.”

He squints down at me, turning his head sideways to examine me up and down.

“I bet you have a dog named after some philosopher or poet.”

Seriously? I laugh at that, picturing my very un-philosophical dog back home, even though she’s my moms. If he knew me, he’d know I was 100% a cat person, and that my lone childhood pet had been a hamster named Mr. Fuzzy Nuts. Hardly an academic.

I give him a head shake. “Not even close.”

He taps his chin. “Okay, I don’t give up that easily. I’d wager that you’ve obviously read everything from Mrs. Taylor’s syllabus. I bet you like arguing about the themes in any book you’ve read too.”

I hate to admit he isn’t completely off-base with that one. I’m ready to fight anyone in class on why Nelly sucks in Wuthering Heights .

I cross my arms, raising an eyebrow for him to continue.

“And despite your mean girl exterior, I bet you're actually a secret softie,” he goes on, looking pleased with himself. “I bet you're actually paying attention to everyone around you. Noticing things. Rooting for people when no one's looking.”

I snort, but he's not done.

“No, really. I'd put money on you being the type to notice when someone's having a shit day and slip them an anonymous candy bar in their locker.”

How the hell… That one time I left a Snickers on Becky's desk after her dog died was supposed to be a secret.

“And all this?” He gestures vaguely at my whole... everything. “The death glares, the attitude, it’s just a front. Someone really did a number on you, didn't they?”

For a split second, I see Dad's empty chair at the dinner table, hear Mom’s muffled sobs from the other room. I blink hard, shoving the memory away.

“You'd rather bite someone's head off than risk them seeing you're not made of stone.” Noah takes a step closer, and my teeth chew harder on my lip. “Let me guess,” he continues, softer now. “If you push hard enough, no one will stick around long enough to see the cracks. Because if they did, they'll leave just like—” He pauses, searching my face. “Just like someone else did. Am I reading you right, yet?”

My lungs tighten at the same time my fists ball up underneath the sleeves of my jacket. He wears his obnoxiousness like a badge of honor, and I’m so determined to call him out on it that I’m refusing to admit he’s nailed me. That I’m as predictable as he implies.

It’s my fault. I should have stopped picking on him for his clothes, but he’s so... annoying . And those goosebumps on my skin betraying my body’s reaction to his attention only adds to my frustration with him.

Everything about him bothers the hell out of me. What’s most bothersome is how closely he always seems to be paying attention to me.

Instead, I paste on my best ‘eat shit’ grin. “If you can read me so well, then why don’t you tell me something real about you?” I challenge, arching an eyebrow. “You don’t have to be so shy about it. I know you get off on talking about yourself.”

That makes him laugh.

“Okay, fair is fair,” he concedes, the corners of his mouth curling up. Though he did puff out his chest a bit more as he prepared to talk about himself. Typical . He probably loves hearing the sound of his own voice on top of it.

“What? You want me to talk about my mother?”

My body stiffens involuntarily, my mouth puckering a bit when I hear the word mother . Still, I manage to look at Noah in the eyes.

“Yeah... talk about her.”

His smile fades away slightly as he clears his throat, shifting from cool guy swagger to looking like I’d asked him to explain quantum immortality. Guess Mr. Confidence wasn’t so confident anymore. Why would he bring it up if he didn’t want to talk about it?

“Well... she’s... complicated,” he mutters with a lame half-shrug, taking a big gulp of Coke as if to wash down the words. “Let’s just say she likes her cocktails and vacations.”

Ah . Now some mystery of Noah Jackson’s attitude makes more sense. I know complicated family dynamics all too well, and sometimes I wonder how I managed to avoid becoming the most jaded cynic ever… Especially after everything.

“Yeah, she sounds complicated,” I echo carefully, unsure if I should pry any further. But curiosity gets the better of me. That she-devil always does.

“What about your dad?” I ask. “He ever around?”

“No. He’s usually gone too.”

I bite my lip, my face wrinkling up like a goddamn prune. Now I feel bad, like I’m trying to crack him open against his will and break him apart. A stupid urge bubbles up to lighten the mood with a joke about his mom being a party animal, but the way the vein in his neck throbs, blue eyes dark and unreadable as he stares into the wall behind me makes me bite my lip harder.

I start to sip my drink for something to do, wracking my brain for the right response. I’m out of my wheelhouse here.

Screw it.

“So... your mom’s basically a party animal who skips town all the time,” I summarize slowly. “While your dad is, what? A traveling salesman who’s never home?”

Noah shifts, his face closing off. “Yeah, basically.”

An awkward silence descends as heavy as a weighted blanket as I trace my fingertip through a ring of condensation at the bottom of my Pepsi can.

“At least your mom remembers to bring you back souvenirs when she goes, right? Like one of those tacky ‘My Mom Went to Cancun And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt’ shirts?”

His expression remains stony. I wince, immediately regretting my lame attempt at humor. Read the room, idiot. Why can’t I stop talking?

“Okay, sorry.” I drum my fingers on my can. “Forget I said that.”

I need a new way to claw us back from this conversation pit I’d dug us into. But Noah is now staring holes into the floor, his body language screaming ‘Off Limits’ like a reactive dog’s caution signs.

Welp. I sure made a fucking mess of this, didn’t I? Note to self: probing into boys’ maternal issues is not first practice banter. Abort mission. Divert to safer topics, like... I dunno, the weather? The life cycle of grass?

I clear my throat. “Sooo… crazy about those scattered showers yesterday, huh?”

I want to melt through the fucking floor. I chug more of my drink, praying for a conversational life raft to float my way soon or for the Pepsi to drown me.

“What’s your story?” he asks me, clearly deflecting. “Where are your parents tonight?”

“I’m an orphan, Noah,” I deadpan, blinking at him while keeping my expression neutral until he chokes on his drink. That’s when I crack a smile. “I’m kidding.”

A laugh hums against my throat as I watch his face turn red.

In hindsight, joking about being a tragic orphan is probably in poor taste. I can’t resist messing with him a little, and it’s not entirely untrue. As tempting as it is, I don’t want to share the whole truth about my family drama. It might be easy for him to air his family’s dirty laundry, but I think some things are better left unsaid.

“Wow. You’re terrible,” he mutters. “And here I am, really trying to open up to you.”

“Sorry, gallows humor is my go-to defense mechanism.”

His grin fades as he looks me over more intently, trying to solve me like some kind of damn riddle and he's assessing his progress. What the hell is he looking at?

“I take it they’re not around tonight though, and you have somewhere to be since you’re dressed up like... that.”

The tone of his voice makes me self conscious and my brows tighten as I glance down at myself. My jacket had fallen open and I quickly yank it back over my shoulder and close it.

My outfit isn’t anything out of the ordinary, I don’t think. My Chucks replaced my Docs today to avoid ruining them with another scratch from the chain drive, and I have my white tank tucked into my denim skirt, with my jacket I bought from the second hand store last year.

I might have put on a darker shade of brown lipstick and smoked out my eyes more than usual with a black shadow, but it’s only because Lee Aaron was staring back at me through the mirror of my vanity.

It’s not like I’m dressed super fancy or anything.

... Alright, fine. Maybe a tiny part of me does have some intentions of trying to run into Harley tonight. That’s beside the point. Even if Noah means it as a compliment, to me, anything he says about my appearance instantly raises the hair on my arms.

“What makes you think I’m going on a date tonight? Is it because I’m slumming it with you and you think you’re a real catch?” I fire back, crossing my arms as I lean in.

Maybe I did try too hard. The lipstick, the smoky eyes—is it too much?

“Why wouldn’t I assume you have a date?” he counters, tilting my cymbal down as he props his chin on his hand. “Unless you’re about to tell me no guy has ever asked you out Ms. I Know Romance Better Than You.”

“I have had plenty of guys ask me out, but they’re all too boring and predictable.” I tilt my head at him, blinking sweetly. “No offense.”

“Oh yeah, what’s your type? You like the wild bassists? Brads? Jakes? Or maybe something more exotic, like... Jonah?”

“Well, first of all, I have a boyfriend,” I state matter-of-factly. Take that . “And you? Do you have a type, Nora ?”

Noah’s grin only broadens at the boyfriend reveal.

“Do you now? Let me guess, he’s boring and predictable too? Or do you get your kicks doing stuff with others that he’d never be down for?” He punctuates his question with a tap of his knuckles on the cymbal, the metallic ting singing through the space. “As for me… I don’t have a type.”

I take a sip of Pepsi. His words hit a little too close to home and it’s making me mad how he keeps catching me off guard with his weird perceptiveness of me. It doesn’t help that my mind flashes back to the Pulvertongue concert coming up, how I had to beg Stephanie to go with me, since Harley would rather paint in his bedroom than come to a loud metal show.

There was another time I wanted to hop the fence to skinny dip in my nosy neighbor’s kidney-shaped pool while he was out of town a month ago. What could have been more fun on a hot summer night? Of course, Harley had vetoed the idea outright.

I tried to paint vivid pictures for him—the two of us wet and floating weightlessly, the way the water would feel as we touched each other, our slick skin and goosebumps prickling our damp arms as we drift against each other. God, something about night swimming naked with your boyfriend seemed pretty fucking romantic...

He remained stubbornly unmoved.

So I’d turned to Stephanie who was far more excited about a secret midnight pool party.

I take another swig of soda, the fizz buying me more time before answering.

“Yeah, I do, but you’re wrong about him,” I finally assert, but it rings false even to me.

Noah taps the cymbal again. “Sure, keep telling yourself that, angel.”

I bristle at the pet name and look away, choosing to stare at the tapestry fluttering above the couch from the breeze, glancing once at the corner of the taped-up Heart poster flapping against the wall. That poster pissed me off too. Is he making fun of me?

And who the hell is he to judge what I do or don’t do with my own boyfriend? I’ve never been a convincing liar, I know that, and it makes me wonder if even Noah freakin’ Jackson can intuit the problems between me and Harley.

I don’t have to justify anything to him, especially when I haven’t even confessed my doubts to my best friends yet. Voicing them would make the problems real.

Then Steph and Tyler would worry, which I can’t stand. Pity feels suffocating.

“Why do you want to know all of this so bad?” I fake a gasp, clutching my hand to my jacket. “Wait... are you into me, Noah Jackson?”

“Believe me, I am very, very, very interested. Interested in hearing how your boyfriend can’t satisfy you the way I could,” he says with that stupid sly grin. He leans in, both forearms resting on top of my cymbals now. “What’s he up to right now anyway?”

I keep my expression carefully blank, not letting my sarcasm show. “Ah, you know, playing Super Mario as usual.”

“Sounds like a real winner.”

“Totally occupied with no idea I’m so attracted to you, clueless that you’re so much more of a real man than him.” I bat my lashes slowly, my tone flat and dry.

“So basically, you’re saying I’m way better than your boyfriend, and you’re sick of him.”

I gasp again. “Oh god, you got me good. It’s all so obvious now. I think I love you, Noah!”

His grin stretches further. “What’s his name?”

I roll my eyes as his questions get more invasive. Time to ramp up the melodrama.

“His name is Harley if you really must know,” I sigh, wondering if he’s met him through Hayden. “And I’m just so over him. I was actually planning to break up with him tonight because I’m oh-so-interested in you .”

I rearrange myself on the stool to better face him, leaning in with elbows on my thighs. “Poor Harley thinks he’s had me wrapped around his finger all these months. Little does he know I’ve been dying to ditch him for you this whole time!” I keep batting my lashes excessively, channeling a lovesick schoolgirl.

Noah pretends to look hurt, his already pouty lips turning down into a frown, but his cheeks resisting prove that he’s enjoying my taunting.

Either that, or he actually buys my professions of love for him.

“Wow, yeah, I’m glad you’re finally over that Gary guy.”

“Harley—”

“He must be a real airhead.” He looks deep into my eyes, regarding me with a new intensity that starts to terrify me a little. “Does he even know how to make you laugh? Make you feel alive?”

My breath catches in my throat. Where is he going with this?

A coy smile spreads across his lips as he drops the real zinger, hitting me with one last question.

“Does he even know how to touch you?”

My eyes blow wide before I quickly narrow them into tiny outraged slits, going completely shock still. Heat burns at my skin and my chest tightens, but I manage to choke out a single word.

“ What? ”

“That got you,” he smiles, unwilling to look away. “Or is that guy the only one who’s ever been able to touch you?”

That sends out another heatwave that blasts through my entire body.

His blue eyes seem to sparkle with something playful, yet dead serious as he waits for my answers. He knows. He knows the intimate details of my private life, that Harley is the only guy I’ve really been with.

It makes me... curious. Curious about what’s running through his mind, curious about what exactly he’s implying, how he’d react if I was totally honest. Curious if he has any real relationship advice to drop on me if he knew the truth.

Curious if he’s as good in the sack as Stephanie and I have speculated while watching girls lose their shit over him.

I grimace at that last thought, noticing I’ve gradually leaned further across my drum kit toward him as he talked, perched on the very edge of my seat now.

Clearing my throat, I straighten up and take a deep breath. The hot ache in my stomach settles, but I'm off-balance. I blame his nosy questions for dredging up memories and emotions I’ve locked down—for making me consider whether I feel fully alive these days.

I’m pretty sure I haven’t felt alive in years. Not unless I’m drumming.

“Harley knows me. He’s practically got a Ph.D. in ‘Knows Me 101,’” I quip, as if the words had been written there for years in advance. “He has a freaking map of my buttons to push, and I swear, he’s like the jackpot of boyfriends.”

The words don’t taste sweet at all sliding off my tongue. The words taste acidic, sour, and then it hits me.

Why am I lying?

“Does he now? Why don’t you explain the secrets to his magical touch then?”

“That’s—that’s none of your business!”

“I knew it,” he smirks.

There might as well have been a neon sign pointing down at me that said ‘liar.' “What are you trying to get out of me?”

“Nothing at all. I’m sure Greg’s a champ.” He takes a sip of his drink, eyes never leaving mine from over the top of the can. He drapes his arms back over my cymbals, his finger rubbing lazily over the tab of his Coke while his tongue swipes his bottom lip. “I’m just wondering if he makes you feel how you feel right now. You know, like you’re blushing? Like you can barely think straight?”

The way he’s watching me, studying my every shift and twitch under his gaze, is making me squirm. I fidget with my sleeves, cursing myself in my head for how easily my body keeps heating up, for letting my guard slip.

Damn it—how did I lose control of this conversation?

Breathe . I need to find my footing again.

“You know what, Noah? I think you may be on to something. Harley isn’t good enough,” I tell him, my legs crossed at the thigh. “He’s all brains and no banter. Can’t even crack a decent joke to save his life, you know?” I pretend to be in disbelief, although it requires little effort because it’s kind of the truth.

Noah’s really looking at me now, his eyes darkening like a stormy sea under a midnight moon.

“Honestly, I think I’ve outgrown him. He thinks he understands me, but he has no idea.”

“Sounds like Greg had it coming.” He leans back a bit. “What are you waiting for?”

Inside, I’m doing a celebratory victory dance, fist pumping in the air like Judd Nelson at the end of The Breakfast Club. I’m more convincing than I gave myself credit for.

I just have to keep this charade going a little longer…

“Wow, I never looked at it like that before!” I shriek, adrenaline making me slosh Pepsi violently out of my can as I gesticulate wildly. “Harley is so getting dumped! I should march over to his place right now, shouldn’t I?”

I jump to my feet, setting my can down so I can flail my arms around without banging my wrist on my drums. “He can’t even sing, can’t play the guitar, and his car’s barely loud enough to be heard coming down the block...” I’m on a roll now, emotions getting the best of me as I blurt all of my boyfriend’s flaws for the neighborhood to hear. “He thinks I want to be a singer too. Like, hello ? Have you ever heard me sing? Though I shouldn't be surprised because he doesn't listen when I talk. Doesn't look at me the same way. Doesn't... doesn't even try to touch me anymore. It's like I'm a goddamn leper or something. How am I supposed to... I mean, what do you do when your boyfriend acts like you're fucking radioactive? I—”

Blood drains from my face. I spin around and resist the urge to slap a hand over my fucking mouth as I remember Noah is right there and I’m not pacing the floor of my bedroom and talking to myself out loud.

Oh. Fuck. Me.

I confessed my relationship troubles—no, screamed them—to this stranger.

Misting my eyes up to meet his still hovering over my cymbals, I mumble, “I mean, you get the gist of it,” and plop back onto my stool with a loud squeak of leather.

Noah doesn’t move, his smile morphing into something wicked as it did when he’d first played the guitar for me earlier.

“I think I’m starting to understand,” he says slowly, standing up straight and starting to circle the drum set like a panther cornering its prey.

His knuckles tap against each cymbal on his way over, until his fingers drag across the plastic of my drum head. He’s standing right behind me now, raising the hair on my neck, before he spins me around by the stool to face him.

“What else does he not bother doing anymore?”

I bite my tongue as I clench my jaw, my eyelids non-existent, and my heart hammers wildly against my ribs as his finger brushes the outside of my thigh. I’m still recovering from my over-the-top outburst.

Shit. I took this too far.

“Did he ever put real effort into your dates? Into making you smile?”

He sets his can on the ground, and I avoid his chain swinging against his throat, gripping the edges of the stool till my forearms ache.

“Because every girl deserves effort,” he says intensely. “Passion.”

The garage seems to shrink around us.

A lump forms in my throat for being caught in this mess, which naturally transforms into self-loathing that I’m even ashamed. Harley should be the one feeling bad, and Noah should be flattered that I’ve told him something so personal. That he’s even held my attention for so long.

But I’m the one with a gut full of sick knots.

I know exactly what it is—my guilty conscience eating at my insides like a starving rat. Harley is still my boyfriend. Yet here I am, going against my better senses to do something so stupid as toying with an animal like Noah. I should be loyal and true, not engaging in this petty game and allowing him to tear Harley down.

“Roxanne,” he sing-songs, leaning closer as the lump in my throat gets bigger and bigger. He rests his hand on my knee, drawing my eyes up to his. “You know I’d take you to the ends of the earth if you let me.”

My heart pounds painfully from how close he moved in, the way his fingertips—still bright red from flying over the frets of his guitar, plucking note after note in such quick succession that he had my jaw actually drop earlier—are against my leg. That twisting feeling inside me gets sharp as I realize Noah Jackson is seriously hitting on me right now.

This guy has no clue. He really thinks I like him.

I smirk up at him. At least that’s how I hope it looks.

“If you’re trying to use all that smooth talk that you use on everyone else, it’s not going to work.” I swallow, trying to squeeze down the lump. “You seem so sure you can touch me better than Harley, right? Is that what you’re getting out of this whole conversation? That you seem to be getting a rise out of me?” I take a shaky breath, trying to wet my throat again. “Even if you touched me however you wanted, it isn’t going to change the fact that I think you’re a cocky son of a—”

“Cocky?” His eyes move from mine down to my lips, now resting his other hand above my knee. “You know that word doesn’t mean anything to me. Like you said earlier, I’m just a smooth operator. And as for touching you...”

Noah moves closer, and it takes everything in me to keep my cool over his breath tickling my earlobe, his fingers inching up higher, his palms so warm through the fabric of my tights.

“You’ve never been touched like this before.” Those words are laced with so much danger. “No one’s taken their time. They’ve always gone straight for the kill. You know it, I know it.”

Just when I force the lump in my throat down, it comes swelling back tenfold.

I stare down at my hands gripping the stool and think about Harley. Sweet Harley at home, naively playing video games or painting, while I’m here letting this asshole put his finger on me.

More than a finger—a whole hand. Two hands.

His breath, his words, his whole damn presence.

I am the bad person here. This is all supposed to be a joke.

His breath tickles my ear, and an intense heat washes over me. I’m dizzy, dehydrated and parched. I might actually pass out. I almost find myself leaning into the warmth, wanting to arch my back a little to put pressure against the throbbing ache between my thighs and my stool.

I don’t, and then his hand comes up, fingers taking my chin. Noah turns my face towards his, and that smirk softens into something more… I don’t know.

“You deserve someone who really sees you, Roxanne,” he murmurs, eyes searching mine. “Someone who wants to know what’s behind those walls you’re hiding behind.”

I’m unable to form a single witty comeback as his hand drops from my chin and lands back on my thigh. I can’t tell if he’s spouting some generic line about what I deserve, or if he actually believes he can be that someone for me, or if he wants to see what’s under the weird drummer girl’s jacket.

There is a sincerity in his voice that catches me off guard, though... but only until his grin turns nasty once more.

I push his hand away, goosebumps rising where our skin makes contact. I fold my arms across my chest to create that wall between us, but it feels helpless when he brings his hand right back to my leg.

And even though I don’t want him, Noah’s words and the way he’s looking at me is making me feel important in a way I haven’t felt in months. His breath, so close to my neck, is reigniting a longing I’d buried so deep down, so deep that I was sure it was dead.

Fuck, I want to be wanted.

Noah is right. I haven’t felt this alive in the past two months as I have in the last twenty seconds. And right now, he is touching me in ways no one has ever before. Ways I’ve been craving for far too goddamn long... and he’s barely touching me at all.

Another stab of guilt. What the fuck am I doing?

My boyfriend’s name was on my lips two minutes ago, and my body’s reacting to Noah’s touch like this? I should be disgusted with myself for feeling even a fucking sliver of that way towards this arrogant, womanizing prick.

“Just... imagine...” he whispers, his head tilting back, eyes falling shut he exhales out a hum.

Like he’s the one imagining.

When his lashes flutter open, his gaze slowly ascends from my legs—now pressing together to shield myself—until it lands on my lips.

Shit. I am imagining.

My eyes drift down to his hands on my thighs, the tendons straining against his forearms, the stark contrast of his pale skin against my black tights. My breaths are coming heavier now, my heart galloping against my tank top. I beg my legs and arms to cooperate, to straighten so I can stand up, push him, and walk away from the situation with righteous anger. Anything.

Get a fucking grip, Roxy.

A fruitless endeavor, apparently. Rooted to my spot, I watch as the guitarist plays on.

Does this make me a terrible person? Or human? Either way, the self-hate threatens to choke me.

“You like it, don’t you? Having someone paying attention to you.” He pushes further, his blue eyes searching mine from up high. “I can see your heart racing,” he breathes, thumb grazing the fabric where my thighs meet. “You have to tell me you want it.”

He becomes hellbent on inching up higher, dipping his thumbs in between my clenched thighs, like he’s about to crack me open as easily as a goddamn walnut.

I hate him. He really is a little shit. A tall shit. So full of it. So full of his little-tall shit. And he doesn’t even…

I suck air into my lungs when his fingers squeeze my muscles.

He doesn’t even know it.

He assumes that everyone must fall at his feet. He thinks I’m predictable, but he’s the predictable one.

“Noah.” I sink my teeth into my cheek, using the sharp pain as a distraction. “You know you’re not as special as you think you are, with your hand moving up my leg. You do know that if Harley was here right now, he would be doing the same thing you’re doing to me?”

“He’s not here right now,” he whispers, his hand ever-so-slowly creeping up. “And I’m the guy with his hand on you, Roxanne.”

I suck in another breath, which is a mistake because all I smell and taste in the end is his cologne.

“You are nothing special.”

“Yet you’re letting me in.” His lips inch closer to my face. “You’re right that I’m nothing special, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t make you feel special.”

My mind turns into a battleground, but it’s frustration that's winning the show.

Frustration. The regular and sexual kind.

“You can roll your eyes all you want,” he says, “but that won’t change the fact that I’d never forget a girl like you.”

My breath snags somewhere between the back of my tongue and my throat. I lean back, my spine colliding with the drum set, not sure what the hell I’m doing. Leaning away feels like a “shut down” signal, but this is Noah, and my senses are too caught up in those warm thumbs swiping across my inner thighs.

I gulp. It may be my attempt to tell him to quit, but it’s giving him more access to touch me.

“You’re a mess.” He moves with me, putting a hand on either side of me on the set. His knee nudges mine wider, and a gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it. And there’s that fucking grin again.

“You know you want it. I know you want it.” He laughs, his breath hitting my neck more. “Just look at your body. Not everything has to be a fight with me.”

His sureness about me wanting him is more than enough to make me want nothing to do with him. Too bad that won’t stop my eyes from relentlessly flicking down to his partially unbuttoned shirt, and thinking of his pale muscles layered in sweat, close enough I could easily reach out and poke it.

What the fuck is wrong with me? This can only be happening because I’m wound up tighter than a fucking spring. Under normal circumstances, my face wouldn’t be burning as his fingers find their favorite home back at my thigh, right to the edge of my skirt.

I shout at myself to push him away, but I want to look down and see—

I shiver slightly as I get lost in those veins popping against his hand.

“Does Greg really have your legs shaking like they are right now?”

My teeth loosen their hold on my cheek. I want to say yes to his question, but there’s one tiny problem: I suck at lying.

I bet he’d be able to see right through that one.

Noah knee pushes up higher in between my thighs as he asks, “Are you going to answer me?”

Being this close, I can make out the mole above his eyebrow, the wrinkles in his bottom lip. Damn, he smells like a woodland in late spring. Like fresh pine and evergreen, the rich smells of loam and dirt. Even from where I’m sitting, I can catch all of that. I wonder what he tastes like—then immediately want to hurl at the idea of that.

That answers it. I don’t want him. Not really. So why do I ache for his hands on my skin?

No , I tell myself firmly. I started this. He’s fucking with me, and I’m letting him win.

My hands are balled back into fists at my side, so close to Noah’s belly it’s tempting to give him a good jab.

“Please. I didn’t know having your hand on my leg was such a rare thing,” I finally whisper, all false sweetness, my nerves still shot. I glance up into his eyes for the briefest of moments, but now I cannot stop looking at the way his chest rises and falls for me to see.

“It’s not about whether it’s rare.” His hand moves higher, his grip a bit harder. “It’s about who’s doing it.”

“Then let me even the score.” With my girl-balls, my hand reaches out to gently rest on the side of his thigh, slowly sliding up as he did to me. I meet his stormy look, amused by this game of touch. Noah’s always looking at me with those dangerous eyes, but now I see mine can be as lethal.

That feeling I get from watching him visibly falter doesn’t last long. Now he’s fucking delighted as he retaliates by gliding his hand back down to my knee, gripping it like it’s his .

“You’re nothing special either,” he bites back, though his actions suggest otherwise. “But I hope you can keep up.” His other hand covers mine, those red fingertips lightly skimming the top of my palm.

I slip a finger into his belt loop. “I think I’m special to you, right now, aren’t I, Nora ?”

His expression darkens, eyes gleaming like daggers aimed straight for my soul.

“Right now, you are,” he hisses, his hand flexing so hard, so sudden against my knee that I inhale sharply. With his other, he removes my finger from his belt loop only to place my palm on his chest, right below his throat.

It’s as warm and sticky with sweat as I imagined

“Right now, you’re the only girl I want to think about.” Noah places his hand on top of mine to keep it there. “So what exactly do you think you’re doing here, Wishmore?”

“Oh, right. I forgot that I was another notch in your belt.” I yank at his belt loop with my other hand, my smile turning a little more sticky. “Another conquest for the great Noah Jackson’s long list of ladies.”

“It’s not a list of conquests, no matter how much you want it to be. And, believe me, none of them are anything like you.” He shakes his head, his chest vibrating underneath my palm. “But if you keep acting like this, I might have to add you to my collection.”

I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes into another dimension.

“What are you thinking right now, I wonder.” He slithers even closer like the snake he is. “All kinds of filthy things, I bet. You’re probably thinking about how a rough, unfeeling guy like me is touching a girl who’s trying so hard to keep up that pissed off act. That you want me to shove you back against the drums and show you how special you are.”

I can really feel the heat of his skin now, and I know the air will feel frigid once I take my hand away. I just can’t figure out why I haven’t put that theory to the test yet.

“I think that you’re thinking about what my lips would feel like on your skin. Or maybe you’re thinking that you want to know what I feel like.”

As fucking if.

“You really do think highly of yourself, don’t you?” I scoff. What an ass.

“A little. I don’t think I’m wrong, though.”

“You’re definitely wrong. I hate you,” I say, even as my hand flexes on his chest.

Dammit.

“You hate me,” he repeats with a disbelieving laugh. “Is that why you’re letting me do this?”

“I’m not letting you do anything.”

“Then why haven’t you pushed me away?”

I open my mouth, but no words come. There’s no answer for that, and we both know it.

“Maybe I like watching you make an ass of yourself,” I reply, my hand moving up to rest on his shoulder. “Thinking you have any power over me.”

“I think we both know who’s really in control here.”

That’s it. I’ve had enough of his arrogance.

“Well, guess what? I’m the one with my hands all over you right now. I’d say you’ve met your match.” I yank a sharp tug at his belt loop that brings his annoyingly not-ugly face closer to mine. “We both know you’re putty in my hands.”

I smirk as he visibly swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Got him .

“Oh no, you can’t turn this around. You might be touching me, but I know I could be touching you wherever I want.” His strong fingers dig into my skin to make his point.

The blood races through my veins there, and sweat forms under my palm, his steady pulse beneath my fingertips. The way his heart’s beating at a normal pace annoys me more.

He thinks he’s so good at this. That I’m some naive, innocent girl. Another one who’ll let him take the lead and do whatever.

I bite my cheek to stifle a smile, sliding my hand up his chest and playing with the necklace there.

“If that’s true, then show me. Where exactly would you put your hands on me next?” I tilt my head, knowing that I’m playing with matches. “You think I don’t know what I am doing? This is fun for me.”

“Watch out, sunshine.” His eyes flick to my hand holding that damned belt loop, as if to get a better look at what I’m doing. “You don’t know the first thing about this. I think you’re the one who’s biting off more than she can chew.”

Oh, I can chew alright.

“What if I want a bite?” I run one of my fingers down the middle of his chest. “You think I’m scared to go head to head with you? You are so out of your league right now.”

“You’re so full of shit, Wishmore.”

“And you’re all talk, Jackson.” I flick at a button on his shirt and burst into laughter. He’s eating up these lines like candy.

He moves his right hand off my knee, fingers going for a button on my jacket, and I hold my breath as I watch the pad of his thumb run across the brass. This man infuriates me and somehow, that makes everything he does all the more exciting.

“I think you’ll find that I’m all action, actually, but I’m ending this now. Because if I ever do decide to do more to you...” The way his dark voice rolls over my skin, his perfect teeth flashing between his lips, makes my knees go weak. “There’s no turning back.”

After that sentence, Noah’s tongue darts out to lick his lips and my heart starts moshing in my chest. My conscience has been screaming for the last ten minutes that this has gone too far, but I know I can’t let his statement linger in silence for too long.

I move closer, trying to seem confident and not totally freaked out.

That’s when I close the deal, summoning my best MTV worthy performance.

“Then it’s a good thing I don’t fall for men who shop at JCPenney.” I force myself to meet his blue eyes and not get lost in counting the faint freckles on his nose.

How long have those been there?

I finally break free from whatever odd trance I got sucked into and swat his hands aside.

Noah reels back so easily, huffing out a quick laugh like he won as I spring up from my stool and gently massage away the lingering warmth he had imprinted on my legs. His face is blank before a wild grin takes over, waving to me with two fingers as I spin my keys around my finger and leave the garage.

He has somehow managed to get under my skin in a way no man has before. I fucking despise him for it. Once I’m safely inside my car, I let out a shaky breath. I need to get my frustrations out and under control.

I was ready to go home, but not to settle in for the night. No, I’m going to call Harley and decide to make it a point to get laid.

I’m still on fire, my legs weak and blood pumping as I book it home. That encounter did a number on me, and I need to clear my head to shake off this restless energy. And I seriously considered buying new drumsticks so I can poke my frontman’s eyes out with my current ones.

Getting home took forever. My mind was working overtime to make sure those memories of Noah singing and playing guitar— and fucking touching me —got filed under “short term.” While I drove, I sang every single song on the radio that I could get my ears on, busying myself with Blondie’s voice singing Atomic instead of Noah Jackson’s fingers.

I'm still humming it as I carefully shut my bedroom door until I hear the click, not wanting to wake Mom, who is in her bedroom for once. I throw my jacket over my vanity chair and collapse onto my bed, clear Conair phone sandwiched between my head and pillow.

Dialing Harley’s number, the tension in my shoulders starts to melt away. I click on my bedside lamp, my hand already between my legs, fighting the urge to seek relief from the all consuming ache.

Ugh . Forget drumsticks. I should throw knives at Noah’s grin, not imagine it hovering over me, full of promises I know he’d make good on.

I need it to end.

I need Harley to ravage me until all thoughts of Noah Jackson are banished for good. Did that make me a shitty person?

Screw it. I need this. I need Harley to take what he wants, to wreck me until I’m soaking and screaming and begging. I need him to tear me apart so I’d stop having dirty thoughts about he whose name we will not say . And to have us back.

I want to be fulfilled completely and utterly by Harley, and I don’t care how bad that makes me.

The only reason I’m having these thoughts is because he’d gone so cold, leaving me thinking about the one other man who made me feel needed and wanted and desired and desperate, and that so happens to be he whose name we will not say.

As the phone rings, I think of Harley’s strong hands instead of Noah’s gentle, girly fingers gliding over my hot skin. I think of the last time we’d touched each other, a warm early July night after we’d ditched the fireworks happening at the Pond. Harley was so amped up that he didn’t even take my clothes off, only lifted my denim skirt and let his rough palms brush my hips as he positioned himself on top, grabbing my tits over my t-shirt before diving in and finding his release.

Remembering our first time is helping get my head straight, tuning out Noah’s irksome voice to static. That ship has sailed, and thoughts of Harley are righting the course.

“Hello?”

“Harley,” I sigh, still breathing heavily. “I need your help.”

“Roxy? Everything okay?”

“Not really,” I admit, still trying to catch my breath. “Practice today was a total nightmare. Noah wore this button-up shirt that had no business in a rock band, and his friend was a no-show. But that’s not why I called.” I hesitate, pulse pounding in my ears. “I just, um, have a bit of a... situation I was hoping you could help with.”

Silence.

“What kind of situation?”

I take a deep breath. Might as well cut to the chase.

“The I need you kind of situation.”

After a few agonizingly slow seconds where I wonder if the line went dead, he lets out a slow exhale. “Ah. I really wish I could meet up tonight, but I’ve got a huge art project due first thing Tuesday that I’ve barely started.”

“On a Saturday night? It’s a three day weekend!” I can hear the whine in my voice but I’m too keyed up to care.

“I know, it sounds bad. It’s like half my grade and I have to work on it tonight if I want to turn in something good,” he sighs. “You know how important this is for me.”

I stay quiet, my eyes falling to the brown carpet, refusing to cry and tear my phone cord out of the wall. Another tally in the “Harley’s rejections” column, adding to a growing list.

Once upon a time, he would’ve dropped everything at the chance to be with me. Meanwhile, Noah was seconds away from taking me on that garage floor. What the hell gives?

“You’re always busy lately,” I mutter before clearing my throat. “We’re still on for Wednesday, right?”

“Yeah,” Harley responds, and his voice makes my heart sink even before he even continues. “Just... Roxy, can I tell you something?”

He exhales a deep breath across the line that has me holding mine.

“Of course, anything.”

“There’s a little bit more going on than just my art project.”

“What is it?” My heart drops all the way down to my stomach and I could shit it out.

“It’s kinda tough, but life’s throwing a bunch of crazy stuff at me right now. Between school and personal stuff, I think it’s going to make hanging out really difficult the next few months.”

I jolt out of bed, my hand flying to push all of my hair out of my face. Months .

“What does that mean... exactly?” I look down at my fingers while I pick at my tights. My worst fear is coming true. This isn’t him rejecting me tonight, he’s rejecting me for months .

“I don’t want you to stress or anything, but I think it’s best if we take a step back and only be friends right now.”

My heart shatters into a thousand bloody pieces, and my very soul leaves my body. Each word that comes out of his cold mouth is a new blade splitting my chest and gutting me open. My jaw falls, and I don’t care if every goddamn insect in the world makes a home in my throat.

He’s doing this over the phone?

“I guess I got caught up in the moment without realizing how swamped senior year would be. I don’t want you worrying when you don’t hear from me for days.”

I grip tighter onto the phone as my Heart poster across the room looks way glossier than I remember when I hung it up.

“Roxy?” Harley prompts.

Don’t want me worrying? Too fucking late. The tears spill over, and I roughly swipe them away.

“Yeah, still here,” I manage weakly, trying to keep the sniffles at low volume.

“Well... hey, this doesn’t mean I don’t care about you,” he went on, “I really do, and I want to see where this goes eventually.”

He might as well have stabbed me directly. Eventually? How long am I supposed to wait? Does he want me to sit here and wait until he decides to not keep me at arm’s length?

“I feel terrible, but there’s too much happening right now.” He sighs, a sound that triggers more tears.

I’m about to throw up the guts of my heart. Harley is slipping away, and I’m powerless.

He doesn’t want me, not like the way I want him. The rejection is too much to bear.

“O—okay. I guess I just... was expecting a different response when I called,” I admit, trying to steady my voice. But while blinking through tears, the heart vomit starts to come up. “I’m so confused,” I blurt, taking a breath. “If you needed space, why not tell me? We could’ve talked about it, and you know I would’ve understood.”

His weighted sigh fills the phone. “I don’t feel like talking about it, but I’m too busy, like I won’t be able to see you for weeks. My head’s not in the right place, and I think it needs to be before we get any more serious. I’ve been trying to go slower and be friends ’cause I feel like I’ve gone too fast and it’s freaking me out.”

Each word twists the knife deeper, but I can’t argue with him. That’s why he’s been rejecting me?

“So... we’re just friends now?” I ask.

“Yeah. Friends.”

I swallow down the gunk in my throat. “But if we still care about each other, how’s that different from before?” I can tell he’s getting pissed off by the way he’s breathing through the phone. “I just, I don’t really understand...”

“What you need to understand is that I need more time. I thought I was ready, but I’m not. A lot is going on that I can’t explain.” His words feel recited, practiced. Almost like he’s reading off of a teleprompter. “I’m sorry, but I just need us to step back.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.” I brace myself before asking the inevitable. “It’s not something I did, right? We’ll still talk, have our Wednesdays when we can?”

I’m grasping at straws here, but I have to cling to some shred of hope. I have to know—I have to have some answers, or else I’ll lose my mind wondering, wanting so deeply to still bring more happiness and warmth into his life. But as I say it, I know.

I know it’s over.

“It’s not you. I’m trying to make this easy on you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I lie through my broken heart. “It’s fine. You’ve got a lot going on like you said. I understand.”

Silence hangs between us, but when he asks for his jacket back, the last bit that connects us, my composure fractures. His easy detachment tears me open, and a single sob escapes before I say into the phone: “I’m sorry for everything.”

The second I end the call, the floodgates burst open. I’m wailing into my pillow, gut-wrenching sobs shaking my entire body. Hot tears flow violently, soaking my pillowcases as I envision the rest of senior year without Harley—sitting alone at The Burger Shack, pretending not to care as he attends bonfire parties I’m not invited to. A life where he no longer pops by Primal Vinyl to say hi, our paths barely crossing, where we’re reduced to awkward small talk between two strangers.

All the memories we could have made, gone. I feel defeated and blame myself for it all.

I wasn’t interesting or outgoing enough for him. Too quiet, too shy—that’s why he never wanted his new friends to meet me or want to have sex. I wasn’t good enough, not cool enough to fit into his world. Just a timid girl that faded into his background, unworthy and too fucking embarrassing to keep around.

Grief, my old friend, pulls up a chair beside me. We sit at a chipped formica table, our hollow eyes meeting across the stained surface.

Above all else, my heart aches for the loss of my best friend. I’m sad for the loss of his goofy laugh, our inside jokes, and the comfort I felt in his presence. I’ve been mourning for a while now, long before today, mourning my mother and Harley before they’ve even left my life. This isn’t new; I’m always fucking mourning. It’s the shadow that stalks me, and each time, it grows a little longer, a little darker.

Grief and I walk these sleepy streets hand in rotting hand. It's the rusted pendant I wear against my skin, the bitter taste that lingers after dreams have worn thin.

With my heartbeat in my teeth, I hide the pain in my voice as I frantically reach for my phone again. I punch in Stephanie’s number on the yellow buttons, dialing the person I need most right now. On the first ring, she picks up.

“I need to know what I did to piss off the universe today,” I say, sniffling, as Grief slides an imaginary mug my way. We clink our coffees to all we've lost in this room where hope comes at a cost.

“Oh no—what happened?”

“Harley happened.”

“Okay, how bad is it? Air Supply, The Cure, Journey, or Cindy Lauper ‘Time After Time’ tragic?”

“Air Supply serious.” It was All Out of Love level.

Stephanie’s gasp says it all. It’s a realm we’ve never gone into before. One we hoped we’d never be in.

My eyes are red and puffy, tears still streaming down my cheeks when I hear her knocking on my bedroom window ten minutes later. I push aside the wispy white curtains, slide the window open, and she climbs over the ledge, arms loaded with Newport menthols, a bottle of Midori she’d stolen from her mom, and an enormous bag of Funyuns.

“Will I be okay again?” I sob into her shoulder, soaking her yellow ringer tee with tears.

“Yes,” she says with such surety, rubbing the middle of my back.

“When?”

“Starting with this.” She points down to the Funyun bag on the floor.

We alternate between my weeping into her shoulder and me lying on the floor, blasting Air Supply while numbly sipping the melon liqueur. Not even the comfort of Midori can’t completely smooth the jagged edges of my insides.

Honestly, I should have seen the signs, but I invented excuses, convincing myself nothing was wrong. Now the truth is unavoidable. Harley and I are over.

Fuck, the pain is crippling, like I’m caught in a riptide dragging me under, powerless to resist and sinking deep into the sand. I clutch Stephanie’s hand tighter when a wave randomly hits me, needing an anchor before I drift away completely into the dark place of my mind.

She pats at my hair, murmuring reassurances as I fall to pieces on the floor, but as we polish off the snacks, the knots in my chest loosen ever so slightly, and I know that eventually, the waves will run dry.

One day I’ll begin to pick up the pieces, slowly learning to adapt to my new normal, even if the scars never fully heal. Because I understand the truth, and I’ve known it for a while: I was not Harley’s first priority, and I never had been.

For now, though, I want to allow myself to be sad and feel the sting of the salt in my wounds. But I’ll make it through.

One Funyun at a time.