32. ROXANNE
Chapter thirty-two
So I just need to get you.
Those are the words I’ve sat on for three full days now and still don't know what to do with them. What kind of mind games is this guy playing with me? Telling me that while looking so tortured about it, then in the same breath wanting me to go cruising at clubs for randoms? Make it make sense.
I can’t stop obsessing. Rewinding, pausing, zooming in on every micro-expression and watching from every other angle, trying to decode the fucking Rosetta Stone of his face when he said it. It’s driving me insane.
He could have had me. Anytime. But no, he was the one who went all incognito mode.
He’d been so quiet the past week, barely looking at me, and it was honestly starting to freak me out that things weren’t ever going to be the same again, like Halloween night broke something irreparable between us.
Now he leaves me on that goodbye in a way that leaves me needing more from him and...
What the actual fuck?
“You should wear this one!” Angela suggests, plucking hangers from her closet behind me. I'm still staring at my own reflection, dark eyeshadow making my eyes look huge and haunted, while Bad Boy plays out from her radio beside me.
The song is too happy considering how shaky I am.
How am I supposed to act around him now? Especially tonight, when he and I are both supposed to go to The Cat Skull, some place that’s 18 and older and they never bother to check IDs at the bar.
Acting I'm not sure, but looking…
I’m making damn sure I look hot enough tonight to get him to look at me, to make sure he doesn’t pretend that confession never happened. Those feelings are staying alive tonight.
He thinks we’re going so I can gawk at strangers, but I’m not looking for a prince charming—I’m looking for him . Always him.
He’s going to take notice of me, and I’m going to make it happen. I only wish I was bold enough like Noah, or else I would’ve made my move ages ago.
I guess I sort of did. I kissed him first. Twice .
What am I talking about? It’s definitely his turn now. He plays too much with me, always pushing the limits then pulling away just to make me walk all the way to the edge and beg for him to come back. This time I want him to hurt. I want him to want more. I want him to be the reason things get taken too far.
I’m going to tempt him into breaking every limit we have, then leave him pinning on the ledge he loves to strand me on. This is my final move. He’s the batter and I’m the pitcher, and now he has to make the swing.
Anywho… This is why I’m camped out in Angela’s bedroom for emergency prepping. I needed her opinion. Boys are her realm, and she’s the resident expert on all things glam, seduction, makeup, fashion and you know, all that other girl shit that, until today, I felt I never had time for.
Basically, I told her to work her fairy godmother magic on me. Give me that makeover montage that would essentially have me looking so hot even the boys in the neighboring states would be salivating.
I was her Barbie doll as she swiped a red shadow over my eyelid, and smoked it out with layers of black. She used a thick brush to smear a warm, brown blush over my cheeks— “It’s called contouring, Roxy”— and then, because apparently I’m not shiny enough, she dusted me with body glitter. My staple chocolate lipstick remains but glides on impossibly creamy after an exfoliation that was, according to her, mandatory.
I finally look behind me to see the black top she’s holding up from a hanger and slip out of her chair to change my shirt from a black t-shirt to a slightly blacker shirt.
It’s a deep v-neckline that has a knotted tie at the front, showing a sliver of my belly, but the long sleeves reaching my elbows makes me feel comfortable enough to wear it.
My faithful black tights make an appearance, though, truth be told, they’re getting old and full of holes. I don’t mind it too much since my dark denim mini-skirt covers the important bits.
“Damn Roxy, you look so good!” Angela squeals. I turn back to the mirror and have to admit, I barely recognize that girl staring back at me.
Everything’s going to be perfect. Like a Mama S sandwich.
And then it hits me. I inhale a deep breath once the nerves start rushing over me in hot waves. Being all dolled up means it’s almost time .
Angela immediately senses my impending meltdown and grabs my shoulders. “Don’t worry!” she says, but it’s not that easy for me to settle down. “You look great and you’re gonna have so much fun tonight.”
“Fuck.” I nod, trying to believe her, but my nerves are still a blender set to puree. “Any last minute advice?”
“Relax and be yourself,” she coaches, wielding mascara with a steady hand. “You can let him do most of the talking at first if you’re feeling shy. If all else fails, drink liquid courage.”
“Liquid courage.” I laugh, a touch manic, as she tips my chin up and goes to work on my lashes. “I could use some right about now.”
She smiles, adding final mascara swipes. “I will say, when I told you I’d help get your panties untwisted I didn’t think it was going to be with Noah Jackson.”
She’s right. Past me would eat her Tarot cards if she knew where present me was headed tonight.
The distinct roar of Noah’s bike echoes down the street. My gut lurches like I’m already on the back of it and I barely avoid toppling Angela’s makeup bag.
“Oh my god, I think I’m gonna puke,” I rush out, fingers tangled in my hair and ready to rip it out by the roots.
“Don’t puke. We just got ready, and you cannot ruin that lipstick.” Angela grabs my shoulders again. “You look crazy hot tonight and you and Noah are gonna have an amazing time. And don’t you dare chicken out on making a move with him. I expect a full report tomorrow on how you rocked his world.”
I scoff, but nausea and bravery continue their deathmatch inside me. My knee starts to bounce up and down in that jittery way of mine, as if I was a wind-up toy that had been wound too tight and had to burn off the energy by bounding around the room.
“Christ,” I hiss, pacing the room. “Okay. Okay. I can do this.”
More crazed pacing ensues.
“It’s Noah,” I mutter, Angela nodding along. “He already said he wanted me. What is there to panic about?”
One final glance-over in the mirror, a little hair tousle, skirt tug, and... it’s do or die time.
I follow Angela downstairs, sharing one of those ‘pray for me’ looks as she opens the front door for me. I step out onto the front porch just as the growl of his bike approaches.
There he is. Punctual bastard.
Angela slams the door shut behind me which reminds me a lot like a coffin lid. Wow, okay . No going back now.
He pulls up to the curb and my heart does a little flip when I see him take off his helmet, neat brows lifting as he holds it out for me. I swear to God, it’s not fair how good he looks. His hair is all dark in the moonlight, that red jacket crinkling around his arms.
I sigh. Please do not make a fool of yourself tonight.
The heat climbs up my neck whenever I start walking toward him, and stretch my arm out to take the helmet from him. After cramming it over my head, I drop my arms to my side and back up a step to openly drink him in.
He's such a sight for sore eyes. Hair all mussed up from that helmet, moonlight kissing those perfect cheekbones.
My eyes race over the dark curl that falls over one eye to his hands gripping handlebars, the black ring around his index finger, and his long legs holding up his dirt bike. The silver chain teases me as it glints against his plain black tee as he shifts awkwardly under my obvious stare.
His flustered face is doing things to me, man. I want to frame and hang in the Louvre.
Yeah, I’m definitely gonna make him sweat tonight.
Not wanting him to call me out for eye-banging him, I glance down at myself, squinting at my clothes. “Um, am I overdressed for wherever we're going?”
Noah's cool confidence slides back into place, grinning easy.
“No, I don’t think you’re overdressing at all. I bet you’ll have every head turning.” He holds my eyes long enough to make my stomach jump painfully. “You sure you’re ready for this though? You’ve never been anywhere like where I’m taking you.”
“No, not really,” I admit. “But what do I have to lose?”
“The last of your innocence maybe?”
We stare at each other for a loaded heartbeat, both of our eyes glancing up and down one another. Not quite smiling, but not quite looking away, either. I’m still processing that I have to cling to his back once I crawl on behind him. I’m not sure if I can handle it, because while his arms are covered by his jacket, I can still see his muscles fill out the sleeves, the curve of his biceps dipping into his elbows as he crosses his arms.
Fuck you for being so hot, I almost say it out loud.
My eyes wander down to his spread thighs, fabric pulled tight. I clear my throat and make myself refocus on his face.
I step closer. “Shall we go now?”
Noah answers with kicking the start. The vibration makes the motorcycle slightly jump, but he manages to steady it.
“Get on,” he commands.
My stomach swirls as I climb on, using his shoulders to balance myself and hook my right leg around to the other foot peg. My knees press into his spread thighs as I scoot close behind him, and tentatively wrap my arms around his waist, a flutter of moths erupting down low at the smell of him.
He reaches back, cold fingers gripping my calf and I tamp my nervous excitement back down my throat as it tries escaping in a garbled squeak when he shifts my legs to press tighter against his hips and pulls me closer.
My skirt rides up high enough that anyone driving by could probably see my underwear through my tights, but I couldn’t care less. I’m too excited to take notice of anything but him and every little movement he makes.
“Don’t want your pretty little legs getting burnt,” Noah says as he puts his hands back on the handlebars, which makes those wings in my belly feel so heavy.
The engine revs loudly beneath us and vibrates through my entire body.
“Hold on tight,” he calls out over the roar.
I clasp my hands together across his stomach, gripping his shirt with my thumbs, and not at all mad about the long drive I’ll endure while attached to his back.
We tear off into the November night, the powerful machine rumbling between my thighs. The wind whips against my eyes as we speed along, down the street and over the Moonbridge.
I rest my chin against the hard muscle of his back, smiling when his shoulder blades shift as he turns or switches lanes. I smile even more every time he grabs my wrist and tells me to hold on tighter as he speeds up, already drunk off the ride and the guy I’m clinging onto.
As we descend the metal stairs into The Cat Skull, each step takes me further from the sanitized world above, and all I hear in my head are the fragments of information Noah’s said to me about this place. Weird, wild. Punk hangout. Dangerous neighborhood, but like, fun? Open until the sun comes up—which sounds either awesome or terrifying, or maybe both?
My heart’s pounding out of my chest, but holy shit , the wall of sound and overlapping voices with a few red neon signs glowing along the graffiti-tagged walls are definitely cool.
“But once in,” he’d said, “it’s like being in another fucking world.”
He wasn’t kidding.
At the bottom, the darkly neon lit club sparkles with life. Bodies stand around, holding drinks, and thrash around the make-shift dance floor in the middle that’s really a bunch of wood planks spread out. Some industrial synth music is giving way to a driving bass line that was probably vibrating through those wood panels. I get a whiff of clove cigarettes and sweaty leather walking around the place—a far cry from the rich kid scent in Bellpond and I’m in fucking awe.
Forget Bellpond and its plastic smiles. This is alive.
Someone with a bright green mohawk waves at Noah through the crowd, immediately calling out to him and beckoning him over with their hand. The man goes into a full dude hug, grabbing Noah’s back and clapping hard at him.
“Holy fuck, man! Where ya been hiding?”
“Yeah, I know,” Noah smiles, but he immediately places his hand on my lower back and pulls me closer.
Everyone’s all over him. Why wouldn’t they be? He’s apparently been a silly, nice little guy this whole time. The group fawning over him seem like his biggest fans, and everyone wants one-on-one time with him.
They all adore him for a song longer before he waves them off, keeping me close to him while I have to pry my Chucks from every step I take against the sticky floor.
We walk over to the bar on the left side of the room, leaning up against the black painted wood decorated in peeling stickers, shelves behind it lined with bottles of liquor and beer signs. The bartender, sporting a split lip and more metal in his face than I’ve ever seen, seems just as familiar with Noah and hands him two shot glasses.
I, on the other hand, need to take in every detail before I can relax.
The other side of the club has torn-up vinyl booths underneath the graffiti wall, black tables that look to be carved with names and lyrics, and mismatching chairs where a bunch of people in biker jackets or handmade battle vests with patches are passed out or making out. A staircase in the back corner is plastered with stickers and flyers for shows I’ve never heard of, leading to a back exit and what’s probably the gnarliest bathroom in existence.
I turn back to Noah when he holds out a shot glass to me. Grateful for some liquid encouragement , I down my drink fast, choking back the urge to gag as liquid fire races down my throat. Noah’s fingers are loosely curled around his glass, and he knocks it back in one smooth motion. With no problem.
Not even a wince or nose wrinkle.
I watch his neck cords flex as he swallows and the glass thunks to the counter. Who the hell is this guy? Does he come here often? Does he know other places like this?
“You seem like a regular,” I shout over the noise. “On a first name basis with Mohawk Mike and everything back there.”
“You could say that.” Noah’s eyes drift around the pulsing club, and he has this smile that says he knows every dirty secret in this place. “Ian showed me this place a while ago. He and I used to come here practically every night over the summer. Helped me escape for a little while.”
“Isn’t this where all the anarchists sneak off to brood and yell about the man?”
His laugh is wicked. “Tell that to the orgy guests snorting blow upstairs. This place allows quite a range of recreation if you know where to look.”
Before I can grill him for sordid details, the intense looking bartender pours us more shots. Enabler .
“What happened?” I probe gently, sniffing at the whiskey. “With you and Ian, I mean. Like… the band?”
“Oh.” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he turns around, resting his elbows against the bar top. “They got tired of me, I guess. Said I was too unpredictable, always late to practice.” He held up a hand, forestalling my protest. “I know, but I was only late three times, and for good reasons.” He exhales, rolling his shot glass between his fingers. “In the end, I think they wanted someone more serious about making a career out of music.”
“And Riley’s that person?” I bark out a laugh and slap a hand over my mouth. “Sorry… it’s just… Eden told me she only joined for fun and because they needed a singer. I’m pretty sure she’s going to the west coast in the fall because she wants to be an actress.”
Noah’s lips tilt up in a half-smile. “Yeah, but I’m sure she’s easier to control than me. I wasn’t taking the band as seriously as I should have.” He stares down into his full shot glass. “I only needed it to distract me and keep me busy.”
Fuck, I know that feeling. I clink my shot glass against his, splashing whisky. “To hell with old bandmates. Who needs ’em.”
He blinks, nodding his head as he taps his glass to mine. The simple act of toasting past pains with alcohol shouldn’t make my heart skip, yet here we are…
He flings back his shot, throat working as the club rages on around our contemplative bubble, then lifts his gaze back to me.
“Your turn. What happened with you and your old band?”
“What happened with my old band?” I repeat, trying to take a second to sort through it in my head. It’s a delicate subject, but Noah’s asking, so...
“I was kind of a dick to them, I guess? I was upset because we bombed every contest over the summer. On top of losing the end of the summer battle because Riley didn’t want to use the songs I suggested, and I really needed the money, whereas she didn’t care too much about it. But now I think she was being difficult with me because we were sharing a boyfriend.” My mouth twists bitterly around that last word.
“Sounds like she has shit taste. Songs and boys.” Noah’s eyes soften, smile lines bracketing his mouth as he slides nearer. “I can’t even imagine how you’re coping with everything right now. It can’t be easy, I bet?”
My mind races over the endless list of grievances: the band, Riley’s back-to-back betrayals, Harley’s cowardly break-up-via-phone call. Not to mention the part where my mom drives me up the wall every day.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Harley wasn’t good for me. It took me a while to realize that and get over it, but I really don’t care anymore. Everything happens for a reason I guess, and if those chain of events didn’t go down, I’d probably still be miserable.”
“Their loss is definitely someone else's gain.”
“You know,” I start, the alcohol and neon lights turning his eyes into shards of electric blue loosening my tongue, “there's more to it. Why I lost my shit after that contest.”
Noah shifts closer, giving me his full attention.
“When my dad was in the hospital, I was crushing his hand.” Noah's face is a masterpiece of Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone , but I swear it's relevant. “I thought I could keep him here if I held on tight enough, and all this stuff I never said, never could say—it was all there, spilling out of me. His thing was always music, and suddenly it was mine too. Like he'd planted a bomb in my chest, and it was ticking, waiting to explode into... anything.”
I'm shaking now, can feel it in my arms as I hold my shot glass. “I swore to him, to myself, to the universe or whatever was listening, that I'd take his passion and run with it. That somehow, someday, I'd make him so proud of me and I'd find a way out of this place.” I can see the understanding dawning in Noah's eyes now as I go on, “So when we lost that contest, it felt like I was failing him all over again. Like I was breaking that promise.”
“That's a heavy weight to carry,” he says softly. “But I think your dad would be proud of you right now, just for trying, for not giving up. You're not done yet. Not by a long shot.”
I meet his gaze, searching for any hint of pity or insincerity. Instead, all I find is unflinching honesty in those eyes. “You think so?”
“I don't think, I know. And I know because I'm proud of you.”
My breath hitches.
Jesus . I’m at a bar and can’t cry over those four little words that touched me surprisingly deep while the pit goes crazy as Nine Inch Nails plays out. What is he doing? Trying to make me feel something and cry?
“Yeah.” I clear my throat and glance away, downing my shot and watching everyone writhe together on the dance floor, buying time to shove up my eroding facade.
Noah is still studying my profile when I turn back to the bartender, searching for ways past the armor that already feels paper thin tonight.
An impish notion bubbles up when Mr. Lip Ring hands me a mysterious green drink, and I angle towards Noah with a coy little smile. I don’t want to be heavy tonight, I want fun .
“You know, I used to have intense fantasies about you back then.”
His eyebrows lift. “Oh really?”
“Mmhmm…” I stir my glowstick green drink, wide-eyed and sugary sweet. “Of you… driving your dirt bike straight into the Bell Pond and sinking to the bottom with it.”
He barks a laugh that sounds like a startled goose honk. “Shit. Charming. Why? What’d I do to earn imaginary death by drowning?”
“Because I hate you, obviously.” I prop my chin in my hand and watch his smile, his pink tongue darting out to lick his upper lip.
“I’ve never heard more twisted thoughts from anyone. I’m afraid I can’t be friends with someone who fantasizes me dying in such a terrible fashion.”
Another wave of laughter meets my ears, and finally, my body starts to relax
Be yourself .
“We’re still not friends,” I say with a wink. “But don’t worry. I stopped having that one a week ago.”
“And what did you start fantasizing a week ago? Me dead on the pavement?”
“Of you getting attacked by a facehugger while me and my primitive alien boyfriend run off into the sunset,” I reply, and my stomach warms as he continues to dish it back. I always liked that he could take my sass.
“Of course. A perfect romantic getaway for you two.”
“Yes,” I sigh dreamily, leaning into his shoulder. “My alien boyfriend is super hot. We’ll spend all night in his love ship, with roses on the bed, and a bucket of pickles on ice.”
He bursts out laughing and flags down the bartender for two more shots. “Pickles?”
“We’ll gaze at the stars while I ply him with Vlasic Spears.”
“Wow. And you say I spew bullshit.”
My smile just keeps growing. “Maybe, but admit it—I had you worried for a second there.”
We clink glasses and knock back the shots together, a fresh burn sliding down my throat.
Noah shakes his head at me, those blue eyes shining. “Do me a favor and keep your creepy revenge fantasies to yourself from now on.”
“No promises,” I laugh, nudging him with my hip. “I’ll try to tone down the gory details. Wouldn’t want to scare off my favorite human companion.”
“Good to know I still outrank the aliens. For now at least.”
“For now.” I lick the lingering whiskey from my lips. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Any revenge fantasies about me?”
“I’m too fucking angelic for revenge fantasies,” Noah says, keeping his tone innocent. “I don’t have these dark desires as you do. I’m too pure.”
As if. This guy came to me with a revenge plan almost four months ago.
“Maybe not revenge, but what about…” I inch closer to him, the side of our legs bushing. For once I’m feeling bold. Really fucking bold .
I lock onto his eyes as he turns toward me, getting lost in the blue of them. They’re so dark and deep, the same as the bottom of the pool I swam naked in at midnight, and I want to fall in. I want to let my words fall out.
“Do you have… any?”
“Any what, Roxanne?” He shifts to his side to face me and curls his fingers into a fist against the bartop.
God, why does he always do this? Why does he always want me to say what I really mean, when he knows exactly what I mean? Let me play my own games . Why does he always ruin my fun?
I toy with my straw in the green drink, considering how to bait my line. “You know… any.”
His head tilts to the side, letting his cheek fall against the crook of his shoulder, face totally impassive. He doesn’t do anything.
No answers, no smiles, barely even any blinking.
My fingers pinch the straw. I want to strangle him. Why am I doing this again?
And don’t you dare chicken out on making a move with him.
I take a sip of my drink. The lights, the music, the heat that the alcohol is giving my body—everything is melting away, blurring the line between impulse and action. I inch closer to him, until our knees are touching this time.
I take a deep breath, counting to three in my head, and then say it.
“Do. You. Have. Any. Fantasies. About. Me?”
His eyes drop to my lips when one side of his mouth hitches up. “Maybe if you’re good tonight, I’ll tell you.”
A million different emotions slam into me at that. Frustration, intrigue, reluctant arousal from him saying I need to be ‘good.’ The anger of him ignoring the question is high on the list.
I settle on my ol’ reliable face where I’m concerned—totally unimpressed.
“Why do you always have to be cryptic?”
“Why do you always have to want to know everything?” He laughs, no doubt at the stink eye I direct at him. “Can’t you have one mystery?”
“No, I can’t. you’re hard to figure out and I don’t like it.”
“You mean because you love it,” he counters, voice teasing.
My cheeks burn up—from how hot this place is, how hot the toxic waste I’m drinking makes me feel, and from Noah’s eyes back on my lips. On purpose, I wet them.
“You’re not the only one with secrets,” I throw back, wanting to keep playing with him.
“You might have to beg to get mine out of me.”
He’s trying to do what he always does. Where I’m the one that has to crack and cross the line. Not to-fucking-night.
He wants to play games? I came here to play all nine innings and then some.
I lean back against the bar, just out of reach, stretching my arms on the wood behind me, allowing his blue eyes to track up and down the entirely-black ensemble I’ve squeezed myself into. Let him take me in from black Chucks to smokey eyes. When I deign to close the gap, it’s on my terms.
“That’s too bad…” I lift one corner of my mouth, embracing the persona I’d invented in Angela’s mirror. I didn’t come here to be good , I came here to be bad. “I don’t like begging.”
Arching my spine just so, I guide my cup to my mouth and stick my tongue out to catch the straw. Noah stops breathing, shakes his head once, and a muscle ticks in his cheek. Perfection.
“I prefer to take what I need.”
I swear Noah groans, his eyes boldly coasting down my torso. “What is it you need right now, Roxanne?”
My name on his lips is a fucking weapon. I tilt my head back, uncaring that I'm about to lose my mind at the knife going straight to my core.
“Another drink. Obviously.”
“I can help you with that.” He snags a bottle from behind the bar, Lip Ring guy none the wiser. Shots appear, and we both clink and gulp it down like it’s a race, not taking our eyes off each other in between, or when we set them off to the side.
I swipe at my mouth with the tip of my finger. Noah follows my lead, wiping the side of his mouth with his thumb.
He’s so smooth it pisses me off. My brain’s working at top speed to come up with the perfect comeback or flirty line that will out-do his last move. The fact that he keeps doing this—the whole making me out myself thing—is driving me to the edge of insanity.
This look in his eyes isn’t helping either. He thinks he’s the biggest player.
“There is one scenario I’ve been thinking about,” he whispers against my ear, though I predict trouble as his lips go tight against a smirk. “And we’re about to act it out right now.”
I don’t know what he’s about to do, but my thighs clench regardless.