Chapter 11 #2
Rose didn’t question my story, only complained that I hadn’t invited her to our Mexican themed blowout. I should laugh at the ludicrous lie—that we actually have friends to call—but I sadden at the thought of Lo drinking enough alcohol in one week to satiate an entire house party.
He pulls out a glass and a bottle of an amber-colored liquid.
I climb onto his bed, my heart racing from earlier. It shouldn’t. This is Lo. We’re supposed to be together. We’re supposed to be affectionate, but yet, I can’t stop replaying what happened. I can’t stop blushing or heating or wishing he’d just take me right here. No, no, no . Don’t go there.
I rest my back against his oak headboard. “Can you make me something?” I ask, my voice raspy. I clear my throat. Jeez, what is wrong with me? I’m usually not this uncomfortable with Lo, but this situation mounts my anxiety and my desires. I cross my legs and swallow hard.
His eyes flicker to me briefly, and he tries to hide a knowing grin.
He clinks another crystal glass to his and sets them on his desk.
I watch as he unlocks a second cabinet with the mini-fridge hidden inside.
He scoops out ice and effortlessly pours the liquor without pause or spillage.
When he finishes, he walks around to my side of the bed, not sitting next to me.
Instead, he hovers with both glasses in hand.
“Are you sure you want this?” he asks huskily, and part of me wonders if he’s talking about more than just the drink. Yes, I want all of it. I blink, no, he has to be talking about the alcohol. Stop fantasizing, Lily.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
He licks his lips. Stop doing that. I hold in a breath. “It’s strong,” he says, watching me closely. Too close.
“I can handle it.”
Lo puts the glass in my palm and stays towering over me, the authority something new, something I’m not used to. I kind of want to stand and take control of the situation, but Lo blocks me from setting my feet on the ground.
He tosses back half his glass in one gulp, the liquid sliding down easily. He waits for me to taste mine before he finishes off his own. “What are you waiting for?”
My heart to stop pounding. I take a small sip and cough. Holy hell. I choke into my fist.
“Hey, go easy,” he tells me. “Do you need some water?”
I shake my head and stupidly take another sip to try and help the burn. Instead, that goes down just as rough.
He takes the alcohol from my hand and sets it on his nightstand. “No more for you.”
I keep hacking into my fist and curse myself for trying to relax with alcohol. I should have known Lo would concoct something semi-toxic, too potent for any normal, sane human being.
When I settle down, I inhale a deep breath and slouch. “Are you going to sit down?”
“Why does it matter whether I sit or stand?” he asks, not moving one bit.
“You make me nervous.”
“Scared I’ll jump you?” he wonders with a devious smile, still drinking. He finishes off his and has already started on my drink .
Yes. “No.”
“Then I don’t see a problem with me standing here.” His eyes do that thing again, the one where they scan the length of me, as though imagining what I look like bare and wanting.
To ignore him, I examine all of his memorabilia tacked on the walls and set on the shelves.
The only time I venture in here is to help wake him up or to make certain he’s not passed out in vomit.
I hardly pay attention to the decorations.
Some of them only stay here to assemble our mountain of lies.
Framed comics line the wall directly in front of me, hanging above his desk. All Marvel: Avengers , Spider-Man , X-Men , Cable and Thor . The bottom corners are signed from our numerous trips to Comic-Con in San Diego.
Last year, we stopped attending the comic book convention when I slept with Chewbacca, or at least a fan dressed as the Star Wars character—one of my more embarrassing conquests.
Lo didn’t have a splendid time either. He drank something Captain America gave him.
Turns out the Cap imposter wasn’t too noble, having spiked his booze with roofies. Nerds can be vicious too.
“You remember when you slept with Chewbacca?” Lo must have followed my gaze to the same poster. He heads to his desk to make another glass.
I shoot him a look. “At least I didn’t accept drinks from every masked superhero that approached me.”
“Yeah? Well at least I’m not into bestiality.”
My eyes narrow and I grab a pillow off the bed, chucking it at him with all my might. I would never be into something like that. Gross, gross, gross.
Lo dodges the pillow but it collides with a bottle of bourbon, knocking it over like a bowling pin and toppling it to the floor. Lo’s face darkens in contempt. “Watch it, Lily.” He picks up the bottle, unbroken, and reacts as though I hit his child.
I don’t say I’m sorry. It’s just alcohol. And he has plenty more. When my eyes plant on a shelf by his head, my heart nearly drops. “How long has that photo been there?” I spring from the bed. He should have burned it!
He carefully returns his bottles to a safe location and cranes his neck to see what I’m fussing over. I’m so embarrassed by the photo that I shove him from the desk and spread my arms out, failing at blocking his view since the picture sits above me and he far surpasses my height.
He laughs at my lame attempt and plucks the frame off the shelf with ease. I try to reach for it, but he hoists it high above, teasing me further.
“Toss it out,” I demand, my hands flying to my hips, just so he knows I mean it.
“It goes with the posters,” he muses, his eyes twinkling at the memory that’s encapsulated within the frame.
“Lo,” I whine. He’s right that the photo fits in with the others.
Also at Comic-Con, Lo and I stand beside cutouts of Cyclops and Professor X.
I adorn nothing more than a pair of latex pants, a shiny black bra, and long plastic blades from my knuckles.
I look more confident than I let on, mostly because Lo begged me to stop hiding behind his back.
It was his fault I was scantily-clad in the first place.
He insisted I join him as his favorite X-Men’s love interest. So he dressed up as Hellion—the young New Mutant with telekinesis—in a spandex, red and black suit, and like a good friend, I played the part of X-23 for the day, the female clone of Wolverine.
I hate that the photo is in a room with dozens of empty memories.
A few frames over, we’re holding hands underneath the Eiffel Tower during a family trip to France.
Fake. Another, he kisses me in a gazebo.
Fake. I sit on his lap during a boating trip in Greece.
Faker. Why do we have to tarnish the real memories in our friendship by placing them with phony ones from our pretend relationship?
“Please,” I beg.
“Where am I going to get better proof that we’re a couple?” he protests, inching towards me just to make this even more awkward. My back hits his desk, and I hope to God we’re not reenacting the earlier kitchen scene. But then I kinda do.
“Technically…” I say, eyes on his chest. “…this is my room too.”
“Yeah?” He sets the photo back on the shelf above me, and before I can turn and snatch it, he clasps my wrists in a tight hold. He stretches my arms behind my back. Oh my God.
“Lo,” I warn.
“If this is your room, then make me believe it.”
“Shut up,” I say instantly. I don’t even know why.
“That’s not very convincing.”
Is he being serious? “This is my room,” I say adamantly, wondering if that’s enough.
“It is?” he plays along, edging closer. “You don’t seem so sure.”
I try to reclaim my hands, but his grip tightens and he widens his stance so his feet trap me against the desk. Yes, this is just like the kitchen, only worse (or better) because I am not in control without my arms. Not one bit.
“Step back,” I try to sound forceful, but it comes off too raspy and too wanting.
“Why do you think this is your room?” he asks. “You don’t sleep here. You don’t fuck here. You don’t eat or drink here. What makes this yours as much as it is mine?”
“You know why,” I breathe. We’re pretending, aren’t we? I’m so confused. What is he to me right now? Friend, boyfriend, something else entirely?
“Once you stepped through that threshold,” Lo says, “you entered my place.” His hot, bourbon-scented breath hits my neck. “Everything in here belongs to me.”
My head lulls dizzily. I hate that I haven’t had sex today. I hate that my body wants Loren Hale. And maybe even my mind too.
I try to concentrate. I have to. “Take it down,” I say again.
“No, I like that photo and it’s staying there.”
Why does he care so much about that stupid picture? !
Before I ask, he spins me around and leans my stomach against his desk but keeps my wrists in his hands, pinning my arms to my back.
I try to wiggle out of the hold, but he presses his body to mine, in a position that I’ve fantasized so many times.
Just like this (maybe not the submissive part), but with him behind me, his pelvis grinding into my backside.
I gape, internally dying. Luckily he can’t see my open-mouthed expression.
I draw in a tight breath. “You’re being mean,” I tell him.
He knows I haven’t had sex. When we were eighteen, he asked me what it felt like to go without climaxing for a day, and I told him it feels like someone is burying my head under the sand and pulling my limbs so tight they become taut rubber bands, waiting to be snapped and released.
The cravings feel like drowning and being lit on fire at the same time.
He said he could relate to the paradox.
“I know you’re enjoying this.”