8. Charlie
Charlie
Ishouldn’t have opened that door.
My brain and body disconnected and all I could do was stare.
Noah’s hand tangled in some girl's hair is ingrained in my memory bank. The way his head tilted back, his lips parting just enough to let out a sound that made my thighs burn... His breathless expression, the sound of him losing control, and the curve of his jaw when he glanced directly at me... It’s almost too much.
I hate myself because I always thought dicks were gross.
I’m always gagging at those little stray hairs on the ballsacks, and all those jagged blue veins running down the middle.
And yet, the mere seconds of seeing Noah’s dick has been burned into the back of my eyelids.
I’ve seen them crooked, fat and squishy, and too thick to handle.
His was molded straight out of heaven, glistening and looking smoother than baby’s skin.
That fucking thing could win an award, but why the hell am I thinking about another guy's dick?
I want to erase the image of Noah getting head right out of my memory bank, forget about how the dim bathroom light caught the tattoos on his arms. Even the sounds that girl made. I want to forget it entirely. I should've knocked before going in, and I should've immediately slammed the door.
I’m not the kind of girl who watches, or gets turned on by it either.
It may have only been seconds, but when he glanced at me, keeping my gaze, I swear on my life he wished it was me.
Now my face is on fire and my hands are shaking as I grip the edge of the sink in the same bathroom he was in, not even fifteen minutes ago.
I splash my face with cold water. I should go find Payton and tell her we should dip for the night, but I lost her somewhere in the crowd, and I bet she's hovering over my brother somewhere in the massive amount of people. The one thing I’m avoiding is talking to Brody, even though I need to.
I head back down the hallway, into the pulsating house. It’s alive with bass thudding through the wall, shaking the picture frames. My heels stick to the tile from spilt beer.
I push through the crowd, my hair sticking to my neck as I scan faces half-lit by the lights.
I picked out one of the football players.
He’s big, round and definitely on the defense.
I’m not sure what position since I only stare at their asses, but I know he tackles the other team for a living.
“Hey!” I tap him with a pointed finger on the shoulder, and he turns around.
I lean into his ear and shout, “Have you seen Brody?”
He shrugs his shoulders, lifting up his red cup. “I saw him heading to the living room to dance the Cupid Shuffle.”
I roll my eyes and glance at the large number of people.
They're jumping up and down like waves in an ocean. I pass some girls, laughing as they record reels with glitter on their cheeks, making peace signs. There’s a group of guys attempting to crowd surf.
I stand on my tippy toes, but I still don’t see a beefy man with moppy blonde hair.
Another player leans against the wall, wearing his football jersey.
He’s checking out the girl in front of him, who is twirling a strand of hair in her finger.
“You’re so fucking fine, I can make you mine tonight,” he says to her, licking his lips as he gazes at her breasts that are about to rip through her tight dress.
“Hey!” I push him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me.”
The girl puckers her lips and throws her hands up into the air. “He’s mine, bitch!”
I wave a flat palm in her face. “Excuse me! Have you seen Brody?” I ask over the music.
“I don’t keep tabs on him.”
“I’m serious. Where is he?”
“I dunno. Taking a leak.” He points his head down the hallway. I dip my head back and let out a frustrated groan. I was just down there.
“Who the fuck is that bitch?” I catch a glimpse of the girl throwing a drink in his face and strutting off, muttering “Fucking asshole.”
I push toward the hallway, dodging couples making out against the wall. I halt, seeing the massive line for that bathroom. That didn’t take long at all. Girls balance on heels, clutching their phones, and looking at the cameras to snap pictures.
He isn’t in line, and when the door bursts open, it’s not him. It’s another football player with alpaca hair. He's tall, thin and lanky. He flashes me a lazy grin, lifting his chin up. “What’s up, hottie?”
I grasp his shoulder, and he stops in his tracks. “Oh, you wanna have a good time, babycakes?”
“No! Have you seen Brody?”
He points his long nose toward the kitchen. “I think I saw him grabbing a drink. He was talking to Brittni.”
My heart skips a beat. Brittni? Did he stutter?
I race to the kitchen. The counter is littered with solo cups, puddles of melted ice, and of course no Brody. Just girls sitting on the counter singing along to the music, legs swaying.
“Oh my God! Charlie!” a girl squeals. I turn a full ninety degrees and it’s Naomi.
The clumsy short cheerleader with the loudest voice and no volume control.
I question how she got on the team sometimes.
Her blue eyes are cakey with eyeliner and there's lipstick stuck to her front teeth. She’s drunk and too happy for my taste.
“Girl, this party is lit! Come dance with me.”
“I’m sorry I can’t,” I wave a hand at her. “Have you seen Brody?”
She tilts her head to the side, tapping an index finger to her lips. “Uhh, yeah.” She bats her eyes. “He went into that room over there,” she waves her hand in the direction of a closed door. “With Brittni.”
My stomach sinks, the path to the door stretches out and becomes further away by the second. My ears start to ring, and the music turns into a dull roar, and I take a step, then another. My palms are slick, and my throat is dry.
I run to the door, but before I can even burst through, my brother Ryder grabs the door handle before me.