Chapter 13
Thirteen
Deja
That night I toss and turn. It may not seem like a big deal—me not having a boyfriend—but I feel a little uncomfortable.
I watched the popular girls when I started high school.
They were always athletic and always had a popular boyfriend.
I’ve been cheering since middle school, so I knew that would be my sport, and I’m cute and fun enough that I’ve never had trouble finding a boyfriend.
Not that I couldn’t find a boyfriend now.
There are plenty of guys at Briarwood who would be happy to be my boyfriend.
But I don’t know how Brandon would react.
What am I saying? He would react very badly.
He hasn’t come right out and said he doesn’t want me to be with anyone else, but I haven’t missed that possessive gleam in his eyes.
He told me that I was his. Those don’t sound like the statements of someone who would be okay with me dating other people.
I flip over onto my stomach and grab my phone off the bedside table.
It’s 11:34. No wonder my eyes are aching.
I scroll through my social media feeds. Shelby’s posted another cute meme about Fall that I think is a little cheesy, but I like it anyway.
A couple of the younger cheerleaders have posted selfies of themselves sharing a sno-cone.
In my texts, I see messages from Kenz and a few of the other girls.
Nothing from Gio, though that’s hardly surprising.
I scroll through articles about fashion trends and celebrity gossip before I give up.
I’m not feeling any sleepier than I did twenty minutes ago.
Getting out of bed, I slide my feet into my house slippers and trudge downstairs to get some hot tea.
The house is eerily quiet. I turn on the lights in the kitchen and put on the kettle.
From the back windows, I see the lawn and beyond it the shadowy trees of the park-like jogging trail behind the house.
The neighborhood is dark, except for a few lights visible in the distance.
Not a surprise. Everyone around here is tucked up in bed like I’m supposed to be.
I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I’d grabbed a robe before I came down.
The air holds a slight chill because the thermostat is set to 65 degrees at night.
A whooshing sound comes from the kettle as the water heats up.
“You’re up late.”
I nearly jump out of my skin. Brandon is standing next to the outside door, which opens into a little enclosed area where we keep the trashcans.
The gate at the end of it is locked and has a camera outside it, so he can’t have gone any further than that without my parents knowing.
What was he doing out there? He’s not wearing a coat or sweatshirt, just a plain white tee and cargo pants.
He glances over my outfit—the same as his, except that I’m wearing a camisole.
“Want some tea?” I ask, too tired to think of anything clever to say.
“Why not?” He opens the cupboard and grabs a pair of cups and a peppermint tea-bag. “What kind do you want?”
“Chamomile.”
He emits a low hum and brings the cups and tea bags over to where I’m standing. Now that he’s closer to me I can smell the cold on his skin and the unmistakable traces of tobacco smoke.
“I can’t believe you smoke,” I say, not trying to hide my disapproval. Smoking is bad for anyone, but for an athlete it seems especially dumb.
“You smoke,” he says, resting his hip against the kitchen counter. The slight bend brings his face almost level with mine.
“I don’t.”
“Weed…”
“No,” I say. “You have never seen me smoke.”
He edges closer, grasping one of the braids that has slipped loose from my silk scarf between his thumb and forefinger. I move to swat his hand away, but he’s faster, dodging my blow with a chuckle.
“I get it,” he says, opening the tea bags and dropping them into the cups. “You do drugs, you just don’t smoke them.”
I look towards the stairs, paranoid that one of my parents will overhear, even though logically I know they’re probably fast asleep and Brandon spoke pretty softly.
“I take my sport seriously,” I say, tartly. The pitch of the kettle is getting higher. I don’t want to wait for it to start screaming. Just a few more seconds now.
“Your sport?” He laughs more loudly this time, the sound echoing in the quiet of the night. I shoot him a quelling look.
“Go ahead and wake Devin,” I say.
The water is just about there, and I snatch it off the stove using an oven mitt. The water in the cups begins to change color as the tea steeps into it. Brandon’s is a brighter green, while mine remains paler and slightly yellow. The smell is warming.
His body gets much too close to mine when he picks up his cup.
He wraps his long fingers around it, the heat not seeming to bother him.
I hold mine by the handle and sip. It’s grassy and bland.
The heat spreads through me, not quite overcoming the cold of the room.
I stifle a yawn. We don’t speak to each other, but I feel his eyes on me. His expression is inscrutable.
I look down at my cup to avoid looking at his face.
In my head, I run through the things I have to do before homecoming.
I’ll need a dress, maybe shoes, and to get my nails done.
I’ll need to call Jayden. I think of anything I can to distract myself from how close Brandon is to me.
My cup is still half-full, and I should stay here and finish it, but I feel trapped.
Brandon takes the cup from me and places it on the kitchen island.
The granite ledge presses into my back. His other hand, still warm from the tea, wraps around my waist. I want to say something cutting, remind him that I’m not a toy, that position of strength notwithstanding, he can’t just do whatever he wants to me, but I know it’s a lie.
“Why do I want you?” he asks, searching my face. I should tell him it’s because I’m that irresistible, that amazing, but I can’t bring myself to say those words—the ones that would turn this into the fight it ought to be.
“You shouldn’t,” I respond softly.
“I shouldn’t,” he agrees, then his lips are on mine, hot and seeking.
I want to hate it so much, as much as I hate him, but Lord knows I don’t.
His lips are soft and supple, his tongue agile.
He tastes of peppermint and even the trace of bitterness from the tobacco doesn’t turn me off.
I want to open myself to him, wrap my arms and legs around him, and kiss him forever.
He shudders, his free hand sliding into the braids at the back of my head. His nails press into my scalp.
“Fuck, Deja,” he says. He bites down sharply on my earlobe.
I moan, grasping a fistful of his t-shirt and trying to pull his body against mine, but he resists.
I reach for his waistband with my other hand, my hand contacting something long and angular, like a calculator or a pencil case in his pocket.
He stops me, holding my wrist against my hip.
The bulge at his crotch is impossible to miss. Our harsh breathing fills the room.
“We can’t,” he says, roughly. He’s holding our bodies apart, but his hand is still gripping my hair.
“Why not?” What am I saying? What is wrong with you, Deja?
He pushes me down until my butt makes contact with one of the counter stools and drags my hair, pulling my head back so my face points at the ceiling.
His other hand grips my throat, holding my head in place.
I can’t move it. His lips crush mine until they’re flat against my teeth.
His tongue forces its way inside, licking and tasting me like I’m a dish laid out for him to sample.
His tongue thrusts deep into my mouth almost like he’s trying to choke me on it.
It’s overwhelming, and my clit throbs in response.
I press my hands to his chest, feeling the thick muscles of a body that could literally break me.
I start sliding my hands lower and he pulls back, his eyes hooded.
He squeezes my neck to remind me how easily he could cut off my breath and kisses my forehead gently.
“We need to stop unless you’re ready for me to pop your cherry,” he says, his eyes as dark as I’ve ever seen them. “I don’t have a lot of self-control right now.”
“Fine.” I forgot for a moment what kind of creature I’m dealing with. I’m honestly surprised at his sudden attack of morality, but calling it ‘popping my cherry’ definitely put a damper on my libido. Why does he have to be so crude?
He loosens his grip and I breathe in deeply. My scalp stings but I don’t massage it. Pride, or maybe I like the pain and the way it makes me feel alive. Brandon rubs his hand over his face, his features tense. He moves to the end of the kitchen island, putting some space between us.
“Do you know when their next date night is?”
“It’ll be on the board,” I tell him, “On the fridge.” I point at the whiteboard calendar, each date labeled with my mother’s neat handwriting. For both this and next Friday I see the name of a restaurant and a time.
“Two weeks in a row?”
“Next Friday is the homecoming game, so they’re probably taking us to dinner. This week might be a date night. Or some business thing.”
“Are you busy?”
“Kind of. I can’t keep skipping out on social obligations. People are going to think something’s wrong.”
“That’s okay,” he says, still perusing the board. “I don’t think I’ll need you.”
I pick up my still warm cup of chamomile tea and take a sip.
My hands are shaking slightly as I set it down, trying to ignore the strange buzz in my limbs and the heaviness in my pelvis.
I don’t know how far I would have let things go, but it’s scary that Brandon had to be the one to stop us from going further than we did.
He’s staring at me now, his expression almost hostile. I shrug as if to say, ‘What?’
“I kinda wanted to study down here,” he says, running his hand through his night-black hair.
“Don’t mind me,” I say, gesturing at the kitchen table. He frowns, still standing by the fridge with his arms crossed.
“I don’t really need an audience,” he says, coldly.
Talk about whiplash. What is wrong with this guy? I drain the rest of my tea and drop the cup into the sink. He flinches at the bang the porcelain makes as it hits the stainless steel.
I’m grateful for the reminder that he’s actually not a very nice person. My stupid libido wants more and isn’t smart enough to tell the person it’s attached to is not someone I should get close to. Stupid hormones. I chalk it up to the novelty of the sexual experience we had.
I head back to my room but I’m no closer to being sleepy than I was an hour ago.
I close my eyes, and an image of him forms in my mind’s eye.
At first, he looks like he did in the kitchen, then the image shifts and he’s stripped bare like he was on Saturday night.
In my fantasy Brandon proudly shows off his cock, taking the thick shaft in his hand.
He grins at me and tells me I make him hard and that he wants to go down on me, although what he actually says is something about licking me.
My hand, masquerading as his hand, slips into my underwear.
His fingers circle my swollen clit and dip inside me.
Pleasure swells inside me, building and building until I peak. Only then, finally, am I able to sleep.