Chapter 9 #2
I slipped into the room and let the door swing shut behind me, ascending the steps to my usual seat in the back by the windows. It wasn’t raining yet, but the clouds were getting darker, rolling over campus like a thick blanket, swearing an oath of precipitation.
The lecture slides Micah had pulled up on the projector were about piping and tubing. It was an important topic, a very useful one, but not the most riveting. I knew he greatly preferred talking about and observing our labs compared to lecturing.
I tapped the capped end of my blue pen on the table quietly, waiting for lecture to begin.
Micah’s eyes found mine from the front of the classroom and I wondered if he could smell Mason’s kapnos on me, even at this distance. Cheeks flushing, I stared down at my desk. I could still feel bits of dried cum streaking my spine.
Eventually, Micah began today’s lesson.
My phone buzzed on the table, and I snatched it up to cut the noise.
Mila
You have to respond to my texts or else I’m literally going to bust into whatever classroom you’re sitting in to see you with my own eyes
Me
Shit. I’m sorry, I forgot
I ran my fingers through my hair, chewing on my lower lip. Mila had texted me a couple times this morning asking for updates on my night with Mason, but I’d been too caught up in other stuff to remember to respond to her.
Mila
Bitch
Me
Love you
Mila
So did he rearrange your guts?
Me
You have such a way with words. But yes
Mila
I need a man
Me
Men are overrated
Mila
True. Let me rephrase, I need dick. I need COCK
A shocked laugh burst out of me, and I instantly shut my phone off, shoving it deep in the pocket of my hoodie, forcing my focus onto Micah. His stare slid over to me for an instant, igniting a steady flame inside of me, and Mila’s ridiculous text was quickly forgotten about.
I did my best to pay attention for the rest of lecture, listening to Micah talking about pipe wall thickness and schedule numbers while my mind wandered to other things.
Like Aamon. To me, there didn’t seem to be that much urgency with killing him, and I couldn’t figure out why that would be if my life was seriously on the line—and it seemed like it was.
But what did I know?
Nothing. Always nothing.
After lecture, I didn’t waste time before heading up to the sixth floor of Stanton and slipping down the quiet hallway containing the door to Micah’s office. Thankfully, the handle wasn’t locked when I tried it.
Glancing around quickly, I silently pushed open the door and stepped into the dim room, closing the door behind me.
The rolldown shade over the window was halfway shut and I walked over to it, then tugged it up to look out over campus.
He had a nice view over the sprawling sidewalks and mismatching architecture of all the class buildings.
Some were old, carved with stone and brick; some were new, made of metal and glass.
Leaves fell from the branches of thick-trunked maple trees and red alders, and were scattered across the lawn in brown piles, drifting when the wind blew.
My eyes scanned the sky, noting the darkness of the clouds, the bluish hue of the light filtering through them. I could feel the slight vibrations of thunder in the distance.
I went across Micah’s office and plopped myself down on the couch, fishing my phone out of my pocket to reply to Mila as I scuffed my boots on the thin carpet.
My hand fell absently to my side, fingers tracing hexagons on the printed couch fabric as I scrolled through social media to pass time, my old phone loading every post at a snail’s pace.
My own social media was quite lackluster. I hadn’t posted on it since high school, and most of the posts made me sad to look at. It would probably be healthy to delete them, but they were proof of my life, in a way.
Grainy pictures of myself or things I found aesthetically pleasing—lots of shark teeth and beaches and black nail polish, all things I still liked—with vague captions that didn’t mean much to anyone who didn’t know what was happening to me.
Back when all I listened to Ultraviolence and Natural Born Losers and wore a tattoo choker most days.
I tapped on a picture of my old black Converse, taken as I sat on the ground in the hallway of my high school, my back leaning up against the lockers, captioned Don’t want to go home :(
There were purple bruises on my shins, and from the sliver of a glass door I could see in the background, it was probably after school.
Almost dinner time, maybe. I remembered how I used to walk around and pretend I was part of clubs or study groups, just to avoid spending a few more hours in that trailer.
My bio still said I’m not here and Bridgeman HS.
I tapped on another picture, this time a picture of my wrist with black writing on it.
You’re on your own, inked in black Sharpie on my skin.
It was strange looking at the posts now.
It made my stomach twist. I swiped out of the app and slumped backwards on the couch, resting my head on the back of it.
My fingernails traced over the textured fabric as I stared at nothing, listening to the thunder getting closer.
I hopped up when I eventually heard the door opening, some form of relief flooding my system as Micah stepped into the room and shut the door behind himself.
“Micah,” I greeted tentatively, my fingers twisting together in front of me.
He went to sit at his desk, then rested his elbows on its surface, hands clasped, watching me.
My gaze trailed down to his rolled shirtsleeves and muscular forearms, my sadness morphing into something else.
Lightning flickered in the sky and I snapped my attention to the window as thunder rattled the glass.
“Masters.”
I looked back at Micah, finding him staring intensely at me.
Are you still mad?
Do you hate me?
“Hi,” I said dumbly.
“Hi. You’re in my office.”
“Yes. I am.” With Micah here, I could forget about everything else in the world and allow myself to be lost in him. My favorite labyrinth. Even if he was starting to make me feel a bit insane.
I was out of my depth with him, but I was still treading water. I’m still here, and I still want this.
“Can you help me with something?” I slowly crossed the room, walking behind the desk. Micah pushed back in his chair, reclining against the seat, his body relaxed. His presence was somehow both intimidating and comforting to me.
My muscles were taut with nervousness as I waited for Micah to acknowledge what I’d done earlier today. I wanted him to be jealous. Surely he could smell me by now.
“What do you need?”
“Help.”
“Help with what?” he arched a brow, an amused smirk tilting the side of his sinful mouth. I fucking loved when he looked at me like that.
“With stuff.”
“You’re going to need to elaborate. I can’t read your mind.”
“I thought you could read my mind.”
“Your emotions. But only if I choose to, which I often don’t. Tell me what you could possibly need my help with right now,” he teased. Even without peering into my skull, I was certain he knew what I wanted from him—the very thing he’d denied me the last time I’d seen him.
Eye contact in the mirror, low words pressed to the shell of my ear, strong hands under my sleep shirt…
I shuffled closer to him, then lowered myself onto my knees between his feet. “Or I can help you,” I offered quietly, my thighs pressing together.
Micah leaned forward and held the side of my face, guiding me to rest my cheek on his thigh. My eyelids fell shut and I savored the feeling of his slacks on my flushed skin, warmth pooling low in my belly.
“No,” he murmured. “Neither of us are going to be helping each other.”
I nuzzled my cheek on his thigh, eyes lifting to meet his. My brows pushed together. “What does that mean?”
“What do you think it means?” His thumb skimmed back and forth along my cheekbone, brushing a few stray hairs away.
“Something I won’t like.”
“You know, you have a very bad habit of underestimating me. This isn’t the first time it’s happened.” Micah moved his hand to grasp my chin, his thumb tugging down my lower lip, my jaw softly opening. “When I tell you I’m going to do something, I mean it.”
I was breathing quicker now as Micah pushed his thumb into my mouth, sliding it along my tongue. He leaned down, using his hold on my jaw to tug me closer to him.
You wanted to play games.
So we’re going to play fucking games.
His words echoed in my head.
“And you smell like him.” He tilted his head, focusing his gaze on the sight of his thumb in my mouth.
I couldn’t hide my desperation when he said it.
The tilt of my eyebrows, the press of my thighs.
“You’re still covered in his cum. You knew I’d be able to smell it when you came here.
So precious, so perfect, yet so awful. So mean to me.
Are you trying to make me jealous so I’ll fuck you? ”
Yes.
I shook my head as much as I could, small whines slipping past my lips.
“Stand up,” he instructed and let go of me.
Reluctantly, I got to my feet, my legs trembling slightly.
“Never come here without showering ever again.”
“He made me—”
“Stop,” Micah cut me off, my face getting red. “Just say okay.”
“Okay.”
“Where did he come?”
“On my back,” I whispered, shifting my weight from foot to foot.
“Turn around and pull your sweater up. Show me.”
Fuck.
I did as he said, slowly turning to face away from him and lifting the hem of my sweatshirt, cool air sweeping across my back. A shiver trickled through my shoulders, my belly quivering.
Micah’s hand settled on my hip, his thumb grazing the edge of my waistband. He didn’t say anything. I didn’t move.
“Stay as you are,” he instructed, then his touch left my body and I heard the sound of a drawer being opened, the crinkle of a package being taken out. There was a cool, wet sensation on my back—a wet wipe. Micah was cleaning Mason’s cum off of me.