Atlas
Belt on my neck, tied to the pull-up bar. T-shirt cut in two, hanging for dear life on my shoulders. Hands tied at the back. Jeans and boxers pooled at my feet. Dick swinging freely. This is the thought-provoking picture anyone opening the door is going to stumble upon.
Footsteps echo outside my door, and I holler out “Guys!” to whoever’s passing by, equally hoping to be heard and not.
“What the fuck happened?” Link’s voice pitches higher when he opens the door, staying frozen at the threshold.
“Summer fuckin’ Night happened.”
Count to zero, and Link erupts into a guffaw, bracing himself against the doorframe to keep from collapsing. Then count to five, and Dean shows up in my room, followed by Connor and Carter—all of them completely losing it. I should’ve choked myself to death. That would’ve been preferable.
“Are any of you assholes going to untie me?” I grumble, but no one pays me the slightest attention, too busy howling like a pack of hyenas.
“What’s this?” Carter asks through tears of laughter.
“Summer,” Link manages in his fit.
Dean is the first one to come to the rescue.
“How could you be so stupid as to let her tie you up?” he asks while he cuts the zip ties at my wrists and feet.
“I didn’t let her do shit. She tased me,” I admit, and that’s all it takes for Dean to start cracking up again.
I yank the belt off my neck, then pull up my boxers and jeans and head downstairs.
Their laughter follows, but I still try, unsuccessfully, to ignore them.
Ripping off the barely hanging T-shirt, I throw it into the kitchen trash and open the fridge, taking a beer and keeping the door open for longer than necessary as a barrier between me and the assholes who keep following me.
My agitation is obvious from the way I slam the fridge shut.
Getting to the table with a drink in hand, everyone joins me, wearing inquisitive looks, waiting for me to spill the beans, which I won’t. Summer’s not a hookup, and I’m not telling them shit about our private stuff.
“So she tased you, tied you up, stripped you, and then?” Connor starts poking his nose where it doesn’t belong.
“And then, it’s none of your fuckin’ business,” I bark, but Connor grins.
“Did she choke you?” The fucker wiggles his brows. “Fuuck, she did!”
“You don’t know when to shut up, do you?” I roar at him.
“How the hell did she get in and out of your room without us noticing?” Carter asks.
“Through the window,” Dean answers.
“Did she suck you?” Connor grins like he’s the one who got a blowjob.
“Come on, guys! Leave him alone. He doesn’t wanna talk about it.” Link pulls up a chair, sitting next to me with his own beer in hand.
Setting my drink on the table, I stand and turn for the stairs. It’s the only way to end the interrogation.
“She’s not who she says she is.” Dean’s words chase after me, but I ignore him.
“She wanted to get back at you for humiliating her.” My stride falters when he continues, “Leaving you like this for us served that purpose. But she also likes you, so she made things interesting for you. Your phone was on the nightstand, and it showed a notification from one particular app saying the device was no longer connected. She had a remote-controlled vibrator inside her while she sucked you off—”
“Enough!”
I stride toward Dean, ready to shut him up, but Link stands between us.
“I’m not saying all of this to piss you off, Ace. I’m doing it in case you’ve forgotten how my observation skills work. You don’t get the way she is by living a normal life, raised by an accountant and a nurse. Not unless both of them were serial killers by night.”
“Well, for the record, my adoptive father was an accountant,” Link counters.
“You know damn well what I mean. You were not under his care to become what you are,” Dean snaps at Link.
“I can dig deeper and find out,” Link offers.
“No! She’ll tell me everything herself.”
With those words, I turn for the staircase, heading straight for my room.
Dean can be terrifying with everything he notices, and at this point, I can no longer deny he’s right.
Summer’s not who she says she is, but a different name or backstory won’t change what she is, or everything I like about her.
But I need her honesty.
I type in a message, hoping she’ll give it to me.
Tell me who you are!
She doesn’t answer for longer than acceptable, though she’s seen my message. I grab my phone, ready to call her when she texts me back.
Summer
Who am I? I’m someone who’s fucked up, and yet you like me, not despite it, but for it.
That makes you fucked-up, too, by the way.
I’m someone who’s been alone for some time and hates the confines of my desolate room.
Someone who didn’t want to like you, but here I am telling you all of this.
I suck at tennis. Shocker, right, since I’m that good at handling balls.
I’m great at math, and I know endless historical battle accounts.
My father used to tell us those as bedtime stories instead of fairy tales.
My fourth-grade teacher, Miss Morris, hated my brother and me because she suspected we were the ones who filled the tank of her car with water.
That mean old bitch deserved it. Because of Milo’s no-boys-around-me policy, my best friend took pity on me, and she was my first kiss.
I kissed a girl and I liked it. I’ve been with two men before you.
I’m sure you don’t have the same count as mine. Or have you fucked men?
She carries so much hurt, sweeping it under the rug with her humor. Yet she gives me truths. Not the ones I asked for, but the ones that truly matter. How she feels, what she loves, things from her past that made her who she is. But I’m greedy.
Give me more!
Radio silence for the longest ten minutes, before she replies.
Summer
I don’t have a favorite color in the typical sense like most people do, but the closest thing to that notion for me is teal and turquoise.
Did you know most people’s favorite color is blue?
Maybe because it reminds them of the sky and the ocean, even though they’re only perceived as blue because of how light interacts with the atmosphere and water.
My best friend told me that little fun fact a few years ago, and now every time I look at the sky or the ocean, I feel deceived.
My favorite dish is creamy lemon chicken piccata, and not to boast or anything, but no one makes it quite like me.
I’m allergic to peanuts, so there you go, a way for you to kill me if you want to.
I don’t even carry an EpiPen. It’s not like I have a death wish.
Been there, and it’s no fun. Once, for a whole minute, when I was eleven (not because of peanuts), and once, almost there, ten months ago, when my whole family was killed before my eyes in the most brutal ways possible. So what’s your favorite color?
She watched them die. Tortured?
It wasn’t a car crash like the record Link dug out stated. I thought she carried a lot of pain. It turns out it’s mountains stacked on mountains, but she still finds it in her to put on a strong facade.
Two texts. So much information. So many more questions.
What happened to her when she was eleven?
Who killed her family? Why? How did she get away?
I think she gave me the answer to that last question when she said Eli saved her life.
I want to know all the answers. I want to know everything about her, but what she gave me today must’ve been hard enough to share.
I’ll ask for more, but not now. Now, I need to be there for her.
Summer will never admit to any weakness, pain, or need, nor would she seek comfort.
But I won’t ask her to. If I hurry, I might get to her before she goes to sleep.
Putting on a shirt and a jacket, I rush down the stairs, answering Link’s single question.
“I’m sleeping over at Summer’s dorm.”
She’s not expecting me, and I bet she’ll be disappointed at not hearing from me after that last deeply personal text. But that feeling will wash away when she’s no longer alone.
I already have a high-priority task for tomorrow. Acquire an EpiPen. I’ll tell Connor to get me two. I could ask him for a private jet or a missile, and he’d deliver by morning.
I’ve never covered the distance between the house and the university campus in such a short time, not caring if I get pulled over. It’s not like I have a body in the trunk . . . currently.
Getting out of the car, I don’t walk, but run, taking two or three steps at a time up the stairs. I hope she hasn’t fallen asleep. I have a question to answer, after all.
When I get to her door, I don’t stop to knock or put an ear to it. For the first time, I’ll break into her room, and she’ll be happy to see me. And no, it’s not my delusional brain talking. We’ve come a long way from my first break-in and her denying the attraction she has for me.