43. NOAH
Chapter forty-three
The drive home was a total mindfuck, with those usual air raid sirens blasting in my skull the whole time. Because I had sex. With Roxanne Wishmore.
Yeah, you heard that right.
The same Roxanne who used to hate my guts, then became my bandmate, then my colossal crush, then my best friend, and now turned into… well, something. It’s been a hell of a ride with her, one jerk of the chain after another.
I’d played out in my mind what Roxanne might look like underneath me and, per usual, reality is so much better than anything my imagination cooks up. Those wide eyes, her skin painted with a dozen hickies I’d left behind—it’s enough to make a guy lose his shit.
I can attest to that fact because here I am, the next day later, still losing my shit.
After we put our clothes back on and crammed into the front seat, it was painfully clear that neither one of us had the foggiest fucking idea what to say. Probably because we both said some heavy stuff in the heat of the moment.
“And if you were the rain, I would welcome even the thunder.”
I’m pretty sure it was sex talk. Even though she was avoiding eye contact and straight-up running away from me as she pressed on the gas pedal, I meant every word.
It’s funny how this all started with me being an overprotective bandmate with a crush on the drummer, not able to handle the idea of her getting it on with someone else. It’s funny, because I don’t give a damn about the orgasms.
What matters infinitely more is bringing her a piece of comfort no one else seems to offer. I care about the way her face lights up when she talks about her dad, listening to her funny recaps, the way she ribs me during practice or class, and holding her when a storm is passing through.
I care about making her feel good about herself and being the one she turns to when she needs someone, my hand on her knee when I can sense how stressed she is. I care about the smiles, those dimples. I care about swapping stories of the years before we knew each other, the time I unknowingly was missing Roxanne.
I care about Roxanne. A lot. Like, I’d hang the fucking stars for her a lot. She’s so special, something to stare at for hours and never get bored.
So yeah, we had sex. It was fucking incredible but that’s not what matters most to me. What matters is Roxanne, and that I love that goddamn woman.
Fuck .
I must be losing it because my mind is messing with me since I swear I hear that beast of a car zooming down my street.
Shaking my head, I do my best to pay attention to the doodles on my sketchpad and not on the girl across town. My head hits the headboard, the paper resting on my lap while my pencil presses darker against the branch of the oak tree I’ve been drawing.
I’m exhausted, yet my dick is harder than my pencil lead and refusing to get on board with the whole ‘I want to pass out for 15 hours straight’ memo that the rest of my body had eagerly accepted after nearly snapping my neck from headbanging at the Pulvertongue concert.
This godforsaken winter break stretches on for the rest of the week, and not seeing her every day and feeling her weight in the air has been driving me nuts. Thank god we have practice today and tomorrow since she was able to take the whole weekend off work. It seems my lower half is well aware that I’ll be seeing her very soon.
No, it still isn’t about the orgasms, okay .
I’ve learned to navigate the minefield of attraction over time with her. It is a skill I have learned through ignoring the allure of every beautiful girl twirling in a sundress or playing oblivious to every pair of lusty eyes after gigs with Iron Fillings.
Attraction is a familiar road, but that isn’t the reason for my body’s craving for her.
The feeling in my body that has been steadily growing in my chest over the past weeks whenever I let myself stare at Roxanne for a little too long is an entirely different animal. An animal I need to confront, tame, and have a stern talking to.
I’m in deep. Deep enough to admit that I want—love—her.
But she might not want you.
My fucking brain.
I hate that glob inside my skull.
Gritting my teeth, I slide further onto my back and blink up at the ceiling, tossing my sketch off to the side while a headache forms right in between my eyebrows.
A single, solitary knock from the door makes it pound even harder.
I jump up from my bed and fix my shirt before slowly pulling the door open, my lungs emptying at the sight of Dennis standing behind it. I straighten, meeting those piercing green eyes that remind me too much of the Exorcist.
His eyes are nothing like Roxanne’s. His are cold, lighter, and pure fucking evil. I’m always aware of the narrow margin for error when I have to look into his.
“Noah.”
My eyes snap back up to his, and my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Great, exactly what I need. Getting caught daydreaming about Roxanne’s eyes and grimacing at the ones in front of me.
A smile crosses Dennis’ face, and it instantly has the hair on my arms standing up. That smile never means anything good.
“Get dressed,” he demands, the words carrying an ominous weight. The air in the room is always heavy with him, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking into something I really want to avoid.
“I am dressed.” I gesture to my jeans and t-shirt. It’s not like I’m lounging around in my fucking birthday suit.
“Don’t be cute. You’re coming with me to the mayor’s for dinner.”
“What? I have plans—”
He cuts me off quickly. “Are you really going to talk back to me after everything we've discussed?” His gaze is bored and dealing with me is the last thing he wants to do. “You can cancel whatever you’re supposed to be doing tonight and you will take that as a command, not a suggestion.”
My teeth clack when I shut my mouth.
“It’s not me who requires you,” he goes on, “you’ve been requested to attend tonight.”
What? “By who?”
“His daughter.”
Wendy? What the hell does she want with me?
Dennis advances with a large step, and my stomach tightens into a pebble-sized ball. He always has a way of casting shadows that make the room feel smaller, and right now, I’m trapped in a fucking dark cave with a giant bear.
“Put on something nice, and meet me downstairs.”
“But I—”
His hand comes down on my shoulder, and my muscles hike up, preparing for a fight. “You’re going to put something nice on before I have to ask again and make a better impression than the last time you were there. Do you want him thinking we don’t have any dignity in this house?”
I don’t care.
I wet my dry throat. “No.”
“No?”
“No, sir.”
His hand lingers, a reminder of the damage it could inflict. “Now, put some clothes on. No jeans.”
I take a breath. “Okay.”
Dennis gives my room a once over and flicks his critical eyes back to me, looking displeased as always. I hear the internal “tsk.” It must not be bad enough for a lecture since he backs out easily and turns around, heading down the hall. I wait until I hear him descend the stairs before I close my door, my hands shaking as I fist at my hair.
I do not want to go to that fucking dinner, and I don’t want to know what Wendy is trying to pull with requesting me there. The whole thing is hanging over my head like a giant neon sign pointing down at me and buzzing “suffering ahead.”
But I don’t want to piss off Dennis more than any of that because I very much enjoy my fucking ability to walk and see. Dennis’ wrath trumps everything. Guess that means instead of seeing Roxanne, I get to play dress-up and pretend to be the perfect stepson for a night.
As I contemplate my life choices, wondering as usual what I did to deserve this, it hits me that I really need to come up with a plan to get the fuck out of this house. Graduation is in four months and I’ve got nothing up my sleeve.
I’ll panic about that later. Right now I need to call my band before they get pissed off that I don’t show up. Roxanne will chew my head off and I don’t need another skatepark incident. Things are too sweet with us now to mess it up.
I dial her first, my sanity hanging in the balance as I hear that ringtone in my ear.
No answer.
I try a few more times, hoping she’ll walk through her bedroom door at any minute and pick up the phone, but it never happens.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Next on the list is Daniel, but the universe seems determined to keep my cries for help unheard. Awesome.
Sighing in surrender, I dive into my closet, pulling out a black suit jacket, a thin tie, and some matching slacks. Swapping out my outfit is basically me waving the white flag to Dennis, but he can fuck off if he thinks I’m going to be wearing dress shoes. The Chucks stay on.
My feet deserve a rebellion too.
As I pad down the staircase, the harbinger of doom awaits me with his scythe. The guy looks like the human embodiment of authoritative control—charcoal gray suit, power tie cinched neatly at his throat that I want to reach out and choke until he fucking bleeds, and polished black oxfords that, with each step, seem ready to crush whatever remains of my spirit.
My mom, on the other hand, is in a deep blue robe on the couch. Though her neck has a string of pearls that loops around, catching the light as she stares off into the TV. No doubt she’s already had a double wine and pill cocktail. Her dark hair is swept up into an intricate bun, revealing a pair of pearl-drop earrings.
It’s clear she planned to join us, but somewhere between robe and dress, the plan fell apart. If only I could get that lucky.
Dennis stands at the foot of the stairs, his green eyes sizing me up as I reach the last step. “Took you long enough.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t find my dress shirt.” A lie.
He glances down at my beloved Chucks. “You’re not going to wear those, are you?”
“Do you want me to take longer?”
His laser eyes are trying to vaporize me on the spot and my lips shake trying not to smirk.
The lasers narrow down on me as he takes a step closer. “You better not embarrass me tonight, Noah.” The unspoken or else hangs in the air with his invisible scythe.
I swallow hard, nerves settling like lead in my stomach. “I won’t, sir.”
God, I hate how much of a pushover I turn into around him. I transform into Harley, and he’s me. The one holding the mallet.
His lips are back in their usual cold smile, the kind that makes it clear he isn’t buying it. “Last time was a disaster. You’re representing this family, and I won’t tolerate any screw-ups. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble, oxfords already crushing me. I’ve really got to find a way out of this house, and soon.
He leans in, his peppermint breath uncomfortably close. “I’ve worked hard to build a reputation in this town and no son of mine will ruin it for me because you can’t learn to control yourself. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I reply. I already said I’d behave, how many times does he have to say it? I’m not a fucking dog.
He straightens, adjusting his tie. “Good. Now, let’s go.”
Mentally my hands are around that tie and tightening it.
The short journey to the mayor’s house is a slow march to my own execution. Each glare from Dennis tightens the invisible noose around my neck, the drive turning into a descent into the depths of my own personal hell. It’s a two-minute drive, but the suffocation is real, and tonight feels really wrong. This is all some kind of test, one I have to pass to avoid scythe dangling over my head.
Why is Wendy requesting my presence? That’s a red flag if I’ve ever seen one. She’s never shown any interest in me after everything that happened, so why the fuck now? Is this some kind of ploy to get back at me for ignoring her at Winter Formal? Is she trying to piss her dad off again by bringing me here? Whatever the cause, I don’t like it.
And then there’s Dennis, always watching, always judging. His eyes are on me and we’re not even out of the car, waiting for me to slip up so he can pounce. He gets off on making me squirm, on reminding me that he’s the one in control unless I want to prepare the freezer with more ice packs for my future bruised body.
We turn into the circular driveway of the Mayor’s house, and Dennis shoots me a final warning look from the driver’s side. “Remember what I said. Represent this family with respect. And wipe that smirk off your face.”
I nod and tilt my head down to roll my eyes, my palms clammy as I fist at my slacks. It’s 1991 now, for fuck’s sake. You’d think we’d be past all this perfect family bullshit.
Apparently, in this town, image is everything.
I just hope that Roxanne won’t be mad at me. Maybe I can sneak away momentarily and dial her up from a phone in the house if I act fast enough.
No way am I blowing her off for some bullshit dinner with people I can’t stand.