‘Then what? Because dude.’
My heart pounded. I had to say it. It was stuck in my throat, but I forced it out, an uneven murmur in the empty hallway. ‘You said you’d rape her.’
‘What?’ He frowned, confused. ‘That’s just an expression – I don’t mean anything by it –’
‘It means something.’ I stared at him. ‘It’s a – sort of … trigger word for me.’
‘No shit,’ he said, and I stared at the floor between my knees. ‘Okay, well. Sorry? I’ll remember that’s your apeshit word, man.’
He had no idea.
I left home around midnight, after Dad and Grandpa were solidly asleep, which eliminated the need to explain where I was going. The air was just cold enough that I could see my breath, misting in front of me and curling over my shoulder with each step I took down the beach. The inlet wasn’t far, and it was impossible to get to without meandering through private yards or beaches. All the more reason Clark Richardson’s daddy wanted Grandpa’s beachfront property.
I heard, ‘Maxfiiiieeeeld,’ as I rounded a jut of rock and happened upon the bonfire, which was more like a campfire – probably in the interest of dodging attention from local authorities. There were less than a dozen people around it, though, so its size was adequate. Popping up from the sand, Wynn slapped my palm and bumped my knuckles as if we were lifelong bros, and I let out a breath. No ambush. I hadn’t realized I’d been expecting it until it didn’t happen.
There was a first-quarter moon and the sky was clear, and my eyes had completely adjusted to the semi-darkness during the walk. I recognized a few of the people there – like Thompson, who was giggling like a hyena and slapping his thigh over something one of the other guys had said.
There were also girls, and a couple of them were watching me curiously. Or maybe they were so stoned that I could be anyone or anything.
Wynn threw an arm over my shoulder. ‘Everybody know Maxfield?’
Thompson jutted his chin in my direction. ‘Hey.’ As if he hadn’t egged Boyce Wynn on to beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of me a little over a week ago.
‘Come sit by us,’ one of the girls said. She and her friend – Brittney Loper, she of the watermelon-sized boobs – were huddled inside a large blanket that looked more like a comforter yanked off one of their beds. It was floral and downy and smelled like pot – but that was probably because everything smelled like pot. The sweet, potent scent floated over the whole scene, a cloud of it hovering and dispersing, hovering and dispersing. I wondered if I’d even have to smoke a joint to get high.
The girls shifted apart, inviting me to sit between them. When I did, they huddled close on either side, sighing with contentment and pulling the blanket back over the three of us. My hoodie was suddenly a furnace. I unzipped it, and the girl on my right helped me strip it off. ‘Ooh, you are so warm.’ Her hands caressed my forearm and slid up inside the sleeve of my T-shirt. She gripped my bicep and I made a mental note to begin doing push-ups to exhaustion every single day, not just three or four times a week.
‘I’m Holly, by the way.’ She pressed closer and offered the joint, which I took.
‘Landon,’ I said.
‘Mmmm,’ Brittney said, as if my name alone was something appetizing. She pressed her chest against my arm and my body answered, like it knew from experience what to do next. It didn’t.
I watched Thompson take a hit off his joint, and I parroted his movements – after which I coughed like I was choking up a lung. Or dying.
‘Slow down, Landon,’ Holly said. ‘You don’t have to suck it all down in one go.’
‘That’s what he said,’ the guy next to us quipped, and the blood in my body didn’t know whether to heat my face or continue hardening my dick.
‘You wish,’ Holly said to him, sounding more amused than insulted, and the guy patted his lap in invitation. She shook her head. ‘I’m fine right here.’ As she peered up at me, dark tufts of her hair drifted up from a slight gust of wind, one loose tendril moving across my mouth and sticking there. She ran her fingers over my lower lip, pulling it free.
Harden it is.
I put the joint to my lips and pulled a more measured, careful hit, staring back at her.
‘There ya go,’ she encouraged, taking it back, placing her mouth where mine had just been and sucking a little deeper than I had before passing it to Brittney.
For the next half hour, the three of us took slow turns, their hands roaming over my arms, chest and back. Occasionally pressing into a thigh. Unless I was holding the joint, my fingers dug into the sand behind me, because I didn’t trust what I wanted to do with my hands.
Somewhere during that half hour, Holly leaned in and pressed her mouth to mine, just as I began to feel like the ground beneath me was a big, soft pillow, and everything sharp had muted – the talking and laughter around us, the stars in the sky, the nearby crash of waves on the sand. Between hits, I kissed her back, hoping I was doing a credible job of it. She licked my lower lip and I opened my mouth and touched my tongue to hers. Grabbing my shoulders, she lay back and pulled me down on top of her. Brittney sighed and abandoned the blanket to us, tossing it over our heads as our legs tangled under it, and I had no knowledge or care where I was after that.
Several hours later, I stumbled home, ate all the leftovers in the fridge, fell into bed, and had weird, scorchingly dirty dreams about Holly’s hands and mouth on me. I turned off my phone’s alarm when it alerted me that it was a weekday and time to get up. Having never skipped school, I felt a twinge of guilt. But I was too exhausted to give a shit, and I told myself it was just this once.