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He fights and twists some more. But eventually he wears himself out, breathing hard and going slack in my arms, leaning against me.
"They suck," he chokes against my shirt.
"I know."
"I hate them."
"You won't always." I lean back, looking down into his eyes. Aaron's so much like my brother--smart, good, steady--when he's not hurting. "It won't be like this forever, Aaron. I promise."
He wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand, sniffling and nodding.
I hook my arm around his neck, dragging him along. "Come on, I'm driving you guys over to Nana and Pop's. You're staying there tonight."
~
After my family drama quota is filled for the day, Callie and I finally make it to Mr. Martinez's furniture store and find her a white wrought-iron bed. Getting the queen-sized mattress inside her room is a trip and a half, mostly because Callie's dad insists on helping me drag the fucker in.
From his wheelchair. With his right, casted leg sticking straight out like jousting lance.
"You're going the wrong way, Stanley!" Callie's mom yells from the open back screen door, with a cigarette hanging from her lips.
"I'm not going the wrong way!" he shouts back.
But, yeah, he kind of is.
Still, we manage to get the mattress into the hallway, which, thankfully, is too narrow for his wheelchair.
"Thanks for the help, Mr. Carpenter. I got it from here."
Callie's room hasn't changed a bit. Same pink walls, same flowery curtains hanging over the window I used to sneak through after her curfew--so we could screw quietly on her blanket on the floor. Good times.
Her old CD player is still here too--playing her favorite band.
"Jesus, Callie, ABBA? I see living in California didn't improve your taste in music."
She slaps my ass, scowling all fierce and protective of her bad music. It's really fucking cute.
"Leave my ABBA alone. They're classic and they make me happy." With "SOS" as our background music, Callie picks up a wrench and opens the assembly instructions, tilting her head in a way that makes me want to bite her pale, graceful neck. "Now let's get this sucker put together. Time's a-wasting, Coach."
Half an hour later, I slide the mattress on the bed frame and push it into the corner. With a naughty look on her face, Callie slips around me to her bedroom door, opens it a crack, and listens. The only sound from the living room is the hum of the TV. She shuts the door, meets my eyes . . . and locks it with a decisive click.
Then she hops on her bed--her tits bouncing beautifully under her sweater--and my mouth goes dry. She lies back on her elbows, with one foot braced on the mattress and the other dangling off the edge.
"We've got about fifteen minutes before they start trying to maneuver the wheelchairs around the kitchen to fix dinner for themselves. Until then . . . wanna make out?"
It's absolutely crazy how much those words turn me on. All the blood in my body rushes south to my groin, making my head go light and my balls heavy. I want her. Even in the rapture of our horniest, hormonal adolescent days, I don't think I wanted her this much.
Callie's green eyes rake down over me, like she's imagining all the things we can do to each other in that timeframe--and we can do a lot. I'm efficient like that.
And I don't think about the game last night, or my brother's issues this morning--they're not even a whisper in my mind. All there is, all I see, is me and Callie alone in this god-awful pink room, with ABBA playing on the radio and her beckoning me to the bed with those smiling lips and dancing eyes.
She gives a throaty laugh when I practically pounce on her, nestling my hips between her oh-so-welcoming thighs. I take that pretty mouth in a deep kiss, and thrust slow and firm against her, feeling how hot she is for me, for this, through our jeans. Sensation races up my spine and Callie gasps into my mouth.
Things go from playful to rock-hard serious real fucking quick. Callie pushes against my chest, and I grasp her waist, keeping us tight and flushed together as we roll over. We're chest to chest, her long legs straddling my hips and her hot, sweet pussy sits on my straining dick.
Perfect . . . she feels so fucking perfect.
"Garrett," she breathes out in an airy moan.
And I groan back, low in my throat, "Callie. Jesus, Callie."
Her hips roll and rock, back and forth, slow at first . . . then in a faster . . . a more desperate slide that makes my eyes roll back in my fucking head. My fingers dig into the flesh of Callie's ass and I thrust up quick and hard against her.
"Fuck me . . ."
Roughly, I yank the neck of her sweater down, baring one breast covered in a pale pink bra. I break my mouth from Callie's and blaze a trail of licking kisses down her chest. Callie sucks at my shoulder, biting at the base of my neck, rotating her hips in glorious circles, rubbing her clit on my thick cock, jerking us both off with the pressure.
I dip my head and wrap my lips around her, taking in a mouthful of delicate lace and gorgeous tit. I suckle her hard . . . then harder . . . flicking my tongue relentlessly over her perfect pebbled nipple. Callie's back bows, arching, giving me more of her breast. God damn delicious. She yanks at my hair, holding me tight, writhing in perfect, shameless abandon.
But times flies. And life's not a bitch . . . it's a cockblocker.
Because just as Callie starts to chant my name in that beautiful, high-pitched, keening voice--always a telltale sign she's about to fall apart in my arms . . . Mrs. Carpenter's raspy voice punches through the bedroom walls.
"Callie! Is Garrett staying for dinner?" There's a crash of pots and pans, like a full set of cymbals got knocked to the ground. "I'm making sloppy joes!"
We freeze, mid-hump. And the fiery lust fusing us together gets doused with a big bucket of arctic seawater.
"Fuck," Callie pants against my hair.
I release her breast with a pop of my lips. "That was the idea."
She laughs, but it's more of a painful, choking sound. "This is awful."
I breathe slow against her, working to get my shit under control.
"No. No, it's okay. It's better this way." And I try and make myself believe that, which is hard when your cock is achingly . . . well . . . hard.
I brush her cheek with my fingers. "I want to be able to take my time with you, Callie." My voice goes harsh, low, as I give words to the fantasy unfurling in my mind. "I don't want clothes between us or your parents on the other side of the wall. I want to feel it when you come all around me. And when I'm inside you, I'm going to want to stay for a hell of a lot longer than fifteen minutes."
Callie's eyes are glazed, lust-drunk, and I wonder if I can make her come like this with words and promises alone.
"I want to be above you, beneath you, behind you . . . I want you weak, drained from coming, hoarse from screaming my name. I'm going to need hours, baby . . . fucking days..."
Her hips lift, rubbing against me, starting us up all over again. "Yeah . . . God, Garrett, I want that too."
"Callie!" Mrs. Carpenter yells again. "Did you hear me?"
I give up. I collapse back on the bed.
"Yes!" Callie yells at the wall. "Yes, I'm coming."
And then she groans while smiling, looking down at me. "Except I'm really not."
I laugh, even though it hurts. And my dick starts thinking of new, inventive ways to kill me for toying with him this way.
Callie takes a deep, cleansing breath. Then she drags herself away from me, standing next to her shiny new bed. "Do you want to stay for dinner?"
"No, thanks." I glance down at the massive bulge straining my pants. "I'm going to just head home and spend the night rubbing one out. Or maybe . . . five."
She leans down, her hair falling around us as she pecks my lips. "Same."
Chapter Twelve
Callie
On Monday, I start showing the '80s movie Little Shop of Horrors to my classes, and, as if the semi-bribery weren't enough, it seem
s to make them like me more. I guess an in-class video day never gets old.
Then we start auditions. I bring them all down to the big stage in the auditorium, because on a stage, with a spotlight in your face and endless rows of seats staring back at you . . . the whole world looks different.
I sit at a table, just beyond the orchestra pit, with Michael beside me and the other students congregating in the back, talking quietly and staring at their phones. I call them up one by one--each student who didn't sign up for a crew spot. James Townden, a senior with plans to attend Juilliard next year, gets excused from his classes to accompany the auditions on piano. Once they're on stage, I have them sing "Happy Birthday." It's quick, everyone knows it, and it gives me great insight into their vocal range.
Bradley Baker goes first.
"I wanna be Audrey Two," he declares from the center stage. "He's the star of the show, and he's got a big head--I was born to play this role."
"Noted," I tell him, folding my hands.
Then Bradley proceeds to jump around the stage, wave his arms, howl out the birthday song. His voice is terrible . . . but he's entertaining. Completely over the top.
