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Lucy
The house isoverrun with our graduating class. Everywhere I look, red Solo cups are being passed around and tossed back with vigor. The idea of getting drunk doesn’t sound appealing, so I keep a tight grip on my bottle of water and go hunt for Malcom.
I find him on the back deck a few minutes later, puncturing a beer can with a key and chugging the contents while a group of people chant him on. “Drink. Drink. Drink.”
He tosses the empty can in a growing pile in the grass and pulls me to him. His breath smells like trash, a mixture of cheap booze and stale cigarettes. I hold my breath when he pushes his sloppy, wet lips to mine. “Hey, baby. Wanna give it a try?”
I slip an arm around his waist and turn my head away from his seeking mouth. “Looks like you’re having fun.”
“I’m reigning champ so far, but who knows? Maybe you’ll take my crown the same way you took my heart.” His words are slurred and barely understandable.
“I’m good,” I say, releasing him and stepping away. He doesn’t notice. Instead, he raises his hands in the air, cheering on the next round of competitors.
The truth is that I never intended to make Malcom fall for me. I’m still not a hundred percent sure this thing between us can even be classified as love. Infatuation, maybe. For the most part, I think Malcom sees me as a game to win. We’ve been seeing each other for almost seven months now, and the farthest he has gotten is second base. Not because I don’t want to have sex. On the contrary, the idea excites me. But every time I close my eyes and picture a man touching me that way, it’s Weston I see.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see why that’s a problem. Even if he wasn’t Malcom’s father, he’s still twenty-something years my senior and not even a little interested.
Maybe once... before he knew.
It doesn’t help that he’s so damn kind and caring, always going out of his way to check on me and make sure I’m okay. Every single time he’s within three feet of me, I imagine leaping into his arms, the memories of our kiss consuming me... the feel of his scruffy beard against my cheek, those full lips locked with mine.
“Phew, girl, you are flushed. How many have you had tonight?” Becca waves her hand in my face.
“Enough,” I say, not bothering to mention that I haven’t drunk a single sip. The flush on my face has nothing to do with alcohol.
“Better stick to water for now. Looks like Malcom is about done too. Guess you won’t be losing your V-card tonight. He’s going to have whisky dick.” I love Becca, really. But sometimes, my best friend has a habit of saying whatever pops in her head. Most days, it’s fine. But sometimes, I’d like to not know her every thought.
I sigh and turn around. Sure enough, he’s chugging another beer and swaying on his feet. He takes a step to steady himself and overcorrects. One second, he’s balancing on the edge of the deck and the next, he’s tumbling headfirst into the pool.
The rest of the guys standing around take that as a cue to jump in with him, none of them bothering to notice it wasn’t intentional.
I glance at wide-eyed Becca. “Jesus. Help me drag him out, will you?”
Setting my bottle of water on a vacant chair, I lean over the edge of the pool. He’s in the shallow end but doesn’t seem to register that fact. His feet are kicking in the water, trying to keep his head above the water’s edge. I toss my shirt on the deck and slip the shorts down, then ease my way into the cool water. Once I reach him, I slip an arm under his and half drag, half pull him to the stairs. It takes a few minutes to get him out of the water, even with Becca taking his other side, but we manage to get him propped up on a lounge chair.
Becca grabs a couple of towels and passes them to me. I wrap one around my torso, covering my two-piece, and lay the other over him to soak up as much of the water as possible before pulling him back to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”
The house seems less packed now than it did an hour ago. I coax Malcom down the hall, thankful that his bedroom isn’t on the second floor. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten him up the steps tonight. He’s barely coherent now.
He makes a beeline for the bed, but I force him to wait while I peel his shirt and shorts off. He really is an incredibly attractive guy. In a few more years, he might look more like his father.
An image of Weston pops in my head, no shirt, with slick swim trunks stuck to his thighs.
God, get it together, Lucy.
Malcom falls sideways onto the bed, pulling me with him. We land in a heap on top of his gray comforter, and then his arms and hands are traveling across my flesh. Every time I get one hand moved, another is there. “Come on, baby, what’s one day? I want you.”
“No, Malcom. Not yet.” He knows I won’t budge. And besides, it’s only one more day until we go on the trip. He’s waited this long. He can damn sure wait until he’s able to stay awake for it.
Malcom pulls his hands away and tosses them over his face, pretending to pout. A few minutes later, soft snores fill the room. I ease from the bed, taking Malcom’s wet clothes from the floor, and gently close the bedroom door behind me.
I don’t know how much time has passed, but when I step out of the room, the party seems to be winding down. The music is still playing, but at a much more discreet volume. I step into the laundry room and toss Malcom’s clothes into the washer along with both of our towels. My swimsuit has almost completely dried, so I grab a tee shirt from a basket on the dryer and slip it over my head. When I exit, I walk straight into Weston.
“Oof.” Breath is forced out of me when I collide with him.
“Sorry. I didn’t see you there. Malcom?”
“He’s in bed, sound asleep,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.
