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“What are you doing here?” I ask, stopping in front of him.
He doesn’t say a word as he jumps down and goes to the passenger’s side. Then he opens the door, motions for me to get inside.
“Hey!” I flick the brim of his cap so I can see his face. “You suddenly gone mute on me?”
He smiles, but it’s forced, and he offers a “hey” as he settles a hand on my waist. “I wanted to see you.”
To be honest, I’d looked out for him at school, but I hadn’t seen him. Not even at our lockers. So I sure as hell wasn’t expecting to see him here, now. “You saw me this morning.”
Eyes rolling, his shoulders slump as he urges me into his vehicle. “Shut up. Get in.”
There areno questions when we get to my house. Holden exits the car before I do and waits for me to open the door. The second we’re inside, he isonme—his hands, his mouth, exploring parts of me he familiarized himself with only yesterday.
He has me pressed against the door when his mouth moves down to my jaw, toward my neck, and I’m suddenly aware of the fact that I’d just finished work, and I’m probably covered in grime. “Holden, I’m so gross right now.” I flatten my palms on his chest, trying to push him away. “I probably taste like bacon grease.”
He laughs against my neck, but it does nothing to ease my embarrassment. “I love bacon,” he states, and then he’s sweeping me off my feet, our mouths locked. My legs wrap around his torso while my fingers lace through his hair, and I have no idea where his hat went.
I can feel his need through the bulge in his shorts, rubbing against my center as he walks me to the bedroom. Heat swarms through my veins when he drops me on the bed, and there isn’t a hint of hesitation as he lowers my zipper, removes my jeans. His hands are rough when he grabs at my breast through my shirt, squeezing hard, and I wince, but he doesn’t hear me.
He doesn’t seem to notice anything: the pace of his actions, the hint of uncertainty momentarily locking up my bones. He’s way too distant… toolost. I can see it in his eyes now, sense it in the way he touches me, the way he maneuvers me onto my stomach, and then to my hands and knees.
I watch his face as he rolls on a condom—his eyes mainly—and I wish I could see something there. See the passion, the heat, the desire. But there’s nothing: nothing but an illusion of life set in the forest of his irises.
I flip onto my back before things go too far, and it’s only now I realize that the motherfucker’s still fully dressed. Shoes and all. “What the hell are you doing?”
“What?” He has the audacity to sound pissed andfuck him.
I stand up, pushing him away as I pass him, and move to the other side of the room. I fight back my anger, my disappointment, and keep my eyes on his when I say, “Don’t do this shit again, Holden.”
“Do what, exactly?”
“Dowhat?” I repeat, louder than I’d expected. “You think it’s okay to come here and just use my body as a vessel to empty your pent-up emotions? Fuck you!”
His gaze drops, chest deflating with his exhale. After discarding the condom in the trashcan by my dresser, he breathes out, “I have to go.”
“Of course you do,” I murmur, shaking my head as I watch him stalk toward the door.
He halts mid-step, eyes snapping to mine. “What does that mean?” he sighs out, his face pinching with irritation.
“You know…” I start, my gaze dropping to the rings on my fingers, “the day after my mom died, I burned all her shit in the field out back, because that’s how I deal with my emotions. Idestroythem, and then I bury them.” I take a breath, attempt to stay calm, but I’m losing the battle. The fight. “And it’s cool if sex is how you deal with yours. They’re both fucked up, but the difference? I wasn’t hurting anyone.”
His eyebrows shoot up as he takes a step toward me. “Ihurtyou?”
“Not physically. No.”
His shoulders visibly relax.
“But you just made me feel like trash right now,” I say, reaching down to the floor to pick up my jeans. I slide them on slowly, needing the distraction, so he doesn’t see the tears threatening to fall or hear the pain in my voice when I add, “Why is it so easy for you to use me and just throw me away?”
“Jamie…”
There’s an ache in my chest, twisting, burning heat behind my eyes, and I can’t let him see like this. I can’t give him this power over me. “I get that we did this whole thing last night, and it might be confusing to you, but I never agreed to be yourfuck buddy, so if that’s all you want—”
“It’s not.” He leans against the wall opposite me, head lowered as he cracks his knuckles. “I’m sorry.” I focus on the largeness of his hands, the strength each of his fingers possesses. “The last thing I want is to hurt you. Physically or otherwise. And I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”
My pulse rages against my chest, beating hard against my flesh. And I don’t even try to hide my resentment. “Yeah, well you did, and I don’t know if sorry is going to cut it.”
When he doesn’t respond, I slide my focus from his hands to his face. Eyes already on mine, I watch the myriad of emotions fleet across them—a mixture of conviction and uncertainty. And I know that look… know that feeling. I drown in it every time I look at him.
