Deeper

It’s the most obscene kiss of my life. Deep and hard, gasping hot, sticky-sweet, messy.

It turns out that West doesn’t even need words to make the point he came here to make.

Mine, his mouth says. Mine, mine, mine.

But I’m not. I’m my own. And I grab his hair, pull it, scratch his neck, punishing him for not getting that. For doing this, for never having done this before—I don’t know. Punishing him for torturing me.

It goes on, and I’m vaguely aware of somebody whooping. Maybe lots of somebodys. I don’t care. My hands clench and unclench at his hips. He’s saying my name. Kissing down my neck to my throat. He’s catching his breath, pressing his forehead against mine.

And then he’s standing up, leaving me cold. Alone.

He shoots a glare at Scott and walks away.

It’s only then that I understand how deeply, righteously, incandescently furious I am.

I’m stripped to my bra, dancing in a heaving mass of shirtless, sweaty, smiling, grinding women.

I’m safe, and I’m drunk, and I’m tired of men writing their claims on my body.

Slut, Nate wrote, and I believed him.

Mine, West wrote, and I let him, I melted, I gave him my surrender and my tongue, but I’m mad now. I’ve had enough of his shit. Enough.

Qui

There’s a reason the rugby party is popular beyond the blow jobs, and it has a lot to do with the pile of shirts on the stage by the DJ. We’re down to our sports bras, lace bras, acres of exposed flesh, girls who are too fat and too thin and just right, and none of us cares. We’re here to dance. We’re here for one another.

There’s a line dance. I don’t know the steps. They’re simple, but I keep forgetting them, crashing into people, spi

I’m not bad. I’m not good. I’m just alive. I’m just here, dancing.

I love everyone. Everyone loves me. We’re heat and sweat, young and beautiful, sexy, together. Not one of these women would hurt me.

I drink and I’m drunk. I dance and I’m breathing, moving, living.

We’re in the middle of the dance floor, the center of everything, and sometimes I think I catch sight of him at the edge of the room.

Boots and crossed legs, leaning against the wall. Hooded eyes. Watching.

Sometimes I think I see pants with whales on them. A smirking smile that knows too much. A dimple that made me think I was safe when I never was, no matter how nice his parents are or how good his ma

But I’m angry and I’m dancing and I don’t care.

Fuck them.

Fuck them both.

“I don’t want to see him.”

“Shh!”

“What? I’m whispering.”

I trip over something, and Qui

“You don’t have to see him,” Krishna says. “He’s sleeping. Keep your trap shut, and you’ll be fine.”

Qui

“Shit!” She starts giggling.

She and Krishna are fighting for the remote. I’m thinking about whether I should leave, but Bridget helps me up and shoves a cold bottle of water in my hand, so I drink that instead. I close my eyes, savoring every freezing, quenching, amazing swallow.

The sound drops off to a hush. The apartment smells like West’s apartment, and it’s full of memories I don’t want right now—except, of course, that I always want them and I always want him and there’s nothing I can do about it.

The water soothes my throat, at least. My feelings will have to wait for some other night.

I open my eyes because my balance is off, which is much more obvious now that we’re not at the party. Bridget is right up in my face, tucking my hair behind my ear, and I have to stick a hand out and brace myself against a cabinet so her beer-smelling concern doesn’t bowl me over again.

“Why did you bring me here?” My question is supposed to be a whisper, but it sounds like a whimper. “I don’t want to see him.”

“I know, sweetie. I know. We weren’t sure what else to do with you. We have to sober you up, and you were too loud for the dorm.”

She leads me to the couch, where Qui

“This is sooooo good.”

“Don’t forget to chew,” Krishna says. “You know that’s all coming back up later.”

“No way,” Qui

“Are you serious?”

Krishna and Qui

“Nice greeting.” He bends down to take off his snow-covered boots and disappears from view. I’m down by the floor, covered in chip crumbs and probably smeared all over with nacho cheese. He hasn’t seen me. I don’t care.

“Dude, I thought you were asleep in your room,” Krishna says.

“Not asleep.”

“Yeah, so I gather. You been at the bar?”

There’s a dull thud. “Yeah.” Then a few seconds’ silence and a loud crash. “Shit.”

“You’re drunk.”

“No kidding.”

Krishna turns to look at Qui

Then he sees me and stops.

“Have to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk,” I tell him.

“Yeah. I bet. Listen—” He cuts himself off. Looks at Bridget, Qui

“It’s three in the morning,” Qui

“In winter,” Bridget points out.

Krishna crosses his arms. “We’re responsible for her tonight.”

“I’ll be responsible,” West tells him.

“You’re drunk.”

“So?”

“So you can’t take off your shoes without falling over. I’m not giving you Caroline.”

“Hello? I’m down here? Alive and well? Perfectly capable of making my own decisions?”

“I’m taking her,” West says.

“I’m not leaving her,” Krishna insists.

“Fine. Stay. But we’re going in the bedroom.”

“Maybe I don’t want—”

And then I’m upside down, with West’s shoulder a hard pressure in my gut, and I have to focus, because my eyes are prickling and hot and I’m afraid I’m going to puke on him.

He picked me up. Picked me up off the floor and threw me over his shoulder.

That dick.

When he sets me down, I bump into the wall. He closes the door and locks it.

He’s so dead.

“You Neanderthal. You fucking—fucking—Piltdown Man. How dare you? How dare you?”

He’s over by his desk, pulling his wallet out and setting it in the drawer. Taking off his jacket. Unzipping his hoodie. He opens a drawer and pulls out a string of condoms and puts one in his pocket.