Page 63 of Foolish Games

“I’m saying you need to chill out,” I say, brushing her shoulder with my knuckles. “It’s not a big deal to them. They do shit like that all the time, except usually, they all get a turn. It’s only a big deal to you.”

“Not to you?”

“And to me,” I agree. “I’ll remember it every day for the rest of my life.”

“Now you’re just being a jerk,” she says, glowering at me.

“How?”

“You’re making fun of me for thinking it’s a big deal.”

I sigh. “Fine. I’ll try to remember to get expressed, written permission before I eat you out next time.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“It’s just… Sex isn’t casual to me.”

“Well, we didn’t have sex, so what’s the big deal? We’re just having a little fun.”

“That’s the thing,” she says. “It’s not just… It’s different for me, okay?”

“Different how?” I ask, toying with the ends of her caramel hair. “You can’t pretend you weren’t having a good time when I went down on you.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

She sighs and pulls her hair away, gathering it and letting it fall down her back in a silky waterfall. “It is a big deal to me, okay? All of it. I know it’s not to you, and that’s fine. But I can’t just do the whole hookup thing with no strings. It means something to me.”

My chest tightens, and I sit up, scooting over to her. I slip my arm around her lower back, pulling her closer. “Vivienne,” I whisper, cupping her cheek in my palm. “It means something to me too. Maybe it didn’t always, but with you, it’s a big deal.”

eighteen

#1 at the Box Office: Scream 2

Sebastian Swift

“Yo, Bash,” Melody says, poking her head into my room, her headphones around her neck instead of covering her ears for once.

“What’s up?” I ask, shoving the sexy picture of Viv between the pages of the oversized Rolling Stone magazine on my pillow.

“What was that?” she asks, shaking her lank, greasy hair out of her eyes.

“Nothing you need to know about,” I say, sitting up. “And never date a jock.”

“Eww,” she groans, drawing out the word when she sees the bottle of hand lotion beside the bed. “Were you whacking off in here?”

“Not anymore,” I say, scowling. “What do you need?”

“Batteries,” she says, holding up her CD Walkman. “Got any?”

“Yeah, a few,” I say, sighing and standing from the bed, since seeing my sister killed my boner anyway. “What you listening to?”

“Lisa Loeb,” she says. “Or I was, until this stupid thing died.”

“You know, you could just listen to the radio at home,” I point out. “It has a CD player, and you don’t have to use up your batteries.”

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