Page 19 of Dirty Tricks

I wrap her in my arms, regretting how the mask stops me from resting my head against hers.

The song isn’t meant to be a slow one, but we make it work, swaying to every third or fourth beat. Our bodies move in time, finding a rhythm together, pressed against each other until we’re one.

Her hand is against my back, the touch light but it pulls tighter when I spin her, so I do it again. The other is against my chest, our heights so disparate, she can’t comfortably stretch to rest it on my shoulder. Our thighs brush as we dip and sway, my hands against her lower back, offering her support if she needs it.

A bump swells in my throat, making my eyes water. My chest constricts until it feels like I’m about to implode.

This is perfection. This is more than I ever dreamed.

An alternate life spins out in my head. One where my stepdad is a father figure rather than a controlling nightmare. One where my face isn’t sliced and diced into disfigurement, where my brain propels me into better grades in school rather than hacking into the school databases for information.

In that world, I’d be her equal. I could fulfil my role of protector from beside her rather than from underneath her bed.

We could sit in the classroom, passing notes to each other. I could escort her from one lesson to another, then scramble to make it to my own class on time.

The worst problem would be conquering my nerves for long enough to ask her on a date.

Which she might still refuse, even in this candy coated version of the real world. A smile crosses my lips again.

My left hand nestles into the small of her back, knees bending so the full strain of our height difference doesn’t fall solely on her shoulders. My right hand cups her cheek, thumb stroking along her jawline while my chest clutches with the strength of emotion.

I want to take her to the movies, out to dinner. I want to fall in love slowly, telling each other stories from our childhoods, finding similarities, laughing at our differences.

You can listen to her stories of being raped by her dad while you tell the anecdote of being knifed by your stepfather.

A match made in hell rather than heaven, but it might still work if I ever gave it a chance.

Until you show her your real face and she runs screaming.

I tire of burrowing into my head and turn my attention back to how her small frame connects with mine. Once she finds out the truth, she’ll never let me near her again. So, if this is my one chance then, at the very least, I want to kiss her.

On our next twirl past the DJ, I see a side door open. Two dishevelled and starry-eyed partygoers tumble out, adjusting their costumes. A closet? A door through to a secret staff room?

When the musical beat lets me, I spin Lexa closer to the opening, until there’s a transition from one song to another, and I’m near enough to try the door handle. Unlocked.

I put my finger to my mask—shh—and whisk her inside, locking the door behind us before I use my phone light to see where we are.

“You’ve hauled me into a cleaning closet?” she says, her voice adrift on barely contained laughter. “I demand to know your intentions at once.”

Instead of answering, I shove my phone in my pocket, blinking in the darkness, waiting for the hovering lights in my retinas to fade.

When they do, I reach out for Lexa, pulling her close against me. My body trembles as I lift my mask away, placing it on a narrow bench beside the entrance. I shiver as I sense her head tilt back.

I’m desperate to kiss her, except she’ll feel the scars on my lips.

She’ll know I’m a fake.

Instead, I kiss her neck, pulling down her collar to reveal a patch of bare skin, fixing my mouth to her, my tongue licking across the surface, tasting her unique blend. I spin her to face away from me, slowly peeling away her blazer. I fold it neatly, placing it on the bench before I reach around to unbutton her blouse, easing the fabric from her shoulders.

Her palms brace against a cabinet as I kiss my way along her spine, letting my tongue explore the bumps and dips, rubbing my evening stubble between her shoulder blades, exulting each time I coax forth a gasp, a moan.

Once her blouse is folded on top of her blazer, I draw her back against me with my right arm, my left stroking along her shoulder, down past her elbow, entwining our fingers while I move a step farther into the closet, navigating by touch.

I bend her forward, placing her palm flat on the bench next to her clothes. I remove my arm from around her waist, caressing the curves of her body. Her skin heats beneath my touch. Her nipples harden, noticeable even through the thickness of her bra.

A tremble of anticipation makes my legs quiver as I bend over her, running my tongue from the waistband of her kilt up to the nape of her neck, unable to resist pressing my hardening cock against her plump arse, my mind whiting out with pure ecstasy for long seconds, floating into a parallel universe where anything is possible. Even the events I couldn’t dare to dream.

Her hand reaches behind her, clutching around my thigh, drawing me closer and the touch is so bitter-sweet that tears come to my eyes.

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