Page 63 of Getting It Twisted

My lip curls. “Why?”

He starts counting on his fingers. “One: I live with him. Two: He’s my friend, whether you like it or not. Three: It’s a small town. You two are bound to run into each other.”

“Daniel, he hit me.”

“You hit him too.”

I give him a sharp look. “Oh, so you think ’cause I broke his nose six years ago when he was being a jerk, he should be allowed to hit me whenever he wants?”

“You know that’s not what I think, and I talked to him about it.”

“And?”

“He’s . . . sorry.”

“Sure.” Arms crossed, I slump back in the seat and send him the side-eye. “Admit it—you like me like this. You like my bite.”

He raises a hand and runs his thumb over my lower lip. “I like you better when you’re begging for my cock.”

“That so?” I reach over and slide a hand over his thigh. “How much begging are we talking?”

“Today, not so much. You owe me one.”

I owe him a blow job for fucking around with George? Fine by me.

“Did you tell him about us, by the way? He seemed more pissed at me than usual.”

“He figured it out.” Daniel leans back, unzips his jeans, and pulls out his cock. My mouth waters at the sight. “Hurry up. The sun’s setting.”

“Where are you taking me anyway?”

“Mumphrey Hill.”

I lean over the center console, and he pushes me down with a decisive grip on my hair. My throat tingles as I inhale his musky scent through my nose, tongue gliding down his girthy shaft.

Mumphrey Hill, huh. And what memories does he want us to pull up from that old shithole?

Chapter 12

Daniel

My head feels suspiciouslyempty when I exit the car. Nathan must have sucked some of my brain matter out with that blow job. No wonder he’s so proud of his dick-sucking skills; he’s a fucking master and he knows it.

The decrepit, unfinished mansion of Mumphrey Hill looms up ahead. Legends say it was commissioned by some hotshot investor whose business went under before the construction finished, and the place got stuck in legal limbo. With time, it became the refuge and playground for the town’s delinquents.

Delinquents like me and Nathan.

The proximity to our high school meant we could bike up here during lunch recess. We sprayed the white marble walls with graffiti. We smoked weed, listened to music, and enjoyed the view of Springvale’s prime vantage point. We even lived here a whole summer when we were fourteen.

Every time I think of it, I can’t help but smile. Nothing has come close to that summer so far, and maybe nothing ever will.

We spend the rest of the evening exploring the rooms. We zigzag across the pillars and the curved ceiling of what should have been a luxurious bedroom, pass the half-finished bathroom and the ruined shell of the downstairs kitchen.

Now it’s all crumbled, and every inch of the walls is covered in graffiti.

Somewhere in here lives an echo of our former selves. I hoped we could find some sign of us—some remnant of our ghosts and the people we were—but there’s nothing. Only cigarette butts, dirty tissues, and old, damp sleeping bags.

We end up in the backyard, on the concrete block we used to fashion as a bench. Nathan lights a joint and hands it to me. This time, I take it. Cupping my hands as I light it up feels so habitual, so right, that I wonder why I even quit in the first place.

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