Page 24 of The Party Plot

Laurel’s mouth was sticky-sweet from the cider, hot and decadent as the center of a peach cobbler, and Casey wanted more of it, wanted to kiss his way to the core of him. The horn let out a plaintive bleat as his elbow hit it, and then he was half in the driver’s seat, Laurel already yanking at his belt buckle, and he could feel the blood pounding beneath Laurel’s skin as he ran a hand over his throat, up across his jaw and into the lush thickness of his hair.

“Fuck,” Laurel said into Casey’s mouth, unable to stop talking even now. Casey tugged on his hair a little bit, which made him shudder invitingly, red blooming across his face, lighting up the shells of his ears like neon. His hand was in Casey’s pants, skillful and familiar, stroking him, making trails of light swim behind Casey’s eyes, flowers unfurl in his head, and how he had lied, Casey thought, as he bit into Laurel’s shoulder through his shirt, tasting clean cotton and the tang of his sweat. How he had lied, because of course he hadn’t forgotten him; he’d just put him away for safekeeping, and—

Something was trilling, an annoying, computerized sound. The same monotone female voice from before came over the speakers. “Incoming call.”

“Your mom again?” Casey asked, against the pulse pounding in Laurel’s neck. He wrapped his hand around Laurel’s where it had stilled on his cock, squeezing slightly. His ears were ringing as he said, “Go on, answer it.”

Laurel made a strange, wounded sound and started stroking him faster, pressing kisses to Casey’s throat, his chin. He was trembling, his whole body tense beneath Casey’s touch. A semi-truck drove past in a rush of sound, and the car rocked alarmingly on its wheels, spilling Casey fully into Laurel’s lap. Their teeth clashed, Laurel nipping at his lower lip, and Casey tore at the collar of his shirt, wanting his palm flush against Laurel’s skin, wanting to feel the rise and fall of his chest. They could die like this. Another truck might swing too close, crumple the car like a tin can. Casey couldn’t make himself care. He pulled back, watching Laurel’s face, the dark fan of his lashes, his dazed, almost indignant expression. As if he were the one receiving pleasure, even though Casey hadn’t touched the very obvious erection straining against his fly, hadn’t so much as acknowledged it. Laurel’s lips were swollen, and he leaned forward, brushing them against Casey’s.

“Stopthinking,” he murmured, with the trace of a smile. “I can see you doing it.”

“I want to see your face,” Casey said. Birds were taking flight in his head, and pressure was building in his groin, his nails leaving indentations in Laurel’s chest. The phone was still ringing, on and on.

“I want to see yours. I want to taste you again. I want—”

“Incoming call.”

“Jesus fuck,” Casey said. “How do you shut that thing off?” His car didn’t even have a working CD player, much less a bluetooth.

“I’ve got it, I’ll just—” Laurel reached over his shoulder for the console, and stilled. “It’s Melody.”

“So?” Casey’s tongue, his balls, the soles of his feet, were throbbing. He kissed Laurel’s temple, his cheek, but all the dreamy intoxication of the previous moment was gone. Instead of melting into him, Laurel pulled back, shaking his head.

“I promised her I’d never miss a call. I’m so sorry.” Laurel started, awkwardly, to zip up Casey’s fly, and Casey shoved his hand away in annoyance.

“I can do that myself.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I have to—I have to take this. I’ll go outside so you don’t have to listen.” His face was blotchy, the red flush starting to fade, and his hair was a mass of brambles, standing on end. Laurel tried unsuccessfully to smooth it down. His shirt was still unbuttoned, five lunar crescents from Casey’s nails embedded starkly in his flesh. “God. Shit. Be—be right back, I guess.” He snatched up his phone from the center console and slid out into the heat of the day, shutting the door behind him. Casey could hear his steps crunching across the gravel as he walked back behind the car.

Casey’s hands were shaking. There was a half-empty bottle of water in the cupholder, and he reached for it, gulping it down. It was bathtub-warm and tasted like plastic, and it churned around uncomfortably in his stomach. Every inch of him was still on fire, nerves sparking like exposed wires, and his dick hadn’t had the good manners to go down yet. God, what was he even doing? It was too hot out, and Laurel was inescapable, and he could feel himself sliding down a hill, sliding toward something he couldn’t imagine. Sighing, he held the bottle to his head and leaned back against the seat.

8.

“God, what happened to you?” Melody asked, taking him in. Laurel smoothed a self-conscious hand over the front of his shirt. The fabric was stiff with dried sweat, and his hair felt greasy and disheveled, the phantom trace of Casey’s fingertips still dancing along his scalp. They hadn’t talked on the way back to Casey’s apartment. Laurel had hardly even been able to put a thought together over the rush of blood in his head, the pulsing heat beneath his skin. He’d ruined everything, of course. He had been so sure it was an emergency, that this, finally, wasthecall, and Melody was in the hospital or in jail or in a ditch somewhere. But she wasn’t, and Laurel was an idiot, and the silence in the car had felt almost as heavy as the memory of Casey’s hands all over him. When they’d parked, he had turned to Casey, hoping to catch his eye, hoping—let’s be honest—to invite himself in. But Casey had thrown the keys into his lap and rushed inside without a word.

He licked his lips. The slightest hint of sweetness lingered on his tongue, heady and nostalgic. He hadn’t had time to go home and change. Or brush his teeth. Or jerk off. Or anything. “Nothing. I’ve been out in the heat. What happened toyou?” As Melody stepped back from the door, he could see that her right foot was in some kind of supportive plastic and velcro boot.

“Oh, this?” She waved a hand in the air. “I’m fine. But the cathatesit.” She shuffled backwards unevenly, making enough space for Laurel to come into the condo. The boot made a hair-raising noise against the hardwoods, and Laurel sympathized with Luna. He kind of wanted to put his ears back and creep under the sofa, too. “Where have you been? You haven’t been answering my texts.”

Investigating fraud. Giving incomplete handjobs on the side of the road. Laurel scratched reflexively at his neck. “Melody, your foot—”

“I told you, it’s no problem. I just dropped a handle of bourbon on it, that’s all. Don’t worry, it didn’t break. I mean, the bottle didn’t. The foot was less lucky.”

“She keeps making that joke,” Chip said, looking up from where he was sitting on the sofa. “It’s not as funny as she thinks it is.”

“I didn’t think it was funny, period.” A familiar woman was in one of Melody’s armchairs, and Laurel did a double-take, seeing her in this context. She didn’t seem to have aged at all; in fact, she almost looked younger here, in a bright sundress and statement earrings instead of her usual slacks and button-up, her dark skin glowing, her eyes sharp and perceptive. Laurel’s last memory of her was her slipping him a copy of the complete poems of Arthur Rimbaud and congratulating him on his graduation.By being too sensitive I have wasted my life.He had highlighted that line, dogeared the page. The papery smell of books filled his nose suddenly, peaceful and comforting.

“Ms. Nelson?” He felt all the more self-conscious under the gaze of his high school librarian. Her expression was the same, too, the fond but slightly ironic look ofhaving to deal with these kids.

“You know, you can call me Kierra now. How have you been, Laurel?”

“Great, yeah.” He thought of trying to fix his hair, but decided it was a lost cause. There was a shivery sensation in his lower belly as he thought of how Casey had yanked on it, pulling his head back, exposing his neck as if for the kill. “Sorry I’m late. If I am late. I didn’t really know we were meeting. Or, um, that you would be here, or—” God, what was he doing? Laurel hoped he wasn’t turning red again. He’d never really been aware of how easily he blushed until Casey had brought it to his attention. FuckingCasey.He needed to think of something, anything else. Needed to remember his manners. “Uh. How are you?” he tried. “It’s been a long time.”

Kierra Nelson shrugged. “Oh, I could complain, but I won’t. What have you been up to, Laurel? You look a little rumpled.”

“Hot day,” he said. “I’m not acclimated yet. I’ve been in Europe, visiting my dad. And before that, just traveling a lot. Wow, it’s great to see you. It’s been so long.” He hadn’t been back to the high school since he’d graduated. That building held a lot of shiny, oddly hollow memories, and he wasn’t sure how to talk to most of his friends from that time. He’d been in town for the ten-year reunion a few years ago, had meant to go, but he and Melody had ended up in a gay bar in Charleston instead, and after that, the night had turned into a black hole. “Are you still at McClellan?”

She made a face. “I am, Lord help me. It’s good to see you again, Laurel.”

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