Page 24 of Unknown
This can’t be Knox’s house. He wasn’t going to Bainbridge. He was wearing a Rockvale hoodie, so he was going to Rockvale, wherever the hell that even is. My gaze darts around the room, desperate for some clue to prove me wrong. But I find nothing. I also don’t find anything that proves me right. The room is messy, but not really personalized in any way. The duvet is dark blue, all the furniture is matching cherry wood, and there are two pewter lamps, but that’s really it. Nothing on the walls but a nondescript picture of a sailboat. And the nightstand is empty, too, except for a handful of change and a box of condoms. Ew.
This can’t be Knox’s house. There must be a hundred of these sweatshirts with torn cuffs, I tell myself as I dash into the bathroom, determined to clean like a madwoman and finish before anyone gets home.
I scrub the shower and tell myself it’ll be fine. There’s no way this is Knox’s house. It’s hella fancy, and what are the odds. All the same, if Brenda needs me to cover this one again, I’ll tell her I have the flu.
* * *
Knox
It’s been a week since I got arrested, so you’d think I’d be on my best behavior.
But you’d be wrong.
My lawyer said to keep a low profile and not to attract any attention.
Ty told me to get my head out of my ass and act like a fucking grown up.
Booker’s mom said she’d pray for me.
And what do you know, maybe Booker’s mom has the right idea. Maybe someone else’s prayers are my only hope at this point. There must be something miswired in my brain, though, because, ever since I was a kid, once I was in trouble, I couldn’t seem to get out of it. My brain knows it’s making terrible choices—it just doesn’t care.
Which is how I find myself half naked in the front seat of my car—a sweet, but not roomy 718 Cayman T Porsche. Rachel, the girl I’m currently skipping stats with, is deep- throating me like it’s an Olympic sport. It’s the middle of the day, the sun is shining in through the windows, and I hear a car horn not too far in the distance. That’s not slowing her down any, and when she cups my balls, I cry out, drawing the attention of a couple people crossing the parking lot.
“Fuck,” I curse.
“Yea, we can fuck,” she giggles, “but first I want you to come down my throat.”
Jesus.
“Done and done, sweetheart, but maybe let’s not get arrested for public indecency, huh? My place is like three minutes away. Think you can hold off that long?”
“I’ll try.” She says as she wraps her hand around my dick and I nearly lose my damn mind.
The drive home is a blur, and it’s a good thing there’s barely any traffic. Rachel’s jacking me like it’s her job and I’m sure as shit not winning any safe driving awards. I pull into my spot and we stumble toward the house. It takes me two tries to key in my code because I need to get my rocks off and Rachel’s doing everything right. We step inside and I ditch my shoes, and she does the same. I step out of the shorts that hang low on my ass, kicking them to a far corner of the entryway. “My room’s upstairs on the left,” I tell her as I cup one of her tits in my hand. They’re full and heavy, but fake, not like Willa’s—fuck me. Fuck me if I’m gonna let the memory of Willa’s perfect body take up any more space in my head.
I shake my head to free myself from the intruding thoughts and lead Rachel up to my room. The door’s open, and I vaguely remember seeing the Maid 4 U van in the driveway. Let’s hope Brenda the cleaning lady has moved on to Booker's room, or she’s about to get an eyeful of my ass. And once again, I can’t find it in myself to give a shit. Because I’ve learned the hard way that giving a shit is a surefire way to get hurt.
My dick is hard and aching and before we make it to the bed, Rachel drops to her knees and takes me in her mouth. “Jesus, just like that,” I tell her as my brain half-registers a strangled sound coming from my bathroom. I turn, expecting to see a scandalized middle-aged lady and instead come face-to-face with the only woman I’ve ever thought I could love.
I’ve pictured this moment a hundred times, and I don’t give two shits if that makes me a pussy. I pictured seeing her again in a crowded restaurant. Or running into her in the frozen food aisle of the Stop n’ Shop back home. But I never thought I’d see her again when I’m buck-ass naked with another woman’s lips around my dick.
“Fuck.”
At my muttered curse, Rachel pulls back and smiles up at me, completely unaware that we’re not alone. “I told you we can fuck later. I wanna suck you off first.”
I turn, no longer remotely interested in Rachel and what she’s offering. Fuck, I wish I had my goddamn clothes on. “Willa?What the—”
But the woman before me isn’t the Willa I knew. She’s just as gorgeous, no doubt. Her hair is longer—still blond, but dark at the roots. Her curves are fuller, and despite my current circumstances, my hands ache to reach for her. Those green eyes that used to light with passion and sass are now lit with an angry fire, and it’s all directed at me.
“Willa,” I try again, though I know it’s futile.
And she proves me right. “Go fuck yourself,” she tells me, then turns, gathers her things and heads for the stairs.
Impossibly, Rachel is little more than annoyed at the interruption, and she returns her attention to my softening dick. Her touch is painful and my skin bristles at the contact. “The fuck?”
She looks up at me again, her face twisted in confusion.
“This isn’t happening, babe,” I say, stepping toward my now-tidy laundry basket. Fuck. I can’t reason any of this out right now. I just need to pull on some sweats and talk to Willa.
