Page 104 of Collision
“The key is in the back pocket of my jeans. You have to get it, I can’t reach.”
I snort. “That was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” I tease.
Not that the idea of touching his butt bothers me all that much, actually. He smiles faintly. I open the door and I realize that his dorm suite is huge. The living room is furnished with a coffee table, a sofa under the window and a small kitchenette. My room was a hole in comparison.
“Where do you sleep?”
He nods to a door on our left.
The opposite room belongs to Larry, who is asleep and snoring loudly. I was expecting a pretty macho space, but instead I find myself in a sterile, white-walled room with a basic bed, a desk, and a shelf with a picture of Thomas and Leila hugging each other. She is smiling, he is not. The frame is pink and glittery, and I can tell right away that this photo is only here at Leila’s behest. I smile to myself.
I hear Thomas fumbling around behind me so I turn to help him out of his jacket. His movements are slow and awkward. Light-years away from the way I usually see him. He throws himself onto the bed still fully dressed and stares blankly at the ceiling.
“Are you okay?” He shakes his head but doesn’t answer. “I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about it.” I meant for it to be a question, but it comes out like a statement. He ignores me and closes his eyes. A clear signal: it’s time for me to leave. “Suit yourself. It’s late, I’m leaving.”
“Wait.” He lifts his head and throws me his car keys, which I surprisingly manage to catch. “Here, bring it back to me tomorrow.”
“I’m not taking your car.” I chuckle.
“I’m not letting you take the bus at this time of night, dressed like that. Take the car, end of discussion. Or stay here. Your choice.”
“I choose the car.”
“Careful with the paint job.”
I roll my eyes. Before I leave, I bring him a glass of water and fish out a bottle of painkillers from the cabinet in the bathroom. I set it all on his nightstand along with a packet of tissues. I retrieve a bowl from the kitchen and put it on the floor next to his bed. Finally, I slip his phone out of his jacket pocket and rest it beside him. As I am doing all of this, I feel his eyes on me and do my best to not blush.
“What are you doing?” he asks cautiously.
“Uh…um…I’ve put some things in easy reach for you. You know, if you need to throw up, you’ve got it all right here.” I worry the ends of my hair. I must seem like a complete idiot to him. I’d better disappear before he starts making fun of me.
He sits up with his knees slightly apart and reaches out a handtoward me. He pulls me closer, into the space between his legs. “You’re sweet…” He wraps his arms around my waist and presses his forehead to my partially exposed midriff. The skimpy uniform shirt ends just below my ribs. Suddenly I feel the need to give him a hug, to comfort him. I slide my hands into his hair and stroke his scalp. I can feel his mouth curving into a smile against my skin. Before I realize what he’s doing, his lips are on my belly. I startle, and the heat is rising again, under my skin and between my thighs. Unable to react, I narrow my eyes and watch him trace a trail of slow, wet kisses down my belly. His hands slip eagerly under my skirt, until he reaches my butt; he squeezes it firmly and pulls me down, forcing me to sit on his lap. He rests his forehead on mine, sinking his fingers into the flesh of my buttocks. An electric shock runs down my spine. I grip his hair tighter and he grinds me against his pelvis. The friction makes me moan. My body is drunk on the touch of this tattooed, arrogant, tormented boy. He is like a drug for me, impossible to resist.
“You are not a release valve,” he hisses through clenched teeth. Then he kisses the hollow of my throat and the contrast between his warm tongue and the cold metal of his piercing scrambles my brain. Our breaths quicken, excitement grows inside me and merges with his, but when his tongue moves dangerously close to my lips, the smell of alcohol calls me back from the edge I was about to pitch over.
“Thomas, stop…” I put my hands on his chest and push him away. His eyes, pupils dilated, fill with bitterness and frustration.
“Fuck,” he murmurs in a soft voice, as if aware that he was in the wrong. I get up and adjust my skirt.
“I-it’s okay. You’re not yourself right now.”
With a frustrated sigh, he buries his face in my belly again and clenches his fists against my back. He has the body of a broken man, but the soul of a lost child. Seeing him like this destroys me. “What’s wrong, Thomas?”
“I’m grieving, Ness. And it’s my fault.”
My blood runs cold. I take his face in my hands and force it up to look him in the eye. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Go home,” he orders. He lies down on the bed and collapses immediately into a deep sleep.
I remain paralyzed before him. What the hell does that mean?
Twenty-Six
I stay up all night thinking and rethinking his words. Thinking about his sad eyes and his arms that held me so desperately. I don’t know which is more galling, the mystery of his ominous words or the knowledge that I want to feel those arms around me all the time. I wanted to lie down beside him, to stroke back the tousled hair that fell over his forehead and get lost cataloging every tiny detail of his perfect face. But I couldn’t—I shouldn’t. Before leaving the room for good, I took a few minutes to scrutinize that powerful body, laid out helpless on the mattress, completely defenseless. I touched his forehead, let my hand slide over his cheek, on to his chin and, without realizing it, my thumb came to rest on his lips. I don’t know what was going on in my head, perhaps it was the knowledge that he would never know? That it would remain my little secret.
I moved closer and gave him a gentle, closemouthed kiss, enjoying the softness of those lips. It was only then that I realized how much I had missed them. As soon as I pulled away, I felt an instant sense of loss. And a frightening truth revealed itself: Thomas has somehow, in some way still unknown to me, managed to creep inside me, and no matter how hard I try to believe otherwise, I don’t want to drive him out.
***
