Page 15 of Bullied Pretend Mate
But that’s not right—he’s not following the script. This is usually when he tells me that he has Lachlan’s car keys and he’s trying to hide from him.
I try to speak, but I can’t through the hand he has over my mouth. This isn’t how Felix typically treats me at school. At best, he’s apathetic, and at worst, he’s joining in with the other guys to make fun of me.
Making it totally clear that even though we were friends in grade school, we definitely are not friends now.
But in this alcove, with his hand over my mouth and his body boxing mine against the wall, both of us breathing quick and shallow, it’s different.
This is the first time in a whole year that he’s looked at me like he used to. Back when we were Felix and Maeve, Maeve and Felix, just two friends hanging out. Him getting into trouble, me getting him out of it.
“Shit,” Felix murmurs, his eyes finding mine, and this time, he is back on script, saying, “I wonder if Lachlan went outside.”
This is when I realize that the Felix standing in front of me is not teenage Felix with the spattering of facial hair and newly deep voice, like what my dreams usually give me. Usually, this dream is an exact recreation of the moment. Whether it’s meant as a nicety or to be haunting, I don’t know.
But this time, it’s different. Instead of pre-eighteen Felix standing in front of me, it’s adult Felix. The one who was in the elevator with me.
And he’s looking down at me, his eyes flitting between my eyes and mouth, leaning in, almost like he can’t helphimself. It’s like what happened back then, but with an updated model.
Teenage Maeve didn’t know any better—but I’m not teenage Maeve. I’m me, and I know better.
But this is just a dream.
It’s just a dream, I tell myself when he finally makes contact, his lips against mine, his hand snaking around behind my back, pulling me in so our chests smash together, forcing the breath from my lungs.
It’s just a dream, but Dream Felix is cupping my ass in his hands, lifting me up, kissing me deeper and deeper as my legs wrap around his waist. I didn’t know anyone could pick me up like this, didn’t know a man could hold me the way he might hold a lighter woman.
But Felix moans into my mouth, his hands squeezing my ass, his posture sure and easy like holding me here is the easiest thing in the world.
And when I feel him start to get hard against me, I realize where this dream is going. If I let myself go down this path—further beyond something more than just a teenage make-out session—it’s only going to get worse.
When I wake up, coming out of the dream in a start, I’m gasping, my legs tight together, my core clenched in anticipation. I resist the urge for a long moment, then finally give in, letting my hand snake down, my head falling back as I think of Felix—his strong arms, his possessive touch.
The way he kissed me in that dream. A way that I will never get to have in real life.
***
I’m just stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around myself when my phone starts to ring, the ringtone a loud, upbeat pop song. Normally, it makes me feel happy, but right now, for some reason, it sends a little pang of dread through my body.
The bathroom is hazy, floating with the scent of the rosewater body wash I fell in love with, only sold by a little apothecary back in California. Buying handmade soaps is just one of the things I started doing to take care of myself and individualize my life.
My phone rings again in a second round of the song, and I hurry as fast as I can go without slipping on the wet tile.
“It’s fine,” I mutter to myself, crossing the floor and grabbing my phone. “It’s fine.”
It’s probably nothing. Maybe just someone back in L.A. calling to see how I’m doing. Other than the photos I posted when I first got to this rental, I haven’t been online much. Maybe they think I disappeared or was kidnapped. If that gang is still running around in Silverville, I wouldn’t even put that possibility off the table.
“Maeve Villareal speaking,” I answer, a habit my mother instilled in me when I was a kid. Always introduce yourself when you answer the phone.
“Hi, Maeve.” The voice on the other end of the line is warm, enthusiastic. “This is Kelly. I’d emailed you before—I’m from the Hollerand merchandising department?”
I open my mouth, but it’s like my throat has stopped working. Hollerand, an upscale department store dealing in everything you might want to buy—groceries, home goods, auto, and outdoors. Over the past ten years, they’ve invested heavilyin their clothing department, and recently, people have started to think of them as a good option for affordable yet cute clothing.
“Maeve? Are you there?”
“Yes,” I say, too quickly. “Sorry, yes, I am here. It’s so good to hear from you.”
“And I’m so glad that you were able to get on the line today. Do you have a minute to chat?”
I’m still in my towel, hair dripping down my back, but I hurry into the main living space, the bed undone from my fretful sleep the night before, clothes thrown over the back of the armchair. I’m normally a tidy person, but when I got home last night, the only thing I wanted was to get that stupid gown off my body.
