Page 15 of The Love of My Next Life
But Sam digs her nails into my side, and Lennon invades my brain. Standing trapped in that corner last night at the party. Wearing that black tank top that showed zero cleavage, and those fucking knee-high socks.
And her hair.
I might hate her hair down more than I hate it in a braid.
I groan into Sam’s mouth, and she presses harder into me. I back up and grab her hand, keeping my eyes off her face and swollen mouth.
“C’mon,” I say, and tug her behind me. She giggles. The sound grates on my nerves. I pull a little harder, so she picks up her pace. I practically drag her behind the school building toward the shed that holds the football equipment. She’s panting by the time we reach it.
I unlock the door with the key I stole from Coach Schultz, and I push Sam inside.
It takes seconds to have her front pressed against the wall and her pants down to her ankles. I pull a condom from my wallet and roll it on, then mentally exchange cigarettes and cinnamon for rose-scented shampoo and soap. Sometimes peppermint, too, when she’s stressed about school and sucks on mints like an addict.
I close my eyes and replace short, blonde hair with long, chestnut brown. In a braid that I untie and unravel myself. In waves that I wrap around my fist and yank. Pink, soft lips. Hazel-green eyes. Freckles.
I come in minutes. Pull out, discard the condom and zip up before Sam even has her pants to her thighs.
“Jesus Christ, Macon, thanks for nothing,” she snaps, and I scoff as she does up the buttons on her jeans. “You could have at least gotten me off first.”
I shrug and pull the pack of cigarettes out of my pocket, plucking out my joint and lighting it up.
“You know where your clit is,” I say after a drag. “You coulda rubbed one out on your own.”
She snarls at me and swipes my joint, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke out her nose.
“This arrangement might not be working for me anymore, Macon,” she threatens, and I huff out a laugh.
“Then how will you piss off Senator Daddy,Samantha?” I take the joint back and put it out gently on the wall, so I can stick what’s left of it back in the box with my last two cigarettes. “I bet Seth Travers would eat you out for hours if you asked him to.”
The glare she hits me with would make a better man cower. I just roll my eyes. Seth Travers is in the marching band and captain of the math club. He’s also Sam’s neighbor.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” she spits, flinging open the door and marching out into the blinding sun.
“Not the first person to tell me that today,” I shout at her, and she throws her middle finger up at me before disappearing back around the school.
I close my eyes and drop my head back on the wall. The bell rings in the distance.
Fuck.
I’m late for U.S. History. Mrs. Pardy is going to skin me alive.
My high is nearly goneby the time last period rolls around. I finished my joint at lunch, but I should have held out a little longer. I’m too sober to deal with Lennon Capri Washington.
I arrive to class a few minutes early, just like yesterday, so I have a minute to appreciate the art room without Lennon’s smell engulfing everything. I head straight to the closet and grab some clay and an apron.
“Macon,” Hank greets me from his desk, “how’s your day been?”
“Fine, Hank,” I lie, and take my seat at the pottery wheel. He eyes me curiously, cocking his head to the side.
“Are you high?”
I sigh. “Barely.”
“You can’t be—”
“I know,” I cut him off, irritated he would even suggest it. “I don’t do that anymore. I haven’t for two years.” I meet his eyes, so he can see my sincerity. “I will never show up there in any condition except stone sober.”
He regards me for a few more seconds, then nods.
