Ricochet (25 page)

3 ½ YEARS AGO

I hold the strap to my Captain America plush backpack,
which can easily alternate into a pillow if need be. Every time I’ve spent the
night at Lo’s house, I stuff my toiletries and clothes into the little inside
pocket. With my seventeenth birthday in a couple days, I should probably retire
the backpack for a more
mature
option.
Like Batman. But Lo would kill me if I went DC on him.

I shift on his doorstep, not used to entering his place by
the front door. I usually go through the window. Much cooler. Having to wait on
the stoop of the enormous mansion just reminds me that tonight is a little
different than most. I raise my knuckles to the door but decide to use the lion
metal knocker instead. I slam it a couple times and twiddle with the strap to
my backpack. Waiting.

After a solid minute, the door swings open, more lights
streaming onto the stoop. And my mouth falls and my face scrunches. Lo stands
before me, but he’s…

“What are you wearing?” we both say at the same time.

What am I wearing?!
He
has on black slacks and a white button-down, looking nearly twenty-two. His
light brown hair is still a little messy, but it’s systematically disheveled.
He’s clean-shaven, and his cheeks sharpen, pouting his lips as he stares from
my toes to my head.

“What the fuck?” he says lightly, shrugging at me like
I’ve
turned into an intergalactic alien.
I am
exactly
the same. He is the one
who’s different.

“I didn’t know there was a dress code tonight,” I refute.

He crosses his arms and cocks his head to the side.

“Don’t give me that look,” I snap back, pushing my way through
the door since he has rudely not invited me in yet. The living room awaits to
the right of us, the vaulted ceiling and crystal chandelier shining a great
deal of light onto leather furniture and expensive animal-skin rugs. I try not
to think about
what
animals I may be
stepping on when I’m at his house.

He locks the door, and I throw my backpack on the nearest
couch. When I turn back to face him, he still wears that same crazy look.
“What?” I say.

“You’re wearing dinosaur slippers and long johns,” he says
like I’ve gone crazy.

I glance down at my nightly wardrobe. My baggy long johns
sag at the crotch, and my green dinosaur slippers make my feet look huge. I
also wear one of Lo’s long-sleeve shirts that he left at my house the other
day—the Philadelphia 76ers logo printed on the front. I shrug. “I wear this all
the time when I spend the night here.”

“That was before,” he tells me.

I hear his unspoken words:
that was before, when we weren’t dating and in a fake relationship.
Two
weeks ago, Lo was suspended from school, and his father went apeshit,
threatening to ship Lo off to military academy, actually showing him the forms.
I spent the whole day anxiously pacing my room as we tried to find solutions on
how to pacify his father.

And this was it. Make his father believe that Lo is a
changed man by dating a girl he thought he’d never be worthy of. Me. A
Calloway. When in fact, I’m just as fucked up as his son. Go figure.

When we made the announcement of our new relationship
status, his father hadn’t really believed it. Which is why I’m in Lo’s living
room tonight instead of his bedroom where we usually pour over comics and I
watch him drink himself to sleep. Tonight, we’re supposed to
prove
how in love we are.

And then everything will be okay again. Lo will stay here.
He’ll be a “changed man” and we’ll both continue to go on as normal. Except for
the fake relationship part.

I shift anxiously. “Sorry,” I mutter, all of a sudden
self-conscious. He dressed nice for me, and here I am, in baggy long johns and
his oversized tee. The slippers are still cool.

“You’re right,” he tells me, his amber eyes grazing my whole
body. “It doesn’t matter.” He undoes the top three buttons of his shirt.

My breath sticks to my throat.

“You look cute,” he says. A smile plays at his lips, and he
laughs at my long johns again. “Are those mine?”

I’m still frozen on the
you
look cute
part. I can’t tell if that was all show or not. I mean, no one is
here to witness the performance of our romantic rendezvous, but at the same time,
we
are
supposed to be practicing
before his father walks through the door.

“Yeah,” I manage to say. “I stole them after the camping
trip in October.” Almost a full year ago. He didn’t notice then, so I’m
surprised that he does now. Or maybe he just never mentioned it before.

“That’s my shirt too,” he says, pushing through his last
button. My eyes rake his lean muscles, and I realize that I’m going to be given
permission to touch them for the first time since we had sex. And that was a
long, long time ago. Well, almost three years to be exact.

“Good eye,” I whisper as he nears me. Usually I’m in
complete control during sex. I know how it will end and how it will start, but
with Lo and this new arrangement, I am at a total loss for where this will go.

I take a few steps back, down a couple stairs into the
living room. He follows, as though he is the hunter and I’m the little doe he
wishes to ensnare. My breathing deepens, not used to the way he’s staring at
me. As though I am his and he’s mine.

This has to be pretend, right?
Of course it is,
I remind myself.
The deal, don’t ever forget. It’s all pretend.
But that doesn’t
mean I’m not allowed to enjoy it.

The back of my knees hits the mahogany leather couch.
“You’re wearing my clothes,” he says, his voice husky and deep.

I swallow hard. I want to wrap my arms around his neck and
run my hands through his hair, bringing him close. This is wrong. But it feels
right. And the way he’s staring…

His fingers slip into the waistband of my long johns,
tugging me to his chest. His forehead nearly rests against mine, his warm
breath entering my parted lips.

“Lo…”

He folds down the band, discovering my hipbones, and his
body stiffens against mine. My hand quickly clasps his, my eyes bugging all of
a sudden.

“I’m not wearing any…” I trail off, more nervous with a guy
than I think I’ve ever been.

My words only cause his chest to fall heavier. “You forgot
your panties or you just realized you forgot to steal a pair of my boxers to
wear?”

My eyes fall to his lips. I want to kiss them so hard that
they’ll swell and redden, where he’ll feel me on him for days. “You don’t wear
boxers,” I say, breathless.

“I don’t?” His lips brush my ear. “Then what am I wearing,
love?”

Oh God. My body throbs and pulses, and I desperately want
his hands to run over every inch of my skin. I should take his invitation, but
I hesitate, worried about crossing a line even though I know that’s why I’m
here. We’re stepping into brand new territory, all for the purpose of declaring
our “fake” love. But for some reason, this feels so, so real.

He watches me waiver and decides to help me by gathering my
hands in his. He places my fingers on the band of his black slacks and the
other on his zipper, guiding me to the right actions. I unbutton, my heart beating
wildly in my chest. I’ve never been this anxious, this excited, and this
fucking scared all at once. I’m riding a rollercoaster at high speed, and any
second now, I may run off the tracks.

I begin to tug his pants down, and my eyes refuse to peel away
from the bulge in his black boxer-briefs. If that’s how big his cock looks now,
I can’t imagine what it’ll look like when he’s hard. But I know I want to see.

I open my mouth to ask how far we’re going to go, but the
words won’t form. I’m afraid if I say them, then he’ll stop. And a part of me
wants him inside of me again. The other, more reasonable part, is screaming
about keeping things as chaste as possible. So he’s not like all the guys I’m
with. So I don’t break his heart when I undoubtedly will seek out another man
in the future.

And then all thoughts whoosh out of my head. He cups my face
in his hands and kisses me so forcibly that air pushes into my lungs and locks
there. That my legs quake beneath me, and my arm wraps around his waist, gripping
for dear life. I am succumbing to his body, to this passion that he pours with
each kiss. He parts my lips, his tongue exploring my mouth, his chest thrumming
against mine.

I moan, and the sound drives him deeper. He hikes both of my
legs around his waist and pushes me to the couch cushions. Lo hovers on top,
but his pelvis digs into mine, my whole body ignites with something foreign and
yet so familiar. I can barely breathe.

I kiss back with the same urgency, as though this will poof
away in a matter of minutes. As though it will all disappear before our eyes,
and I’ll be left without this feeling tomorrow. He pulls off my shirt, leaving
me in a blue bandeau and cold skin that he warms with his hands. His fingers
find their way to my breast, and I lose myself to the way he flicks my nipple.
I need his mouth on…and then his lips find the same spot, licking a circle
around the tender place of my breast.

“Lo,” I gasp. “Lo…” I moan and writhe beneath him. This
can’t be real. I have to be dreaming.

His hardness presses near the wet spot between my legs. Only
fabric keeping us apart. I ache for him to move it. I silently plead for him to
fill me, even though I know it will be so, so wrong.
This is pretend.
But why does it feel so good? Why does it seem so
fucking real?

And then I hear the click of the door. We both freeze. Lo
lifts his head and adjusts my bandeau so my breasts are covered. Expensive
loafers clap against the marble floor, and keys jangle as they’re slipped into
a pocket.

Jonathan Hale stands right in the foyer with a full view of
the living room—our couch angled in perfect sight. He sets down his briefcase
and begins to take off his tie, and then his head turns and he solidifies as
much as we have. This is what we’ve waited for, but it doesn’t make it any less
awkward.

I turn cherry red, and shield my face behind my hands,
looking at Lo’s father through the cracks in my fingers.

“Dad,” Lo says, sitting up only a little. My legs still wrap
around his waist. His pants still lie in a heap on the ground. Maybe this was a
bad idea… “I thought you weren’t coming home until late.”

“It is late,” he says, scrutinizing our position on the
couch. I want to disintegrate into it. “So you two are together now?”

“Yeah,” Lo snaps. “I told you that five days ago.”

“Don’t talk to me with that fucking tone, Loren,” he retorts
with the
same
hostility. “I heard you
before. I just didn’t think you two were serious. When you were seven, you said
she was your fucking wife.”

I blush, remembering our “pretend” wedding. Rose told me I
was stupid during the whole ceremony. I suppose not
everything
changes.

“I’m not seven anymore,” Lo tells him.

“I can see that.” Jonathan eyes me for a little longer than
I like, and I shrink further in the cushions. Lo shifts so my half-naked body
is hidden better from his father’s view. “Do you agree with what my son did,
Lily?” he asks. “You think it was right of him to fuck with another person’s
property?”

I shake my head repeatedly. “No, sir. In fact…” I clear my
throat, willing on a bit of confidence. “I’ve told Lo that if we’re going to be
together, he’s going to have to change.” The lie tastes gross in my mouth, but
I better get used to it. There will be far more from here on out.

Jonathan mulls this over and then says to Lo, “Hopefully a
woman can knock some fucking sense into you.” So he’s going to let Lo stay?! We
watch as he takes measured steps to the liquor cart, ignoring our not-so
innocent position on the couch. He pours himself a glass of bourbon. “I paid
for the damages you incurred on the Smith’s house, but I’m taking a portion out
of your allowance.”

Lo drills holes into the couch arm above my head, glaring at
the object instead of his father. I think that’s a wise decision. “Thanks,” he
says.

Jonathan swishes his glass. “I talked to that bitch
principal of yours. She’s going to take your suspension off your records. You’ll
stay at Dalton unless you fuck up again.” I can barely celebrate the news
because he tops the statement off with, “Stop tarnishing
my
name.”

Lo grits his teeth, his nose flaring to bridle his emotions.
I want to tell Lo that his father refuses to even acknowledge
why
Lo retaliated against Trent Smith.
Maybe if he heard the reason, he would understand.

I wonder if Lo is going to try to end the conversation or if
he’s going to provoke a volatile reaction from his father. “Okay,” Lo says
through clenched teeth, choosing to drop it. “You can leave now.”

After a long pause, Jonathan asks, “You have protection?” Oh
my God! I nearly scrunch into a ball, but Lo keeps a hand on the outside of my
thigh that hugs his waist.

Lo closes his eyes and then opens them, his glare deepening.
“Yeah,” he replies with the same hard-edged voice, as though each word is
lethal.

“Good. I’d rather not explain to her father why my son
couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.”
If
only he knew.
He goes to the archway that’ll lead him
away
from us. “And Loren?”

Lo cranes his neck over his shoulder to meet his father’s
hardened eyes. In all my life, I’ve never seen them soften.

“Don’t be such a sick fuck.” He watches the way Lo’s face
contorts into anger and pain, and I look for the glimmer of remorse in his
father’s eyes. But I see none. He drowns it with the liquor in his palm and
disappears into the darkened hallway.

Lo sits up for a second and sets his hands on his head,
breathing heavily as if his father chased him around the room with a gun.