Page 55 of Bloom

“I think as long as you’re letting me kiss you I’m okay with that,” he answers.

James’s appearance in front of us doesn’t surprise me in the least. I’m only surprised it’s taken him this long, and it was probably the reason I targeted this guy in the first place. I’m like a child who prefers negative attention to none at all.

“I think you’ve had enough,” he says, pulling the plastic cup from my hand. I suspect that he’s had enough too.

“Thanks, Dad,” I reply. “But I think I’ve got it under control.” I yank the cup back from him and proceed to slosh it all over the front of my shirt. His eyes travel over me before I’ve even had a chance to assess the damage myself.

“Inside. Now,” he demands.

Justin holds me more tightly around the waist. “Is he, like, your brother or something?”

“No,” I say. “Not even close.”

He looks up at James. “I don’t know what your problem is, man, but she seems pretty happy right where she is.”

James grabs my hand and yanks me up. I could resist, and a part of me knows I should, but the bigger part of me doesn’t want to.

He marches me into someone’s room, and closes the door.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses.

“I’m having fun,” I counter. “And since when do you care? I thought I was ‘too young’ for you.”

“You are too young for me,” he says, nostrils flaring. “I’m staying away from you for your benefit. Not mine.”

I narrow my eyes. “Well, guess what? I’m not ‘too young’ for my new friend out there, even though he’s your age. And his lap was pretty freaking comfortable, so I’m going back to it.”

Before I can even inhale he’s backed me to the door, his body pressed against mine, his hands pinning me at the hips. His mouth comes down on mine hard, equal parts anger and desire, his hands digging into my skin, and I am only my response, a whimper in my throat as I open to him, the hard assault of his lips, of his tongue. There’s nothing gentle about it. It’s an angry, desperate kiss and my response is a desire I feel everywhere, emanating out from my center to the tips of my toes.

His mouth moves to my neck, and I gasp, leaning into him. His body coils in response, our hips locked together so that I can feel the hard weight of him against me. His hands are inside my shirt, unclasping my bra, pulling it low. He groans as he cups my breasts, the tip of his index finger brushing against me, eliciting a small, shuddering cry.

Things are happening too quickly and yet not quickly enough. We are not like a new couple, tentative and unsure. It’s as if we’ve been like this many times before, so far beyond the point of uncertainty that there is only action without thought. I’m thinking of nothing but the need for more, for the things that come next. He pushes my skirt up around my waist and I tug the top button of his shorts open with a single hand, my fingers sliding beneath the waistband of his boxers.

And then someone tries to open the door behind me, the knob gouging my spine and sending me flying forward. James somehow manages to catch me and slam the door shut at the same time, but the moment it latches he jumps away from me with a look of horror on his face that makes me want to cry and throttle him simultaneously.

“Goddammit,” he hisses. He digs his hands through his hair. “I can’t believe this is happening again.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” I whisper.

“Don’t,” he says harshly. “Stop. You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?” I ask.

“Torturing me,” he says. “Jesus Christ I wish you hadn’t come down here this summer.”

His words take everything I feel for him and twist it tight in my chest, make it so raw that I want to clutch at it, this phantom pain that hurts more than any injury he could have inflicted.

He looks up and sees my face, the wound he’s created as plain as day. And then he buttons his shorts, throws the door open and walks out of the room.

Chapter 32

I don’t have the heart to go back to Justin after James leaves. And I don’t have the heart to return to my house, to the place James no longer wants me. Instead I find Kristy and crash on her bedroom floor. As tired as I am and as much as I’ve had to drink, I don’t collapse into unconsciousness right away. There’s an ache in my chest that prevents sleep, that seems to spread without ever diffusing. I lay my hands over it as if it’s a strained muscle I can massage.

Nothing helps. I’m guessing it’s going to stay put until the day comes that I’ve forgotten about James. And how long will that take? I haven’t been able to forget about him for the past 16 years.

I wake feeling bruised and raw. My lips still kiss-swollen, my face abraded. I can’t even relish the memory of how it got that way because I’m too busy remembering the look on his face when he left last night: whatever else he might feel for me, the part of him that was angry and disgusted far outweighed the rest.

It seems entirely possible that he’ll ask me to leave, and maybe I shouldn’t even wait for him to ask. I want to go back to sleep: for hours, for days. Anything to avoid what’s ahead.