After a few minutes, he pulled his mouth away from mine. “Bianca, can I ask you something?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I am not giving you a blow job. No fucking way. Just the thought of it is disgusting and degrading and… No. Never.”
“While that’s a little disappointing,” Wesley said, “it’s not what I was planning to ask you.”
“Oh.” That was a little embarrassing. “Well, then what?”
He took his hands out of my pants and placed them gently on my shoulders. “What are you escaping from now?”
“Excuse me?”
“I know your ex-boyfriend left town weeks ago,” he said. “But I can tell there is still something bothering you. As much as I’d like to believe it’s just me—you can’t get enough of me—I know there’s more to it. What are you running from, Bianca?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie.”
“It’s none of your business, okay?” I pushed him away from me and yanked my jeans back up where they belonged. Automatically, I knelt down by the pile of clean clothes at the foot of my bed and started folding them. “Let’s just talk about something else.”
Wesley sat down on the floor beside me. “Fine,” he said. I could tell he was using that I’ll-be-patient-until-you-decide-to-tell-me voice. The one you use with little kids. Too bad for him. That would never happen. He was just my sex toy, after all, not my psychiatrist.
We talked about school while I folded my clothes. When they were all in neat stacks, I stood up and moved to sit on my bed.
“Aren’t you going to put them away?” Wesley asked.
“No,” I said.
“Then what was the point in folding them?”
I sighed and stretched out on my back, kicking off my Converse. “I don’t know,” I admitted, resting my head on the pillow and staring at the ceiling. “I guess it’s a habit or whatever. I fold the clothes every night, and it makes me feel better. It’s relaxing and it clears my head. Then the next morning, I dig through the stacks for what I’m gonna wear, and they all get messed up, so I get to fold them again that night. Like a cycle.”
My bed creaked as Wesley climbed on top of me, wedging himself between my knees. “You know,” he said, looking down at me. “That’s pretty strange. Neurotic, really.”
“Me?” I laughed. “You’re the one who’s trying to get in my pants again, like, ten seconds after a failed attempt at a heart-to-heart. I’d say we’re both pretty fucked up.”
“Very true.”
We started kissing again. This time his hands moved up my shirt and unhooked my bra. There wasn’t much room in my little twin bed, but Wesley still managed to get my top off and my jeans unzipped in record time. I started to undo his pants, too, but he stopped me.
“No,” he said, moving my hand away. “You might not agree with blow jobs, but I have a feeling you’ll enjoy this.”
I opened my mouth to argue but shut it quickly as he started kissing down my stomach. His hands began moving my jeans and underwear down toward my knees, one of them pausing briefly to squeeze the ticklish place above my hip, causing me to jerk once with a giggle. His lips moved lower and lower, and I was surprised by how much I was anticipating their final destination.
I’d heard Vikki and even Casey talk about their boyfriends going down on them and how good it felt. I’d heard, but I didn’t entirely believe it. Jake and I had never done that, and I’d always just assumed it was gross and weird.
It was kind of weird at first, but then it wasn’t anymore. It felt… strange—but in a good way. Dirty, wrong, amazing. My fingers curled in the sheets, gripping the cloth tightly, and my knees shook. I was feeling things I’d never felt before. “Ah,… oh,” I gasped with pleasure and surprise and—
“Oh, shit.”
Wesley jumped away from me. He’d heard the car door slam, too. That meant my dad was home.
I pulled up my underwear and fastened my jeans quickly, but it took me a minute to find my bra. Once I was completely dressed, I flattened my hair and did my best not to look like a kid with her hand caught in the cookie jar.
“Should I leave?” Wesley asked.
“No,” I said breathlessly. I could tell he didn’t want to go back to the empty almost-mansion. “Stay a little while. It’s fine. Dad won’t care. We just can’t… do that.”
“What else is there to do?”
So, like complete losers, we played Scrabble for the next four and a half hours. There was barely enough space in the floor of my tiny room for someone as tall as Wesley to stretch out on his stomach, but he managed, and I sat across from him, the board between us as we spelled out words like quixotic and hegemony. Not exactly the most exciting Friday night, but I enjoyed it way more than I would have if I’d gone to the Nest or some lame party in Oak Hill.
Around nine, after I’d kicked his ass three times—finally, something I could beat him at!—Wesley got to his feet. “I guess I should go home,” he sighed.
“Okay.” I stood up. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”
I was in such a good mood that I’d managed to forget all about Dad… until we ran into him in the living room. I smelled the whiskey before I saw the bottle on the coffee table, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment. Please don’t notice, I thought to myself as I walked Wesley toward the front door. I guess I should’ve started worrying when he hadn’t checked upstairs to see whose Porsche was in our driveway. I mean, it wasn’t like having a car that shiny in front of our house was a common occurrence. Maybe Wesley hadn’t thought about that either. It was a Friday night, after all. Dads could drink whiskey on weekends… well, ones that weren’t recovering alcoholics, but Wesley didn’t know that side of the story. As long as my father acted normal, this might slide by as nothing out of the ordinary.
But, of course, I never had that kind of good luck.
“Bumblebee!” Dad said, and I could tell he was already smashed. Great. Just fucking fantastic. He stumbled to his feet and looked over at the front door, where Wesley and I stood. “Hey, Bumblebee. I didn’t even know you were home. Who’s this?” His eyes narrowed at Wesley. “A boy?”
“Um, Dad, this is Wesley Rush,” I said, trying to stay calm. “He’s a friend of mine.”
“A ‘friend.’… I bet.” He grabbed the whiskey bottle before taking a few unsteady steps toward us, his eyes squinting at Wesley. “Did you have fun up in my little girl’s bedroom, boy?”
“I sure did,” Wesley said, clearly trying to sound like one of those innocent oh-gee-whiz! boys from fifties TV shows. “We played three games of Scrabble. Your daughter is really good with words, sir.”
“Scrabble? I’m not an idiot. That must be some new code for… for oral sex!” Dad snarled.
I must have turned scarlet. How did he know? Could he see right into my mind? No, of course he couldn’t. He was just drunk and making accusations, and looking guilty would only make things worse. So I laughed as if it were ridiculous. As if it were a joke. Wesley, following my lead, did the same.
“Sure, Dad,” I said. “And intercourse is Yahtzee, right?”
“I’m not being funny!” Dad snapped, swinging his bottle and sloshing whiskey onto the carpet. Wonderful. I’d be the one cleaning that up. “I know what’s up. I’ve seen the way your slutty friends dress, Bianca. They’re rubbing off on you, aren’t they?”
I couldn’t force the laughter any longer. “My friends aren’t slutty,” I whispered. “You’re drunk off your ass, and you don’t know what you’re saying.” With a surge of bravery, I reached forward and swiped the bottle from his hand. “You shouldn’t have any more, Dad.”