Drummer Girl, page 18
He licks his bottom lip and my eyes open just in time to capture it. I can feel him against my thigh, and my legs open wider in invitation, but he stays still while his gaze draws careful lines around my face. A proud smile bends his mouth, and it isn’t arrogance or some pound-the-chest masculine conquering expression. It’s an adoring type, and I will remember it always.
“Yes,” I say, which draws a soft laugh from him. I blush from his reaction, but he holds his thumb against my mouth then leans in to hold my top lip between both of his. This kiss is soft and slow, the only movement the faint tickle of his tongue against the inside of my lip while he holds me in place before slowly letting go.
“I said you should love me first,” he whispers.
My heart kicks.
“I love you, Arizona. Every single thing about you.” His body trembles, and I grip his arms. My lips part with a strange breath as a tear falls down my cheek.
“I love you, too, Jesse Barringer. So very much,” I say, lifting my head enough to press my lips to his again. My hands move to both sides of his face, cradling his jaw while I hold his mouth to mine. “So, so much,” I repeat.
His mouth shifts and his kiss grows deeper. His body lifts as his lips leave mine and he reaches to the drawer next to his bed. He pulls a condom out and sits up on his knees, tearing the package in front of me and tossing it to the side while he unrolls the condom onto himself. He guides my hands to touch him, and I do. My fingertips soft along his length, feeling the sheath over him and the ribbed end where the covering ends. I wrap my fingers around his width slowly, and I take in the weight of him. I hold on while he adjusts his position, and I don’t let go until I feel the tip of him at my hot center.
“This is how it should have been,” he says, easing into me slowly. I’m still sore from the first time, so he stops inside of me and lets me adjust and move when I’m ready.
I roll my hips after a few seconds and stare into his nervous eyes.
“This is how it is,” I say, drawing a crooked smile from his lips that he kisses me with a breath later.
Jesse’s hips move in rhythm with my own, his left hand holding my arm up above our bodies and his right one gripping at my thigh as he pushes in and pulls away, nearly leaving me every time.
“You feel so good, Ari. So…fucking…good.” He groans his words while he sucks the skin beneath my ear. I curve my neck, opening it to him. His soft kiss sends goosebumps down my spine, but he warms me with every thrust. His movements grow stronger, and I begin to pull him into me, wanting to feel him deeper inside.
My insides begin to squeeze and contract quickly, still raw and sensitive from the orgasm he gave me with his mouth, but I let each wave pass, feeling the build linger and exhaust me. I cry out when I feel Jesse’s body grow more rigid, and I urge him to push into me harder, to be less careful and to break me wide open as he comes undone inside of me.
His chest is damp with sweat, our bodies sticking together, and his hips thrust hard one last time. He rolls off me, pulling out and leaving me empty and wishing he was still filling me up inside. Now that I’ve gotten used to him being there, I don’t want him to leave. I want to feel him inside of me always—to live my life with him there, pleasing me. I want to please him.
I love him. I love him so fucking much.
He is my lake, and I dove in—head fucking first.
Chapter Nineteen
I was planning on weeks—I thought I’d have time to prepare, to come up with some good things to say. I called Dr. Lowell on Thursday morning, and just my luck, he had a cancellation for the afternoon.
It’s all I can think about. I took a final exam before lunch in history. I just hope I did enough to hold on to the B in there. Not a lot of scholarship money available for C students.
“Earth to Arizona. Paging Arizona.” Sam waves one of her French fries in front of me. I flash a pretend smile and take it from her hand and quickly bite it in half.
“Sorry, I have a lot on my mind.” I eat the other half.
“Really? Hadn’t noticed.” She twists her lips up and smiles in a way that also flips me off.
“I know,” I sigh and push my tray of uneaten food away.
Jesse kicks his foot toward me under the table. He knows the full story. He nods his head to the right, toward Sam and mouths the words “tell her.”
“I’ve got things. Rehearsal tonight, yeah? You coming Sam?” Jesse stands with his own tray of uneaten food and looks at my friend who just stares back at him, weirded out that she was invited to our rehearsal.
“Uh…sure?” Her response draws out slowly.
“Perfect,” Jesse nods. His eyes meet mine again before he turns and takes long strides to the trash where he tosses in his entire tray. One of the teachers shouts at him but Jesse pretends not to hear him and pushes through the doors leading to the parking lot. He’s making this a half-day, apparently.
“Mr. Teeton is so pissed,” Sam laughs out, pointing at the scene before us with one of her fries. The teacher holds his hands on his lips and glares out the door for a few seconds at Jesse’s back before finally giving in and reaching into the trash can to retrieve the tray.
“Trash picker!” It was inevitable that someone would see and shout that. I’m a little shocked it wasn’t Sam, to be honest. Mr. Teeton stands up quickly and scans the room to find the source. Nobody will admit to it, and no one will tell. He’s going to have to just wear the label for the next hour.
“Do you want to come with me to a thing after school?” I thought about asking my parents to come, but a lot of my questions are about them. I think I want a chance to get that stuff off my chest without their ears taking it in the first go-round. I already told them I made the appointment, and my dad offered to give me a ride. I’d rather Sam take me, and I don’t want to be alone.
“Is it shopping?” Sam stuffs a handful of fries in her mouth and begins to bite them down to nubs.
I laugh and widen my eyes.
“No, it’s miles away from shopping,” I say.
“Like as in physical miles? Or are you being metaphorical?” She picks up the crust from her pizza and bites it down to nothing just as she did her fries.
I pucker my mouth into a tight smile and think about her question.
“Both, I guess.”
She frowns and pretends to think about her choice before finally agreeing.
“Fine. I suppose I’ll drive.” She brushes the salt from her fingers and takes my tray in her hand as she stands. “You done?”
I nod. She lifts them both and walks confidently away from our table. I trail her a few steps, my bag slung over my shoulder. When Sam gets to the trash bin, she pauses and I see the smile tip the corner of her face.
Shit.
She drops both trays in the trash and leaves through the same double doors that Jesse did. She walks a little faster, though, and rounds a corner into the ladies’ room for safe haven. I pretend I don’t know her and linger a few steps behind.
“So disrespectful!” Mr. Teeton shouts through the open door as I exit. He’s hoping his voice will carry far enough to find Sam’s ears. She’s already touching up her makeup and retelling the story to someone in the bathroom, though. I text her I’ll meet her at her car after school and I keep up the act that I have no idea who she is until I’m safely away from the cafeteria.
Sam is waiting for me in the parking lot. Jesse’s car is gone. I’m sure he left right after lunch—after what Sam is now affectionately calling “operation lunch tray.”
I get in to the rolling coffin, and my best friend is playing Iggy Pop as loud as her stereo will go. The kicking rhythm and obnoxious lyrics of angst and rebellion soothes my anxious heart. She gets me.
“Where to?” She’s hyped up, and I’m about to seriously disappoint her.
“Thirty-Seven West Oak,” I say, as if that address means anything to her. I turn the card over in my hand, then hand it to her for clarity.
“A doctor’s appointment?” Her brow furrows with a squiggle like a cartoon.
“Yep,” I say, taking the card back. “Apparently, my sister dying has me a whole lot more messed up than I realized.”
“Oh,” she says, shifting into drive. “All right. Let’s go.”
I smile at her and hold my expression in place while she pulls us away from the school. Eventually, she feels my stare on her and turns her head to meet my gaze.
“What?” Sam shrugs.
“You’re just a really good friend is all. Like, you didn’t even ask for details. I could be making you drive me off a cliff and you’d just take my word for it and burn the gas.” I rest my head on the velvety seat back and look at her affectionately.
“We’d so fly off that cliff hardcore.” She snorts a laugh and flexes her grip on her steering wheel to exaggerate her joke.
I laugh.
“We would,” I say, settling back into my seat facing forward. She punches the gas as if we really are going to dive off the end of the earth, and I tug on my seat belt just in case, too. I wouldn’t want to fly through the windshield if she changed her mind.
It takes us about fifteen minutes to get to the small business park on the outskirts of town. It’s a new building made mostly of glass. I swear that’s Dr. Lowell sitting in the second-story office at a desk waiting for me.
Sam shifts the car into park and kills the engine. The car gurgles into silence. This is the point when I’m supposed to leave the comfort of the coffin. I just can’t seem to get my arms and legs to move.
“This usually works better if you see the person you make the appointment with.”
I glare at my friend, and she sticks her tongue out. She knows I’m uncomfortable; this is her way of easing my stress. It does the trick for about seven seconds.
“Let’s do this,” I say, willing my hand to grab the door handle, pulling it, opening the heavy door, swinging my legs to the pavement outside, and standing. I pause here for a minute for another long, deep breath. Deep breaths have gotten me through a lot of things in life. Of course, repressing memories has, too.
I step away from the door and slam it shut. It makes a satisfying clunk that lifts my mouth on both ends. Sam walks around the front of her car and links her arm through mine. The only thing missing is our yellow-brick road. We are, for certain, off to see a wizard.
The elevator is made of glass to match the building. It helps in a strange way; I can see my entire path all the way up to the office with the guy I am still pretty sure is Dr. Lowell. My nerves work against me, though, and by the time Sam and I enter the glass box, I’m shaking so badly I can’t get my finger to press the button for the third floor. She presses it for me, then immediately hugs me in her arms.
“Ari, maybe this isn’t a good idea today?” She rubs my back like a mother would a sick toddler. That’s exactly how I feel, like I ate too much cotton candy and jumped on the tilt-a-whirl.
“It will never be a good time.” I stiffen in her hold. She doesn’t let go through it.
The door opens with a soft pinging sound, and a faint scent of lavender and rain brushes my senses.
“Well, at least they make it smell like a spa,” my friend says.
I laugh pathetically.
“Maybe we can get our toes done after I splay my head open.” I grimace. My friend grabs my hand before I can walk down the hallway, jerking me around to face her.
“Why am I here and not your mom or dad?” Her eyes swim with empathy. I don’t have a concrete answer, so I give her the only one I can.
“I think maybe I’m part of their problem, and they’re a part of mine.”
My friend blinks at me and tries to understand, eventually just giving in with a nod. She takes my hand in hers and we venture down the hallway, to a white wall that’s filled with black and white photographs, like a gallery. I open the glass door that leads to the man I saw from outside. His head pops up from a computer, and his smile is instant and kind.
“You must be Arizona. Your dad took care of the paperwork online. He said you’ll have the copay?” The man holds out his palm. I stare at it for a second, then realize he’s waiting for my debit card.
“Oh, yeah…sorry,” I feel in my back pocket for my card. I hand it to him and he smiles and slides it through a payment machine. Seems like a kinda cold way to start therapy. It’s been a while since I’ve done this.
Sam circles the room around me, finding a lounge chair near the window that looks over her car. She folds herself up in it and pulls her phone out to spy on the rest of our classmates on social media.
“Here’s your receipt. If you take a seat, he’ll be right out.”
I take my card and release a heavy breath. This guy is just the paperwork guy.
I move over to my friend and spy over her shoulder at photos of girls puckering their lips and holding up fingers to show how hardcore they are. I haven’t posted a photo on one of these apps in a really long time. I open my app to see just how long it’s been, and the last thing I see is a selfie of me in braces. That’s thirteen months ago.
“Arizona?”
I startle at my name, because I’m not ready.
“Yes…hi,” I stammer, getting to my feet. I wipe the moisture from my palm and step closer to a man so good-looking I am fairly certain he models for a side gig. What the hell is this?
“Nice to meet you.” His voice is velvet, and his smile is set deep in a stubbled jaw that is etched like a superhero’s—square and strong. He’s tall enough to fill the frame of the door, and his denim-colored button-down shirt is rolled up to quarter sleeves. He’s too young to be able to untangle people for a living.
“Why don’t you come on back?” His brows lift and his gaze drifts to my friend who is standing right behind me.
“Moral support. If that’s okay,” I explain.
“Anything is okay if you say it’s okay.” His smile is genuine; I don’t feel like I’m being fed lines from some book. I nod in a small movement and grasp my best friend’s hand and bring her along behind me.
We curve around walls I didn’t realize were there and end up in an office on the opposite side of the building with a large window overlooking a man-made lake.
“This space is really nice. I feel like someone should be making super computers and microchips in here.” I run my hand along the back of the modern, black-leather couch. I take my seat on the end and Sam sits on the opposite side. She pulls her phone from her purse to amuse herself again, but Dr. Lowell stops her.
“This is a tech-free room. Sorry,” he says, holding out a basket. My friend clicks her teeth, but gives up her device, and I reach into my pocket and turn in mine. He tucks the basket away on a shelf behind him and sits in his chair, wheeling himself around his desk so he can be closer to us, almost as if we’re about to have a book-club meeting.
“Social media makes my job harder,” he says, explaining why he has the no-phone policy.
I must be showing my lack of understanding on my face because he continues to explain.
“So much stress comes from this compulsive need we have to keep up with everyone else. Social media boils it all down to one picture, one sentence, one emoji. For thirty minutes, at least, I like to have my clients just breathe clean air and let go of the idea that they aren’t as whatever adjective as someone else.
I let his wisdom sink in for a minute and decide pretty quickly that Jesse was right—he’s really good, and I’m going to like him.
I see my name on a file folder behind him, so I bend to the right and point to it a little.
“You learn everything you need to know about me in there? Feels like there should be more paperwork.” I make jokes when I’m nervous. Sam gives me a courtesy laugh. Dr. Lowell smiles.
He reaches behind him and pinches the folder, then hands it to me.
“You’re welcome to look through it. It’s mostly just history. But it’s your history, so no reason you can’t read it. You can keep it if you really want.”
I peer up at him from the now-open folder in my lap.
“Really?” I doubt he’d let me leave with everything that’s in here. But maybe I’m underestimating him.
He quickly answers with a nod.
“Go on. Give it a look,” he says, leaning to his other side to pull a bottle of water from the end of his desk. He twists the cap and takes a large gulp while I read.
It’s mostly the same words I found on my extensive Internet search, which makes me think self-diagnosing online isn’t that inaccurate.
My list is pretty obvious:
Showing similarities to sibling behavior
Excessive worrying
Mood swings
Distortion of reality
That last line grabs me. I feel like this is why I’m here. I pull this page from the folder and rest it on top, pointing to it with my finger and handing the entire file back.
“I don’t think I have delusions, so maybe you can expand on this for me?” I tap my finger under the word DISTORTION a few times. He reads it as if he doesn’t know exactly what it says, then takes one more sip from his water bottle and sets it to the side, adjusting my paperwork and putting it back on the desk as well.
“I know this is going to sound really cliché, so I’m sorry about that, but…what do you think that means?”
“Ha,” I gut out a laugh. He’s right; that’s super cliché. I glance to my friend who only shrugs. It’s not for her to answer anyhow.
“Okay,” I muse to myself, pulling my hands together in my lap and picking at my fingers. “Umm,” I’m stalling. My chest tightens because usually when I stall like this, someone calls me out on it and prompts me to just do whatever it is I’m putting off. Dr. Lowell isn’t like that, though. He’s patient. He adjusts his position in his chair, re-crossing his legs the other way and resting his hands at his knees. If waiting on me to say what’s on the tip of my tongue is the only thing we do today, then he’s okay with that. This step must be important.
