Tryst Six Venom, page 7
I stare at her back as she goes, the car key cutting into my palm so deep I think it draws blood. Reaching inside the car, I grab my stick, slam the door, and follow her. She’s gonna get a taste of what it’s like without me on her side.
I match her step for step, the entire way back to the track, and I know she knows I’m behind her, because she shoves her gear bag onto a bench with a little extra oomph, psyching herself up without even looking back.
“We play the whole field,” she tells me, pulling her cleats out of her bag. “Whoever scores three goals first, wins.”
“Lucky for you there’s no one to pass to.”
“You’ll see how well I can pass when I shoot the ball into the net.”
The corner of my mouth curls.
She props her foot onto the bench and slips one shoe on after the other, turning her head.
Let’s see it, then. I push my hair over the top of my head again and start walking onto the field.
“No gear?” she shouts.
“Scared?”
She can protect her precious little face all she wants, but I hope she doesn’t. I’d love to see blood coming out of her fucking nose.
We head straight for center field, both of us turning toward each other, ready to face off as she drops the ball between us.
“Whistle after three,” I tell her, leaning down. “One.”
She leans down with me, our eyes locked. “Two.”
“Thr—”
But she charges, cutting me off and throwing her shoulder into me. I growl, crashing to my ass as she scoops up the ball and runs.
I should’ve known… I watch her ponytail swing as she flies down the field toward the goal, and I slam the ground with my fist, growling as I jump to my feet.
God, I hate her.
I bolt, charging after her, but she reaches the end of the field and launches the ball into the net. She doesn’t celebrate as she grabs the ball back out of the goal and tosses it to me. I catch it, the rain spilling in my eyes as I barely notice her clothes sticking to her body.
“Again!” she demands.
Yeah, you got that right. Digging in my heels, I take up position back at the center, but I don’t wait for her to be ready. I fling the ball down the field, but before she has a chance to move, I slam my body into her and rush past.
“Ugh!” she screams.
I run, picking up the ball and racing down the field, but in a moment, I feel her stick tapping harder and harder into my legs. “Move your ass!” she yells. “Come on. Come on.”
I tighten my fists around the damn stick, debating whether knocking her head off with my pole is worth the jail time.
I toss the ball, it lands in the net, and lightning flashes across the sky as her lips brush my ear. “I love how you move your ass for me.”
I whip around, shoving her off, but she just laughs, digging the ball out of the net. She runs backward, her eyes gleaming. “Come on, baby. Do it.”
I shake my head, but I do it. She rushes toward the other goal, and I race after her, but about mid-way down the field, a thought hits me.
This is what she wants. She doesn’t need to win. She just wants me to sweat. I’m ten times the player she is, and she’s enjoying this. She’s got me on a leash.
Fuck her.
I jam my stick between her legs mid-stride. She stumbles, but before she falls, she grabs onto me and pulls me with her. Shit!
She cries out, I grunt, and our sticks fall to the wayside as I crash on top of her, my skull damn-near hitting hers.
“Bitch!” she blurts out. She tries to shove me off, but I’m sick of her shit. I grapple for her wrists, pinning them to the ground and glare down at her.
“How desperate for attention you are,” I spit out. “How shallow and small. I think you like engaging me. You like spending any time you can with me, don’t you?”
She tips her chin up, closing her mouth but still breathing heavy through her nose, her jaw clenched. A lock of hair, darkened by rain, snakes under her left eye and across her nose.
I release her arms, but I don’t move. “Come on.” I hover over her, gazing down. “Hit me. Then I can hit you back and numb you like you want me to. Bullies are always in so much more pain than they inflict.”
Her wrists remain pinned to the grass, her stubborn, little chin unmoving and her eyes unwavering.
But I feel her, all the same. My legs around her body, my thighs hugging her… The cool, soft flesh of her wet legs presses against my calves.
All of a sudden, my smile falls, and I have no ambition to move. An amazing little buzz vibrates under my skin as I become aware of her body underneath mine.
Rain hits my skin like darts, but all I feel is the heat of her through our clothes.
She isn’t moving away. Why isn’t she trying to get away?
I leave her eyes, trailing my own down her neck, down her chest, her chilled nipples pressing against her bra, and down her stomach, feeling and seeing it shake in the inch between us, betraying the stone in her expression.
I shift my eyes back up to hers, a quiet laugh escaping my chest. She’s scared of me. She’s actually scared of me.
But why?
“Get off,” she spits out.
I just laugh again, lowering my face to hers a little more. “Scared I’ll like the position we’re in and make a move?” I tease. “Or are you scared you want me to make a move?”
She digs in her eyebrows, fucking quiet for once.
“Come on, it’s just like being with a man, Clay,” I mock, unable to hide my enjoyment as I lower my voice to a whisper. “You just open your legs.”
I let my gaze fall to her lips, the wheels in my head starting to turn.
She’s making no move to leave. I’m not holding her down.
“You just open your legs,” I say again.
We lie in the field, in full view of anyone who decides to come by, but she doesn’t seem worried about that.
It’s pouring rain. We’re alone.
Just the two of us.
And for a moment, I feel my heart stop. I’m just joking, but what if she does let her legs fall open? What will I do?
An invisible cord pulls at my hips, urging me to close the distance between us, but I won’t. Even if the world falls off its axis and turns upside down, I’ll never want her.
“You make me want to puke,” she says quietly. “Dirty dyke.”
“I bet your daddy likes it dirty,” I retort. “In his fuckpad in Miami?”
Her face falls just a hair but enough, and I know I’ve touched a nerve. She’s probably wondering how the hell I know about that? And does anyone else know?
I go on. “When he’s not here trying to take away my family’s land and kick the rest of Sanoa Bay off its ancestral home, that is,” I explain. “I bet Callum Ames likes it dirty, too. When his family’s not busy bragging about its long history of shipping every Seminole out of Florida.”
I reach into my pocket, pulling out the copper key with the triangular head that opens a door at Fox Hill. I hold it between us, because while it represents a prime example of how those “with” victimize those “without” and how there are still men in this world who see women as something to be used, I’m not above using it to my advantage either.
“When your men are not all busy, patting each other on the back for making St. Carmen clean and white,” I continue. “When they’re hidden away in places, far from where their frilly, frigid wives and girlfriends who drink white wine and like, decorate and shit...”
She stares at the key, a ton of questions probably racing through her mind, but her pride won’t let her give in to ask me.
“Things you’ll never have to know about,” I tell her, “because you and your mother are dumb and boring and you can’t understand the world beyond your own low level of perception.” I stare down at her. “Everyone likes it dirty, Clay. Everyone likes it, period.” I get in her face, and I feel my breath bounce off her lips. “Especially Callum Ames.”
Her expression is unreadable, unchanging, but her chest moves up and down harder but not faster. Like she’s feeling things but not angry.
“He’s going to cheat on you,” I point out. “Because women like you are displayed. A statue will never be good for anything else.”
Water pools in her eyes, the blue looking like jewels, and I falter.
What the hell am I doing? This is the kind of shit she would say. I’m sinking to her level. This kind of behavior makes my world smaller, and I’m never cruel.
I catch sight of her wrists, still by her head, on the grass. The tattoo I saw the other day peeks out between her fingers.
An inch. That’s what it looks like. Five lines, two of them smaller, looking like the quarter inch marks on a ruler. She hides the tattoo well enough that most people won’t notice it, but not so well that she never sees it. It’s important only to her.
What does it mean?
But then, she closes her fist, hiding it again.
I meet her eyes. What few tears she might’ve had there are now gone, and so is my fight. I don’t give a shit what’s underneath her layers. We all have problems and don’t treat people like dogs, and I’m not giving Clay Collins the power to change me. I won’t let her make me cruel.
Maybe I was an asshole just now, but she’ll always be one.
I climb to my feet, grabbing my stick off the ground and wipe the water off my face. Without a word, I head off the field.
Heading past the bleachers, I pull out my key ring again, unlocking the women’s locker room door. Staying late and coming in on weekends and vacations to sew costumes and build sets has its perks.
I stalk through the room, open another door, and step into the school hallway, my shoes squeaking against the terracotta tile. I pass the courtyard, rain hitting the palms and flower beds and splashing off the stone benches. I veer left toward the theater and just then, I hear the locker room door swing open again, down the hall right behind me.
Jesus Christ. She hasn’t had enough, I guess.
Diving into the theater, I climb up on the stage and head behind the curtain, down to the dressing rooms. I pull open the wardrobe in the hallway, seeing discontinued sets of school sweats and T-shirts sitting folded on the shelves. The theater director keeps the never-been-used, out-of-date overstock here for rehearsals when someone gets covered in fake blood, rain, or whatever else the production calls for.
Clay’s footfalls hit the steps, and I grab my sizes and turn, leaving the cabinet open as I brush past her.
“What’s the key for?” she asks.
I head back up to the stage, ignoring her, and pull off my shorts and tank top. Clothes drop to the table next to me, and I hear her start to strip her wet stuff.
“You wouldn’t have shown me it if it wasn’t important,” she continues.
“Your dress is ready,” I say, ignoring her question. “Unless you want me to fuck it up in all the ways your mother will hate. But it’ll cost you.”
She arches an eyebrow, tossing her wet leggings.
Will I really redesign her dress? If she pays, sure. I kind of like the idea of her wearing something I made, because she wouldn’t if she didn’t like it. Plus, she’ll remember me every time she sees pictures of herself in it. For the next fifty years.
“What was that key?” she asks again, pulling on some dark gray sweats, matching mine. Marymount runs down the left leg in big yellow letters.
I don’t answer her.
I pick up my sweats and lift my leg to put them on, but she lashes out and pushes me. I chuckle, stumbling back and drop the pants.
Darting out my hands, I shove her back. She stumbles but rights herself, squaring her shoulders.
I swipe my pants off the ground, not backing down. Clay doesn’t lay her hands on me unless we’re on the field. She might use the opportunity from time to time to be rough at practice, and the fact that she’s upped her game off the field means she’s desperate to get under my skin.
Because time is running out.
“What is that key for?” she demands again.
I shake out the pants again, dusting off any dirt from the floor. “It’s to a party.”
“When?”
“It’s kind of a pop-up.” My eyes go to the ceiling, trying to act casual.
“And you need a key to get in?”
“I guess so.”
She snatches the sweats out of my hands, approaching me in her pants and sports bra. “And who will be at this party? Anyone I know?”
I laugh under my breath. What would she do if I told her right now? She’d believe it. Clay isn’t stupid.
I narrow my eyes. I don’t want to tell her yet, though.
“Megan Martelle?” she asks, inching in. “Is that who you’re partying with?”
She’s especially obsessed with our coach’s assistant. Why?
When I say nothing, she backs away, a gleam in her eyes as she holds mine and digs in her duffel bag. Pulling out her phone, she starts tapping away. “Olivia Jaeger has a key to earn her A,” she recites as she types. “To Martelle’s apartment, so Teach can tongue her cunt all day…”
I take a step toward her. My enjoyment is gone.
She looks up, cocking her head. “That’s only a hundred characters,” she muses. “Still so much space.”
A tweet has two-hundred-eighty. I tense. She’s not going to tweet that. She wouldn’t.
“What rhymes with strap-on?” she inquires, an innocent pinch between her brows.
I lunge for the phone, ready to show her exactly how well she’d fare on my side of the tracks.
“Just because I don’t fucking punch you doesn’t mean I wasn’t taught how,” I growl. “Knock it off.”
But she slips back, holding her phone. “Drop your bra,” she tells me instead.
I lift my chin. What the hell is wrong with her?
“Drop your bra!” she bellows.
I startle, wincing. “Drop your phone.”
I’ll drop my bra for her, but no pictures.
She sets it down but grabs a Sharpie off the table, instead. Walking slowly, she stops in front of me, and I keep my eyes locked on hers as I reach behind me, unhook my black sports bra, and let it fall to the floor.
I hold back my flinch at the goddamn amusement written all over her face.
Let her make fun of me. Let her say what she’s going to say. She doesn’t want to send that tweet. Not really. This is what she wants. Me humiliated.
She doesn’t do anything for several moments, almost as if she’s trying to decide what to do at all, but then…
She lowers her gaze.
She stares at me, unblinking, and everything is hot under the scrutiny of her eyes. Her lips fall apart, and I don’t think she breathes.
Chills spread over my skin.
“I didn’t…” she trails off, and then clears her throat. “I didn’t realize your hips were wide enough to birth a full-grown linebacker.” She uncaps the marker. “Your skirt hides it well.”
Fuck you.
She sinks to her knees, watching me the whole time. “Should I let you keep your panties on?”
“Do you want me to take them off?”
Dare me. I stare at her, willing her to have the fucking guts.
But she draws in a deep breath, instead. “Your brother…” she says. “He was looking at me the other morning when he dropped you off, wasn’t he?”
I clench my jaw.
“I didn’t mind it. You want to take a picture of me for him?” She tsks. “Those Jaeger men… Definitely not the kind you marry, but that’s kind of what’s so hot about them.”
What the hell is she talking about?
“Something hot about being used for something that feels so good?”
I study her, waiting for the fucking point.
“But Iron isn’t in charge of the family. It’s Macon, right?” She peers up at me. “Your oldest brother?”
I almost laugh. Messing with Macon will take a hell of a lot more than she has.
Her eyes fall down my legs and back up over my panties and up my breasts. “What would you do if I came out of his room one morning?” she nearly whispers. “Would you be angry? Would you warn him against me?”
Her wet hair clings to her shoulders, her soft lips and glowing skin so much more beautiful without makeup.
And an image of her sneaking out of my brother’s room in a towel, after being in his bed, hits me, and I look away.
“Or would you wish I was in your room, instead?” she murmurs.
My chest caves a little, a picture of her nestled in my sheets coming unbidden to my thoughts.
I glare back. “I’d wish you well,” I say calmly. “I have brothers to spare, and it looks like you need one.”
Anger blazes in her eyes, her chest rising and falling in heavy breaths all of a sudden.
Take what you want from me, and do it in the next three months, bitch.
She yanks my panties down my legs, and I stumble with the force, feeling her strip them from my feet in moments.
I gasp, my hands going to cover myself, but I stop, begging her to remind me that I hate her and this school and need to get out of here. Let her push me until I’m running for the state line.
“Oh, exquisite,” she coos.
Tears well in my chest. I can feel them rising to my eyes as the Sharpie digs into my skin. I look anywhere but at her.
“Just a few suggestions,” she says, writing on me, “because poor or not, these things can be fixed.”
She starts circling areas of my stomach, my inner thighs, and making notes on my calves and toes.
Nudging me around, she pushes me until I’m damn-near prostrating over the table, but I take it, even as the bile rises up my throat and I’m dying to just kick her teeth in.
She won’t get in trouble. She never did, so I stopped telling anyone, especially my brothers, because they would only get arrested for retaliating for me.
No. I will deal with this. When I know I can’t get expelled.
She writes under my ass. “Some squats will take care of this.”
Rising, she lifts each arm, shaking it to see if there’s fat, and then circles the offending bits in marker, so I can take note.
