The Unrequited Page 11

  It’s a default response, but instead of coming out commanding, my voice wobbles and distorts into a broken whisper. It is none of his business. It’s no one’s business what happened with Caleb.

  Even as I think it, confession balloons up in my chest and rushes into my mouth. For a split second, I entertain the thought of telling him. Everything. Every single thing.

  It’s a novel feeling, completely alien and terrifying. I can’t. I can’t tell him what I did. He’ll hate me. But I like that. I need the accusation. Someone to remind me that I deserve to be shunned by my own mother. Tell me how bad I am, how pathetic and sick and insane.

  God, I am so confused.

  “I’m leaving,” I tell him, because if I don’t leave, I’ll spill all my secrets.

  I make to go but his fingers clamp around my wrist, stopping me from moving. This is the second time he’s touched me. Skin to skin. This time around it isn’t as shocking, but it’s still as vibrant. A boom in the air, and then all falls silent. The world goes mute before it starts back up. I know the door is open. I know there are people in the vicinity. I know he shouldn’t be holding my hand this way, but I don’t care. I can’t…

  Like him, his fingers are magic.

  Thomas tugs me toward him, forcing my pelvis against the desk. The edge bites into my bone but I don’t wince. I lean into it.

  “What’d he do to you?” he asks again, harshly. The lines of his beautiful face are stiff and there is a severe glint in his eyes. He is angry—at what? Maybe it’s there on my behalf. It’s such a sweet delusion.

  I can’t help but feel warm as I shake my head at him. “Nothing.”

  “Layla,” he warns.

  His raspy voice, like his touch, is a form of hypnosis. My body relaxes, gives in. My rationality is trapped under the rubble of my languid, obedient muscles.

  “He just…he didn’t love me. Ever.”

  “And you loved him?” His fingers flex over my wrist, gripping even tighter. Does he realize how tight he is holding me? What does my skin feel like to him?

  “Yes.” I loved him. Do I still love him, though? I don’t know. I’ve been in pain and agony for so long that I can’t really tell.

  The angles of Thomas’ face shift. He looks at me in a way he never has before, in a new light, maybe. I bask in it, even though I don’t deserve his fresh eyes.

  I’m like you, I want to say.

  A fleeting thought enters my mind: maybe I was always meant to find him, to find this symmetry to my disfigured soul. Maybe I was always meant to find Emma and Dylan too. I was meant to pick up their tiny broken hearts and patch them back up. I wonder how I can help Thomas do that, how can I mend his cracked heart.

  Licking my lips, I tell him, “I’m the one who hurt him.”

  His blue gaze smolders, as if my words are gasoline, stoking the flame. “What did you do?”

  “I forced him to sleep with me.”

  There. I said it. It’s out there. Thomas remains silent, waiting for me to explain.

  “We were at this party. He was, actually. I just went there to see him. He was leaving for college the next month and I was desperate. I’d always loved him but he never returned my feelings. So I, uh, got him drunk.” I cringe but keep going. “B-But that’s not all. I got him high, too, and I lied about it. I told him it was just a cigarette but it wasn’t, and…and then I took advantage of him.”

  I remember the dazed look in Caleb’s eyes as he kept shooting me lazy smiles. That was the night his touch lingered on me. He caressed my cheeks while talking. His arms looped around my waist as we danced. We’d never danced so close to each other before. I could hear his racing heartbeat and for those few seconds, I pretended it was for me and not because of the marijuana and the liquor.

  I’d never felt so loved and so disgusted before. I still don’t understand it. It was awful, but like a dog, I lapped up his attention, his love, because what other choice did I have? He was leaving. He didn’t love me for who I was. My body was the only thing I had left to give and I knew he wouldn’t take it sober, so I tampered with his judgment.

  “We ended up in a room, away from the party and…and I kissed him. He, uh, he didn’t respond at first, but then he gave in and…” I take in a quivering breath. “And then I took my clothes off and put his hands on me. I-I could see he was confused and didn’t want to but I straddled his lap and…and yeah. We slept together. I thought if I gave him my virginity, he’d come to love me, but he left the next day.” I blink once and a single tear streams down my cheek. “So I hurt him. He was my best friend, my only friend, and he was my stepbrother. And I forced him to have sex with me.”

  That’s all of it. All my ugly parts. All the reasons why I’m a freak. Why I’ve been banished to my tower. Why my own mother hates me. I wonder what she’d do if she found out what I did to Caleb. She knows I love him, but she doesn’t know how many lines I’ve crossed for that love.

  Thomas lets go of my wrist and the pressure on my lower body eases. The pain in my pelvis becomes a dull throb.

  He is letting me go.

  It brings forth more of my tears—salty, useless water that never fixes anything. He’s disgusted by me, and who could blame him? A sob is preparing to escape, but it dies down into a hiccup when I feel his rough hand envelop my jaw.

  His magic hands are on me.

  This is the third time, and it’s by far the most intimate. His calluses drag across my trembling chin, stabilizing it, keeping it calm. Keeping me calm, like some sort of anti-anxiety drug.

  “I’m scared…” I whisper brokenly.

  “Of what?”

  Of always being this miserable and alone.

  I don’t say it because we have come closer now, and I’ve lost my voice. I can see the pores of his skin, the hidden flecks in his irises. His eyes sweep across my face, left and right, up and down.

  I palm his hand that cups my cheek. The dusting of hair over his knuckles grazes my skin. It teases my senses, liquefying them, heating them up. I want to suck on his fingers. I want to taste them after he touches me, taste his flesh after it comes in contact with mine.

  I’m assaulted by images of him—his fingers—inside me. Inside my needy core. Petting it, soothing it, stroking it. I picture them curling, hooking inside my channel to coax out my juices and then feeding them to me.

  The desire is so strong, so alive that I can’t stop myself from nuzzling in his hand. He grows even hazier, covered by a certain mist, sparkling.

  Fuck it. I’m doing it. I’m tasting his skin. Just one lick, I promise myself. It won’t hurt anyone.

  I turn my face and peek my tongue out. I make contact with the juncture where his fingers meet the palm. The touch is barely existent. It barely registers in this vast, vast universe, but his taste bursts in my mouth—the strongest, most provocative flavor of salt and chocolate.

  Belatedly, I realize he’s grown rigid. The haze clears and I’m jarred back into reality. I move away from the desk, out of his reach, but he’s staying still. His hand falls to his side, lax.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out, ashamed of myself, ashamed of my lack of impulse control. Kara was right—I need to work on it. I need to do better.

  He doesn’t say anything. His speechlessness and his blank face scare me more than his shout would have. I would’ve gladly taken his bark over this silence.

  God, I’m so stupid.

  “I have to go.”

  It’s Saturday and I’m at The Alchemy with Emma, Dylan, and Matt. We find a table in the middle of the room and Emma thumps the big bag of goodies down on it. It’s prompt night for the Labyrinth and she is in charge of producing the prompts.

  “Explain to me one more time why you need this giant-ass bag again?” Matt says, taking off his coat and hanging it on the chair as he takes a seat.

  Dylan gives him a disdainful look. “She’s got her prompts in it, dumbass.”

  Emma smiles in pleasure, her eyes on the bag as she looks
for something. It’s adorable how shy she is in front of him when she’s normally so self-assured. Dylan and Emma have gone on a few dates this week. Turns out, Dylan loved the tangerine. I knew it.

  “And why can’t you show them a picture or something on your phone?” He bumps his shoulder with mine. “Back me up here, Layla. This freaking bag is a monstrosity.”

  “I don’t have a problem with it, actually,” I say. “It’s kind of fun to look at something while writing about it.”

  When Emma told me about the Labyrinth’s prompt night, my first reaction was panic. I didn’t think I could be a part of it. I wasn’t prepared. I haven’t even read all the books I own.

  Reading has become a vital part of my life, now. In the past week, I’ve only roamed on the street once. I haven’t been to Thomas’ house at all. I stay up late reading. There’s so much to discover, and I’ve been living inside this fog for so long. I feel like time is running out on me. I’ll probably die before reading all the books out there.

  I try to calm myself. I’m here to be a part of something greater than me—art—and I don’t have to be perfect. The only thing I should be worried about is seeing Thomas.

  It’s been six days since I cried in front of him, told him my ugly love story, and sort of licked his hand, trying to taste him. Since then I’ve seen him all around campus, at Crème and Beans with Nicky, in the corridors at the Labyrinth when Emma dragged me to a play reading. I’ve even seen him in the park, at the bench, the one time I went out at night. He was smoking and battling with himself, as usual, and I was hiding behind the tree.

  It’s like he’s everywhere. My secret keeper. The one person who knows what I did.

  And he is disgusted by me. He never looks at me. To him, I’m invisible. Somehow, this hurts even more because deep down I thought he could relate to me, but he doesn’t.

  I really am a freak of nature.

  The front door of the bar opens and in strides Sarah Turner, followed by Professor Masters and Thomas. The snowflakes swirl behind his back as he enters and the door swings shut.

  “Hello children,” Professor Masters greets us in a jovial voice as he saunters forward. There is a chorus of chuckles and Hi Professor around the room.

  Without paying attention to anyone, Thomas breaks off from the trio and heads for the bar. Sarah throws him an annoyed look but Professor Masters steers her toward their destination.

  Thomas orders a drink and sits on the barstool, his long legs straddling the small seat. He takes off his jacket, revealing a plain grey t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders and biceps. His jean-covered thighs bulge as he bounces his right leg with impatience.

  The bartender sets down a chocolate martini in front of him and I look away, embarrassed. His weakness for chocolate awakens something raw and melty inside my stomach. I haven’t thought about what I’ll do come Monday. Will I go back to class? Will I hide and never show my face again?

  Emma gets up from beside me, greets the room, and explains the instructions. She digs inside her bag and fishes something out. “So the first prompt is this bottle of hot sauce. You have to write a short poem, no more than twenty lines, with whatever comes to mind when you see a red bottle with H.O.T. written on it. I’m going to pass this around for a bit so you guys can look at it.”

  My first thought is that I hate hot sauce. I’m more of a sweet-loving person. In fact, I’m the only sweet-loving person in my family or the families I’ve had over the years. My mom, Caleb, my dad, Caleb’s dad, even Henry—they all shy away from sweet things.

  The thought of Caleb makes me aware of the phone in my jacket pocket. Since those missed calls at Crème and Beans, he’s called several times, but I haven’t picked up. I was hoping he’d leave a message or something so I’d know what it’s about, but he hasn’t.

  Why does he keep calling me? As impulsive as I am, a strange fear is keeping me from taking his call.

  Emma bumps my elbow and tells me to get writing.

  Right, hot sauce. I nibble at my pen, trying to think…no, trying to feel. How does hot sauce make me feel? H.O.T. Feel. Feel.

  I close my eyes and the first thing I see is Thomas’ face. His beautiful, intense gaze. How every molecule of my body, every inch of my flesh burns when he is near. How he has the power to change the weather, cold to hot.

  Gasping, my eyes whip open. Thomas Abrams is a fire-breather. He breathes flames and lust, makes me forget everything and say yes. Yes to obsession. Yes to stalking. Yes to insanity. Yes to licking.

  With shaking hands, I begin to write and capture him in words. The pen moves and the words flow out. They keep flowing without my knowledge. All I can feel is the heat seesawing through my body.

  Next thing I know I’m jolted by Emma’s clap and shrill voice. “All right guys, it’s time to stop. Put down your pens.”

  Murmurs escalate and the room breaks out in conversation, as Emma asks someone to volunteer their poem first. With flushed cheeks, I pocket my small notebook. While the entire room is busy, I get up and shuffle into the hallway in the back. I need to get to the ladies’ room and calm myself down.

  I rub my arms at the unexpected chill in the dank hallway and take a deep breath. My legs can barely support themselves. Is this how poets feel when they put feelings into words? Is this how Thomas feels? It’s like bleeding. It’s like running for miles and running out of breath.

  Before I can reach my destination, I’m being hauled into a dark, tiny room. I don’t even have time to squeal before the flimsy wooden door is shut, and I’m surrounded by a very familiar heat.

  It’s Thomas.

  He has me trapped inside what looks to be a storage room, his hand banded around my elbow, pushing me back against the dank wall.

  “T-Thomas.” I’m panting. “What… What’s happening? What’re you doing?”

  His chiseled face is a study of thick shadows and thin slices of light under the flickering yellow bulb. The only bright spots on his features are those fire-starting eyes of his. I can smell the delicious smoke rising from my body, can feel the sting.

  Now that the initial shock is gone, my body sags, relieved to be the center of his attention after days. He sees us. There are things to worry about, I know that, but I can’t muster the energy to.

  “Thomas?” I whisper when it’s clear he won’t say anything. “Wh-What are you doing?”

  His breaths are choppy, short jabs of air inhaled and exhaled as he stares at every inch of my face. “Do you still love him?”

  “What?”

  “Do you still love that guy?”

  “I… Yes.”

  “How much?”

  My breaths match his, succinct and sharp. I study him, this man in front of me. There’s a hint of vulnerability to him. His usually cool persona is frayed. Is it because I told him my story? Maybe he relates to me after all.

  “Thomas, what’s going on?”

  “How much do you love him, Layla? Do you love him so much that you hate yourself? That you can’t stand your own sight? Do you constantly think about how to fix it? How to make it better? How to be better?”

  He isn’t merely frayed—he’s coming apart. Naked agony dances on his features. It’s too bright and glaring. It’s too similar to mine, but I’m not worried about that right now. I’m worried about him.

  “Yes,” I whisper. I lift my hand and press it to his stubbled face. His cheekbone is arched and high, seemingly made of granite as it pulses beneath my palm. “But I’m so tired of it,” I admit, and his eyes flare. Fire-breathing eyes. I wonder why I didn’t notice it before. It’s so obvious now. They never fail to start a fire in my soul.

  He crowds me against the wall, as if sinking his hard body into mine, but there isn’t any touch involved. His frame sort of hovers over me, heating me up, jumpstarting my nerves. I’m a mesh of live wires, firing lust and adrenaline. I’m sticky as sugar and drunk as whiskey.

  Thomas arranges his body and places both his palms on the wall
, caging me in. The vein on his bicep becomes taut, a purple string tugging on my senses.

  I watch him watch my parted lips, and suddenly, it’s the only piece of my body I can feel. My mouth, throbbing, puffy, swollen with the need.

  “Me too,” he whispers, almost to himself.

  I wasn’t meant to hear it, but I did. Again, I’m hit by a storm of desire to kiss him better. It’s a tornado, an avalanche in my body, and in one breathless moment, I decide to go for it. It’s okay. I can take the blame for it later.

  I break the rules and reach up and kiss him. A feathery peck on his plump lips, it’s a kiss of solidarity, a kiss that intends to tell him I understand—but one isn’t enough. It only manages to ratchet up my lust. So I give him another, this time on the corner of his mouth, and then another one on his jaw.

  It’s not enough, these small, barely-there touches. I want more, but I won’t take it. I’ll be good; I’ll only give.

  Abruptly, he fists my curls and stops me. I look at him fearfully, ready to apologize—not for the kiss, but for being the kisser. His gaze reflects passion, stark, raving need, and I shiver, despite wearing layers and sweating with his heat.

  “Are you trying to kiss me, Layla?” he rasps, flexing his fingers on my makeshift ponytail.

  He couldn’t tell? Blush rises to the surface and I know I’m glowing like a neon sign. Swallowing, I nod. “Yes.”

  He inches closer to me, still not touching—as impossible as that is—but infinitely closer. “You want to kiss me, Miss Robinson, you do it right.”

  Oh God, does he have to call me that? Now, here? My spine arches on its own and my heavy tits graze the contours of his shuddering chest.

  “H-How?” I ask innocently, belying the daring action of my body. His stern, professor-y voice is doing things to me, making me wild, uncontrolled.

  For a second, he’s silent, just watching. I’m afraid he’ll back out from whatever this is, whatever insanity we’re about to commit—but then I sense the shift in the liquor-laced air as he opens his mouth and growls, “Like this.”