Wrong. Fucking. Thing. To say.
“Like you tried to my brother? Then you pussied out like a big … pussy?”
Through my teeth, I reply, “Something like that.”
“And about my ass …”
Oh, fuck, I think as she continues while I walk into the closet and grab fresh sheets in hopes of stopping her tantrum.
“My ass is phat, with a PH, and everyone at school voted for that. And you know whose ass that was, Tobias fucking Easton? Mine! My ass may be fat, but it’s okay, because it’s the PH kind.” Then she whispers, “So there.”
I walk out with the sheets and set them on my dresser, and she starts up again.
“And you know what? Maybe your body type is not everyone’s cup of tea. Maybe some girls think, oh yuck, look at those big stupid muscles and those stupid”—she hiccups—“stupid tattoos. Did you ever think of that? Huh, did ya?” Hiccup.
I flip the mattress.
“And seriously, what is with your oh-so-cool-dude workout clothes and your matchy-matchy … ness? Do you think that your stupid”—hiccup—“stupid sneakers are too cool for a girl with a fat ass?”
“Not sure, Truth. Is it fat with a PH?”
She doesn’t say anything as I straighten the mattress.
“And you know what?”
“What?” I sigh out.
“I don’t even care if you hate me ’cause, right now, I don’t”—hiccup—“like me either.”
I make quick work of putting on fresh sheets, change pillowcases, and grab a fresh comforter, which is so fucked up because I haven’t fucked Dee since I saw Truth on my bedroom floor. I want to tell myself that it’s because I want her to shut the fuck up and go to sleep, but that would be bullshit. I want her to be comfortable. I need her to be fucking comfortable so she falls asleep, so she stops talking about herself like this, and so she stops revealing all the shit she thinks about me that makes the hardest thing in years even more difficult.
“Tobias Easton?” she whispers.
I look over at her, all curled up in the corner. “What?”
“I’m still not sleeping on your bed.” She closes her eyes and hiccups.
“Truth Steel, like hell you aren’t.”
She rolls over, her Phat ass, the one I’ve imagined bent over my bed, my hands kneading it, my body slamming into hers so fucking hard she’ll feel me for days, months, years, for fucking ever as I watch it bounce with each thrust, is staring me right in the face, and she’s wearing black leggings, which isn’t hiding shit.
“I’m not sleeping in a boy’s bed for the first time who doesn’t even like me.”
I stalk over, pick her up, and consider tossing her on it, but she opens those green eyes, the ones that plead with me, and I do something really fucking stupid. I pull her tight to me, pull back the comforter, and lay her in it, real nice and real gently.
When I go to step back, she clenches my shirt with both hands and asks, “Why do you try to make me hate you so much?”
I open my mouth to say something, but she puts a finger over my lips. “What’s my name?”
I pull her hand away and shake my head.
“It’s Truth, so don’t lie to me.”
My jaw ticks as I tighten it, hoping like hell I don’t drop a bomb and fighting the fact that not only do I want her to be comfortable in my bed, but I want to be the one to show her how she deserves to be treated in my—a bed.
“Please,” she pleads.
I exhale my held breath as I contemplate my words.
“The truth is you and I don’t have a chance.”
“Why?”
“If I can stay the hell out of trouble, I have a scholarship waiting for me and a chance to become a good man.”
“Except for that time you were an asshole”—hiccup—“those times you tried really hard to be an asshole”—hiccup—“and that one time I hated you because you broke a promise and punched my brother.” Hiccup. “I think you already are.”
I can’t help but smile, and her reaction is to return a smile, a beautiful punch to the gut, even though she’s sloppy drunk. A smile to make me regret it.
“That’s because you don’t know everything about me.”
She starts to say something, and I pull the same shit on her—covering her mouth with my finger.
“I have shit I don’t want to talk about, not with you, not with anyone.”
She takes my wrist gently in her tiny hand and slides it to her cheek. Then she rolls to her side and closes her eyes. “More,” she yawns out.
“More?” I ask, trying like hell to force myself to step the fuck away.
“More truths,” she whispers.
“That’s it—I don’t want to hurt you.”
“So you hurt me anyway? Makes no sense.” Hiccup. “Real.”
“Real?”
“Real truths,” she says, rubbing her face against my hand.
“I don’t want to hurt me either,” I whisper.
She opens her eyes and slowly turns, looking at me with concern evident. “My truth?”
I shake my head.
She shakes hers in response. “I’d never hurt you.”
“That’s bullshit. You already have.”
She cocks her head to the side.
“The fight. And don’t tell me you didn’t kiss him to hurt me. You were staring right at me.”
She slowly starts to sit up, but I can’t shut up.
“I lost my shit and broke a promise, and I haven’t got much but my word.”
I’m expecting a fight, but she doesn’t say anything.
“And you know she kissed me the first time, because you were watching it. Then you snuggled up with that fucker and kissed him to spite me. Tell me I’m wrong.”
She shakes her head. “Brisa said kiss him, and I did. And tonight, when he sat behind me, I let him kiss my neck.” She reaches over, grabs my hand, lays it on her tight-ass abs, and starts moving it up slowly. I know I should pull away, but if this is all I can ever get, and it is, I’ll allow it. “When I moved his hand up my body, I did it with my eyes closed, wishing he was you.” She leans forward and brushes her lips against mine as she keeps moving my hand slowly up her belly.
When I feel my knuckles against the swell of her breast, I start to pull it away.
“Please don’t.”
“Truth?” My voice is thick and deep.
She nods slowly.
“I want you more than I’ve wanted anything ever. But if I did what I wanted to do with you, knowing who you are, I’d never forgive myself.”
“But if you don’t, maybe I’ll never forgive you.”
She starts to look down, and I reach up, lifting her chin and rubbing my thumb across her lips.
“You’ve been drinking, and you’re seventeen.”
For some reason, that makes her smile, and it’s soft and it’s sweet.
“I’ll give you the whole drunk thing, toss in that I’m high, too, but the age of consent is seventeen.”
“Fuck,” falls from my lips, and when she blushes and looks down, I know it’s because she thinks this is going to happen. And I want to tell her that’s not the truth, but she lies down and looks happy, on my bed. I can’t do that. Not tonight, because another fight with her would ruin us both. Another fight with her would end with us both getting what we want, but there would be no happily ever after.