Riot (3 page)

She has one hand glued to the dashboard and the other clinging to the armrest at her right. “Can you please not kill us?”

“Tell me what he said and I’ll think about it.”

Rowan’s fingers unpeel from the dashboard one by one, and she takes a deep breath when the light turns green and I ease onto the gas again. “I asked him why he keeps going back to you when he doesn’t really do that with anyone else, and he said you were special.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Rowan shakes her head. “I asked, but he just smiled and shrugged.”

Typical Joel. My brow furrows at the road ahead of me, and Leti singsongs, “See! Mashed po-tat-oes!”

“He’s full of something,” I say, “but it isn’t mashed potatoes. If he thinks I’m so special, why was he slumming it with that groupie last night?”

“He picks you every time he gets a kiss card during Kings,” Rowan counters, and I scoff.

“He doesn’t mind when other girls pick
him
.” The last time we played, one groupie bitch lucked out and picked all three remaining kiss cards. She picked Joel every. single. time.

Leti chuckles. “He held your hair back when you got so mad about it that you scarfed down margaritas and ended up puking your guts out.”

“See?” I argue. “Joel fills my stomach with margaritas, not mashed potatoes.”

“And puke,” Rowan adds, and I chuckle as I manage to stop at the next stoplight without my tires screeching.

“And puke.”

Chapter Four

“I
’LL CALL YOU.”

Those were the last words Joel said to me the day I dropped him off at Adam’s. It’s what he
always
says. And he always does—when it suits him.

Sometimes, I answer, and sometimes, I don’t.

For the past week and a half, I would have answered. But for the past week and half, he hasn’t called.

So on Wednesday night, it’s his fault that I’m making out with someone who was obviously in some horrific farm accident as a child and had to have an emergency tongue transplant with only cows to serve as donors. I swear to God, I’ve never had so much tongue in my mouth in my entire life. It’s like this guy decided on quantity over quality and has dedicated himself to giving that method his all. And by
his all
, I mean his entire. freaking. tongue.

I turn my head to the side, and Cow Tongue thankfully drops his lips to my neck. I’m on my back, on his bed, in his bedroom. Classes this week were annoying. Work at the restaurant this week was annoying. Not hearing from Joel at all was annoying. Wanting to hear from him was annoying. I spent my entire serving shift tonight thinking of him—constantly checking my phone for texts even though I knew damn well he was probably already breathing heavy in some other girl’s bed—and I realized I had to do something about it.

Leti was right: Joel is a problem. He makes me feel . . . lonely. Crazy. Desperate.

Cow Tongue, who told me his name was Aiden even though I hadn’t wanted to know, was the next guy to smile at me after I decided a one-night stand was exactly what the doctor ordered, so he was who I opted to go home with. I figured if I started acting like my old self again, maybe I’d start feeling like my old self again. The only reason Joel felt like the only guy that mattered was because I
made
him the only guy that mattered.

I want to forget him, and yet, when I gaze up into Aiden’s brown eyes, I can’t help wishing they were blue. I can’t help wishing his soft brown hair was spiked and blond. I can’t help wishing the smile he gave me made my insides molten hot instead of old bathwater warm.

“Take off your pants,” I tell him, and he wastes no time following orders. I strip mine off too and tell him to get a condom.

“Shit,” he breathes, giving me a panicked look. “I don’t have one.”

“My purse,” I say, nudging him toward the dresser it’s sitting on. I lie there patiently while he grabs it and proceeds to spill half its contents onto the floor.

“Sorry,” he stammers, and then he spills the other half while he’s trying to pick up the first half.

“Worry about that
later
,” I hiss, trying to keep the frustration out of my tone. I’d hoped to be in the throes of mind-numbing ecstasy by now, not lying alone and frustrated on sheets that smell like dog hair—which is just disturbing considering I’ve seen no sign of a dog.

Aiden grabs the condom off the floor and rips it open, sliding it on and climbing back over top of me. I spread my legs around him and he settles between them, immediately trying to push into me. But I’m bone dry, and my body isn’t having it.

“Kiss me or something,” I order, instantly regretting the suggestion when his tongue fills my mouth again. I break away as soon as possible and change my strategy. “Just use spit.” I’d suggest lubricant, but if this guy didn’t even have condoms, I’m guessing a good lube might as well be the Holy Grail.

Aiden gives me a boyish smile, and then he starts to crawl his way down my body.

“Oh, no, that’s not what I—”

He spreads my legs wider and laps at me like an overanxious puppy, but instead of moaning or wriggling or
liking
it in any way, my legs just kind of close a little tighter and I’m left casting a weird look at the ceiling, my nose scrunched and my eyebrows drawn.

When he drills his tongue into me like an aggressive anteater, I yelp, and he apparently takes this as encouragement. More drilling. More weird looks at the ceiling. I close my eyes and try to enjoy it, but my thoughts are instantly on Joel. When Joel does this, it’s slow and teasing and he savors every bit of me.

I’m just beginning to get turned on when Aiden says, “Do you like that?”

I ignore him and try to bring the image of Joel back into my mind. The way his hands capture mine when I’m so out of my mind with lust I don’t know what to do with them. How strong his arms feel when he wraps them around my middle and refuses to let me wiggle away from him.

“Mm, do you like that?” Aiden asks again. If he had any decency at all, he would STOP TALKING.

“Yeah,” I lie, wishing he would shut up. He laps away, and I imagine the way Joel’s tongue does tiny little flicks against the most sensitive parts of me.

The drilling starts again, and Aiden asks me for the third freaking time if I “like that.”

“YES!” I shout, realizing he’s not going to be quiet long enough to let me get myself anywhere near orgasm.

Which means I’ll have to fake it or suffer through more cow-tonguing, puppy-lapping, and anteater-drilling.

“Oh,” I say, bucking my hips and rolling my eyes simultaneously. “Oh God.” I put on a porno-worthy performance and pull him to my face. When he starts to lean down to kiss me again, I hastily push against his shoulders and roll him onto his back. If he shoves that tongue inside my mouth one more time, I’m pretty sure I’ll choke and die. And with the way this night has been going, that doesn’t sound too terrible.

I straddle his hips and lower myself onto him, and he moans loud enough to wake up the entire neighborhood. Great. I can already tell that if I don’t hurry, he’s going to climax before I do and then I’ll be on my own.

I brace my hands on his chest so I can start moving up and down on him, but whereas Joel’s body is lean and toned, Aiden’s is mushy-soft. I slide my hands to the sides of his neck and hold there instead, but he’s sweaty and it feels like petting a buttered porpoise, so I wipe my palms on his pillow and sit back. With nowhere to put my hands, I thread them into my own hair. I manage to move up and down only one and a half more times before Aiden moans and releases into me and I realize the mistake I’ve made. I lower my hands, not sure if I should feel flattered that the sight of me was enough to make him orgasm, or so outraged that I need to strangle him before packing up my things and going on the run.

“That was awesome,” he pants, and I unstraddle him to roll onto my side. He wraps his arm around me, which I tolerate only because I really don’t want to be alone tonight.

“You’re amazing,” he tells me, and I wish I could manage a smile or at least believe him, but I can’t.

I
WAKE WHEN
it’s still dark outside, to nothing but utter silence. There’s a heavy arm around me and there’s a face buried in my hair, but there’s no snoring in my ear, and that disappointing realization makes me squeeze my eyes shut and gnaw on the inside of my lip. With a heavy sigh, I sneak out from beneath the arm, gather my clothes off the floor, and slip them back on. I don’t bother casting a second glance at the stranger passed out on the bed before tiptoeing across his room. I learned the art of sneaking out the first time my dad tried to ground me when I was thirteen years old. By the time I got my license, I was an expert.

I turn the knob to Aiden’s apartment as carefully as if I were disarming a bomb. Then I gently push the door open, escape onto the front porch, and close the door behind me. I don’t release the knob until the door is all the way closed, when I very slowly allow it to turn back to its normal position.

In the parking lot, I rest my forehead on my steering wheel, wishing I had picked a guy up from a bar instead of from work. At least then I could’ve gotten sloppy drunk and still be passed out right now. Instead, I’m sober and awake with too much on my mind.

Against my better judgment, I drive home, shower and change, pick up coffee, and drive to Adam’s. I’m dressed in a killer top, skirt, and heels combo with all intentions of making Joel sorry he didn’t call me last night, but sitting in the parking lot staring at my reflection in my rearview mirror, all I can see is the purple exhaustion under my eyes and the pale hue of my skin. I look just like my mother. With a disgusted grunt, I text Rowan instead of going up.

Driving you to school today. In parking lot. Hurry up.

While waiting, I cake on more makeup and contort my face in the mirror, trying to distinguish myself from the woman who cheated on my dad and left him a blubbering mess. I have her brown eyes, her dark hair, her olive skin. It’s an arsenal of weaponry. She used hers to capture my father’s heart and then destroy it. I use mine to ensure that no one ever does the same to me. I’ll never have to rely on one person for love or affection because I can get it from anyone.

Well,
almost
anyone.

Fifteen minutes later, my head is resting against the window and I’m singing a girl-power song when Rowan slides into my passenger seat. I turn down the music, and she gives me a questioning look I have no desire to answer.

“Want to talk about it?” she asks, buckling her seat belt as I back my car out of its spot.

“Talk about what?”

“Why you’re picking me up on a Thursday morning?”

“Because I woke up early.”

“Then let’s talk about why you didn’t come up to the apartment.”

I look her in the eyes, leaving no room for confusion. “No.”

Rowan sighs and leans back in her seat. She keeps quiet and stares out the window as I drive, but I don’t even make it a full minute before I say, “Was he even there?”

Not needing to ask who I’m talking about, she shakes her head without looking at me. “I haven’t seen him much this week.” She casts a glance in my direction, catches the frown on my face, and quickly adds, “He asked about you yesterday though.”

“What did he say?”

“He wanted to know what you were doing last night. I told him you were working.”

Working? More like narrowly resisting the urge to choke out customers with complimentary breadsticks.

“Do you want me to tell him he should call you?” Rowan asks, and I nearly jerk the car into a ditch.

“NO!” I stare at her like she’s lost her damn mind. “No freaking way, are you nuts?!”

She frowns and grips her seat belt. “Well, then you should call him. Call him or forget about him, Dee, because you’re going a little crazy.”

Understatement of the century. I feel like some crazy hormonal girl invades my body anytime Joel’s swoon-worthy face pops into my mind, and she makes me want to punch myself in the head until she leaves or I knock myself unconscious.

“Did you even turn in the proposal for your marketing project that was due yesterday?” Rowan asks, her tone revealing she already guessed the answer.

The short answer is no. The long answer is the excuse I gave my professor, which involved a dead grandparent and an orphaned cat.

“I told my professor I’d turn it in late.”

Rowan frowns at me. “That project is worth most of your grade, Dee. You can’t keep blowing stuff like this off or you’re going to fail. Maybe if you spent your energy obsessing over school instead of obsessing over Joel—”

I give her a warning look, and she immediately silences her lecture.

“I’ll do it this weekend,” I say.

“Mayhem is this weekend.” The guys are performing again, and we’ve never missed even one of their local shows.

“I’ll do it Sunday.”

After classes, I drop Rowan off at Adam’s and head back to my apartment to change into my work clothes. I arrive late, bitch out my boss for trying to reprimand me, and spend most of my five-hour shift thinking about what the hell I want to do with my life.

I definitely don’t want to be working in a place like this when I’m in my thirties, having to deal with customers like Miss Gable, who thinks
server
is just another word for slave.

Tonight, she seriously asked me to get her a salad with only hearts of romaine instead of our usual mix. When I complained to a coworker about it, he said that he usually picks all the other stuff out for her. I gaped at him until he walked away from me, and then I proceeded to pick Miss Gable’s salad apart—and give her nothing but the leafy parts. I told her we were all out of the hearts and promised her extra after-dinner chocolates as a consolation, fucking over the customer and the establishment with one fell swoop. I still landed an awesome tip, but that hardly made up for the old men who tried to hit on me or the insecure girls who forced their boyfriends to give me low tips because they stared a little too long.

No one would ever accuse me of being cut out for customer service. But the problem is, I’m not really cut out for college either. When I thought about college, I thought about boys and parties and more boys and more parties. I didn’t think about studying and homework and tests and actual
learning
. Last semester, I barely passed my classes with low Cs. This semester, I’m pretty sure I’m already failing. Midterms are next week, and my dad is
not
going to be happy when I tell him what my mid-semester grades are.

I doubt he’d ever stop supporting me financially, but I hate disappointing him. Not that that’s stopped me from doing it in the past . . . but I always feel like crap afterward.

My dad just loves too much. He loved my mom even after she left him, and I think he still loves her now. He blames himself for her leaving, and that makes me want to bash her head in with a rock. When I was eleven, she had an affair with some loser she went to high school with and she eventually ran off with him to Vegas. The most contact she’s had with me since then is a Facebook friend request I promptly declined before blocking her.

She didn’t love my dad enough, but that’s not what makes me hate her. What makes me hate her is that she pretended she did. She made vows she didn’t keep and left my dad to raise me alone. Sometimes, I wonder if the reason he loves me so much is that I’m a part of her, and every day, I’m worried I’ll turn out just like her.

Which is why I’m never saying those three toxic words to anyone. Ever.