The Opposite of Nothing (11 page)

“Sorry. I’ll stop.” He pulled his hands back. What the hell was he thinking? He wasn’t. That was the problem. He had a sudden flash of another dark-haired girl. One with a purple bow and a ratty sundress. He’d forgotten all about playing with Jasmine when he was a kid. Poor Jazz.

“Please don’t stop. It feels lovely, but when did you pick up hair braiding?”

“There was this girl.”

“Of course.”

“Not like that.” He tugged again. “We were ten.”

“Mhmmm,” she hummed, relaxing into his touch. He undid his sloppy work and started over.

“She lived in my apartment complex. We didn’t exactly play together, but we both spent a lot of time on the front stoop. Neither one of us talking about why we had to get out of our apartments. Anyway, she’d bug me to braid her hair. She could braid but couldn’t do it to herself. It was easier to go with it than listen to Jazz whine.”

“You saint.” She pushed her elbow into his ribs. A teasing jab.

He tugged again and this time he could see the smile curving the corner of her mouth. “I was a kid. She taught me on a—she taught me.”

“On a what?”

“A Barbie.”

“I hear learning to braid on a Barbie is a rite of passage.” Her shoulders shook, and he could feel the giggles she held back threatening to burst through.

“Here I am, trying to do something nice, and you mock me. You’re a terrible friend, Callie Evans.”

She froze again. She had to know he was teasing. Maybe he shouldn’t tease her at all. God, how could he even stop? It was who they were together.

“It was sweet of you, playing with her. I think a lot of boys would’ve been mean.”

“I am many things, but I’m not mean.”
I am, however, very fucking confused.
He wouldn’t tell her that. Not when she was finally relaxed into the space between his legs, letting her arms rest on his thighs, leaning the back of her head against his chest. No rib jabs or taunts.

Tayber broke the silence. “Hey, do you know the kid who does the hippie oldies show? The one on Wednesdays?”

“David something. Yeah, I’ve seen him at station meetings and parties. He doesn’t think any music recorded after 1979 is worth playing. And he isn’t a hippie, he looks more like a Trekkie. Why?”

“I caught half a song the other day and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.” He rubbed his knuckles down the back of her neck, working out knots of tension.

“He probably saves his playlists. Or you could tell me what you remember. I might know it.”

“Something about a strange face. And spring?”

“That’s
Cello Song
. I heard it, too.”

“I don’t remember anything about a cello.”

She stifled another giggle. “No, that’s the name of the song. It’s Nick Drake.”

“It was almost depressing, but not. Earwormed the hell out of me.”

“More bittersweet than sad. I think I have it upstairs, if you want to hear it again.” She twisted to face him, all eager smile and braid slipping loose. So pretty.

“Play it for me.”

* * *

S
he cued up the song, and it felt strangely like the early days of their friendship. Last year, she’d found songs for him all the time, usually when she mentioned one that he’d never heard of before. She’d hand him an earbud and then watch his face. If he didn’t like a song, he’d scrunch his nose and tug on the cord stretched between them. But if he liked it, she could watch that revelation spread like dawn: his upper lip curling back into a wide smile, his hand reaching up to press the bud tight against his ear, to amplify the sound.

This time there was no cord between them. Only the lilting lull of Nick Drake’s vocals, streaming from her small desk speakers, and the relentless cello plucking. She could feel it, like a phantom hand on her body.

Tayber, sitting on the edge of her bed, wasn’t making either of the music faces she expected. He looked confused, tugging on his lip. “I don’t know what it is about this song.”

He ran his hand over his forearm. Did he feel it too? That thrum.

She took a step toward him, then another, until she was back between his legs like she had been on the porch. Only this time she was standing, facing him, not panicking. She followed the path his hand had taken with her fingertips, trailing from his wrist to his elbow. He shivered.

How many times had she written that she wanted to kneel before him, that she wanted to use her mouth? What would it be like to just do the things she wanted to do?

“It makes you feel. That’s the magic. The words are almost meaningless.” She didn’t want to think about words right now, anyway. She wanted to act. She knelt before him at the foot of her bed and used both of her hands to open his pants. It was like a perversion of nighttime prayers. Her fingers trembled.

He slid forward and sucked in a breath when her palm brushed against his erection. “Really?”

Didn’t he want her to? She shook off the doubt. Of course he did. He leaned back onto his elbows. Opening up for her.

She’d pictured this moment in her mind, let it carry her over the edge as her fingers pumped inside her. Now she could actually wrap her hand around his girth, run her tongue from base to tip. Gripping his hips, she swirled her tongue over the head of his cock before taking him all the way into her mouth. She did exactly the things she’d talked about doing when she was Sasha. Her eyes watered as he hit the back of her throat, but she swallowed, relaxed, took a deep breath through her nose. Hollowing her cheeks, she sucked, rolling her tongue and gripping him tight at the base. All she could taste was clean skin and salt. Tayber’s groan was followed by the tug of his fingers in her hair. Soon his hips were pumping, and she let him set the pace, let him fuck her mouth, ignoring her sore jaw and numb knees. This was about him. She couldn’t tell him, but she could show him.
I love you.

* * *

H
e pulled free of her mouth at the last second and tried to catch his come in his hand. Too late. Some of it hit her neck, trailing down toward her collarbone. His softening cock throbbed when she reached up to touch her neck, to wipe the come away with her fingers.

The urge to push those fingers into her mouth overwhelmed him, and he nearly died of lust when, as if he’d spoken his desires aloud, she did it herself. Traced the curve of her bottom lip with her ring finger, darted her tongue to follow the same path, then slipped that finger right into her mouth up to the first knuckle. He’d been in that mouth, so he knew what it felt like. Hot and wet.
Fuck
.

He grabbed her by the chin and pulled her up to his lips. Tasting himself, he couldn’t resist the urge to taste her further.

“On the bed. Clothes off.” He hadn’t meant to order her, but he had so little restraint left. She scrambled to her feet and wobbled a little as she crawled toward the pillows.

He watched her pull the t-shirt over her head, exposing a thin, white sports bra that did nothing to conceal the hard points of her nipples. He peeled her yoga pants down over her hips, impatient to have her naked. To have access to everything. She lifted up to help him, covering her chest with her hands while he wriggled the pants the rest of the way down.

“Don’t hide from me.” He pulled her hands away and pushed the bra up, spilling her small breasts from under the band, framing them. With a flick of his tongue over each nipple, he meandered his way down her torso, alternating long laps with sharp nips. When he plunged his tongue into her navel she bucked up off the bed.

“Tell me what you want, Callie,” he pleaded, laying his head on her soft belly, gazing up the length of her body to her face. He didn’t know why it was so important to hear her say it, but it was.

Eyes shut tight, she shook her head. “Please. Just, please.”

With the heat of her core pressed against his chest, he could guess it was the same thing he wanted. When he finally reached the apex of her thighs, her panties were so wet they were almost translucent. He drew the cotton into his mouth, and she tried to cross her legs against him.

“No?” he asked, sure she was about to kick him out of the bed, deny herself—deny him—
this
. He wanted it so much that not having it was almost guaranteed.

And then, the muscles in her legs relaxed. “Yes.”

Thank you.
He grabbed hold of the top of her underwear and dragged them down her legs, leaving them tangled around her ankle. He hooked her knees over his shoulders and settled in before she could change her mind, taking one tentative swipe at her slit, before diving in to savor in full what he’d only sampled on her panties. He rolled his tongue in lazy, languid circles. She tasted of salt and shadow. Sharp and dark and fucking awesome. “God, I could live here.”

She still didn’t speak. She dug her fingers into his hair and held him against her as he plunged his tongue in and out of her hot opening. The tug and scratch of her nails against his scalp was electric. He was surrounded by her, drowning in her. She lifted her hips, bucking against his face, sloppy and frantic.

He was so hard.

He pinned her down with a forearm over her belly and gripped his cock with his free hand, squeezed it once against the building throb, and released it.

She cried out a wordless moan when he slipped a finger inside her, and then another. Curving them, pumping them. He wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked.

“I can’t. I can’t,” she gasped, shaking beneath him, flooding his tongue until everything was so slick, so perfect, he knew she absolutely could. She had.

She stilled, and he smoothed his palm over her sweat-damp waist, down her hip, and rested his head on her thigh. “You can talk to me. You can tell me anything, ask me anything. I wish you would.”

She jerked again, and he didn’t think it was aftershocks. “I can’t.”

The bed rocked beneath them as she pulled a pillow over her face and rolled away. Damn it, she still didn’t trust him. Maybe she never would.

T
ayber rested his elbows on the sticky bar top and laced his fingers behind his neck, his cheap beer going flat.
Piss water.
A dozen people were scattered nearby, on stools and in the peeling vinyl booths that lined one wall, but he didn’t approach anyone. This wasn’t social hour. He needed a few minutes to himself, to gather his thoughts, to breathe. He couldn’t get that in the apartment, and he no longer had a key to his emptied dorm.

A man without a country, relegated to gummy pretzels and dollar drafts.

Yesterday he’d gone to the library to send Sasha an email and then waited for freaking ever to see her response. It never came. It wasn’t a digital booty call, it was more like a Dear John letter. Thanks so much for the fun times, can’t do it anymore. They hadn’t screwed around in a while, but he couldn’t imagine trying to do that with Callie in the other room. God, Callie. He’d pushed her too far. He needed to slow it down.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched a couple practically fucking in public. He couldn’t help but remember doing the same thing, in the same spot. He tried to picture the girl, remember her name, but all he could imagine was Callie pushed up against the jukebox, his hand inching up her shirt while he shielded her from view.

He shifted in his seat. She was replacing all of his memories, filling in all his empty spaces.

“Tayber King.” A smoky, satin voice called from behind him, followed by a few quick scratches to the center of his back.

He untangled his fingers, ran them over his scalp from nape to crown, plastered on his most congenial smile, and faced the interloper. Meg, from Lit. A few weeks ago he’d have welcomed her company. Her attention.

“That’s what they call me.” He shrugged, breaking their contact.

“You weren’t in class last week.”

“Had some shit to take care of.”

“You never miss class.”

“Apparently not never.” How the hell did she know his nevers? He’d missed so many days his junior year of high school the district had sent a registered letter threatening to fail him for the year. If he hadn’t pulled straight A’s, they probably would’ve done it.

“We started a pool. I put my money on mono.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, the kissing disease.”

“I know what mono is, and I don’t have it.”

“Just teasing, Tay. You going to the Phi Ep thing next Friday? I was planning to make my move on you.” She did a little shimmy, running a manicured hand over her own slim hip. He couldn’t tell if she was serious or joking. Her wide smile was a mixture of
kiss me
and
kiss my ass
.

Callie couldn’t even make it off the porch on Sunday. He wasn’t going to drag her to a frat party. Certainly not one where Meg was planning a shimmy move. Even if Meg wasn’t, someone probably was. Christ, people thought he was the poster boy for mono. “Doubtful.”

“What crawled up your butt?”

“Sorry. Look, Meg, I’m really not interested in hanging out tonight, or hooking up, or anything. I don’t have it in me.”

“It’s cool. I was just worried about you. Some other time.”

No. He hadn’t meant to leave the door open to future hook ups. “I’m kinda seeing someone.”

“Well damn, lost that bet too.” She slapped his shoulder. “Just kidding.”

I’m seeing someone
, he repeated to himself. It felt strange, saying it. Foreign. Off.
I’m seeing someone.
Not right.
I’m seeing Callie.
Yes. That’s what he should have said.

“I’m seeing Callie Evans.”

“Whatever. I’ll see you around.” Meg smirked and sauntered off.

“I’m seeing Callie.” He repeated to the bartender refilling his snack bowl. It felt so good to say it, he needed to say it again. The wiry grad student who seemed to live at The Brick cleaned his glasses with his shirt.

“You want a cookie or something?”

He dropped a ten next to his half-full beer and pushed his stool back. “Yeah, I do, and I know where to get one.”

* * *

“C
J Evans here on WCCC, The Cube, bringing you Random Nonsense, The Pop Edition. Regular listeners, I can hear your collective snarl. JC is snarling too. Bear with me. Sometimes you need a little infectious, hook-riddled, bounce in your seat, don’t think too hard, bubble gum. Now sing it with me,
Call It What You Want
.”