Chapter 35

Sasha texts me on my way into my co-op class at the elementary school. Something to the effect of “hey, bitch, if you get a chance, take that hockey stick out of your mouth for five seconds and text me.” Which is her endearing way of saying she misses me.

I take full responsibility for our dwindling amount of girl time; after patching things up with Conor, he and I have spent every day together for the past week. Now it’s May, finals are only a couple weeks away, and I’m a little ashamed to admit that what used to be study time with Sasha at the Kappa house has become failing to study with Conor at my place until we give up and get naked.

Turns out sex is good. I sure do like sex. Especially sex with Conor.

Although as it also turns out, sex is terribly distracting. Hard as I’ve tried, my reading comprehension skills tank when he’s trying to tear off my clothes.

I did make it to the Kappa house for the election, however. No surprise there—Abigail won. Though to ask her she was just elected supreme leader for life. I expect she’ll soon have portraits of herself riding dolphins and shooting lasers out of her eyes hanging in every room. Sasha and I were two of only four protest votes against her. I’m a pessimist and even I thought the resistance had greater numbers in the house than that. I guess we’ll all have to get used to bowing down to our new supreme leader.

The thought of spending a year under Abigail’s rule turns my stomach. It might have been a secret ballot, but she knows damn well I cast one of the votes against her. And I have no doubt she’ll make me pay dearly for that show of dissent. How, I’m not sure yet, but knowing Abigail it won’t be pretty.

If it weren’t for all the time and effort I’ve already contributed to Kappa Chi, I’d consider leaving the sorority. But at least I have Sasha as an ally. Besides, being a Kappa means a support network of professional connections for life. I didn’t assimilate into the collective just to blow up my future capital so close to the end.

So, one more year. If Abigail really runs things off the rails, Sasha and I can mount the insurrection.

Now in Mrs. Gardner’s first grade class, I’m helping the kids work on collages they’re making about the books they read in class this week. The room is the quietest it’s been all day. Everyone has their heads down, eyes focused. They’re cutting pictures out of old magazines and gluing their creations on poster board.

Thank goodness for glue sticks. I’ve only had to wash glue out of one girl’s hair today. Mrs. Gardner banned liquid glue after a major catastrophe led to three emergency haircuts. I’ll never understand how kids manage to constantly find new ways to attach themselves to each other.

“Miss Marsh?” Ellen raises her hand at her desk.

“That’s looking good,” I tell her when I come around the room to her seat.

“I can’t find a mouse. I looked through all these.”

At her feet there’s a pile of mangled magazines and torn loose pages. All month Mrs. Gardner and I scoured Hastings for unwanted magazines. Doctors’ offices, libraries, used bookstores. Thankfully there’s always someone trying to pawn off thirty years of National Geographics and Highlights. Trouble is, when you’ve got more than twenty kids all reading about a mouse, the rodent supply tends to get a bit thin.

“What if we draw a mouse on some colored paper?” I suggest.

“I’m not good at drawing.” She pouts, shoving another stack of loose pages to the floor.

I know the feeling. As a kid I was a high-strung type-A perfectionist who tended toward the self-critical. I’d get a grand design in my head and then lose my shit when I couldn’t materialize it into being. I’ve been banned from several pottery-painting places in Cambridge, in fact.

Not my greatest moment.

“Everyone can be good at drawing,” I lie. “The best thing about art is that everyone’s is different. There are no rules.” I pull out some fresh sheets of colored paper and draw a few simple shapes as an example. “See, you can draw a triangle head, and an oval body with some little feet and ears, then cut those out and paste them together to make a collage mouse. It’s called abstract—they hang stuff like that in museums.”

“Can I make it a purple mouse?” Ellen, the girl wearing a purple hair scrunchie and purple overalls with matching purple shoes, asks. Shocking.

“You can make it any color you want.”

Delighted, she gets to work with her crayons. I’m moving to another desk when a knock sounds on the classroom door.

I look over to see Conor peeking through the window. He’s picking me up today, but he’s still a few minutes early.

He pokes his head inside as I walk over. “Sorry,” he says, glancing around. “I was just curious what you looked like in a classroom.”

There’s been a lightness to him this week. He’s smiling again, always energetic and in a good mood. It’s a nice side of Conor, even if I know it can’t last. No one is this happy all the time. And that’s okay. I don’t mind grumpy Conor, either. I just can’t help taking pleasure in knowing some part of his positive attitude is because of me. And sex. Maybe mostly sex.

“Am I different?” I ask him.

Conor gives me a lingering examination, from top to bottom. “I like your teacher clothes.”

I won’t lie, I did go a bit overboard at the start of the semester with a whole Zooey Deschanel vibe. Lots of retro skirts and primary colors. I guess in my head that was the part I wanted to play, because it’s important when you walk into a room where you’re outnumbered by tiny creatures twenty-to-one that you display confidence. Or they’ll eat you alive.

“Yeah?” I say, doing a little twirl and curtsy.

“Mmm-hmm.” He licks his lips and shoves his hands in his pockets, which I’ve come to learn is his way of trying to hide a semi while he’s thinking dirty thoughts. “You’re keeping that on when we get home.”

That’s another thing that’s crept into our vocabulary. Home. His place or mine, when we’re going to either one, or spending the night, it’s always home. The distinction between them has blurred.

“Miss Marsh,” one of the girls calls to me. “Is that your boooooyyyyyyfriend?”

The rest of the class answers with oohs and laughter. Fortunately, Mrs. Gardner is out of the room or I would’ve made Conor leave, asap. This close to my final evaluation I can’t have her thinking I’m not focused on the kids.

“Okay,” I tell him, “get out of here before Ms. Caruthers next door calls security on you.”

“See you outside.” He plants a kiss on my cheek and winks at the kids watching us.

“Go.” I all but slam the door in his face, smothering a smile.

“Miss Marsh has a boyfriend, Miss Marsh has a boyfriend,” the kids chant, growing louder and more excited in their taunting.

Dammit, if they keep this up, Ms. Caruthers will come storming in to complain about the noise. I hold my index finger to my lips and raise my other hand. One by one each student mimics the pose until they’re all silent again. Just call me the kid whisperer.

“Mrs. Gardner will be back soon and the bell’s about to ring,” I remind the class. “You better be done with your collages or there won’t be any smiley faces going on the chart today.”

At that, their heads snap down and they furiously return to cutting and pasting. They’re only a few days away from earning a pizza party if they maintain their positive behavior streak. And I’m only a few days from passing my co-op evaluation if I can keep them docile. We’re all slaves to the system.

I don’t know what’s gotten into Conor today, but even on the drive to his place he can’t keep his paws to himself. Driving with one hand, his other finds its way under my skirt, up my thigh, and then he’s rubbing my pussy while I clench my teeth and try not to alert the dude on a motorcycle who pulls up next to us at a red light.

“Pay attention to the road,” I tell him, even as I open my legs wider and slouch in my seat.

“I am.” He presses his fingers against my clit, rubbing through my panties.

“Pretty sure this counts as distracted driving.” I want his fingers inside me. So badly that my chest aches with the tightness growing in my muscles. My eyes fall closed as I imagine grinding on his hand while his teeth tug on my nipples.

“I’m always distracted when you’re sitting there.”

When we make it to his house it’s a mad dash to his room. His roommates aren’t home yet, so hopefully we have some time to play before they show up.

Conor barely shuts his door behind us before he’s pushing me up against the wall and prying open my cardigan. He doesn’t open it all the way, just leaves the last few buttons intact to spread my sweater around my cleavage.

Fine. Maybe I wore this today just because I know he likes it.

Conor licks and kisses across my collarbone, then slowly pulls down one bra cup to expose my breast, while squeezing and massaging the other. He licks my nipple, sucking. My thighs squirm with the need to feel him inside me. I wrap one leg around his hips and grind on his thick erection.

“You’re so damn hot,” he mutters, yanking my bra farther down to suck on my other nipple.

He presses himself against me, urgent and hungry. Then I feel him working to free himself from his jeans. He opens them just enough to pull out his cock, which he holds in one hand while rubbing the tip against my pussy.

“There’s a condom in my pocket,” he mumbles.

I find it and rip it open, then roll it down on his dick. Bringing his mouth to mine, he kisses me deeply as he tugs my panties to the side. A happy, relieved moan escapes my throat when he enters me.

Conor fucks me against the wall. Gently at first, letting both of us get used to this position. Then harder, deeper. My hands tangle in his hair, nails digging into the back of his neck to hold on. He wraps one arm under my leg to bring it up higher and open me wider for him. Every thrust causes a burst of pleasure to cascade through my body. I lose control of my voice, overcome by the intensity.

Suddenly he stops. He turns me around to face his bed and bends me over the edge. I’m panting, out of breath, while he flips my skirt up to expose my ass, running his hands over my bare skin and squeezing my cheeks.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly, running the head of his cock against my ass.

“Yes,” I say, desperate for him to be inside me again.

He shoves my panties down and plunges deep, holding onto my hips. I moan at the sensation of fullness and push back against him. Wanting, needing him to get me off.

It occurs to me that my butt is right there, out in the open, impossible to be missed in the rays of late afternoon sun streaming in through the open blinds. And yet it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. What I’ve learned during all my naked encounters with Conor is that the man doesn’t care about my soft tummy and the dimples on my butt.

Hell, forget care—he doesn’t even notice. The other night when I was complaining about cellulite on the backs of my thighs, he stood there behind me and humored me for five minutes, searching and squinting and insisting he couldn’t see anything. Then he ate me out and I forgot what I was complaining about.

Great sex has a way of building your confidence, I suppose. Or maybe I’m just growing up a little.

With every stroke our voices grow louder. I fist the sheets in my hands, legs trembling, pushing back to meet his deep thrusts.

“Fuck, babe. You feel so good.” Conor reaches his hand around me to rub my clit as he urges me to my orgasm.

Biting my lip, I still can’t muffle the sound when I finally come, riding his dick.

“Hey!” Three loud knocks pound against the bedroom door. “Some of us are trying to study. Keep it down in there unless you’re going to invite us to join!”

“Fuck off, Foster,” Conor shouts back.

I stifle a laugh, which makes Conor groan through his teeth as my body clenches and shakes around him. He stands me upright at the foot of his bed, squeezing my breasts in his hands from behind, as he makes short, quick thrusts to find his own climax. Soon he’s shuddering, hugging me tight as he comes inside me.

“Why does it only get better?” he croaks, dropping his chin on my shoulder.

After he’s discarded the condom, we lie together in his bed recovering from the elated exhaustion.

“We should probably start doing this at your apartment more,” he grumbles. “I think they’re coming home earlier just to catch us.”

“Yeah, you’re going to have to make them leave so I can walk out of here. Hmmm. Or maybe we should get a rope ladder I can hang out your window.”

I like drawing little shapes on Conor’s abdomen as I lie across his chest. His muscles contract under my touch as I tickle him ever so lightly. He hates it, but tolerates it because he knows it amuses me. Then I really hit a ticklish spot and he pinches my ass as a warning not to start something I can’t finish.

“Nah, don’t sweat it,” he says in response to my escape ideas. “It’s not a walk of shame so much as a strut down the red carpet. After today, expect applause.”

I laugh. “I don’t know if that’s better.”

“Or I can threaten them.” Conor kisses the top of my head. “Whatever works for you.”

About an hour later, Foster bangs on the door again to ask if we want to grab a bite with them at the diner. I’m starving, so we take turns in the shower of Conor’s en suite bathroom and then get dressed.

“So,” I say, wrapping my hair up in a bun, “have you talked any more to your mom and Max?”

Conor sighs as he sits on the edge of the bed pulling on a fresh shirt. “No. I mean, I’ve spoken to my mom. And she’s texted me a couple times to call Max. I’ve made an excuse about class or studying or whatever. Said I’d do it later.”

“So you’re avoiding him.” I know this isn’t easy for Conor. Confessing was a huge step in the right direction, but the hard work isn’t over yet. Right now, though, his anxiety about talking to his stepfather is winning out over his better judgment.

“I keep thinking if I wait another day, I’ll figure out how to talk to him, you know? I’ll know what to say. I’m just…” He rubs his face, furiously combing his fingers through his damp hair.

“Nervous,” I supply. “I get it. I would be scared, too. But eventually it’s going to happen. My best advice is close your eyes and bite down.”

“I’m embarrassed,” he admits, leaning forward to slip on his socks. “I’ve always known that Max doesn’t think much of me, and now I’ve gone and proved him right. I knew better. Back then, I mean. I just got so angry and I fucked up.”

“That’s all you have to say.” I stand between his legs, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders. “Tell him the truth. You made a dumb mistake that you regret, it got way out of hand, and you’re sorry.”

Conor draws me closer, hugging me to his chest. “You’re right.”

“Have they said anything about what’s going to happen to Kai?”

“I didn’t mention his name. I told Kai I wouldn’t if he left me alone. As it is, Max doesn’t want to press charges since insurance paid out. It’d be more hassle than it’s worth. So that’s a small victory, I guess.”

“You’ll do the right thing.” I kiss him on the cheek. Because I have faith in him. And I know as well as anyone what a difference it makes when there are people who believe in you. “In other news, my birthday is on Thursday. I was thinking about getting people together at Malone’s. Nothing big. Just hang out, have a few drinks.”

“Whatever you want, babe.”

“Yo! Let’s go!” Foster bangs on the door again. “Or I’m coming in there and getting weird.”