Chapter 3: Red Thorns: Chapter 2

I tumble to the ground.

Or rather, both of us do in a mess of limbs and groans and awkward touches.

More accurately, inappropriate touches.

Holy Jesus.

Please tell me I didn’t just brush my fingers against his thing right now.

I quickly remove my hand while he’s trying to get off me, and that knocks us both down again.

But this time, he’s glued to me. His cut body covering my entire front and his naked chest on my breasts. Now, I’m definitely touching his thing—or my stomach is, anyway.

My cheeks would be flaming red if my emotions appeared on the surface. I never thought I’d feel the ridges of his body this intimately.

At least, not in this lifetime.

Jesus. His abdomen is as firm as the ground against my back, only it’s soft enough to sleep on.

Or rub my face against it.

Or any other activity that includes touching it.

He plants his palms on the ground on either side of my head and pushes up a little. His stomach, thighs, and umm, his erection, are still pressed against me.

That’s when I have my first full view of him.

Sebastian Weaver.

Star quarterback.

A former senator’s grandson.

And dangerous.

It’s not only because of his lethally attractive looks, because honestly? He could be the most beautiful man God has created. Okay, in the top five.

His face may as well have been sculpted from granite, all rough edges and with predefined expressions. Not in a serial killer kind of way, but in a ‘hello, I’m your next fantasy’ kind of way. His cut jawline and sharp nose add to the general perfection that God bestows upon only some of his creations.

His eyes, though, tell a completely different story. It’s not solely about their light green color that resembles the shade of a tropical sea that I’ve only seen in pictures. But what’s most striking about them is the fading light in their depths, almost as if he’s mad with the supremacy he was given. Or maybe he considers it a burden.

Gee, if having his looks is a burden, we can switch.

Or not.

That would make me a guy and I’d have to carry the cheer squad.

Okay, wait. Am I really thinking about carrying the cheerleaders when I’m trapped under Sebastian’s body?

A very hard one at that. No, I don’t mean his dick is hard, though I think it’s getting there, but all of him, from his chest to his thighs and even his whole face.

His dark sandy-blond hair falls across his forehead, creating a dreamy contrast against his sun-kissed skin and the light color of his eyes. Eyes that are currently narrowing at me as if I committed a mistake by merely existing.

“Move,” he says in that slightly raspy voice of his, one that’s meant to whisper dirty things in the dark.

Or maybe in the light. Who cares?

“What?”

“Either you heard me and you’re playing dumb or you have hearing issues. Both of which I don’t give a fuck about.”

My small ‘worship at his altar while ogling him’ phase comes to a screeching halt at both his words and their condescending tone.

Who does this asshole think he is? He might be a little attractive—okay, a lot, whatever—but that doesn’t give him the right to treat me like the dirt under his shoes. I wasn’t born for that position.

I adopt my half-mocking, half-snobby tone that I usually use when talking to Brianna. “Uh, hello? You’re the one who’s pinning me to the ground.”

“Because you’re wrapping your leg around mine.”

I lift my head and search around until my abdomen aches from the half-lifted position, and sure enough, my leg is definitely looped around his. And are his muscles twitching beneath mine or am I imagining things?

Way to go, me. One to nil, Black Devils.

But instead of acting like the idiot my brain is telling me to emulate, I don’t release him. “That’s only because of the fall. Don’t get ideas in your twisted head.”

“Maybe you’re the one whose head is twisted since it went straight there.” He grins, showing me his perfect white teeth, and while that’s considered a friendly gesture, the emptiness behind it forbids me from considering it as such.

I’ve been well aware of Sebastian’s reputation ever since I transferred here during my senior year of high school. One would have to be blind while simultaneously living under a rock not to recognize Senator Brian Weaver’s only grandchild and Blackwood’s favorite quarterback.

He’s the definition of a cliché with his mesmerizing all-American looks, background, and skill.

Everyone believes his grandfather is preparing him for a career in politics as soon as he’s out of college and that football is merely a stepping stone. The NFL is too small for his ambitions and his future.

But that’s not what I first noticed about Sebastian. It was neither who his family was, what he played, nor even what he looked like.

It was always his eyes.

The way they’re muted, like right now, as if he’s falling into a role.

He plays the social game so well, I’m jealous sometimes. I wish I could fake it as convincingly as he does. I wish I could smile at people when all I want to do is hide.

“Let’s agree to disagree.” He’s still smiling, but he’s not attempting to conceal its fakery anymore. That’s what people do when they’re fed up. They let the masks fall and allow their true selves to show through.

And right now, what he’s projecting is entirely different from what he is.

“So are you going to release me or would you rather feel me up some more?”

I move my leg with a jerk. “You’re the one who’s doing that.”

“Yeah, yeah, and I’m also the one who caged myself against you. Do you hear yourself?”

“Yes, I do, and I make more sense than you… Why aren’t you getting up?”

The empty mockery on his features slowly breaks as a gleam shines through. “Didn’t you say I was feeling you? Might as well go with it.”

“Are you insane? We don’t even know each other.”

“Why does that matter? It’s only a natural chemical reaction between healthy adults.”

“Are you a fucking animal?”

“Monster, to be more specific.” The way he emphasizes the word ‘monster’ sends a chill down my spine and it’s with effort that I manage to hold on to my agitation.

I slap my hands on his chest to push him away, but I barely manage to move the rock-hard muscles. “Get off me.”

“Shhh. I’m not done.”

“Done with what?”

“With you.”

My toes curl and it takes everything in me not to knee him or something. I’ve always been bad at handling these types of advances, but especially if they’re coming from someone like Sebastian.

I guess the rumors are correct after all. He’d really sleep with anyone, wouldn’t he?

“Weaver!” a male voice yells and Sebastian begrudgingly gets off of me, the loss of his body rattling me more than I care to admit.

I jump to my feet, gathering my headphones and bag, thankful nothing was broken, and my attention shifts to the guy headed our way. It’s Sebastian’s friend, Owen, another buff football player, with darker skin and a shaved head.

Sebastian, however, doesn’t make a move to leave, his feral gaze zeroed in on me. Embarrassment and a feeling I can’t identify grab hold of me and I want to kick my leg in the air and run in an open field so I can breathe clean air and get rid of it.

“Want an autograph?” I snap, then regret it. I really need to learn how to control my temper and not throw a tantrum at everything. But I guess I constantly have this feeling that everyone is out to get me, and the star quarterback is no exception.

Especially with the taunting way he observes me.

He smiles again in that hollow way that might be a sign his soul was recruited by the devil. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

“Think about what?” Owen wraps a hand around Sebastian’s shoulder when he reaches us. “What’s up with you and the Asian chick?”

I place a hand on my hip. “The Asian chick has a name, doucheface, and it’s Naomi. Tell Siri to spell it out for you.”

And with that, I turn and leave, the echo of Sebastian’s laughter following me long after he’s out of earshot.

By the time I get home, I think I’ve analyzed what happened back at the field a hundred times over.

Okay, that’s a lie. It’s been at least double that.

Despite being a cheerleader, I don’t actually talk to Sebastian or play house with the rest of the football team.

Sure, Reina, Brianna, and the rest of the squad do, but I don’t for the simple reason that…well, they expect sex. It’s not rocket science and I’m not a whore.

So why the hell did I make myself look like one when I looped my leg around his?

Desperate much, Nao?

I text Luce to ask her to call me as soon as she’s done with whatever satanic rituals for shape and beauty Reina makes them do. But I know she’ll be too busy for me today.

Or ever, for that matter.

She practically sold her soul to the devil, and Reina will make sure to keep her occupied.

Our house, or Mom’s pride and joy, as she likes to remind me, sits on a large piece of land in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. We even have a huge-ass garage that we barely use and a fancy pool that Mom can show to her friends when she invites them over.

She always plays the game of ‘accept me!’ and it’s kind of frustrating. I’m way younger than her and I already understand that we, as minorities, just don’t get accepted. At least, not by most of the racists plaguing this godforsaken town.

If I had a penny for every time someone’s called me ‘exotic’ or said I have such ‘strange’ eyes or that my soft black hair is so ‘unique,’ I’d be as rich as my mama.

She knows all that, but she just refuses to stop trying, which is both courageous and sad, I guess.

Instead of going inside, I rummage through the mailbox, searching for a very familiar black envelope…

Yes!

I get out Akira’s letter and smile as I open it. I even pause my core metal playlist. What? It means the letter is that important.

Juggling the rest of the mail in one hand and my bag on my shoulder, I open the letter from my pen pal.

And yeah, that sounds outdated, but his first letter got me smiling, and I needed to smile that day, so I wrote back.

True, I still know next to nothing about Akira, but it’s not like I’m telling him my deepest secrets or anything. It’s just something that I look forward to every week.

And maybe that’s because I’m pathetic and he’s one of just two people I have as friends.

Dear Naomi,

Should I stop that? Starting the letter with Dear Naomi, I mean. Doesn’t it sound tacky to you? I was thinking about it the other day, and somehow, it does to me.

Anyway, now that my musings about the salutation are out of the way, I want to tell you that your story for history class is lame.

You should talk about Japan and the Warring States period. You know you want to. But you can deny it, I don’t care.

Well, you were born in America, so you might not consider yourself wholly Japanese, but let me insist on this. Do something cool instead of that old, rehearsed topic.

My studies have been going well. Thank you for not asking. But then again, you probably think I’m a nerd and that studying hard is expected of nerds. *insert unflattering language here that basically means, screw you if you think that way*

Now, where were we? Right. My studies.

I don’t like what I’m doing right now and I’m thinking about changing majors, but I don’t know what I’ll change to or if I’d be making the right choice.

Do you ever feel like you understand nothing and when you finally do, the doors are closed? It’s like you arrive at life too late.

Or is that too melodramatic?

Anyway, I’m not going to bore you with my life’s story. Tell me about you.

Are you still eating the hearts of the cheerleaders, or did you grow some balls and quit?

If that happens, don’t worry, you can always be my Yuki-Onna. Or maybe I’m yours.

Sincerely,

Akira

I smile at the dork. He always has such huge illusions about Japanese spirits and their evilness.

He calls me Yuki-Onna because, according to him, I resemble her with my pale skin, rosy lips, and Asian eyes that are so dark, they’re nearly black.

He says I have the beauty of the snow woman, a ghost who roamed the mountains on stormy winter days to lure mortals and kill them.

And since then, it’s kind of become our inside joke.

I never thought this thing with Akira—friendship, as he calls it—would go this far, but I’m glad that I at least have him.

Even if I still don’t know what he looks like.

I contemplated asking for a picture; however, not only would he refuse, but it would also kill the image I already have of him. A cute guy who’s definitely an otaku and talks about porn more than necessary.

He’s corrupted me.

My feet come to a halt inside the front door of our house. It has a wide entryway into the living area that’s diagonal from the kitchen.

Mom stands in front of a mannequin, a pincushion on her wrist and a phone to her ear while she pins a piece of cloth to the mannequin’s chest.

She might have become the CEO of Chester Couture, but she still obsesses over a mannequin at home, trying to come up with her next masterpiece.

I hide Akira’s letter in my bag before she lifts her head. While Mom knows I have a pen pal from Japan, I don’t like her touching his letters. We talk about porn sometimes and that’s not a conversation I want her to be privy to.

“Honey.” She motions at a glitter box and I give it to her.

I opt to go upstairs to my room and grin like an idiot at the thought of rereading Akira’s letter and thinking of an equally sarcastic reply. It’s a game of ours.

“Nao, wait.”

I’m two steps in, but I turn around to face Mom. She has placed the phone in her slacks’ pocket, putting a rare premature end to her conversation with her assistant, her lawyer, her accountant. Anyone who needs the great Riko Chester’s time.

She was born in Japan as Riko Sato, but she changed her last name as soon as she got American citizenship when I was a kid.

Mom is a small woman but keeps her hair long, not short like I do, and she looks like my older sister, not the woman who gave birth to me. She has flawless skin and beautiful small features that she passed down to me. Though she’s paler and has more dark circles than usual lately.

Her eyes are brown, but nowhere as big or as dark as mine. Which I guess is a feature I got from my father, who’s sort of a taboo subject in front of her.

“How did school go?” she asks with a slight accent. Since she’s first-generation, she doesn’t really speak with an American accent as I do, but it’s not for lack of trying. I guess being born speaking in a certain way stamps you for life.

I lift a shoulder. “The usual.”

Mom reaches for her pack of cigarettes and steps back from the mannequin as she lights one, then takes a drag. “How about practice?”

“It was cool.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“As if I could. You’d call the dean and get all the deets. Or maybe the coach, since she was there.”

“Do not sass me, young lady.”

“I’m not. Just making your job easy for you since, I don’t know, you prefer asking others about me instead of actually attending any of the stupid games I bust my ass for.”

“Watch your language. And it’s not like I don’t attend them because I don’t want to. Some of us work, Naomi.”

“Get back to it then.”

“Nao-chan…”

My stomach flips whenever she calls me in that endearing way. It’s like I’m back to being a little girl, when Mom was my world.

Until the red night shattered it.

She approaches slowly, releasing a puff of nicotine into the air. “Are you mad at me?”

“I don’t know, Mom. Maybe I am.”

She strokes my arm. “I’m sorry. I know I’m barely around lately. But it’s all for you.”

“No, Mom. No. Don’t use the excuse that it’s for me. It stopped being for me after you bought this house and secured both our futures. Now, it’s just for you.”

She drops her hand, and although it’s painful and I want her to comfort me again, I’m well aware that it’s useless. Mom will always do what she thinks is best, not caring about what type of results that brings to my life.

“One day, you’ll understand it all. At least, I hope you will.” She smiles with a hint of defeat. “Go freshen up before delivery gets here. I ordered Italian.”

“What’s the occasion?” While I’m secretly glad she’s eating in tonight, I’m surprised she doesn’t have some sort of a dinner set up somewhere with all the associates and business partners she has.

“Why does there have to be an occasion for me to eat with my daughter?” She smiles again, but it’s still with that note of defeat, or is that sadness?

I don’t ponder on it long, because she kills her cigarette in an ashtray and goes back to her work.

Me, however? I can’t help the giddiness I feel at the thought of having dinner with her.

Maybe our little family isn’t beyond saving, after all.