It's Not What They Say, It's What They Whisper

Friday afternoon it takes Lucas all of an hour to find a new suit. We head to this Italian restaurant that's a favorite of his, then over to Port Angeles's only all-ages club.

The place is packed, the air steamy with bodies pressed against each other; the smell of fried food and spilled drinks is almost overwhelming. The lights are dim and the band on the stage sounds like yet another Death Cab for Cutie imitation.

There is officially nothing new under the sun.

I nod to Lucas and tip my head toward the back of the club. I probably won't find an open table, but it's worth looking. If this is the kind of music they'll play all night, well, I probably won't be dancing much.

I order a diet coke during the set change. Lucas's girlfriend, Cynthia, is at the bar, and he alternates between making puppy eyes at her and glowering at all the guys checking out her ass. She does the same with the opposite sex. Together since the eighth grade, Lucas and Cynthia are like a fucking hallmark card for happiness. The quarterback and the prom queen.

Whatever. I'm just jealous.

The new band comes on and they're actually pretty good. I abandon my table and diet coke and head out to the center of the floor. The beat is hard and pounding and I close my eyes and sink down into it, my body moving, shaking off the stress of the week. Three songs in and I'm starting to feel better when some douche stumbles into me and knocks me on my ass. I jump up, ready to punch someone, only to come face to face with Violet Brooks.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

"Shit! I'm so sorry!" she yells over the banging beat of the drums.

"You ever notice you say that a lot?" I ask. "Maybe you should do something about it." I turn and walk away, my stress release becoming a thing of the past. I should have stayed home and whacked off.

I catch Lucas at the bar and ask for his keys. Cynthia will drive him home; it's what would have happened anyway.
Lucas gives me a concerned look, glances over my shoulder, then smiles, dropping the keys into my hand. "Dude," he says. "Have a good night." He raises his eyebrows at me like he knows some secret. I just grab the keys and head for the exit, suddenly craving all things mellow.

I'm smoking a cigarette under the orange tint of the sodium lights in the parking lot. I close my eyes and slide down against a light pole, knees to my chest, wondering why I was such a dick to Candymouth when I smell the spicy sweet scent of her cloves.

"You really should give that shit up," I say, not opening my eyes.

"I like the taste," she answers. "Besides, so should you."

"Eh, a man's gotta have some vices, don't you think?"

"Is that what you call it?" she asks.

I sigh. I'm really not interested in getting into this shit now. "Go home, cop's kid. You'll get caught out after curfew. What will daddy say?"

"I don't give a fuck," she says, her little girl's voice making a mockery of her words.

I finally open my eyes and Candymouth's crouched between my legs. She's wearing her school skirt and a navy blue hoodie, white ankle socks and white lace-up vans. I can see small scabs on her knees.

"Can I have some?" she asks, pointing at my smoke. I stare at her as she places her palms on my knees and leans in to me. I'm caught in a scent storm of cloves and smoke and something sweet like candy or fruit coming off of her skin, mixed with the sweat I can see at the top of her brow. Her candymouth comes at me and I'm holding my breath, the cigarette in my hand burning idly and then my bottom lip is in her mouth and she's...sucking on it.

I pull away to exhale and she's got her her candymouth on my mouth, her tongue in my mouth, stroking it against my tongue and I'm not stupid so I start stroking back, my hands at my sides, my cock suddenly at full fucking mast and my eyes wide open on this girl who's kissing me.

She breaks the kiss and pulls back, sucking her lower lip. "Mmm," she moans, her voice all throaty. Her eyes are all hooded and her lips pooch out. "Thanks," she says. "That tasted good."

I stare at her, tasting the sweetness of her clove in my mouth, then I stand up and she falls back, looking up at me, all big eyes and blushing cheeks. I can see what looks like lacy pink underwear under her skirt.

God, she flashes that shit a lot.

"Fuck off, Brooks," I say. "I'm not playing this game."

"What game?" she asks, moving to cross her legs, her skirt making a little hammock between her thighs.

"I'm not going to be your revenge, your big fuck you to mommy and daddy for moving you here more than half way through your junior year. This isn't The Breakfast Club, Sunshine. Find someone else to use."

I turn and walk away, willing the vision of her pink-panty clad crotch and the taste of her candymouth lips out of my mind.