End of the Night

He’s never liked blondes, hated them in fact, claiming they were always too bright. He liked darkness, it let him believe things could be what he wanted it to be until there was light. Until you could see everything for what it really was.

“Fucking Rosy? He serious?” I glance at Dukes fleetingly, hoping my face doesn’t give away how my body wants to shut down. His eyes are wide, cigarette dangling from his lips. I look skyward and then after a moment over at the man in question.

For the first time, I take notice of his hands. They are large and his fingers are long. Piano fingers, I always joked watching him pluck at his guitar. I take notice of how they curl around her waist as he holds her to his body. How they play with the ends of her hair while his mouth does beautiful things to hers.

Yes, fucking Rosy.

His hands were absolutely amazing. They make her look so elegant, so graceful as they caress her body. I can only wonder if they’d made me look as wonderful also. If she feels the same tingles I felt as those same fucking fingers stroked, and plucked, and danced across my skin.

“Lena, you seeing this shit?” I look back at Dukes. A cloud of smoke blows my way and I swat at it, annoyed, before gritting my teeth and nodding. He raises a blonde eyebrow and silently inhales. “I take it,” he turns his head to blow out the smoke, “you don’t approve,”

I consider lying for about two seconds. The same two seconds that I review the past 48 hours, the pain his comment provokes in me the only reminder that the events of Saturday night actually happened. That not even two days ago, he was above me, under me, the owner of the bruise on my hip and bite mark on my shoulder. That he’d fucked me on Saturday night, and is standing not even ten feet away from me two days later, groping Rosy McNeil.

No, I don’t fucking approve.

So I just bow my head and reach blindly for the cigarette behind Dukes’ ear, and place it in my mouth. I don’t care that it’s unlit, or that I’ve never smoked in my life, or that Dukes is probably wondering what the fuck is wrong with me, or that any minute now a nun is going to smell the underage sinning and fly outside with a ruler and detention slip at the ready.

And when the first bell rings, I slip off the back of Dukes’ trunk and make the tedious walk to first hour, my Mary Jane’s feeling like lead with every step. I expect to feel Dukes fall into step beside me, the scent of him, all smoke and spicy apple, but I don’t.

Instead I’m met at my locker by a pair of intensely beautiful brown eyes. The same brown eyes that had been running through my head for the past two days. He’s staring at me, through me, and only the distant sound of a slamming locker makes us both blink and him look away. I rummage through my locker for my Calculus book, making quick work of closing the locker and turning away to hide my burning face.

“You good?”

I turn around slowly. He’s leaning against my locker, hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks, looking like he totally didn’t fuck me and make out with Rosy McNeil two days later.

“Just so we’re clear, it was you in my bed, in my room, Saturday night?” I’m nearly twitching, wanting him to look into my eyes and confess his love for me. Hoping, praying, wishing.

But one side of his mouth twitches and curls upward in a smirk and I just know he’s going to ruin this, me. “That was me,” he laughs and runs a hand across his jaw. The same jaw I gripped in my hands as he moved above me.

The same jaw blondie was grabbing onto while he palmed her ass.

I swallow around the lump in my throat. “And that was definitely Rosy McNeil you were sucking face with back there, yeah?”

This time he rubs the back of his neck, his laughter slightly dimmed. I hope he fucking burns. When he looks up my heart clenches. “What you starting to get feelings? Is that it? What do you want me to tell you?” I blink furiously and look up, because yes, yes I had, have, feelings. Yes, I picture myself with you, holding hands, walking down the halls, envious glances from the rest of the school.

Yes.

“No,” I murmur. More laughter. Laughter that sounds cruel and horrid as if we’re in a bad Stephen King film and anytime now I’m going to die.

“Lena, Lena, Lena,” and the way he says my name, still manages to cause a blush to run up my chest and warm my body. He runs his fingers along my collarbone and I hold my breath, afraid to breathe and ruin the beautiful disaster of this moment. “You couldn’t have thought that-“ He laughs, “that, no. Look we’ll let this be our little secret for a bit longer, okay?” And I’m a little girl, craving the approval from him, wanting him to need me, and I nod.

As if it’s okay that I was his lay for the weekend. That the whispered words and touches meant nothing to him, absolutely fucking nothing. That I have to open my eyes and look at his face, and see the same boy I’ve seen for ten years and know I was just another notch in his bedpost.

“I gotta get to class,” he says, and pats my shoulder before walking away, leaving me gaping and wounded and overheated from his simple touch. I don’t remember walking to class, or sitting down. I couldn’t tell you what I responded to Dukes when he tugged on my ponytail and snagged his unused cigarette from my skirt pocket and questioned me about my vacant expression.

I can remember collapsing onto my bed, ignoring my dad and his prodding questions, and crying.

Crying, crying, crying.