Skinny Jeans Have No Place On These Thighs
Roaming Hands Have Far To Go
It's a little like the first time. Marcus and Matthew (Marcus keeps calling him Kitch - apparently his last name is Kitchen . . . and I thought I had it bad!) and I are sitting on the floor around a glass coffee table. There's a few DVD cases scattered about.
Marcus crushes the cocaine a little more and splits it into lines with his debit card while Kitch (I know it's a stupid name but I think it's cool. Probably because Marcus is saying it a lot.) starts rolling up a twenty pound note up thinner than a cigarette.
I remember all this from last time. I remember the set up, the nerves, the feel of the rolled up note between my nostrils, the rush I get simply from being near Marcus. It's almost as strong as this cocaine.
But not quite.
I take that back. It's nowhere near as strong.
*
Marcus tosses me a can of beer. I giggle feebly at it and claim not to even know how to open one. Marcus rolls his eyes.
He moves so he's sitting right behind me, his hands, then arms, stretching around past mine. He takes the can from me and opens it, making a smiley, "Ah!" sound as he passes it back.
I wish I could have liked it. I really, really try to like it. But I just don't. You can't force yourself to like stuff though. I'm laughing as I hand it back over to Marcus, just shaking my head.
"Hang on, I think we have something else . . . somewhere," mumbles Kitch, as he bumps his way through to the kitchen. "Should be some speakers round here somewhere too."
Within five minutes, Kitch has produced music - techno, trancey stuff that I've never heard of before but pretend to know because Marcus goes mental when he hears it. Mental in a good way I mean! And Kitch brings me a Malibu and diet coke.
"Sorry Ella, we didn't have any vodka. My flatmate Marina left it before she went travelling - that was about three months ago but it should be all right. The diet coke's fresh!"
I beam at him, rocking my shoulders against Marcus. He's still sitting right behind me.
Suddenly by some miracle, I recognise a song. Shoot The Runner, by Kasabian.
"Oh my God, I love this song!" I burst out just as Marcus yells, "Sort it out Kitch - put on some DJ Shadow."
Of course, I go bright red. But at least Marcus can't see me.
"God, Ella, the backs of your ears have gone really red, did you know that?"
I didn't think he could tell anyway. I'm still giggling thought. Marcus's hand has been roaming around the top of my leg for almost the whole of this song. He's just lightly carressing my skin. I know it's strange but I'm glad I'm wearing jeans. It would have been a little bit too much if he'd been touching my bare skin.
Actually, scratch that, I'm just glad I don't have my bloody school uniform on! Blazor, shirt, skirt. Thankfully I've shaved my legs but it'll be a while before I show another living soul my legs.
"You all right Ella?" asks Kitch. "You've just done the one, yeah?"
"Oi, leave off mate, she's done it before, all right?" Marcus doesn't say this loudly. He's sort of hissing it at Kitch.
"Yeah, just one!" I hold up one finger to back up my point.
"Cool. Just checking. God, you're a funny kid, you haven't stopped grinning since you stepped in the house."
This is a lie. When I stepped into the house I was shaking with nerves. And right now, any girl, and maybe a few boys too, would kill to be in my position. I'm literally hanging out with the most beautiful, blonde, eyebrow pierced, lip pierced guy ever. Plus, he's in a band. That's every box ticked.
But what about the cocaine? This voice in my head pipes up out of nowhere. For half a second I have to glance above me to make sure it's stayed in my head and there's not a phantom floating around that will freak Marcus and Kitch out. Because I know that would freak me out.
By the time I've established that there's no phantom, I've forgotten what the voice said.
That taken care of, we chug our drinks. Then we do a shot of tequila which I've never tried but it's disgusting. "You're really meant to do them with salt and lemon," explains Kitch while Marcus laughs at my screwed up face. (That's how I look when I'm trying not to be sick.) "But without works too."
I'm half way through another Malibu and Diet Coke when suddenly I freeze. What am I doing? I've been doing so well for days and I've gone and ruined everything. How many calories are there in two Malibus? It must be a lot.
I then remember how the tequila initially made me feel sick. And a little plan starts forming in my head. I would never have dreamed of doing it before but I need to now. Because nothing else is working.
"How much do you need to drink to pissed?" I ask Marcus and Kitch.
"Too much. Costs a fortune," moans Kitch as he wanders out of the room and into the hallway.
"Depends on your . . . " Marcus swore rather badly then. "Can't remember the word. When you get used to something. I don't really look at it in drinks anymore, I look it in money. How much you have to spend to get pissed."
"How much would that be?" I ask. Marcus's hand is getting dangerously close to somewhere that I'm not sure about just yet. Maybe if I keep talking then he won't do it. I'll distract him.
"Because for me to get drunk, I'd probably only have to spend about a tenner. But then, obviously, I can't get served many places."
"And you've only ever been in one pub," Marcus reminds me bluntly. True to his name. Marcus Blunt. Ella Blunt - damn it, I have to focus on the task at hand. Marcus knows too much about me that's the problem. Ooh, good idea!
"What's your favourite pub?"
"Tricky one," says Marcus. He's tickling the middle of my inner thigh. "Probably the Red Lion. It's over twenty ones so it's hard to get in but I know the guys on the bar so as long as there aren't any bouncers it's fine."
"What's so good about it?"
"I don't know. The crowd mainly. Beer garden is nice. Usually somewhere to sit. And if not, somewhere to park your pint. Plus, they have a duke box - " Marcus is moving up the jeans. "And I always get free credits from behind the bar. And they slip me the odd Steve."
"What's a Steve?" His finger is touching the zip.
"God, I forget how young you are," smirks Marcus. This time, there's no mistaking it. He's trying to slip off my trousers.
"Marcus," I say awkwardly. "What about Matthew?"
The nickname doesn't feel right just now.
"Oh, sorry, did you want to go upstairs?"
"No," I say. Why isn't he making this easier? In films, if a girl looks all awkward during a make out session, the guy is supposed to stop. Although, I suppose Marcus has stopped. Sort of.
He's smiling at me now, his eyes all soft. His hands are on my back now. "Good." He's pulling me into him.
I forgot how incredible his kiss was. I really did. It makes me feel so . . . God, what's that noise? I suddenly tense up and can't concentrate.
"What time is it?" I ask Marcus. I can chimes. Was that ten or . . . ?
"Uh . . . dead on the witching hour."
"The who?"
"Midnight, babe."
"WHAT!?"
Oh Jesus, it's happened, it's finally happened. I've given my Mother complete license to kill me.
Marcus crushes the cocaine a little more and splits it into lines with his debit card while Kitch (I know it's a stupid name but I think it's cool. Probably because Marcus is saying it a lot.) starts rolling up a twenty pound note up thinner than a cigarette.
I remember all this from last time. I remember the set up, the nerves, the feel of the rolled up note between my nostrils, the rush I get simply from being near Marcus. It's almost as strong as this cocaine.
But not quite.
I take that back. It's nowhere near as strong.
*
Marcus tosses me a can of beer. I giggle feebly at it and claim not to even know how to open one. Marcus rolls his eyes.
He moves so he's sitting right behind me, his hands, then arms, stretching around past mine. He takes the can from me and opens it, making a smiley, "Ah!" sound as he passes it back.
I wish I could have liked it. I really, really try to like it. But I just don't. You can't force yourself to like stuff though. I'm laughing as I hand it back over to Marcus, just shaking my head.
"Hang on, I think we have something else . . . somewhere," mumbles Kitch, as he bumps his way through to the kitchen. "Should be some speakers round here somewhere too."
Within five minutes, Kitch has produced music - techno, trancey stuff that I've never heard of before but pretend to know because Marcus goes mental when he hears it. Mental in a good way I mean! And Kitch brings me a Malibu and diet coke.
"Sorry Ella, we didn't have any vodka. My flatmate Marina left it before she went travelling - that was about three months ago but it should be all right. The diet coke's fresh!"
I beam at him, rocking my shoulders against Marcus. He's still sitting right behind me.
Suddenly by some miracle, I recognise a song. Shoot The Runner, by Kasabian.
"Oh my God, I love this song!" I burst out just as Marcus yells, "Sort it out Kitch - put on some DJ Shadow."
Of course, I go bright red. But at least Marcus can't see me.
"God, Ella, the backs of your ears have gone really red, did you know that?"
I didn't think he could tell anyway. I'm still giggling thought. Marcus's hand has been roaming around the top of my leg for almost the whole of this song. He's just lightly carressing my skin. I know it's strange but I'm glad I'm wearing jeans. It would have been a little bit too much if he'd been touching my bare skin.
Actually, scratch that, I'm just glad I don't have my bloody school uniform on! Blazor, shirt, skirt. Thankfully I've shaved my legs but it'll be a while before I show another living soul my legs.
"You all right Ella?" asks Kitch. "You've just done the one, yeah?"
"Oi, leave off mate, she's done it before, all right?" Marcus doesn't say this loudly. He's sort of hissing it at Kitch.
"Yeah, just one!" I hold up one finger to back up my point.
"Cool. Just checking. God, you're a funny kid, you haven't stopped grinning since you stepped in the house."
This is a lie. When I stepped into the house I was shaking with nerves. And right now, any girl, and maybe a few boys too, would kill to be in my position. I'm literally hanging out with the most beautiful, blonde, eyebrow pierced, lip pierced guy ever. Plus, he's in a band. That's every box ticked.
But what about the cocaine? This voice in my head pipes up out of nowhere. For half a second I have to glance above me to make sure it's stayed in my head and there's not a phantom floating around that will freak Marcus and Kitch out. Because I know that would freak me out.
By the time I've established that there's no phantom, I've forgotten what the voice said.
That taken care of, we chug our drinks. Then we do a shot of tequila which I've never tried but it's disgusting. "You're really meant to do them with salt and lemon," explains Kitch while Marcus laughs at my screwed up face. (That's how I look when I'm trying not to be sick.) "But without works too."
I'm half way through another Malibu and Diet Coke when suddenly I freeze. What am I doing? I've been doing so well for days and I've gone and ruined everything. How many calories are there in two Malibus? It must be a lot.
I then remember how the tequila initially made me feel sick. And a little plan starts forming in my head. I would never have dreamed of doing it before but I need to now. Because nothing else is working.
"How much do you need to drink to pissed?" I ask Marcus and Kitch.
"Too much. Costs a fortune," moans Kitch as he wanders out of the room and into the hallway.
"Depends on your . . . " Marcus swore rather badly then. "Can't remember the word. When you get used to something. I don't really look at it in drinks anymore, I look it in money. How much you have to spend to get pissed."
"How much would that be?" I ask. Marcus's hand is getting dangerously close to somewhere that I'm not sure about just yet. Maybe if I keep talking then he won't do it. I'll distract him.
"Because for me to get drunk, I'd probably only have to spend about a tenner. But then, obviously, I can't get served many places."
"And you've only ever been in one pub," Marcus reminds me bluntly. True to his name. Marcus Blunt. Ella Blunt - damn it, I have to focus on the task at hand. Marcus knows too much about me that's the problem. Ooh, good idea!
"What's your favourite pub?"
"Tricky one," says Marcus. He's tickling the middle of my inner thigh. "Probably the Red Lion. It's over twenty ones so it's hard to get in but I know the guys on the bar so as long as there aren't any bouncers it's fine."
"What's so good about it?"
"I don't know. The crowd mainly. Beer garden is nice. Usually somewhere to sit. And if not, somewhere to park your pint. Plus, they have a duke box - " Marcus is moving up the jeans. "And I always get free credits from behind the bar. And they slip me the odd Steve."
"What's a Steve?" His finger is touching the zip.
"God, I forget how young you are," smirks Marcus. This time, there's no mistaking it. He's trying to slip off my trousers.
"Marcus," I say awkwardly. "What about Matthew?"
The nickname doesn't feel right just now.
"Oh, sorry, did you want to go upstairs?"
"No," I say. Why isn't he making this easier? In films, if a girl looks all awkward during a make out session, the guy is supposed to stop. Although, I suppose Marcus has stopped. Sort of.
He's smiling at me now, his eyes all soft. His hands are on my back now. "Good." He's pulling me into him.
I forgot how incredible his kiss was. I really did. It makes me feel so . . . God, what's that noise? I suddenly tense up and can't concentrate.
"What time is it?" I ask Marcus. I can chimes. Was that ten or . . . ?
"Uh . . . dead on the witching hour."
"The who?"
"Midnight, babe."
"WHAT!?"
Oh Jesus, it's happened, it's finally happened. I've given my Mother complete license to kill me.
♠ ♠ ♠
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