Page 82 of Riot House
We talk for hours. Iknowhim now, but in the same vein, it often feels like I’ve barely scratched the surface when it comes toThings To Know About Wren.
We trade secrets and kisses and breath, and we hide away from the world, making sure no one knows when we’re together. I don’t mind the sneaking around or the thrill that chases up my spine when we come close to being caught. It just seems normal.
The last weekend in Februaryrolls around, and out of nowhere, the weather picks up. The grey skies clear, and the rain quits relentlessly lashing at the academy’s walls, and the temperature even manages to lift the mercury a little, rising into the sixties. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the sun that the change in the weather, temporary though it might be, raises my spirits and makes me so giddy that Carina asks me if I’m doing drugs.
“I’m not saying I’d judge you if you were. I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you this...bouncy.”
On the front lawn of the academy, I stop bouncing on the balls of my feet, poking my tongue out at her. “I just forgot how good vitamin D is. Don’t you feel alive? Like you could take on the world?”
“I have to fly to New York this afternoon to get two filings. No, I do not feel like I could take on the world,” she says dryly. “I mean, my mother’s so fucking weird. She knows there are perfectly good dentists close by, but no. I have to go seeherdentist.”
“Yeah. But Andre’s going with you. And you’re gonna go out for a romantic dinner,andhe got you tickets to see Hamilton. Once the dentist part’s out of the way, you’re gonna have an amazing time in the city and you know it.”
She harrumphs. “I hate the fucking dentist. I can’t stand the smell or the sound of the drill. Dentists get away with all kinds of fucked up things, y’know. The amount of women who get sexually assaulted by dentists is—” she puffs out her cheeks. “The number’s frighteningly high. If you ever need to be put out for a procedure, always make sure you have someone come in and sit with you. Otherwise, you’ll never know who’s been touching you.”
“A cheery thought to start Saturday off right,” I say, beaming at her. “It’s gonna be fine. You’ll be in and out, and then you can enjoy your time with Andre.”
“Mmm.” She smiles, but she doesn’t seem too convinced. “What are you gonna do today? Sorry I’m bailing on you again.”
“Oh, y’know. I’m gonna sink my teeth into this.” I hold up the book in my hands. “Harcourt delivered my new laptop and a bunch of other stuff last night. I can catch up on my Netflix to-watch list if I want a distraction.”
“Okay, well. Next weekend, we’ll do something cool, I promise.”
When Andre’s black Ford F150 pulls up into the turning circle, she groans like he’s about to cart her off to hell instead of on a romantic weekend away. I smile at the retreating truck until my cheeks hurt, waving until it’s out of sight, and then I’m up and running, heading down the driveway toward my own weekend getaway.
* * *
The car’s set back from the road, parked down a narrow gravel track that obscures it from sight. Black, sleek and shining, the ’66 Mustang Fastback looks brand new, even though it’s well over forty years old. Wren leans against the driver’s door, head down, hair hiding his face. The faded grey t-shirt he’s wearing pulls taut over his arms and across his back, his low-slung jeans hanging off his hips. His scruffy, worn boots are missing, replaced by a pair of black Chuck Taylor high tops. A slow smile spreads across his face when he hears my feet crunching on the gravel.
“I was beginning to think you were gonna bail on me,” he says.
He still hasn’t looked at me. He does this a lot—refraining from lifting his head and making eye contact with me until the very last second, until I’m standing right in front of him. He finally looks up at me from under those expressive, dark eyebrows, and my toes curl in my shoes. “How do you even know it’s me?”
“You’re five-foot-four, Little E,” he says, smirking. “You have averyshort stride.”
“Rude.”
“True,” he counters, hooking his fingers through the belt loops of my jeans, pulling me toward him. He brings his mouth down on mine, and the birds stop singing in the trees. The air stills. The sun burns a little brighter. When he releases me, he slides his hands up inside my shirt, drawing small circles over my skin with the tips of his fingers. “You’re late,” he rumbles. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
I give him a look. One that he smiles at, running his tongue over his bottom lip, wetting it. We trade these silent exchanges often now—my wordless chiding in return for his entertained, half-felt apologies. “You’re not the boss of me,” I remind him.
“Aren’t I?”
He ducks down for another kiss, but I scoot back, out of reach. “Most definitely not.”
Fire ignites in his eyes. “If I tell you to do something, don’t you do it? If I ask you for something, don’t I get it?” he muses.
“Only because I deign to do or give you what you want, Jacobi. There’ll come a day when I won’t feel so accommodating.”
“Well, I guess I’ll just have to live in fear of that day, then,” he purrs, prowling after me. I shriek, running around the car, but it’s no use. He was right, I’m five four, and my legs are much shorter than his. He catches me with ease, locking his arms around my waist and lifting me off the floor. “In the car with you,” he growls into my ear. “We’ve got places to be.”
He holds me against his side with one arm, freeing up a hand so that he can open the passenger door of the car and bundle me inside. I land with a softuffffon the leather bench seat. He slams the door behind me before I can play at making a run for it. Two seconds later, he’s sliding himself into the car beside me and turning the key in the ignition.
There’s something pretty fucking spectacular about Wren behind the wheel of a car. I’ve never seen him drive before; Pax always runs the Riot House boys up to the academy whenever the weather’s bad enough to warrant the short drive. Seeing him like this now, his actions sure and confident as he throws the Mustang into gear and hits the gas, turns me on in the weirdest way. The strangest things tend to turn me on now. The act of watching him fix his coffee, popping the lid off his to-go cup, licking the foam off of it before sprinkling the tiniest bit of sugar across the top of his latte and snapping the plastic back on the cup again. The way his eyes flit quickly and surely over the pages of a book when he’s reading something he finds fascinating. The way he absent-mindedly pulls his lip through his teeth when he’s thinking deeply. Fuck, the way he looks in his clothes, and the sight of his bare feet, and the way my whole being vibrates with satisfaction whenever I’m lucky enough to earn a burst of laughter out of him.
All of it makes me want to rip my clothes off and fuck him stupid.
“Did you bring the stuff?” he asks, giving me a quick sidelong look as he pulls out onto the road.
