Page 75 of Riot Rules
“Why are you telling me, then?” I’m still stunned by this revelation.
“I know something about you. You know something about me. We’re even, Lovett. Keep your mouth shut and don’t say anything to Jacobi about it. I’ll do the same.”
He stalks toward the stairs and climbs them without another word. I watch him go with my head aching at my temples. He gave me collateral against him. Fuckingcollateral—information that he didn’t want to share. That was not the point I was trying to make, and it wasn’t done in the spirit of change. This piece of information he’s given to me has only caused the nooses we’ve all made for ourselves to pull tighter around our necks. For a second there, I thought that maybe the time for secrets was done, and the relief was huge. No more hiding. No more lying. No more worrying about what could happen if I’m not careful. Now, I have one more hurt to carry. Another truth that can be wielded as a weapon. Knowing that Pax’s father died hasn’t made me feel any better about Pax knowing my secret. It’s made me feel fucking worse. And it’s proven just how broken things have become in our household.
31
CARRIE
I’mthe one to receive the note.
Not before they comb the woods, though. Not before I lose three nights of sleep and go half out of my fucking mind worrying about her. On the front of the envelope, the return address is a low rent motel in Los Angeles. On cheap, thin paper, Mara’s loopy handwriting tells me that she’s fine. That she just needed a change of scene. That she was sick and tired of how small and pathetic her life was at Wolf Hall, and how she’s already enjoying herself so much more now that she’s free and living by her own rules in Hollywood.
I read it, and I’m filled with such rage that I screw the notepaper up into a ball before I realize that the cops are going to want to see it and I have to press it out flat against my desk again.
I’m numb as Harcourt reads the note. Numb as the police come to collect it. Numb as the Principal calls everyone to an assembly and explains that Mara hasn’t been found, but we do know that she’s safe.
This is so typical of Mara. So selfish and so self-absorbed. The drama ofthemost epic Irish goodbye of all time appealed to her, I bet. Did she think the cops would get involved? Did she think that I’d worry myself sick, imagining all the things that could have happened to her? And her parents? Her poor mom and dad put out an appeal on local television, asking for help in finding their daughter. Her mother had looked grief-stricken and pale under the studio lights. Did Mara consider what her little stunt was going to do to her parents when she vanished herself? I don’t think she did.
See, Mara’s not a bad person. But she’s just careless. Thoughtless. The consequences of her actions don’t occur to her until it’s too late and the damage has already been done. So long as she’s doing whatever she wants to do, then Mara Bancroft is oblivious to the rest of the world and how her actions affect it.
I get my phone back from Harcourt. Presley, who has been so upset over Mara’s disappearance that she hasn’t been eating or sleeping, is checked out of Wolf Hall for the rest of the semester by her over-protective mother. Life stumbles forward. The only reprieve from the fallout of Mara’s departure is the moment when I turn out my bedroom light at night and hear the soft creak-click of my bedroom door opening and closing in the dark. Dash comes every night. No conversation or invitation is required anymore. I know he wants to come to me, and he knows how badly I need him to. He’s the anchor in the storm. The only bright point of light amidst a very dark storm, guiding me away from the rocks, keeping me safe.
Tonight, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed that he bought for me, staring up at the observatory, lost in thoughts of the stars when he creeps silently into my room. I nearly yelp in fright when I feel the gentle caress over my shoulder blades.
“Lost in the blue again,Stellaluna?” His voice is rough-edged and sumptuous—a carefully crafted whisper that makes my toes curl into the blankets on the bed. I’ve been lost in the blue for years. More so since he came along. When I look up at the night sky now, it’s hard to see the stars anymore. All I see is him. All I feel is him. His hands on me. His mouth on mine. The addictive weight of him on top of me, urging my legs open, and then the hardness of him thrusting inside me, bringing the world into bright, sharp focus. I’ve lost my very soul to this boy under a blanket of stars every night, and I’ve savored every single second of it.
“You’re late,” I tell him, trying not to smile.
The bed dips as Dash positions himself behind me; he arranges his legs so that I’m sitting between them, between his thighs, and the warmth and the heat of him makes my muscles ease. I didn’t even know I’d been so tense until my body melts into the security of him. “You’re mistaken. I’m right on time. I’mneverlate. My father would flay me alive if I committed such a heinous breach in etiquette.” He wraps his arms around me, holding onto me tightly, so that my back is flush with his chest. I can feel the steady, solidthump, thump, thumpof his heart beating out a rhythm against my spine.
“How would your father ever know?”
“He knows everything,” he whispers into my hair. He nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck and kisses me; the heat of his mouth on my skin makes me feel like I’ve just lost my footing and plummeted off the edge of a cliff. “Harcourt’s probably keeping tabs on us and reporting back to the fucker.”
I laugh; the sound turns into a breathy moan when his fingertips skip up my torso, climbing my ribcage like a ladder. He brushes his thumbs against the underside of my breasts, resting the weight of them on the backs of his hands, and he growls deep and low into the shell of my ear. “I love when you wear nothing but a t-shirt for me,” he rumbles. Turning his hands over, he cups my breasts in his palms through the material of my thin NASA shirt, rubbing gently at my nipples so that my breath quickens.
We haven’t had sex since the party. Both of us have been too worried and caught up in what’s been going on to think about touching each other. But now that Mara’s safe, off having some adventure by herself in L.A., and Fitz has calmed down, the pressure valve needs to be released between us.
I was wound so taught earlier that I could barely keep still. I let my head rock back so that it rests against Dashiell’s collar bone. Slowly, he slides one hand down my body while still massaging a breast with the other. When his fingers dip below the waistband of my panties and strokes the soft, sensitive flesh between my thighs, both of us let out a ragged sigh.
“Anything you wanna tell me?” Dash murmurs. “You’re so fucking wet. Did you touch yourself while you were waiting for me?”
I bite down on my lip, shaking my head. “I wanted to. I wanted to come so bad. But I wanted you…”
“You wanted me to do it. You wanted to come on my tongue,” he finishes.
Turning my head to the left, I lift my chin and look up at him. With the moonlight streaming in through the huge windows, he looks like a disreputable angel, too perfect for words. There’s something so human about him at the same time, though. A flawed, vulnerable, side that makes my chest ache. He could be a Nephilim, then. I’ve come across scores of myths about the offspring of both angel and human while reading about stories about the constellations. There’s always a bleeding of folklore, legend and mythology when it comes to the beauty of the night sky, and the beautiful children of the gods and man are always impossible to resist.
With his bright blond hair and the disconcerting changeability of his eye color, his square cut jaw and his artfully sculpted body, there’s no doubt in my mind that it was men like Dash who inspired those kinds of stories. Heisirresistible. The poles could reverse, the sun could collapse, and an event horizon could form and tear the planet from its orbit, and the force with which I am pulled towardhimwould still be infinitely stronger.
Dashiell looks down at me, his penetrating eyes neither brown, nor, blue, nor green, but closer to black in the dim light of my room, as he continues to stroke his fingers over my pussy. He glows with pleasure as he carefully works me open and slides his middle finger inside me so, so, SO slowly that I shake from needing him. “That’s right. Good girl. Open up for me.” He lowers his head and hovers his mouth a millimeter away from mine, so I can feel the heat from his mouth but not the pressure of his lips. This beautiful boy is cruel beyond words. I whimper as he rubs his thumb over my clit in small, tight circles.
“Shh. Don’t worry. I’m gonna make it better,” he mutters. “I’m gonna make you feel good. It’s okay.” He soothes me, speaking in a soft, gentle, coaxing tone as he slips his arm around my chest and holds onto me tight.
The kiss finally comes, blazing hot. I’m so greedy for his mouth—and the finger that he’s pumping inside me—that a hint of shame starts to creep in. What would Alderman say if he knew how desperate and sex starved I’ve become because of this boy? He’d be so disappointed. The shame never really settles in, though. It slides away like silk, fluttering away into nothing, leaves blowing down an empty road, and all that’s left is the fire.
God, it hurts so good.
