Page 40 of The Love of My Next Life
The second it’s in my mouth, I feel my shoulders loosen. I close my eyes and imagine the pills sliding down my throat. Pretend I can visualize them dissolving. Watch the drug enter my vascular system and my heart pump it into my waiting limbs.
Everything starts to slow down the way I like it.
I hear Sam moving, baggies rustling and a drawer closing, and then the mattress dips as she climbs on top of me.
On instinct, my palms grip her legs. I squeeze and rub them as her lips and tongue drag over the skin of my neck. She messes with the button on my jeans, and I slip my fingers under the hemline of her shorts. I massage the flesh on her thighs. I try to pretend it’s softer than it is. That it’s more plush.
Her hand dips into my jeans and strokes my dick over the fabric of my boxer briefs. I groan into the air when she squeezes my shaft. I move to grip her waist, but it’s too small and feels wrong in my hands, so I move them back to the thick spot on her thighs. I massage and squeeze, thrusting my hips into her palm as she presses hot kisses to my neck.
With my eyes closed, I do a good job of pretending, but once Sam’s mouth lands on mine, her taste is unavoidable, and I lose all interest.
I stop the kissing and move her off me, then I stand.
“What the fuck, Macon,” Sam says, her eyes wide with shock as she wipes her mouth with her hand. I rebutton my pants and adjust the semi my dick is sporting.
“You owe me from Sunday, and I’m not in the mood,” I say flatly, and her face falls. I should feel like an asshole, and maybe I do, but the pills are starting to kick in and with them comes the numb.
“Fuck you, Macon,” Sam whispers. I can hear the hurt in her voice, but I feel nothing. I don’t know why she’s upset. I’m the one acting like a whore paid in drugs. I turn around and walk toward her door.
“She’s never gonna want you,” she says, louder, just as I step into the hallway. “You’re wasting your time.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I call, without looking back at her.
But I do know.
I know exactly what she’s talking about. It would take a hundred more oxy to make me forget it.
I put my headphones in, point my feet in the direction of my house across town, and walk. At some point in the journey, my playlist takes on an indie folk-pop sound, and instead of turning down the street to my house, I let my legs carry me to Lennon’s.
I stop just to the left of her house, the two-story building seeming just as stately and proper as it always does with its white stone façade and large, black-trimmed windows. The lawn and shrubbery are perfectly manicured, and I smirk at the thought of Lennon’s dad on his knees pulling weeds and pruning peonies in between top-secret SEAL missions. I take two steps toward the front door, then stop in my tracks when I notice the expensive blue truck in the driveway.
My lip curls in disgust as I take in the football number decal in the back window.
Fucking Eric Masters is here to meet Daddy.
I waltz up to the truck and peek through the tinted windows. A gym bag, some schoolbooks, a reusable coffee thermos in the cup holder. Minimal trash. Nothing worth stealing. Figures. Eric Masters is a damn boy scout and exactly what Trent Washington wants for his baby girl, I’m sure.
Instead of going up the path to the front door, I move around the side of the house and walk toward the backyard. There’s a tree in the back that I know for a fact reaches to the window of Lennon’s upstairs corner bedroom.
Claire used to use the tree to sneak out when we were younger. She’d ask to stay over at Lennon’s and then sneak out to see whatever guy she was dating at the time. I don’t think Lennon has ever done it, but she was always willing to cover for Claire until Mom extended our curfew, making it easier for my darling sister to sneak in and out of our own house.
I’ve never once told my mom about the shit Claire gets up to. I don’t want to hurt Mom any more than I already do. But Claire gladly tattles on me every chance she gets.
My sister is a grade A bitch who hates me.
My mom is a saint who doesn’t deserve the bullshit I put her through.
I stand at the base of the tree and look up at the branches.
I’m not totally sure that it is going to hold me, but I’m still fairly high and extremely horny, so I grab hold of one branch, then another, and steadily pull myself upward, until I’m looking through the window into Lennon’s tidy bedroom.
The window and screen both lift smoothly, and I slip inside without incident.
The room smells like her. Clean and crisp, soft and beautiful.
Roses, like her shampoo. And paint, like her obsession.
I haven’t been inside Lennon’s bedroom in years, but it doesn’t look like it’s changed much. Pictures are tacked to a bulletin board above a white wooden desk, and I study each one.
