Spark Page 17

  Unsure of what I should do, I quietly whisper. “T? You okay?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “T,” I hiss a little louder. “What are you doing?”

  Still nothing.

  Are you fucking kidding me? She got hers and that’s it? Not that it was anything spectacular, and though we’ve been going at it for well over an hour now, I’m still a long ass way away from my own release …ain’t that some bullshit? Rory was fucking right.

  Groaning, I gather my clothes from her bedroom floor, using them to cover up my floundering erection on my hunt for a bathroom. Gratefully, the first room I choose off the hall is one, and as soon as I’m behind the locked door, I turn the hot water on full blast.

  Discarding the condom into the trashcan, I avoid looking at myself in the mirror. I hate myself enough at the moment as the reality of what I’ve just done sinks into my now sober mind, I don’t need to see my pathetic reflection. The sad part is even though I know I’ve hit rock bottom, I’m not sure I care enough to do anything about it.

  I deserve to be a miserable fuck for the way I let Caleb down. I deserve to be alone for the rest of my life—just like he was at the end. It’s only fitting.

  Once I’m standing under the scalding hot water, I tilt my face into the harsh spray, allowing the moisture from my eyes to mix with the stream from the shower. Then, with the image of Hudson writhing underneath me in my bed, her sapphire blue eyes peering up at me with love and adoration, I stroke my cock for less than two minutes before I’m coming all over the shower drain.

  Drying off quickly, I put my clothes from earlier back on and walk out into the living room, wishing more than anything I could leave this damn apartment. Unfortunately, I don’t have my car, nor do I have any place to go. I glance down the hall at Tasha’s door, knowing I’m damn well not sleeping in bed with her, and then at the empty couch against the wall.

  I stalk over to the leather sectional and lie down, without a pillow or blanket, and eventually fall asleep, wondering if this nightmare will ever end. But all I dream about is eyes—Hudson’s full of life, and Caleb’s flat with death.

  Glancing down at my history notebook, all I see is a chaotic mess of squiggly lines, arrows, and question marks, the perfect representation of what I hear when I’m sitting through Dr. Langford’s lectures. The woman jumps from topic to topic so fast I’m lucky if I don’t have whiplash when I walk out of her class. And I currently have twenty-four hours to make heads or tails of this rubbish scribbled on my papers, or risk failing the class.

  I attempt to reread the highlighted passage from the text for the fourth time, but yet again, I retain none of it. Slamming the book shut, I chuck it to the other side of the bed—the side that still smells like him—and fall back on my pillow with a frustrated groan, staring up at the blank ceiling.

  It’s been three days since I stormed out of the coffeehouse, leaving Crew and Mary behind. I’ve talked to her several times since, and neither of us has heard from him. Not a single text. He hasn’t come for his clothes, which I gathered and packed in his bag that sits in the corner of the room, taunting me ruthlessly, and nobody seems to know where he’s staying. Dakota and Juno went on a reconnaissance mission up to Half Pipe last night, but he wasn’t working, and whoever they talked to claimed not to know anything.

  At this point, I’m not even sure how I feel anymore. Before the last couple of months—before I met Crew—my life was virtually stress and drama free, and though I’d never experienced the high of the highs like I did with him, I’d also never suffered through the lowest of lows.

  And damn, until now, I had no idea how low it could be.

  I knew he’d be angry at me when I tricked him into meeting with Mary. I was well aware he’d lash out, most likely saying things to purposely hurt me, but never in my wildest dreams did I ever think he’d stoop to that level.

  Eventually, I could’ve overlooked the entire ‘whore’ thing with a proper apology and some major ass-kissing, because honestly, it wasn’t like he was too far off-base. After the funeral, I willingly allowed him to use me—my body mainly—because it was the only way I knew how to be there for him, since he refused to talk about anything. I thought he just needed time to process Caleb’s death, and ultimately, though he’d never be the same, he’d recover and I’d be the one there to help him through. That’s what you do for people you care about. You give them whatever support you can.

  But blaming me—shit, blaming any of us—for what happened that morning was excessively hateful and cruel. Caleb’s accident was terrible, gut-wrenching, and the most devastating thing I could ever imagine, but it was exactly that. An accident. I’d felt guilty for the first week or so, knowing I contributed to the circumstances that left Caleb alone when he needed us most, but after talking things out with my parents and Grams, I knew in my heart no one was at fault.

  “Hudson?” Grams knocks lightly on the partially open door, yanking my attention out of another Crew daydream. “You doing okay, love? Are you coming to breakfast this morning?”

  Shaking my head, I shimmy up to a sitting position and reach for the discarded textbook. “No, I’m not hungry. My last final—the hardest one for me—is tomorrow, and I have to cram pretty much straight through.”

  “Surely you can stop to eat. I think you’ve lost five pounds in the last few days alone. All of this studying you’ve been doing, barely ever leaving your room, can’t be healthy. Come on,” she demands, flitting over to my bed and tugging on my arm. “Let’s go eat. Your brain needs fuel to get smarter.”

  Laughing softly, I allow her to pull me off the bed and into the kitchen, where she already has a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns waiting for me. My stomach roars to life as the appetizing aromas fill my nostrils. Okay, so maybe I am a little hungrier than I thought.

  I slide onto the chair and dig in to the breakfast, scarfing it down so fast that I’m sure my belly will hurt in a couple of hours. Grams hovers, which is uncharacteristic for her, so I come right out and ask what’s going on. She and I have a loving, but no-nonsense kind of relationship.

  “What’s up, Grams? You’re acting strange,” I announce in between bites.

  “The boy. What happened?”

  Sighing, I rest the fork against the edge of the plate and wash down the bite with a long swig of orange juice. “What happened?” I repeat her question, staring down at the remaining strips of bacon, at a loss. “That’s a damn good question, and I’m still not exactly sure.”

  I continue eating as I tell her everything that happened on Monday afternoon, pretty much word-for-word, since I’ve replayed the scene in my head no less than six hundred times in the last seventy-two hours. And then I await her response, hoping for one of those really impactful lines you get from older people who’ve learned a lot of wise life lessons in their years.

  Instead, she says, “You need to have sex with someone else.”

  My jaw hits the table. Say what? I just rehashed this horrendous story of how the first and only guy I’ve ever had real feelings for—the guy I gave my virginity not too long ago—completely tore my heart out of my chest and squashed it like a poisonous bug scurrying across the floor, and my grandmother’s words of advice are to go sleep with someone else?

  “Are you serious?” I finally manage to say. “What would that help?”

  “What could it hurt? You need to relax and let things be the way they’re going to be. It’ll all work out exactly the way it’s supposed to in the end, and in the meantime, getting a little nookie could only help to improve your mood. It used to help me. You should never underestimate the power of a cute boy and a good orgasm.”

  Oh. My. God. My grandmother just used the word nookie and is discussing orgasms. I think I may need to vomit. Thank goodness I’ve already cleaned off most of my plate, because my appetite is absolutely nonexistent now.

  “I’ll…um, I’ll definitely consider your suggestion,” I sputter out the words w
hile standing up and carrying my dirty dishes to the sink, “and thank you so much for breakfast. I love you, Grams.”

  As soon as I’m back in my room, I’m about to dive into the dull material, when I get an idea. Maybe Grams is right…well, kind of. I’m not sure about hopping into the next available bed I can find with Joe Schmoe is the best thing, but I have been hiding out in this room for entirely too long this week, and I desperately could use a change of scenery.

  Grabbing my phone from my nightstand, I type out a text to Beckham, hoping to kill two birds with one stone.

  Me: Hey, it’s Hudson. I know it’s last minute, but do you want to study for the History final together today?

  His enthusiastic reply flashes across the screen in less than a minute.

  Beckham: Definitely. I’m about to leave campus. All of my notes are at home. Wanna meet me there in 30?

  Me: Just send me your address. C u soon.

  Hurriedly, I change out of my yoga pants and tank top, and slip into a gray hoodie and a pair of jeans, which rest lower on my hips than usual. Huh. I guess my Grams was right about me dropping a few pounds. I contemplate adding a belt, but decide against it.

  After stuffing my notebook and textbook into my backpack, I double check the cigarette case to make sure there are a few joints in it, then toss it in too, certain we’ll be taking several smoke breaks throughout the day. Once my feet are cozy inside my Uggs, I double-check my appearance in the mirror and decide my makeup free face and ponytail are going to have to be good enough today. I don’t have the time or the desire to do anything else; I’m just happy I already showered and brushed my teeth this morning.

  I call out to Grams, letting her know where I’m going, then jump in my car and pull out onto the main road, already feeling a tad bit better. The drive to Beckham’s takes a little longer than it should, thanks to my inability to follow driving directions, but after circling the same block no less than four times, I’m eventually able to find the apartment complex.

  Parking my car in the first spot I can find, I hop out and sprint across the lot, my backpack lazily slung over one shoulder. The blustery December wind whips across my face, turning the tip of my nose and my ears into icicles before I reach his unit. Gratefully, the door swings open mere seconds after I knock, and I’m greeted by Beckham’s smiling face.

  “Hurry. Get inside and warm up.” He ushers me in and gives me a quick hug, hastily shutting out the cold behind me. “Someone needs to tell winter she’s early this year.”

  Chuckling softly, I nod as I remove my boots and jacket, leaving them both in the entryway. “Yeah, it went from an unseasonably warm November to a brutal December in the blink of an eye.” Just like my life did.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks while leading me into the small, rather dirty kitchen. “Let me see what we’ve got.”

  Unrinsed plates are stacked on one side of the sink, and it looks like the countertops haven’t seen a wipe down in at least several weeks, but neither seem to faze him in the least. The trash threatens to overflow onto the floor, the can brimming with empty beer cans and takeout containers. One particular Styrofoam box on top displaying the Half Pipe Pub logo catches my eye, and my chest tightens uncomfortably at the thought of him. A mixture of worry and anger washes over me, and I begin to think that getting out of the house wasn’t such a good idea.

  Sticking his head in the nearly empty refrigerator, Beckham scrounges around trying to find something to offer, but comes up empty. “I guess all we have is beer, and I know you don’t drink, unless you just want some water from the sink.”

  The thought of drinking out of one of their glasses grosses me out. God only knows when the last time they were washed, or if soap was used at all.

  “No, I’m okay right now. If I need something later, I may go on a coffee run,” I reply, hoping my face isn’t revealing the true level of my disgust with the place. Who lives like this?

  “Sorry, I would’ve had some other options here if I’d known earlier you were coming.” Grabbing a Bud Light, he pops the top and brings the can to his mouth, guzzling down the horrible smelling drink. “Just let me know when you’re ready to take a break and we’ll go get something…maybe some food too.” Yeah, there’s no way anything in this place isn’t expired.

  Backpedalling out of the kitchen, I glance around the living room, wondering where I should unpack my things around the clutter of magazines, video game controllers, and empty food and drink containers. I think that’s even a bra draped across the back of a recliner. Ewwww. Don’t get me wrong; I understand the whole bachelor pad thing, and it’s not like I expect Beckham to keep a Martha Stewart worthy apartment, but this is ridiculous. I’m going to have to take another shower as soon as I get home.

  “I thought we’d set up in my bedroom, in case my roommates are here and try to distract us. It gets a little crazy around this place sometimes,” Beckham announces when he notices me surveying the room.

  He nudges my elbow and signals for me to follow him into the small hallway. Cautiously, I trail behind him into the first room off to the left, and though his room is far from spotless, it’s a definite improvement from the main living area. The furniture all looks like it came straight from the Ikea showroom, and the platform bed, which has probably never been made properly, is buried in a heap of blue and gray linens. Clothes are littered around the floor and there’s a scrunched up Mickey D’s bag in the corner from who knows when. But it doesn’t smell too bad, and the windows even have curtains.

  Exhaling a small sigh of relief, I drop my backpack onto the floor and find a spot to sit cross-legged on his bed, facing him, but not too close. Then, we both gather all of our review materials, spreading notes and books out around us on the navy comforter, and begin an intense study session.

  A couple of hours into it, we reach a natural breaking point between the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and I pull out my favorite rectangular case from my bag, snatching a joint from inside.

  “Is there a good place to smoke in here, or should we go outside?” I ask while digging a lighter out of my pocket.

  “In here’s fine. Let me grab a clean ashtray.” He stands up and grabs a small terracotta bowl from the top drawer of his dresser, then drops back down on the low mattress, this time flat on his back with his head angled close to my lap. I consider scooting over, but don’t want to be blatantly rude or make things uncomfortable, so I stay put.

  Flicking the lighter, I take a nice, long, and steady hit from the spliff, careful not to cause any runs in the paper, and once I’m satisfied it’s burning evenly, I hand it off to him. For a couple of minutes, we sit quietly, sharing a stoned smile as we puff-puff-pass, back and forth. Then, the sound of some muffled voices followed by a door being swung open startles me, causing me to jump and swivel my head toward the hallway.

  “Come on! I know you want to again!” a girl calls out from what sounds like another room as heavy footsteps in the hall grow near. “I got a Brazilian yesterday, just for you!” she adds with a giggle.

  I watch intently, curious to what in the hell’s going on, ‘cause I thought we were the only people here. But nothing in the world could’ve prepared me for the sight of Crew walking by the open doorway, shirtless and barefoot, with hair still damp from a shower.

  Or a really long, sweaty fucking.

  “Please move,” I hiss through gritted teeth, glaring at the half-dressed girl blocking the door I’m trying to pass through. “I need to get my shirt from the dryer. I’m already running late.”

  I don’t add that I’m late because she decided to join me in the bathroom while I was showering, uninvited, and then proceeded to get pissed because I still denied her after a ridiculous, over-the-top striptease. I’m not sure how else to prove to her I’m really not fucking interested, but she still seems unfazed.

  “Just a quickie then,” Tasha purrs, pouting out her bottom lip as she runs her finger over the lace trim of her bra. “Do
you want me to beg? Is that it?”

  No, I want you to move your pathetic ass out of my way.

  I really need to get the hell out of this apartment before I kill her. What the fuck was I thinking Monday, when I left the bar with her? This girl is the epitome of everything I hate. Annoyingly obnoxious, conceited—though she shouldn’t be, now that I’ve seen what she looks like first thing in the morning—lives in a pigsty, and clingy as fuck. No, no, no, and hell no.

  Apparently, she was so drunk the first night we came home, she doesn’t even remember us hooking up—hence the mid-deed pass-out—and has been relentless on the pursuit of it happening again. Uh, no. I can’t stand the thought of another night on their nasty couch, with her douchebag cousin parading by with his latest piece of tail. Fuck, last night, he didn’t even shut his door, and I had to listen to her catlike howling until they finished ten minutes later. Longest ten minutes of my life. Thank fuck the guy has no stamina.

  Which is where I’m headed now. To beg Rory to save my sorry ass from this hellhole I’ve landed myself in, at least for a little while, until I can save up some money and figure out my next move. I’d hoped to bail on Tuesday, the day after this horrendous decision, but Rory went MIA, and I’ve been stuck way longer than I wanted. Brody said he had to go out of town for an emergency and would be back in a couple of days, then Rory finally messaged me this morning that he was back, working a double shift.

  Shaking my head with exasperation, I finally just pick her up and move her out of my way, setting her down on her bed. “No. I don’t want you to beg. I don’t want anything from you. I’m leaving.”

  “Come on! I know you want to again!” she yells as I throw the door open and stalk out of her room. “I got a Brazilian yesterday, just for you!”