Robin York - Deeper

It already happened.

So I reach across the tracks, leaning way over with my ass in the air, pick up his shot, and knock it back with my eyes closed.

Then I look right into his eyes. I lick my lips, slow and seductive.

And that’s all it takes.

West reaches out, fists his hands in my coat, and yanks me into him. We meet at the mouth.

It’s the most obscene kiss of my life. Deep and hard, gasping hot, sticky-sweet, messy.

It turns out that West doesn’t even need words to make the point he came here to make.

Mine , his mouth says. Mine, mine, mine.

But I’m not. I’m my own. And I grab his hair, pull it, scratch his neck, punishing him for not getting that. For doing this, for never having done this before—I don’t know. Punishing him for torturing me.

It goes on, and I’m vaguely aware of somebody whooping. Maybe lots of somebodys. I don’t care. My hands clench and unclench at his hips. He’s saying my name. Kissing down my neck to my throat. He’s catching his breath, pressing his forehead against mine.

And then he’s standing up, leaving me cold. Alone.

He shoots a glare at Scott and walks away.

It’s only then that I understand how deeply, righteously, incandescently furious I am.

I’m stripped to my bra, dancing in a heaving mass of shirtless, sweaty, smiling, grinding women.

I’m safe, and I’m drunk, and I’m tired of men writing their claims on my body.

Slut, Nate wrote, and I believed him.

Mine , West wrote, and I let him, I melted, I gave him my surrender and my tongue, but I’m mad now. I’ve had enough of his shit. Enough.

Quinn’s at my hip, bumping my ass, lifting my hand and twirling me around. Two girls are hugging, kissing with tongue in front of me. Bridget’s dancing with Krishna, a beer in her hand.

There’s a reason the rugby party is popular beyond the blow jobs, and it has a lot to do with the pile of shirts on the stage by the DJ. We’re down to our sports bras, lace bras, acres of exposed flesh, girls who are too fat and too thin and just right, and none of us cares. We’re here to dance. We’re here for one another.

There’s a line dance. I don’t know the steps. They’re simple, but I keep forgetting them, crashing into people, spinning out too far on the twirl and losing my balance, finding it again. When I fall, hands reach out to clasp mine and lift me up. Bodies press into me, a hugging sisterhood of thrusting hips and lifted arms, sunglasses and duckface, bathed in disco-ball light.

I’m not bad. I’m not good. I’m just alive. I’m just here, dancing.

I love everyone. Everyone loves me. We’re heat and sweat, young and beautiful, sexy, together. Not one of these women would hurt me.

I drink and I’m drunk. I dance and I’m breathing, moving, living.

We’re in the middle of the dance floor, the center of everything, and sometimes I think I catch sight of him at the edge of the room.

Boots and crossed legs, leaning against the wall. Hooded eyes. Watching.

Sometimes I think I see pants with whales on them. A smirking smile that knows too much. A dimple that made me think I was safe when I never was, no matter how nice his parents are or how good his manners.

But I’m angry and I’m dancing and I don’t care.

Fuck them.

Fuck them both.

“I don’t want to see him.”

“Shh!”

“What? I’m whispering. ”

I trip over something, and Quinn gets my elbow and helps me up. We’re in West’s apartment. I’m still drunk, but I’m sober enough to know this is a bad idea.

“You don’t have to see him,” Krishna says. “He’s sleeping. Keep your trap shut, and you’ll be fine.”

Quinn turns on the TV, and a wall of sound blasts out and knocks me down. “Whoa,” I say from the floor.

“Shit!” She starts giggling.

She and Krishna are fighting for the remote. I’m thinking about whether I should leave, but Bridget helps me up and shoves a cold bottle of water in my hand, so I drink that instead. I close my eyes, savoring every freezing, quenching, amazing swallow.

The sound drops off to a hush. The apartment smells like West’s apartment, and it’s full of memories I don’t want right now—except, of course, that I always want them and I always want him and there’s nothing I can do about it.

The water soothes my throat, at least. My feelings will have to wait for some other night.

I open my eyes because my balance is off, which is much more obvious now that we’re not at the party. Bridget is right up in my face, tucking my hair behind my ear, and I have to stick a hand out and brace myself against a cabinet so her beer-smelling concern doesn’t bowl me over again.

“Why did you bring me here?” My question is supposed to be a whisper, but it sounds like a whimper. “I don’t want to see him.”

“I know, sweetie. I know . We weren’t sure what else to do with you. We have to sober you up, and you were too loud for the dorm.”

She leads me to the couch, where Quinn and Krishna are already sitting. When I sit, too, Bridget pulls my head into her lap and detangles my hair with her fingers. The air feels cool against my neck. The movie is stupid, something with cars and guns. Just when my eyes are starting to get heavy, food arrives—three huge containers of nachos from the pizza place. I sink down to the floor, wedging myself between couch and cinder-block coffee table props. I stuff chips and salt and cheese into my mouth.

“This is sooooo good.”

“Don’t forget to chew,” Krishna says. “You know that’s all coming back up later.”

“No way,” Quinn says.

“Are you serious?”

Krishna and Quinn are still arguing amicably over what the odds are that I’m going to puke before morning when the front door flies open. West blinks at us in dull surprise for several long seconds before Krishna says, “Fuck.”

“Nice greeting.” He bends down to take off his snow-covered boots and disappears from view. I’m down by the floor, covered in chip crumbs and probably smeared all over with nacho cheese. He hasn’t seen me. I don’t care.

“Dude, I thought you were asleep in your room,” Krishna says.

“Not asleep.”

“Yeah, so I gather. You been at the bar?”

There’s a dull thud. “Yeah.” Then a few seconds’ silence and a loud crash. “Shit.”

“You’re drunk.”

“No kidding.”

Krishna turns to look at Quinn, eyes wide. She makes this shooing motion with her hands that means, Get him into his bedroom . Krishna stands up, nachos in hand, and it’s the wrong move, because West zeroes in on the container, says, “You guys got food?” and walks toward the couch.

Then he sees me and stops.

“Have to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk,” I tell him.

“Yeah. I bet. Listen—” He cuts himself off. Looks at Bridget, Quinn, and Krishna. “You guys should probably fuck off for a while.”

“It’s three in the morning,” Quinn says.

“In winter, ” Bridget points out.

Krishna crosses his arms. “We’re responsible for her tonight.”

“I’ll be responsible,” West tells him.

“You’re drunk.”

“So?”

“So you can’t take off your shoes without falling over. I’m not giving you Caroline.”

“Hello? I’m down here? Alive and well? Perfectly capable of making my own decisions?”

“I’m taking her,” West says.

“I’m not leaving her,” Krishna insists.

“Fine. Stay. But we’re going in the bedroom.”

“Maybe I don’t want—”

And then I’m upside down, with West’s shoulder a hard pressure in my gut, and I have to focus, because my eyes are prickling and hot and I’m afraid I’m going to puke on him.