Star-Crossed (7 page)

I reached down, slowly, and pressed a hand against his covered erection. If he smiled, I couldn’t see it. I felt totally empowered. Awesome not in the sense of something great, but in that sole ability to bring a grown man to his knees.

“What are you trying to do to me?” he asked. Only there was no seductiveness to the question, no intent to arouse. It was a genuine plea; each word cutting like a razor against calloused flesh.

“I could ask you the very same thing, Mr. Tennant.”

I was touching his face, my fingers tracing over the full petal-soft flesh of his lips. The darkness was entirely impenetrable; it was impossible to see whether I was looking into his eyes or something else.

Around us, the sounds of cars hissing against wet pavement and the wind through branches told us that there was still life outside; even if everything in that moment, between my teacher and I, had managed to freeze. Our mouths met and parted with a fluid urgency; his hands trembling like a teenage boy that had never touched a girl before. Like this was our first shared experience.

Will cupped my face in his hands, his breath fading in and out, rising and falling. The scent, the warmth, it had already imprinted into my cells.

“I need to know what you’re thinking,” he said.

I thought about Juliet, and how she had avoided playing the games that so many other women did. She had succumbed to her true passions. And here I was, locking lips with a man who was entirely fooled; there was no trace, no idea that he was also the key element to my freedom. A pawn in a bet.

I kissed him again, an unspoken apology.

“I’m a monster,” I told him. He smiled, like the three words were a joke, leaning in and pressing his mouth against mine. Hot, hot heat. Our mouths didn’t break apart for what felt like a slow-burning eternity. We were breathless bodies in the all-encompassing night. “We’re both monsters.”

On the cab ride home, I justified what had happened less than an hour beforehand as two people that simply wanted each other. I forced myself not to think about the fact that I would be seeing him in class the next day, or on stage during play practice.

I tried not to think about the bet, and when that failed, I told myself that perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing. I wasn't forcing him to kiss me, after all. And if I succeeded in wooing him into bed, it wasn't as if I had him under some hex. We were deeply flawed, unquestionably reckless. But in predisposition, there still remains choice.

It was merely that his choice would gift me with something that would leave me free to bid farewell to the endless vice-like grip of expectancy. The inescapable hell that was closed-in by high gates and even-higher walls.

I didn't want to hurt Mr. Tennant. I liked him. I could listen to him talk for hours about anything and everything. Literature, film; his past that was still about as clear as an aged, opaque window.

The entire thing made me sick. I was sick with myself, sick with Marius, and winded enough that when I made it through the gates and saw Marius standing on my balcony, I slipped behind one of the rose bushes and sprawled out on the soaking wet grass. I didn't care.

Something had occurred in that moment; a small pull within me. But I was too blind to acknowledge it.

When Marius found me, I was staring into the faint glow of a distant fountain; water poured from a basin held by this cherubic-looking boy with the tiniest wings. There was no way he could fly with them, made of stone; yet, a part of me wanted to break them off and see if was possible for me to succeed.

He sat down wordlessly, fingers tracing over the rose bush thorns; dressed in pajama pants and a black T-shirt. Marius stretched his legs and stared down at my motionless frame; my lace dress slowly soaked in the fallen rain.

“Where were you?” he asked quietly, his eyes on the stars.

“Where do you think?” I replied, sitting up. “I went to take care of some business.”

“Is that what you're calling it?” he practically sneered. “
Business
.”

“Isn't that what you call it?” I asked him. “Or are you in love with all the girls you screw and then leave on the sidelines, weeping? Thinking the entire thing was their own damn fault. The Business of Heartbreak. You should think about a legitimate business venture there, Marius. There might be some money in it if you feel like getting in touch with some particularly vindictive ex-boyfriends.”

He said nothing. I sighed.

“I'm having second thoughts,” I said after a minute. “About the bet.”

“You know that forfeiting means you lose,” he said coolly. “And if you throw in the towel, I win.”

“I know,” I said. “I just don't want to ruin his life. I just don't want to destroy his reputation.”

Marius laughed lightly; gentle as the fountain song and flightless angel.

“Who needs to know?” he asked. “It's only once. Just once.”

“Just once,” I repeated, monotone. Automated. “But he's an innocent man, Marius.”

Correction:
was
. He was an innocent man. Past-tense. The feeling of his hands still scalded like a hot brand on my skin. I only wish he had left a mark; something to keep with me for the night, before morning came and all I would be left with was the scattered aftermath.

“You're wrong,” Marius took my hand, spreading my fingers out so that we were palm-to-palm; his fingers, long and slender, made me feel small and delicate in a way that was less feminine and more frightening. “There's no such thing as an innocent man. And besides, why should you care? What happened to you not having a heart? Or is there something beating somewhere in that body, Little Lost Girl?”

“Don't call me that,” I told him. “I'm far from lost.”

“You're wrong again,” he said. From his pocket he withdrew one of the ruby chokers that Henry had given to me, dangling it in front of my face with a painful gleam. I shouldn't have left the box on my bed. “You live inside that head of yours. With your fantasies, and your failures, and this fetishization you've developed of the single thing you've never tasted. The fruit you've yet to bite into. But does any of it matter, Kaitlyn?”

Marius dropped the jewels into my hands. I glared at him.

“Then why do you want me so badly?” I asked.

He pressed his lips together, shoulders rising and falling.

“You couldn't begin to understand,” he answered. “There's no point in asking.”

“That's a bullshit answer,” I spat, standing. “And you know it. You're just as fucked up as I am. We both are.”

I shivered beneath my thin dress, the jacket still hanging in my arms. It was nearly dragging on the rain-drenched ground.

“I told you,” he said quietly. “I told you we aren't so different, you and I. But you didn't want to believe me.”

As he rose, the wind kicked up and raked through the bushes, sending a quivering gust of heady air. I was ill and intrigued; loathing myself and yet clinging to this idea that I was still clean of any blood that would potentially stain my hands.

The pool, lit up and emitting a faint blue glow, gave a beckoning call. I walked towards it, grabbing Marius by the hand, and together we stared into the very bottom.

But I didn't jump in. I couldn't bring myself to. I was freezing from the rain and wet clothes, and frozen for another reason entirely.

Marius' hand was still in mine, and I drew away.

“Tell me something,” I said. “How would you do it?”

“Do what?” he asked quietly. His pale eyes danced over the even paler water. A faint blue light was cast over us, bathing our bodies in a transcendental glimmer.

“How would you fuck me?”

He laughed, almost as if the words
fuck me
were an insult. There was a bitter ring to the sound.

“I wouldn't fuck you, Kaitlyn,” he said. “I would make love to you.”

I looked at him, he looked at me. My stomach dropped; my veins buzzed with electric blood.

“How would you make love to me, then?” I asked, a whisper.

Marius dipped a hand into the pool, letting the water fall from his fingers in heavy droplets. We weren't looking at each other, but rather, our own individual reflections; as he spoke, I watched his eyes close, just for a moment.

“Well, for starters, it wouldn't be anywhere near this place,” he said. “I would take you somewhere far away, to the outskirts, to some place where there's none of this smoke and havoc. I would find some quiet place, rent a room in some cottage that's nestled away in a forest; stone paths, maybe. Lined by lamplight.”

He paused, swallowing, stepping behind me and running his hands down my bare arms.

“I would start by kissing the back of your neck, then the nape of your neck,” he stopped, lining his way like a paintbrush over each spot. “I would stay there for awhile; watching your eyes grow heavy as I bit down, just a little, listening to you gasp.”

Marius seemed bewildered by his own words, his voice cracking when he spoke again. “I would slowly work my way to your throat, kissing down your chest as my fingers worked to slide you out of whatever you were wearing. I'd make sure not to miss a single spot, marking every trace of skin. I'd run my fingers down your thighs, kissing that spot between your legs so that you writhed and gripped the bedsheets. But I wouldn't dare go inside you yet,” he swallowed. “I would slowly strip you out of your pants, or skirt, and relish the way your body looked, sprawled out and warm from my touch and the yellow, setting sun. I'd still want light, you see.”

He stopped again, and we looked at each other.

“I'd want to
see
you. I'd want that mental photograph, something more than shadows can give. And after I finished looking, I would remove my shirt, pants, boxers - and let you look at me, too.”

I had already seen him naked. The image of him fucking the pale-haired girl in his bedroom was already imprinted.

Piper
, I realized. He was fucking Piper.

“I would fish around for a condom,” he said, lowering his eyes. He didn't want to look at me. “And after that was taken care of, I'd run my hands through your hair and my lips down your neck. I would lay you back on the pillows, my weight over your frame, and before I slid myself inside of you, I would kiss your lips. I would kiss you harder than anyone had ever kissed you before.”

I tried to imagine what that would be like. Marius' mouth on mine; the sculpture-perfect lines of his body hovering above the slope of my stomach.

“Would it hurt?” I asked.

He nodded, sullen.

“I would be gentle,” he swore. “I would go slow; moving and watching your every reaction, each sigh and breath like a line of film. I'd keep kissing you, thrusting harder only if you asked me to. I'd try my hardest to hold back.”

“And if you couldn't?”

“If I couldn't?” he dipped both hands in the water again, pouring the water out from his palms. “I would grind myself deeper into you, until I felt you flinch; until the act would never hurt you again, and I would keep moving until you felt that first initial blossoming of pleasure. I can't promise an orgasm, not then, but something fantastic. And when it was over, I would cradle your face in my hands and kiss you, gently, a thousand times.”

Smiling, he jumped into the pool, splashing me with glowing bathwater.

“And then,” he added, brushing a mess of hair back. “It would be business as usual. We'd return home, and I'd laugh as you limped around the house, waddling like a complete fool.”

“Whatever, Marius.”

As I walked away, I waited for the sounds of Marius laughter; but there was nothing. All I could hear was the wind and water; the soft sloshing of Marius as he floated along on the gleaming waves. Just a boy and the vast-stretching galaxy above.

It was barely nine o'clock when I stepped foot into my bedroom, slinking out of my clothes and into a hot shower. I scrubbed myself down, blinking back the warm water and touching the spots where Mr. Tennant had touched.

My dress still smelled of him, faint Oakwood and sage. His cologne was earthy, mythical; a stirring nightcap.

After finishing my assignments, ensuring that every file was saved and each paper tucked away in its proper folder, I crawled into bed with my dress like a blanket, still damp, and fell asleep.

I dreamt of making love to Marius in the water; his hair in pieces over his forehead; the beads of water glistening beneath garish sunlight. I dreamt of his mouth crushing against my own, the bruises black and swollen.

I dreamt of Will, of my teacher, standing on stage with a hand extended, beckoning me towards him. He pulled me in, kissing me with such a raw, feverish intensity that before I could practice any reservation our clothes were shed and we were naked before rows and rows of filled seats, the sounds of cries and screams of disgust, dismay, all directed at us. But we didn't stop, we paid no mind. We made love in front of the entire theater, our rabid hands and mouths and moans a soundtrack to the greatest production of all. The greatest tragedy that Trinity Preparatory Academy would ever see.

At the end, standing naked with my inner-thighs aching and blood-stained, we bowed to the tune of music box bells; the curtain dropped.