Losers: Part I

I brought the cigarette to my lips again, savoring a slow drag. Menthol and tobacco hit my throat with a pleasant burn, the nicotine steadying my shaking hands as I looked out on the Martins’ picture-perfect backyard. The grass was trimmed, and the bushes were tightly manicured. Everything was neat and tidy. Maintained. Controlled.

Tension knotted through my neck and shoulders when the glass door behind me slid open. But it was just Manson. His hair was still disheveled with a sheen of sweat across his bare chest. Jess had left long scratches on his arms, and the sight made my cock twitch again, but I was too tired for round two.

“How is she?” I said.

“I think we fucked the sarcasm out of her, for now,” he said, grinning as he held up his hand. I passed him the cigarette, reading what he wanted easily. “She’s getting cleaned up in the bathroom, changing into something comfortable.”

“I can walk back to the house. You can take the car when you’re ready.”

“Come on, man.” He gave me a look before he brought the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled. “You’re dropping. You shouldn’t be by yourself.”

Dominant drop was what he meant. That intense feeling of guilt and exhaustion that could hit you after an intense encounter like the one we’d had. But it wasn’t just the dopamine suddenly leaving my system that made me want to take off.

I didn’t stay after a fuck. Ever. My policy was to hit it and bail. I wasn’t a gentle guy, so sitting and talking, “decompressing,” all that soft shit? It wasn’t for me. Putting space between Jess and I was for the best. We had our arrangement and her debt to us didn’t involve getting any warm and fuzzy feelings about each other.

“You know how it goes,” I said, taking the cigarette back as he offered it. “I’m not the guy you want around when everyone is feeling vulnerable. You can take care of her.”

Manson made a disapproving noise, but I was being honest. What the hell did I know about this shit? The closest I’d ever come to a normal romantic relationship was with him — and even that I knew I wasn’t great at. I could swing from hot to cold and back again within the space of a week, but he knew me too well to be bothered by it.

At least, I didn’t think it bothered him. He’d never said anything about it. When I needed space, he gave it easily. When I needed to give up control, I trusted him to take it.

But I didn’t need softness. I didn’t need intimate, quiet moments.

That was what I told myself anyway.

My dad had been a man-up-and-take-it type, who would rather beat his sons into toughness than offer a shred of compassion, and Mama hadn’t been much better. Gentleness wasn’t just a foreign concept; it was fucking uncomfortable, like trying to have a conversation in a language I only had an elementary knowledge of.

But Manson had told me even before we showed up here that I needed to stay. For her. To look after her. Care for her. Do all the nice, compassionate, gentle things I was supposed to be able to do but couldn’t.

“Look, I’m fine,” I said, stubbing out my cigarette against the sole of my shoe and looking around aimlessly for an ashtray. Apparently no one in this household smoked.

Manson plucked the cigarette out of my fingers, nodding his head back toward the house. “Come on. I wanna show you something.”

It was a trap to get me to come back inside, but whatever. If he wanted me to sit around like a baboon with his thumb up his ass, sure, I’d stay.

Jess was showering, the sound of running water coming from the closed bathroom door. Our cum had been all over her face, her chest, her hair. She could wash it away, but I hoped the scent of us would linger. I wanted to leave her with something tangible, something she couldn’t easily forget and others couldn’t deny.

Fuck, if I was a dog, I probably would have pissed on her to stake my claim. Maybe I really would, eventually, if she stuck around that long.

Manson was sitting on the edge of the couch when I came to his side, staring down at a piece of paper in his hands. It was a half-completed sketch showing the front of a house with a wraparound porch. I wasn’t sure what I was looking at until I realized how familiar the house was.

“Is that our place?” I said.

“Pretty sure it is. She’s taken some aesthetic liberties.” He traced his finger lightly along the intricate woodwork designs she’d drawn along the windows.

“Did you know she could draw?” I said as he carefully put the paper back down on the coffee table. The water in the bathroom had turned off, and it made my heart speed up a little.

“Not until now,” he said. “She must have drawn all this from memory.”

She had even drawn flowers and bushes along the front porch. The new features were small, but the effect was drastic. It made the house look more like a home, like someone had put love and care into it.

“Should we plant flowers?” I blurted out. The dirt yard was so damn barren.

“It does look nice…I guess we could.” He didn’t sound entirely pleased about the idea, but I couldn’t blame him. Living in that house at all was a challenge for him, even with all the changes we’d made.

We’d done a lot of work since we moved in, but it was always with a single-minded focus. We needed to get the house ready to sell. As fortunate as we’d been to get the place after Manson’s mom passed away, his childhood home carried far too many memories for him.

He was braver than me. I hadn’t been back home to see Mama even once since Dad and I left. Even now, years later, I didn’t think I’d have the courage to walk into the house I’d spent the first fourteen years of my life in.

Jess walked into the living room, squeezing a towel on her damp hair. She looked between us, her eyes narrowing as she tried to figure out what we’d been up to. Then she looked down and spotted the drawing on the coffee table.

“I swear I’m not just drawing your house for fun,” she said quickly, as if that would be so awful. “It’s for work. I need to present a project to my boss at my six-month review and your house has a lot of…” Her lips pursed as she pondered. The way her face scrunched up made me feel…hell, it made me feel something. Like an aggressive need to squish her cheeks. “It has a lot of potential. Great character.”

“Why are you drawing a house for work?” I said, wincing when my voice came out far gruffer than I intended. She was dressed in a big t-shirt and leggings, her smeared mascara washed away. She had so many freckles on her cheeks that I hadn’t noticed before, and her eyelashes were almost as light as her hair.

“I work in architectural design,” she said. “I’ve been interning with this big company in New York City. If I prove myself, the boss says she’ll take me on full time. Then I’m out of Wickeston for good.” She smiled, draping her towel across the back of one of the kitchen chairs before she headed for the fridge. “We have wine if you guys want some. Mom doesn’t keep beer in the house though.”

Damn, we really had fucked the sarcasm out of her. Was this all she needed? A hard fight followed by a harder fuck and suddenly she was looking a lot more worthy of Manson’s little pet name for her. Manson, of course, jerked his head toward the kitchen to get me to follow her. I swallowed down my groan, but went along. Hell, if I was here, I could at least try.

Besides, maybe he was right about the drop. The more time went on, the more I felt it — a tightness in my chest that quivered like anxiety but swayed with exhaustion, raw and uncertain. I wanted to settle down somewhere quiet and chill.

Jess was in the pantry, stretching up on her tiptoes as she tried to reach a box of Girl Scout cookies on the top shelf. Her shirt was hitched up enough to give me a damn fine view of her ass wrapped in those skintight leggings, and I paused for a moment to admire her.

I thought I’d come the second I sunk into her. Years of fantasizing about her had nearly culminated in one goddamn thrust. Having her suck my cock all those years ago had nothing on being inside her, hearing her, watching her fall apart. It was the hate-fuck I’d needed for years, even better than my fantasies. No wonder Manson was so hopelessly fucked for her.

As much as I thought she was spoiled, prideful, selfish…I was fucked too. We all were, really; it just manifested in different ways.

I reached over her head, easily plucking the cookies off the shelf and handing them to her. She hurriedly dug into the box, popping one into her mouth and groaning as if it was orgasmic.

“God, these are my favorite,” she said, sighing contentedly before she held out the box. “Want one?”

“Thin Mints? Fuck yes.” I didn’t want just one; I took a whole sleeve for myself before she went back to browsing for snacks. One of Vincent’s sisters used to be a Girl Scout, and every time they had a sale, we’d stock up with as many cookies as we could afford. Frozen Thin Mints and coffee were basically my breakfast of champions for a while.

I stuffed two cookies into my mouth right as Jess turned back around. She giggled when I coughed, the mouthful not going down quite as quickly or easily as I’d hoped. She held out the box again, saying, “Here, you and Manson can have at it. I shouldn’t have anymore.”

“Shouldn’t?” I stared back at her incredulously. She’d had one cookie. “Says who?” She shrugged, muttering something about sugar and carbs, but I shoved the box back against her chest. “Girl, we broke into your house, shoved ice up your ass, and fucked you over your mother’s kitchen table. Eat some goddamn cookies.”

“Ugh, fine,” she groaned, but her tone was teasing as she snatched the cookies back.

Teasing or not, I still lunged for her, forcing her back until she was pressed against the crowded shelves.

“Are you forgetting the rules?” I said softly. Her eyes were wide in the dim light as she looked up at me, her chest swelling as she drew in her breath. She laid her hand against my chest, curiously tracing the gap where my denim vest left my skin bare.

Her touch left goosebumps on my skin.

“I did forget, sir,” she said, just above a whisper. She leaned a little closer. “I’m sorry. I should’ve said fine, sir.”

The way she smiled at me was both wicked and sweet, challenging me as she placated me. Most people would never dare. Most would be running scared.

Not her. Why the hell wasn’t she scared of me?

Better yet, why didn’t I want her to be?

I sighed, straightening up and stepping back. “Watch yourself, fucktoy. Manson will get really pissed if I spank you right now.”

“Mm, well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” The tone of her voice said she absolutely fucking would, the little brat. She slipped out of the pantry, snatching a box of crackers as she went, and I turned my attention to the bottles of wine on her counter. I eventually chose something dark with an interesting label — I wasn’t a wine guy, but Manson liked reds.

“Glasses are in the cabinet to your right,” she said. I didn’t know why she was watching me fumble around with this when she could have been comfortably cuddling with Manson on the couch. I grabbed a couple coffee mugs since they were the first things I saw in the cabinet, filling them to the brim and taking a heavy sip of mine.

As I lowered the mug, Jess looked like she was holding back laughter.

“What?” I snapped without meaning to, but it didn’t faze her.

“You’re not used to this, are you?” she said, and my pride bristled.

“I’ve had sex before, Jess,” I said. “Plenty of times.”

“I don’t mean sex.” She laughed. “I mean this. Like, being with someone.”

Oh. Right. I guess it was that obvious. I didn’t belong here, in this nice house, surrounded by photos of Jessica’s family and her mom’s Live Laugh Love decor.

I hadn’t felt that way when I’d broken in. Getting Jason to disarm the security system, borrowing Vincent’s lock pick kit, creeping through the house with Manson and texting some creepy messages had just been part of the game. But I’d played my round and the fact that I was still lingering felt far more invasive than having broken in in the first place.

“I’m not the sit-and-talk type. I’m not usually stuck with someone for this long.” She froze for a moment, and I winced. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not stuck. We broke into your fucking house.” I sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over my head. “Do you want me to leave?”

Me, not we. I was the odd one out here with my fucked-up hang-ups. Besides, Jess had never liked me. She’d liked the idea of me, sure, that much was obvious. But me? As a person? That was laughable.

But she shook her head, looking at me like I’d suggested something ludicrous.

“How about you pour a little more wine in that mug and come to the couch,” she said. She laid her hand on my arm, squeezing my bicep slightly before she walked back to the living room. Okay, fine, she’d convinced me. I was going to do this aftercare thing even if it killed me.

I returned to the living room, where Manson was lounging on the couch and Jess had flopped down beside him, munching on her cookies. I gave him his wine and took the remaining side of the couch, sitting stiffly on the pristine white cushions. How could someone live with this much white furniture? I’d dirty it up just by looking at it.

“How much was today worth?” Jess said, taking a sip from her glass as she glanced between us. “That was at least a $1500 fuck, right?”

My post-nut clarity must have been broken, because I almost told her it was worth the cost of our cars and more. I had to gulp down a little more wine to drown those words before I said something I’d regret.

“What do you think, Lucas?” Manson asked. “Maybe four or five?”

I shrugged. “I’d say five. I’m feeling generous.”

“Five hundred?” she said excitedly.

“Five dollars,” I said, then quickly held my wine out of the way as she launched across the couch, swatting her hand at my head. I caught her wrists and pulled them down, hauling her onto my lap. “Hey, hey, watch it! I was joking, girl.”

“Almost made me spill wine on your couch,” Manson said, staring down at the crisp white cushions beneath him with a horrified expression. “I feel like if I get a stain on something in here, I’ll be cursed.”

“Oh, you will be,” she said. “My mom can detect a crumb buried in the carpet from ten yards away. I’ve seen her do it.” She sipped her wine, wiggling her feet slightly. She was a tense little ball on my lap, and now that she was there, I wasn’t sure what to do with her.

“Can your mom detect semen on a kitchen table?” I said, and Jess swatted my chest.

“You’ll both get the curse of a lifetime for that,” she said. To my surprise, she leaned across the couch to grab her cookies and the TV remote, then promptly settled back down on my lap. “I hope you like 15th century Gothic cathedrals because that’s what we’re watching.”

She could have told me we were watching a documentary on the bowel movements of elephants and I still wouldn’t have moved a muscle. Manson moved closer from the far side of the couch, and Jess stretched her legs to rest them on his lap. Her back was against my arm and shoulder as she munched on her cookies and stared at the TV. But as the minutes passed, her shoulders slumped and so did the cookies. Then her head sunk down and rested against my shoulder, a soft sigh melting her body against mine.

I glanced over at Manson for help, but damn it, he’d knocked out too. I hadn’t been able to relax a single muscle, but as Jess’s breathing steadied, I dared to wrap my arm around her.

She fit perfectly. Like a puzzle piece tucked against my side, soft and warm. Her hair smelled sweet and slightly fruity, like strawberries.

But my scent was there too.