Boy in a Band (A Morgan Mallory story) (19 page)

Chapter 23

“Okay to start a fire?” Mathew asked, already wadding up newspaper in the fireplace.

             
Bobby went to get wood that was stacked on the front porch, and I put the beer on the deck in the snow. I pulled three out before I shut the slider.

             
“If my parents come home, throw the beer over the railing,” I said.

“It’s early
,” he said.

             
“I know, just in case. We don’t need to get busted.”

I watched him stack the wood carefully and strike a match.

“You learn how to make a fire like that in Boy Scouts?” I asked, teasing.

             
“Yeah, right, I was never a Boy Scout.”

             
“I know. Probably wouldn’t let you in,” I said as the paper lit and started to burn.

             
I sat down on the floor close to where he rested on his heels making sure the fire would start. Bobby sat down in the chair closest to it. The little pieces of wood caught fire and started to burn.

             
“Nice,” Bobby said.

             
I handed them both a beer. The three of us sat mesmerized by the fire, it felt so nice after our walk outside. Mathew poked at it several times to make it burn better and eventually the fire cracked and popped as we sat around and drank the beer. Mathew sat in front of it Indian style, his knee touching mine.

             
“Aren’t you afraid of getting caught, asking someone to buy beer?” I asked.

             
“No,” he said.

             
“Do they ever say
no
?”

             
“Sometimes. If they do, I ask the next guy,” Mathew answered.

Mathew rolled toward
the couch and reached out, drawing me with him. He shuffled and then settled, his back against the couch, me between his legs. I let him versus fighting it. My back was reclined against his chest, and I remembered when he did this at the beach. I wondered what he was thinking, just as I did then. He played with my hair with his free hand, rolling it around his finger, and then letting it go. Like he had a fascination with the curl. I felt self-conscious with Bobby watching us. We were on our third beer when Bobby got up.

             
“I think I’ll head,” he said stretching.

             
“Dude, there’s still another beer,” Mathew said.

             
“It’s okay. You drink it or hide it in the snow for tomorrow,” he said. “What time you want to start shredding tomorrow?”

“What, like eight thirtyish
, head up?” Mathew suggested.

             
“All right with me.”

             
Mathew didn’t move, and when I tried to get up to say goodbye, he held me down.

              “See you, Bobby.”

             
“Later, Morgan,” Bobby said.

Once Bobby
was gone, Mathew got up.

“Another beer
, kid?” he asked.

“Why not?”
I said, even though I was feeling a slight buzz already.

He
opened the slider and then handed me a beer before he put another log on the fire and sat down on the couch.

             
“Come on over here,” he said, beckoning with his finger.

             
The fire was warm and I hated to move away from it, hated to be vulnerable to him and what he might, or might not do.

             
“Come on,” he said patting the spot next to him.

             
I got up slowly off the floor and turned on the TV, flipped around until I found a movie, and turned the volume low before I sat down next to him.

             
“Who was supposed to benefit from that?” I asked.

             
“What?” he asked, looking at the TV.

             
He was clearly unsure what I was talking about.

“Pulling me into you, playing with my hair
? Was it for you, or to show Bobby you could get away with it? 'Cause I don’t think it was for me.”

His motivation for these seemingly tender gestures unnerved me, made me second-guess all that I believed to be true. That we were only friends.

              “Shit, Morgan, don’t make it complicated. I don’t know. It was just because,” Mathew said.

             
“I think it made Bobby uncomfortable, and that’s why he left.”

             
“Don’t think so damn much. That wouldn’t make Bobby leave.”

             
“How do you know?” I asked.

             
“I just do. If he wanted to stay, he would have. He’s seen it before,” he said.

             
“Yes, he has. Probably didn’t understand it then either.”

I was frustrated and I folded my arms over my chest.

“
He ever ask you about us?”

             
“Not really,” he said.

“I don’t believe you.”

              He put his arm around my shoulder and I stiffened.

             
“So what am I, Mathew?” I continued. “Some kind of fill-in? When you haven’t had a girl pay attention to you for a while, you pull me in? Do you do it in front of Bobby because there’s a pretty good chance I won’t object? Good old Morgan, she won’t cause a scene.”

He finished hi
s beer and went to get another.

             
“No.”

              “No what?” I asked.

             
“No, you’re not a fill-in,” he answered.

             
“What a relief,” I said sarcastically.

He popped the top of the
beer and sat back on the couch. He slouched down with his legs slightly spread apart and took a sip of beer. He had on blue jeans and a white turtleneck, his blond hair falling on his shoulders. Football had definitely made him buff, I noticed. I took the beer out of his hand and straddled him on the couch. He looked at me surprised.

“What are you doing?”

              “I don’t know,” I said, mocking his words.

             
I took his hand and singled out his pointing finger, putting it in my mouth. He raised an eyebrow, questioning. I kept looking into his eyes while I sucked his finger, running my tongue around it, pushing it in and out of my mouth.

“Oh yeah
,” he said.

             
I could tell by his lazy sexy grin that he liked it. He started to run his free hand down my arm, and I jumped off him.

             
“No touching,” I said.

             
He put his arms quickly by his side.

             
“That’s better.”

              I climbed back onto his lap and pulled his turtleneck off over his head. He let me, willingly pulling his arms out.

“Hmm,” I murmured admiring his bare chest.

He waited, watching me. I started at his forehead and kissed my way down to his lips. They were full and welcoming and I felt the urge to bite them; instead I nibbled and teased with my teeth and tongue.

“Ahh,” he sighed.

His moan made me wet and I took a handful of his hair and pulled his head back, running my tongue around his lips and then into his mouth probing, coaxing him. He kissed me, reaching his hands up to my face.

             
“No touching,” I said, pushing his arms down.

             
I kissed and sucked softly down his neck. He moaned again. I moved lower: down his chest, down his stomach, right to the top of his jeans and lingered. As I unbuttoned his jeans, Mathew sucked in his breath. I could feel he was hard, and I pressed my tits into his crotch, rubbing against him. When he tried to touch me again, I got up. He looked shocked and I stared into his eyes.

             
“What do you not understand about no touching?” I asked him, grabbing my beer and taking a sip.

             
“Morgan, you have me all turned on and I can’t touch.”

              “How do you like it?”

             
My internal conflict was raging and I was feeling mean and fearful at the same time.

             
“How do I like it?” he questioned, as if I were crazy. “I hate it.”

             
“So do I,” I said honestly.

It took him a minute before he got it.
I saw it register in his eyes.

             
“Okay. I get it,” he said, reaching his hand up.

I hesitated and then took it
. He pulled me down onto him, kissing me hungrily. His tongue, his smell, his skin,
help me, love me.
He reached under my sweater, pushing my bra up, feeling my breasts, squeezing them, tugging at my erect nipples with his fingers. I wanted him more than any time I could remember and I hated myself for it. I’d been combating my feelings, staying away.
Had I unconsciously driven the feelings down so deep I thought they were gone?
His kisses washed away the thoughts. I couldn’t think about anything but him and now.
You turn me into a crazy person!

“Oh
, Mathew,” I whispered, taking his hand to the front of my pants as I helped him with the zipper.

As he started to move
his hand lower, I heard voices outside, then stomping feet on the stairs. I jumped off him, zipping up my pants, and pulling my bra back into place.

             
“Shit,” I exclaimed. “Why now?”

             
I grabbed the beer cans and headed to the kitchen, hiding them under other trash while Mathew scrambled to put his shirt on. I started laughing, and he shot me a dirty look.

             
“I can’t help it,” I giggled.

Mathew put a throw pillow on his lap and
leaned forward concentrating on the TV.

             
“Quit laughing,” he said.

I tried
, but I couldn’t. The front door opened with my dad’s and Pat’s voices floating in.

             
“Mathew, what a surprise,” my mom said, slurring slightly, drunk.

I laughed again.

             
“Where’s Bobby?” my dad asked.

             
“He headed out awhile ago,” Mathew said.

             
“Time to wrap it up,” my dad said. “Early day tomorrow.”

             
“Goodnight, Mathew,” my mom said, disappearing into her room.

             
“Night, Mom,” I said as the door closed.

             
“I was just getting ready to go,” Mathew volunteered to my dad.

             
I was sure my family’s sudden arrival was an erection killer. I walked him to the door and stepped out on the porch with him.

“Shit
, Morgan, that was close. And you’re over there laughing like an idiot. Get rid of those other beers before your parents find them,” he said. “Man.”

He pushed his hair back and I could tell he was relieved we hadn’t been caught, hadn’t gone to far. He reached out
running his finger down the side of my face. I took it and put it back in my mouth, sucking gently.

             
“Didn’t know you could be so bad,” he said, smiling.

“Now you do
,” I said, leaning over to kiss him.

             
I watched him walk down the snow-lined path until he turned the corner. My mom was standing in the kitchen when I came in.

             
“You kids have a good night?” she slurred.

             
“Yeah,” I answered. “Go to bed, Mom.”

             
“I will once I get water,” she said.

             
I went to the bedroom to get ready for bed. Pat was in the bathroom so I sat on the bed and waited for my turn.
Oh, the beer, shit,
I thought jumping up. I went back out to the living room, made sure my parent’s door was closed, and threw the rest off the balcony into the snow below. We would find them later.

I wondered how far we would have gone if my parents hadn’t show
n up? I would have gone all the way; I was ready now. I felt triumphant, I’d turned the tables on him a bit and it felt good. I’d been so hot for him, before we were interrupted, and the sensation still lingered. I squeezed my legs together attempting to make it go away. Pat had given me a sly smile when he’d come in the condo, like he knew. I didn’t talk to Pat about Mathew, but he had an idea. Sometimes no words were the best confirmation.