School Ties (23 page)

I pull out, making sure the condom stays on as I do until I can get rid of it. Cleaned up, I want to set on her all over again, laying there mussed. God, she's pretty. Despite the epic failure of my first time—who
head-butts
the girl they're having sex with? That's so much worse than a rookie mistake—she seems pleased. I lie down next to her, pull her in close and draw a blanket from the foot of the bed over us. The heat of the moment is draining out of our bodies and I don't want her to be cold.

“I am so sorry, Erin.”

“For what?”

“That couldn't have been awesome for you and then I— Oh, god . . .”

Head-butt
. If we were in college and Erin was the type to kiss and tell, that would be my nickname. Forever. The great virgin head-butter. This is going to give me nightmares.

“You're too hard on yourself, Shep. I don't know many guys who can say they made their partner come the first time they had sex, so kudos to you. I'll think of you fondly every time I see the egg on my forehead. I hope it goes down by the time the boys get back though. I don't want to explain how I got it, especially if you've got a mirror image one.”

“You little brat.” I seize the opportunity to tickle her, making her laugh until tears are squeezing out of the corners of her eyes and she's begging me to stop, breathless. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to do as she's asked, but she's probably close to crashing. It's been a stressful day for her. Tiredness is overtaking me as well, so I rearrange the blanket over us, wrap my limbs around her until she's snug against me and tell her to go to sleep.

Her whispered “Yes, Zach,” gives my dick ideas all over again, but my brain has better sense and holds off long enough for us to fall asleep.

•   •   •

When I wake, the sun is setting. Erin is still slumbering in my arms, her thumb tucked in her mouth and it pulls at something in me. She needs safety, security, so badly and I want so much to be the man to give that to her. I hope the form I can offer it in is what she wants, what she needs. She thinks she wants this and so far everything's been great, but what if she can't, if what I want is too much for her?

My thoughts are bleak and a chill runs through me despite having this lovely girl putting off a sweet-smelling heat in my arms. I can't think about that. I should focus on everything that's gone right. And what I'd like to do to her next. My dick perks at the thought. Oh yes, what am I going to do to her next? She is due for punishment, after all.

Touching without permission, one of the rules I love when she breaks. But no matter if I don't mind. She's broken the rules and she'll pay the price. Perhaps a basic, solid hand spanking. I'd love to get my palm good and ringing from making that round little ass the same shade as her cheeks when she's embarrassed. Spanking's not too scary. She might even laugh when I suggest it, but she won't be laughing when I'm finished. Hand spanking it is.

It's getting late and she needs to eat before I put her through her paces again, so though I'd like to keep her tucked against me for the foreseeable future, I rub her forehead with my nose. “Wake up, lamb.”

Her thumb is dragged out of her mouth, making a soft popping sound on exit, even before her eyes open. When they do, they're soft and unfocused with leftover sleep. Seeing me, her perfect bow mouth curls up into a smile. I want to wake up to that adoring gaze every day for the rest of my life. Hope swells in me that I'm not wrong about her, that those tics and habits I've picked up on are but the surface of a genuinely submissive personality.

She snuggles against me, finding any space between us and closing the gaps, leaving no room for the proverbial Holy Ghost. Good thing neither of us are Catholic.

“It's time to get up. It's time for dinner and we need to take care of your accounting before bed. House rules.”

Her mouth opens, maybe to protest, but she thinks better of it and snaps it shut. “Yes, Zach.”

“That's a good girl,” I say, pleased, and she glows.

Chapter Nineteen

Erin

It's spring break and the last several weeks have been bliss. Shep traded his night off with Dan so we have two weeknights together instead of one. Even though we have to say good-bye at the end of the night, it's the best thing that's ever happened to me to be able to spend so much time with him. I'm going to miss him next week when he heads down to Florida with the lacrosse team. This week, I'm a mix of thrilled and terrified.

Caleb is coming.

I'm excited to meet Shep's brother. I've seen pictures and Shep's told me all about him, but I can't wait to see him in person. Mini-Shep! Though I know he's nothing like Shep, I'll go digging for ways in which they're the same because they must be there. I was worried Caleb might not like me, competition for his big brother's affections, but Shep had eased my fears one night while we were watching a movie on my couch.

“You want to know the secret to winning Caleb's heart?”

I'd nodded vigorously.
Yes, yes I would.

“You bake that kid a batch of your cookies and he'll be eating them out of the palm of your hand.”

What? “Cookies?”

“Yup.”

“Cookies is all it takes? Man, you Shepherd boys are easy.”

“You'll have us both on our knees.”

I'd laughed at the idea of Shep on his knees. He's done it twice and I hope to see him do it once more. Some day. Otherwise, I much prefer to be the one begging.

“I can do cookies.”

And I have. Half a dozen batches of three different kinds. I needed to do something while I was waiting for them to get back from Shamokin. Shep left crazy early this morning for the six-hour drive. They'll stay for lunch and then make the six-hour drive back. He's going to bring Caleb straight to my apartment because I'm cooking dinner. Shep had told me I didn't have to. “He'll be just as excited about delivery pizza, Erin, I promise. Maybe more.”

But no. If he'd like cookies, he's going to love meatloaf. I hope.

I check the clock for the zillionth time. Seven thirty. They should be here any minute. I pace my hall. Is there anything I forgot? I reserved a bunch of museum passes from the library and I'd been heartbroken to learn Major League Baseball doesn't start until April. When there's a knock at my door, I almost expire from nerves. They're here.

I call “Come in” from halfway down the hall and by the time I've reached the door, they're inside, setting down a familiar duffel bag and an unfamiliar backpack by my door. Shep is his normal delicious self, a little road worn. Standing next to him, skinny and long-haired, is Caleb. They've got the same dark blue eyes, but Caleb's hair is lighter and his features more delicate. Shep claps him on the shoulder. “Caleb, this is my girlfriend, Erin.”

Caleb holds out a hand that's too big for his body. I should take it, but I can't help myself. I hug him instead, flinging my arms around his scrawny neck, and I still have to come up on tiptoes. I panic when he goes stiff and unresponsive, but then his arms wrap around my ribs and he gives me a squeeze, quick and awkward. I take it the Shepherds aren't much for hugs.

I let go and step back. “Hi, Caleb. Sorry, I've been waiting for you since your brother said you were coming. I'm glad you're here.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. I cooked. I hope you like meatloaf.”

Shep ruffles his kid brother's hair. “She usually makes me peanut butter and jelly, so this is a big deal.”

Did he have to say that? I mean, it's true, but . . . Oh, no.

I run to the oven and when I open the door, smoke billows out.
No!
I open the windows, hoping the smoke alarms won't go off. Nothing could possibly be more embarrassing. “Well, I tried to make you meatloaf.”

Shep

Poor Erin. Her sweet, crestfallen face. I bet she forgot all about setting a timer because she's been so excited about Caleb coming. I told her this was too much but she was determined. Now she's heartbroken and she might cry. I walk over to where she's frantically trying to wave the smoke through an open window with a dishtowel.

“Hey.” She's still flailing the damp cotton flag of defeat and her eyes are welling. I grab her above the elbows and she slumps, giving up. “It's all right, lamb.”

“It's not. I wanted to do something nice and now I've screwed everything up. Caleb's going to think I'm an idiot.”

“No, love. He's going to think you aren't a very good cook and I'll have to agree with him.”

She chokes a pathetic laugh and looks up. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. I know how to make this all better.”

“You do?”

“Hey, Caleb.” He glances up from where he's still standing at the door, toeing a too-worn sneaker into the welcome mat, dark eyes under hair that needs a cut. “How do you feel about cookies for dinner?”

“Cookies?”

“Yeah, just don't tell Mom, okay?”

His face breaks out in a huge grin. “No problem. What kind of cookies?”

Just like that, the night is saved. Erin wipes her eyes and heads over to pick up a couple of plates piled high with her day's work. “I made chocolate chip, pumpkin, and sugar cookies. I didn't know what kind you'd like.”

Caleb's eyes have gone the size of softballs at the sight of the feast before him. “Do you have any milk?”

“Of course.” She sets down the plates on the table and goes back to pour three glasses of milk. When she gets back, Caleb's already thrown himself into a chair and is stuffing a sugar cookie into his mouth with one hand and picking up a chocolate chip with the other.

“God, Caleb. At least wait for a plate.”

But Erin's not appalled by his terrible table manners. She looks delighted as she hands out plates for us to devour our dinner over.

Erin

It's a good thing I made so many cookies. Caleb ate half of them. No wonder—he's too skinny. One of my goals is to fatten him up while he's here, even if I have to do it with takeout. I'm never going to cook anything again.

When I'm confident Caleb's wolfed down enough cookies to feed a small village and they've told me about their trip, I excuse myself because along with forgetting to set a timer for the meatloaf, I also forgot to use the bathroom.

When I'm coming back, I hear them chatting from the hall. I shouldn't, but I can't help but slow down and listen to them. Their voices are so similar, but Shep's is deeper, slower, tinged with knowing while Caleb's is bright and fast, the not-quite-broken of a thirteen-year-old's.

“I like her.”

“Good. Me, too.”

“I could tell.”

“Yeah? You an expert?”

“No. But I'm not stupid.”

“No, you're not.”

“You told me she smelled like flowers.”

My heart melts at his insulted insistence. Shep's told him about me? That I smelled like flowers?

“She does.”

“Yeah, but she smells like cookies, too. Cookies
and
flowers. You're a lucky man.”

I clap my hands over my mouth to keep from laughing. It's the same urge I get when any of the boys say something that adult that earnestly.

“I am.”

I can't take any more; I'm going to die of happiness listening to them so I finish my trip down the hall, making my feet fall louder than I usually would. “Could I interest you boys in some Wii bowling?”

•   •   •

The rest of the week is a similar mix of disaster and wonderfulness. In all honesty, when Shep had told me Caleb was coming for the first week of spring break, I'd been peeved. That was supposed to be our week of decadence and debauchery before he had to leave for Florida, and his brother would definitely put the kibosh on all that.

But getting to know Caleb and seeing how happy he is to get some attention and affection, not to mention endless food, is something I'm more than willing to trade a week of frustration for. He horks it down like a kid who's never quite had enough to eat. It occurs to me one night while he's on thirds of over-cooked spaghetti, sauce from a jar and meatballs from the freezer, that maybe he hasn't. I knew Shep's family didn't have a lot of money, but maybe it was direr than I thought.

Shep

On the last night of Caleb's visit, he's passed out in a beat-up recliner I'd snagged at Goodwill and I've got Erin tucked under my arm on the couch.

“Have you talked to your dad again?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

She doesn't sound optimistic and she shouldn't. “He said no. Again. I'm glad I didn't mention it to Caleb.”

“There must be something you could—”

“There's not. Not unless I want to get involved in a big court case. I don't have the money or the time or the inclination to drag my family through that.” By family I mean my mom and Caleb. Caleb's always been sensitive to conflict. He wants everyone to get along. If he thought everyone was fighting because of him, he'd never forgive himself. Not to mention the harder I push, the more blowback there's going to be, and it's not going to fall on me.

I'll be here on a manicured campus with my pretty girlfriend and a job I love, not thinking about whether the food is going to run out or if the lights are going to go off while my dad will be going ballistic on the people I was trying to protect.

“But—”

“Stop it, Erin. There are things at play here you don't understand. Not because you aren't smart enough, but because I don't want you to. So let it go. He'll be fine.”

I cross my fingers the words I'm saying are true. I need them to be true.

•   •   •

The next day when we tromp down to my car at the ass crack of dawn, Caleb bleary-eyed and still in pajamas with his duffel slung over his shoulder, it's to find Erin propped against my car with a big smile plastered on her face and a fresh box of donuts.

“Thought you boys could use the company. It's a long drive.”

I want to tell her to go home, get out of here. I don't want her to see Shamokin. I don't want her to meet my asshole father or my dishrag mother. She should mind her own fucking business. But I told her I would be her family and she's trying to be mine. Trying to protect her blew up in my face already; I spent four months I didn't have to without her. I may not be very bright, but I'm not stupid, either, so I swallow my objections and lean down to give her a kiss.

“Thanks, lamb. I'm glad you're here.”

Caleb sleeps for most of the trip, his head resting on one of the three Tupperware containers of cookies Erin made for him. When he wakes up, they talk about books. Turns out when she's not reading kinky smut, Erin likes YA. They compare notes on their favorites and she promises to send him
The Maze Runner
trilogy and
Graceling
.

I told her not to spoil him and she's been respectful, but there's no way I'm going to tell her not to send him books. Especially books he seems interested in reading, unlike whatever they're trying to shove down their throats at school. The closer we get to home, the more uneasy I become. I hate coming back here and the duller and dingier everything gets the more I wish Erin weren't here. She grew up on the Hill and in swank apartments and hotels all over the world. Shamokin is going to look gritty and gross by comparison. I don't want it to rub off on her.

By the time I pull into the driveway of my parents' rundown house, I'm aching not from the long drive but from tension. Every ounce of me is screaming,
Get me out of here
. The three of us linger in the car, no one in a huge hurry to walk up the cracked cement path to the front door. But then the storm door with the pane of cracked plastic bangs open, and there's my mom.

She's wearing a dress that's at least ten years out of style, but it's clean. It's probably the nicest thing she has in her closet. There's a recoil in my chest like I've been hit by the butt of a rifle. She dressed up for Erin. I'm thankful and horrified at once. I'm glad Erin wore a pair of jeans and a sweater, no jewelry. But she still looks unbearably clean and shiny against the backdrop of my childhood.

“Come on in, guys. Lunch is on the table.”

Caleb's already climbing out of the back, slinging his bag over his shoulder and tucking his stash of cookies under his arm. I thread my fingers through Erin's as we walk up to the house and when we reach the front door, I make introductions.

“Mom, this is Erin. Erin, this is my mom.”

Erin holds out a hand and offers a big smile, so genuine I want to squeeze her and then smother her with kisses. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Shepherd.”

“Oh,” my mom says, wiping her hand on the threadbare apron she's tied around her waist, “Christy, please. There's no ‘Mr.' and ‘Mrs.' around here. I hope you like potato salad.”

“I do.”

My mom ushers Erin into the house, asking about the drive down, and I follow behind, feeling like I'm on the wrong side of a tug-of-war. My mom brings us into the kitchen, where there's a bowl of potato salad, one of coleslaw, a plate of corn fritters and a Jell-O mold with mandarin oranges frozen in it set out on the table.

She went all-out. I wonder how pissed off my dad is about this. I get my answer when he staggers into the kitchen from the living room, where some talk show is blaring. He dumps himself into a chair at the table and spoons food onto a plate, spilling as he goes because his hand is unsteady. For fuck's sake. At least let him be stupid drunk instead of mean drunk.

“Doug, why don't you let our guest help herself first?”

My dad blinks up at the four of us, still standing, as if he'd forgotten we were here.

“Siddown and help yerselves.”

We sit and pass the food around. Erin tucks in like it's the most delicious food she's ever had. That half-grateful, half-horrified feeling kicks in again. I can't wait to get her out of here. She chats with my mom and tells her the food is really good. This is comfort, special-occasion food to me, but I don't expect Erin to actually like it. She should be eating filet mignon and smelly cheese and things I don't even know I don't know about.