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  She shook his hand off to make a point, but slid back into her seat.

  They both downed about half their drinks in the next minute. Nothing came to her mind to say, nothing that felt right anyway, and she began to grow uncomfortable in the silence.

  “What’s your sign?” he asked finally.

  She laughed.

  “No, don’t tell me.” His hand rose into the air as if he were casting a spell. “Aquarius.”

  “Virgo,” she corrected. “Nice try, though.”

  “I don’t believe in that shit anyway.”

  A smaller silence passed between them. Mallory felt the emotions inside her calming down. “How many girls have you been with, Patrick?”

  He almost choked on his beer. “Whoa, I haven’t been asked that one in a while.”

  “Well, since you invited me down here under the guise of being friends, I expect that you’ll answer me.”

  He sucked on his lower lip and then answered. “Why is that women always want to talk about sex?”

  “Just answer the question, friend.”

  “More than I can count on two hands. Does that answer your question, friend?”

  “No. Specifically, how many? I know a guy like you keeps track.”

  “I only keep track of how many hearts I break, you know, being the monster that I am and all. It just so happens that I’m in a relationship right now, for your information.”

  “That’s great. How does she put up with you?”

  He chuckled. “I’m not quite sure. But, to be honest, I don’t see it lasting all that much longer.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you can try to force yourself to change for as long as you like, but I’ve found out that unless your whole body, mind, and soul are aligned, all temporary changes you fight for are really just a false extension of your guilty conscience to fit into other people’s standards.”

  She thought about that for a moment. It was either quite profound, or complete blather. “Is that from your psych class too?”

  “No,” he told her. “That’s just a spurt from one of my mindgasms.”

  “Charming.”

  “Glad you liked it.”

  They drank in unison, lifting their glasses to their lips, swallowing exactly two mouthfuls, and then setting them back down on the bar.

  He looked straight ahead and then over at her. “There’s never a dull moment with us, is there?”

  “I get enough of that with Teddy.” She started giggling loudly at her own joke, and the two older people across the bar looked over at them.

  “I’m glad you chose a martini,” Patrick said. “Jessica makes them extra strong whenever I bring a date along.”

  “I’m not your date.”

  “You’ll have to forgive her then, my dates are always beautiful so she must have just assumed.”

  She felt stupid blushing like she was, but she couldn’t hold it in. “I bet the girls really wet themselves when you come along, huh?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied, “but they seem to enjoy me more than your average douche bag.”

  Somehow, in the course of ten minutes, Mallory had finished off her martini. She felt like warm sponges were rubbing against her whole body. The haze was enveloping her. It felt good.

  Patrick ordered them a new round of drinks. She looked at him conspicuously. “One more?” he suggested.

  “Fine, but then I have to go.”

  “Of course.”

  They spent the next little while talking about more normal things. He asked her about California. They talked about racquetball, of all things, and his classes. She was beginning to see that there was more to him than just games and drinks. That there was something beneath the tricks.

  No one had put money into the machine, but the new-school jukebox on the northern wall of the square space began playing a song that made Patrick jump up out of his chair. He pulled her down off hers with both hands. She laughed and followed him into the open space between the high bar chairs and the booths against the wall.

  “Patrick?” she giggled.

  “You know who this is, right?” he asked, dancing.

  Mallory shook her head.

  “It’s Poison!”

  “You weren’t even alive when this came out.”

  “I bet you were.”

  She gave him a playful slap.

  A minute of the song passed with him twirling her around, kicking out his legs on either side of her, and leaning over with his face close to hers to belt out the chorus. Finally, laughing and smiling, she convinced him to sit back down again. Her heart was pumping, and small beads of sweat formed on her brow.

  They spent a few more minutes finishing off the second round of drinks.

  He eyed the clear liquid nearing the bottom of her martini glass. “You’re leaving me, aren’t you?”

  She checked her phone and nodded.

  “Fun’s over I guess.”

  “I guess so,” she affirmed. Somewhere in her purse, she went digging for her wallet.

  “No, no. I’m getting these. I brought you down here.”

  “You sure?”

  He nodded, so she hoisted her purse back onto her shoulder. Her face hurt from smiling, and she felt like she’d just ridden some forty-five minute emotional roller-coaster. She didn’t want to go, but had to.

  “I’ll walk you up,” he told her.

  She nodded.

  Together they went to the stairs. She walked up first and could feel his eyes moving over her body the whole way up as she climbed.

  They stood just inside the entryway, neither really knowing what to say. He grabbed her hand and twisted her around until she twirled, and then when she spun back around to face him, he curled his arm around her waist and brought her in. His lips pressed onto hers with the quickness of a camera flashing.

  She lunged back and without thought swiped her hand across his face with stinging precision. The smack echoed off the tile floor. She stomped away and only stopped to look back as she was pushing out through the glass double doors. Patrick was holding his face, and only caught her glare for a flash of a second before she spilled out onto the street and stormed away in the draining afternoon light.

  Simone

  SIMONE FLEXED HER KNEES, LOWERED her butt, and grunted. The volleyball slapped off her forearms, leaving a freckling of red. Her dig sent the ball arching, another girl positioned herself under the ball and set it, then it was finished off by a tall boy named Brody, leaping up, whirl-winding his arm, and spiking it down with force on the opposite side of the net between two splaying defenders.

  Simone and the three others on her team all came together, cheering and slapping hands. With the victory, her intramural team of two girls and two guys was moving on to the next round.

  She wiped the sweat from her brow and headed off and squatted down against the cool cinderblock walls surrounding the court to towel off and hydrate.

  The four of them watched a bit of the match following theirs, seeing who would likely be their next opponent. Simone didn’t care, honestly. She played volleyball to stay in shape, as she didn’t much care for mindless treadmill running or lunges or any of that stuff. All in all, she managed to keep herself lean, far leaner than was required for dating life in a small town. She wasn’t to the point of obsessive, but it was important to her to remain her best.

  It’d been four days since the night at the bar where Josh had attacked George. The regret and shame still wracked her conscience, and it was getting worse each day. Josh was just getting out of jail tomorrow. George had spent a night at the hospital after the incident and then was released home to the apartment. Several times a day she and Tiffany visited him, making him soup and babying him.

  He moved to Durango without a job lined up, and had intended to apply to all the bars and restaurants in town as soon as he arrived. That wasn’t happening now with the left side of his face beaten into an eggplant color.

  She and Tif
fany had twice gone over with food and found him crying. Simone truly felt for him initially, but after the second time of seeing him overcome with tears of self-pity, she became revolted by it. Even still, she deemed herself entirely responsible.

  She turned it all over in her mind while sitting there against the wall in the Student Life Center, known more succinctly as the SLC. The sweat all over her body gradually calcified and left her feeling cool. She said goodbye to her teammates and gathered her things.

  On her way out of the building she stopped to chat with the front desk attendant, a girl she’d gotten acquainted with over the last few weeks. Just about to head outside into the night, she glanced to her left down the hallway with the locker rooms on one side and racquetball courts on the other. She saw Patrick leaned over, sipping from a water fountain. A racquet dangled below his hand, from a cord wrapped around his wrist. He finished drinking without noticing her and disappeared back into the court.

  Simone didn’t push through the doors to outside. She found herself drifting down the hall to watch him. She hadn’t seen or spoken to Patrick since Friday night. Not since he put her to bed and she cried. On the day following that night, she’d once again sworn to stay away from him for good. But now, curious as she was, she just wanted to take a peek. She kept her body behind the wall, and only poked her head out enough to watch through the Plexiglas.

  Patrick was ferocious on the small enclosed court, sweating severely, his white shirt drenched and suctioned to his frame. She could see the etched lines of his back muscles and flexing of his butt through his forest green gym shorts. Character that he was, he always wore a goofy white head band that pinned down his sweat-soaked dark hair.

  Simone felt a drumming in her body. How she’d wished he would’ve climbed into bed with her that night. Instead, he’d done the semi-honorable thing and left her there in the dark.

  Patrick dived for the small blue ball and jammed himself into the wall. He rolled in agony, clutching his wrist. Simone winced from behind the glass. The guy he was playing against hustled over and helped him to his feet. Together, they rushed out of the court. Simone wheeled to walk away, but felt it would be odder to be caught running off than to stay. Patrick was grimacing as they pushed through the clear door, but perked up in surprise when he saw her there.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, glossing over the fact that she had been willfully stalking him.

  He was still short of breath. “I think it might be sprained. Some ice and I’ll live.”

  “I can get you some,” she offered.

  Patrick was grinning through the pain. “Bring me a beer too, would ya?”

  “Patrick, that isn’t funny! Your wrist could be broken.”

  Patrick nodded to his opponent, who was also soaked, signaling him that he would be all right with her to tend to him. The guy was a little older than Patrick, maybe a senior, but Simone didn’t recognize him. He went to the water fountain with his racquet and then disappeared into the men’s locker room.

  “Let me,” Simone said, sweeping her hair out of her eye line and cradling her fingers around his wrist, which was swollen already, making his hand look like a robust claw. He pulled his opposite hand away from it so that she could see it plainly. “It looks bad. Real bad. I’ll get you ice and ibuprofen.”

  Off she went. The front desk attendant helped her bag some ice in the break room and then, after some struggle, Simone haggled two pills of ibuprofen from her.

  Patrick was missing when she returned. It wasn’t until there came a tapping on Plexiglas from her left that she noticed he was sitting on the floor of the racquetball court with his back leaned against the white side-wall.

  She entered and sat down next to him. She fitted the bag of ice to his wrist and hand, then tore the pill package open with her teeth.

  “Had practice with that motion?”

  She flitted her eyes toward his wrist, threatening to wrench the bone. “I can finish the job if you like.”

  “Just don’t give me an Indian burn. Those are the worst.” He stuck out his pink tongue and shaped it into a bowl, expecting her to drop the tablets onto it.

  “Are you serious?”

  He stuck out a thumb and yanked it toward the men’s locker room across the hall. “I would’ve had Eric do it, but you volunteered to take care of me. Besides, I hear you bring George soup every night.”

  “His face is pulp, Patrick. This is just a sprain.”

  “I still figured I would get equal treatment.” A slight smile played on his lips. Patrick stuck out his bowled tongue again.

  “Fine,” she said and waggled the small torn package above his mouth until two red pills fell out and stuck to his tongue. “How about a massage while we’re at it?” Simone said with an overtone of annoyance.

  “Sounds great.” He pushed off the wall and turned his back to her.

  “Patrick, I’m not touching your gross sweaty back.”

  “Yeah, and you just popped out of the shower, I bet.” He went back to resting against the wall. “So George is really beat up bad?”

  “Yes. It’s horrible what Josh did to him.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “I dunno,” he said. “Some girls get off on that man-fighting-for-her-honor shit.”

  “I don’t want anyone fighting for me.”

  “I guess you shouldn’t have agreed to let George kiss you then.”

  She froze.

  “Tiffany told me,” he said, chuckling. “I could’ve told you how insanely jealous Josh gets.”

  “I…” she hesitated. “In hindsight, I wish I could…”

  “Relax. I know. It’s all right. But didn’t you know Josh was in love with you already? Wasn’t it obvious?”

  “That’s ridiculous. He may think it’s love, but it isn’t. And I don’t know what I was thinking. I just kind of went along with it.”

  Patrick pressed the ice a little harder on the joint and pursed his lips together in obvious pain. “I think girls just fester when they have too many options, they just start doing manipulative shit to see what happens. Most guys can’t handle it.”

  “But you can?”

  “I don’t have to.”

  “Patrick, you don’t have to be so cocky around me. It’s me.”

  He stopped and seemed to be considering what he wanted to say. “Why did you pick Josh over me?”

  “Pick Josh over you?” she nearly slid down the wall, flabbergasted.

  “It’s true. You and I both know we could be something if we tried.”

  “You’re dating my best friend.”

  “We’re on the outs.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just bored.” He gave a two-faced laugh, as if it amused him to hear the words, but also depressed him that he was who he was.

  He saw Simone’s expression of shock and went to clarify himself. “Not because she’s boring, but because… I don’t know. I want to feel something, I really do. I can’t explain it.”

  “Even if, and I mean if, something happened with us, which is impossible by the way, you would just get bored of me eventually.”

  “Would I, Simone? Or do you just tell yourself that so you don’t have to face the possibility?” A moment passed. “Over the last few months I’ve had a lot of time to think. I don’t want to hurt Tiffany, I really don’t. I just get these cravings. Uncontrollable cravings, like a drug addict or something. I thought they’d go away if I just stuck to being in a relationship with her, but they’re not. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Then why didn’t you—” she stopped herself before she said anymore.

  “What?” Patrick asked, genuinely intrigued, a bead of sweat dripping from one of the licks of black hair pinned down beneath his headband. His hair was getting long enough that it nearly hung over his eyes. “You’re wondering why I didn’t make a move on you the other night.”

  Simone shrugged. “If you actually care about me—”
/>   “I did what I did because I care about you.”

  She shook her head. “We shouldn’t even be having this conversation.” She climbed to her feet, pushing herself up the wall. The lights illuminating the court suddenly dimmed. A voice came over a speaker up high in the ceiling somewhere: The SLC will be closing in fifteen minutes.

  She looked down at him. “Are you going to be able to manage it home?”

  “I think so.” He stood up and she looped her arm around him to ease his standing.

  “Ewww, you’re soaked,” she complained and let go of him once he was steady.

  Without a word he put his hand on her head and messed up her hair.

  “What the hell, Patrick? Gross.” She gave him a light shove.

  He leaned over suddenly and pressed his lips on her mouth.

  Simone succumbed to the rush of emotions and didn’t pull away. The salt from his sweat tingled on her lips. Her willpower had cracked enough that the wanting deep within rushed through.

  She forced him against the wall, taking control. Their kisses grew hard and passionate. Their tongues were both salty, seeming to pleasantly sting when sliding across each other.

  “The lights are off,” he said while sucking in a breath between embraces.

  “We can’t,” she whispered. “They know we’re back here.”

  Patrick acknowledged that with a nod and then, in total control of her body, like his wrist was fine, flung her around, and threw her against the wall. Her guilt and shame melted away and the vacuum inside her was, for once, filled with joy for a moment.

  She felt each movement of his lips on her mouth and neck. She inhaled his scent, let it move into her lungs and race through her blood. It felt as if she could guide his hands with her mind, making him scratch all ten fingers down her back and then move them onto her ass, having him squeeze it, then lift off just as she gasped for air. The dirtiness of it all made her feel incredible.

  Suddenly, she felt him turning her so she was facing the wall. Her cheek pressed flat against the particle-board along with her hands. “Patrick, no.”

  “Yes.”

  Her spandex shorts came down and the skin of her butt was cold against his hips. He moved quick, but not too fast. She felt everything. Really felt it. They heaved in breaths and pushed them out in unison. After a minute, his hands snuck up under her shirt, cupped her breasts, and squeezed down hard. Hard enough to make her want to scream, but she held it in and the pain only sent her higher. Her right hand kept her poised against the wall while her left hand reached back and pushed on the back of his butt, coercing it backward and forward. Together, their bodies shook as a climax ripped through both of them.