“You need to learn to relax.” Brock pitches me a playful look as he sinks into a chair on the other side of a marble table. “You think too much.”
“Why are you always trying to read me?”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You make it impossible not to.”
I prop my feet against the railing. “How so?”
“You always look like you’re thinking.”
“Aren’t we all always thinking, Einstein?”
He chuckles. “True. But there are several ways to help you tame those bad boys.
He reaches down to his side and brings up a black-and-silver glass-blown bong. Producing a lighter faster than I can produce my next breath, he lights the bong and takes a long pull. After a few seconds, he coughs, blowing out the smoke. I watch it curl away like a ghost, its odor colliding with the scent of the harbor and the sweet smell of freshly cut grass.
“One of them being this.” He hits the bong again, then he slides it in my direction. “The other’s a combination of sweaty body parts, a healthy dose of sheet-clawing stimulation, and me deciding if your lies taste bitter or . . . sweet.”
“Bitter or sweet?” I stare at the bong, my heart firing off warning shots.
“Yeah. Bitter or sweet.” Another smirk kicks up the corner of his mouth. “However, I’d bank my life on the latter.”
I wonder if he can see the debate settling over my face. I’ve never smoked weed. Hell, I barely take anything for a headache. I slowly bring my eyes to his half-mast ones. His gaze is stuck on mine, and it feels like a wrecking ball to my gut. Anxiety piles thick in my throat as I try to level my breathing.
“I’ve never smoked weed,” I blurt, prudence glued to my statement. “I’ve consumed enough tequila that I was sure my skull was splitting in half the next morning, I’ve gone skinny-dipping at a house party in front of the entire student body, and I’m almost positive my foster parents’ chinchilla tried to rape me one night.” I take a shaky breath, my voice a whisper. “But I’ve never smoked weed.”
Tension fills the air as Brock watches me carefully, his smirk sliding away. He stands, rounds the table, and squats before me, capturing both my eyes and waist. Nervousness punches through me, tightening my chest to the point where I feel like I can’t breathe.
Brock stares up at me, his brow lifting. “I’m definitely feelin’ the skinny-dipping part and look forward to seeing that for myself. But I can’t say the same for the chinchilla. It’ll now be my life’s mission to find the little fucker and beat him to death. Fuck animal cruelty. He fucked with you; I fuck with him right back.”
We both smile. His genuine, mine nervous.
“And it looks like I’m on my second apology for the night.” He massages my side. “I’m sorry. Like an asshole, I just assumed you’d smoked it before.”
I shake my head.
“But I think this will help you to chill.” His voice is calm, soothing my nerves in a way I can’t explain. “Just a little. That’s all you’ll need to temporarily forget the shit that’s happened to you. It’ll wipe it from your head for a few hours. You’ll be okay because you’re doing it with me. I promised I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, Amber.”
A silent minute goes by.
Two.
Three.
Four.
I nod, and though I’m somewhat settled by his reassurance, perspiration surfaces on my forehead. I want to say no, that I can’t. That I’m more than aware this could lead me to darker places. I want to tell him I watched my parents wither away under their own drug addiction, but the words get stuck in my throat, verbal gridlock holding them captive.
Brock reaches for the bong and lights it up. He sucks a hit into his lungs, keeps it in a few seconds, and brings his hand to the nape of my neck. Gently pulling me down to his face, he stares at me a moment, searching my eyes for a signal to stop.
Though it’s only weed—and more than half my generation gets blazed on this shit—I know I’m staring at the birth of what could be my demise. I was born to become an addict, my past sprinkled with needles, paving a path in its dark direction. Still, something tells me to go for it. To finally let go and live. Let go of my parents and the love they held from me. Let go of the day that forever changed the colors of my world. Let go of my fear of loving anything or anyone.
I just want to feel.
Feel life.
Feel this moment.
Feel . . . human.
I nod again, and Brock crashes his lips to mine, coaxing them open with a slow sweep of his tongue. My arteries—just a few seconds before filled with fear and hesitation—are thick with adrenaline and sexual desire as Brock simultaneously licks into my mouth and pushes the smoke into my body. I’m not sure which to concentrate on: the sting in my lungs as I inhale what I hope will erase my past or the feel of Brock’s lips on mine.
I do neither. A cough bursts from me, my hand flying over my mouth.
“Are you okay?” Brock asks.
“I think so.” I nod, trying to catch a decent breath. “Should I be feeling something?”
His eyes widen. “You don’t feel turned on?”
“You know what I mean,” I half cough with a smile.
“I guess I have to try harder,” he says with a grin, repeating the process of taking another hit from the bong as he stands me up with him. After setting it on the table, Brock’s hands slide to my hips, dominance wild in their grip, as he layers his mouth over mine. I close my eyes, surrendering to his warmth as I clutch his shoulders and inhale another pull. It doesn’t burn as much, and my body welcomes it like an old friend. Brock tastes different from the first time we kissed, but still amazing, an exotic mixture of mouthwash and weed. I barely register my arms becoming lethargic as Brock’s hands move up my rib cage, his thumbs grazing my nipples.