Checkmate

18| Shotgun kiss

"You're obsessing," he says.

"I know."

His eyes darken with deliberation. They must see something desperate in me, something obsessive and unhinged, because he finally relents. "One. That's it."

It feels like I've won some kind of battle. I turn to him properly, a part of me thrilled at the prospect of learning something new. Despite spending almost every day together, I know nothing about the boy sitting in front of me. What's even more worrying – and something I'll never admit to out loud – is that I want to.

I slowly reach out, about to take his arm because I can't see a thing, but I pause when my confidence wavers. He meets me halfway, resting his forearm against my lower thighs so I can study it properly.

Now that it's dark, it's impossible to make the majority of them out. I graze my thumb along the pocket watch and bone, trying to decide which to pick. I do it because I'm desperate to touch him, and now I've got an excuse. I can feel his eyes on me, alert with intrigue as I make my decision. If I only get to know the meaning of one, I want to make it a good one. "The pocket watch," I say.

"Not that one."

I don't press it; I'm starting to learn how his mind works, like putting together puzzle pieces. Pressing on something he doesn't want to talk about only leads to silence, and silence leads to overthinking.

"The bone," I say. "I take it you had a dog?"

It's quiet for so long that I think he won't answer. "A retriever."

"What was his name?"

"Sparky." He looks over briefly. I realize my hand is still on his arm, but he doesn't move away. "My grandma used to tell us not to cross the road when we walked him, but I didn't listen. There's a meadow on the other side that he liked to explore, so I'd take him there most days." He stops to pull a joint from his pocket and waits for my permission. I nod and watch him light the end before he lifts it to his mouth. After a steady inhale, he exhales slowly, filling the room in a light silver haze. "One day, when I was nine, a car hit him as we crossed the road."

I pull back a little, surprised. I don't know what kind of story I'd expected, but it wasn't this. "That's awful."

"I carried him back to the house and laid him on the porch," he says. "I was bawling my eyes out when my brother came out. The dog was still alive, but barely. My brother got the shotgun – put the dog out of its misery." He takes another hit and exhales. "I hated him for it at the time – thought he was heartless. It took me a long time to realize he had more compassion than I did – that's why he did it."

"I'm sorry." My throat feels thick as I run my fingers along his other tattoos and wonder if they're equally as heartbreaking. He watches me do it, and I half expect him to pull away in horror, but he doesn't. "I'm going to get a tattoo," I say to lighten the mood.

The corner of his mouth lifts. "Sure you are."

"You don't think I'd get a tattoo? I could get one next week – you don't know."

He leans closer, voice warm, and says near my ear, "You're not cut out for spontaneity, Matthews."

"I'm extremely spontaneous, thank you very much. My decision to ask you to be my campaign captain was spontaneous."

He grins. "You were desperate. That doesn't count."

That smile does something to my insides. "Well," I say, feeling hot, "I'm telling you I'm spontaneous."

His eyebrow arches. He's testing me. "Then prove it."

Something electric passes between us. For the briefest of seconds, I stare at his lips, imagining how much coaxing it would take to part them with my tongue. My skin is on fire, hot with anticipation for something that will likely never happen. Not likely – will never. But in the back of my mind, Chase calling me boring still plays on repeat, and I'm tired of being perfect to protect my mother's job. The truth is, there is something inside me desperate to break free, and down in this basement, shut off from the rest of this town, it can.

Don't overthink it.

Blake lifts the joint to his lips. I do the unthinkable and climb on his lap until I'm straddling him. His eyes snap to mine, as dark and smoky as this basement. My throat is on fire as I pull back his joint and hold it a little away from us.

Right now, his eyes smoke like coal. He grabs my waist to hold me steady and exhales the smoke. "What now, princess?"

What now? I lean over him, one hand resting on the headrest behind him and the other still holding his joint. His hands slide down from my waist to my thighs and pull me in closer. I lift the joint to his mouth again and watch him inhale. This all feels insane, like maybe for a moment I've completely lost my mind, but for once, I don't care. I part my lips, my heart like a rocket about to take off, and brush them on his – a shotgun kiss.

My body prepares for a lungful of smoke, but it doesn't come. Blake's lips brush mine for less than a second before he blows the smoke away from me. Maybe he didn't want me smoking and driving, or maybe he didn't want me smoking at all. Or maybe he didn't want me, period.

I suddenly feel stupid. More than stupid, like when you wake up the next morning after getting too drunk and realize you did something crazy, only I don't have alcohol to blame for this; I made this decision stone sober. I don't look at him as I climb off his lap and grab my bag from the floor.

"I'll see you at school," I say without looking back, because my face is poker hot. He says my name, but I scramble out of his basement and into my car before screeching out of his driveway.

A/N

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