Sloth

“No you’re not,” he argued.

She crossed her arms and scowled, looking like a pouty child. “Can we go now?”

“I want you back.”

She rolled her eyes. “As a friend. Yeah. I know.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong with something more than that?” she challenged him.

“Harper, you know-” He stopped himself. He didn’t know how to put it into words, that feeling he got when he felt her getting too close, some strange mix of anger, fear, repulsion-and desire. It was all too much. “We already talked about this,” he said vaguely.

“I want to hear you say it,” she sneered. “I want to hear you say exactly what you think of me. Exactly what kind of person you think I am.”

“I don’t… I don’t know what you want from me.”

She took a step toward him, then another. And then suddenly, she was on top of him, her arms threaded through his and her fingers digging into the skin of his lower back, then scraping up his back toward his neck. “I want this” she hissed. She lifted her right leg, rubbing her thigh against him, and she sucked in his lips, nibbling, biting the edges and shoving her tongue into his mouth as her hands began tearing at his hair, squeezing his face and pressing it into hers. There was friction, heat, rubbing, pulling, kneading, sucking, moaning-and then silence as he pushed her away.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his face hot and his breathing rapid. There was something so ugly about her naked need, and it pained him to realize that an angry, primal part of him wanted to grab her back and finish what she’d started.

“You think I’m a slut,” she spit out. Her eyes were wide and her face was unnaturally pale, while her voice was nearly an octave higher than usual, which sometimes happened when she got too angry.

“I don’t-”

“You do. A shallow slut that you can be just friends with”- her face contorted in pain at the words-”but why would a slut want to be friends with a guy like you if she can’t get something out of it?” She stepped toward him again, and before he could back away, she shoved him in the chest, hard. “All I want is sex, right? Right?” Another shove. “And if you can’t give it to me, what the hell good are you? Why wouldn’t I just go find it somewhere else?”

Maybe that’s where she was headed when she stalked away. Adam didn’t know, and he didn’t follow.

Miranda took a deep breath and stepped back into the house, ready to rejoin the party-or at least rejoin Kane. But her seat was taken. Kane lay in the same position as before, his head now in the lap of a curvy junior cheerleader who was running her fingers lightly up and down his face.

She didn’t want to get any closer. But she didn’t have much other option, unless she wanted to start up a conversation with the couple making out to her right, or the guy passed out on her left. Kane had a short attention span; maybe he’d just gotten bored while she-perhaps rudely-left him alone. It was possible the girl was just a diversion and he’d get rid of her as soon as he saw Miranda.

But he didn’t see Miranda. It would have been pretty much impossible for him, what with the 110-pound cheerleader now attached to his lips. Feeling sickened, Miranda sank back on one of the arms of the couch, trying to look away but compelled to keep glancing at them. Kane wasn’t doing much, just lying there, as the girl rubbed his face and started kissing down his neck.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, spotting Miranda now that his face was clear. The cheerleader didn’t even look up-she was too busy nuzzling his chest. Kane gave Miranda a lazy grin. “Party’s not so bad after all.”

Miranda couldn’t force her mouth into a smile, so she settled for a thin, wobbly line.

“So, are you-” But Kane broke off into a spasm of laughter as the cheerleader began tickling his sides. “I don’t think so,” he mock growled, and flipped her over on the couch so that he was on top, perfectly positioned for some tickling torture of his own.

It was like Miranda wasn’t there anymore.

She tried not to cry.

The room was dark, and nearly silent, but she felt like everyone was staring at her, wondering what that loser was doing. Maybe she looked like some kind of pervert, spying on Kane as he made out with his latest floozy. It’s not like she wanted to keep standing there. But she didn’t have anywhere else to go.

The minutes dragged by.

And as she stood there, her back unnaturally straight and her hands clenched into fists, her tears dried up. Screw him, she thought. Bringing her here, acting like he cared, then ditching her as soon as she left the room. Let him find his own ride home.

“I’m out of here,” she said softly, as if experimenting with the words. There was no response from the couple on the couch.

“Kane, I’m out of here,” she said, louder this time.

He flicked his gaze up toward her. “Cool. I can get a ride home from…”

“Kelli,” the junior giggled into his ear. “With an ‘i.’”

Of course. It was always with an i.

“Fine,” she snapped. He didn’t need her; she didn’t need him. Whatever. Screw him. Screw him. Screw him. “Screw you!” It popped out before she realized she was going to say it, and it felt good. She stood up and strode out of the “party,” stepping over two guys passed out on the floor and narrowly avoiding a collision with some jock who was lurching toward the door, his face a disconcerting shade of green.

The car was parked about half a block away, and she walked quickly, her thoughts keeping time with her footsteps. I don’t need him. I don’t want him. I don’t need him. I don’t want him.

“Hey, Stevens, what gives?”

She whirled around at the touch of his hand on her shoulder and shrugged him off. “Where’s your friend?” she sneered.

“Are you mad?” His eyes were wide and innocent, but it was hard to tell whether he was playing oblivious for effect or whether the alcohol really had numbed his brain enough to make it true.

She was totally sober, but apparently her judgment control had forgotten that. “Why would I be mad?” she yelled. “You drag me to this pit and then you ditch me for some…You’re such an asshole!”

“Uh…” He looked dazed, as if she’d hit him in the head. Then a slow grin spread across his face. “Jealous, Stevens? Did you think that we…”

She told herself not to blush, but she could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. “No! No.”

“Then what?”

Her righteous anger faded away, because, of course, she was jealous. She was also certain that she had every right to be mad, jealous or not-but she couldn’t quite figure out why, not with Kane standing so close and the corners of his eyes crinkling up so hotly. “It was just rude,” she complained, hating herself for not being able to hate him. She turned away and kept walking toward her car, ignoring the footsteps that followed behind her.

“What are you doing?” she asked finally as she opened the car door and he stood by the passenger’s side, waiting for it to be unlocked.

“What’s it look like?”

“Go back to the party,” she said, suddenly too tired to fight, with him or with herself.

“I’m going home with you,” he said stubbornly. “You’re still mad.”

“Kane, I’m not mad.” She sighed. “Just go back to the party. You’re allowed to do whatever you want.”

“I want to go home with you,” he said. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded… unless…”

“Forget it, buddy.”

“Let s go,” he said, getting into the car and snapping on his seat belt.

Miranda shook her head. “I think I can handle the ten-minute drive on my own. Go back to the party.”

“Stevens, when are you going to learn? I am the party.” He leaned across the bucket seats and laid a hand on her thigh. “If you want, we can have a little party of our own…”

She took his hand away, but before she could drop it back to his side, he squeezed and they paused like that, their hands joined in midair. All she could hear was their breathing, hers rapid and fluttery, his labored and heavy. She pressed her lips together and dropped his hand. “Okay, party boy, let s get you home.”