Connor took her hand and kissed it gently, playing along with ease. “The pleasure’s all mine, Madame.” Mom practically swooned, giggling and attempting to light her next cigarette seductively. I had to look away; I just couldn’t deal with it. It was like something out of a bad movie.
“Alright, my room’s this way, and—”
“Now hang on a minute, Jack.” Dad put a hand on my shoulder. “You hungry, Connor?”
“Dad, I don’t think he’s—”
“Um, sure, what do you got?” Connor said. He turned and grinned at me over his shoulder before following Dad into the kitchen.
“Mom.” I stretched the word into a groan.
“What?”
“Don’t do that.”
She waved her cigarette around dramatically. “Do what?”
“You know, act weird…around my friends.”
“Well it’s not every day you bring a hot little number home.” She smirked.
“Okay, now I’m definitely going upstairs.”
“You like chili, Connor? We got some nice black beans here too somewhere…”
“Alright, Dad,” I said, coming into the kitchen. “You’ve been a very gracious host. Connor, let’s go to my room.”
“Nice to meet you!” Connor called out as I practically dragged him out.
Upstairs in my room he sprawled out on my bed, put his arms behind his head, and grinned up at me.
“Your dad thinks I’m Mexican.”
I closed the door and locked it. “I know. He’s a racist asshole. They’re super weird, and I apologize on their behalf. But uh, what are you, anyway? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Chilean, as far as I know. Maybe a little bit of Colombian too. And no…I don’t mind you asking. You can ask me anything.”
I sat down beside him.
“Jess is too,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Jess is Colombian too. At least, I think she is.”
“Think? Isn’t she your best friend?” he asked, tossing a pillow at me.
I tossed it back, thinking back to the awful conversation from last night when I was high out of my mind. “I honestly don’t know anymore.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly,” I said. I reached for my bong.
“Fair enough. So um…vous avez du feu?” he said.
“What?”
“I said, can I get a light?” He pulled a cigarette from his pack.
“You know French?”
“Enough to borrow a lighter,” Connor grinned, sticking the cigarette behind his ear. He sat up and edged closer to me on the bed. “And enough to maybe try to impress you, a little.”
I tried to conceive a universe where Connor Orellana had to try to impress me.
He shrugged off the cardigan. His lips on my neck broke my next thoughts, dissolving them like mist until my head was empty and open and all I felt was him. He reached out and tenderly stroked down my cheek, trailing his finger across the bone. Something just below his hand caught my attention.
“What’s this?” I asked, gently touching a deep scar on his wrist. He pulled his arm away quickly, like I’d burned him.
“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head and moving his mouth to mine. “Just an accident.”
I let him unbutton my shirt and slide it off me. I shivered as he kissed up my chest to my throat, flicking his tongue against my ear. I felt wired and restless, an awkward puppet without control of its own strings.
“Are you nervous?” he whispered.
“What?” I said. “For what?”
He laughed a little at the tenseness in my voice. “Nothing,” he said, kissing me. “Just relax. Unless…you want me to stop.”
“No, please don’t,” I said, feeling unsure. “I just…I can’t. Not here.” I nodded at the door.
“Then let’s go,” he said.
“Where?”
“My place. Don’t worry, no one’s home.”
I must have seemed anxious, because he followed it with: “And don’t worry, I’m not going to tie you up and skin you alive in my basement or anything. Not unless you want me to, that is.”
I laughed and buttoned my shirt, grabbed my keys and followed him out the door. All the way to the bus stop I felt like flying.
Up in his room, with its high wooden ceilings, multiple skylights, and clean white sheets, I felt less edgy, less like I always did when I was at my house. Connor poured me a shot of Fireball whiskey and we said “Cheers” and drank it back, me enjoying that sweet cinnamon burn down my throat. His room was so cool, so modern, with shiny wood floorboards, a white shag rug and a poster of a young, hot Marlon Brando next to one of Jourdan Dunn. He had a lava lamp on his dresser, a keyboard and a guitar propped up against his floor-to-ceiling windows, and one of the sweetest desktop computers I’d ever seen.
“Damn, are you loaded?” I asked, slipping out of my shoes and plopping myself down on his bed. It was comfortable as hell.
He laughed and turned on his computer, playing a mix of country and ambient music. “Nah, but my uncle is. And he’s very generous.”
He slipped out of his t-shirt and tossed it aside, and I felt myself harden at the sight of his bare chest. He took off his jeans, revealing black briefs that hugged his ass just right, and it was then I realized how hard I’d been staring.
“It’s okay, Jack,” he said. He sidled up to me and joined me on the bed, rubbing my shoulder. “Just relax.”
I’d been having dreams about him like this for nights, but seeing him here in person…it was paralyzing. “I’m just…I’m…I’m sorry, fuck, I’m—”
“You’re nervous,” he said gently. He pressed his lips to my shoulder and looked up at me. “Look, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. No pressure.”
“Can we drink a little more first…before we…”
“If you want, but I don’t want you to be hammered for this. If you do want to have sex, I want you to be relaxed, comfortable, and present.”
Sex. Fuck. The virgin inside me was terrified, and a part of me felt ashamed. Ashamed I was a virgin, ashamed of how scared this was making me…but mostly, secretly and awfully, ashamed that I wanted to have sex with him. I wasn’t exactly sure
