“Down near the gym.”
He turns the corner and there’s something thrilling about walking down the hall during classes. It’s so quiet, everyone busy in their rooms. It makes me feel part of the community—just another soul in the building. I smile at George and he spins around, walking backwards and pushing the cart with his butt.
“You can’t help yourself, can you?” I ask.
“Help what? Wanting to look at you? See your smile. That blush in your cheeks.”
I don’t think I was blushing before, but I am now. “Stop.”
“I won’t.”
We reach the supply room and he knocks. No one answers. He tries the door and it’s open. “Mr. Crane?” he calls. “That’s the custodian. He must be doing something. Hey, grab that end.”
He goes in first because there’s a hump between the closet and the hall. George faces me on the other side of the cart and I place my hands on my end. He lifts his side carefully and the whole cart rocks, shifting the tools inside. Once it’s over, I lift my side. It’s heavy, but I get it through without toppling the whole thing. George takes over, pushing the cart into the darkened closet. There’s one window in the back but it’s obscured and the light overhead is dim. I stand by the door, waiting as he puts the cart away.
I see a photo hanging on the back of the solid door. It’s a calendar of the mammoth mascot and I spread the corners, trying to see it a little better. It’s my fault for not paying attention. Not keeping an eye on George.
He sneaks up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. I jump but don’t shout—not in here. I’m not afraid, just…what if we get caught?
But I don’t move when he brushes my hair away from my neck and kisses the spot above my collar. I don’t shy away from his hands as they tighten around my hips or even from the feel of his body against mine, even though he’s dangerously close and increasingly hard.
I spin so that we’re facing one another, my back to the door. “You absolutely make me crazy,” he says between kisses, “being so near me in class but not being able to touch you.”
His teeth graze my collarbone and I shiver, not just at his touch but his words. I brush the hair out of his eyes. His lips are red, his chest rising and falling, and I suddenly know why Sierra doesn’t want us left alone.
It’s absolutely too dangerous.
In that moment, I don’t care.
I kiss him again, tongue thrusting into his mouth. He hums, pushing his hips into mine. I feel him—hard. It’s not the first time I’ve elicited that kind of reaction from one of them. They’re horny as hell and it makes me feel powerful.
Too powerful, I consider when he rubs against me and I feel the heat between my own legs. My brain turns to mush and when his lips move to my neck, I struggle for clarity.
“I promised Ms. Peterman I’d get you back before the bell,” I say, wishing I could get little space between us, but it’s just me and him and I’m pushed against this door. “You know I don’t like to get in trouble.”
He slows and then stares at me for a moment and I have no idea what he’s going to do—I have no idea what I’ll do if he kisses me again. But he doesn’t—nothing more than a sweet kiss to my forehead before walking to the back of the closet with his hand on his hips.
“Give me a second to cool off.”
Okay.
“I’ll wait outside.”
I straighten my shirt and step outside, and thankfully see the bathroom across the hall. I duck in and make the rest of myself presentable. I smooth my hair and splash water on my overheated cheeks. What if someone had seen? What if the custodian came in?
The familiar feeling of anxiety thunders in my chest. It happens when I’m overwhelmed, out of my league. All the stuff that just happened in that closet was close to it. Breaking Sierra’s rule outside my window was one thing, but making out with George in school? I’ve lost my mind. I gave up everything to come out here—to go to school.
I can’t jeopardize that.
I’ve got a new resolve when I step out of the bathroom, one that immediately thre
atens to crumble when George meets me in the hall. His tanned cheeks are tinted red, his eyes dark. His nature is good—like always--and he jokes as we walk back to class but I know he felt the intensity between us.
“Wait,” I tell him just before we get to the art room door. He pauses. I reach up and straighten his hair.
“Thanks.”
We step back into the noise of the classroom, Bob Marley drifting through the speakers, Ms. Peterman too busy to even notice our return. We ease into our seats, our classroom roles, and I pretend what just happened didn’t happen.