Knockout (Tapped Out 4)

In the doorway, I hesitated. There was something in his voice. Something I couldn’t place but recognized on an elemental level.

Maybe I didn’t want to place it. Not then.

“Yeah, thanks.” I tapped the flat of my hand on the unfinished frame above my head and kept going.

Friday night needed to be my focus. Supposed “best time ever” or not, Saturday night wasn’t going to change my life.

Two

I was nervous. Stupid, since I was just going to a party with my two best friends and a bunch of other great people. How pathetic was that?

Very. But that had never stopped me before.

I played with the chandelier earrings I’d put on at the last minute and stared at my reflection. My dad had considerately put up a small mirror in our front hall a few years ago. He’d always been sensitive to a girl’s unending need to primp.

So far, I’d changed my outfit three times. I don’t know why, but it felt like I needed to be on point tonight. Normally, I didn’t care much about my appearance. I spent far too much time covered in wood shavings and bonding agents—and yes, ink—to worry about how I looked. Tonight, nothing seemed right. Not jeans, not a skirt, not a dress.

Finally, I’d settled on a stretchy black dress that clung to more than I usually showed off. I liked my body well enough, so the semi-revealing outfit didn’t bother me. It was more why I was wearing it.

I wanted Emerson and JC to notice me. Both of them.

That didn’t make sense, even to my addled brain. I couldn’t date them both. Nor would I. They were my closest friends, and I’d never pit them against each other. Besides, it wasn’t like either one of them had ever given me the slightest inkling they even realized I was a female. I mean, I knew JC was open-minded when it came to his dates, liking both women and men, and I was cool with that. Fascinated, actually. I’d sneak-watched some guy-on-guy porn one night, and shit, I’d been turned on. If I had a vibrator, it would’ve gotten a workout that night.

Alas, I did not. I had my small, wholly inadequate fingers, and the truth was, I wanted something a bit more substantial.

Even thinking that made color rush to my cheeks.

For God’s sake, I was twenty years old, and I’d had exactly one lover. One. We’d belonged to the same church and met in secret a few times to do the deed in various decrepit places. The backseat of his car with the springs poking in my ass. In the park on the verge of winter when I’d been too cold to even unclench my legs. And once, in a closet near the altar room.

I’d never given a blowjob. Never had a guy go down on me. And I’d never had an orgasm I didn’t give myself.

My phone buzzed. I jolted and guiltily dug it out of my purse.

I’m outside.

Emerson. My best friend. My protector.

It was probably too much to hope that one day he might also be my lover. Especially since as much as I wanted him, I was pulled toward JC too. It didn’t make sense. I didn’t understand how I could want them both, when I’d never really wanted anyone else but Jesse—AKA church guy. And he’d turned out to be a whiny dud.

Emerson and JC wouldn’t be whiny duds. I’d bet my practically born-again-virginity on it.

I texted back a quick reply.

On my way.

It was May, but it still got chilly at night so I grabbed my beat-up denim jacket and rushed to the door. “See ya, Dad,” I called, undoing the locks.

“What time will you be back?” he boomed down the hall from his easy chair, tuned to a fight on cable.

I tried not to roll my eyes. In a few months, I would be twenty-one, not that my father cared. As long as I lived under his roof, he would make sure I never stayed out too late or did anything dangerous. And probably even after I moved out. It was a good thing I rarely partied, because he’d most likely meet me at the door with a Breathalyzer.

But I had one ace in the hole. One way I could stay out as late as I liked without fear of hearing him bitch.

“I’m not sure. I’m going to see some friends with Emerson.”

“Oh, well then, have a good time. Don’t rush back.”

I smiled and slipped out the door. My dad adored him as much as he would a natural-born son. More probably, since he’d gotten to pick him in a sense.