Chapter #15Totally Drama by: Seuzz   Both Marcus Ansell and Noah Lepley are on the lacrosse team, so either one would meet your self-imposed criteria of snagging another athlete. But Marcus (in the experience of the Garner triplets, at least) is a glowering asshole, while Noah's a pretty good guy, so it makes more sense to chase him. Jessica-you abandons her books (but takes the water bottle) to run out after him.
He's halfway across the front quad and stalking away at a brisk clip toward the gym and theater wings. "Noah!" Jessica-you shouts after him. "Noah!" He glares back over his shoulder. A frown is still stamped onto his face as you run up to join him.
"Hey, what was all that back there?" Jessica-you asks.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" You gape. "You just charged at Marcus and tried throwing him through a wall. That's not nothing, Noah."
He grumbles something that sounds like Nothing that's any of your business.
"Hey." You grasp him by the side, feeling thick, hard abdominal muscle through his sweatshirt. "Come on. I can't help you beat Marcus up, but you could at least tell me what he did that's got you pissed."
Noah glowers at the school and bites on his lips. He gives you a couple of sidelong glances, as though weighing the merits of confiding in you.
"Buy you a drink." You offer him the half-drunk, worm-baited water bottle.
He waves it away, but the gesture seems to have melted the last of his reserves. "What are you doing now?" he asks. "It's late, how are you getting home?"
"Marc was supposed to come back and get me, I was doing homework in the library. But I'm practically done, if you want to go someplace together."
Still he hesitates. "Coffee and a snack?" he offers.
You grip his forearm—thick and hairy—and dimple at him. "Lemme just go get my stuff."
* * * * *
Elsewhere. "Yeah, so down there's where we put the troublemakers," Dalton says. He points to the pit in the middle of the floor. "You should hear 'em yell when we do that. They're real quiet, though, when we hoist 'em back out in the morning."
So the Warehouse has a basement, it turns out. It even has a sub-basement, and by now it wouldn't surprise you if it turned out to have a sub-sub-basement, and maybe a basement under that. It's like there's more of it underground than above.
It wasn't your idea, exactly, to go out to the Warehouse. You just knew that you wanted to get Dalton someplace where you could push Eva's mouth up close to his, the way you pushed Marc's mouth up into Hannah's, without being seen. But when Dalton said he needed to stop at the Warehouse for a few minutes, you sent Eva in with him.
He's been giving you the grand tour, as though the place is his to boast and brag about. He does work there—for whatever mysterious wages from whatever mysterious sources bankroll the place—so he is able to tell you and show you corners of it that even Marc has no clue about. This sub-basement, for instance, reachable by a broad concrete staircase leading down from behind "the office", and then by a narrow brick staircase that descends into a darker, danker level of narrow corridors and iron doors. This level used to be part of the city sewer system, he tells you, and functioned as a kind of hideout during Prohibition. He's very lofty as he tells you, as though he was one of the rum runners.
You're now in one of the rooms behind one of those iron doors. It's lined on all sides—walls, floor, and ceiling—with sooty brick; the only light comes from a flickering bulb locked inside a small metal cage in the ceiling. In the center of the room is a square hole, also lined with brick, maybe ten feet deep and four feet to a side. "Yeah," Dalton drawls now, "we drop 'em in an' they spend the night howling." He kicks at a length of rusty chain that coils across the floor. "We throw that down in to haul 'em back up when we're shutting down for the morning."
"You ever use it for anything else?" Eva-you asks.
"Like what?"
"Oh, I dunno." You look him up and down with lazy interest. "Or maybe you save all that for upstairs? The second floor?" That's where they keep the mattresses and sheets, renting them out (and one of a dozen private rooms) for twenty minutes at a pop.
Dalton's mouth curls up into half of a grin.
"Naw," he says. "We got our own place for, you know, stuff like that. We gotta pay to use the upstairs, same as everyone else, so we got our own downstairs, and it's way nicer."
You let your glance turn appraising. "Can I see it?"
His grin widens. "Sure."
He leads you back into and through the maze of low, arched tunnels—looking like the dungeons in a sword-and-sorcery story—to a non-descript door. "It might be locked," he says as he tries the handle. "Yeah," he confirms. "Keep the riffraff out, you know."
"I'll take a beer instead," you tell him. "I'll wait here for you."
During his absence you wedge Eva into a corner of the corridor and loosen her up, undoing the top two buttons on her blouse, shaking her hair and skirt out, tousling her.
Dalton picks up on the hint when he returns with two open beers, and he squeezes in close. You hold each other's eyes as you silently drink. Though the corridor is dim, Dalton presses close enough that you can see the horny, querying light in his eye—and also the doubt and trepidation.
That look deepens into confusion when you grasp his beer bottle. "I want to try yours," you tell him.
"They're the same brand."
"I want to try yours," you softly groan. You pull the bottle from him. "And I want you to try mine," you add as you press your bottle onto him.
You're losing him, you can tell: the confusion in his eyes has taken on a hint of alarm. Elsewhere, Marc-you briefly face-palms at the awkwardness of the flirtation. But Dalton puts the bottle to his lips and tips it back.
The worm you introduced in the backwash lunges into his mouth and down his throat. He explodes in a racking cough, spewing beer in your face and down your front. You grab him by the shoulders and hold him as, from inside, you sink into him. Gradually, like a receiver tuning in on a signal, his coughs become your own.
"Oh, jeez, I'm sorry about that," Dalton-you wheezes at Eva-you. He-you pats ineffectively at her-your blouse.
"That's okay, it needed to go in the wash anyway. I'm ready to go now."
"Yeah, I should take off too." Dalton-you continues to cough and choke. "I need to get someplace I can get my head clear."
"Don't worry, I'll keep you company," Eva-you assures your newest acquisition.
* * * * *
A couple of miles away, in downtown Saratoga Falls, Noah Lepley doesn't want to talk about the deal between him and Marcus Ansell. "Just something between him and me," he tells Jessica-you while sipping his coffee.
"Must be pretty important," you say.
"I should forget about it," he says. "It's none of my business, actually."
"So why can't you tell me about it?"
That gets you a look. "'Cos if it's not my business it's not yours."
It could be, you think. If I play this right, it will be. "So you're not going to try punching him out again?"
"No. It was about a girl," he adds suddenly. "Not even my business, just a thing between him and her." He raises the cup to his lips. "Marcus is an asshole," he mutters before sipping.
You don't press further. The instincts of two cheerleaders, and the rueful knowledge of one jock about how boys can be with girls, is enough to fill in most of the puzzle, Sudoku-style. Marcus probably scored a blow-job (or worse) off this girl, then tried to blow her off, and Noah (who also probably has a thing for the same girl) got pissed about it.
But rather than making the kind of small talk that would draw Noah out more fully, you sweetly ask him if he can fetch you some fake-sugar packets. While he's away, you pull his coffee cup across the table and delicately spit something blue and ropy into it.
* * * * *
Three o'clock in the morning. Six bodies lay in their beds, staring at their ceilings, their thoughts drawing toward and merging with each other.
In one bed, Hannah Westrick contemplates the tensions on the football team, between what are derisively called "Team Huber" and "Team Carstairs." Dalton Douglas is definitely the latter, and not only because Erik Carstairs has made it plain that he wants to see Dalton replace Cameron Huber as quarterback. But Dalton has doubts, and Hannah weighs them thoughtfully: Is Carstairs really interested in getting Dalton the quaterback position? Or (as Dalton is beginning to suspect) is Carstairs just using him to make trouble for Cameron?
In another bed, Noah Lepley studies a very similar problem on the girls' soccer team, which is riven by factionalism between Hannah and team captain Anita Nuevo. Hannah moved from Eastman to Westside just this year, to escape a similar competition with EHS's team captain. Hannah doesn't think of herself as a troublemaker, but Anita does, and she has united a majority of the team against Hannah, even though Hannah is probably the single best player on the squad. It's a wonder that no hint of this has crept back to Marc, even though he is the captain of the boys' squad, is Hannah's boyfriend, and is friendly with Anita and her crew. But maybe that's why everyone is keeping it from him.
And in a third bed, Dalton Douglas squeezes his cock and balls and meditates on the boobs and neck of Jamie Bornholm, the girl that Noah and Marcus Ansell are fighting over.
Interesting—and unexpected—that each new body has brought some drama you could mix it up in.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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