Chapter 7

7

We spend all day on the beach. We drink, we laugh, we toss the football. We go on a whipped cream slip ‘n slide and make the coolest fucking sandcastle. It's got a moat and two turrets and a watchtower. Rory is the engineer, and Carter the materials liaison, and Theo the construction coordinator, and me the design expert. We're pretty damn proud, taking selfies next to it. I post a few in the family chat and get a round of "Holy shit, D! That's your best one yet!" from my dads and brother.

And it is one of those days. The kind that doesn't come around often. Rory seems easier again, like this morning's worries have faded. I don't know if they actually have, but for a snippet in time, he's laughing and having fun. And I'd like to hope I'm part of the reason.

Slowly, the sky darkens to a cobalt blue, and neon snaps to life everywhere, with necklaces and bracelets and, well, anything that neon can wrap around—it's getting pretty risqué out here. Carter snags some for us, and I hook a green one around Rory's neck, my thumb brushing the bump at the top of his spine as I latch it together.

He shivers at my touch, his shoulders red from the sun, freckles popping out, copper hair shining in the falling sun, gray eyes dark as he glances at me over his shoulder.

I squeeze the push-in clasp. "I've almost got it."

Except, it's already latched. Like I said, I'm pretty adept with my hands. But his neck is smooth and soft, a freckle just above the collar of his tee, and I just want to stay .

I always want to stay longer, like back at IFU after we're done studying and my brain is too tired to sort through words anymore, when we're spread out on my bed chatting and I don't want him to go back to his room yet.

I squeeze my eyes shut, dragging in the smell of sunblock and sweat and liquor, enjoying the way it feels to graze my fingertips along the nape of his neck, a pulse thumping through my entire body.

"Okay, done," I say after I can't delay longer. I have to raise my voice to be heard. We're crammed together in front of a stage, where some contest is going on, a DJ calling people up for random challenges. Typical spring break stuff, I guess, although I'm not paying much attention. I'm pretty much just staring at Rory, trying to talk to him over the noise, sucking up this time with him like a huge, eager sponge.

"Thanks, D." He smiles over his shoulder.

"No problem." I step partway back but bump into someone.

Rory doesn't seem to notice I'm so close though. He turns, grabs my hand, and then loops a yellow neon bracelet around my wrist, his fingers brushing the inside of my forearm. When it's clasped, he glances up, a dark red strand of hair clinging to one of his eyelashes. My fingers twitch, but he blinks it away.

Rory, you're fantastically sexy.

What if I said that?

Green neon lights his chin, and his eyes crinkle at the edges with his smile. There's a foot between us, the glow of neon in the sunset, so much movement around.

His lips part, like he's about to say something, when his attention darts over my shoulder.

"Yeah, you ," a voice booms. "The ginger."

Rory's eyes widen.

What the fuck?

I glance around to see what's happening. The DJ on the stage is pointing toward us—at Rory —gesturing for him to come up there.

"You with the red hair. Come up here. On the stage." He points his microphone at Rory. "The little guy."

Rory makes a noise in his throat, his face paling.

And I'm instantly pissed . The guy's a fucking dickhole.

"Fuck you, bro," I shout, my voice reverberating over the crowd, the tone of ‘bro' making it absolutely clear this is not a friendly exchange.

Next to me, Rory's shaking his head, his eyes moving over the stage. There are five other guys up there waiting for whatever's gonna happen. They're all big, beefier dudes like me.

The entire crowd's looking at us now, which is partly my fault for that outburst. Rory's feet shift backward.

He's going to run.

And I'm making everything worse by getting pissed off and drawing attention to us.

I need to fix this.

"Hey." I wrap my arms around him, nearly folding over him and turning so that Carter and Theo are on the far side, so it's just us and him. The urge to tuck him into my chest is overwhelming.

"Do you want to go up there?" I ask him.

He shakes his head. He's not even talking. He looks panicked. He looks like this is the last thing he wants to do and?—

I twist back to the DJ. "I'll go."

Rory clutches onto my arm. "You don't have to?—"

"Nah, I've got this. You just hang here. I'll be back." I give him a reassuring nod. It takes an act of pure fucking strength to let go of him.

I turn and head toward the stage, getting a few comments from the DJ about being the "fuck you" guy. That's fine. I'd rather shift the attention away from Rory anyway. I jog up the stairs while the DJ is explaining some kind of dance-off or something. I don't know. I don't care.

I'm still pissed.

But I'm gonna play this fucking game, and maybe it won't even turn into a bad memory for Rory. Maybe I can save this.

Carter's loud whoop follows me as I take my place in the line of guys, all easily over six feet—I'm the shortest one, actually. Did that dickhole DJ even think about what he was doing?

A girl is giving me instructions, but I'm hardly paying attention.

I look back out at the crowd, and fuck… my heart flutters in my chest. Carter and Theo are standing on either side of Rory. Theo has his arm over Rory's shoulders, and Carter's talking excitedly, gesturing big. But it's Rory's eyes that I meet as the girl ties a coconut bra on me. It's him I focus on as the DJ tells me to shake my booty.

And I fucking shake it. I go for it. I ham it up. I go all out, my coconut bra clinking as it comes loose, my ass moving, the crowd laughing.

I do it all for one person. My world shifts back into place when he smiles. His gray eyes crinkle, his shoulders relax. Carter whoops, and Theo keeps his arm looped around him.

Friendship .

There are big moments in life when friends show up for you. I always appreciate those, but it's these small moments that matter the most. Just a snapshot of time where you truly see someone's heart.

I'm wiggling my ass, and then a chant starts up. Everyone's yelling something about "show us the goods," and the guy next to me actually whips himself out. Seriously, right there . I cannot believe this shit.

People are drunk, and they're getting wild.

The DJ is going along with it, guys pulling themselves out down the line. What the fuck is going on?

What if Rory had been up here? What if another dude in this line is silently freaking the fuck out? Why is there always so much pressure?

The DJ stops next to me. "Trust me, big guy, they're gonna want to see you."

"Nah." I swipe off the grass hat someone had plopped on my head. "I'm saving that."

"Alrighty," the DJ says. He points behind me. "You at least have to pineapple someone before you go."

"Pineapple someone?"

The girl extends a basket to me, and I grab a paper square out. No clue what it is, but I'm ready to get off this stage. I hand over my bra and hat and then jog back down the stairs. Friendly slaps pepper my shoulders as I make my way back. Theo and Carter are laughing, giving me hugs.

Then Rory's suddenly next to me. He drags in a sharp breath, his fingers warm on my forearm. " Thank you ."

"No problem."

"No, really." He pushes up to his toes, speaking closer to my ear so I can hear him over the crowd. "I always get called up. I think it's because of my hair, or my size, and I hate it. Being up there, in front of everyone." He shivers, his hand sliding up to my shoulder to balance himself. He's so close. "No one's ever done that for me."

I lean back to catch his eyes. "I always will."

"You…" He settles back onto his heels, looking up at me. And he's really looking . His eyes move around my face, his lips parting, chest expanding with a breath under his tee. "You always stand up for me."

People push into us from all sides. Carter's saying something about the slip ‘n slides, and I'm nodding, but I'm not focusing. I'm just looking back at Rory, the green light from his neon necklace reflected on his chin. His gray eyes shift down to my chest, where I'm pretty sure I've got faint impressions from that coconut bra, and then move back up.

His tongue darts across his bottom lip. "What did you get? From the basket?"

"I don't know." I pinch the square of paper between my fingers, holding it between us, my yellow neon bracelet slipping down my forearm.

I don't want to take my eyes off him to look at it, but that's kinda necessary to answer the question. I study the square of stiff paper. "It's a temporary tattoo of a pineapple. I'm supposed to put it on someone."

He wets his lip with a small sweep of his tongue. "Oh."

Oh .

Wait… is he thinking that…

I breathe in. Out. In.

Butterflies flutter. The crowd moves around us.

Would he want to?—

"You could put it on me?" He blinks up at me, his throat moving with a swallow. "I mean, if you want to. You don't need to."

Ohhh fuck, oh fuck. Oh fuck.

"I…" Get a grip on your thoughts, D. "I don't have anything to wet it down with. Other than…" Saliva thickens in my mouth. If I put this tattoo on him, I'm going to have to use my tongue to do it. Which… might be the whole point of pineappling someone. Kinda seems like a spring break activity.

But would he really want to? Like he's looking at me, and he wants this?

His lips part slowly—so sloooowly—his chest rising and falling. "You pick where."

Is this happening?

But it's just spring break fun.

Right?

Maybe.

I'm not sure.

Regardless, I'm absolutely going to pick a place.

I scan him, my thoughts going haywire. Fuck, I'll be touching him. Licking him. Smelling him.

"How about here?" I smooth my thumb along his bicep, on the outside of his arm, a few inches under his t-shirt. Warm, freckled, smooth skin.

I could pick somewhere else, but I don't want to make him uncomfortable.

He nods, one tiny tick of his head, gray eyes wide, but dark and serious.

Okay, okay. I don't know if this means anything to him. But I've got to get through it without fucking anything up.

Just put the tattoo on him.

Friends can adhere temporary tattoos to other friends with their mouths, right?

Right.

I calm my shaking hands enough to peel back the plastic covering. My pulse is echoing in my ears. My breathing shallows as I finally get it off.

"Don't move," I say, speaking loudly so he can hear. I step to his side then bend to place the pineapple correctly, holding the paper an inch from his skin. He pulls up his sleeve, and I eyeball his shoulder like eight times, not wanting to give him a lopsided tattoo, then press it to the curve of his arm, the white square held by my fingertips.

I take a breath. Then meet his eyes. Do I really get to do this?

It's his arm. A part of him I've seen a million times. But, Jesus, the thought of what I'm about to do.

"I'm ready," he says, and my insides are quivering. I don't know where Carter and Theo are—I think they left. But honestly, I don't care. I've got one focus right now.

I lean forward and carefully press my lips to the paper, holding it with my fingers while I smooth my tongue once across it. The paper's thick and not damp enough to adhere the tattoo to his skin.

I lean back and swallow to build more saliva. "I need to wet it more."

He nods. "Okay."

I lean in, and then lick, using the flat of my entire tongue this time, wetting the paper as much as I can.

He squeezes my arm, and I automatically flex in response. My stomach is tightening, my shoulders and thighs, too. My cock subtly jumping as I lick again, and I feel him moan. It moves through his body, his head rolling back, his hips shifting forward.

Holy fuck. I can't think . I can't reason.

I'm half aware of the heat of bodies around us, the music, the heavy thump in my chest.

I don't know if I should question what we're doing. I don't want to question.

I want to do it.

The tattoo is plastered against his skin now, probably good enough to be done, but I suck on it, opening my mouth wide, tasting salt and sunblock, the tinge of sweat and the paper, and a sweetness that I can't place.

His fingers curl into my arm, his body leaning closer, and I just… slip my lips up, the paper still adhered to him, nearly forgotten. I tug at the sleeve of his shirt with my teeth, and then I'm at his neck.

He whimpers as my tongue slides along the tendons that rise up the side of his neck.

What are we doing?

But he's pulling me closer, and his taste fills my mouth as I lick across his throat. His head tips back, and I close my lip over his small Adam's apple. The thump of the music continues, the crash of bodies around us, the heat from the day still lingering.

My cock is throbbing now, my arms aching to circle him.

I want him closer.

I pick him up.

Holy fuck, I pick him up . Some kind of fantasy unfurls through me—one I wasn't even fully aware I had. His legs wrap around my hips, his thighs squeezing. My dick's shoved against him, aching for contact as my lips move up to his chin.

"You taste so fucking good," I whisper against the side of his jaw.

He can't hear me over the music. That's the only reason I say it. But he's tucked into my arms, and my eyes roll as his hips do. His dick is hard against my stomach… fucking hell. It's the perfect size.

"D," he whimpers, close enough to my ear that I can hear, and I groan at the way he's uttering my name. It's what he always calls me, but there's this base, raw need in it.

"I want to taste all of you." I nuzzle closer to his ear.

Can he hear?

Fuck, I can't believe what I'm saying. Well, I can. Because it's true. But I can't believe I'm actually telling him. Whether he can hear or not.

"You are so fucking sexy, Rory," I whisper. "I want to suck your tongue."

My heart pulses, butterflies spinning. He moans, like he can hear me, so I keep going. "And I want to kiss down your body, find all your freckles, and swallow your little di?—"

He stiffens, a sound coming from deep in his throat.

He shoves away from me. Out of my arms, his eyes wide, his mouth falling open. He stumbles back, the color draining from his face, now only pale green with the neon.

Oh god. Oh fuck.

He looks panicked.

"Rory," I say. Everything feels like it's contracting, like it's spinning, like it's in turmoil. "I didn't mean to?—"

He turns, and in the neon-lit darkness, he runs, disappearing into the crowd. I try to follow, but by the time I get to the boardwalk, he's gone.

Too many people. Too dark. Too much fucking neon.

"Rory!" I shout, just to yell it. To feel it coming out of my mouth.

My chest constricts, emptying out all my breath. Panic edges higher, past alarm into something more like fear. I fucked up. I fucked up again .

I jog down the boardwalk, my head swiveling at the sight of every green neon necklace. I need to find him.

I pull out my phone and text him, thumbs flying. R? Where are you?

I wait, my stomach knotting, and when there's no response, I text him again.

Are you okay? I'm so sorry.

I feel like the bottom just fell out of the world. Seconds ago, everything felt perfect. And now…

I text him again. And again.

I stare at my messages, hoping to see his typing bubbles, but they don't come. I don't even know if he has his phone with him. We dropped most of our shit off at the room earlier.

I fire off a text to Carter, and he responds, but they're still at the slip ‘n slides. He hasn't seen Rory, but they'll go search too.

I shove my phone into my pocket, squeezing my eyes shut where I'm standing in the middle of the boardwalk. What made him run?

I rewind it all in my head. The way he was leaning into me, and then the words that I used. I want to kiss down your body, find all your freckles, and swallow your little ? —

Oh god. Little .

That was the word I used. That was the word the dickhole DJ used too.

Of all the ways that I've messed up on this trip—this one feels unforgivable.