Page 1 of Most Likely to Match (The Matchbooks #2)

O f all the places I’ve fooled around with Chloe Morris, this one is the most surprising.

The old stairs to our school’s auditorium-slash-cafeteria stage are surprisingly quiet as I climb them two at a time.

Backstage is cluttered with phys ed supplies and props from the drama club’s controversial presentation of Cabaret .

Conical hats stacked on top of bowler hats stacked on top of dodgeballs, a cane stored with field hockey sticks.

Someone has taped Alan Cumming’s face to a football tackle dummy.

“Chloe?” I whisper into the shadows. The lamp on the stage manager’s desk— likely left on after last night’s final performance— causes light to creep under the curtains. And the light from one spotlight creates a halo at center stage. Otherwise it’s dark back here. And eerily quiet.

“Chlo?” I ask again, making my way toward the thick blue mats piled up on the other side of the stage. If she’s anywhere, it’s got to be there .

If it were up to me, I’d pick a location other than a stack of mats that smell like must and sweat to fool around, but I’m willing to tolerate just about anything for Chloe. Especially if she does that thing with her tongue again.

I check my phone.

Chlo: backstage, 3rd period

I’m backstage.

And it’s third period.

But Chloe is nowhere to be seen. I’ve been semi-hard since about eight seconds after receiving her text.

The second I walked up the steps, it got worse, like some kind of Pavlovian reaction.

Part of me wants to leave. It is my lunch break, after all.

I could run home and take care of things myself.

But I’d rather it be her. I’d rather be with her.

Even if we don’t fool around. Even if we lie on those mats for the next hour and fifteen minutes talking, listening to the increasingly noisy hum of students on the other side of that curtain.

I’d rather that than nothing, than no Chloe at all.

I drag my hand through my hair, then adjust myself in my pants.

I need to map a way out of here. Through the atrium teeming with teenagers on lunch, or spare, or simply skipping class.

Down the hall past the home ec, auto mechanics, and photo lab classrooms. Out the door to the parking lot.

Then all the way to my car at the back of the lot, where the smokers will inevitably be congregated, littering the hood of my dad’s Ford Explorer with cigarette butts, their second-hand smoke seeping into the upholstery.

And I have to do it all without anyone seeing the raging boner in my pants.

I text her.

Coming?

I chuckle at the double entendre, even if Chloe won’t.

Except her text bubble appears and then:

Chlo: lol

Usually, I have to explain this stuff to her, so maybe more than just my French tutoring is paying off.

Chlo: I’ll be there soon. Got held up in comp sci.

Chlo: In the meantime, why don’t you get yourself ready for me ;)

Get ready?

I don’t know what she’s talking about. I’ve been ready.

Chlo: Yeah :) you know…touch yourself.

The bossiness doesn’t surprise me. We’ve played around with it before.

Quiet, sweet Chloe Morris, who never makes a peep about anything, has a surprising need for control when we get our clothes off.

And I don’t care either way. Sometimes I can’t believe she even gives me the time of day— though, arguably, in public, she doesn’t.

I like when she’s bossy, though it does make things a little worse for me right now. I’m so hard I’m aching.

What does throw me is her liberal use of emojis. They’re too vague, she says. They leave too much room for interpretation. But maybe she’s trying something new, like the whole hooking up at school thing. That’s new.

What did you have in mind…?

Chlo: Are you hard?

I nod as I type:

Yes.

Chlo: Show me

Get here and I will

I make my way over to the mats again— they’re better than nothing— and lie back.

Then, using the heel of my hand, I press myself through my jeans.

Back here, even with all the gym equipment, it doesn’t feel like a school.

The sound of the first lunch period is muted by the heavy curtains, the air warm and the dim light warmer.

If I wasn’t so fucking horny, I could fall asleep back here.

Chlo: Show me.

Chlo: Please?

I sigh and open the camera app again. I am familiar with the concept of dick pics, but I’ve never actually sent one, so the photo I send her now isn’t much to get excited about. It’s still too dark, for one. And the bulge in my jeans doesn’t really look like anything. Just lumpy denim.

Chlo: Not good enough.

I can almost hear her voice in my head, like the pouty, pleading sound she makes when she wants to come.

I squeeze myself again. If I’m not careful, I’m going to get a wet spot on this denim, and then I’m really fucked.

I try another photo, this time with the flash on.

That’s worse. It has a seedy quality to it. Not even good enough for Porn Hub .

The lighting isn’t good here. It’s much better in person, though. I promise.

There’s no response for a long moment, and my heart rate kicks up with nerves.

We don’t really talk about it, but I think we both know that I’m the reacher in this fucked-up secret friends-with- benefits thing we have.

Chlo is popular and pretty and smart; she will undoubtedly be named Most Likely to Succeed in our graduating class.

Meanwhile I’m an art nerd who’d never touched a boob before hers.

If I’m nominated Most Likely to be Forgotten, that will probably be a win.

The only reason she knows my name at all is because her talents didn’t extend to French and she needed a tutor.

It always feels easier for her to walk away from this than me. Which is why, when she responds with her next demand, I do it.

Chlo: So find some light.

I shuffle toward the spotlight, hot on the middle of the stage. Last night this space was frantic with dancing and singing and off-theme modest costuming that looked out of place for the story through my camera’s viewfinder.

I snap another photo, this one of my hand wrapped around my junk through my jeans.

Chlo: Take it out.

Sweat drips down my back, a combination of tension and having a literal spotlight on me.

You want me to send you a dick pic?

I hope she can hear my incredulity through her phone screen because what is going on ?

Chlo: Duh.

Chlo: Want something I can take with me to school in the fall.

I sigh, staring at the screen until the phone goes dark in my hand, my confused expression frowning back up at me.

“Fuck it,” I whisper. In a fluid motion, I shove one hand into my pants and unlock my phone with the other.

My heart pumps hard and high in my throat, choking me enough to steal my breath as I position the phone’s camera over my crotch.

I close my eyes when I take the picture.

This is ridiculous, but I’m willing to make this sacrifice for her.

“Dean?” Chloe’s shocked voice cuts through the click of my camera and the thrum of blood in my ears.

I jump, turning to face where she stands at the edge of the stage. She smiles, oddly, like she’s unsure if she’s supposed to do or say something, and because I’ve never done this before— because I’ve never been caught with my dick in my hand by the girl who wanted to see it— I return her smile.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

I look down at myself, then away, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Taking the picture you wanted,” I say, nervous laughter garbling my words.

“Dean.” She shakes her head. “What—”

Her next words are cut off by the ringing sound of velvet curtains rolling back on a metal rod, by the hum of voices no longer muffled but crystal clear, as the barrier that felt so concrete moments ago reveals itself to be actually quite flimsy.

I see in snapshots.

Chloe’s confused face.

The cafeteria full of people.

The vice principal, my photography teacher, and Ms. Bello, the lunch lady, all frozen in a tableau of shock.

The gleeful eyes of Chloe’s friends— one a student council vice president, another the school hockey team captain, a third the shoo-in for prom queen— popular, smart. Better.

The final shot, my penis in my hand, my jeans pooling around my knees.

I close my eyes. I don’t want to see Chloe’s face as the entire school erupts into laughter.