Page 72

There were about eight hundred rules, with Shane. And every single one of them seemed to have been designed specifically to torture her.

No kissing during work hours. Clothing must remain on in the bedroom at all times. No being in the bedroom at all after 7:00pm.

The first had been easy to break. The second, not as breakable but… flexible. He’d let her take his shirt off, but then wouldn’t take off hers. If hers came off, he wouldn’t take off his. And pants were a non-starter.

But the last… he wouldn’t budge an inch. Said that if she was in his room a minute past 7:00 they’d risk getting carried away again and end up being late getting her home for what they now referred to as her curfew.

It was torment – a sick and twisted agony – being in bed with him, mouths fused, hands everywhere, and knowing that there was a clothing barrier between them at all times, as well as a time limit.

Still, she pushed him. And pushed and pushed and pushed. And sometimes he gave in.

The second day that Jerry picked them up and brought them back to his place, Dusty had set up shop at the kitchen table, and Laney had headed into the spare bedroom that was Jerry’s disaster of an office.

Around 4:00, Shane had come inside for some water. He had black circles under his eyes from getting punched, but he’d said he deserved it and left it at that.

They’d been awkward earlier, not really knowing how to be around each other, so used to off-limits that neither of them knew how to be in- limits. But he was leaning against the frame of the doorway of the office, watching her intently, heat billowing out of him like steam, and she figured they’d bridge that hurdle fairly quick.

Show me your room, she thought.

He’d held out his hand, led her down the hall, and pulled her inside, shutting the door behind them.

She ran her hand over his things; the picture Dustin had given him for Christmas, a stack of tapes, a bigger stack of CDs, t-shirts and sweatshirts and – to her surprise – a copy of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

“Did you finish it?” she asked.

“Tried,” he said, “but… I can’t.”

Do you want me to read to you?

Yes.

She hopped onto his bed, ignoring the flush in his cheeks, and flipped to the last third or so, trying to find where they’d left off.

She’d expected him to sit on the floor, or something equally stupid. But he didn’t. He had crawled onto the bed with her, pressed his left hand against her lower belly, and laid his head down on her ribs where he could hear her heart pounding so fast it hurt.

She’d cleared her throat and started to read, her voice coming out shaky at first, but it wasn’t until he’d started tracing patterns with his fingers – patterns that were dipping dangerously low on her tummy – that her breath started hitching.

“Shane,” she said, “this is very distracting.”

“Mmhmm…” he hummed.

“Can you… stop, please?”

“No.”

“Shane, either stop or get me off , I’m not in the mood for torture tonight,” she spat.

She had expected him to stop. To roll away, embarrassed, and leave. Instead, his fingers dipped lower, running over the fly of her jeans.

“Well… we can’t have you being tortured …” he murmured.

Laney froze. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, “what did you just say?”

His hand had fully made its way between her legs, tracing the seam in the crotch of her jeans. He’d turned his face into her belly, his free hand pushing up her shirt, his lips finding the skin of her abdomen and working upwards towards her navel.

When his tongue had darted out and flicked her belly button ring, she’d convulsed, her body bowing off the bed.

That day was like a record that skipped, playing parts of a song. She couldn’t remember it, not in a straight line, not all at once. Just snippets of pleasure unlike anything she’d ever felt before as he took over her body, walked her right up to the edge of oblivion and pushed her over.

It had been slow, in that excruciating way that only Shane could make it slow. The memory of it came to her in pieces, like a dream – the colour of his ceiling, his teeth on her neck, the feel of his comforter, his fingers popping the button of her jeans, the smell of his sheets, his hand drifting slowly into her panties, his tongue sliding into her mouth at the same time as he slid two fingers inside of her, the feel of his erection pressed to her jean-clad thigh through his pants, the picture on his dresser, his groan as he felt her wetness, and always – always – the unending stream of consciousness he whispered to her…

He told her she was beautiful. He told her he’d never smelled anything as good as her. He told her how wet she was, and how much it turned him on. He told her she couldn’t even imagine all the things he wanted to do to her.

She’d come so hard she’d cried, tears leaking out of her eyes, her hips held down by his other hand to steady the bucking, her muscles screaming and her knuckles white from fisting the blanket.

She still blushed whenever she thought about it. Which was every goddamn second .

He hadn’t let her touch him that day. In fact, he hadn’t let her touch him for months after that . He’d just done up the button of her pants, pulled her shirt gently back down, and with a lazy, feline smile put his head back down on her ribs and held up the damn book.

Laney had thrown it across the room, Shane shaking with silent laughter.

“I hate that book,” she said.

“Awe, come on Laney… I still don’t know how it ends…”

“Well, whose fault is that?” she’d sniped, crossing her arms.

Shane had lifted his head and crawled up her body, hovering over her, stroking her hair with his hand.

“Laney, I fucked up last time. Like, monumentally. But I’m not going anywhere, okay? I –” he’d cut himself off.

“You what?”

He’d dropped a kiss on her throat but didn’t say anything else.

He continued his grueling punishment of her body for all of October, never removing her clothing, and never letting her remove his. Sometimes when they were kissing he’d let her hands wander, fingers brushing under the waist of his boxers peeking out above his pants, her thumbs digging into the hollow of his hip bones, her fingers tracing the seemingly-permanent bulge in his jeans. But somehow she always found her wrists pinned above her head or her nails digging into his back as he mercilessly worked her with his fingers, distracting her, holding her at bay.

By Halloween, she’d been ready to drug him and take him against his will. She told him as much, as they walked hand-in-hand through the neighbourhood while Dustin trick-or-treated in his Death suit, both of them dressed in Toronto Blue Jays jerseys, Laney with black stripes of paint on her cheeks.

He’d compromised the next night, padding into his room shirtless and in grey sweatpants after supper. She’d climbed on top of him, pushing his hands above his head and placing them on his headboard, keenly aware of how much more of him she could feel through the soft fabric.

“Don’t move,” she’d whispered, kissing her way down his neck, his collar bone, his pecs… When she pressed a soft kiss to his sternum, his hands found her shoulders and squeezed but she’d gripped his wrists and pushed them back above his head. “Bad dog,” she’d said to him, nipping his ear lobe. “Stay.”

He’d groaned but obeyed, and she’d explored his upper body with ardor until their kissing grew frantic and wild, their hips grinding together with abandon… He’d come against her with a moan, just from the feel of her body on his. It had made her feel like a fucking superhero.

By the end of November, she really did feel like a bitch in heat. He had to use more and more force to keep her hands away from his fly, her wrists and forearms deliciously swollen half the time. She’d trace the puffy skin in class, daydreaming about getting back to Jerry’s once school was done, about them finishing work, about the one or two hours they got to themselves every night while Dustin drew at Jerry’s kitchen table and Jerry discreetly increased the volume on the evening news or his record player.

It snowed the second week of December, and she didn’t think she’d ever seen anything as beautiful as Shane working in the snow, his strong body moving with a kind of ethereal grace reserved for deer and like, unicorns , the white snow catching in his dark hair. She tried to focus on Jerry’s paperwork, knowing Shane would find her soon anyway (he was as unable to stay away as she was) but she kept finding her eyes drifting back to the window. Shane was laughing, his face glowing, as he chucked a snowball at Dustin who was helping him move a stack of lumber into the garage.

Dustin shook it off and kicked some loose snow back at him, a big smile on his face.

She’d never felt so happy in her entire life.

Jerry was pouring bowls of stew when Shane came inside, dropped a casual kiss on her forehead, and headed for the shower.

She itched to follow him but knew it wouldn’t fly. He’d never let her, and Jerry probably wouldn’t either. He allowed them their privacy but seemed to trust that Shane had drawn a line (it felt like a hundred lines) and was sticking to it.

When he joined them at the table, in those grey sweats, his white t-shirt damp around the neck, her mouth watered.

“Something weird happened at school this week,” Dustin said, reaching into his backpack and pulling out a piece of paper. He slid it across the table to Laney.

“Acceptance to Riverglen?” she read aloud with a gasp. Shane and Jerry looked at each other, confused.

“What’s Riverglen?” they said at the same time.

“It’s an art school,” Laney breathed. “Dusty… how did this happen?”

“Mrs. Benowitz asked me about my art class. About why I wasn’t participating.”

Shane grimaced. He’d been incensed when Dustin told them that his art teacher wouldn’t even look at his work, simply because he wouldn’t do it as part of a group in class.

“I showed her some of my stuff. She called Miss Nancy.”

“Miss Nancy? That sounds familiar…”

“She taught art in kindergarten, sometimes.”

Laney smiled warmly. Dustin had loved Miss Nancy. She was who introduced him to art, really. He’d always doodled in the blank covers of colouring books, but Miss Nancy gave him his first paintbrush. His first canvas. His first pastels. She’d bring extra supplies on the weeks she showed up, for him to take home. He’d been drawing and painting ever since.

“Mrs. Benowitz said that she… that Miss Nancy remembered me. That she’s a teacher now, at Riverglen. They got me in. I can start in January.”

Laney squealed with excitement, bursting over to her brother and wrapping him in a big hug.

“Holy shit Dusty, this is amazing!” she shrieked. “I’m so proud of you! Oh my god!”

He flushed, and fidgeted, but she hugged him anyway.

Jerry took the paper and read it, and then frowned. “Says here you need parental consent. For the transfer.”

Laney frowned too. Linette hadn’t been home since school started and there was no way Cary would sign that. He’d never allow Dustin to attend a fairy school. When Riverglen had first opened, he’d said it was going to ruin the neighbourhood, attracting all the ‘art fags’.

“Here,” Shane said, grabbing the paper from Jerry. He picked up a pen off the sideboard and signed Linette Hawton with a flourish. “Problem solved.”

Jerry tried to give him a stern look, but his mouth was twitching and his eyes twinkled.

After dinner, Dustin put on his rubber gloves and helped Jerry wash up. Laney took Shane’s hand, not-so-subtly tugging him towards the bedroom, but Shane shook his head.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said. “Get your coat.”

She scowled and he laughed, running his thumb over her bottom lip. “You’ll survive one night don’t you think?” he whispered in her ear, kissing her sweetly.

“If I spontaneously combust, you only have yourself to blame,” she grumbled. He chuckled as they put on their coats and boots and clomped outside, the snow crunching beneath their feet, his arm wrapping around her shoulders and pulling her close.

It was dark already, but they veered off towards the tree line at the edge of the lot. Shane seemed to know where he was going, so she luxuriated in the feel of him pressed against her, the casualness with which he seemed to touch her now. Like a habit. Like it was something he’d just… always do.

It was quiet, the blanket of snow muffling the sounds of the wind and even their boots, the trees cocooning them like they were slipping into a secret cave, into some other reality where nobody existed but them.

After a few minutes, they stopped in a perfectly circular grove, all the trees leaning towards each other at the top creating a canopy, like a natural tipi made of pine.

In the middle was a small blue spruce tree, perfectly round, the exact same height as her.

Shane stepped towards the tree and reached into the branches; she heard a little click, and it was illuminated with warm, white Christmas lights, glowing beneath the covering of snow.

It was perfect.

“I thought about cutting it down and putting it up in the living room,” he said, looking at it, “but it didn’t feel right. It belongs here.” He shifted his gaze to her, and with blazing intensity, said “So do you.”

Her heart stuttered as she stared at the most gorgeous little Christmas tree she’d ever seen, hidden away, strung up with battery lights just for her.

She could feel it, feel the words pumping out of him, feel him trying to cram them back into his heart. But they were too loud, too strong, and came pouring out of him in waves with every heartbeat.

I love you.

Electricity arced between them, heat pooling between her legs, her chest tight.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

“I know,” she breathed. “I love you, too.”