The Space Between Us. Megan Hart

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СКАЧАТЬ and she acts like that makes her better than me, when really I think it should be the other way around. She thinks Adam Ant was in Culture Club, and I know that’s a little old school for some kids, but still.

      So I spend my time hanging around the garage. It’s loud in there with the clanking of tools, but Vic’s got a radio he tunes to classic rock. My little brother, Cap, hangs out here, too. He’s better with cars than I am. Well, fact is, Cap’s kinda fucking brilliant. I can replace a windshield wiper, that’s my accomplishment of the summer, but Cap can practically rebuild an engine.

      Vic never acts like I’m in the way, though. He’s patient, showing me what parts go where and how they all fit together. He’s got grease in his knuckles and under his nails, even when he wipes them with the scraps of T-shirts he keeps in a big box on the workbench. Sometimes, when he uses the back of his hand to wipe his face clear of the sweat, he streaks his face with grease, too.

      Today Cap’s gone swimming with some younger kids over at the gross pond that’s full of algae. They took a picnic. Healthy foods like hummus and pita and cucumbers grown in the gardens here. I’m dying for a cheeseburger, milk shake, fries. I’m wasting away here this summer, frying in the heat, mind numbed from all the smiles everyone has. I want to scream.

      So I do. Really loud and hard, my fists clenched, eyes closed. I stomp my feet, one-two, in the dirt outside the garage. And I kick it. I stub my toes inside my old black Chuck Taylors against the barn siding. And then I lean forward to rest my head against the splintery wood and think about how there’s only a few more weeks left. How usually I’m sad to leave The Compound, but this year I can’t wait.

      “C’mon. Can’t be that bad.” Vic’s leaning in the doorway, a wrench in one hand and some grease along his forehead.

      “I’m fucking bored.”

      Vic shrugs. “I’ll put you to work, Tesla. You know I will.”

      That’s the reason why I came here. Because he’ll put me to work. And because maybe he’ll take his shirt off when he gets too hot, and I can watch the sweat run down his back, between the dimples just above his ass. Vic wears his jeans low on his hips and cuffed above his big black motorcycle boots.

      Vic makes me lie awake in my bed at night, shifting restlessly in the sticky summer air.

      I know all about sex. Everyone here does it with everyone else. Nobody talks about it, but it’s no secret. And if you think it’s gross to think about your parents doing it with each other, try thinking about them doing it with other people. Sometimes more than one at a time. Along with peace and love and organic veggies, there’s a whole lot of fucking going on at The Compound.

      I know all about it, but I’ve never done it. Boys in my school don’t appeal to me. Too young, too immature, and besides, I go away for the whole summer. That’s prime boyfriend-girlfriend time. The one time last year I tried going out with a guy, I came back to school in the fall to find out he’d spent the summer dating his way through the entire cheerleading squad. First of all, I’m so not a cheerleader. Second, I guess I couldn’t blame him. A girlfriend who disappears for three months isn’t much fun.

      I work next to Vic all that long, hot summer afternoon. We’re fixing an old Impala that doesn’t look like it’ll ever run. He does take his shirt off, and I pretend I’m not staring, but we both know I am.

      “Fuck.” He growls the word when the wrench he’s holding slips and clangs against the metal.

      I use that word all the time, but something about it freezes me now. I’m standing too close to him, at his side, our hips touching as we lean over to watch him twist something with the wrench. He says it again, lower.

      “Let’s take a break,” Vic says.

      In the small back room there’s an ice chest full of cold beers and a couple of Cokes. Vic takes the beer and hands me the soda. I think for about half a second of asking him for a beer, since even though I’m underage, stuff like that mostly goes unnoticed at The Compound. But I hate the taste of beer and wouldn’t be able to drink it, anyway.

      “We’ll get it working. We’re a good team, you and me.” Vic tips the beer in my direction.

      I care about a thousand things more than I give a damn about that car. One of them is the way Vic looks at me. Or doesn’t look at me, which is closer to the truth. I don’t want to be on a team with him. I want him to notice me.

      From outside in the garage, the Rolling Stones start singing about painting a door black. Vic’s fingers thrum against his thigh as he lifts the bottle to his lips and tips back his head to swallow. The bottle sweats, wetting his fingertips. His throat works.

      I want to lick the hollow of his throat. I want to run my tongue along the curve of his collarbone. His shoulders.

      Suddenly, I want.

      This time, I don’t glance away when he looks up to see me staring.

      Vic licks his lips.

      He could easily push me back when I cross the short distance and stand between his legs. It would’ve crushed me. Probably made me unable to make the first move again for the rest of my life. But he doesn’t push me away when I stand, my calves pressed against his, then my knees on the inside of his thighs.

      It’s hot in this room. Stifling. Sweat sheens Vic’s upper lip, and I don’t think about anything but leaning forward and tasting it. My tongue slides over his salty flesh, and my lips brush his.

      It’s too much, I know. I’ve made a mistake, gone too far. Vic’s older than me. Has never even flirted with me. And I’ve kissed only a couple boys, nothing like this. Bold and free and wild.

      Vic doesn’t stop me. His mouth opens under mine. His hands go to my hips, just above the waistband of my jean shorts and below the hem of my T-shirt. At the touch of his fingers on my bare skin, a soft sigh slips out. I’m sure then he’ll push me away. Maybe laugh.

      I end up on his lap. We kiss for a long, long time. His tongue strokes mine. It’s better than I thought it would be. Under my butt, I feel him getting hard. My heart pounds faster than it ever did while I watched him work with his shirt off.

      I’d do anything for Vic right now. His zipper’s undone, my hands inside his jeans, before I even know what I’m doing. Then he stops me with a hand on my wrist. Not pushing me away, just holding me still.

      “Tesla.” His voice is low and growling, the way it was earlier when he cursed at the wrench.

      I don’t want him to tell me we should stop. I shift against him, my fingers curling around the unfamiliar thickness of his dick. I ache to stroke him, even though at the same time, I’m afraid I won’t know how.

      He groans when I move my hand.

      That’s the first time I understand the power of giving someone else pleasure.

      I move again, exploring his length as best I can with his jeans in the way. The couch creaks and complains beneath us as we shift, until somehow we’re stretched out side by side, Vic’s hand at the small of my back the only thing keeping me from falling onto the dirty concrete floor.

      We kiss harder. Our teeth clash. Somehow, I manage to get his prick out from his jeans. I’d put it in my mouth if I were brave enough, if I could figure out how, СКАЧАТЬ