Slow Agony (Assassins, #2)(90)

“I am not,” says Brice. He picks his beer back up again. “I’m totally stupid with girls. I dated Megan Pettacia for like three years, and we only broke up like two months ago. And since then, I’ve only like...” He takes a drink of his beer. “Do you really want to have sex with me?”

I giggle. I can’t help it. I am completely wrong about Brice. He’s as clueless as I am. I hold up a finger. “That would probably be moving way too fast.” My voice sounds slurred, I realize. I am drunk. Good. At least I’m not thinking about Joey Ercalono.

Brice nods. “Yeah, totally.”

“After all, who wants to be the girl who had her first kiss and lost her virginity all in one night?” I drink some beer. I look at Brice. “Do you think that would be slutty?”

“Uh...” Brice shrugs.

“Do you want to kiss me again?”

“Definitely,” says Brice. And he does.

This time, I pull him close to me. I am drunk, and I feel completely free. I don’t worry about whether I’m doing it right or whether Brice will think I’m inexperienced. He knows I am. I have nothing to lose. The kiss makes me feel like I’m drowning in something warm and sweet. With my eyes closed, I don’t know that I’m in the dugout. It feels like I’m swirling in outer space, like kissing Brice has transported me someplace perfect.

Brice puts his hand inside my shirt. I let him. It feels good, my skin going goose bumpy in response to his feather-light caresses. I lose myself in the sensation. If I’m doing this, I’m not thinking about Joey Ercanolo’s blank, glassy eyes, about the little bit of blood sliding out of the edge of his slack, open mouth. Now. Brice’s mouth. Brice’s hands. That is real. That is all I care about.

To push the thoughts of Joey even further away, I put my hand inside Brice’s shirt too. His skin is warm and smooth. I can feel his muscles move under his skin. He gasps against my lips when I run my fingers over his ribs. I like the idea that I’m making him react.

Brice eases me back on the bench, so that I’m lying under him. I don’t stop this either. Everything is tingles and warmth and excitement. My body feels taut, like something inside it wants to be released. I help him push my shirt up. I can’t control my breathing when he puts his hands under my bra. It’s too nice. Too good. I arch my back against the bench, wanting him to touch me more. He kisses my neck, my earlobe. A moan escapes my lips.

Brice’s voice is breathy. His lips tickle my ear. “I thought you said...”

Said? Said what? Does any of it matter? This feels good. I like it. I don’t care what I said. I’m drunk. I’m running from the memory of the man I shot today. I shot him over and over again. And he’s dead. He deserved it, sure, but it was me that killed him, and I... “Kiss me,” I say, and when Brice puts his lips on mine, I fumble to find the button on his jeans and undo it.

He pulls back. In the darkness, I see his eyes searching mine. He looks confused, but not unhappy. “How drunk are you, Olivia?”

“I want to,” I say. “I don’t care if I am slutty.”

“You’re not slutty,” he says. He looks down at me, my clothes in disarray. “Well... Look, whatever you are, I like it.”

Sure he does. Isn’t that what guys want, anyway? Willing girls? I unbutton my own pants and wriggle out of them, so that I’m lying on the bench in my panties. The air feels chilly against my skin. I shiver.

Brice swallows hard. “Whoa.” His gaze runs over my body, up and down, then back again. “Um...we should...we need...” He yanks his wallet out of his back pocket. He has to sit up to go through it.

I’m confused. I sit up too, hugging my knees to my chest. “What?”

He pulls out a condom, looking triumphant.

“Oh,” I say. “Good.” I feel a stab of panic. How drunk am I, if I’m not even thinking about things like that? Maybe I shouldn’t... But then I flash again on the way Joey’s body looked when the first bullet burst into his skin. I remember the way it jerked. I remember how surprised he looked. I kiss Brice again, desperately wanting the sensation to wipe it all away.

Before I know it, we’re lying on the bench again, kissing furiously. My legs are wrapped around Brice. He’s running his hand from my knee, up over my thigh, my hip, and back again. The taut feeling is back. And so is the feeling of being lost. Being away, swirling in some warm dark place—a cavern of goodness. I don’t want to leave here.

But Brice pulls away again.

“What?” I say, propping myself up on my elbows.

He’s struggling with the condom wrapper.

I take it from him and rip it open. I hand it back.

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m just kind of... This is...” He grins at me.

He’s nervous, I realize. That’s what’s turned him into a bumbling idiot. It’s adorable, actually. Reassuring too. “Have you done this before?”

“Uh...” He looks away from me. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” What kind of answer is that?

“It’s kind of a long story,” he says. “I kind of don’t remember exactly.”

I raise my eyebrows. That sounds strange.

“There was this actress chick that I met last month and—”