9 Crimes

Jack, October

I'm standing on the dock in the moonlight looking out at the water. When I turn, Peyton is there, still wearing her silver dress.

"Hey, Chaplin," she says softly.

"What are you doing here?"

"Not sure. Looking for you, I guess."

"Where's Lowery?"

She shrugs. Then she steps closer. "You were thinking about him, huh?"

"No." I'm annoyed.

"Sure you were." She cocks her head, mischief alight in her eyes. "About how he might run his fingers up my thighs as he lifts my dress over my hips. And how he'd touch me once he takes it all the way off."

I swallow and nod.

"Then you were imagining that it was you instead of him, weren't you?"

I nod again.

"And were you also wondering what I have on underneath? Whether it's a thong or nothing at all?"

"Yeah, I was."

She gives me a wicked little smile. "Do you want to find out?"

I step towards her, and she looks up at me with those haunted eyes, that sadness I can't even begin to understand.

"I want to see what's underneath," I say.

She takes my hand and leads me off the dock to a cabin I've never noticed before. Inside blankets and pillows spread out before a blazing fireplace. She stands in front of it, peeling her dress up and over her head. She's wearing white cotton briefs and no bra. It's the sexiest thing I've ever seen.

She reaches out to me and slowly begins to unbutton my shirt, then my pants, and slides them off my body. She sinks down into the blankets, the fire casting shadows along her breasts and thighs. I ease myself down to my knees and just look at her as she lies there, so beautiful and perfect.

I'm scared to touch her. It's like I may combust on contact.

She takes my hand and pulls me to her, the warmth of her bare skin sets mine on fire. It's all consuming, this need. But I can't act on it.

Something's off. Something's not right.

"It's okay, Chap," she whispers in my ear. "I want you too."

"You do?"

"Oh, God yes."

When she touches me, I'm lost. Freefalling, grasping for her, kissing her like a madman. I taste her lips, her neck, her nipples, and with the way she moves under me, I find it very hard to believe that she's never kissed anyone until tonight.

That nagging thought returns. Something's off.

She pulls my mouth back to hers, kissing me deeply as she wraps her arms around my back drawing me into her.

I then simply fall away, lost in the motion and miracle of loving her. She's moonlight in my arms, and this feeling is a lot like chasing moonbeams. Always just beyond reach.

But we reach them, finally, and they shatter into a million drops of light. Euphoria and exhaustion flood through me as we lay there together, just breathing until we fall asleep.

*****

I can't open my eyes. Someone obviously dropped my head down a well after stuffing my mouth with cotton. I feel morning lighting up the room, but if I open my eyes, I may go blind.

           Lying there with my lids shut tight, I remember Peyton in my arms, her body warm and responsive. Her breaths that came faster when I touched her skin with my lips, when I held her so close as she moved beneath me. It all felt so real.

I can't believe it was a dream. 

            I groan at the memory of that dream, her body and soul enwrapped with mine.

            The covers shift with movement. I pry my eyes open and get my bearings. I'm in bed inside the cabin Jesse took when my parents agreed to let him move from the main house. He's in Fort Worth at the cattle auction. I turn my head and see long blond hair like a waterfall spilling over the pillow of Bree's naked shoulder.

Why is she still here?

Her back is to me, her breath comes slow and steady as the rain outside, the rhythm of someone sleeping.

            What have I done?

            I bolt upright as the wave of nausea returns and run to the bathroom. The vomit surges out of me over and over, convulsions wracking my body as I lean over the toilet.

            When I'm finally spent, I stand looking down at my wobbly legs. I'm not wearing any clothes, not even boxers.

            What have I done?

            As I'm brushing my teeth, I play back the night, trying to piece it all together.

            Bree brought me home. She must have led me in here, knowing that trying to get me in the main house and up the stairs to my room would have woken my parents. Maybe I told her to bring me here. All I remember is the sweet relief of falling into bed fully clothed and closing my eyes against a spinning room. 

            She must have undressed me.

            Oh God, what have I done?

            I don't want to know. I don't want to go back out there.

            I put on a pair of Jessie's shorts and walk out to the kitchenette to make coffee. She stirs slightly in the bed on the other side of the room. I just stand there watching her sleep, waiting for the coffee to brew.

            She opens her eyes and smiles.

            "Come back to bed, Chap."

            It's okay, Chap. I want you too.

            Jesus, I should have known. She's the only person who calls me Chap.

            I'm so fucking stupid. Anger at myself unfolds, sinister and dark. Now I know what I've done. And I can't ever take it back. 

            I pour two cups. "You like cream in your coffee?"

            "Mmmm," she murmurs. "And sugar."

            I fish the creamer out of the mini-fridge, working to steady my breathing and calm the rage that has taken hold.

            She sits up in bed, the sheet tucked up under her arms and reaches out for her mug.

            "You feel okay, Chap?"

            I stand there like a moron, nodding.

            "Come back in," she says and bites her lip.

            I sit perched at the edge of the bed, one foot on the floor, and put my coffee on the nightstand. She reaches out and strokes my back.

            My nerve endings burn, her touch painful somehow.

            I can't look at her, but I have to. "So, we, uh...you know, last night?"

            "You don't remember?"

            Oh, I remember. Fuck.

            "Yeah, no I mean, did you...uh... have a good time?"

            She smiles. "Of course. You were so..."

            Drunk?

            "So what?" I ask when she doesn't complete her sentence.

            "Passionate." She shakes her head. "I don't know. You were different. The way you touched me...I was...it was..." She trails off, studying my face. "I'm not sorry about it, if that's what you're wondering."

            I nod. She takes a sip from her mug and sets it down.

            "What'd you tell your Gram?" I ask.

            "That I was spending the night at Hillary's. Don't worry, you're not in trouble." 

Oh, man. I'm in so much trouble.

*****

By the time Bree is dressed, the rain has subsided leaving cooler weather and sunshine in its wake. She hugs me goodbye. "Thanks for last night...for everything." She kisses me lightly on the lips and turns to go.

I search my suit jacket for my phone and crawl back into Jessie's bed. I have twenty missed text messages from teammates in our defense group chat. They're all freaking out about something, but I have to scroll up to see the original post.

It's a link to a story posted on Instagram from the Blue Lake Sentinel. I open the story.

"Female Players: Unnecessary Distractions and Threats to Team Solidarity."

What the fuck?

It's an editorial, all about Peyton. The anonymous writer is spouting off some bullshit about how there've been questions and controversies—her sexual promiscuity with teammates, instigating fights between players, and disrespecting the coach for benching her. One source interviewed saw a teammate enter the women's locker room while she was in there changing. He claims he heard groaning and crying out. Then he said he saw her walk out arm in arm with this team member. Another source referred to the homecoming game when Peyton went ballistic on that receiver after the whistle.

I mean, who could blame her?

And then how when Murphy benched her to protect her from that receiver, she hurled profanities at him.

All she said was, "that's bullshit" when he benched her. And she's right. They would never make a guy sit out to protect him from anything.

"Surely such profanity would never be tolerated from a male player, but perhaps Ms. Thomas gets special treatment from the coaches in return for special favors."

Another anonymous source detailed the story of the day that the same black player seen leaving the locker room with her "viciously attacked" another player she'd had relations with.

"These young men are passionate but inexperienced. We cannot allow them to become the victims of such predatory promiscuity. Peyton Thomas's presence on this team incites violence and discord among its most valuable members."

I quickly text the group back.

Y'all all know this is a load of horse shit.

Then I text Peyton.

Are you okay?

I stare at my screen waiting for a response.