SIX

Turned out, Jameson wasn't lying when he said he didn't know how to skateboard.

I felt like I wasn't the right person to teach him, either, especially inebriated. I could barely stand on the board without feeling a little queasy, my world spinning around me at lightning speed.

"It's all about–" I paused to hiccup "–balance."

Dylan normally left his skateboard in my car since we went together most of the time anyways, so Jameson was borrowing it for the night. He smiled at me and stepped onto the board, one foot on the ground. I demonstrated kicking off with my grounded foot and then releasing, slowly rolling forward.

Jameson comically wobbled, but I wasn't convinced it was serious. "Do you drink often?" he asked, sounding like a concerned mother. I squinted at him.

"No," I replied simply, ditching the efforts of teaching and just riding in circles around him.

"Ah, so you're a lightweight," Jameson grinned, a bit of a coy gleam in his eyes.

"I am not," I poured, crossing my arms over my chest. I was beginning to get very dizzy, very fast. "Okay, fine. We drink on occasion. This summer was kinda' for the books in terms of alcoholism."

Jameson smirked. "You and your friends are pretty close, then," he said, more of an observation than anything. I watched him pull out a pack of cigarettes, putting one between his lips while he searched his pockets for a lighter.

"Three musketeers, if you will," I said proudly. Because of course I was proud. I had the most loyal and genuine friends in this town. He lit the cigarette and breathed in, blowing the smoke out in a shapely cloud above his head.

We made small talk for a while. I showed him how to turn on the board, which took a couple of stumbles but he got the hang of it quickly. It was sort of amusing watching him skate, since he was the height of a one hundred year old oak and so buff. It was usually smaller, lankier guys like Dylan that skated.

"So what's the real reason you moved to Edgewood?" I asked, the alcohol starting to wear off. "Nobody comes here on purpose."

Jameson looked at me while he put his cigarette out on the ground. I tried to avoid his eyes but they kept sucking me back in. "I told you. My brother got a new job," he said, turning his back to me and trying to skate in a circle like I was doing.

"Where's your parents?"

Yeah, the rude filter wasn't working that night. What if they had left him, or were drug addicts, or were–

"Dead."

Fuck. I was the worst.

"Sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have asked. Blame the beer."

Jameson cocked another smile. "It's okay. I'm kind of past the point of being sensitive about shit like that," he said, voice trailing off at the end. "But yeah, I live with my brother, he's an independent contractor and someone hired him to build something in the city. We're staying in Edgewood because it's cheaper."

Oh. Well, that made sense. I nodded coolly, cruising halfway up a ramp and then rolling backwards. "Want to see me do a trick?" I asked, changing the subject because I had nothing else to say.

So, my plan was to do a basic ollie, which was the easiest thing to do and I could do it on a good day. All I had to do was kick the board upwards from the back and jump.

But that's not what happened.

I'm still not really sure what went wrong. It was a mix of being disoriented, tipsy, dizzy, and just stupid.

My foot caught itself on my other foot and I tripped myself, then landed on my board which then rolled, sending me flying backwards. Thankfully, my lightning fast reflexes (or lack thereof) sent my hands shooting out to break my fall. Cement scraped the skin of my hands and pain shot to my brain.

I sat for a second, feeling a bit dazed. Jameson rushed to my side and kneeled next to me. His face was so close to mine, I could see stars floating above his head.

"Are you okay?" he asked, but all I could do was groan. "God, here, sit up."

His hand against my sweaty back felt warm. I sat up, hunched over, grimacing at the literal pain in my ass from falling on it. I held my hands out in front of me, grimacing at the dirty, bloody mess.

"Are you okay?" Jameson repeated. I nodded, pouting a little bit. He grabbed one of my wrists and examined my injury closely, looking at me skeptically. I wondered what was going through his head.

"I'm never skateboarding again," I grumbled.

It was when I saw Jameson raising my hand to his mouth, his eyes still locked onto my face, I froze. I watched for a moment. No words came to my head at that very second, I couldn't move.

As soon as I felt his lips touch the skin right above my scrapes, I yelled out and yanked my arm away from him. "What the fuck are you doing?" I shouted, scrambling to stand up.

That was weird. Really, really weird.

He stood up, too, looking frustrated. "Cade, please just trust me," he frowned, holding a hand out towards me. I just looked at it, then his face, then back to his extended hand.

I wished I had a remote to pause life, so I could evaluate the situation without real time hesitation.

He wanted me to trust him so he could kiss my hand? What kind of weird shit is that? Even if I was a girl, that would still be weird, right? Even if this was Dylan asking to kiss my hand, this would still be the strangest Friday night I've ever had? I shook my head. No, it would all still be very fucking weird.

"No, weirdo," I spat, turning to walk away.

But I froze, once again, when I heard a voice. Not out loud, but in my head. It was as bold as my own inner monologue's voice and I heard it just as clearly.

'Just give me your hand, Cade.'

It was Jameson's deep, husky voice, playing in my head like a record player. I blinked hard, trying to wake myself up from this bizarre dream.

He was standing there expectantly, his eyes following my every move. So I said fuck it. I gulped, walking back over to him and placing my hand facing up into his warm palm. My heart was racing in my chest, booming like a marching band. I let my eyes meet his and he looked almost as nervous as I was.

What the fuck was going on?

Ever so slowly, he brought the heel of my palm to his lips, his eyes holding mine like a scary movie. I couldn't look away or I'd miss it.

I shuddered when his tongue slid across the fresh wound. My eyes grew big, realizing too late that he was licking me. What the fuck? I waited for him to finish with the other half of my hand. Then he just held it, looking over whatever he'd just done.

"This is really–"

I stopped when he released my hand. The scrape was gone. It had vanished, disappeared, and ceased to exist. It was fucking gone.

My body involuntarily stumbled backwards, holding my hand to the light so I'd make sure my eyes weren't deceiving me. I gaped at Jameson, who looked like a scared puppy who'd just chewed up my favorite shoes, waiting to be punished. He looked away, hands discarded in his pockets once again.

"Are you–" I couldn't believe it. "Are you a witch?"

His eyes snapped towards me, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. Suddenly, this wasn't just the new guy who had a weird interest in my friendship. He was the most interesting person I'd ever laid my eyes on. I couldn't ignore the rush of butterflies that reigned hell on my insides.

I stood still as he approached me, looking at my hand, and then into my eyes. "Worse," he whispered. I fucking shivered.

"Can you . . . do my other hand?" I asked quietly, holding it out to him.

Jameson repeated his prior actions, pressing his tongue gently on the wound. His fingers held mine so daintily as if I were a cloud, his other hand barely squeezing my wrist. I watched in awe, trying to figure out if this was really happening.

Maybe I'd actually fallen off my skateboard and hit my head. Yeah, this was my unconscious dream. I was knocked out on the skatepark ground and this certainly wasn't real.

Then he let go of my other hand and I examined it, shaking my head in disbelief. "You're a superhero," I said under my breath, making him laugh out loud. "Mac is gonna' freak out–"

"You can't tell anyone," he said quickly. "This . . . this has to stay between you and me."

I frowned, dumbfounded. "Oh."

"Yeah, uh," Jameson cleared his throat. "We should go."

So we went. I dropped him off and he said a quiet goodbye before all but running inside of his building.

I sat outside of my house for an hour. Trying to collect my thoughts and staring at my hands. Looking at them after the fact, you couldn't even tell that they were scraped. I couldn't even grasp the idea that he did that . . . with his mouth? Was that even possible? All I could really do was wait until the next morning and realize that it was all just a weird dream.

~:~:~

The next morning, I opened my eyes to find Trevor cuddling into my side.

He was sleeping so soundly I was tempted to just close my eyes and go back to dreaming. But my stomach was growling and if I didn't get up I'd probably die. As gently as I could, I slid my arm out from under James' head and crawled out of bed.

I had one foot in my slippers when I felt the soreness on my ass, cringing at the pain. All at once, the memory of what happened the night before flooded my brain and I sat back down.

Holding my hands out in front of me and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I buried my face in them. It couldn't have been real. There was no possible way. It was unnatural.

Somewhere between taking a shower and sitting down with a cup of coffee, I came to a conclusion.

The only plausible thing I could think of was that maybe my hands weren't injured at all. Maybe I was just so drunk that I thought they were cut and bleeding and I let Jameson lick my fucking skin for no reason. Or maybe I had actually dreamt the whole hand part and only hurt my ass in reality. Nothing else made sense, except that he was actually a witch.

New Orleans was known for voodoo and witchcraft anyways, right?

Who was I kidding? The guy was just a weirdo. What I really had to do was just stay away from him. He obviously meant no good. Plus, who knows what would happen next time we were alone? Would he try to eat my face, too?

"You're thinkin' awfully hard, baby love," I heard Momma say as she walked into the room. "You'll get wrinkles right there between your eyebrows if you don't relax."

I swatted her hand away when she poked me in the forehead. "Had a weird night," I said, throwing back the last sip of coffee. "Trying to piece it all together."

"Do you wanna talk about it?" she asked, pouring a steaming cup of coffee.

My cheeks heated up at the thought of having to tell my mom I let some dude lick my hand last night. "It's alright, Momma," I smiled sheepishly, then remembered seeing the little one by my side this morning. "Trevor slept with me again."

"Oh, dear," she frowned, sitting down across from me with her mug, "I'm sorry. Did you kick him out?"

"Nah, I didn't notice him until this morning."

"Poor little guy," she sighed. "I'm proud of you, Cade–"

"I'm gonna' stop you right there. It's too early and I'm a little too hungover for a Role Model pep talk. I love you and you know I'm here for you," I smiled, placing my hand on top of hers. But it only reminded me of last night. I removed my hand subtly.

Mom just looked at me with her lips pressed together. I didn't want her to be hurting or stressed anymore. She deserved as much as she gave us.

"Love you."