“Why do you bother trying to cover it up,” he asked me snidely, gesturing to the hand clasped over my neck. “We all know Thomas leaves his mark.”

Slightly embarrassed, but mostly irritated, I let my hand fall from my skin, revealing a half-dollar sized plum-colored hickey that would remain visible for at least a week. I stood at the counter, surrounded by people who mostly disgusted me: Derek, who had made the comment; Thomas, who was responsible for the mark on my neck; and Lola, whom I, for some indescribable reason, felt betrayed by. I think she knew what I was feeling—her eyes were glued to the old fashioned tile on the floor of Derek’s kitchen, where we gathered, awkward and silent, huddled at the bar at one twenty-eight in the morning.

Or maybe I was the only one who felt awkward. Derek seemed to be at ease, his eyes bloodshot and red, puffing on a cigarette, smoke unfurling in slow circles under the dim light of the lamp. Thomas was spent, quiet and indifferent to Derek’s comment, sitting on the barstool and looking very tired. His cutesy, flattering demeanor had disappeared almost as swiftly as it had come; and why wouldn’t it? Out of habit and disgust, I reached up and covered the hickey with my hand. He had gotten what he wanted out of me.

I recalled only minutes ago, in the bedroom, on the single bed with dark blue sheets, where Lola and Derek had left Thomas and I alone in the room, giggling as they turned out the lights and closed the door behind them. Thomas felt grateful, I could tell, as he slid his hand coyly around my waist. I felt abandoned.

“I’m hungry,” Derek commented. “Let’s go to McDonald’s.”

No one replied. I tried unsuccessfully to swallow the lump of regret that seemed to be lodged in my throat. I thought I would cry. I looked at him, Thomas, out of the corner of my eye. So apathetic. He didn’t even care. He didn’t understand. I was just a number to him; I wondered what number I was.

“We can take Lo’s car,” Derek said when nobody answered, to which Lola merely responded with a snort. I looked at her, and for the first time in over an hour we locked eyes – mine were heavy with accusation and pleading. Hers were stony and dull.

I looked away, my heart sinking fast, and turned my attention to the old tile floor. “I have work tomorrow,” I said to no one in particular. “At nine. We should probably get going.”

I stole a glance at her; she nodded her head. Thomas laid his head on the counter, buried his face in the crook of his elbow, as though to fall asleep.

I left the kitchen, took the hallway back to the bedroom, flicked on the lights. The ceiling fan whirred. My eyes fell on the bed, the dark blue sheets in disarray.

I remembered his voice, his breath on my neck.

I remembered when I first saw him, that same day, late afternoon. The sun was setting; Derek, Lola, Thomas and I, sharing a booth at the restaurant. The boys acted like children, playing with the ketchup and sugar, ashing their cigarettes in the water glasses. I threw anxious glances in Lola’s direction; if she noticed, she ignored them, laughing quietly along with Thom and Derek’s childish behavior. Why did she need so desperately to win their acceptance?

I felt uncomfortable, and the three of them acted as though I wasn’t there; that is, until we left the restaurant to follow Derek back to his house, where we walked to the dark bedroom, to the bed with the blue sheets. At this point it was as though we segregated; Lola and Derek appeared to want to be alone, so that left me and Thomas. Before I knew it, he had turned on the charm, with quick, complimentary lines and a little too much touching.

Your back hurts? Here, let me rub it. Your hands are cold? Here, give them to me.
I would rather my hands had stayed cold. He was unnaturally warm, all of him, even his eyes, like warm, melted chocolate. They were big and pretty with long, dark lashes. If they lingered on me I couldn’t tell – not when the lights were off.

I reached with my right foot under the bed, searching for my lost sandal. Where was my purse? My phone? My wallet? How had everything gotten so fucked up?

My phone. I remembered reaching for it in the midst of Thomas’ eager kisses, his hands sliding dangerously close, and sending Lola an emergency text message – one word, four letters: Help.

Thomas was everywhere, wrapping himself around me. It was as though he had limbs I didn’t know about, and was using them to push me into a situation I couldn’t escape. He sucked my bottom lip, too hard, and then shoved his tongue in my mouth. His hand slid under my waistline.

“Thomas, I don’t think we should,” I said, trying to sound sure of myself without seeming hypocritical. I had let him go this far— who says I didn’t owe him the rest?

He didn’t skip a beat. “Of course we should,” he said, breathing heavily, “why shouldn’t we?”

He slinked his hand down the back of my pants. As though they had a mind of their own, I felt my hips pressing closer against him. When I spoke, my voice was quiet, less certain.

“Because I don’t want to regret it,” I said.
He snickered into the crook of my neck, sending shivers down my spine. “Trust me, you’re not gonna regret it.”
What a giant lie that was.

Three minutes later, a message from Lola. “You’re a big girl, I support what you do.”
Thomas continued to kiss me.
I hadn’t asked for her approval—I had asked her for help.
Wasn’t she supposed to look out for my best interest? Wasn’t she supposed to be my friend?

Thomas was impervious to my uncertainty, and I thought I would drown in him. He was everywhere, fervent, impatient and willing—and I let it all take place.
I felt like an innocent bystander, watching my own demise.
I was stunned.

And, as clothes were shed in the light of the moon, on the bed with blue sheets, my heart filled with sadness, my face flushed with shame, my weak will succumbing, my senses screaming in confliction with my thoughts – I wondered when I would learn to say no.

A/N: For those of you who have been keeping up with Narrations of Lane (I know there aren't many), you may be wondering why I decided to delete chapter six, the one with the startling phone call from Nate. The truth is, I'm really conflicted about where I want to take this story, and it wasn't until after I had written and posted the chapter that I decided - that wasn't it. Somehow I just can't drop Nate's character, and by creating that situation, I felt like any spark between Lane and Nate didn't stand a chance. If you're wondering if anything else is going to happen between them, the truth is, I wonder, too. They write me more than I write them.

But Nate feels too major to me to be so quickly gotten rid of, so I suppose we'll see where this goes.

Thanks for reading [: