Handwritten ✓

05 | workbook

THE INTERROGATION TECHNIQUE WAS INEFFICIENT.

I realised that troubling truth while making out Ursula. Cheerleading practice started at four, when the sun was less harsh, and ran late into the evenings. Between then and the end of school, Ursula and I crept underneath the bleachers on the football field to reacquaint our mouths.

The girl was ravenous, I noted. Her hands, her lips, her teeth, it was like they had been starved for contact without me. I appreciated the enthusiasm, but sometimes I liked to kiss in a manner other than cannibal. You know, switch things up.

Perhaps we could take things slow, and then switch to neck kisses, and then tangle our tongues again. Each time I tried to slow the pace down, Ursula made a guttural moan in the back of her throat and surged forth with even more vigour, determined to pick up the tempo for the both of us.

The thing about Bishop, I was coming to realise, was that there was plenty of bitterness underneath everyone's pleasant demeanour. Housewives gossiped about each other eat the grocery store, and the manager of the local bar pushed rumours toward each customer like they were complimentary peanuts. Here, take a handful.

The same rang true in the hallways of the high school.

How could I know which smiles were forced?

Which laughs were carefully scripted and shot forth like bullets?

Ursula's hands slid to my hips, tugging my pelvis into hers. I responded politely by wrapping my arms around her trim waist, skimming the bare skin just above her skirt.

See, despite Bishop's small population, there was a sizeable amount of people in the high school. I couldn't ask every single one of them. Nor could I bank on my hater admitting to my face that they wrote the note, even if I happened to chance on them in person.

Plus, there was always the possibility a person I asked knew someone with the grudge and spread the word to them. That would alert my hater that I was on their trail, send them deep into hiding and effectively obliterate my chances of digging up the truth.

No, I couldn't be blowing my cover like that—

"Whoa," I squealed surprisedly.

Ursula's warm hands had unbuckled my jeans and slipped into my underwear while I was ruminating, grasping solidly onto little — but not little — Jake. For some reason, her smooth, dextrous fingers felt uncomfortable on the most sensitive part of me, like wriggling worms.

I gripped her wrists and stopped her from pulling my length out into the open air. Ursula peered up at me, concerned. Her hands slid out of my underwear, and I let out a small sigh of relief. "What's wrong?"

"Your practice starts in like, ten minutes," I reasoned weakly.

Sure, it caught me unawares to feel something suddenly in my pants. But when I accustomed to the feel of Ursula, should I have been turned on? Excited, at the very least?

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I never hardened when we kissed. Some eager twitches, sure, but never the raging boner I knew I was healthily capable of. Ursula pressed a soft kiss to my neck, trailing her hands up and down my chest. "Ten minutes is long enough for me."

"Um..." I gulped. "I don't know if it's long enough for me."

"Seriously?" she teased huskily. Her finger traced down to my cock, and she gave it an experimental rub. Soft. "Oh. You might be right."

I wrapped my arms around her and sighed. "You know, we should do other stuff when we meet up."

"Like what?" she purred suggestively, squeezing my ass.