Knickers

Warped Tour Hookup

After our second mug, the drinking game seems superfluous, but I suggest 'Never Have I Ever' for the purpose of being nosy.

Dom is half a step past tipsy, and he is all for the idea. If it weren't for the alcohol, the game might be more decent, but neither of us seem to mind.

"Never have I ever cheated on my partner," he says.

"Does that include my elementary school boyfriend?"

He gasps. "You cheated on your primary school boyfriend?"

"No, no, repeat after me. El-e-ment-ary."

He tilts his chin toward me, smirking. "Pri-mar-y."

"Wrong."

"What d'you mean wrong?" he asks, feigning offense but failing miserably. "I'm British!"

"Oh, you're right. Never have I ever been British."

"Damn you!" he says, and takes a long swig. "If you want to play dirty we can play dirty. Never have I ever been American. Never have I ever been named Marley. Never have I ever been a girl." He stops. "Maybe disregard that last one."

"Oh, fuck, did I ruin my makeup?" I ask, sitting up and prodding at my lipstick.

"No, you made it more authentic," he says, turning in his seat and adjusting himself partway into my lap. "Okay. Never have I ever stolen something worth more than a hundred pounds."

I drink. His jaw pops open in surprise.

"You delinquent. What was it?"

"A jacket," I say. "Leather. It was for my boyfriend at the time."

"Lucky bastard," he says, shuffling, pressing his shoulders into my thigh as he reclines properly into my lap. "What happened with him?"

"Well," I draw a breath, "turns out I was the side piece."

"Fuck, man, I'm sorry. That sucks. You should have at least been the main piece." He slaps his hand over his mouth, wide-eyed at his own comment. "Jesus, I don't know why I said that. Sorry."

"No, no, it was a compliment," I say, a funny warmth spreading through my chest, my fingers creeping up to tug at the ends of his hair. "You're beautiful, you know."

He crinkles his nose. "I always thought I was funny looking."

"Oh, you are. That's your best feature."

"Fuck, man," he says, rolling his shoulders back, resting his mug on his chest. "I love when people touch my hair."

"Thank god, I've been wanting to touch it."

"Go for it. I'm such a puppy dog, man, I love pets. And hugs. And I lick people sometimes."

Then, with no warning, he swipes his tongue up my arm and beams at me proudly. Without much thought in return, I snatch up his wrist and lick the back of his hand.

"Equality," he says, with a nod of confirmation. "Okay. Never have I ever fucked someone I didn't love."

I drink. He smirks.

"Considering I love everyone," he adds.

"Very funny," I say, pinching his nose and jostling his head side to side. Some part of me figures that now is the time to make a move. "Never have I ever kissed a rockstar."

He drinks, green eyes watching me deviously. Then, after a moment of consideration, he turns his head and taps his cheek with the pad of his index finger, puckering girlishly. "Go on, then, tonight's about experiences."

I wonder if he can hear my heart racing at this proximity. He probably can. God, why am I so nervous?

Leaning over, I brush my lips against his cheekbone, and there's that smell again. With him I don't know how long I'm ever allowed to linger, or where he draws his boundaries. Politeness is at the forefront of my mind, but so are these goddamned urges.

"You smell nice," I comment absently, probably too close to his ear.

"Aftershave," he tells me, craning his neck and quirking his electric smile.

I lean down again, drawn by habit to just get the first kiss out of the way so the sex can follow. My body seems to betray me, though, in the gentle cupping of his jaw, in the exposure of maybe a sliver of unexpected intimacy.

My lips brush his smile, and he draws me in with the slightest graze of my chin, but the contact sends startled shivers down my spine. Jesus, what am I, a virgin? A twelve year old at a school dance, chest in knots from the prospect of their first kiss?

"I can't," I gasp out, shattering the fragile moment. "I'm sorry, I want to see you again. I really want to see you again."

"Sorry?" he says, sitting up. He shuffles in place, now at a safe distance where his intoxicating smell can't cloud my judgment.

"I don't just want to hook up, Dom," I say. "I know it's totally my style, but I want to continue to know you. Text you memes and stuff, and not have my name in your phone as your Warped Tour hookup. You know, like real friends."

There's no immediate answer as Dom listens, sitting humbly and considerately. Sitting still, for the first time. Unfortunately, the silence motivates my rambling.

"Maybe I'm asking too much. You know, suddenly demanding access to your attention for longer than you expected. Usually we just fuck and then we're rid of each other. You know, permanently, and I'm always fine with that. I've never not been fine with that. But—"

"Marley," he says softly, interrupting me with a delicate hand on my knee. "I didn't bring you here to hook up with you. To be honest, it never even crossed my mind."

"Bullshit," I say.

"No, really," he confirms, setting his mug on the floor of the tour bus. "In hindsight, I get why you don't believe me. The alcohol, the solitude, the touching. I thought I was just being friendly."

"Why'd you let me kiss you then?"

He shrugs, as innocently as I've ever seen him. "I don't know, you're nice. I like you. It didn't feel like a violation."

I press my palm into my temple, trying to massage away my anxiety headache. "Jesus, I'm such an ass."

"No, it's my fault," he says, coasting his hand through his hair, his lips puckering pensively. "It didn't even occur to me the message I was sending."

His tone rings with an undeniable authenticity. In this moment, despite the mess we've made, I don't feel like he could ever lie to me. Even if everything he's said so far is only damage control, the understandable backpedaling after a rejection like mine, my heart wants to believe him.

"I'm so sorry," I tell him. "God, sometimes I'm just so fucking—"

"No, no, it's alright," he assures me, his confident smile returning in an instant. "It's on me, I apologize. No, of course we can be friends. That was my goal from the beginning."

"That should make the headlines," I say. "Local rockstar takes random concert-goer to tour bus and gets her drunk, wants to be just friends."

"What can I say?" he says, lifting the discarded mug into his hands again and lifting it to cheers once more. "I guess I'm just bonkers."

"Here's to being bonkers," I say.

We drink.