Free Fat Girl by Leigh Carron Page A

memory incites an erotic need in me that won’t stand down. But I dismiss his taunt: “That’s ancient history.”
    “History has a way of repeating itself.”
    “Not this time.”
    “Oh, we’re going to happen again, Dee.” His silky rasp licks across my skin. “And soon.”
    “See? Arrogant! You assume because you’re Micah Peters, I’ll fall into bed with you on command.”
    “I don’t assume it. I know it. And not because of my fame—that wouldn’t matter to you. I know you will because of how your body has always responded to mine.”
    My thighs squeeze together against an achy wetness. “You’re delusional.”
    “I’m right and my memory’s long,” he counters in a low, sexy timbre.“I haven’t forgotten I was the first man to touch you. The first man to be buried deep inside you. The first man to make you come.”
    A moan snakes up my throat.
    “And you haven’t forgotten either. Sleep well, Dee.”
    I stab the off button, wishing I had a cradle in which to slam the receiver down in his ear. Tempted to hurl the phone across the room, instead I return to bed, curl into a ball, and pull the blanket up over me. Whatever numbness I achieved is gone. Desire beats in my every cell. And with the vodka diluting my defenses, my woozy mind takes an unstoppable trip to the past.
     

     
    IT’S BEEN TWO MONTHS SINCE Mick first parted my lips and French-kissed me into paradise. Two months since we’ve layered one shared secret on top of another. Not only haven’t we told Mama and Papa T about Malcolm Peters’ abuse, we also haven’t told them—or anyone—that we’re dating. Okay, not what some people would consider dating. We don’t actually go out on dates. But we spend as many evenings as we can together at the lake.
    Sometimes I think I’m dreaming. I mean, really, a guy like Mick is so far out of my league. But I’m hopelessly crazy in love with him. Not that I would ever tell him. I think he knows. How could he not? Still, I don’t say the words.
    Unlike me, Mick’s not stingy with his feelings. He tells me he loves me. Often. As if he’s trying to convince me. Even if he totally means it, I know he’s going to break my heart. Everybody I ever love does in the end. That’s why I give him only small pieces, not the whole thing. That way, there’ll be less to break.
    In July, four months from now, Mick will be off to NYU for creative writing and in the fall I’ll be heading to Amherst to work on a bachelor’s degree in family studies before law school. I don’t feel the excitement I should about college, but it’s because I hate the idea of being separated from him. So I’m preparing myself for when we part, and I’m nothing more than a girl he once cared about because I kept his secret and understood his dreams.
    “Everything okay? You’re quiet tonight,” he says of my silence during the twenty-minute drive to Riverstone Lake, seven miles outside of Springvale.
    I look over at his beautifully sculpted profile. His coffee-brown eyes are focused ahead as he concentrates on navigating his car over the gravel road. It’s a black 1968 Mustang that Papa T helped him restore to mint condition. Being low to the ground, it scrapes every bump that leads to the shore, and his hands tighten on the wheel. Mick has large hands; the palms are calloused from years of basketball, and the fingers are long and tapered. They’re strong and sure—just like him.
    When he parks in our usual spot; a secluded area hidden by towering bluffs and muscular peaks, I assure Mick I’m fine. “I can do quiet with you.”
    He cuts the engine and turns to me with a smile that flutters my stomach. He likes what I’ve said. Sometimes I feel as if I’m Mick’s experiment. That he needs to have these real experiences with me to prove that he’s capable of more than detached sexual encounters.
    Because of this need of his and because of my hang-ups, our physical intimacy has grown slowly. This is new for