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Sex, in Dean’s experience – and he’s got the experience – is like an amusement park attraction. Like the biggest, and the best, roller coaster right in the middle of the park. The one with the longest line, the one you spend all day hyping yourself up to ride as you fill up on greasy food and anticipation. And afterward, once the adrenaline wears off and your feet are back on solid ground, you might ride it again. Hell, sometimes you ride it until you’ve got whiplash and are sick to your stomach. But eventually, when the excitement of something new wears off, everyone wants off the ride.
The first taste of someone’s lips – no, the first taste of Allie’s lips – is like warm funnel cake. Like powdered sugar and caramel sauce and, damn, her mouth is so warm it makes his brain short circuit as he backs her against the pillar. He braces his hand against the material draping the column and groans into her mouth when her head hits the back of his hand instead. She makes this little panting sound as he turns her around to mouth at her neck, and even as she rambles about her breakup and her guilt, he already knows from just one taste of her that this is going to be the best ride of both their lives.
“This is a one-time-thing,” she insists as he tugs at the strings of her corset and spins her around.
But Dean’s already picturing next time as the breath of her giggle hits his lips before she breathes, “Tell no one.”
“I got it.”
He licks his promise into her mouth and tastes powdered sugar, alcohol, and the best bad decision of his fucking life. Because the fairy dress is ridiculous and sexy, and Allie kisses like she’s desperate to know what a thrill feels like.
Dean knows the deal before she even says it. He knows he’s the dirty little secret she’ll tuck into the back of her mind when she gets back with her boyfriend. He knows he’ll catch her eye across the room and remember her lips around that joint, her nails clacking against her phone screen as she turned him down with DO NOT CALL saved into her phone, her wide, gorgeous eyes looking a little too soft when he said, “I’m Six Flags, baby. Everybody wants a ride. They come for a good time, not a long time, and that’s fine by me.”
And her soft, “Is it?”
So yeah, he’s going to make this one-time-thing the best thing either of them has ever had.
Because Allie loves roller coasters, and Dean, it turns out, is desperate to see her ride one.
The scratches on his back from that first night with Allie never quite go away. Not when one time becomes two becomes ten. Her nail marks are everywhere. On his hands, his arms, his back. Sometimes, when his rings catch in his hair, he swears he can still feel her fingers there, tugging hard as he’s between her thighs.
He leaves marks on her too. Sucks them into the back of her neck where her wild curls usually fall, the inside of her thighs, her lower stomach, the underside of her breast. The taste of her skin is almost as intoxicating as the sounds she makes every time he touches her.
She scolds him the first time she finds a mark on her shoulder she has to cover with makeup. And Dean’s nothing if not a good boy, so he redirects his mouth, starts keeping his teeth to himself. Until Allie’s fingers are back in his hair, her thumb trailing his bottom lip as she whimpers, “J-just not where anyone can see.”
So, Dean leaves her covered in hickeys no one else will find that night, sinks his teeth into the globe of her ass until he’s sure she’ll be able to see his mouth there for days, and then drags her with him into the bathtub.
Dean can’t ever forget what this is, but Allie reminds him every time anyway.
“This is a one-time-thing. Tell no one,” as he presses her back against the pillar in the dressing room and pushes between her thighs.
“Okay, this is the last time,” as the Malone’s branded boxes on the shelf above them rattle and her nails dig into the side of his hand.
“Okay, this is the last time,” as their friends watch a movie in the next room and she clamps her hand over her mouth to stifle the proof of what his tongue is doing to her.
“That was absolutely the last time,” as she wipes soapy water from her eyes, glares, and snatches the still vibrating toy from his hand.
Every time, she reminds him. Every time, he laughs and nods his head before distracting her with another breathless kiss. Because this is not the last time, and they both know it.
But there will be a last time, Dean knows. Because he isn’t the guy girls bring home to meet their parents or giggle with their friends about. He’s the bumpy ride up the tracks, the fun twist and twirl, and the exciting fall. He’s the adventure girls get out of their system before they decide to hit the water park instead.
Allie will get used to the high, the adrenaline will wear off, she’ll figure out what she really wants, and this? This will end. Because it always ends.
Because Dean knows what he is. He’s a warm body and dexterous hands. He’s a hungry mouth. An eager tongue. He’s a trip to Six Flags for a girl who has only known a county fair.
And Dean’s greedy for every smile she accidentally gives him, for every moan he pulls out of her, so he’ll take whatever she’ll give him until the steam runs out.
He’s never minded being used, has built his entire college persona around it, really. It keeps his bed warm, keeps his grin wide, keeps his mind empty.
And being used by Allie? Shit, Dean doesn’t mind that at all. Not when it feels like this. Not when he can still taste sugar on her lips or between her thighs even days after he’s seen her. Not when hanging out with her is just as fun as fucking her. Not when the scent of her on his sheets has him itching to talk to her.
Not when just the sight of her name on his phone makes him grin like an idiot for the rest of the day.
“All roads lead back to Dean,” he teases as she climbs into the back of Beau’s car a few days before Thanksgiving.
It’s easy to ignore how the slight sting of, “This is just a ride,” feels a hell of a lot like, “This is a one-time-thing,” when his best friend and his – Allie – are giggling together and singing showtunes that make him want to hurl himself out of the car. It gets even easier when Beau shows her the video of his dance routine and she teases him from the backseat. Easier, still, when their eyes meet in the rearview mirror with the promise of Friday.
Dean meets his first, and only, girlfriend – if she can even be called that, which… Dean’s not sure the distinction entirely fits – when he’s sixteen. He’s two years into a growth spurt that seems like it won’t ever end as he stands a full nine inches taller than her. He’s broader than the year before, transformed completely from freshman year when he’d grown a foot overnight that had stretched his arms and legs into skinny twigs. But his body transforms out on the rink, in the weight room, on the track with his team.
He meets her at some party he and Beau crash near the all-girl’s school across the city. She’s a year older with bright eyes, beautiful dark skin, a perpetual smirk, and grabby hands. He asks her to dance, and she giggles like he’s told a joke. Giggles harder when their rhythm doesn’t quite match. He kisses her mid-laugh and relishes in the way it steals both their breaths.
They make out in the kitchen as drinks are passed around behind them. They make out on some stranger’s bed. They make out on the steps of the porch with the railing digging into his hip. They make out until he’s forgotten his name and she’s forgotten her curfew.
He asks for her number; she puts it into his phone with a kissy face after her name.
He’s not a virgin the first time they have sex, but he is inexperienced. Clumsy. A little selfish about it, if he’s honest. He has a great time, but at the end of the night she just gives him an unimpressed smile that makes him want to do better.
She doesn’t answer when he calls.
Dean’s competitive on his best day. A sore loser on his worst.
So, he practices.
He kisses the girl who mans the desk at the library. Curls his fingers into her hair and against her hip and kisses her until they’re both breathless and grinning against a towering bookshelf.
He makes out with a friend of his sister’s during her birthday sleepover. Summer’s in the middle of a fashion show with the other girls when the redhead wanders down to the kitchen where Dean’s tossing buttery popcorn into his mouth. He’s digging through the freezer with one hand when she slips between him and the fridge and whispers a giggly, “Hi.”
He goes down on a cheerleader behind the bleachers during one of Beau’s football games. And sucks at it so spectacularly that she finally pulls him up with a panted, “Have you never done this before?” And well, no, he hasn’t. But she’s cute and blonde and smells like peaches, and he really, really wants to know what she looks like when she cums. So, instead of getting insecure, he murmurs, “Teach me what you like.”
It’s the first time he gets a girl off with his mouth – fuck, the first time he gets a girl off at all – and he’s so enamored that for a moment he feels outside of his own body. It’s the tremble of her thighs. The way her fingers dig into his hair and pull hard enough to hurt. The clench of her on his fingers and the wet of her on his mouth. The gasp that turns into a whine she has to bite her lip to quiet. The way her spine arches right off the jacket he’s laid out for her. It is, by far, the hottest thing he’s ever seen, and Dean forgets how to fucking breathe.
Between school, hockey, and girls, Dean never stops learning.
He aces his classes. Perfects his form on the ice. And meets a new girl on vacation to St. Barts with his family.
She’s curvy, tan, covered in freckles, and has a pierced tongue that Dean is desperate to taste. They share a drink at a beach bar, something fruity that leaves his head spinning a bit. He kisses her because he’s been dying to do it all night. He tastes the cool metal of the piercing and gasps into her mouth when she takes control of the kiss. When they reach her room, Dean hikes her skirt and drops to his knees at the foot of her bed. He’s eager, hands gripping her hips as his mouth finds her center. He thinks of the girl beneath the bleachers, the way her toes had curled when he flicked his tongue against her hot and fast, and he does it again now with this new girl.
He expects her to pant, to moan, to pull his hair a little maybe, like the last girl. He’s desperate for it, really. But when he lifts his gaze to her face, she isn’t doing any of that. Her eyes are open, aimed at the ceiling, and her hands are loose at her sides, like she’s just… waiting for him to finish. Brows furrowing a little, Dean pulls back and slides his tongue over his bottom lip as her dark eyes drift down to meet his. He’s slower when he leans back in, brushing a kiss against each of her thighs as she watches him. And when he presses his mouth against her this time, he keeps his eyes on her face as he explores her.
She’s more sensitive, he realizes when she jumps a little at too much pressure from his tongue, so he softens it. Slows things down. And when she moans and slides her fingers into his hair, Dean knows he’s finally figured out the magic key.
He doesn’t meet the girl from his sophomore year again until the next school year starts and they end up in the middle of the same party. He thinks of his unanswered texts and the unimpressed smile, and eyes her as he takes a long swig of beer. That sparkle is still in her eyes, that little smirk, and when he slowly backs her into the counter and whispers, “I want a redo,” she just grins and drags him into one of the bedrooms.
This time, when Dean calls her after, she picks up.
They never label it officially, but they spend a year hooking up until she leaves for college. There’s no grand goodbye or tearful breakup or promises to wait for each other. There’s just a hookup in the back of his car and a, “See you around, Di Laurentis.”
It’s not a date.
It’s not a date when he feels his face goes all soft at the door as she hands over the decorative turkey.
It’s not a date when he takes her jacket and lets his eyes linger on how ridiculously pretty she is.
And it’s definitely not a date when she eyes him suspiciously as he holds out the pre-poured glass of wine and says, “You said this wasn’t a date.”
“It’s not,” he insists as he hands it to her.
She takes it, pretty eyes squinting cautiously in his direction, and he won’t admit to himself that it stings a little when she says, “Feels like a date.”
He scoffs like the idea has never even crossed his mind – tells himself it’s true – and insists, “It’s not.”
But, the line is drawn, the idea is shoved away, and he gives her the tour.
Dean walks her through the apartment like he’s giving a museum tour. The shpiel is pre-written; he’s given it to dozens of girls before. Has walked them through these exact rooms and pointed out the exact same paintings in the exact same tone, like they should be impressed by the wealth he had nothing to do with.
Every single time, the reaction is the same. All wide eyes and parted lips, hanging off his every word until–
“Okay, let’s see it,” Allie says when he makes it halfway down the stairs.
Dean stops and leans against the railing, confusion marring his brows as he eyes at her at the top of the stairs, “What?”
“Your big move,” Allie says, sounding wholly unimpressed. She wiggles her fingers a little, playfully mocking as she adds, “Your grand finale.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean says, but it sounds like a lie even to his own ears.
It feels like even more of one when Allie doesn’t bother to say anything else. She just raises her brows and purses her lips until Dean folds, deflating a little with a huffed, “Fine.”
And just that easily, he spills the whole game to her as she stares, even less impressed, “There’s a piano in the den, and I usually end the tour there. And I talk about the piano, and then they ask if I play, and I say, ‘Kind of.’”
Allie imitates him, tilting her head back a little in feigned nonchalance, “’Kind of?’”
“Exactly,” he says when he catches sight of her widening smile. “Then I sit down and I play ‘Mad World.’”
“’Mad World?!’”
He can’t help but smile even as his voice gets playfully defensive, “It’s the only song I know, and it works.”
He points at her, unsure why there’s a thrumming in his chest at the way she’s looking at him right now, “It works, okay?”
The face Allie makes has Dean’s stomach twisting, and not in that excited way it does when she leans so close he can smell some unholy combination of her lipgloss and shampoo.
She stares at him a moment, something like disappointment in her expression when she scoffs out, “Can you be normal? It’s just me.”
Allie’s a lot of things, but just isn’t one of them.
“I am being normal,” Dean defends, but his tone cracks a little. Uncertain.
He tells himself it’s the wine that’s got him flustered. The wine and the empty apartment and the holiday alone. Not those doe eyes rimmed with thick lashes that are staring right through his bullshit. Not those lips he can’t stop thinking about pulling into a frown. Not the way she’s looking down at him from the top of the stairs like he’s just let her down somehow. He tells himself that this is a hookup, that the way she’s looking at him right now doesn’t make him feel like a total fraud.
He tells himself a lot of shit that just isn’t quite true.
He tells himself and he tells Allie, and only one of them realizes he’s lying.
“No, you’re not,” and he doesn’t feel the way his face slips, the way his smile goes a little slanted, the way his eyes go a little guarded as he stares up at her.
Because this is a one-time-thing. This is a roller coaster ride. This is an adrenaline rush.
It’s not a fucking date.
And she doesn’t know him.
Except she does.
She shakes her head, unwilling to let him wear the mask, and asks softly, “What would you be doing if I wasn’t here?”
The start of college is a mess of hockey, parties, and girls – in that order.
Dean adapts quickly to the pace of college life. He breezes through his pre-reqs and settles on a political science major with an English minor. He takes extra courses in the summers to prepare for law school; his parents and older brother are ecstatic when he tells them he’ll be headed to Harvard Law next fall, but Summer just raises her brow skeptically and takes a sip of their mother’s favorite red wine when he catches her eye.
Dean studies hard, but he parties harder.
In his first year, he loses himself on the ice as much as he loses himself in the girls. They come from all over campus, but the ones he gets to know best call themselves Puck Bunnies. It’s fun, the anonymity of it all. The way all it takes is a flash of his jersey and there are at least two girls with eager smiles at his side. In the beginning, they know his number more than his name. After a few months, they know his bed more than they know either.
A year on the team, the anonymity dies, but the girls still come. And come. And cum.
The truth is, Dean loves sex. He loves the way he can lose himself in someone else, the way his mind goes blank during a really good kiss. Loves the feeling of a woman’s body reacting to his own, toes curling and mouths gasping, and knowing that he is the cause.
It’s rare that anyone sticks around after, even the ones Dean’s come to know as friends, but he doesn’t mind. He loves watching them dress, peeking back at him as they slip on their underwear or fix the strap of their tank top. There’s an ease to it, a comfortability that even the shyest girls find by the time they’re standing in his doorway.
He doesn’t promise to call, and they know he won’t. He just grins, arms tucked behind his head, sheets rucked at his hips – when he bothers to cover up at all – and winks to earn a blush. The blush is almost as good as his name on their lips.
The girls rarely lean in for a goodbye kiss, and Dean doesn’t chase them for one. Without saying a word, they all know the deal – they come, they cum, they leave.
He doesn’t ask them to stay; they don’t expect him to.
In the dim glow of the city’s light through the dark window, Dean tells Allie about chess. He walks her through each piece as he sets up the board – the pawns with their little scratches from growing up alongside the Di Laurentis siblings, the cracked rook from the time Dean dropped the whole marble set on the floor when he was seven, the queen with her broken crown from when Summer threw it right at Nick’s glasses when she lost, and the bishop with the missing ball at the top that each of the kids still blames each other for.
Allie’s eyes are warm, soft in a way she rarely lets herself be with him, when she says, “I’m sorry you can’t be with your family, though. It seems like you miss them.”
And the truth slips right out of Dean’s mouth as the light reflects off Allie’s chocolate eyes, “I get to be here with you.”
And it’s not a line. As much as a part of him wishes it was.
But Allie has ripped the script right out of his hands, and now all he can do is tell her the truth.
She looks at him with those Bambi eyes of hers in a way that has his throat tightening and his heart thumping against his ribs. The smile is gone from her face, and he can’t read the expression in her eyes. Not when a part of him is suddenly wondering, what makes something a date anyway?
Dean wouldn’t know. None of his hookups had ever come over hungry for more than him.
Looking at her now in the soft glow, he’s not sure if he was telling her the whole truth as he passed the joint back to her all those weeks ago, “I love being the casual sex guy. It’s easy.”
Suddenly, it doesn’t feel so easy. So, he lightens the mood and murmurs, “Also…”
The clink of the pieces has her groaning before he finishes the word, “Check.”
“Come on!” She whines while he grins.
“Never…” Smug and flirty, he settles his hands on the bench between them, “ever let the enemy distract you.”
Allie’s laugh is as beautiful as she is. When she’s teasing him, when he’s teasing her. When she’s telling him something about herself that has him questioning when the last time he laughed like this was. And his favorite – when he’s the one she’s laughing at; he’d be the punchline of any joke to get even one second of that laugh.
She laughs now, eyes hidden behind her lashes, and he can’t help but lean toward her. He can’t help but want to drink that laugh right into himself. To steal that smile of hers so he can experience it whenever he wants to.
She looks at the chessboard, but Dean looks at her. He’s not even sure he blinks as he takes in the sight of her here, in the place he grew up, surrounded by the pieces of himself he’s not sure anyone – and certainly not any of his hookups – knows. And now, she’s playing chess with him, just because she wants to know him. The thought aches somewhere deep in his chest… because he’s not sure he believes it.
When she smiles at him and reaches for the string of her shirt, Dean forgets to breathe.
He’s been with… so many girls. Hell, he’s been with her so many times now. Has seen her in every state of undress. Has touched her and kissed her in ways that make it ridiculous that now he feels like he can’t remember how to form a single thought other than want, want, want.
Dean leans in, game forgotten as she sets her shirt behind her, but just as his lips are about to find hers, she leans her head down and moves her piece. He smiles, breathless, into her hair, and then looks down to see what she’s done.
“Never let the enemy distract you,” she shoots back, their faces only a few inches apart as he laughs.
She’s quick, this girl. Quicker than him, he realizes as he watches the unsubtle trail of her eyes across his chest and down his stomach. And who is Dean not to oblige? He drops his shirt and lets his eyes linger on her face as she openly checks him out, and then he steals another of her pieces.
He’s never played chess quite like this before, but as Allie leans back and presses her foot into his hand, Dean’s not sure he can ever go back to the old way.
Dean loves sex, loves women, loves their bodies and their sounds and the way they look sprawled out on his sheets. He loves their curves and their skin, the way they smell, the way they taste. Undressing them, though? Untangling all that fabric, loosening all those ties, popping all those buttons? Unveiling perfect skin and watching it speckle with goosebumps beneath his touch? That is fucking art.
And Allie is a Goddamn masterpiece.
He’s undressed girls before, has undressed this girl before, but the moment feels heavy as he lifts her foot to his chest. Her ankle is delicate in his hand, and he squeezes gently, holding it in his palm as he caresses his other hand up the leg of her jeans. She gives him that smile again, the one that makes his pulse rocket; he wonders if she can feel it against the ball of her foot.
Her foot is small, dainty, with freshly painted nails that he can’t help but wonder if she painted just for him. He massages, digging his thumbs into the pad of her foot before he brings it to his mouth. He doesn’t break eye contact as he presses his lips to the side of her foot and holds on when she tugs it back with a quiet giggle.
For all that Dean is the one with all the casual sex experience, he completely bends for Allie.
She leans in for a kiss, and he lets her, keeping his hands on the bench as their lips meet. If the brush of his nose against hers feels anything but casual, Allie doesn’t show it. She just meets him in the middle and slides her fingers into the hair at the base of his neck.
And it’s Allie who decides the game is over as she climbs over the board into his lap. Her mouth against his neck is the best kind of distraction as he grips his long fingers under her thighs and stands. She giggles against his skin and winds her arms around his neck, one hand in his hair as her mouth moves back to his own.
Dean’s never had a real girlfriend, it’s true, but it’s not like he hasn’t ever liked the girls he hooks up with; he’d argue that he likes them all. Some more than others… like the girl in high school with the bright eyes and mischievous smile. And the girl Summer brought home over winter break her freshman year of college, the one who had stroked her foot up Dean’s leg during dinner but had blushed when he kissed her in the hot tub later that night. There were others, too, each more fleeting than the last.
It’s just… easier.
To want and to be wanted. To sleep in his bed and know he’ll wake up alone after whatever fuckbuddy he’s found for the night goes home.
For someone who loves to break the rules, Dean loves knowing exactly what the rules are. And Allie lays them out clearly in front of him again and again.
This is not a relationship. No feelings. No exclusivity. Just sex. Hot, wild sex whenever they want.
After, he’s the one putting his clothes on and slipping out. Except… sometimes he doesn’t.
Sometimes he lies there with her curls in his face and her body pressed to his, and they talk. At first, it’s mostly about Sean and his feelings. Then, it’s about Hannah and Garrett, little inside jokes they share about the friends who have no idea all the dirty little things happening beneath their noses.
Lately, it’s about other things too. Dreams and fears, stuff that’s easier to talk about when they’re loose-limbed and satiated.
Thing is, Dean’s got a big mouth he’s never quite learned to control, and he never realizes he’s crossed too far until Allie’s pushing his clothes at him and reminding him, “This is the last time.”
Allie’s hair fans out across Dean’s gray sheets like a halo as her back hits the mattress. She smiles up at him coyly, eyes sparkling as she watches him lean back to unbutton his pants. She pushes up onto her elbow and reaches with one hand for the clasp of her bra, but Dean catches it before she can. Guiding her down onto the bed again, he presses her hands into the pillow next to her head and whispers, “Stay.”
She does. Chest heaving a little with anticipation and teeth biting into that lip he’s become addicted to, she does.
Backing slowly off the bed, Dean starts at the bottom and takes her foot into his hand. Like before, he slides her sock off, but this time he presses his lips to the bottom of her foot and tightens his fingers around her ankle when she squirms.
“Dean…”
His blue eyes seek hers in the dim light of the room as his lips trail along the inside of her foot, caressing the arch before finding her ankle. He feels her shiver as his tongue slides over the skin there, and she says his name again, more breathless than before.
“Come on, Allie Cat. You can be more patient than that,” he scolds before nipping at her ankle with his blunt teeth.
He takes his time with her jeans – tries anyway – then gets impatient when the denim clings to her knees. She laughs, high and bright, as he wiggles the material free and tosses them haphazardly behind him. They knock something off the wall, a sconce or photo maybe, but Dean just gives her a boyish smile and squeezes his palm around her thigh.
The laughter dies on a shaky breath as Allie looks at him, and Dean has to wonder what she sees as her eyes track back and forth across his face. Something softens in her dark eyes as Dean presses a kiss into her thigh where the jeans left an imprint. Her hand moves down, like it might cup his cheek, but it slips into his hair instead as he presses his lips between her thighs.
“Shit… Wai-wait. You don’t have to,” Allie pants through a suddenly dry mouth as her grip in his hair tightens. She’s breathless, her cheeks going pink, “Dean.”
She pulls his head up as he hooks his fingers into her panties at her hips. He starts to tug them down, but pauses, eyes blown wide and hungry as that red flush spreads up Allie’s neck to her cheeks. He sounds out of breath, like he’s just run a marathon, when he murmurs, “What’s wrong, baby? Are you okay?”
Dean’s sure he imagines the way she shivers at the pet name.
“I’m okay,” Allie breathes, sliding her tongue across her lips. Dean can’t help himself; he braces one hand on the bed and chases her mouth with his own until his tongue finds hers. She whines into it, then wraps her hand around the one at her hip and whispers, “We don’t have to do that. I, uh, I didn’t shave.”
Dean shifts his weight as she trails off, his eyes skimming across her face as his forehead wrinkles, “Al, come on–”
She doesn’t say Sean’s name, doesn’t say he didn’t like it, definitely doesn’t say he wasn’t good at it. She doesn’t have to. The indents of her nails in Dean’s hand tell the story almost as well as the way she’d practically sobbed that first time in her bed. He’d gotten her off three times with his mouth – he would have gone for four if Garrette hadn’t knocked something over in the other room and spooked her – and she’d been practically melted into the sheets by the time he climbed out her window.
Now, he guides her chin back in his direction when she looks away. His thumb brushes her bottom lip before his mouth does, lingering there even as his hand slips slowly inside her panties. He doesn’t touch her yet, doesn’t press his fingers where he knows she likes them; instead, he settles his hand over her, letting her feel the warmth of his fingers nestled into the curls between her thighs.
“You have to know,” he rasps against her lips. Her mouth falls open and he slides his tongue along her bottom lip, shivering a little when the tip of her tongue meets his mid-word, “how fucking hot you are. Just like this.”
When he finally gets his mouth on her, she squirms beneath him, thighs threatening to close even as her fingers slide through his hair. The scent of her, the taste, all of it settles over him until he’s aching for her touch. But Dean takes his time, flirty eyes on hers as he drags her panties off with his teeth. Her hands twitch on the pillow, but she keeps them there, digging her nails into the pillowcase as he buries his nose in her curls and puts his mouth to work.
Allie’s not the first girl he’s had in this bed, but as her nails dig into his shoulders, as her head falls back in that whine he loves, as she squeezes her thighs around his hips and grinds down onto him, he can’t imagine there being a next girl.
He doesn’t let that thought simmer, doesn’t question why he can picture her in every inch of this apartment, doesn’t wonder why – as she lies wrapped in his sheets after – he can’t stop trailing his fingertips up and down her arm. Goosebumps follow his touch, and he presses himself closer to Allie when she shivers.
Inhaling the sweet scent of her shampoo, he presses a kiss to the back of her neck. They do this more often now, lying together in the quiet. Sometimes she talks, her chin against his sternum as she gives him a list of all her dream roles on Broadway and which songs she’d sing to audition for them. Sometimes he talks, usually about the guys or hockey or, well, anything that won’t make this too real for her.
For either of them.
He doesn’t know why it hurts so much when she dresses to leave after the call with the guys, when she tells him again that this is over. When his mind screams, See? She told you this wasn’t a date.
But still he tries, voice deceptively calm for how hard his heart is racing, “We had fun. We were safe. We didn’t hurt anyone.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, but the look on her face screams that they’re on different pages. Dean’s not even sure they’re reading the same book anymore, “so let’s keep it that way.”
His face falls, brows knitting together even as all his arguments die in his throat, “Allie, come on.”
Because how the fuck did this go from one of his favorite nights to… this?
“I’m sorry,” it’s not the usual tone, not the ‘this is a one-time-thing’ he’s used to with her. She sounds resigned, tired in a way that makes him feel guilty for wanting to keep her here, “I have to go.”
He turns like he’s going to follow her, like he can talk her out of this. But all that comes out as he watches her go is one last, “Allie…”
She doesn’t turn back once.
Happy Thanksgiving, Dean.
Dean’s still panting, cheek pressed into a pillow that smells like strawberries, when he feels a shift on the mattress. Eyes still closed, he reaches out and slides his fingers around Allie’s wrist. Her pulse jumps beneath his fingers.
He flutters his eyes open to see her flushed cheeks and pretty pink lips that had been wrapped around him just moments ago. His lips curve up into a lazy smirk as he murmurs, “Where are you going?”
He tugs, presses his lips to her hand, and then slides his tongue over her palm with a quiet, “It’s my turn.”
His other hand slides across her ribs, thumb brushing the side of her breast as he pushes up onto his elbow to get closer to her. He drags his nose along her jaw, lets his lips follow with kisses that have her shivering, “Let me make you feel good.”
Breathless and trying not to smile, Allie pulls her wrist from his hand. She puts the smallest amount of space between them and brushes the tips of her fingers over his lips and swallows hard when he nibbles on one. She catches herself, groans, and then places her hand over his face, pushing him back onto the pillow. He laughs and drags her with him, perfectly envisioning the eyeroll he knows is happening behind her splayed fingers.
“No time,” she murmurs as he angles his head down to kiss her wrist. She leans into it, just for a beat, two, and then pulls back.
Dean peeks at her as she leans over the edge of the bed for her bra. His eyes trail the straps up her arms, one hand reaching out to hook it before she can.
Cheeks flushing, she glances back at him and lifts a dainty shoulder, “I have to get to the drama building. If I don’t nail this dialogue before Thanksgiving, the director’s going to kill me. Right there on the stage. In front of everyone.”
She pinches the hand he lays on her ass when she bends for her panties, and adds over her shoulder, “With a blowtorch.”
Dean laughs and lets himself fall back against her sheets again. He props himself up onto his elbows and lets his eyes blue eyes sweep slowly down her body, “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a bit of a drama queen?”
Something passes across Allie’s face. It’s quick. Just a momentary thing.
“Hey, stay,” Dean’s fingers brush Allie’s as he scoops her shirt from the floor before she can. He holds it just out of her reach, and when she’s close enough, he settles his hand on her slight waist. He pushes himself up just enough to brush their lips together and offers, “I can run lines with you.”
“What?” Her brows curve down, even as her lips form a half smile. She stares down at the hand on her hip and then at his face, disbelief coating her words, “You want to run lines with me?”
When he shrugs, her smile gets a little wider, “You know this isn’t a sexy play, right?”
He rolls his eyes and squeezes her hip, “Which means…” She wraps her fingers around his and moves his hand to his own chest, “Hands off. Can you handle that?”
“Come on,” Dean swings his legs over the edge of the bed and finds his boxer briefs on the floor. He catches her staring at the scratch on his shoulder from three days ago and shoots her a wink as he slides them on, “Give me some credit, Allie Cat.”
She rolls her eyes and shoves her script against his chest with a muttered, “We’re starting on page 17.”
He’s still grinning when she catches his eye over the page and starts her monologue.
♫ I’ll keep you, my dirty little secret. Dirty little secret. Don’t tell anyone or you’ll be just another regret. ♫
Subtly has never really been Dean’s strong suit, he admits.
Plus, it’s fun flirting with Allie every time he passes her at Malone’s during the fundraiser. Stealing her eye across the room, flashing his dimple when he catches her looking, teasing her through song.
“For the record, I am not delusional,” he tells her, eyes still twinkling with the spark between them as he picks up the pitchers of beer, “I just know what I want.”
And when she teases him back, he can’t help the laugh that carries from his booth. He doesn’t notice Beau’s snort – too busy scooping up his phone to call her – or the way his best friend rolls his eyes fondly as he glances through the crowd to see Allie stealing peeks as she dances with Hannah.
“Is that your answer?” He doesn’t even pretend he’s not looking at her, just cradles the phone to his ear and smiles when she puts her hand on her hip and eyes him back; turns out Allie’s not great at subtly either.
“Take a look around,” she coos, head tilting a little. “Any girl would be happy to stick her tongue down your throat.”
She’s right.
There’s been a string of girls hanging out near their booth all night. Taking drinks, draping themselves over his shoulder, giggling at Beau’s terrible jokes. He’s not blind, it’s just –
“I don’t want any girl.”
She rejects him, and Dean hates that even that is hot. He hates it even more that he can’t seem to shake her. That even in this crowded room, he keeps catching the scent of strawberries, of her.
He’s been tempted to call her, to text, to get on his fucking knees and just beg her to not to let this… this thing be over. Because the sex is good, yeah. Phenomenal, really. Mind blowing, even.
But when he’s burying his face in his pillow and begging his stupid fucking brain to shut off, it’s her smile imprinted on his eyelids. Her laughter bouncing around in his head.
Dean rides his first roller coaster when he’s eleven. Packed tight between his older brother Nick and his best friend Trevor. He’s a full two inches too short, but Nick packs his shoes with toilet paper until they’re so tight they hurt and Nick makes him practice standing with his back straight so the top of his head reaches the ‘you must be this tall’ sign.
His hands shake on the bar holding them all in, and when the cart beneath them starts to roll, he grabs his brother’s arm. Nick just grins and wraps a thin arm around him, laughing hard when the first terrified scream tears from his little brother’s lips. By the second loop that threatens to drag him right out of the cart, Dean’s screams have melted into uncontrollable laughter.
The older boys get scolded when they wander off the ride on wobbly legs, their hair wind-swept and grins wild. But Dean barely registers his dad’s voice or the hand that clamps down on his shoulder as his attention wander back to the looping metal. His eyes are still wide, bright with something exhilarating and terrified.
And itching to do it all over again.
That’s how Allie looks at him now in the photo booth.
She’s adorable in her Malone’s tee-shirt, little black apron, and white sneakers. Staring up at him with those sparkly brown eyes as tiny curls hang near her gold hoops. She looks at him from behind her bangs and those thick lashes, and he recognizes that expression. Tries to tease the fear and guilt right out of her eyes until all that’s left to do is say –
“Tell me what you want.”
The air in the photo booth is heavy. The look in Allie’s eyes as she looks up at Dean now is heavier. Searching – for what, exactly, he has no idea. But there’s something else too. Something that makes them drop from his face until he says her name again.
“Allie Cat.”
His knuckles brush her side, just the faintest touch as her eyes lift back to meet his own, flick to his lips, then dart back up again. Dean keeps his voice steady and doesn’t look away when he nods encouragingly and whispers, “Tell me what you want.”
Allie’s breath is shaky, unsure, and her words come out in a rush, “This is not a relationship, okay? No strings, no feelings, just sex.”
“Just fucking kiss me,” falls between them as their lips crash together.
Dean melts right into Allie’s mouth, curls his long fingers against the curve of her hip and draws her closer. Her hands are small but warm as they move to his cheek, the back of his neck, then along his jaw. Nothing exists outside this small box as she presses against him, turning his face away. His mouth immediately descends on her neck, nibbling as her cool rings brush his heated skin.
Her breath in his ear is hot as she rasps, “Meet at mine in an hour.”
Allie’s gone before Dean can catch his breath. Before he can register that he’s alone in this booth. Before he can figure out why there’s an ache in the pit of his stomach even though he got what he wanted.
Dean bites his lip and breathes in the scent of strawberries that hangs in the air around him. The ache loosens. Loosens a little more as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip and tastes her chapstick.
He watches the curtain separating him from the rest of his friends sway and feels his slow smile push away the last of that lingering ache.
Because, hands shaking on the bar and exhilaration in her eyes, she’s still strapped in right beside him. Ready for their next ride.
Summer, by definition, is sunshine and happiness and fucking rainbows. She’s also the biggest pain in Dean’s ass.
She steals his stuff, flirts with his friends, and invades his space any chance she gets. She spends the summer before her senior year making heart eyes at Beau every time he’s over. She tags along to practices and games and parties, and Dean just rolls his eyes when he sees Beau blush at something she says before skipping away to terrorize someone else.
The shift in the air when he visits over spring break is abrupt. The condo is unusually quiet, and when he knocks on Summer’s door and doesn’t hear a snappy, “Fuck off, Dicky,” he feels a weight sink in his stomach.
Summer doesn’t spill until Dean sets the plate of charred cookies in front of her. She scrapes the black off with her nail, wipes her splotchy cheek with the back of her sleeve, and bites down. It’s crunchier than he planned, and Dean flinches, but Summer just chews slowly like the fact that they’re practically ash doesn’t bother her.
She’s three cookies in, with chocolate on her fingers and the corner of one mouth, when she whispers, “We, um, we had sex.”
Her bottom lip trembles, eyes shifting away from her brother. She breaks a piece off another cookie, then lets it fall on the plate between them. Her blue eyes, so much like his own, so much like their mom’s, are wide and wet as they land on his face. She lifts a shoulder, some attempt at casual, and her voice cracks, “He broke up with me. Said we were ‘just having fun.’ But I thought we–”
Dean doesn’t know what expression he makes, but he feels an ache in his jaw. It gets worse when she covers her face with her hands and sobs, “I’m such an idiot.”
Dean doesn’t have a clue what his face looks like right now, but what he does know is that if he ever runs into Hunter fucking Davenport, he’ll kill him.
It’s easy to spot every piece of Allie in this apartment. From the tarot cards on the door to the plants he knows she loves but struggles to keep alive. She’s in every tapestry hanging on the walls, every mismatched blanket dangling off the back of the couch. He spots her in loose pieces of jewelry tossed into pretty bowls and left scattered on the counter. Tiny fairy lights, vintage lamps, and memoirs of famous actresses. Like Allie herself, the stuff she keeps has drama in the best way.
Dean loves to watch her, it’s true.
When he whispers, “Touch yourself,” and she does.
When she dances and the entire room becomes about her.
When she’s missing every single note during Karaoke.
When she gets on stage and performs a fucking monologue about how shitty her boyfriend is in bed.
When she stands in her doorway in maroon underwear she picked out just for him.
Allie likes to watch him too, he’s noticed. She isn’t shy about it either, just lets her eyes skim down his body as he kicks off his underwear and lays her back on the couch. Her hand is warm when it wraps around him, pumping slowly as she teases, “I like your disguise. Very undercover superhero.”
“Y-yeah?” he licks his lips and reaches for the sunglasses he’d tossed on the coffee table.
“Yeah,” she giggles when he slides them back on, reaching up to adjust them on his face, and then drops her head back against the couch with a whine.
Sex with Allie is fun.
It’s not the unpredictability. Or the secrecy of it all. It’s just… her.
Her laughter when she digs her nails into his ass cheek and he totally loses his rhythm. Her moans when he finds that spot right below her ear with his tongue. The way her fingers go soft against his jaw sometimes and then poke him right between the ribs just to fuck with him. She pulls his hair; he pulls hers. He bites; she bites harder.
He slows things down, rolling his hips through every creak of the couch. Allie arches her back, giggles a little when Dean’s mouth falls open, and then moans when his teeth find her collarbone. He nudges the strap of her bra out of his way with his nose, then breathes her in, kisses going gentle.
It’s easy, sometimes, to forget what this is.
Allie tells him again and again, and he knows. But then he’s gripping her thigh at his side, and he’s rocking into her, and he’s laughing, and she’s dragging his sunglasses back off his face and fuck, he just… forgets.
He slides his hand around the back of her neck, and she opens her mouth for his kiss. And he forgets.
Dean lies behind her on the couch, half draped over her because he doesn’t quite fit. He’s surrounded by the scent of strawberries and the sound of her laugh. His lips are on her neck, her tiny hand in his, their fingers playing.
And he fucking forgets.
Dean sends his little sister off to her first year of college with a promise that she’ll call him if another boy even thinks about breaking her heart. She rolls her eyes, gives him a loud huff, and then squeezes him a little too tight, “I promise, Dicky.”
Then adds in a cheeky tone, “And you’ll call me next time Beau’s single, right?”
“Fuck off,” he laughs.
He doesn’t call Summer when he gets outskated by Hunter during open tryouts. He does shove the kid into the boards, though, when he offers his hand and says, “Good game, man,” in that smug tone of his.
It doesn’t matter that Dean mentored Hunter all of last summer. That they’d spent countless hours together on the ice or hanging out at the house while the kid made eyes at his sister. That Dean had just rolled his eyes fondly when Hunter asked so sincerely if Summer was single.
Dean gets real close then, nose-to-nose, and hisses, “You stay the hell away from me, from my team, and from my fucking sister.”
He’s still hyped up on adrenaline that night when he lets the girl drag him into her dorm room. The feel of her lips is familiar. The touch of her skin too. They’re not quite friends; they don’t know enough about each other to be friends. But they’ve done this before. Here. At the house. In the bed of Logan’s truck once, though Logan doesn’t know that.
She’s hot, tall, and apparently has as much energy to kill tonight as he does. She pushes him against the door, a little too hard maybe, and he just grins, chasing the taste of cheap beer on her tongue. She shoves his cardigan off and slides her hand up the bottom of his tank top.
His elbow is bruised from a spill on the ice. He hisses when she presses herself against him and it bangs against the door frame. And just like that, the clouds clear in his mind until he sees Hunter’s smug face instead. Summer’s red-rimmed eyes. Hears his sister – always the center of attention, always the lightest person around – her voice smaller than he’s ever heard it, “He broke up with me. Said we were ‘just having fun.’ But I thought we–”
“H-hey, hey, hey,” Dean pants hard as he grabs the girl’s arms. Her lips are on his jaw, making a steady path toward his ear, but Dean pulls her back with an almost desperate, “Wait, wait, stop.”
She does, though she looks a little put out. Her eyes are green, seeming lighter somehow in the dark of her bedroom, “What? What’s wrong?”
“I, uh,” he runs a hard through his hair and shoots her an unsteady smile, “shit. Sorry, I… I’m, I’m good. I just–”
“Just..?”
He huffs a laugh and squints into the dark of her room before meeting her eye again, “You’re hot. And I’m hot. And this,” he gestures between them, “is hot.”
“Uh huh,” she agrees. Her lips curve up into a grin as she steps into his space again. “And we’re stopping, why?”
Dean wets his mouth, eyeing hers, but he keeps his hands on her arms, keeps the distance between them, “Look, we’ve done this a lot, and it’s great every time. Really,” he adds, brows furrowing a little when she laughs.
“Yeah, Dean, we’ve established we have good se–”
“Great sex,” he corrects immediately.
“Getting less great by the minute,” she tells him, but she at least looks a little amused.
He thinks of his little sister again, about mixed signals, about broken hearts, and he straightens a little, annoyingly sober when he says, “We both know what this is, right?”
Green eyes narrow and a dark brow rises slowly, “What, you think I went looking for a boyfriend and ended up with you? Dean, be so real right now.”
Running a hand down his face, Dean groans. He peeks at her through his fingers and smiles sheepishly, “Shit. It’s not…” he huffs a breath and rolls his shoulders back. “I’m just trying to make sure we’re on the same page.”
With a laugh, she raises her brow a little higher, “We’re on the same page; this is just fun. I mean, come on, Dean–”
She playfully backs him into the wall again, one hand settling over his chest as her lips hover close to his, “If I was looking for a boyfriend, you are the absolute last person I would call.”
Something ticks in his jaw just before their lips meet. Her tongue slides over his, teasing and slow, and after a moment he gives it right back.
“Nah, Dean,” she keeps their lips close, fingers digging into the material of his shirt when she murmurs, “what you are is a trip to Six Flags. And I really, really want my ride.”
“I’ve got a shift in an hour,” Allie reminds him as she tangles her hand into his hair. Together they stumble up a couple steps, her hand disappearing beneath his shirt as he hauls her up. Her mouth finds his neck, biting at his racing pulse as she crosses her ankles behind his back.
In three weeks they’ll be locked in a car with Beau to keep them apart. But today, the house is miraculously empty for an hour or two. Garrett and Hannah are on a date, Logan’s off helping some girl fix her mini fridge or her car, maybe? – Dean was only half listening because Jlo was letting him know when she was leaving Malone’s – and Tucker’s… well, Dean doesn’t have a fucking clue where Tucker is. Off making a casserole somewhere, probably. But he’s taking the blissful quiet at face value.
He hisses into Allie’s mouth when one heel digs into his lower back, but it melts into a grin when she grinds her hips against his, “God, you’re fucking impatient.”
The brow she raises and the perfect purse of her lips has him laughing as he clears the stairs and kisses her, “Nice and fast, baby. I got it.”
Dropping her onto his bed, he grins at her squawk of protest. He knocks the door shut with his foot and laughs when her white sneaker smacks him in the ass as he locks the door. She tosses the other one too when he glances back at her over his shoulder.
“You’re a brat,” he says as he turns to face her.
Allie just smiles, all pretty pink lips and mischief, and points at his shirt wordlessly; Dean doesn’t bother to pretend to protest. He drags it over his head in one smooth motion and tosses it at her face. She catches it, letting it drop into her lap as she scoots herself back on the bed.
Dean snatches a lighter from the ashtray next to the bed and turns away to grab one of the candles she’d brought over last time. Behind him, he hears the rustle of the bed as Allie slips out of her shirt. It hits the floor at his feet, and he grins, bending to get it.
He winces a bit at the ache deep in his muscles and snags her shirt with his middle finger. Straightening, he hears a breath and then, “Holy shit, Dean…”
Dean doesn’t even have time to wonder what’s got Allie so freaked before he hears the bed creak and feels cool fingers against his lower back. The skin is sensitive, so he winces even though there’s no real pressure.
Allie makes this quiet noise in her throat that has Dean trying to see her over his shoulder. He smiles when he mostly gets a face full of hair instead, “Al, it’s fine. I just took a hit at the game last night.”
“A hit? You’re beat to shit,” she whispers.
Dean shivers as her breath fans across his skin. His eyes flutter when he feels her lips next, “Allie…”
“Doesn’t it hurt?” she asks as the tip of one finger slowly traces the shape of the bruise.
“Nah, can’t even really feel it,” he lies, turning his head again to try and see her. All he gets is the top of her head, so he glances at the mirror across the room instead. She’s already watching him, eyes not leaving his in the mirror as she presses another kiss against his skin.
The bruise isn’t that big, but it is pretty gnarly, nestled between his spine and the lower middle of his back. Lips against the purple of his skin, she raises a brow at him in the mirror, “Do I need to worry about finding anything weird in the freezer?”
Dean can’t quite parse that statement, brows furrowing, “Freezer? I mean, Tuck’s probably got all kinds of shit in there. Like… frozen vegetables and a million pounds of marinated steak. He made these weird, healthy popsicles out of beets a few weeks back; they weren’t half bad,” he admits. Then grins to himself, “Something dippable, probably. Why?”
She presses her cheek to his back, and he catches her try to hide a smile when he asks, “You hungry or something?”
“Four athletes live in this house,” she says, stepping back. Two of her fingers dip into the waist of his pants, but all she does is give him a small tug backward before passing right past him to unlock the door, “Presumably, you have ice packs?”
She makes him lie on his stomach, and he feels her smile against his shoulder when he squeals at the first touch of the ice pack. She presses her lips against his skin and mutters, “Just when I was starting to get impressed by how you’re handling this, you go and sound like that.”
Dean just smiles into the sheet bunched beneath his cheek.
He drifts off to the gentle brush of her fingers against his spine and wakes with their noses touching. He drags the tip of his nose against hers and smiles when she groans and mutters, “That tickles,” without even an attempt to put space between them.
He moves slowly, brushing the curls from her face until he can see the sleepy slits of brown already watching him. She blinks, but her eyes barely open. Dean smiles and slides one thumb over her brow before glancing at the dark starting to creep through the window. Shit, he frowns, wincing as he shifts up onto his elbow, “Don’t you have work?”
“I told Della I was sick,” she admits.
“You told Della you were sick,” he repeats, and he tries to school the grin crawling across his face, he really does. He fails. “So, you can stay here and nap with me.”
“This is just a one-time-thing,” she rasps, rolling her eyes even as she leans her cheek against his warm shoulder. Her lips brush his skin and her eyes flutter a little, half asleep still, when she adds, “Because you’re injured.”
Dean rides the high of Allie’s kiss, of her naked skin against his own, of her hair splayed out on the couch like a fucking mermaid, of her giggle as she kicked him to the curb with one shoe on and his hat ready to fall off his head. Even when the unanswered texts and excuses start to pile high. Even when he realizes it’s been two weeks since he last saw her. Even when he watches the text bubble pop up and disappear right in front of his eyes.
He pushes down the burning hot question in his belly and rides the high until she tells him, “Just need to lower the stakes a little on us,” and slips out his window without even a kiss.
He doesn’t get past the initial smirk and wink with the first girl. He passes her a beer, leans onto the counter, and feels his grin slip when the breeze through the open door blows the scent of her lavender shampoo in his direction.
Girl number two is someone he knows around campus. A volleyball player with legs any man would be happy to have wrapped around their hips. He catches her eye across the room at the same party. The light reflects her hair, blonde with a peek of red shining through, and Dean doesn’t even make it across the room.
He finishes two beers before he chats up number three, but there’s not even the beginnings of a spark. She brushes her hand through his hair, bites her lip, and pushes up on her tiptoes to kiss him. And he doesn’t feel a Goddamn thing.
And okay. Dean’s the first one to run a fucking Zamboni across the counter when someone spills beer. The first one to leave his door open when he’s hooking up even though Graham’s gonna give him shit about it later. And, sure, occasionally he forgets to hide the pink vibrating sex toy when someone barges into the bathroom. He likes to have a good time, and he’s not shy about it.
But Dean’s not as fucking stupid as he looks.
And Allie, well, she’s pretty much the easiest person in the world to like.
But somehow it still knocks the air out of him when Beau just says it. Like it’s obvious and Dean’s a fucking dumbass for only just now admitting it.
“Dude, you like Allie.”
It would be easy, textbook even, for Dean to deny it. To give the laundry list of all the reasons that Beau’s wrong – most of which center Allie’s insistence that every time is the last time – but he doesn’t. Because the list of all the reasons Beau’s right is a hell of a lot longer.
It features the way he loves running his fingers through Allie’s wild curls, the way she makes him smile when she rolls her eyes at him, the way he likes it when she brushes her lips over his dimple during sex, the way he likes it even more after. The way she loses herself in her characters when she’s acting and how she looks sexy when she dances, even when she’s flailing around and being silly. The way it hurts every time she walks away, but it feels so damn good when she comes back. The way earning a genuine smile from her is so much better for his mood than any party he’s ever been to.
And yet –
“No. No, that’s… No.”
He laughs, but he feels the crack in it. And he knows from the look on Beau’s face that he catches it too, “She wants Six Flags.”
Beau’s smile is playful – the same boyish glint now as the day Dean met him – as he eyes Dean across the table and asks, “Am I supposed to know what that means?”
And just as Dean’s mind has wrapped itself around the fact that Allie’s planning to sleep with someone else, that it might just make him sick if she does, it’s Beau who brings him back to earth. Who looks him in the eye and, without even a shred of insincerity says, “You’re fucking awesome, D. I know that. She know that. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be hooking up with you.”
Dean pretends his eyes aren’t burning as the breath he releases collapses his stiff shoulders. If Beau notices – and Beau definitely notices – he doesn’t tease him for it. Instead, he just looks Dean in the eye and says, “So, stop being chicken shit, and tell her how you feel.”
Dean doesn’t even finish his beer before he’s heading outside to call Allie.
After that first taste, strapped in next to his big brother at the top of the world, Dean never quite makes it back to the ground. He rides the rickety tracks, takes the smooth turns, and when the cart threatens to buckle, he just holds on tighter for the next ride. He learns to loosen his grip when the wheels go wobbly, to tilt himself away when the whole thing tips. Learns when to whoop and scream, when to bite his tongue. When to make himself bigger; he’s never been particularly good at making himself small. And each time, he arrives at the front of the line with a smile larger than the last.
The Briar Hawks win the game, but Dean’s been sitting at the top of the hill long before the win, belly doing flipflops as he stares down the tracks to the finish line. To Allie.
Dean practically rocks on his stool at the bar. Beside him, Beau and Tucker are going back and forth about something – the game they’ve just won, maybe? some hot girl one of them noticed? a new recipe Tucker wants to try out? – and around them, the rest of the team, their friends, and some of Beau’s teammates laugh and drink and drop into cheers about the game.
But Dean can’t hear a thing now that Allie’s in his sights.
He doesn’t mean to put his hand on her lower stomach; it’s like his body has a mind of its own. Every piece of him just gravitates right toward her the second she’s in a room. That pull drags him across Malone’s to her side, drags his hand to her stomach, and forces him to stick both arms behind his back to make fighting temptation easier as he follows her to a table.
Her smile as they talk about Garrett and Hannah is the same one she gave him across the chessboard as he told her about his family. The one he’d watched drop from her face at Karaoke and Drunk Shakespeare while telling everyone about Sean and how little faith he had in her and dreams.
“I get it now,” he says, settling his hands on the table to stop them from reaching for her. “You love, love. That’s what you said you wanted, right? That night at the fire pit.”
Nerves burn hard in the center of his stomach, spreading like wildfire through his veins as he struggles to contain his smile, “So, I came here to tell you that, uh…” He looks for the words, shakes his head against all the mushy things that suddenly want to come spilling out of his mouth, and says instead, “I didn’t complete the assignment.”
“What?” Allie shakes her head. She’s still smiling, but there’s this bewildered expression in her eyes. This small confusion in the crease of her brows, “Why?”
This is the part where Dean loses his cool, where his nerves win. Where he decides that one good ride really is all he’s worth. This is the part where he tucks himself away behind, “I like being the casual sex guy,” and never quite finds a way out. Where he rides the roller coaster backwards and his neck aches with the whiplash of taking it all back.
Except… Dean doesn’t do any of that. He hears Beau in his ear with, “You’re fucking awesome, D.”
Hears Allie’s soft, “It’s just me.”
Hears, “Is it?”
The cart starts to roll down the hill, catching speed as Dean stares into chocolatey eyes and tells himself to be brave. He goes around a loop, feels his stomach go all light and heavy at once. Knows that any second the cart he’s on might just fall off the tracks completely.
But it also might just be the best ride of his life.
So, instead, he just tells the damn truth for once, “Because I like you. I like us.”
Allie’s eyes move rapidly across his face. They dart, like they’re cataloguing every line, every expression. And slowly, the smile starts to slip off her lips.
Dean’s quick though, reads her hesitation, and says slowly – carefully, “I know that’s not what we said, but I was, I was hoping–”
“Hey, no, Dean. You can’t,” Allie straightens up, and there’s something new in her eyes now. Separate from the guilt of moving on from Sean too quickly and the fear of being caught, being judged. Different from the insecurity of wondering what kind of girl she really is, what kind of girl she wants to be.
Dean doesn’t quite know how to read this expression, so he just smiles and lifts a shoulder, “And yet, I am.”
“No, I mean, like,” and Allie sounds almost desperate now, like there’s something else in the words she’s saying, and she just needs him to get it so she doesn’t have to say it out loud, “you have to complete the assignment. Because–”
She stops, mouth slipping into a smile that feels more compulsory than real.
“Because why?” He challenges.
Because this is a one-time-thing. Because Sean. Because Hannah and Garrett and all their friends. Because it’s too fast. Because it’s too good. Because, because, because –
Because Dean’s riding this thing straight to the top, and the only damn way it ends is if Allie tells him that this, this thing, between them means nothing to her, that he means nothing to her.
“Because I did.”
The sound drops out of the room first. The air goes heavy, sticking in his lungs. And his heart hits the bottom of his stomach, a weight settling solid.
Dean stares at Allie, but it’s like he’s suspended in the air, hanging there in his too tight shoes as gravity tugs him slowly from the cart. From the bar. From her.
The hands that have been gripped tight around the table to keep from touching her, they’re still now. Flat on the table between them as Beau comes bounding over. He’s all golden retriever energy and great vibes, ginning as he sets the drinks between them, “Okay, somebody tell me why we aren’t drinking over here.”
Dean barely hears him over the rush in his ears and the tunnel vision locked right onto Allie’s face.
Her face is like a reverse mirror of his own, dark eyes going wide when his blue ones drop into small, slow blinks. Her lips falling open as he feels his lock into a thin line. Her brows lifting in panic as his drop in pain.
“I swear, it didn’t mean anything,” she doesn’t hesitate, even with Beau there to hear it all, to be witness to this thing between them cracking in half. Dean can’t even appreciate it, not when every word out of Allie’s mouth makes him slip a little further. Not when his eyes are burning and his chest is aching despite the regret he hears – there’s a voice in his head telling him he invented it, that he hears regret because he wants so fucking badly for her to be with him on this – and he’s so far from solid ground that it just might be true, “I – Joanna set me up with this guy, like a total stranger at a bar.”
“Oh, shit,” Beau breathes.
Dean doesn’t breathe at all. Not until –
“Allie is that who you–?”
The smug son of a bitch is grinning when he comes through the door of Dean’s favorite bar. Clapping hands with Dean’s friends. Laughing with Dean’s teammates.
Sleeping with Dean’s –
“Him?!” he barks as he twirls back to face Allie.
She flounders, the words coming unsteady, jumbling a little as she looks from him to Beau and back again. But Dean doesn’t hear what she says. He sees her mouth move and hears:
“This is a one-time-thing.”
“Nah, Dean, what you are is a trip to Six Flags.”
“If I was looking for a boyfriend, you are the absolute last person I would call.”
“You said this wasn’t a date.”
“This is not a relationship, okay? No strings, no feelings, just sex.”
Somehow his name breaks through, some unnatural mix of Beau’s and Allie’s voices that he tunes out as he stomps across Malone’s, already snarling, “The fuck are you doing here?”
Hunter’s smug. Grinning even as Dean gets close; he’s bigger, stronger, but Hunter… doesn’t care. He just smirks, “I heard your team needs saving.”
“Yeah? Get the fuck out,” Dean’s throat is tight. His eyes are burning. His fingers are clenched, aching from how tight he holds his fist.
He wants to look away, to look at anyone – or anything – else, but he can smell Hunter’s cologne. Realizes he hasn’t smelled strawberries once since Allie walked in. Hears the bob of his own throat more than the words out of his own mouth.
He wonders if Hunter was a one-time-thing. If Allie gave him her number. If she took him back to her place in the light and let Hannah see who she was with.
He wonders if she got dressed up for him. If she gave him that coy smile she always gives him. If she kissed him on the way out. If she lingered just a little too long with her hand on the back of his head.
Dean shoves the image – and Hunter – hard. He crooks his fingers at him and hisses, “I’d like to see you fucking try!=”
“Get the fuck out of my face,” Hunter shoves him back with hands that have touched Allie. His Allie. And the rest – Hunter’s back hitting the bar, his teammates dragging them apart, the swing that leaves Dean’s lip bloody, and the one that blackens Hunter’s eye – is a blur.
Hands drag them apart again and again, and Dean doesn’t stop swinging until Garrett’s shoving him hard onto the grass outside. He puts a hand on Dean’s chest and hisses, “Man, fucking stop! What’s gotten into you?”
“Dean!”
Allie stands at the door, Beau at her back, but it’s Beau who speaks, “Shit, man, are you okay?”
Dean doesn’t look at Beau though. It’s Allie, with her shiny eyes and trembling lips. She opens her mouth like she’s going to speak but closes it the second her eyes land on Garrett.
And, right... he’s her dirty little secret.
Garrett hasn’t even looked up yet, hasn’t moved his hand from Dean’s chest, just presses him harder when he feels his breathing pick up. Behind him, Allie bites her lip and doesn’t say a word.
“Get off me,” Dean mutters. He pushes Garrett’s hand, pushes harder to stand when Garrett just keeps his grip, “I said get off me!”
Stumbling back a step as he gets his feet under him, Dean wipes his knuckles across his lip and brings it away bloody. From the corner of his eye, he sees Beau headed his way, but Dean just holds up his hand. He doesn’t even say a word, but Beau stops in his tracks, head turning back to Allie in the doorway of Malone’s.
Dean doesn’t look at her though. He can’t. Not with the image of her and Hunter that builds every time his eyes land on her. Not when he suddenly understands what, “Just need to lower the stakes a little on us” actually meant. Not when, “We need to sleep with other people,” actually just meant she wanted to.
Love, in Dean’s experience – not that Dean’s got much in the way of experience – is like an old, out of service roller coaster. It’s rickety, held together with rusted bolts that slip further and further out of socket with each ride. It starts, as all rides do, smooth, a little dangerous, fun. But one day, the bolts rust, the wheels lock up, and you step off with a nasty case of whiplash.
And eventually –
Dean meets Allie’s eyes over Beau’s shoulder as Garrett gives him one last pat on the chest before going back inside to get Hannah. Allie takes a slow step forward, then freezes as the door to Malone’s opens and half the team comes pouring out. Hunter is amongst them, smug smirk tossed at Dean, and when he looks back toward Allie, she’s disappeared back inside.
– everyone wants off the ride.