High by @((Y^!@ Allyvia (motivational novels for students txt) 📕

The feeling of Lucy's breath on his neck stopped him cold, despite the wrongness of it all. She was suddenly so close, he could kiss her if he wanted. Which, he really wanted... Realizing she was on her tip toes, he smiled.  

"Nick," she insisted, hugging him, her head resting on her shoulder, "thank you. I... I really need this."

'I know,' he wanted to say. 'I don't know why you write those things on your arm, or why you act so happy to see me one moment, and then put up a barrier between us, but I know.'

Instead, he simply smiled and hugged her back, loving the feeling of her body pressed against his. He wasn't gong to ruin this by saying something stupid, he decided, and simply took her hand and let her lead him to the front door.

~~~

 The party was destitute when Kingsley finally caught up with Lucy. She had shown up sometime after eleven, with Nick Keating in tow, like he was a fucking puppy dog. The thought made the drunken Kingsley sick. Amanda-- so drunk she was stumbling into him and hanging off him and taking cups from random strangers only to have Kingsley rip them from her hand, insisting they could be drugged or something-- thought 'Nix and Lucy were like fucking God and M&Ms!', before passing out on the couch.

Only after everyone left did Kingsley actually manage to sit down and talk with his sister amongst the mess of empty cups and condom wrappers and vomit and many other disgusting things that littered the living room. Despite Slater's insistance that it was no big deal, and he and his brother could have it cleaned up by the morning, everyone besides Amanda, who could hardly sit up, began cleaning up.

Green Day lulled from the speakers, quiet so no one gained a roaring headache in the process of wiping up vomit, and everyone was silently picking up stuff in disgust, with the occassional joke and giggle from Amanda. The halls and bedrooms and living room were finally empty, and everyone had decided to just crash in the living room until the morning, knowing Amanda's mother would kill her ten times over if she so much as caught a whiff of alcohol on her daughter.

"So," Kingsley drawled, as they scrubbed an odd stain from the carpet, glancing at Lucy as she gathered up the last of the empty cups, "what's Keating doing?"

Lucy, looking over her shoulder to see him holding Amanda's hair back as she violently vomitted into the garabage can Slater had left out of common courtesy, smiled. "He's helping your girlfriend while she pukes her brains out. What did you let her drink, anyways?"

 Kingsley rolled his eyes and glared at her. "First of all, she's not my girlfriend. She tagged here with the rest of the Bulldrag squad. Second, she drank anything from Schanpps and Jack Daniels to the crappy flat beer Slater's brother had snagged us. For a lightweight," he said thoughtfully, almost as though he admired her for the fact, "she held a lot of her liqour. And thirdly, I meant what is he doing here?" 

 "Nick," Amanda hissed, her words slurring as she reached blindly for his face, making everyone look over at her, "Amy wants to suck your dick. Like, crazy hard. She told me not to tell you...-" Cutting off from an attack of giggles and hiccups, she fell into a heap on the couch.

"What," Nick chuckled, looking amused and confused, not quite believing the drunken bulimic. He looked around the living room, as if Kingsley, Slater, and Lucy could confirm the fact.

"Yeah. She, like, loves you," Amanda continued, an awkward, pregnant silence blooming in the air. Kingsley grinned despite himself, finding it all annoyingly amusing. Lucy felt her face flush, when Nick glanced over at her, and Slater just cheered.

"Blowjobs are like Christmas," he laughed, higher than any astornaut dared to travel. He and Amanda looked at each other, before erupting in laughter.

"Amy... Amy likes me," Nick asked, as though the piece of old news wasn't registering. Amanda nodded and twirled her hair absently.

"Since, like, forever. She had this plan to get you to go to the boardwalk with her, to like hook up. But you left her for Lucy, which was so dickish... Is anyone else really thirsty? Kingsley! Kinglsey," she cried, her eye growing round as she crawled off the couch and tumbled towards him, "will you please get me something to drink? I'm really thirsty."

Nick looked lost; very, deeply hurt. Lucy, standing and brushing off her knees, walked over to him. Crouching down to his level, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Nick?"

"Jesus... that bitch! Matt's... Matt's my best friend," he cried, angrily snapping at Lucy and making her flinch. He stood, brushing off his hands, and ran his fingers through his hair. "Why would she do that to Matt?!"

"'Cause she's a bitch," Kingsley offered, only to recieve a warning glare from Lucy.

 "Kingsley, that's rude, Amy is Nix's friend-"

"No, he's right," Nix agreed, angrily chewing his lip. What, in God's name, made Amy think Nick would ever like her? Sure, he loved her, like a sister, but he would never be in love with her. Just the thought made him feel sick.

"So...," Amanda drawled, looking around the room, "no one's going to get my water?"

~~~

 He was five again. He wore his favorite duck-print pajamas, with the little feet at the bottom. He remembered crying about something, although every dream was different. Sometimes, he was crying because of the sprinkles on the floor; sometimes it was because it was too early for her naptime.

He waddled through the halls of his house, everything so tall and big compared to his little hands and feet. The bottoms of his feetie pajamas clicked against the shiny dark wood floors, all the way to the bathroom.

He couldn't-- wouldn't-- forget what he saw. Memories of baths and bubbles and squeaky rubber ducks quickly went down the drain. She lay on the floor, looking so peaceful, the smell of blood lingering in the air. Her head was bleeding. It pooled around her dark curls, matting her hair against the back of her head.

"Mom," he'd whisper. He couldn't see her face; it was covered by her hair. He remembered her face well enough: dry, cracked lips, bloody hair, eyes so lifeless and grey. Her skin was grey, not the Snow White blush he was used to. She used to have blue eyes; black hair. Pushing the locks behind her ear, he realized he wasn't looking at his mother.

"Lucy," he whispered, the horror registering on his face, his voice cracking. Suddenly, he was seventeen, not five. He still wore the feetie pajamas, which fit his body. Looking down at the pooling blood and dark hair again, he blinked. No, the woman on the floor had brown eyes, not blue. Her skin was golden, but still freezing. It wasn't his mother-- it was Lucy.

Kingsley shot up from the couch, feeling the limp, heavy weight of Amanda's head on his chest, his heart beating so fast and his face sweating. His stomach was twisting around inside of him, like he needed to vomit. He wanted to vomit.

It had been a dream. He had been dreaming.

Looking around, he realized everyone else was asleep, curled up close to each other on the floor. Lucy's faint snore made his heart return to beating, relief flooding through him. He glanced down at his clothes, thinking of the duck pajamas, thinking of the blood on the floor.

He hadn't had that dream in years; almost ten years since the last.

Her name was Anna, his mother. She had black hair, ebony and glossy, and eyes like electricity. Anna Banana, her husband called her, laughing and kissing her neck while she danced and swayed with him in the dim light of the dining room. Anna you bitch, her husband called her, anger and horror and fright seething off him and holding their son tight to his chest while she threatened to 'do it! I'll pull the damn trigger one day, you wait!' in the bright lights of the boy's bedroom.

Her husband was a handsome, successful man. The ebony-haired beauty didn't fit into his world. She was a mess, a beautiful, crazy, sad mess; he was the box in which most people tried to think out of.

Her eyes would go glassy, and she would be happy. A sip of something that tasted like rubbing alcohol and she was the belle of the ball, despite how she tipped and tripped and tipsied her way around the dance floors and parties and family gatherings. Anna was dark. Darker than night when she drank, brighter than the stars when she smoked those funny smelling cigarettes and took her happy pills. She had tried to explain it to her son, but he would ask why she needed pills to make her happy. She told him she was trapped, like those mice in the mouse-traps in the basement.

And then, one day, she wasn't trapped anymore. Her eyes were gone, no more ice-blue sparkle, and her skin was chilling against the tile floor of the bathroom. The little white and yellow and blue pills around her looked like the sprinkles on a cupcake. Her son had found her; he had been five. It was the reason why Kingsley, at seventeen, still hated cupcakes.

Amy woke up the next morning in an unfamiliar t-shirt, in an unfamiliar bed, with an unfamiliar body pressed against hers. Moles dotted his back, like little stars and constellations, and his-- whoever he was-- breathing was even and slow. Awkwardly sitting up and peeking over the unfamiliar shoulder, she found herself looking at Darin.

Darin Brighton, the guy from the gallery. Naked. Lying in bed next to her. Amy blinked, trying to process what exactly happened the night before.

She barely remembered hailing a cab for her and Darin, and going to some hole-in-the-wall pub. She faintly remembered him buying her beer, which she guzzled like a truck driver, and her hair falling out of its twist into fiery strands. She sort of remembered the Irish band playing in the background, and dancing barefoot throughout the club, people cheering and laughing and joining in. She definitely remembered when Darin took her hand and danced her around the bar like some drunken princess, asking if she wanted to go back to his place.

The rest of the night brought the dull thudding of a headache with it, although Amy could put two and two together. She slept with a random guy- she had had her first one-night stand. New to the walk of shame, Amy slipped out of the bed, despite the warmth it offered.

 Gathering her ugly dress in one hand and her heels in the other, she turned just in time to see Darin sitting up in bed, his muscular arms stretching across the headboard. His muscles were enough to make her climb back into that bed.

"Morning," he murmured, a sleepy smile tugging at his features, his voice gruff and sexy with drowsiness. Amy, almost dropping her things at the sight of his toned, tan stomach muscles and large biceps, stood like a deer in the headlights.

"M-Morning," she managed,