Chapter 6: An Odd Request
The text came through on a Tuesday evening, as Bart was trying to focus on debugging a lines-of-code counter for his final project. The phone buzzed against the textbook, a seismic event. He knew the sound.
It was from Val.
> Bex’s asshole boyfriend finally dumped her. Good riddance, but now she’s in a mood. She will literally go pick fights with football players if someone doesn’t take her to the Spring Fling tomorrow. You’re someone. You’re taking her. 7pm. Wear the dark grey pants. Don’t speak unless spoken to.
He stared at the words until they blurred. A dance. A real, school-sanctioned event with crowds and music and… Bex. The blonde Viking with the killer swing and the terrifying strap-on. The memory of it, still un-used but promised, made his stomach clench.
The next twenty-four hours passed in a nauseating blur. He found the dark grey pants. They were slightly too short. He bought a button-down shirt that itched at the collar. When seven o’clock arrived, standing on the manicured lawn of Bex’s suburban house felt like awaiting execution.
The door swung open before he could ring the bell.
She filled the doorway. Her dress was a simple, sleeveless black sheath that did nothing to hide the formidable architecture of her shoulders and legs. Her hair, usually in a messy practice bun, was down in a cascade of white-gold. She looked like a warrior queen slumming it at a mortal function. Her blue eyes, usually bright with mocking laughter, were flat and stormy.
“You’re late,” she said, her voice lacking its usual chaotic energy.
“It’s 7:02,” he squeaked.
“That’s late. Let’s go.” She grabbed a small clutch from a table by the door and brushed past him, not waiting. He scurried after her to her beat-up Jeep. The drive to school was silent, punctuated only by the aggressive shift of gears.
The gymnasium had been transformed. Disco balls spangled light over a sea of shifting bodies. A throbbing, bass-heavy pop song vibrated the polished floor. The air was a cocktail of cheap cologne, sweat, and sugar from the punch bowl. It was everything Bart usually avoided.
Bex strode in as if taking the court for a championship match. Heads turned. Whispers followed. She ignored them all, beelining for a relatively empty space near the bleachers. She didn’t ask him to dance. She just turned to him and started moving, a minimal, rhythmic sway that was less an invitation and more a command.
He stood there, rigid.
“Move your feet, Higgs,” she said, not looking at him.
He tried. It was a clumsy, stiff approximation of motion. They were a bizarre tableau: the glorious, frowning athlete and the twitching, pale stick-figure beside her. He was acutely aware of every glance, every stifled laugh.
“He said I was too much,” she said suddenly, her eyes scanning the crowd over his shoulder. “Too loud. Too intense. That I ‘smothered’ him.” She snorted, a harsh, ugly sound. “He cried after we fucked once. Once. Pathetic.”
Bart didn’t know what to say. “I’m… sorry?”
“Don’t be,” she snapped, her gaze dropping to him. “He was a limp-dick waste of space. But now I feel… cold. I need to feel hot again.” Her hand, which had been at her side, came up and rested on his shoulder. Her grip was firm, grounding, and terrifying. “We’re leaving.”
“Already?”
“I got what I came for. Saw the people. Now I want the other thing.”
She steered him through the crowd, parting it effortlessly. They were back in the Jeep in minutes, the thunderous music fading into the quiet of the night. She didn’t drive to her house. She drove to a secluded overlook at the edge of town, a spot known for make-out sessions and illegal drinking. She killed the engine. The only light came from the dashboard and a distant scatter of town lights below.
“Coach Mills give you a performance review?” she asked, reclining her seat a notch.
Bart flinched. “I… what?”
“We know she kept you after. Val saw her lead you out. We all know what Coach is like. So?” Bex turned her head, her profile sharp in the gloom. “She grade you on a curve?”
The memory of the office, the trophies rattling, was a fresh brand. “She said… she said I was the team’s stress relief.”
Bex let out a short, genuine laugh. “Yeah. That sounds like her. Cold bitch.” She unbuckled her seatbelt with a decisive click. “Well, I’m stressed. And I’m relieved you’re here. Get in the back.”
The interior of the Jeep was a chaotic nest of sports bags, empty water bottles, and cassette tapes. He scrambled over the center console as she followed with a predator’s grace. The space was cramped, filled with the smell of her perfume and synthetic leather.
“You’re still a dirty little pervert, you know,” she said, her voice conversational as she pushed him onto his back across the bench seat. Her knees were on either side of his hips, pinning him. “The towel thing. That’s fucking gross, Higgs.” She wasn’t saying it like Val did, with contempt. She was stating a fact, almost admiringly.
“I know,” he whispered.
“But you’re our gross pervert now. And you’re useful.” Her hands went to the strap of her dress, pulling it down. In the half-light, her body was a series of powerful, smooth plains. She wasn’t gentle. She reached for his belt, yanked his pants down, and positioned herself with a single, practiced motion.
There was no preamble. She sank onto him with a slow, controlled exhale, her head tilting back. “Yeah,” she breathed. “That’s the stuff. Fuck. That idiot never filled me up like this.”
It was different from Coach Mills. There was no clinical detachment. This was raw, hungry need. She used him like a tool, but she was present in it, chasing a feeling, her powerful thighs driving her motions. The Jeep rocked on its suspension. A forgotten water bottle rolled noisily across the floorwell.
“You appreciate this, don’t you?” she grunted, her hands braced on the ceiling. “A girl like me. Using a guy like you. This is your comic book fantasy, right?”
It was. And it wasn’t. The shame was still there, a corrosive undercurrent. But beneath it, under her weight and her heat and her blunt, honest need, was a flicker of something else. A twisted sense of purpose. He was serving a function. He was, for this moment, necessary.
He dared to put his hands on her hips, feeling the muscles coil and release with each movement. She didn’t swat them away.
“I… I appreciate it,” he managed to say.
“Damn right you do,” she said, and then her rhythm broke, becoming faster, less controlled. Her composure cracked. The fierce, angry mask slipped, and what was underneath was just a young woman, hurting and trying to burn the hurt away. She cried out, a sharp, ragged sound that was swallowed by the upholstery and the night outside, her body shuddering around him.
She collapsed forward, her sweat-slicked forehead resting against his chest. She didn’t move for a long minute. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the tick of the cooling engine.
She pushed herself up abruptly, the mask back in place, though it seemed less solid. “My place,” she stated, climbing back into the front seat. “I’m not done. And I’m not doing it all in my fucking car.”
Her bedroom was a shrine to athletic chaos. Medals hung from the bedpost. Dirty laundry formed soft mountains in the corner. She pushed him onto the bed and proceeded to work out the rest of her anger, her frustration, her coldness, until she felt hot again. It went on for hours. Positions changed. Demands were issued, met. She was relentless.
Near three in the morning, spent and slick with sweat, she lay next to him in the dark. She wasn’t touching him, but her shoulder was pressed against his arm.
“You don’t tell the others I cried,” she said, her voice low and rough.
“I didn’t see you cry,” he said, which was almost true. He’d seen something shatter, but tears weren’t part of it.
“Good.” A long pause. “You can sleep. For a little while. Then you’re walking home.”
He stared at the dark ceiling, feeling the ache in every muscle. The dance was over. The night, however, was a continuum he was still trapped inside. He was their stress relief. Their pet. Their secret. And as Bex’s breathing evened out beside him, he understood his function a little bit more. It wasn’t just about humiliation. Sometimes, it was about being the only thing solid enough to hold onto while someone else fell apart.