Tenure

12. Kiernan

12

Kiernan

Music is pounding, my hips swaying to the beat. Sweat is pouring down the back of my neck, and I wish someone would open a window. Maybe it’s just all the tequila shots. Whatever.

Someone’s hands are on me, their mouth on my neck, and for once I don’t give a shit.

Why not? Who fucking cares? What have I been waiting for?

I grind backwards into his hips, trying to remember who I was dancing with. They all look the same, the hockey lot. And none of them are who I want.

“Your ass is vibrating,” he yells into my ear.

I don’t know what that means. Is that like your ass is fire?

Jesus, I’m really wasted.

“Your phone?”

Oh.

I reach into the pocket of my jean skirt and pull it out but frown, the digits all swimming together, my vision blurry.

I decline the call and stick it back in my pocket.

“You want to get some air?”

Oh. It’s Graham. I’m dancing with Graham.

He takes my hand, and I follow him outside to a roaring campfire that has definitely been being fed by frat boys with too much firestarter on their hands.

“Where is everyone?” I ask. I’m slurring. Even I can hear that I’m slurring. My phone starts buzzing again, and I send it to voicemail without even looking, trying not to stand too close to the raging inferno, my head tipped back to stare at the stars.

“So pretty . . .”

“Yeah,” Graham says, cupping my cheek.

I open my mouth to say something, but his lips are on mine so fast I don’t have a chance.

He tastes like beer. And Cheetos.

I try to kiss him back, but my head is swimming, his tongue thick and wet and flopping around in my mouth like a fish. It’s kind of gross. I start to laugh, and he pulls back a little, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“Sorry,” I say, clearing my throat. “Sorry.” I motion for him to try again, and he makes a funny expression, but he leans in and kisses me a second time, his mouth opening wide and his wet tongue flop flop flopping . . .

I snort again, and he shoves me back a little, irritation and embarrassment oozing out of him.

“What’s your problem?”

“Sorry, Graham. I just . . .”

“You’re a fucking bitch, you know that? Get me all worked up and then—”

“Are you seriously about to say what I think you’re about to say?” I snort in earnest. Fuck. This is the kind of shit SJ always used to tell me about when she’d get back from parties. I thought she was exaggerating.

He steps into my space, and a warning bell goes off somewhere in my drunk brain. Fuzzy as everything is, that voice—the voice all girls have—starts shouting at me.

We’re out here alone.

My vision sharpens, and I blink, trying to focus, trying to clear my head. Where exactly am I? Am I actually alone? Who else is here? My heart starts to hammer as he wraps his fingers around my wrist, pulling me towards him.

“You don’t have to kiss me on the mouth to keep me happy,” he says, shoving my hand to his dick.

“Fuck off,” I say firmly, but he doesn’t let go.

“Come on, Kiernan. What’s the problem?”

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to handle this. I’ve never been in this situation . . . I feel like if I shook him off, he’d swear at me but leave me alone. He’s not advancing, not pressing himself any farther into my space. But something in my brain is paralyzing me, keeping me from shoving him away, shutting me down from doing or saying anything to protect myself.

He seems to take my freeze as an invitation and kisses me again, but this time I gag a little, the taste of beer and Cheetos mingling with tequila and stress and the spins.

The gag seems to do it for him because he pulls me harder into him, fingers grabbing at my waist, reaching underneath my skirt . . .

“No underwear,” he says. “Nice . . .”

“Get off!” I say, my brain finally catching up and shoving at him. But he doesn’t budge, his mouth hot on my neck, one palm gripping my bare ass cheek, the other snaking up underneath my shirt, awkwardly fondling my tit.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

My phone goes off—again—and he pauses, just long enough for me to pull it out and whip it to my ear.

“Hello?” I say into it breathlessly, my stomach churning as I stare Graham down. I’m seeing two of him.

“Fucking bitch,” he says, raising his hands and walking away.

I sink to the ground, knees digging into the damp dewy grass, my phone still in my hand and on my bare thigh. I blink in a daze and raise it back up to my ear.

“. . . okay? Kiernan!”

“Hello?”

I hear a long exhale. “Kiernan, are you okay? What the fuck was that?”

My head is spinning.

“Who is this?” I slur.

A pause. “It’s James.”

“Jamessss?”

“Kiernan, are you drunk?”

“I’d go with wasted. But yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Um . . . not sure. A house party, somewhere.”

Another pause. “Where’s your ride? Who’s taking you home?”

“Don’t have one. Was gonna call an Uber.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he hisses. “Ask someone for the address. Right fucking now.”

“I just need a sec.”

“I said NOW, Kiernan!”

But I hold the phone away from my mouth and vomit all over the lawn.