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Author's Note: It's been a while since I've updated anything, and I apologize. Hopefully this makes up for it. I would hope you'd point out any and all mistakes. As always, reviews are appreciated!

Two| Knowing

The guilt is really starting to set in. The Nightly Double was a bad idea. He's doing that thing with his hands you like, and if he was any better at this—at flicking his tongue against oversensitive areas of skin and causing a euphoric friction beneath his palm—then you'd have to call bullshit. After exactly five minutes and thirty-two seconds of being stretched out and exposed under him, your stamina has deserted you like you knew it would.

You can only remember two or three other times he's had his mouth on you like this, using it for something other than talking. He's apologizing because he knows he's done something wrong, but regardless of how sorry he might be, this is typical. You were expecting it. This is how he keeps you both together—by reminding you why you're with him. As far as you can bring yourself to be concerned, it's for the sex and that's all. Anything else and he might start thinking he means something to you. And you just can't have that.

He'll only get so far before he starts to choke, but you can feel him breathing against your lower stomach, and it just feels so natural. As you fist at his hair, forgetting to breathe, you hate him. He's manipulating you, trying to make you forget why you're so mad at him, and it's working. You thought your mind was made up—you were damn fucking sure of it. You've never been easily swayed, but he has you thinking that maybe you don't need to end anything. Since he wants you all the time, and you want him maybe a third of the time, you could see him when you want him. Save for when it comes to work, but how hard is it to change the shifts you have with him? Pretend like it was the boss's idea. And when the boss asks you why, pretend like you're sick of working all the time. Not that it's any of his business, but you know he'll ask. He's a nosy bastard.

You're acutely aware of the tingling in the pit of your stomach. Your hand splays against the back window while the other winds through grease-slicked locks. He hums, and you whine, letting the muscles in your body clench. You start thanking God that He gave you enough sense to park in the back where it's dark as sin with the windows rolled up. The radio drones out some song, and the way it seems to float over your head reminds you of air. Sticky, humid, summertime air that has a habit of leaving you at three a.m. And you can't sleep when it's cold.

When he presses a spit-slicked finger into you, your body shakes. You grip his other wrist tightly, feeling a flood of incoherent sounds run from your lips. All the solid materials inside of you start to evaporate, melding into a liquid-y substance. It collects between your joints, leaving a sticky residue on the inside of your skin. You're molded to the seat, breathing too fast and saying his name over, and over, and over, letting him know that you hate it when he leaves this until last. You always, always cum too quickly.

This won't be any different. He finds that spot, and as a flood of white washes out your vision, you can't remember why you ever thought there was something wrong. This how it ought to be, with your head thrown back, your shirt bunched up and sticking to you. You ought to be completely wound up like this, knowing that when you're with him, you're godless. And that scares you.

So does the way you let his name fall from your lips. It makes you feel vulnerable, and it reminds you that, for the time being, he's the one in control.

You can't stand it. You yank his hair and grit your teeth, bracing yourself against what should be a sweet release. But like the inside of his mouth it's sour. You can taste him the same way he can taste you, except he swallows. He knows how it twists your insides around when he does that because you think it's disgusting.

Dragging your palms across the seat, you bite on your bottom lip, trying to unclench your muscles. Through half-lidded eyes, with your head cocked slightly to the side, you watch him run his tongue over your hip and give you that infamous grin of his. The same one that's reserved to make girls swoon and guys despise him. He has the audacity to use it on you, and you want to smack the smug look off his face because he knows he caught you off guard. Now you're gawking at him, trying to breathe, watching as he cleans you off—with his sleeve, for crissake—like he's some sort of gentleman.

And even though you want to tell him to stop touching you, you don't. You pull him up to your level and let him slip his hands under your shirt as he kisses you. His fingers trail down your sides, causing you to shiver, and the inside of his mouth is too slick for your liking. It's sticky in some places, and you swear you might start gagging at the way his tongue feels, but instead of pushing him off of you, you breathe against his mouth and fist at the hair on the back of his head. He looks hopeful, like maybe he just won you over and righted his wrong.

The guilt pools and burns in the bottom of your stomach. He rests his head on your chest, and you stare at the ceiling, absently fingering through his hair. You breathe heavily.

"We oughta get goin'." You cringe against the shattered silence, watching beads of condensation roll off the outsides of the windows. Beyond the glass is a black abyss and you don't want to move for fear of shattering that too.

He lifts his head to look at you, scowling because he isn't ready to go home. There's still that race with the Kings and Shepard's boy, and you have yet to get your hands on bottle of anything. "It ain't even twelve yet, Steve."

But you don't care. You've disturbed the universe enough for one night and you just want this all to be over. You could put a stop to everything right this second, but he's looking at you with those liquid eyes, and like the silence and the darkness, you shatter. Grimacing, you push through his hair, wondering when he got so good at whatever it is he's doing. Because that stare is penetrating every wall you've put up like they're nothing. And you can only build yourself up so many times before it starts to get tedious. You're used to this, but not from him.

Shoving him back by his shoulders, you narrow your eyes and set your jaw. "I don't care what goddamn time it is," you growl, pulling your jeans up around your waist, "we're done."

"Can't we go down and see who won?" he asks, leaning against the door. "I bet half my fucking cheque on that race..."

As you crawl into the driver's seat, you mutter something inaudible and grind your teeth together. "If it'll get you to shut the fuck up." And then you down the rest of a half-finished Coke to wash the night's taste from your mouth.

He slides into the passenger's seat and rolls his window down while you grope around for the keys. When you can't find them, he scoffs and shakes his head, turning a disgusted look on you. And you'd feel almost bad if you weren't in this situation.

"What's your problem?" He folds his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow at you. "The keys are in the ignition, Steve."

Of course they are. You wipe your hands on your pants and roll your shoulders, telling yourself to relax. Once you get him home, you can sneak in through Evie's bedroom window and let her take your mind off of him.

"Maybe you should tell me—"

"I don't wanna talk about it." You turn the engine and rub your face, listening to him shift next to you. He shuts the radio off and leans forward, staring hard at the side of your face.

"Steve..."

You're ready to sock him. Break his jaw and leave him here so he can find his own way home and you can forget him faster.

"Ain't it past your fucking bedtime?" You turn your head just enough to glare at him—to let him know that you're not into playing games. "I'm sure your brother's off his ass worrying about you."

Then he gets this look on his face that makes your throat dry and rests his elbow on the dashboard like he's some sort of suave genius.

"I'm sure yours is too," he sneers.

You open the car door and throw up.