Late October, 2011. 8:37 P.M.
This is a bad idea, Daphne thinks, but she doesn't care all that much. Half a flask of vodka tends to dull your critical thinking skills.
She's in the backseat of Wilke's Lexus, waiting for the boot guy (who she doubts he ever texted at all) to show up, and she's pretty drunk, but so is the boy underneath her, and all she can think is how hot he is and how much she loves the feel of his lips and his hands on her body. She feels him pull away and barely registers a buzzing in her hearing aids.
"I can't see your lips," she kisses him again, "and I don't wanna talk."
He pulls her face away from him.
"Seriously, you should drink more often."
She laughs, and she thinks he might be right, but she just keeps kissing him, and trying to get her jacket off. His hands slide down her arms and then her jacket's gone, and she's trying to unbutton her shirt but the buttons are so small and her hands feel too clumsy, so she lets him yank at the front until some of them snap off. She does the same with Wilke's shirt, and she's glad because she can finally get her hands on his body, and god, his abs. The streetlamp outside gives her just enough light so she can see what she's working with, so she takes one of his hands and leaves it on the front of her jeans and hopes he gets the message. When she does the same to him, his moan sends a vibration through her body that she wants to feel again and again.
Her hands are all over him, one gripping his shoulder and the other dipping past the waist of his boxers, and his are trying to pull her jeans down but they're too close together for her to move around. She laughs and says she wishes she had worn a skirt today, and in her haze she can make out the words maybe and easier from his lips. She falls onto her backside and is finally able to get her shirt all the way off, and starts wiggling out of her skinny jeans.
"Do you have a condom," she asks him, and he nods and digs around the center console.
When he leans back he tears the blue packet open with his teeth; they both think that's probably not a good idea, but in their inebriation and lust neither really care.
. . .
9:22 P.M.
"You never called the boot guy," she says when it's over and she's putting her underwear back on, "did you?"
"Nah," he shakes his head, and leans over to kiss her one more time, "but I think it might have been worth it."
Daphne texts Emmett to take her home and thirty minutes later she has a helmet strapped to her head, and is waving bye to Wilke through an open car window.