Blaine's eyes are wide, but his nod tight and controlled. He puts his hand on Kurt's wrist, and for a second they sit like that, looking at each other. He bats his eyelashes a little and drops his head onto Kurt's shoulder. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday they run basic move after basic move all morning, but they're inside after lunch, for the hottest part of the day, and it's a welcome relief. The air conditioner in the band room works overtime trying to cool them down, and they're unpleasantly crowded - the band room isn't really built for the whole marching band, it's made for the two smaller ensembles they'll break into for concert season, one basic and one advanced - but it's nice to be out of the sun.
They sound like shit the first day, but the section leaders go to work, tuning and going over the same four bars fifty times and sometimes literally tapping the rhythm into their skin.
Friday, they're starting to sound halfway decent, at least standing still with the music in front of them. It all makes for a long, exhausting first week, but by the time rehearsal ends Friday night, their energy is starting to build again. Lauren can hear the whispers start as everyone packs up their equipment, and she gives it a couple hours - just long enough for everyone to grab dinner, shower, and put on something fun instead of the sloppy clothes they've been sweating in all day - before they're partying it up.
Lauren pushes her way out of the room and chills in the hallway, leaning against the lockers across the hall and enjoying the momentary solitude. Tina and Quinn find her there soon enough, followed by Mercedes, Kurt, and Blaine, and together they head for the parking lot. It is pretty sweet, David has a killer set-up. He's got a sound system that would put some concerts to shame. They'll be plenty of alcohol, because someone always knows someone who can hook them up, and Lauren can't wait for that delicious, delicious burn.
She doesn't name names, but Lauren knows it's Mike, of course. From the looks on Mercedes' and Quinn's faces, they've figured out something's going on too. Oh, yeah, this party will be fun. They start to split up, but Kurt stops them. Lauren rolls her eyes, but later, after her shower, a towel wrapped around her wet hair, she stands in front of her closet for awhile, contemplating what will receive the Kurt stamp - or, okay, tiny nod and hair flick - of approval.
She ends up wearing a purple cotton skirt, black sparkly tank top, and black sandals. Kurt approves, though she knows it's simpler than he'd like. Whatever, she looks hot and feels comfortable, two very important things. Lauren wanders the party, stopping to talk to a couple people here and there. She's having fun, but she feels restless, and even when she forces herself to sit down to a conversation, she makes an excuse to get up again quickly. It means she's not paying much attention to who is around her when, because it keeps changing. That has to be how Puckerman sneaks up on her. Or not really sneaks, he's just suddenly there.
She grips the neck of her beer bottle tight. She sways her hips and does a quick little step, her movements smooth. Next to her, Sam Evans is awkward as he dances just a little too enthusiastically, but Quinn just laughs and grabs him and pulls him in close. Puckerman's looking, too, and shaking his head. Of course he is, he doesn't want Quinn with anyone else. That makes Lauren's throat tight and her chest ache.
She takes a long pull off her beer to cover it. Puckerman watches her do it, his eyes focused hard on where her lips wrap around the bottle. What the fuck is wrong with him, mooning after Quinn one minute and checking her out the next? He grabs her, fingers warm and rough around her wrist, and that right there tells her he's drunker than she thought, because there's an unspoken rule between them: She knows she shouldn't say what springs to mind first, because the last thing anyone needs is for Puckerman to go pick a fight with Sam or, worse, for Quinn to turn on him, icing him out with all her rage, but she says it before she's done with that realization, her brain slowed and her tongue loosened by the booze.
For a second, she thinks she's about to throw it at him, or maybe just the last of her beer, but that would be a hell of a party foul. She's has no idea. All she knows is how much she hates that bitter rise of jealousy, because goddamn it, Quinn is her friend. It's not an emotion she deals with well. Nor is the odd fondness she feels for Puckerman. He's doing that posturing thing he does - mostly unconsciously, or so she's always thought - with his shoulders forward and chest pushed out.
He clenches one hand around his glass over and over, the other fisted at his side, and if he swings, oh god, if he swings she will put him into the wall. She's not even sure how much of this is her raring for a fight and how much is wanting to kiss him, to touch him, to fuck him. She likes it rough, likes to be rough, and she's crossing lines here she didn't even realize she was close enough to see. But I thought you wanted to talk. All the anger rushes out of her, and she just feels guilty for kicking him while he's down.
Not that he was actually down, not literally and not figuratively, but she knows that's his weak spot and she aimed right for it. She can call him an asshole all she wants, but she's just as fucking bad. They stand there a moment, staring and silent, and then Lauren grimaces. She doesn't know what else to say, and she hates feeling like that, unbalanced and unsure, so for once, instead of pushing through it no matter what, she turns and walks away.
The party is so loud, so unbelievably loud. The music sounds like it's jacked up another ten decibels every time she breathes in, and she's sure everyone is screaming their conversations at the top of their lungs. Lauren grabs a bottle of water and escapes into the backyard. The party's there too, but there's a lot more space, and it's nice and dark and cool. She grabs herself a seat on the low stone wall that lines one of the big flower beds in the corner and lets her shoulders slump.
Even as she tries not to think about that, she looks up and he's walking toward her. Or maybe just walking to the corner. It doesn't really matter, because the end result is the same. She braces herself for more awkwardness, sitting up and straightening her shoulders, but he just sits down next to her, a crumbled pack of cigarettes in one hand.
Neither of them says anything as he thumbs one out and pulls his lighter from his pocket, but it's an easy silence. Lauren sips her water. Puckerman lights his cigarette. Elsewhere, people are loud and handsy and drunk and dancing, but their corner is almost peaceful.
Not exactly what she expects from Puckerman. He takes a long drag and blows out a slow, steady stream of smoke. It's a clove, she can smell that much, but there's something weird about it. She sniffs again, harder, trying to figure it out, but she can't. Oh yeah, still drunk. Puckerman grins and takes another drag, waiting for her to finish.
She takes it and reaches for his lighter next, but he hangs on to it and thumbs it to life. It's bright after the shadows around them, and for a second, she's distracted by the way his face looks highlighted by the flame. Then she tilts forward a little and lights the cigarette, her eyes on him the whole time. It's not her first time smoking, and she really is leery about the mix of menthol and clove, so she only inhales a little bit at first. But it's good, different; it's mostly like a clove, but then her mouth starts to burn a little. She presses one finger to her lips, poking at them.
Yeah, they're definitely tingling. He shifts around a little, and when he's done, he's sitting closer to her. She doesn't scoot away. He doesn't know where he'll be stationed here, but it'll be closer to home, so we don't really care. Lauren nods, a little jerkily, and focuses on her cigarette. She can hear the crackle of the paper as it burns on down. Puckerman shifts again, flicking ash onto the ground, and his leg bumps against hers.
This is how it started freshman year, too, cigarettes and beer and line camaraderie. Lauren considers walking away, but she likes it here, in the silence and the shadows, smoke and secrets curling around them.
Verse 4, continued
It should be impossible, but the second week of band camp is even hotter and sunnier than the first week. They slather on sunscreen before practice and during breaks, but still they burn. They drink lots of water, but still people start dropping, turning pale and shaky and having to sit out for awhile. It's a mess, and it's hard work, and it's horrible, but it's wonderful at the same time, because it's marching band. It's just like any other day, hot and muggy and bright; sweat drips down their faces and makes their shirts cling.
They've warmed up musically and warmed up physically and moved back and forth between one mark and the next, then that mark and the one after, and then back to the beginning, over and over and over, singing their parts with each move, until Lauren is pretty sure that if she ever hears a couple particular bars from "It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing " again, she's going to break someone. Schue calls from his position on the high stand that gives him a good angle from above. They go back to the first page of drill, closing their drill books and readying their instruments.
Lauren brushes her fingers against the edge of her harness, offering herself luck. Wes is on the fifty yard line. He glares at them, from one side of the field to the other, and then calls them to attention and brings their horns up. That's not when that illusive something finally clicks, but it happens sometime between everyone snapping their instruments into place and the moment Wes' voice rings out again, "Mark time mark. They mark off four beats, left right left right, step off with the left, and suddenly they're all motion and all sound.
Wes directs them with sharp perfection, hands slicing through the air to hit each spot exactly in the four-four pattern. On their respective thirty yard lines, David and Quinn match his movements, their heads turned toward him so they are all perfectly together. The horns are solid, rising high over everyone else, a full bright sound that makes Lauren glad she's moving because oh, she wants to dance. She doesn't have to look to know where the other quads are or that their sticks rise and fall with a beautiful, blurring precision, and she can feel the line as they move through the drill, surrounding her, ever present and exactly what she wants.
They're nowhere near competition ready and still far from perfect. Some of their diagonals are more like curving lines and a couple freshmen get off step. Towards the end, one of the trumpets comes in three beats early, breaking out clear and loud over the woodwinds. But through it all rises the driving beat of the drumline and when they hit their final mark just as the last notes wail out, they're not this collection of sections anymore, they're one big, bold band.
They hold attention, instruments up, eyes on Wes. His hands are clenched so tight into fists it looks like it hurts, and his chin is up, his expression unreadable. There's a squirming, quivering tension inside Lauren, but she's in the zone - they're all there, one band, one sound, one focus - and she could hold attention forever if she had to. Almost before they're done, the light glancing off bright instruments, he's calling them to parade rest. This is the moment when anticipation can be too much, her head down, eyes on the ground, waiting for the call that will bring them to life.
Back to your opening spots. It's only band camp and they've got a lot of work to do and they haven't even started learning the drill for the other three songs, but god, it feels good to be a band again. They do so well Mr. Schue lets them leave an hour early. Well, he says it's because they do such a good job, but Quinn snorts and mutters to them that the Spanish teacher, Ms.
Holliday, is back from her summer in Europe, and he just wants to go get laid. Which, eww, and she sounds so much like Santana, Lauren can guess where that gossip came from. Still, Santana usually knows her shit. Once she's taken care of her instrument, Lauren heads over to where Tina and Mercedes chat with Brittany. Brittany is a cheerleader, and used to only be a cheerleader, until Tina recruited her into guard last year from their dance class.
Though some of the football players have always been in marching band, the cheerleaders - except for Quinn - really haven't been, though now Santana's joined Brittany in guard. Sometimes, Lauren thinks Santana would be better suited to the line, but there's no way Lauren wants to have her that close. While she talks, Brittany is stretching, and more than a few of the guys end up stumbling on the gravel because he's staring too hard at her ass when she bends over or her breasts when she pushes her hands high overhead. For her part, Brittany doesn't pay them any attention and just laughs at something Tina says.
Before Lauren reaches them, she hears Matt calling the drumline. His voice is pretty quiet compared to everyone else, but one part of her is always listening hard for him, so she spins around and backtracks to where he's gathering everyone, including the pit, behind the equipment truck. There's a quick scramble into cars after that, everyone piling in so they don't have to take too many. Lauren's got a few freshmen for her car already when Puckerman struts up, grinning at the three pit girls. They giggle a little and blush and two of them look down at their feet.
Lauren tries not to roll her eyes, but she doesn't try very hard. One less car on the road is good for everyone.
The Marching Band Refused to Yield
Line bonding ends up being out at Matt's favorite swimming hole. Probably she should have seen that coming, because they usually make it out a couple times during the summer, but this year they've been so focused on winning - the stench of last year's defeat lingers - that they haven't. Plus she spends the entire drive fighting with Puck over the radio. First thing he does is unplug her iPod, which gets him hit.
Then he changes stations, which gets him hit. Then he stops her when she's about to flip off a classic rock station - and she likes classic rock, but there's no way in hell she's letting him control the music - grabbing her wrist and smirking, because apparently, he likes the song. His palm is hot against her skin, and he holds on too long. That gets him hit, too, but it also leaves her tense and distracted.
The trio of freshmen climb out of the backseat when they arrive, their eyes wide. The cars are pulled up in a half circle, and before them through a break in the trees stretches out a big lake, the water deeply, beautifully blue.
They made one stop on the way, to grab snacks and drinks, and everyone hauls their bags down to the water's edge. Matt pulls a pile of blankets and towels out of his trunk; they collect good sized rocks to hold down the edges of the blankets, and everyone claims a towel. Lauren's hungry and thirsty, but she's also sweaty and hot, and the water looks amazing. She's wearing army green shorts and an orange tank top over a sports bra, and though she wishes for her bathing suit, she'll make what she's wearing work.
She toes off her sneakers, peels off her socks, and drops her keys, sunglasses, and wallet next to the pile. Trent, Thad, and Julie, the other quads, dump their stuff near her. Puckerman does too, which means the bass line sticks close. Not as close as Puckerman though, who is practically on top of her when he peels off his shirt. She'll admit the view's not bad at all, and maybe they're sort of on their way to being friends again, but watching him strip - watching the play of muscles under skin and the glint of piercings at his nipples - is doing really wicked things to her.
She presses her lips together in a thin line and shakes her head at him. He's watching her, trying and failing to be subtle about it, so she tries to keep her expression neutral. That gets harder still when he unhooks the chain that links his wallet to one belt loop and lets it pool through his fingers as he drops it onto the ground. All she can picture is it wrapped around his wrists, twisted up his arms, and how pretty he'd look while he begged and oh, god, she is not having these thoughts about him.
Now she really needs to fucking cool off. There's already a line of drummers waiting to grab the rope swing, but Lauren bypasses them and heads straight into the water, careful to stay away from the spot they land. She jerks a little when she steps into the water - it's cold as fuck - but forces herself deeper, until it hits her thighs, her hips, her stomach. It's better to get it over with fast, and Lauren ducks under, biting down on the gasp that wants to escape.
She holds her breath as long as she can, until her lungs burn and her jaw aches, and then pops to the surface. When she comes up, she wipes water out of her eyes, careful not to dislodge her contacts, and looks around. Some of the freshmen still linger on shore, but everyone else is either in the water or waiting to grab the rope and swing out into the water. She loses track of Puckerman for awhile, which is fine. Julie starts a splash war that turns into dunking when Trent loses; Lauren and Julie team up to school all the snares, even Matt, when they try to come in swinging.
Eventually the entire drumline is in the water, soaked and shrieking with laughter, the sweat and their stress washed away. Finally, stomach grumbling and mouth dry, Lauren forces herself out of the lake. She wrings water from her hair and the bottom of her shirt before she makes her way over to her towel and the bag of goodies waiting for her on the blanket she claimed. She dries herself off fast and sits down. There's a bit of a breeze, and it's actually a little chilly after the water.
Chilly enough her nipples are hard, and sports bra or not, with a wet shirt clinging to her, you can tell. She could cover herself with the towel, but she's never been one to hide her body, so she drops it next to her and grabs a bottle of water from her bag. More people are leaving the water to grab drinks. Some sit down, others head right back in. She leans back on her arms and closes her eyes, enjoying the moment. Damn good idea, Matt. She should probably tell him so. After awhile, a shadow falls over her face, blocking enough sun she can tell even with her eyes closed. When she looks, sure enough, it's Puckerman, rubbing a towel over his mohawk while water drips down his chest.
That is a very good look for him. She's so comfortable and content that she doesn't roll her eyes or smart off; instead, she watches him close enough to catch individual rivulets of water working their way down his stomach and the way his shorts drip water onto his feet. She knows the exact moment he realizes she's looking at him, the moment he notices whatever must be showing in her eyes, because he drops the hand holding the towel to his side and watches her right back, his eyes hooded and dark.
Lauren's proud of the fact that no matter how much he's twisting her up inside, she doesn't look away. They drink sodas and split a bag of chips, and she pretends she doesn't notice how his eyes linger when she licks salt from her fingers. Almost everyone is back in the water - Lauren knows this because they're both staring out across the lake, not looking at each other anymore - when Puck says, his voice pitched so soft she can barely hear him, "I didn't mean to knock up Quinn.
Instead she tucks her hands under her thighs and glares at the water, angry at herself. She's not sure why she's mad anymore, not sure whether it's because she wants to comfort him or because she won't let herself. Do one little thing - for example, kick Ben Israel's smarmy little ass for being a disgusting waste of space, and that's literally kick his ass, one kick, just hard enough to interrupt his smarm and put him into the locker - and suddenly you've beat him half to death, sucked out all his blood, and revived him as a zombie, which doesn't even make any sense.
So, yeah, she doesn't believe most of what she hears. They tore out one of my nipple rings.
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There are two, but he catches her looking. Thought maybe-" He cuts off whatever he was going to say, and stares back across the water. He's been walking that line between tough guy and bully for awhile now, ever since he got Quinn pregnant, whereas before he was mostly just bully. If he was any more badass, he'd topple back across that line again. He shrugs and they're quiet again for a bit. The mood is shifting; the sun's getting lower in the sky and more and more of the line is leaving the water.
She waits too long to answer, there are too many people around them, and Puckerman won't quite meet her eye while they gather everything up. He rides back with her, though, she thinks mostly because she shoves her keys at him and tells him to go start the car for her and take the freshmen with him while she helps Matt load up the blankets. Lauren might have missed her moment, but she's a pretty quick thinker. The freshmen can't drive, so she offers them rides home, and drops them off first, Puckerman stuck in the car.
Once they're alone, she heads back to the practice field and his truck. He opens the door fast when she pulls up next to it - it's the last vehicle in the lot - but she grabs his arm and looks at him, because if she's actually going to say this, she's going to do it right. He looks down at where her fingers are wrapped around him, and when he speaks, it's more a sigh than a word. The rest of the week passes in practice and plotting and singing their parts and sometimes putting it all together and lunches with her friends - which has included Blaine every single day, but Kurt looks so happy, so damn smitten, that Lauren can't even really hate someone intruding on their time together - and sometimes even short conversations with Puckerman.
She's also picked up the trio of freshmen who start following her around: Cindy on marimba, Dana on xylophone, and Erin on timpani. Dana's the most forward, the ringleader, but all three laugh a lot and bring Lauren water without her asking and during one break, they start asking for advice on how to make it onto the line. She grins at them and talks about practice and strength and confidence and some of what they'll face when trying for a section that is predominantly guys.
Not so much from their line, at least not under Matt, but she hears a lot of trash talking at competitions. She doesn't tell them about kicking other line's asses, not yet. They'll see for themselves. It's hard work, and she's tired all the time, but Friday comes faster than she can believe and suddenly band camp is over. School starts Tuesday, after one last long weekend, and the band is buzzing because Matt's parents are out of town. So Matt's hosting the end-of-band-camp party. The sky is gloomy all afternoon, a late summer storm threatening, but it's not raining when they're dismissed.
Matt's party is starting earlier than last time, and it's Lauren's turn to drive, so she rushes home to shower and change into a jean skirt, her favorite orange and pink Chucks and a flippy, flirty red cotton shirt. She's not planning on doing much flirting, honestly, but after Tina does her make-up when she picks her up and Quinn slips jewelry on her when she picks her up, Mercedes pronouncing them all gorgeous, well, there's energy buzzing in her veins.
The end of band camp marks the end of a long, hot summer full of hard work and tension. The end-of-band-camp party marks the beginning of a long fall full of hard work and competitions and random band hook-ups at games and on busses. It's that weird, twisty time between summer and fall, between freedom and school, and anything goes. Even rushing, the party is in full swing by the time they arrive.
They stick together at first, getting the lay of Matt's house - Lauren's the only one who's been there enough to know where everything is - and grabbing drinks, but eventually, they start splitting up. Kurt, Blaine, and Mercedes cut away to dance, and Mike and Tina find each other and start flirting. Quinn and Lauren chill on one of the couches for awhile, talking to some of the flute section, but eventually Lauren gets tired of the crowd and excuses herself to get a new drink. She does need one, but after she has it, she heads into the backyard.
The sky is black, not just nighttime dark, but heavy with clouds, the moon and stars gone. The air is muggy, hot and wet, but it's still not raining. Despite the oppressive weather, plenty of people are outside playing beer pong, including Puckerman, but when he sees her, he hands his paddle to Hudson and cuts away from the crowd. She shrugs, but together they walk farther into the yard.
There's a yellow bug light on above the back door, but over by the big garage at the end of the wide driveway that curves around the house, the yard is darker. Puck hands over a cigarette and lights it for her again, and she concentrates on not coughing when it hits her throat. They're about halfway through their cigarettes when a cool, fast wind cuts across them. A second later, there's a crack of lightning and a roll of thunder so deep Lauren can feel it vibrate.
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Before she can do anything else, the sky opens up and they're pelted with rain, her cigarette hissing out in her hand. She's torn for a second, part of her wanting to run across the yard and into the house, following the beer pong players who have left their cups of beer behind and are shoving their way through the back door, but another part of her wants to stay right where she is, alone with Puckerman and away from the crowd.
Puckerman grabs her arm and tugs her a little toward the garage. It's unlocked, apparently, because he's got the side door open. She doesn't hesitate, just steps inside, and he pulls the door mostly shut behind them, leaving it open just a crack so that cool air follows them in.
Lauren blinks water from her eyelashes. It's too dark to really see, but after a few seconds, her vision adjusts enough that she can make out gray shapes in the blackness. She doesn't need to see to know where Puckerman is, because she can feel him standing right next to her. Her damp clothes leave her feeling steamy in the enclosed space. Another crack of lightning, followed immediately by the rumble of thunder. The storm is moving fast and it's right on top of them already. The sound of the rain on the roof is loud, overwhelming, and Lauren is having trouble breathing steady.
Or maybe that's because Puck is so close, and when he turns toward her, he's closer still. He's not that much taller than her, but he tips his head toward her a little and it sort of feels like he's looming. In a good way. She shrugs and shifts her weight, which is kinda a bad idea because now, with the way she's turned toward him, her breasts brush against his arm and this is not what she intended when she got ready for tonight.
Except that's as much a lie as it is a truth. Instead of opening up and admitting her fears back then, she puts her hand on his chest. She tells herself she's going to push him away, but that's pretty much impossible with the way she curls her fingers into the fabric. He's just wearing a worn blue t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders nicely and is so soft to the touch, but it looks fucking awesome on him.
Lauren tugs him closer, and even as she lifts her head to kiss him, he makes this shocked sound, his mouth slack against hers for the split second it takes him to catch up, and then he's kissing her back. He is so much better at this than he was back then. The first time they kissed, he was too wet, too sloppy and their teeth clashed together.
The Marching Band Refused to Yield
Plus he'd had no idea how to follow anyone else's lead. Now, though, oh god, he puts his hands on her hips and angles their bodies together, his lips pliant, his tongue curling delightfully into her mouth. She presses into him, deepens the kiss, and he goes with it, letting her set the pressure and the pace. She keeps one hand fisted in his shirt and curls the other around the back of his neck, urging him closer, closer.
He slides his hands to her ass and tugs her against him, one of her legs between his, and oh god, she can feel him already hard against her thigh. She bites his lower lip - he grinds against her, groaning - then sucks his lower lip into her mouth to sooth away the sting with her tongue. Lauren kisses him until she's dizzy from it, until she can't even sneak little breaths and has to pull away, glancing one final kiss off his mouth.
They're both breathing hard. Lightning cracks across the sky again, and the garage is momentarily lit up. Puck's lips are slick and very red from their kisses and her lipstick, and her skin feels a little sore from the scratch of his stubble. She thinks she should say something, but she doesn't know what she can that won't make this awkward. Puck's eyes drop to her mouth when she licks her lips, but he meets her gaze directly when he very slowly and very deliberately grinds against her thigh.
Lauren's hands clutch at him, and she tugs on his shirt and digs her nails into the back of his neck. His eyes close for a second, but that's all the time she needs to gather herself. She is not going to fuck him in Mr. Rutherford's garage, but she's not ready to stop this yet, either. She tugs him toward her and they stumble across the empty space where one of the cars would be parked until they're up against the big SUV Matt drives to band practice. That's a little weird, hooking up against her captain's vehicle, but then Puck ducks his head and starts kissing down the side of her throat and she really, really doesn't care anymore.
The Marching Band Refused to Yield
He slides one hand around her hip and rubs it up and down her side, coming close to her breast but never quite getting there. She grabs his wrist, and he freezes, his mouth against her neck, but that's not what she wants. Too late now, and she does what she was going to do before he stopped and moves his hand to her breast.
She can feel him suck in a sharp breath of air, and then his head comes up and they're kissing again, harder now, teeth sharp on lips, and his fingers stroke along her breast, his thumb unerringly finding her nipple. She releases his shirt, her fingers slightly cramped from holding it so tight, and reaches down between their bodies, sliding her palm over the hard rise of his dick.
His jeans are rough as she traces him with her fingers. Puckerman groans into the kiss, and she grins, riding the power that rushes through her. She reaches for his belt next, fumbling it a little, but gets it open at last, then starts on the button fly. The third button sticks. He drops his hands and helps her, working the last two buttons free. She pushes him out of the way and reaches for him, sliding her hand down his stomach, working her way beneath his briefs, and wraps her fingers around his dick. He shudders, his head falling back, and she smirks at him, smug though he can't see it.
He's hot and hard, and she can feel him pulse against her palm. She strokes him lightly, sliding the wetness at the tip down the soft skin, and he lifts his hips toward her. A couple faster strokes, a slightly tighter grip, and he comes up off the SUV, groaning. She places her other hand in the center of his chest, pushing him back, holding him in place.
He reaches for her again, slides one hand under her shirt, under her bra, rubbing his palm over her nipple. They kiss again, sloppier, but it's okay, because it all feels so good. Lauren runs her thumb over the head of his dick with every upward stroke, and he grabs at her, his fingers clutching so tight she can feel the bruises form. Her muscles start to burn, but she keeps at the steady pace, working him and working him. Puckerman kisses along her jaw and down to her throat, his teeth scraping her skin again and again while he sucks heat to the surface.
Just when she doesn't think she can do it anymore, the angle is wrong and her arm fucking hurts, his body goes tight. The sound of him saying her name like that, guttural and so needy, slams into her like a punch, but he's coming sticky and hot all over her hand. Her neck burns where he left his mark, and shit, she's going to have to figure out how to cover that or face a whole lot of questions she doesn't want.
And Quinn is like a fucking magnet for hickeys, she always notices. Lauren feels a little sick suddenly, her hand still on Puckerman's dick, his head on her shoulder, her lips sore from kissing him. Quinn is her friend, Quinn is important to her, and yet still here she is. She tenses and slides her hand out of his jeans. She steps away from him under the pretense of looking for something to use to clean up and tries to calm her racing heart. She stumbles her way over to a work bench.
It's very neatly organized, and on it is a box of cleaning supplies, including a roll of paper towels. She tears off a couple, wipes her hands clean, and thinks better of tossing them into the trashcan, instead shoving them into her pocket, even if it's a little gross. She grabs a couple more paper towels and takes them to Puckerman.
He's still slumped against the SUV, but he gives her a slow grin when she walks up. It's lighter in the garage, and she glances at the windows. Sure enough, the rain has slowed, it is just spitting against the glass, and the clouds are starting to roll away. Lake Forest put on a fine ten-minute show, except for a rather corny ending: Then it was time for Our Band! Out they came from the south end of the field, all sixteen of them, attired in dark slacks and crimson blazers, marching all the way to the yard line to the cadence of the snare drum.
They made a very sloppy left turn and came down the 50 towards the home stands, stopping at the hash mark. The roof in the background is Burton Hall, my freshman dorm. And there they played; they attempted some sort of jazz-rock sort of thing, all the while standing very still in their compact little four-by-four group. Meanwhile, since Lake Forest's show had been so long, the teams were about ready to go again. The referee blew his whistle at Our Band, but Our Band kept playing; they weren't done yet. Lake Forest's team went out onto the field and lined up to receive the kickoff; Our Band kept playing.
On the other side of them, Oberlin lined up to kick off; Our Band kept playing. The head linesman stood with his hands on his hips and stared at the sight: The referee seemed to be wondering, "What sort of a silly conglomeration is this, anyhow? I have a feeling that if Our Band had been bigger, the officials would have left them alone.
But what are sixteen against a College Football Game? The referee tried to shoo this inept little crew off the field like so many stray dogs. No one in the band knew what to do, but one girl in the front row eventually stepped forward timidly, and then the whole band walked off the field. And how we cheered them! They were Our Band. After the game, President Carr himself congratulated the bandsmen, and we cheered again. North Union's band isn't so hot, right? And it seems doomed to perpetual mediocrity, right? After all, not too many more Shoemakers are going to find their way to the little village of Richwood, and without a strong director the band's going nowhere.
Assuming this, those North Unionians connected with the band are going to be continually frustrated, and the fans are going to be subjected to a series of blah halftime shows.