Random Acts of Trust by Julia Kent Page B

What was it like to reach that point? What would it be like to touch someone, to let him in, to let all of that warmth and power seep into my pores?
    What would it be like to have Sam look at me, our bodies entwined as he thrust into me, and know that I was part of him and he was part of me, and there was nothing else in the world? That certainty, that moment of knowingness, when I was everything to him and he was everything to me, and we just were and it was ageless, and timeless? Would I ever really have that? And if I did, would I ever want it to stop?
Sam
    We finished the set and I looked out into the crowd—no Amy.
    Fuck. Fuck. Fuck . I’d done the wrong thing, hadn’t I? She said she’d stay, and then she left. I couldn’t blame her—I told her I’d go to prom, and then I never talked to her again. A creeping dread poured into my legs and arms, and my throat went dry.
    Fuck. Fuck. Fuck . I’d really screwed this one up, hadn’t I?
    I got offstage and went back to grab some water, trying not to go into the tailspin that I so richly deserved. I stood there, chugging, trying to just do anything with my body that would get my mind off of the fact that she’d left. I finished the bottle of water, pitched it in the trash, and turned around to find Amy standing there.
    And suddenly, I was kissing her. It happened again. If you pressed me to describe the handful of seconds between not kissing her and kissing her, I couldn’t. You could waterboard me and I couldn’t remember it—it was that visceral, that swift, that all-consuming. She was definitely more insistent, more turned on, and more game, and all that did was fuel me. My hands slid under her shirt, finding hot flesh that felt like the most beautiful object in the world; soft, and pliant, and in my hands now...like coming home.
    Her hands snaked under my sweaty t-shirt, and the cold air combined with her soft touch made me lose it. I couldn’t get enough of her. My mouth took hers, my hands were all over her, her breasts, her waist, her hips, her ass. She was filling me and I wanted to fill her.
    Trevor’s voice cut through the little world of Amy, and I pulled back, swallowing, a dry click in my throat as if I hadn’t had the water, as if I were parched. “Sam, come on. Gotta get back on stage. Next set.” I could hear the grin in his voice.
    She pulled back, her lips pink, almost bruised from the intensity of our kisses. “Don’t leave,” I begged.
    “I won’t,” she promised.
    “Come backstage when the last song is almost done.”
    She nodded and swallowed. Her eyes bored into mine, and I felt an unfamiliar feeling inside: hope. It batted its wings like a butterfly coming out of a cocoon. Wings the exact color of Amy’s eyes.
    The rest of the performance went by like a blur, frenzied hands, fevered brain. It was one of the better sets I’d ever done, and yet, it felt rushed because all I wanted to do was get back to Amy. She found me—thank God, she found me—at the end of the set. All I could do was stare at her. I was a sweaty mess, a live wire with buzzing arms and legs, and a heart that felt five sizes too big for my chest.
    Ending a performance is always a high. Having Amy here, on top of the high? There were no words for it. I could call it a supernova, or the most incredible moment ever, and all of those superlatives would make it sound great, but wouldn’t give it one one-thousandth of the emphasis that it deserved.
    “You waited,” I said, and smiled.
    “You asked me to.” Her face was a little closed off and I knew we had a lot of talking to do. I reached for her elbow, and then the small of her back, as if we had been together for years and this was a casual touch that a long-term boyfriend would give to his partner. She moved in concert with my motion, and it all flowed. Something clicked, and there I was.
    In the zone.
    She stopped, and turned toward me, her hands reaching out, stroking my arms as if she were trying to