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Llamada Botín

They're friends that like to do a little more, but why is this getting so weird?

Chapter 1: Cooking Up Something Good

I was at a lunch table with my friends, chatting with them about what was up, and our future plans, and all of that. There were about eight of us, but divided into two or three subgroups. I could easily jump in to the conversations of any of the subgroups, but I held to my normal one.

“So, on Thursday, we're definitely do chicken instead of turkey, and then what else? Do we make a pie?” Chris said. She was our leader when it came to events.

“Absolutely,” Donnie said. Chris nodded but I leaned in.

“If we're making a pie, I'll need to get some pie pans, Chris, because I don't think I have one in my arsenal,” I said quietly. She nodded in agreement.

“That's true. So have we got everything planned out?” I nodded, resting my heavy head on my folded arms. Donnie shrugged.

“Sounds good to me,” he said. I nodded, then turned my attention to the other five people.

“If any of you are interested in chicken, pie, and other goodies on Thursday night, text me or Chris. Be prepared to eat till you're stuffed,” I announced. Most of the five looked at me.

“What time?” Andrea asked.

“Same as last year,” Chris replied. Andrea nodded.

“Sounds good to me,” she said. “And the pie. I'm assuming it's going to be made by Audrey?”

“Yep,” Chris and I answered. After that our groups' conversations split once again. I scratched lightly at my scalp, and tried to move my hair to a less annoying place.

“What kept you up?” Donnie asked. He was normally the one resting during lunch (because he played video games till fucking two in the morning) and I tended to give him hell about it. Just hearing his voice I could tell he was smiling.

I was working on a paper, and it's the kind that I can only do well on if I do it when it's completely dark and I'm half naked,” I said, like it was normal for me to say such things.

“What sort of things would you work on at night and completely naked?” Chris asked out of curiosity. I shrugged.

“Stories? I dunno. I think after lunch I'm gonna head to the store. Do you guys need anything?” I asked.

“I need tampons and chocolate,” Chris said. I nodded.

“Already on the list. Donnie?”

“Hair gel.”

“Donnie, I'm not buying you hair gel. Your hair is hard and weird looking with that shit in there.” Donnie opened his mouth to protest but I held a finger up.

“Look, I understand, it's easy to stick with what you've been using, but honestly, girls like softer hair. Here's what I'll do. I won't buy you the normal piece of shit gel, but I will get you some better stuff. If you use that entire bottle and still don't like it, you can go back to your regular shit. Deal?” Donnie nodded mutely. I nodded back at him and stood up, grabbing my stuff.

“My sifter came in the mail this morning, so I'm baking today. Chris I need you to wipe it off with a dry paper towel. Don't let my brand new sifter get wet, okay?” she nodded. I looked at them both and then turned around to leave.

“Audrey, wait up!” I heard a guy call. I slowed my pace but didn't stop. I looked over my shoulder and saw one of my seven close friends walking fast to catch up.

His name was Julian Whitley. He was a junior here, and I had known him since he was a freshman- in high school. He was a bit of a smart ass, a little immature and naive in the beginning but I've seen college knock most of that out of him.

He was a soccer player. He was good too, he had been playing for most of his life. He was tall, had that wide shoulder and slender hips build, and that golden blond hair that drove a lot of girls wild. Don't get me wrong, I myself loved it, and found myself checking him out at odd times, but he was still kind of a jackass.

“You said you were going to the store?” he checked. I nodded, skeptical about what he was going to say next. I would not buy him anything.

“Can I come with? The only thing I have in the fridge is pickles, and I don't even know why I bought them.” That reminded me, Chris was probably going to want pickles in the following week.

“Yeah dude, come on. You got your stuff?” He nodded and I kept walking at my normal fast pace. He kept up easily enough, what with me being short and him being tall.

“So how are your classes going?” I asked him. He shrugged, which was expected. We reached my small, old car.

“I've got a great biology teacher, so that's fun,” he said mildly. I smiled.

“Do you sleep during that class?” I asked. He rolled his eyes.

“That was more than half a decade ago, and it happened one time.” I laughed, because even after, as he said, a half decade, I could still get him with that comment. He slid into his passenger seat as I slid into the driver's.

Scene Change

We didn't bother to make conversation really, as I drove us to the store. We had known each other long enough to know that we didn't have to. This wasn't the first time I had driven him somewhere, although this must have been the first time it was only the two of us in the car.

When we got to the store I immediately got one of the shorter carts and went inside. He followed me, and I figured after that he would go off and get whatever he needed. He didn't, however, he just kept following me. I didn't care, or even really notice what he was doing at first.

Then I got to the baking essentials isle to get whole wheat flour.

“Why would a college student be buying flour when she could just get cake mix?” I stopped, with my bag of flour in hand, and turned around.

“It's getting close to Pre-Thanksgiving, so I'm preparing.” I waited for him to ask the question before I said anything else.

“What the hell is Pre-Thanksgiving?” There it was.

“Well, when we were freshman, Chris, Donnie and I thought about how awesome it would be if we had Thanksgiving together, and had nice, pleasant conversations instead of going home to our racist, sexist, homophobic families. So, every year, we have a Pre-Thanksgiving, where we have a great meal full of nice words, before we go home and have to listen to our ignorant, annoying families.” He nodded in understanding.

“So it's just the three of you?”

“Normally Andrea and Russel come too.”

“I thought Andrea's family was really open to everything.”

“You don't have to have a bigoted family to join. Hell, you can come too. I'm making acorn squash muffins and carrot cake with cream cheese frosting,” I taunted.

“All from scratch?” he checked.

“Yep.”

“Alright, I'll think about it.”

Scene Change

Julian suggested that he could help me out with making the carrot, and I couldn't say no to that. I told him to start measuring out ingredients while I got out my grater and the two carrots I got at the store.

“You're actually putting carrots in the carrot cake?” he asked in disbelief. I turned around and grinned at him.

“Yes, actually, but you'll never be able to tell. The others don't, and you won't bring it up to them.”

“...Are you saying you've been putting carrots in the carrot cake this entire time and they've had no idea?” I nodded. “Oh my- wow.”

“I made it for my family one year and high school, but I had used the side of the grater that made bigger bits, and many of them noticed, so I noted to use smaller sides when I'm making it for my friends.”

“That's genius.” It was nice to have an admirer.

“I know, now get back to work.” He chuckled and kept wrestling with the measuring spoons. As I watched him stick his tongue out in triumph at getting the one he wanted, I realized something.

“Sasha liked pickles,” I said, before thinking about the underlying reminder my words would serve. Julian's face turned from one of silly enjoyment to stony resignation.

“Oh... yeah.”

Sasha Phillips, the artsy, gorgeous, involved and committed young woman, was once Julian Whitley's girlfriend. He was a dashing gentleman around her, and had such an air of complete love, and she was always right on his arm, smiling that perfect smile and completely engaged in any activity she took to.

Right as summer was ending, just before the fall semester started, she left him. It was done in such a brisk and breezy way, it was hard to believe the leaves hadn't already changed colors. There was no tearful apology, just a brief explanation that she had changed schools after the end of the previous semester, and it was simply to satisfy her artistic heart.

They had been dating for almost a year and a half. Julian acted like he was excited for the new semester, and as if he hadn't even known who he had been attached to for over a year. Then, and we really should have known he was stalking her on the internet, he found a picture of her, freshly posted.

She was right on the arm of a dashing gentleman who looked like he had an air of complete love, and she was smiling a perfect smile. They were in an art gallery, and they were decked out in absolutely snobbish attire.

We did not see Julian for almost two weeks. I had his friend Chester go to his apartment and do as much damage control as he could. Chester was, after all, a public relations extraordinaire in training. I talked with Chester later, and the look I got from him when I asked what was going on with Julian, was enough information.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered, mentally slapping myself in the face. He started to shake his head quickly, as if trying to throw out all that negativity from his head.

“Don't be,” he responded, his voice a little thick, “Sasha used me like I was some sort of attractive piece of jewelry, and she did it for almost eighteen months. She's a... pardon my language but Sasha Phillips is a straight up bitch.” The word dripped with refined venom.

“You're right. And you deserved better.” Because even if he was a little bit of an asshole, he never did anything wrong to her, ever. He put her on a pedestal, and she deserved to be anywhere but.

“I'll shove the pickles down the toilet, after I- what was that cutting term you used?”

“Mince.”

“I'm going to mince the pickles.”

“I'd rather you grate them, that would metaphorically hurt her worse.” And I was being completely serious. I wasn't a stranger to being betrayed, although not at that level, and there was a reason I didn't have to buy the grater to begin with.

“Fine. I'll grate the pickles and shove the pieces down the toilet.” And that sounded like a plan. And I would let him execute it as soon as I put the carrot cake in the oven.

Scene Change

Somehow I ended up bringing myself to his apartment, along with my grater. I had meant to just lend it to him, but I think he brushed me out my own door and then to inside his. (Luckily I had had time to leave a big note for Chris to take care of the cake.) Julian grinned sinfully as he gently took the utensil from me. He placed it with care on his tiny kitchen counter, and quickly but nicely got out a bowl, and then gracefully strode to the fridge. He picked up the jar of pickles and showed it to me where he stood- I realized that he probably wanted an audience- and then with a little less gentleness placed the jar next to the grater.

“Perhaps you should drain out the liquid so you don't get your hands so slippery wet.” He kept grinning and looked at me.

“Of course! You've always been a smart cookie, Audrey, always a smart cookie.” He opened up the pickles with actual showmanship, and let out as much of the pickle juice as he could. He finished doing that with a long-armed showing of the jar, and put it- again, less than carefully- back on the counter next to the object of the pickles' demises. He picked one out, and it would have been such a comical show, had it not been for the emotional undertone.

“Fun fact,” he said, and the emotion was daring to make itself heard, “she used to call me, wait for it, that fucking bitch used to call me her dill pickle. ” He took that pickle and it was shredded before me at a rate that could have scared me. Thank goodness he had more, otherwise he wouldn't have had time to enjoy it.

When the first one was nothing but small juicy pieces he started on the next one. He finished that one with the same speed. He got out the next one, but ruined it at a more controlled pace. The corners of his lips had slowly slid down his face, and by the final pickle he was wearing the same face of stone that he had been wearing earlier.

He finished and stared at his work. Suddenly, I was thankful for my presence there, even though I had only stepped only a few feet inside his small apartment.

“Hey, honey, why don't you wash your hands, and put on something that will cover them. Get her off of your skin.” He nodded, and stepped away, to do as I said. While he quickly washed his hands I got him two plastic bags- because I found nothing else- and slid them on. I stepped to the side so he could pick up the more than full bowl of pickle pieces. I followed him to his cramped bathroom.

He stared at the bowl for only a second before crouching a little and jerking the contents into the toilet. (It was not a clean toilet either, but what did I expect, this was a boy's apartment.) He got out all that would come out on its own, and then used his plastic-covered hands to get out the rest. He stared at his disgusting toilet, and flushed. He stayed only long enough to see all of it go out of sight, and then he carried the bowl back to the kitchen, where he put it in the sink.

“Do you feel any better?” I said in just a breath. He leaned back against the sink and stared at the floor, arms folded. One leg was crossed over the other at the ankle. (Dare I say, he looked handsome.) He shrugged, but stopped in the middle of his action. Then he nodded.

“I think so.” He paused, and then he looked at me. His eyes looked darker, and the gaze he set on me certainly wasn't a light one. He uncrossed his legs and unfolded his arms, standing up straighter, to his six-foot height. I almost never felt dwarfed by my tall friends, but this time the energy he was emitting made me feel my size. I stared at him with wonder.

“You sent Chester that day when I had been hiding for two weeks. You made the cupcakes he left for me, didn't you? You came over the next morning and, you didn't say much, but you threw my clothes at me, and told me that you were going to get me through the day from the very beginning, and you did .” He never gave me time to answer that question, but he especially didn't give me any time to respond to the whole speech.

He had inched closer with every other word he uttered, and hardly had to move forward at all to smash his lips against mine. I breathed in sharply, and he immediately wrapped his arms around my waist, trying to pull me tighter. I was still able to lean back.

“Dude, are you okay?” I whispered. He nodded vigorously.

“You've always cared enough to help me, and I can't say that with very many others,” he breathed in response. I stared at his lips when he said that, almost totally mesmerized. He took a deep breath and went back to kissing me, and this time I responded, and wrapped my arms around his neck.

He bent forward a little and moved his arms, warning me that he was about to pick me up. I jumped up at his queue and wrapped my arms around his waist. He made a soft noise when I did so, and I responded in kind. He took a couple of steps forward, and I took to putting my mouth on the upper part of his collarbone, so he could see around my head properly. I was getting the idea that this was leading to a different room.

He pushed open his door with more than enough force and hurried to pull me away slightly so he could toss me on his bed- which I pleasantly noted was not at all disgusting- and he immediately attacked me before the bed had completely sprung back up.

“You were always the prettiest girl in Biology class,” he muttered in-between kisses. I barely nodded.

“You were by far the cutest boy- even if you were a freshman,” I almost laughed. I could feel him smile.

His hands left my shoulder and my face to go to the hem of my shirt, and he began pulling it off. I arched my back to help him and when I could, finished off the job by taking it in my own hands and ungracefully yanking it off. He didn't miss a beat and started sucking on a middle area just below my bra-covered breasts. He was multitasking, unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans. I helped him get those off as well, and then I took charge of taking off his clothes. His left hand slid up my torso and onto my bra, and he pulled at my skin that he had been sucking on with his teeth.

“Ah,” I exhaled. He kept sucking, but he started moving up. I ran my hand through his short blond hair and grabbed at it.

“Bra,” he growled. I nodded, and arched my back again. He didn't waste any time unhooking it and then I took the lead, getting it off and away from me.

He got up on his knees, and he towered over me. His eyes were focused, intense, and I felt his gaze capture mine. He slowly leaned forward, just a little, and then he was embracing me again, pulling me away from the spot we were in. We had fallen on the bed perpendicular to the pillows, and he was fixing that. In the process, he started nibbling on my collarbone, and I moaned.

“Hm,” he breathed, and I could tell there was a smile on his face without having to look at him. I kept my fingers in his hair, and I was trying to control my grip. He lifted his hips and then rolled them back against mine, which caused me to gasp a little. He put a warm hand on my breast and started massaging it. He rolled his hips again.

“Quit teasing, or I'll make you regret it,” I growled. He chuckled and moved his mouth further up to the side of my throat.

“Well where's the fun in that?” he grinned.

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