Read Carter's Big Break for Free Online Page B

kissing my swollen lips again.
    The pain is twice as bad as all the blood in my body rushes back upward. Not enough of it made it to my brain, however, to stop me from stepping back and asking, “So, d-d-do you wanna give me a blow job, then?”
    I knew it was a dumb question the second it came out, and I wince from the stupidity, but I can’t take it back and I just can’t handle any more kissing. Rumor has it (Nutt’s brother, Bart) that when a girl’s on her period she’s more likely to throw down a bj, for some reason. And Bart’s (second-best) method to get a girl to give you one is to simply, “Ask for it.” Abby looks out over the railing at the last moments of dusk and takes a deep breath. She may be drinking in the romance and thinking about how nice it would be for me to get my first blow job up here . . . and maybe what technique she should use. She’s really thinking about it! This could be it . . . the best advice Bart has ever given. “Ask and ye shall receive!” She bites her lip, and I see tears welling up in her eyes. Dang it! My shoulders drop along with my face, spirit, and everything else.
    In silence, she turns and walks down the stairs with heavy steps. I look down at the mulch-covered ground and think about throwing myself off. What a dumbass! I’m mortified at what I’ve just done, so I slide down to apologize. On accident, and out of pure instinctual habit, I squeal, “Whooo-hooo!” on the way down. I come in for a hundred-mile-an-hour landing, almost plowing into Abby, who’s just getting there herself. She’s shocked to see that I’ve beaten her down here, and surprised by how drunk I seem to have become. She blows past me, and I dizzily stumble toward her. “I-I-I’m sorry.”
    “What are you sorry for, Carter?” she snaps back, and keeps going.
    “Uh . . . you know . . . that I made you cry?”
    “You’re not sorry you asked me to give you a blow job?” she seethes.
    “Yeah, I-I-I’m sorry about that too.”
    She stops walking like she’s thinking up something mean to say, so I beat her to the punch and dig myself in a little deeper. “You know, Bart told me to just shove your head toward my crotch, and you’d just start doin’ it. But I thought that because of the romantic setting, and me respecting you and all . . . like I do . . . that I could get by with the second-best technique.”
    Her head twitches and she barks, “What?”
    “Haven’t you ever heard, ‘it never hurts to ask’?”
    She marches off, and I grab my bike to give chase. When I catch up, she barks, “I’m not ready for all that and . . . and . . . you are so freaking immature!”
    “That’s the second time you’ve called me immature today.”
    “Well, you are.”
    This would be the perfect time to call her a bitch and assert myself as the alpha male, so in my own way, I do. “You’re the one who’s scared of a blow job!”
    “So?” she asks defiantly.
    I’m sure tonight or tomorrow I’ll come up with a brilliant comeback to that question, but for now I just keep walking beside her and stewing.
    She starts crying and then sobs, “Do you know how that makes me feel when you ask me something like that?”
    I’m sure this is a trick question that I’m supposed to just think about, but I answer anyway. And I’m still trying to be a dick when I say, “Like my girlfriend, maybe?! Cuz that’s what girlfriends do! I like hangin’ out with you, but you’re also really hot, and I don’t want to just talk all the time.”
    “We were kissing—what’s wrong with that? Why do you have to push?”
    “I’m a guy, we push! And in case you aren’t aware, this black-and-blue ball of bruise where my face used to be . . . friggin’ hurts when you smash into it!”
    She finally seems to get how jacked up I am and asks, “Why didn’t you just say that?”
    “I thought I did . . . by asking you to focus on other . . . uninjured areas!”
    Logic! I said it with a mix of sass and hurt