The Duff by Kody Keplinger CHAPTER 17

Ten minutes later, the Porsche pulled into my driveway. I grabbed my stuff and reached for the door handle.
“Thanks for the ride.” A glance back over my shoulder showed me that Wesley was still sulky. Well, hell! Why not?
“You can come inside if you want. My dad isn’t home yet.”
Wesley grinned at me as he cut the engine. “You’re a dirty-minded little girl, Duffy. It would appear that you’re trying
to corrupt me.”
“You’re way past corruption,” I assured him.
We got out of the car and walked up the driveway together. I dug the keys out of my purse and unlocked the front
door, allowing Wesley to walk inside ahead of me. I watched his eyes move around the living room, and I couldn’t
help feeling a little self-conscious. He must have been comparing the place to his almost-mansion. Obviously there
was no comparison. I didn’t even live in a coatrack house like Jessica.
“I like it,” Wesley said. He looked back at me. “It’s cozy.”
“That’s nice for small, isn’t it?”
“No. I’m serious. It’s comfortable. My house is too big, even for four people, and since I’m the only one in it most of
the time I like yours better. Cozy, like I said.”
“Thanks.” I was flattered. Not that I cared what he thought, but
“Where’s your room?” he asked, winking at me.
“I knew that was coming. Now who’s corrupting whom?” I took him by the elbow and led him up the stairs. “Right
here.” I gestured to the first door. “I warn you, it’s about the size of a Cracker Jack box.”
He opened the door and peered inside. Then he looked back at me with that familiar smirk. “We’ll have enough
room.”
“Enough room for what?”
Before I knew what was happening, Wesley had grabbed me by the hips and was pushing me into my bedroom.
He kicked the door shut behind us, spun me around, and slammed me against the wall, where he began kissing
me so hard that I thought my head might pop off. I was surprised, but once that wore off, I joined in. I wrapped my
arms around his neck and kissed him back. He tightened his grip on my waist and shoved my jeans down as low
as they would go without unbuttoning. Then he slid his hands under the elastic band of my underwear and rubbed
his fingers along my hot, tingling skin.
After a few minutes, he pulled his mouth away from mine. “Bianca, can I ask you something?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I am not giving you a blow job. No fucking way. Just the thought of it is disgusting and degrading and... No. Never.”
“While that’s a little disappointing,” Wesley said, “it’s not what I was planning to ask you.”
“Oh.” That was a little embarrassing. “Well, then what?”
He took his hands out of my pants and placed them gently on my shoulders. “What are you escaping from now?”
“Excuse me?”
“I know your ex-boyfriend left town weeks ago,” he said. “But I can tell there is still something bothering you. As
much as I’d like to believe it’s just me—you can’t get enough of me—I know there’s more to it. What are you
running from, Bianca?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie.”
“It’s none of your business, okay?” I pushed him away from me and yanked my jeans back up where they belonged.
Automatically, I knelt down by the pile of clean clothes at the foot of my bed and started folding them. “Let’s just talk
about something else.”
Wesley sat down on the floor beside me. “Fine,” he said. I could tell he was using that I’ll-be-patient-until-youdecide-
to-tell-me voice. The one you use with little kids. Too bad for him. That would never happen. He was just my
sex toy, after all, not my psychiatrist.
We talked about school while I folded my clothes. When they were all in neat stacks, I stood up and moved to sit on
my bed.
“Aren’t you going to put them away?” Wesley asked.
“No,” I said.
“Then what was the point in folding them?”
I sighed and stretched out on my back, kicking off my Converse. “I don’t know,” I admitted, resting my head on the
pillow and staring at the ceiling. “I guess it’s a habit or whatever. I fold the clothes every night, and it makes me feel
better. It’s relaxing and it clears my head. Then the next morning, I dig through the stacks for what I’m gonna wear,
and they all get messed up, so I get to fold them again that night. Like a cycle.”
My bed creaked as Wesley climbed on top of me, wedging himself between my knees. “You know,” he said,
looking down at me. “That’s pretty strange. Neurotic, really.”
“Me?” I laughed. “You’re the one who’s trying to get in my pants again, like, ten seconds after a failed attempt at a
heart-to-heart. I’d say we’re both pretty fucked up.”
“Very true.”
We started kissing again. This time his hands moved up my shirt and unhooked my bra. There wasn’t much room
in my little twin bed, but Wesley still managed to get my top off and my jeans unzipped in record time. I started to
undo his pants, too, but he stopped me.
“No,” he said, moving my hand away. “You might not agree with blow jobs, but I have a feeling you’ll enjoy this.”
I opened my mouth to argue but shut it quickly as he started kissing down my stomach. His hands began moving
my jeans and underwear down toward my knees, one of them pausing briefly to squeeze the ticklish place above
my hip, causing me to jerk once with a giggle. His lips moved lower and lower, and I was surprised by how much I
was anticipating their final destination.
I’d heard Vikki and even Casey talk about their boyfriends going down on them and how good it felt. I’d heard, but I
didn’t entirely believe it. Jake and I had never done that, and I’d always just assumed it was gross and weird.
It was kind of weird at first, but then it wasn’t anymore. It felt strange—but in a good way. Dirty, wrong, amazing.
My fingers curled in the sheets, gripping the cloth tightly, and my knees shook. I was feeling things I’d never felt
before. “Ah, oh,” I gasped with pleasure and surprise and—
“Oh, shit.”
Wesley jumped away from me. He’d heard the car door slam, too. That meant my dad was home.
I pulled up my underwear and fastened my jeans quickly, but it took me a minute to find my bra. Once I was
completely dressed, I flattened my hair and did my best not to look like a kid with her hand caught in the cookie jar.
“Should I leave?” Wesley asked.
“No,” I said breathlessly. I could tell he didn’t want to go back to the empty almost-mansion. “Stay a little while. It’s
fine. Dad won’t care. We just can’t do that.”
“What else is there to do?”
So, like complete losers, we played Scrabble for the next four and a half hours. There was barely enough space in
the floor of my tiny room for someone as tall as Wesley to stretch out on his stomach, but he managed, and I sat
across from him, the board between us as we spelled out words like quixotic and hegemony. Not exactly the most
exciting Friday night, but I enjoyed it way more than I would have if I’d gone to the Nest or some lame party in Oak
Hill.
Around nine, after I’d kicked his ass three times—finally, something I could beat him at!—Wesley got to his feet. “I
guess I should go home,” he sighed.
“Okay.” I stood up. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”
I was in such a good mood that I’d managed to forget all about Dad until we ran into him in the living room. I
smelled the whiskey before I saw the bottle on the coffee table, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment.
Please don’t notice, I thought to myself as I walked Wesley toward the front door. I guess I should’ve started
worrying when he hadn’t checked upstairs to see whose Porsche was in our driveway. I mean, it wasn’t like having
a car that shiny in front of our house was a common occurrence. Maybe Wesley hadn’t thought about that either. It
was a Friday night, after all. Dads could drink whiskey on weekends well, ones that weren’t recovering
alcoholics, but Wesley didn’t know that side of the story. As long as my father acted normal, this might slide by as
nothing out of the ordinary.
But, of course, I never had that kind of good luck.
“Bumblebee!” Dad said, and I could tell he was already smashed. Great. Just fucking fantastic. He stumbled to his
feet and looked over at the front door, where Wesley and I stood. “Hey, Bumblebee. I didn’t even know you were
home. Who’s this?” His eyes narrowed at Wesley. “A boy?”
“Um, Dad, this is Wesley Rush,” I said, trying to stay calm. “He’s a friend of mine.”
“A ‘friend.’ I bet.” He grabbed the whiskey bottle before taking a few unsteady steps toward us, his eyes
squinting at Wesley. “Did you have fun up in my little girl’s bedroom, boy?”
“I sure did,” Wesley said, clearly trying to sound like one of those innocent oh-gee-whiz! boys from fifties TV shows.
“We played three games of Scrabble. Your daughter is really good with words, sir.”
“Scrabble? I’m not an idiot. That must be some new code for for oral sex!” Dad snarled.
I must have turned scarlet. How did he know? Could he see right into my mind? No, of course he couldn’t. He was
just drunk and making accusations, and looking guilty would only make things worse. So I laughed as if it were
ridiculous. As if it were a joke. Wesley, following my lead, did the same.
“Sure, Dad,” I said. “And intercourse is Yahtzee, right?”
“I’m not being funny!” Dad snapped, swinging his bottle and sloshing whiskey onto the carpet. Wonderful. I’d be the
one cleaning that up. “I know what’s up. I’ve seen the way your slutty friends dress, Bianca. They’re rubbing off on
you, aren’t they?”
I couldn’t force the laughter any longer. “My friends aren’t slutty,” I whispered. “You’re drunk off your ass, and you
don’t know what you’re saying.” With a surge of bravery, I reached forward and swiped the bottle from his hand.
“You shouldn’t have any more, Dad.”
For a second, I felt good. That was what I should have done all along. Just taken things into my own hands and
removed the bottle. I felt empowered. Like I could fix things.
“I should go,” Wesley said behind me.
I started to turn around and say bye, but the words never left my mouth. I felt the bottle slip from my hand and heard
it smash on the floor beside me. I was knocked to the ground, but for a second I didn’t understand what had
happened. Then the delayed pain in my temple stunned me. It was like I’d been hit by something. Something hard.
Something blunt. Something like the palm of my father’s hand. I reached up and rubbed my head in shock, barely
feeling the actual pain.
“See!” Dad yelled. “Boys don’t stay with whores, Bianca. They leave them. And I’m not going to let you turn into a
whore. Not my daughter. This is for your own good.”
I looked up as he reached a hand down to grab my arm. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting to feel his fingers clamp
around my forearm.
But they never did.
I heard a loud thud, and Dad grunted in pain. My eyes flew open. Wesley moved away from Dad, who was
massaging his jaw with a shocked look on his face. “Why you little shithead!”
“Are you all right?” Wesley asked, kneeling in front of me.
“Did you just punch my dad?” I couldn’t help but wonder if I was delirious. Had all of this really just happened?
Totally bizarre.
“Yes,” Wesley admitted.
“How dare you touch me!” Dad screamed, but he was having trouble balancing enough to approach us again.
“How dare you fuck my daughter, then hit me, you son of a bitch!”
I’d never heard my father swear like that before.
“Come on,” Wesley said, helping me to my feet. “Let’s get out of here. You’re coming with me.” He wrapped an arm
around me, pulling me close against his warm body, and ushered me out the open door.
“Bianca!” Dad yelled behind us. “You better not get in that damn car! You better not leave this house! You hear me,
you little whore!”
The ride to Wesley’s house passed in silence. Several times I saw him open his mouth like he wanted to speak,
but he always shut it again. I was in too much shock to say anything. My head didn’t hurt that much. I just couldn’t
wrap my head around what Dad had done. But worse was the embarrassment. Why? Why did Wesley have to see
that? What did he think of me now? What did he think of Dad?
“That’s never happened before,” I said, breaking the silence when we pulled into the driveway of the almostmansion.
Wesley cut the engine and looked over at me. “Dad’s never hit me or even yelled at me like that
before.”
“All right.”
“I just want you to know that wasn’t normal for us,” I explained. “I don’t live in an abusive house or anything. I don’t
want you to think my dad is some kind of psychopath.”
“I was under the impression that you didn’t care what people thought,” he said.
“About me. I don’t care what they think about me.” I didn’t know that was a lie until the words had left my mouth.
“But my family and friends are different. My dad isn’t a psychopath. He’s just having a rough time right now.” I
could feel the lump rising in my throat, and I tried to gulp it down. I needed to explain. He needed to know. “My mom
just filed for a divorce, and and he just can’t handle it.”
The lump wasn’t going away. It just kept growing. All of my worries and fears had been leading up to this moment,
and I couldn’t fight them back anymore. I couldn’t keep them bottled up. Tears started gushing down my cheeks,
and before I knew it I was sobbing.
How had this happened? It felt like a bad dream. My father was the sweetest, nicest man I knew. He was naive and
fragile. This wasn’t him. Even though I’d heard his reasons for sobriety before—even though I knew, in the back of
my head, that his drinking was dangerous—it still didn’t seem real. It didn’t seem possible.
I felt like my world was finally spinning out of control. And this time, I couldn’t deny it. I couldn’t ignore it. And I
definitely couldn’t escape it.
Wesley didn’t say anything. He just sat with me in silence. I didn’t even realize he was holding my hand until after
the tears had stopped. Once I’d caught my breath and wiped away the few salty drops from my eyes, he opened
his door and walked around to open mine. He helped me out of the car—not that I needed it, but it was still nice
—and led me up to the porch with his arm tight around me, like the way he’d guided me out of my house, keeping
me close. As if he was afraid I might slip away in the darkness between his car and the front door.
Once we were inside, Wesley offered me a drink. I shook my head, and we went upstairs like we always did. I sat
on the bed, and he sat down next to me. He wasn’t looking at me, but he seemed to be deep in thought. I couldn’t
help wondering what horrible things were on his mind. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.
“Are you all right?” he asked, turning to face me finally. “Do you need an ice pack or anything?”
“No,” I said. My throat was sore from crying, and my words came out kind of croaky. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
He reached over and brushed the hair away from my face, his fingers barely grazing my temple. “Well,” he said
quietly. “At least now I know.”
“Know what?”
“What you’re trying to escape from.”
I didn’t respond.
“Why didn’t you tell me that your father has a drinking problem?” he asked.
“Because it’s not my place to tell,” I said. “And it’ll pass. He’s just going through a hard time right now. He hasn’t
had a drink in eighteen years. Just since the divorce papers came in. He’ll get better.”
“You should talk to him. When he’s sober, you should tell him that it’s getting out of hand.”
“Yeah,” I scoffed. “And make him think I’m against him, too? When my mom has just handed him the divorce
papers?”
“You’re not against him, Bianca.”
“Tell me, Wesley, why don’t you talk to your parents?” I asked. He was being a hell of a hypocrite, wasn’t he? “Why
don’t you tell them that you’re lonely? That you want them to come home? It’s because you don’t want to upset
them, right? You don’t want them to blame you for their misery? If I tell Dad he has a problem, he’ll think I hate him.
How can I hurt him more? He just lost everything.”
Wesley shook his head. “Not everything. He didn’t lose you,” he said. “At least not yet. If you don’t talk to him, he’ll
just end up driving you away, and then he will be in far worse pain.”
“Maybe.”
Wesley’s fingers continued to rub soothingly against my temple. “This doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“Not at all.” Actually, the way he was massaging my skull felt pretty good. I sighed and leaned into his hand. “The
things he said hurt way more,” I murmured.
I bit my lower lip. “You know,” I said to Wesley, “I’ve never been called a whore in my life, and today two different
people have implied that I am. What’s funny is, I’m pretty sure they’re right.”
“That’s not funny,” Wesley muttered. “You’re not a whore, Bianca.”
“Then, what am I?” I demanded, feeling suddenly angry. I pushed his hand away from my head and stood up. “What
am I? I’m screwing a guy who isn’t my boyfriend and lying about it to my friends if they’re even my friends
anymore. I don’t even think about it now, whether this is right or wrong! I’m a whore. Your grandma and my dad both
think so, and they’re right.”
Wesley stood up, his face hard and serious. He grabbed me by the shoulders and held me firmly, forcing me to
look up at him. “Listen to me,” he said. “You are not a whore. Are you listening, Bianca? What you are is an
intelligent, sassy, sarcastic, cynical, neurotic, loyal, compassionate girl. That’s what you are, okay? You’re not a slut
or a whore or anything remotely similar. Just because you have some secrets and some screwups You’re just confused like the rest of us.”
I stared at him, stunned. Was he right? Was the rest of the world just as lost as I was? Did everyone have their
secrets and screwups? They must. I knew Wesley was just as messed up as me, so surely the rest of the world
had its imperfections, too.
“Bianca, whore is just a cheap word people use to cut each other down,” he said, his voice softer. “It makes them
feel better about their own mistakes. Using words like that is easier than really looking into the situation. I promise
you, you’re not a whore.”
I looked at him, into his warm gray eyes, and suddenly understood what he was trying to tell me. The message
hidden beneath the words.
You’re not alone.
Because he understood. He understood how it felt to be abandoned. He understood the insults. Understood me.
I pushed myself onto my tiptoes and kissed him—really kissed him. It was more than just a precursor to sex. There
was no war between our mouths. My hips rested lightly beneath his, not pressed tightly. Our lips moved in soft,
perfect harmony with each other. This time it meant something. What that something was, I didn’t know at the time,
but I knew that there was a real connection between us. His hands stroked gently through my hair, his thumb
grazing my cheek—still damp from crying earlier. And it didn’t feel sick or twisted or unnatural. Actually, it felt like
the most natural thing in the world.
I slid off his shirt, and he pulled mine over my head. Then he laid me down on the bed. No rush. This time things
were slow and earnest. This time I wasn’t looking for an escape. This time it was about him. About me. About
honesty and compassion and everything I’d never expected to find in Wesley Rush.
This time, when our bodies connected, it didn’t feel dirty or wrong.
It felt horrifyingly right.