Our Barbie Dream House

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Chapter Sixteen

H A Y E S

Mabel Baker is just like a broken pen; she can create beautiful things, but sometimes she bleeds too much ink.

She’s just like a boiling tea kettle, when you attempt to take off the lid just a bit she’ll burn your hand with her scalding hot steam.

Maybe she’s like cigarettes; eases the pain, but grants you with difficulty breathing.

Or she could be like writer’s block, making your mind run laps with so many ideas yet you have no damn idea how to write them out on paper.

Mabel Baker is a lot of things, but being Seeder Grove’s golden girl definitely isn’t one of them. She’s a girl with angry blue eyes and scarred knuckles and bone breaking punches. I never thought Mabel would be much of a cryer, but I’m proven wrong the moment she crashes into my chest, and her sobs are muffled by my cigarette smelling sweatshirt.

I’m stiff for a single moment, eyes wide with shock, and curiosity as I stare down at the weeping girl. I’ve never been the touchy, feely type, but I feel like I should at least show Mabel some support, or affection since she’s so flustered for some reason. So I wrap my arms around her, awkwardly at first, and then I pull her closer into me.

I’ve never comforted someone before.

I’m not sure whether I should ask the girl what happened, or if I should take her inside, and offer her some Ramen.

Ramen Noodles solve everyone’s problems, right?

She seems to cry harder when I pull her tighter against me, and without thinking I burry my head into her shaking shoulder.

“Want to come inside?” My voice is muffled by the baggy jacket she wears.

All she does in response is nod shakily against my chest, her tears soaking through my sweatshirt, and I do nothing but pull her towards my house. She doesn’t break away from me as we step up onto the front porch, her trembling, cold hands sliding into the front pocket of my baggy sweatshirt. I open the door, guide the crying girl inside slowly before kicking it shut behind me.

“I want to forget.” She cries, and I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not doing a good job at comforting her.

Drugs, she wants drugs.

So I nod my head, and pull her arms from me to sit her down on my ratted couch carefully. She swipes at her wet cheeks with her jacket sleeves angrily, spitting out nasty curses at herself for crying the way she is. But I don’t judge her, not for breaking down, and sobbing because whatever happened earlier must have hurt her pretty badly.

Leaving her in the living room, I walk up the stairs without a single uttered word, heading to the first door on the left. I push the door open since I hadn’t closed it all the way when I saw Mabel pull up, saw her punch her truck door. I was in working on a painting, my fingers stained with the evidence, but I had pushed my work aside in order to be there for a friend in need.

The room is filled with nothing but canvases, some covered in paint, and others a blank slate, waiting to be painted over with blacks and reds and greys. I make my way toward the desk that sits facing the window, the window that looks out at Mabel’s bedroom, and I pull the top drawer open. Pushing aside the millions of charcoal pencils, I fish out the small metal box, tuck it into my pocket before backing out of the room.

Mabel is still sitting on the couch when I finally walk back into the living room, her once bone-wracking sobs now quieted to occasional sniffles. I sit down beside her, clear my throat awkwardly, and then pull out the tin box from my sweatshirt pocket. Popping open the lid, I push the small case towards the sniffling girl, meaning for her to take out the small joint inside.

And she does. She holds the rolled joint between her trembling fingers, and she stares at me with wide, thankful blue eyes as she takes the white lighter from the box into her other hand. I watch quietly as she sparks it, brings the orange flame to the joint’s tip before taking a long drag.

“Hey, take it easy.” I mutter, snatch the joint from her lips to take a drag myself.

Mabel scowls at me, her eyes no longer watery, but puffy and red and angry. I want to ask her why she was crying to begin with, but I think better of it, and place the drug back between her wet lips. I ease back against the armrest, throw an arm over the back of the cushioned couch without breaking eye contact with the blue eyed girl.

“Riley fucked Hayden Myers.” She grits after blowing out the smoke from her mouth, eyes red, and hooded. “I walked in on her half naked, and him trying to climb out the window.”

Riley, her friend who I never quite liked for being too obnoxious, and loud. Riley Juvers, the girl who is known for causing trouble in this small town called Seeder Grove. Well, that is until Mabel Baker changed completely.

“I never liked her anyway,” it’s a true confession. One that I don’t care if it hurts Mabel’s feelings. “She’s too loud all the time, and never knows how to behave.”

She laughs bitterly, passes me what’s left of the joint before pulling out the last one from the metal box. I breathe in the drug, watch with a lazy smile as she lights hers, and then lays down beside me on the couch. Her head fits perfectly in the crook of my arm, eyelids hooded as she takes a small drag, and breathes out the smoke through her flared nostrils.

“People just love to play me like a deck of cards,” She grits, anger lingering in her pretty feminine features, and clenched fists. “She got a fucking bruised jaw for it, but I should’ve broke her nose. Maybe should’ve kicked her in between the legs, so she would think of me when it hurts to have his four inch cock inside her.”

I can’t help but laugh softly at that, the grin on my face is lazy, yet proud. If I were there with Mabel I probably would have socked Hayden Myers in the throat, spat on his three hundred dollar shoes, or keyed his precious silver Mercedes. I would have done it, just to get back at him for doing such a thing to Mabel, and then let Mabel do whatever the fuck she wanted to the girl who claimed to be her best friend.

I turn my spinning head, lock eyes with Mabel Baker, and just stay like that– staring at each other. She smiles wickedly, takes a long drag from the joint before blowing its smoke right into my face. I narrow my eyes at her, try to hide the smile at the mess she is, the mess I like her to be. She raises her free hand, the hand with blood crusted knuckles, and possibly a broken digit. Her fingers trace the outline of my lips, touch the metal piercing with sudden curiosity, and I bite at her fingertips with a wolfish grin. She steals her hand back with wide eyes, the joint in her other hand completely forgotten as I lean in with a hand beneath her chin.

I don’t think she’s breathing when my lips are just millimeters from hers, close and taunting. A magnificent smile spreads across the girl’s face, and she moves closer just a fraction, close enough that the tip of her cold nose brushes my cheek.

“Do you want something, Mabel Baker?” My voice is edged with tension, and curiosity.

She bites her lip, sucks in a nervous breath, and brushes her lips with mine. I smile to myself, pull her lower lip between my teeth, hand squeezing her hip, and I tug her against me harshly.

She moans.

“Tell me what you want.” My fingers slip under the hem of her shirt, can feel the cold, smooth skin beneath.

I pluck the joint from her hand with my free one, place it back in the tin box without a single shit that we’re wasting drugs, and I snap it shut. I push her into the couch cushions, hover over her with a sudden want I’ve never felt, not with any other female I’ve slept with. She holds her breath when I lean down to press my lips to the cold skin of her neck, teeth scraping, tongue licking.

“I want you.” She breathes, hands coming up to thread her fingers through my hair, and she tugs.

The groan that escapes my lips is muffled when I press my mouth further into her skin. My fingers tremble just the slightest bit as they make their way further up her sides, counting each rib in her body.

One, two.

My hands skim higher, warm palms pressed against cold flesh, and she breathes out a content sigh as if this is what she’s needed all along. I suck a pale patch of skin into my mouth, sinking my teeth into her tender flesh slightly, and Mabel moans in response.

Three, four, five.

“You want me?” I pant when my fingers slide higher and I’m seconds away from ripping her shirt over her head and I think she’s nodding distractedly but I’m too caught up in how uncomfortable my jeans have become.

Her own hands make their journey down the sides of my body, fingers wrapping themselves in the belt loops of my jeans, and they just stay there, tightening whenever I press a kiss to her skin, or roll my hips against hers.

Six, seven.

“Please.” She begs breathily, and I’m pulling back just to lift her shirt over her head.

I suck in a breath at the sight of the tattoo etched into her skin, a crimson rose just below her collarbone.

“I like this.” I comment, press my lips to her collarbone, to the tattoo there.

Eight, nine, ten.

I grind my hips forward, groan softly when she does the same, and her nails dig into the exposed skin just above my jeans. She pants, lips next to my ear, her warm breath fanning across my neck, and leaving goosebumps in its wake. My hand is on her cheek, no longer wet with tears, and I move her face just a fraction– press a heady kiss against her lips.

There’s no innocence in the kiss, it’s all tongue and clashing teeth and filthy curses. She arches her back, pressing closer to me more so than the couch, and her cold hand slips into the waistband of my jeans discreetly. My body tenses, but I don’t want to stop her.

Eleven, twelve.

Two sets of ribs, twelve on each side, and they protect, and shelter one racing organ in her heaving chest. I break away from her, panting, and gasping for air I can’t seem to grasp, hand splayed out across her cheek. I grip the wrist connected to a wandering hand with my free one, and press my erection between her legs. The action drags a low moan from her throat, fingers pulling at the dark strands of my hair.

“My bedroom,” I pant, slide my hand down her neck to rest at the base of her throat. “We should go to my bedroom.”

Because having sex on a couch is about as comfortable as it looks, and there’s no curtains in the living room.

Mabel nods quickly, untangles herself from me, and I’m clambering off the couch to help her to her feet. Both of us are still panting by the time I’m pulling her up the stairs with her hand in mine, and I’m guiding her down the hall, past the first door. I tug her into my room, slam the door shut behind her, and then press her up against it.

My head dips down, tongue sliding up the column of her throat, and she sighs loudly with her hands caught in my hair. Pulling her away from the door, I ease her back onto the bed, fingers hooking in the elastic waistband of her black leggings. I tug them down her thighs, eyes wild when I strip them from her legs quickly to ball them in my fist, and throw them over my shoulder.

She sits up quickly, takes the hem of my sweatshirt in her hands, and lifts it over my head. There’s a flood of insecurity that fills my body, washing over me like a cold wave of salt water. But I ignore it when Mabel smiles up at me, then hooks her bare legs around my hips, and pulls me onto the bed with a lazy laugh.

And she’s pushing me onto my back with a cold hand pressed to my chest, climbing on top of me to straddle my waist with a wicked grin painted across her face. Her eyes rove over the pinkish scars that litter my lower torso, disappearing beneath the waistband of my jeans, and without warning, she dips down, lips pressing themselves against the sensitive skin.

Fuck.” I hiss, insecurity vanishing as quickly as it came.

My fists are full of grey blanket fabric, knuckles bone-white, and I press my face into the pillow to muffle my groans when Mabel’s fingers begin to work at the buttons on my jeans.

“Hayes, relax.” She whispers against my burning skin, and she’s grappling at the zipper.

I gasp, fist my hand in her hair, and lift my hips up off the bed when she tugs at the belt loops. I don’t have enough time to feel self-conscious about the large scars that are forever engraved in my skin on my right leg, stopping just above the knee because Mabel already has my jeans discarded on the floor, and she’s pressing a hand to the bulge in my loose boxers. I grit my teeth, gritting out a string of filthy curses that only cause Mabel to chuckle lazily.

But before she can even attempt to pull down the plaid fabric, I’m pushing her away from me, pressing her face into the mattress, and mouthing the tip of her spine. Her groan is muffled by the blanket, and she presses her hips against the mattress for any sort of friction. I smile at the thought, hand going to the spot she’s begging to be touched.

I press the tips of my fingers to the soaked fabric of her underwear, chuckling victoriously as she grinds against my hand with a breathy moan.

“You’re already soaked, and I’ve hardly done anything to you, Pooh Bear.” I grit my teeth, and my voice is dark gravel and my entire body is shaking with the need to be touched in a way I haven’t been touched in a long time.

The curses that escape her lips are warbled, her thin fingers curling around the grey fabric of the bedspread, and she lifts herself up on her forearms to look at me over her shoulder. She rocks down against my hand, and I can’t help but stop my moving fingers whenever her moans grow louder, enjoying the torment on her features– the pleading look in her blue eyes.

“Dammit, Hayes,” she grits, rocks against the mattress again for the friction I’m not giving her. “Fuck me right, or not at all, you asshole.”

I’m not at all shocked with her choice of words, knowing damn well she’s always had a mouth on her. I smile wickedly, flip her over onto her back with ease, and settle between her legs.

“You, and your wicked mouth.” I chuckle darkly, and if ice could be a sound that’s what my voice would be like.

Cold and sharp and numbing.

I reach over, slip my hand into the nightstand drawer beside my bed, grip the package in the palm of my hand, and Mabel buries her face in the crook of my neck for the five quick seconds it takes for me to slip off the last barrier of clothing, and easily slide on the protection. She raises her hips up off the bed, arching towards me as she removes her underwear without my help, and then her bra that isn’t Winnie the Pooh, but I don’t mention it.

My mind is a jumbled mess as I grip her hips, the last bit of my restraint slowly beginning to slip away when she drags an impatient hand through my hair, and gives a slight tug on the strands as a silent demand. I like it. The muscle in my jaw ticks, eyes locked onto hers even as I press myself against her entrance, and push.

Her mouth falls the slightest bit open, a low, guttural groan being drug from the back of her throat, and her fingers tighten in my hair. I enjoy it. I grit my teeth, fingers digging into the skin of her thighs, and I think I might be feeling something for the first time in weeks– something that makes me feel okay.

Fuck,” I grit out, roll my hips into hers, gently at first. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

She wraps her legs around my waist, arches her back off the bed, and pulls me closer to her– urges me on with another low moan. Then she’s planting kisses to the skin below my ear, working her way down, taking small patches of flesh between her damned teeth.

“Hayes, come on.” She pleads, lifts her hips to meet mine. “Fuck me, I’m not fragile.”

Mabel isn’t, I know that, which is why I pull away for the slightest second, pull out slowly only to thrust deeply– quickly. She buries her face into her arms that are wrapped tightly around my neck, her moans of pleasure muffled by her own warm flesh, and the more I press deeper the more she becomes louder than my breath is, than our skin against one another’s is.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” My words come out as a breathy groan, fingers digging into the tender skin of her thighs.

I press my lips to the side of her head, curling over her only to thrust deeper, faster, and she slips up the bedsheets with a loud, nearly screamed ‘fuck’. I pry her arms from around my neck, intertwine our fingers together before pinning her hands down beside her head, lips pressed to her neck. But then I meet her gaze, eyes locked as I slowly pull out again, rock forward, and fuck her with some sort of vengeance– some kind of need.

Just when she’s about to scream a string of filthy curses do I press my mouth against hers, tongue sweeping over her teeth, biting into the spit-slick skin of her lower lip, and she groans into my mouth.

“Harder,” she moans when she breaks away, slips her hands up my arms, and sinks her nails into my shoulders. Her legs tighten around me, forcing me deeper, lips pressing themselves against my throat, my jaw. “Yes, harder.”

I oblige her, thrust harder, deeper, faster, and push her legs wider. She’s nearly screaming out with each thrust into her, causing me to release my own groan of pleasure, and rake a hand through her wavy hair. I feel it then, building up in the pit of my stomach, coming close to finishing.

“Like that?” I mean to laugh, but I’m too distracted.

And I rock into her one last time, watch as she falls apart just as I do, her beautiful blue eyes slammed shut with her head thrown back against my pillow and mouth fallen the slightest bit open and I feel myself empty just as Mabel lets out a loud cry.

"Fuck, Mabel.”


M A B E L

Waking up in a bed that isn’t mine, and smells like marijuana is something I honestly didn’t think I would ever experience in my life. The events of yesterday feel surreal to me, like a fucked up dream that I’m not sure really happened, or not. But when I blink my eyes open and stare up at a bland ceiling and realize I’m not in the bed alone, do I know for sure that I definitely slept with Hayes Winchester.

My clothes are everywhere other than my body, which is another unnerving thought, but thankfully my bare body is hidden beneath the grey blanket of his that smells of sweat, and drugs. There’s a dull ache throughout my body, my arms, and legs. I sit up in bed, springs creaking beneath me, and I’m quick to swipe my leggings off the carpeted floor with an outstretched hand.

Maybe if I get dressed quiet enough, I can make a mad dash out of here without waking him.

It’s a struggle to stuff my sweat coated legs into the tight black pants, but I manage to slide them on my sweaty body without making too much noise. I suck in a deep breath, and hold it as I beginning searching for my shirt, or even my damned bra with a bare arm pressed against my exposed chest.

Where the fuck is my shirt?

Maybe I can make a quick dash across the yard, and to my house without being seen. Who even needs a shirt, right? Plus it was just an old band t-shirt of Riley’s, I would have set it ablaze out in the backyard anyway.

“Here.” My whole entire body goes rigid at the sound of the sleep laced voice.

I suddenly feel well aware of the way the temperature of the room has dropped along with the low pitch of his husky voice, and I shiver before forcing myself to turn around. I keep my arms folded across my chest, keep my mouth from falling open to hide the fact that I most definitely was trying to sneak out of his house after the night we had.

He’s sitting up in bed, fingers curled around the white fabric of my shirt, hair a mess of inky black atop his head from where I had clearly drug my thin fingers through the dark mop, and he tugs the grey comforter up to his hip– to hide his naked self from my wide, curious gaze.

“You were going to leave.” It’s a muttered statement, one that has his eyebrows drawn together in a tired scowl.

Because I’m getting too attached, and you’re going to leave me.

My mouth falls open just the slightest bit, gaping at the green eyed man like a gutted fish before tightening my arms over my chest. I don’t know what to say to him, how to respond, or even function after what happened last night– I’ve never been in this type of situation before.

He moves briskly to the side of his bed, blanket thrown over his lap as he presses the bottoms of his bare feet to the warm carpet of his bedroom floor. Hayes stares at me a moment, waiting for me to respond to his true statement, and looking in his sleep filled gaze becomes too much, so I glance everywhere but him.

“I didn’t know what to expect,” it’s the truth, one that tastes like black coffee on my lips. “You’re a lot different in the mornings, like you’re mad at the world, or something. Either that, or you’re smiling, and snarky.”

And it’s then that I think that maybe if Hayes wasn’t diagnosed with depression and bipolar disorder and possibly a brain tumor, he would have been smiling, and snarky all the time. Maybe he would be happy to be alive and have an endless amount of corny jokes and his laugh might have been loud, or carefree– not quiet, and stifled.

But that’s not the Hayes Winchester I know, not in the slightest. The Hayes Winchester I know is the one with the unexpected mood swings, with Jack coated lips, with dead green eyes, with an angry glare every morning I’ve slept over.

Maybe it’s because I’m here.

“I thought that me being here when you woke up would bother you,” I speak, stifle the yawn that builds up at the back of my throat, and wince when I catch his tired glare. “Or something. . .”

The Winchester man rubs at his bleary eyes, lets out a loud, exhausted yawn before blinking at me as if he’s in some sort of daze. I suddenly feel self conscious, standing here without a shirt, and my pulse jumping with the fact that this is just my fucking luck.

“Here’s your shirt.” His words are clipped as he hands me the ball of white fabric, and it shouldn’t bother me that he’s letting me leave so easily, but it does.

I snatch the shirt out of his hand quickly, not giving a flying fuck that he’s watching quietly as I slide it on over my naked torso. I ignore the way his fingers curl in the grey fabric of his bed comforter, blink several times at the sight of the muscle in his jaw tick, and teeth gritting.

“Thanks.” I say awkwardly, and it’s the first time in a long time that I’ve felt cowardly, fragile.

Without another forced word, I turn on my heel, surging my cramping legs forward to remove myself from this tension filled bedroom, but before I can make a run for it, he’s grabbing at my arm. I freeze, suck in a startled breath before I twist around to face the strange, sleepy man.

He smiles at me, but I can tell it’s an effort for him to keep it plastered to his chiseled face.

“I gave you your damn shirt, but I didn’t say you could leave.” His callused thumb rubs over the pulse in my wrist, eyes glazed with sleep, but also something else I can’t quite decipher.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or maybe even the ache in my hips that makes me nod my head– makes me wonder how someone so considerate can feel nothing at all.


Hayes is quiet in the mornings, doesn’t really talk much, but he communicates with tired scowls, and grunts.

Something feels surreal about sitting on Hayes’ kitchen counter as he busies himself with making chicken flavored Ramen Noodles for breakfast. I watch silently as he stands at the heated stove in one of his baggy sweatshirts, threadbare plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips. The green eyed man stirs the boiling pot of noodles with a wooden spoon clenched in his hand, the tip of his tongue poking out between his pink lips as he concentrates.

I can’t help but smile at the side of his face, crossing my legs beneath me on the counter with more difficulty than I’d like to admit. Hayes seems to notice the poorly hidden smile on my face, a quiet, lazy chuckle escaping his lips.

“What?” He questions lightly, stirs the noodles a bit more before turning off the burner.

My smile widens on its own accord, stretching across my face so far I think I might split open. Seeing Hayes like this makes me insanely happy, seeing him content and relaxed and at ease.

“Nothing,” I respond, shifting a bit on the countertop to get a good look at the Ramen as he pours the noodles into two separate bowls. “You just seem to be. . . in a good mood.”

The Winchester man hands me a ceramic bowl full of steaming noodles, then a clean fork from the drawer closest to him. He smiles to himself as he blows onto the noodles he swirled on his metal fork, nods distractedly before taking a careful bite.

“Yeah,” he speaks around a mouthful of noodles, nods again before swallowing down the chicken flavored Ramen. “I am, I think. I don’t know, I like having you here.”

This makes me smile, but I try to hide it by bringing a fork of noodles to my lips. Something changes in the way he stares at me, something darker, and chilling. His smile is no longer easy, but now it’s a wicked smirk.

“I like being here too.” I speak quietly, heart running marathons in my chest.

His smirk broadens, nearly splits his face in two, and he finishes off his noodles before dropping the empty bowl into the sink.

“You’re pretty good in bed for someone who has never been fucked before.” Hayes says pointedly.

I choke on my Ramen, stare shocked at the now chuckling man, and then clear my throat. I’m not sure why I’m shocked with his choice of words, Hayes has always been a very straightforward, and blunt male– he would’ve said something like this to me eventually.

“You’re pretty good in bed for someone who has never been in a relationship before.” I retort with a playful smile.

The man rolls his eyes, braces himself on the counter with his palms pressed flat to the surface on either side of me. For a second I think he might lean in, and kiss me, but the taunting look in his green eyes tells me he won’t. But I’m taken off guard when he does lean in, lips nearly touching my ear when he says,

“Just because I haven’t been in a relationship doesn’t mean I haven’t fucked my fair share of women.”

I forget how to breathe.

He laughs nastily in my ear, his thumb brushing the length of my thigh in taunting strokes, and I can only imagine he has that wicked grin on his face again.

“Though you’re by far my favorite,” teeth bite at my ear, and I gasp aloud, clutch the front of his sweatshirt. “You look nice screaming my name.”

I want to grit out filthy curses, tell him to shut his fucking mouth because who knows the wicked things I would do if he keeps talking. My self control begins to slip when his hands grip my overworked hips, and he rolls into them just to taunt me– to hear me gasp again, and grind out his name.

“Say it.” His lips are on my neck, kissing along my shoulder– my collarbone.

I can’t feel myself shake my head, I know I do, but I’m too distracted, lost in the way his hips press against mine again.

“No.” I manage to speak, and push him away from me with a light shove at his chest.

He stands still in front of me, hands fisted in his sweatshirt pocket, and he’s smiling at me again– wicked; wolfish. Hayes doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest that I’ve just shoved him away, he just seems nonchalant, he ignores the fact that he’s clearly all hot and bothered. The evidence of that is hardened, and pressed against his plaid pajama bottoms.

“Can we just–” I breathe, Ramen Noodles completely forgotten as I run a hand through my hair distractedly. “Can we just hang out?”

He takes note of my heavy breathing, my flustered cheeks, and crossed legs. He knows I’m just as affected by all of this as he is, but he doesn’t push– just nods his head.

“Of course,” he cracks a smile, reaches out to touch my burning cheek. “Let’s hang out.”

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