Ink and Lies Page 9
“I’m getting there. Don’t interrupt. This is hard enough for me to even recount, you know. And this stays between us. No new material for your journal.”
“It’s not a journal, it’s a notebook. But whatever. Continue.”
“He pours me a drink—something dark and strong, but I barely taste it. I’m afraid to admit to him that my anxiety is bordering on fear. He’s so sexy and confident and daring…I want to be all of those things for him too. So I force my inhibitions aside, take a deep breath, and undress for him without saying a word. He wants tonight to be special; I’ll give him special. He wants me to be salacious; I’ll give him that too.”
“The surprise striptease. Nice touch¸” I force myself to say in the name of friendship.
She cracks a tiny grin. “Thought you might like that. Anyway…
“He watches me with a ravenous glare, his eyes probing my body like a starving lion. Only when I stand before him wearing only my shoes does he make his way to me, crossing the room in just a few eager strides. Every step brings me closer to my fate, and while I am a willing sacrifice, I can’t ignore the roiling of nerves in my gut. I think to stop his advance—or at least make him slow down—but then I am in his arms, and his lips are on mine, and I am lost to him. He completely disarms me, and I let him. I want him to take it all away—all the doubt, all the fear. I want to live his world, if only for this moment. Even at the expense of my better judgment.”
“Hmph,” I snort, taking a sip of scotch to mask the taste of bile in my mouth. “Mighty poetic of you.”
“I try. But it’s true. I allowed him to push my boundaries, because being loved by him is all I’ve ever wanted. It’s the type of love I’ve dreamed about since I was a little girl, watching my mom throw herself at scumbag boyfriend after scumbag boyfriend. It’s what I wished to have for my future when my deadbeat dad left us in his past like we never existed.”
I put down my glass and turn to face her, cupping her still-damp cheeks in my palms. “Fi, you can’t settle for a man because you’re still searching for the love your asshole sperm donor was incapable of giving you. We’ve talked about this.”
“I’m not settling,” she insists, pulling away. “I feel like Joshua was the one who was settling…for me.”
“You’re not going to say shit like that when I’m around,” I deadpan, meaning every bit of it.
“It’s true, Rhys. And once I tell you what happened between us, you’ll understand.”
“Fine. But I’m telling you right now—”
“Just listen, ok?”
I gesture for her to continue before refilling my glass. If she’s going to go down this road and expect me to keep my opinions—no, facts—to myself, I’ll need all the help I can get.
“We kiss. We touch. I undress him. He lays me on the bed. We’re hungry for each other like it’s the first time, even though in the back of my mind I’m dreading what’s next. But a part of me craves the thrill of him needing me in every way possible. He tells me he’ll be right back, and that feeling in my gut returns…the anxiety, the uncertainty, the anticipation. But I don’t have a chance to doubt myself any longer. He’s back within a few moments, and the lust in his eyes isn’t the only thing that tells me he’s ready. He positions me onto my knees, then opens the small tube of gel in his palm…”
“Wait a minute. Wait a fucking minute. You mean to tell me that all of this is about anal? You had me abandon a naked woman—mid-hump mind you—because you decided to give it up to the Booty Bandit? Holy shit, Fi! Why didn’t you say so?”
“It’s not just that! Plus, I had never done that…with anyone ever! I was scared, Rhys. And a part of me was kinda ashamed too.”
“It’s anal. Anal, Fi. What did you expect? The dude is ass obsessed. You don’t become a butcher unless you love meat.”
“I know that, and I know I agreed to it, but…” Flustered, she downs the wine in her glass and holds it out to me for a refill. She’s already killed the entire bottle, so I hand her my scotch. There goes another $50 shot. “You don’t understand. You’re confident and gorgeous and women flock to you like you have a golden penis. You don’t ever have to compromise to get what you want. And you’re like Joshua.”
“I am nothing like Joshua.” My jaw is clenched so tight that it feels like my teeth may shatter.
“I mean, you’re experienced. You’ve done it all…seen it all. And you’re not searching for anything because you already have everything.”
She’s wrong, but I don’t have the words or the heart to tell her so. I don’t have everything.
“Look, it wasn’t even the anal thing that freaked me out. It was…”
“Just tell me. Tell me what has you so mortified. Come on.” I wrap my arm around her shoulder and she burrows her face into my chest. I know talking about sex skeevs her out, and there’s no way she can look at me while recounting her dirty little tryst.
“It burns at first, but he knows what he’s doing. He goes slowly, gently. He tells me it will feel good soon, but it doesn’t, even after several minutes. I know something is wrong. I know it’s not supposed to be like this. And then I feel it.”
“Feel what? Is he pierced or something? Does he have a double dick? That’s a thing, you know.”
Fi soldiers on, despite my questions.
“I try to bear down, try to clench as hard as I can. I can feel it coming, but I’m too horrified to tell him to stop. He’s close…so close. But so am I. I can feel him throbbing with release, and all I can do is pray that it’s quick. But when he thrusts in deep and hard, calling out his climax, I can’t hold it anymore. And before I can stop myself and save him from the revulsion…it happens.”
“What? You farted? Fi, you’re not the first person to ever fart during anal. He knows that.”
“No! I wish!”
“Then what?” I sit up and lift her head to face me when she doesn’t answer. “Fi, tell me you didn’t…”
“I did!” she sobs uncontrollably. “Oh my God! I pooped on him! With him still inside me! It was all that darn kale that had my stomach feeling funny. Do you know how much fiber is in kale? A lot! Oh my God. Oh my God, Rhys. It was like a chocolate fountain! It was everywhere! And Joshua… the look on his face…the horror! But that’s not even the worst part. He threw up! He jumped away from me just in time to barf on the floor. I am so repulsive that I made a grown man toss his cookies all over a fancy suite at the Grand! There was poop and vomit everywhere. I tried to help him, but he told me to leave him alone and get out. I ran out of there in a bathrobe and high heels, leaving him sick and covered in excrement. I didn’t even grab my dress. Don’t you see? My life is ruined!”
I’m biting my cheek to keep from laughing, but it’s futile. I die on the spot, eyes closed, cramped into the fetal position as I imagine the shitty situation that Fiona has laid before me. Serves Joshua right. He wanted Fi to eat kale, so she ate kale. She even shared some of it with him.
“Holy shit, Fi! Holy fucking shit!” I cackle between deep belly guffaws.
“It’s not funny! It’s humiliating!”
“And disgusting! Only you would shit during anal. Only you!” Tears are streaming down my face. Actual tears.
“Hahaha. I’m so glad you’re amused by my misery. Happy I could entertain you while my life crumbles into ash.”
“Awwww.” I stop laughing long enough to sit up and pull her into my arms, placing her in the warm, safe spot between my bicep and chest. “Come on, Fi. You have to know this is hilarious. It may not seem like it now, but trust me; you’ll look back and realize it. And when we’re old and gray, sitting in our rocking chairs and talking about the good ol’ days, we’ll be able to reminisce about the day you shit on the butt doctor. You have to admit; it is rather fitting.”
She shakes her head, but I can feel her smiling against my tee shirt. “God, Rhys. Why do I even try? Why do I expect to get a different outcome when I know it will all end in disaster?”
She heaves out a sigh that seeps into the cotton of my shirt, warming the space encompassing my heart. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need to stop trying.”
My cheek rests against the top of her head as we sit in the silence of unspoken dreams. I hold her like she’s water in my palms, and she holds me like she’s trying to grasp an ocean.
“Maybe, Fi,” I breathe into wisps of damp, matted hair that smell of lavender and tears. “Or maybe you’re just trying for the wrong thing.”
“SO LET ME GET THIS straight: she’s a virgin who’s pregnant.”
“Yes,” Fiona nods, grabbing another slice of pineapple and ham pizza.
“And she has two guys pining for her, one being the baby daddy.”
“Correct,” she answers around a mouthful of mozzarella.
“I don’t get it.”
“What’s there not to get? She was accidentally artificially inseminated. And she’s never had sex.”
“I just don’t get how she’s still a 20-something virgin, and now a pregnant 20-something virgin. Isn’t that like a free pass to just give that shit away to the highest bidder? And it’s not like these dudes are bums either. How are they even cool with this? They are straight, right?”
“Totally straight. One is even married.”
“Hmph,” I grunt, reaching over for my third slice. “She must have a mouth like a Dyson then.”
“No, no, it’s not like that! She’s a good girl. And she’s writing a romance novel!”
I pause mid-chomp. “Hold the phone. A pregnant…virgin…romance novelist? What were the sitcom writers trying to do? Stack every ridiculous conflict they could pull outta their asses and try to make them cohesive? What is this… plot twist Tetris?”
“No, it’s actually a good show! There’s also a murderous crime lord amongst them, but they don’t know who it is.” Her eyes are glued to the screen, and she’s on the edge of her seat.
“Oh, of course, there is. It wouldn’t make much sense without a crime lord.”
I’ll give her this. After the tears and humiliation Fiona experienced this evening, tolerating a rom-com marathon on Netflix over pizza is the least I can do. Besides, the show isn’t half bad. I’m not telling her that though.
The heroine has a revelation, resulting in one of the guys getting his heart broken. Fi is torn about whom she wants to win the girl—and the baby.
“You knew that was going to happen,” I tell her. “They were trying to play the “just friends” card when it was evident they had chemistry. And this is why men and women cannot solely be friends.”
“How can you say that?” she scoffs.
“Um, history. Experience. It’s biologically impossible for two people to carry on a friendship under the current of sexual attraction. When you see the opposite sex, one question and one question only enters your mind: Would I sleep with him or her? Attraction is basal, not intellectual.”
“Then how do you explain us? We’re friends, and we’ve never hooked up.”
“That’s different, Fi. You thought I was repulsive and whorish when we first met, and I thought you were mute. This relationship was never built on attraction. It was built on snap judgments, sarcasm and a mutual love for books. We’re the exception, not the rule.”
“Not true!” she objects, throwing a stray piece of pineapple at me.
“How so?”
“Well…I was attracted to you.”
A bite of pizza nearly gets lodged in my throat and kills me. “What?”
“I was attracted to you.”
“You didn’t even notice me. I had been damn near squatting in your dorm room for weeks, and you never even so much as looked at me.”
“Rhys, it was you who never noticed me, remember? Of course, I looked at you. Everyone looked at you. You had this air about you—like you were already the person that you were meant to be. Everyone else was there trying to figure it out, and you already knew. You were totally nerdy in theory, but you didn’t look it. You had this James Dean-meets-Jesse Eisenberg persona—sexy, dangerous and totally brilliant—and you knew it too. You knew you had the world on a string.”
I shake my head in disbelief at her assessment. We’ve been friends for nearly a decade. Nothing like this has ever passed her lips. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Why would I?” She shrugs like she hasn’t just dropped a massive truth bomb on me. “You were dating…everyone. You knew what you looked like. You knew the effect you had on women. What good would it have done if I’d confessed that to you? It’s not like your head could get any bigger than it already was.”
“I know but…” How do I tell her that it would have changed everything? That Rhys and Fi could have turned out to be something completely different. But then again, what if it didn’t work out? Nineteen-year-old August Rhys Calloway was an immature ass who only cared about himself and his needs. His only desire was to be worshipped for his words…praised for his poetic prose. He was in love with the idea of being great. How could he ever see past his own ego to show that same affection to her? In the way that she deserved?
“I guess you’re right,” I admit to us both.
“I know I am. Besides, I’m so glad I didn’t. If I had, we wouldn’t be here today.”
“How do you know that?” I frown.
“Because I know you, Rhys. Sex is the proverbial period on relationships. Once the deed is done, you have no desire to move past the hook-up stage.”
“So what are you saying, that I am cock blocking myself…with my own cock?”
“Um, yeah,” she cringes. “I guess you can say that. So unless we were going to be born-again virgins, no good would have ever come from me confessing my attraction to you. Besides, once I actually spoke to you…you weren’t all that cute.”
“What?” I toss the rest of my slice back into the box and tackle her onto her back. She squeals and squirms while I unleash a barrage of tickles from her arms to her belly. “Take it back or I’m going for the thighs.”
“Ah! Stop August!” She giggles, trying to wrestle for control, but I easily outweigh her by eighty pounds. Still, she’s a scrappy little thing. “You were not that cute! Your mouth made you a 6! Maybe even a 5!”
“Take it back right now! I’m warning you!”
“Never!”
I reach between us, aiming for the inside of her thigh, the area that makes her cry with laughter whenever I tickle her there, when I brush against soft, bare skin. She isn’t wearing shorts under her sleep shirt. And my hands are between her legs. Instantly sobered, I jump from her body and completely off the couch, putting perspective and a good three feet of space between us.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, sitting up. The concern painted on her face is a direct result of the shock on mine.
“Um, nothing. I, uh, need a drink.” I do. I’m bugging out. We’ve wrestled and joked around more times than I can remember. I’ve seen Fi in her bra and panties, and she’s seen just about every part of me. There are no secrets between us. So why do I feel like I’ve just stumbled upon some great mystery that completely alters everything?
“Pour me one too,” she calls out as I stalk to the kitchen.
I scour the kitchen in search of bottled clarity in the form of cinnamon flavored whiskey. I take a shot, grasping the counter, trying to hold onto weightless reality. Trying to slow the tempo of my heartbeat that’s currently serving as the foreboding music that sets up a character’s impending doom. When the confused haze of lust clears, I grab the bottle and two shot glasses. Macallan is exceptional, but this is a job for Fireball.
“What’d I miss?” I ask, aiming for blasé. I pour us each a shot, and we tip them back with ease. This is the mo
st I’ve seen Fiona drink since the big breakup of 2013. I swear, she survived only on an IV drip of Pinot Grigio and chocolate, salted caramel cupcakes for a solid week.
“The baby’s father wants to start things up with the virgin mom, but his ex-wife is psychotic. Love makes you crazy.”
That’s my cue to refill our shot glasses. “You can say that again.”
Somewhere between Catholic nuns and hot lesbian sex, eyelids grow heavy with exhaustion and booze. I don’t even realize I’ve nodded off until I jerk awake, finding Fiona curled into my chest like a sleeping kitten, her deep, slumbered breath a purr of contentment. I should go. I’ve slept over in the past, but now I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. Not when I am relishing the feel of her warmth pressed into my skin. Not when I’m leaning in to smell her hair and kiss the lavender-scented crown of her head. Not when my arms ache at just the thought of not holding her all night.
I shift, forcing myself to do the right thing by her—by us—and it causes her to stir. She grasps my tee shirt tight, refusing to let me go. Somewhere in the distance, or maybe just in my head, The Fray’s “Never Say Never” begins to play, and she’s begging me not to let her go.
And I won’t.
I don’t.
“Stay,” she whispers, still on the verge of oblivion. “At least until I fall asleep.”
“I will.” I exhale, feeling the weight of my tangled affections fall from my shoulders. I hold her tighter, telling myself it’s all an illusion. I drift away, dreaming it will become tangible.
I’M GONE BEFORE FIONA WAKES—which won’t be for some time, considering she drank enough to make the Colonel proud. Back in his day, he was known to enjoy a nice scotch, which is probably where I picked up the affinity. After publishing my first romance as Hope, I splurged on a bottle of Macallan 25 and shared it with him. This was right before my grandmother passed, and the last memory of my grandfather being truly happy.
Since brunch is totally off the agenda for the day, I decide to grab some omelets from the Colonel’s favorite diner and head over to the senior village—after a shower and fresh clothes, of course. I’m too wired to sleep, and considering I can’t even close my eyes without imagining the silken feel of her inner thigh against my fingertips, I need a good distraction.