A Thin Line-

by DL White

  For a long time, we sit and let everything settle. I tip my head up, so our lips meet. "Kiss me."

  I'm expecting a light, sweet kiss, but his lips linger, and his mouth opens, and the kiss deepens into something so slow and romantic. Heady.

  The shift between us is monumental. From here, we craft our future.

  Never, in an infinite number of years, did I picture me here.

  But now that I am, I can't imagine myself anywhere else.

  When our lips finally part, I pull back and smile at him. "I think the verdict is in."

  "Since when do you make lawyer jokes all the time?” Then, curiously, a brow rises. “Do I want to hear this?"

  "Mmmhmm. I do think you’ve got your shit together."

  21

  The sensation of feather light touches on the soles of my feet, baby pinches on the toes awakens me. I jerk my foot away, but the gentle assault resumes.

  When my eyes don't open, he reverts to a different tactic; he grabs the heel of my foot and jiggles it. The motion grows in intensity until my body and the bed shake with tremors.

  "Okay!"

  I kick my foot away and roll over, willing my eyes to open. The room is bright with morning sun. My head lobs to the left. Preston is seated on the side of the bed, a towel wrapped around his torso. The scent of body wash wafts upwind.

  "Is this your way of saying it's my turn to shower?"

  "It's my way of saying get your ass up. We have to be at the hotel at eleven, and you know it takes you women forever to do anything–" He receives a pillow in the face, the one my head had been laying on.

  I sit up, bringing my legs under me. I don't want to get out of bed. The mattress is a plush pillow top, and the sheets are the softest, most decadent fabric that has ever touched my skin, the comforter is a luxurious goose down that was like sleeping in a cocoon. I could get used to this.

  "I'm tired," I croak.

  "You should be," he replies, smirking. Flashes from the past twenty-four hours pop to the forefront of my mind—the sex on the couch. Then in my bed. Twice. Three times? Later in his tub. And then in his bed.

  I groan. Yes, I should be exhausted.

  Preston leans in, lips puckered. I tip forward, so our lips meet and let him kiss me. But instead of letting him go, I grab his face with both hands and pull him to me.

  He laughs through the kiss and moves across the bed, every moment bringing a ripple in muscle beneath skin. I lay back down; he lays beside me, adjusting the towel still wrapped around him.

  Preston rolls to his side, leaning on an elbow. "Are you okay?"

  I stroke the tips of my fingers through the tufts of hair on his chest, softened by the soak in the shower. I’m… aware of his proximity, that he’s leaning over me, a small smile on soft, plump lips. "I'm great," I answer. Then ask," And you?"

  His expression doesn't change when he says, "I'm alright."

  I alert at his tone, the words he chooses. He doesn't go out of his way to assure me that he's fine, things are fine, he's not having second thoughts.

  "Just alright? What's wrong? You... we... this is what you wanted. Right?"

  Should I have thought this out more?

  "Angie..." He starts to sit up, forcing me up with him. “Before you overthink this and we go another twenty years not getting along? You and me...” He points from me to him and back to me. "We're good. Very good.”

  "Okay. So, alright means..."

  "It means alright," he says, laughing. “It means that I wonder how we're going to get through this. How are we going to pull this off without anyone knowing? I'm not into sneaking around with you. We should tell everyone.”

  I am already violently shaking my head. "Preston, no. We cannot make this weekend, this event that is about Nate and Morgan about us. If people know we're together, that’s what it’ll turn into; it won’t be about Nate and Morgan. And considering they're paying for our trip, I don't want to do that to them."

  "I guess, but I–”

  "And," I continue, talking over him. "Our friends are the nosiest, most annoying people. When they know that we've hooked up, they'll be relentless. I know they were right all along. I don't want to have to hear it all week. I don't want know-it-all glances and jokes over breakfast. I don't want them up our asses all week. Can we keep it quiet for now? It's for one week."

  He sighs. He's unhappy. He's used to being able to express himself, whether his expression is welcome or not.

  "I don’t care about their moment, or whatever. But I hear what you're saying, and it makes sense to me.” After a breath, he flashes a brilliant smile. “Thing is, I've got this shit-eating grin on my face all the time, and I can't talk about who put it there. And how."

  “I know about not being able to talk about the smile on my face. And who put it there.”

  “So, you feel me?”

  “I feel you. So….” I reach for the towel wrapped around his torso. “What if I made you care?”

  He groans, watching me loosen the weak twist holding it closed. “Say more."

  "How about if I do more?"

  I flip the towel open to reveal his lithe figure. He is semi erect, a status that is changing by the second. His dick rises as if to greet me. I slide my palm down a column of warm skin pulled taut over steel-hard muscle, close my hand around him and gently squeeze.

  Preston blows a long, low, slow breath from pursed lips while I work him, slowly stroking, gradually increasing first speed, then intensity. The head is red and bulbous; evidence of his arousal leaks from the tip. It's the most erotic view I've seen in a long time.

  Preston falls back into the pillows, a chesty, lusty groan rolling from him. His sounds take on a rhythm matching the beat of my strokes. His hips undulate, seemingly without his knowledge and not under his power.

  In one swift movement, he grips the back of my neck, pulling me down to him, first crushing his lips with mine and then, as the kiss grows deeper, more sensual, less passionate, his tongue dances with mine. All the while, I pump, I pull, I squeeze, I twist, I work him.

  Preston breaks the kiss and writhes in a twisted mass of sheets. "Fuuuuccckkkk," he groans, through clenched teeth. "Don't stop.”

  "I wouldn't dare."

  He is close. And then he is there.

  I grab the towel that was around his body moments before and lay it over his lap. He convulses while he spills onto the towel, grunting sounds of pleasure into the crook of an arm he has tossed over his face.

  I don't stop touching him until he directs me to. He slides from my grasp and lands against his thigh. Sated, he removes the arm from across his face, still bearing that smile. He manages to sit up a bit, leaning back on both elbows while his color and breathing return to normal.

  "Evangeline."

  I blush at the mention of my name. Preston used to be the only person I would allow to call me that because I loved how he said it. He lost the high pitched nasally whine of our youth, and as his voice deepened and our relationship grew, the sound of my name took on a whole new meaning. That single word could elicit the lustiest and most erotic thoughts.

  Preston knew all along what calling me by my full name would do to me. That's why he insisted on doing it. Another reminder to me of what we used to be. Another way to hold on.

  "Preston," I respond, knowing I don't sound half as sexy saying his name as he does saying mine.

  "Was that supposed to help?"

  "It was supposed to be an incentive."

  "Incentive." He stares blankly, blinking a few times and shaking his head. "Incentive toward what?"

  "If you want more of what the last twenty-four hours have brought you…” I nod toward the length of him lying against his thigh. "You'll keep your mouth shut. You'll play this game like you never played a game before. They wanted us to get along, so we'll get along. Really well. They'll think it's a miracle."

  "But..."

  "And then, when we are alone, and it's the two of us? I will reward you." I lea
n down and brush my lips across his. He is faintly smiling. "Handsomely. Deal?"

  "Baby," he says, rising so our lips meet again. "These lips are sealed."

  Both parties will meet up at the Embassy Suites Downtown Orlando, post gauche and déclassé debauchery. At least that's how I picture Nate's party will go. Preston won't spill details about his plans. He thinks I'll let something slip to Morgan, who can't keep a secret from Nate.

  The events staff lets us into the room that we've rented for the party, arranged in the configuration that we discussed on the phone: round tables and chairs dispersed throughout the room, three tables along the back for punch, drinks, and hors d'oeuvres, an open space for dancing and a few tables on the raised platform. The DJ will play tunes into the wee hours of the morning, or until we all pass out. The tables are dressed in deep eggplant and emerald green, accented with a lighter, heather gray–Morgan's wedding colors.

  “We have a good start in here,” I muse, turning a full circle. “We need balloons, centerpieces on the tables, food, and drinks, and some decoration."

  Between Preston, Troy, Brandess, and Jackie, the room is soon overflowing with festivity. The dance floor is a sea of balloons, the colors mixing beautifully. Each table has tea light candles, which will be lit by the events staff before everyone shows up. When the lights are low, the candlelight at each table will give off a soft romantic glow.

  The DJ is confirmed with a set up time around midnight. Everything's taken care of except for the partying itself, which will commence shortly.

  Preston and I check into our suites. I’m terribly singing Beyoncé’s Upgrade U and wandering my hotel room that resembles a luxury one-bedroom apartment when the phone in the room rings. I already know who it is.

  "Hi there."

  "Hi," says the sexiest voice I've heard all day. "I'm in the room next to you. This doesn't make sense."

  "What doesn't make sense?"

  “Paying for two rooms. One of us is going to end up in the other's bed tonight.”

  “You have a valid point, but we have an agreement. We can’t be a couple in public."

  "I get that. A smart guy picks things up."

  "Then why are you calling to protest, yet again, not telling anyone?"

  “I’m calling to let you know that I expect to be sleeping next to you tonight."

  "Noted.” I sit back further on the bed, dragging the phone across the nightstand as far as it'll go. “What time does Nate's party start?"

  "Nice try. I’m not telling you. How about Morgan's party?"

  "I'm not telling you."

  "I don't care anyway. A Bachelorette Tea sounds boring."

  I giggle, thinking that it’s been a long time since Preston made me laugh out loud. "I'll see you later tonight then?"

  “Guaranteed. You ladies be careful."

  "Turn that warning around and issue it to yourself. Keith still has a scar from his Bachelor party."

  He bursts into laughter, as I knew he would. He's proud of that particular party. "Touché. Have fun."

  "I will. I lo-I mean, have fun."

  He pauses for a millisecond. Then says, "We will. For sure. Love you, too."

  22

  A stretch SUV huffs at the entrance to the hotel, sitting in wait for its passengers. As if on cue, the elevator door opens and spills out a gaggle of women dressed in style–slinky black dresses, immaculate faces, broad smiles. We're ready for a night on the town in honor of the bride.

  Morgan isn’t the Chippendales or male stripper type. We tried, a few years ago, to go to a show and it was a disaster. Instead of putting her through that again, we decided to treat her to her heart's desire–theater, dinner, drinks, and song.

  The limo pulls up to Sleuths, where a five-course meal and unlimited drinks while being treated to a forty-five-minute comedy mystery await. Morgan has always wanted to go, but we’ve never had a large enough group to make it fun. Since we haven't told her anything about the evening, she bounces out of the car as soon as we pull up.

  We are shown to a private room, outfitted with several long tables covered by white cloths. We quickly fill two tables with a few chairs to spare. Jackie chooses a seat on one side of me. Morgan sits on the other side. Brandess is a few seats down and sprinkled among the rest of our friends are others who will be joining us on the island.

  "I was thinking, Angie," says Jackie, nibbling on bread slathered in butter. "There are only couples coming to the wedding. Besides you and Preston, I mean. Are you going to be okay?"

  Mmhmm, I’ll be just fine.

  “I’ll be so busy with Maid of Honor and planner duties that I’ll hardly notice. And Troy will be there.”

  "Uhm..." Morgan swallows a mouthful of wine and glances at me with a guilty expression. “Preston said Troy was bringing someone. He needed an extra wristband for the excursions.”

  I’m puzzled; Troy hadn't told me about anyone new. I was counting on him to be my cover.

  “If it's any consolation,” says Jackie, while rubbing her belly. “I probably can't do any of the excursions, thanks to Junior in here."

  It isn’t any consolation, but Jackie is glowing. "So, it's a boy?" She nods, beaming. “Aww, I’m so happy for you. Are you sure you can fly?"

  “I told my doctor that if I couldn't go on this trip, it was going to cause me more stress than if I went into early labor. I need to make sure that I can get up and walk during the flight. And stay hydrated."

  "Good. I'll make sure you do that."

  "You look great, by the way. Kind of a..." She stares, her brows drawn together in concentration. “Afterglow. Did you finally fuck Preston? Exorcise all of that sexual energy between you two?”

  My heart drops to my feet. I will myself to remain calm. Do not panic. Jackie’s joking, the way Jackie jokes. There's no way anyone knows about Preston already.

  “Jackie, are you high? There is no sexual energy between Preston and me.”

  “Please, Angie,” says Brandess, from three seats away. “That man would bend you over this table and fuck you until you don’t know your name anymore. Pass the bread basket?”

  “I—he would not.” I try to look disgusted while flashes from the night before roll through my mind. He had, in fact, bent me over a few surfaces. But that was not for them to know. “Preston isn’t into me like that…I mean...”

  Jackie slides the basket to Brandess. “I’m saying, Angie. You look freshly fucked, and unless you have a secret boyfriend, I need to know what brand of moisturizer you’re using, because honey, you’re glowing.”

  Morgan eyes me, one brow hiked, now suspicious. “Hmmmm….”

  I reach for a roll to shove into my face before I give myself away. “I still use Clinique. It must be the lighting in here.”

  Mercifully, the lights dim, and the host comes out to introduce himself and tell us about the show. Each table will separate into teams, and at specified times, we'll have to discuss the events so far and draw a conclusion as to who the killer might be. As the show gets longer, we'll get more and more clues. The first team to come up with the correct answer wins.

  I almost feel sorry for the other table. Morgan plays to win.

  The next forty-five minutes are hilarious moments I’ll never forget and certainly have never experienced at a Bachelorette party. Belly laughter, screaming, clapping, good-natured roasting from across the room, all fueled by a full-bodied red wine, strong cocktails, and a surf & turf dinner.

  We roll out of Sleuths, a cackling group of slightly drunk women. Morgan is hauling a plastic golden statue under her arm. We pile back into the limo and head to our second stop of the night, Howl at the Moon.

  I’d booked the Bachelorette Package, knowing we'd be low on inhibitions by that point in the night. Morgan sports a sash that says Bride to Be, we feed her more drinks, and peer pressure each other into doing karaoke.

  Morgan performs her best Madonna impression, rolling around the stage and wailing to Like a Virgin. When she final
ly gets up from the carpeted stage, takes her bow, and hands the microphone off, every table stands to applaud. I hold her face in my hands and, through laughter, tell her, “That was terrible, Morgan. Just awful!”

  "Thank you," she manages to squeal and collapses into a chair.

  Just before midnight, I herd everyone off stage–which they've grown to love as the night wears on and the taps pour, and back to our ride back to the hotel.

  Morgan is a loving drunk, squeezing her arm around my shoulders as she chants. "I love you, love you, love you, Angie. You're the bestest, bestest girlfriend in the world!”

  Then she pivots, sitting up straight. “Oh, I can't wait to see Nate! I hope he had a good time."

  Brandess snorts. "Keith helped with planning, but he wouldn't tell me anything. If I know Preston, it was one for the books."

  "You and Preston have been getting along lately," says Morgan, jiggling my shoulder. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed. I’m proud of you. It should have always been like this, you know? Your lives are too wound together to not get along. You're friends now, right?"

  "Sure. Yeah." We’re friends who fuck and are falling in love, but I won't admit that for at least another week.

  "I mean, of course, I understood.”

  "Mmmmm,” I hum, unconvinced. “That's why you forced me to plan your wedding with someone I hate. Because you understood."

  Morgan’s head dips forward and back as if her neck can't hold the weight. "I did," she murmurs while nodding. "I did understand, but it’s good to let go of all that. Move on. Life’s too short to hang onto bullshit. Am I right?"

  The entire van shouts their agreement with Morgan's moving speech. I'd be cringing inside if I didn't have a secret burning a hole in the pit of my stomach. Morgan's so damn smug, so sure that she knows everything. I can only imagine her reaction if she knew what Preston and I had been up to the day before.