by Krista Wolf
He stripped down, while watching us. First his shoes, then the tie, then his shirt, button by button. By the time he was naked he was already hard, his cock jutting straight out as he took it into his hand. He looked absolutely amazing. His smooth, dusk-skinned body, all sculpted and perfect.
“Warmed her up for you,” joked Adam, rolling away.
“Thanks.”
I was choking on my own excitement as Dante nudged my knees apart. I saw him glance down, between my legs, to where his roommate’s warm come was already seeping from my pussy. The look of hunger in his eyes was beyond powerful. I could sense an intense, fiery heat beneath those beautiful brown irises… right before he threw my quivering thighs over his shoulders and shoved himself home, drilling straight up inside me.
It was all so wicked… but also so right. Dante fucked me to another screaming orgasm, while his friend and roommate stood casually at the other end of their studio apartment, cooking us all a delicious dinner.
“When you guys are finished,” he said, tasting something from a wooden spoon, “dinner is ready.”
Adam chuckled, but he was also watching. Looking over his shoulder as he strained the pasta and poured the wine… watching as his friend and I finished our lovemaking with a pair of spectacular, near-simultaneous orgasms. We cleaned up quickly and quietly. Wandered over to sit down at a fully-set table, totally sated but still breathless.
Maybe you were made for this?
I laughed, inwardly. It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed my mind. Without a doubt, I’d adjusted to the situation better than I could’ve ever imagined. I’d taken to dating three beautiful men like a fish to water, swimming happily alongside them on our journey to wherever this was ultimately going.
And where exactly is it going, Brooke? The article’s almost due. It’s almost over.
More and more, that part put a knot in my stomach. I’d given Chloe a partial draft on Wednesday, a day later than she’d wanted. I’d missed the deadline on purpose, just to keep things honest between us. To rile her up a bit, but also to make her realize I was still in full control, creative and otherwise.
Even so, I was a tiny bit nervous. I was confident that what I’d given her was some of my best work, but I was concerned the “Hannah” angle might not be the direction she originally wanted.
I shouldn’t have worried. She absolutely loved it.
That was a huge relief of course, but it also piled on even more pressure. Chloe was expecting fireworks and magic. An article that would blow Cosmo’s doors off, and secure us a recurring guest spot somewhere in their magazine. Now more than ever, the article had to be good. It couldn’t be something I threw together last minute, or the product of a sex-addled, sleep-deprived mind.
Toward the end of the second week I started taking my notebook with me everywhere. Jotting down sentence fragments and writing prompts — anything and everything that sounded catchy or good. This resulted in some really kickass openings. Some high-level brainstorming that had me sneaking off to jot things down, whenever I was around the guys and inspiration happened to strike.
It was the following Tuesday that I woke up exhausted, rubbing my eyes. I reached for Adam or Dante first, having been in each of their beds the night before. Realizing I was in my apartment alone, I reached for my notebook instead.
Only my notebook wasn’t there.
I bolted upright. The details of last night were fuzzy, but slowly they came back. Dinner with the guys, then back to their apartment where I became the dessert. That part was especially fun. And yet…
I also remembered waking after midnight and slipping out. Riding the elevator down to the street, with the intentions of going home and finally getting a good night’s sleep in my own bed.
And here I was. Only my notebook… wasn’t.
Shit.
Frantically I tried to remember where I’d had it last. Mind racing, heart pounding, I started tearing my desk apart. I checked the kitchen. The living room. The bedroom again.
Then I heard it: the buzzing of an alert on my phone.
I picked it up and thumbed the button. There was a text-message there, from Adam. Actually two text-messages, one right after the other.
Call us. We need to talk.
Those six little words caused a lump to form in my throat. But it was the second message that instantly turned all of the blood in my veins to ice.
“Hannah.”
Twenty-Seven
“HANNAH”
I slumped glumly through the door of The Dirty Bean this time, feeling shaky and nervous. A far cry from the cool confidence of two weeks ago, when I’d come here last.
The guys all sat in the same spot as before, around the same little table. Only instead of laughing and talking and looking downright happy, they appeared almost as miserable I was.
“Hi.”
Not one of them said a word in response, at least at first. I sat down, taking the same seat as last time. Adam was staring at the floor, Trey at the ceiling. Dante was the only one actually drinking coffee. Eventually he pushed something across the table, in my direction.
“Here’s your book.”
I stared down at the marbled notebook like it were an alien life-form. For so many weeks, it had been all-important. Right now it was the last thing in the world I wanted.
“We found it in our bathroom,” said Adam. His voice was low and full of sorrow. “You must’ve…”
“Left it there by accident,” I acknowledged. “I know.”
The three of them shifted uncomfortably, each waiting for the other to start. I could only sit there, hands folded. Awaiting the barrage of questions I knew would eventually come.
In a way, that part was the most ironic of all.
“So who are you really?” Trey finally asked. “What’s your actual name?”
It hurt, to hear him put it that way. But what hurt even more was the look of pain and disappointment in his eyes.
“Brooke,” I said dejectedly. “My name is Brooke Ruland.”
“So ‘Hannah’ was bullshit,” Dante sneered.
I took my lumps. Slowly, I shrugged one sad shoulder.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“You guess so?” Adam leapt in.
“No,” I said quickly. “I mean, yes and no. Yes, I made the name up. But no, the whole thing was never bullshit.”
“What whole thing?” spat Trey. “The part where you made up a fake profile in order to meet us? Or the part where you actually dated us just to fill your notebook with research for some… story?”
My stomach twisted sourly. God, it all sounded so horrible! Especially when it was laid totally bare like that.
“You are writing a story, aren’t you?”
It was all I could do to choke back tears. But I’d promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
“Yes.”
Dante crossed his arms and shook his head. Trey swore, mightily.
“But why Hannah?” asked Adam. His face twisted into a frown almost immediately. “I mean… Brooke.”
He said my name with such acid disdain. Like it was poison in his mouth.
“I mean, are you writing a novel? Was this whole thing nothing more than—”
“An article. For a magazine.”
They kept stopping to glance at each other, while shaking their heads. It was like they couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it.
“It was never meant to be this way,” I pleaded. “I… I had an assignment, and I was looking to find someone who—”
“Did you already write this article?” Trey asked.
For a moment I froze. I couldn’t lie.
“Partially.”
“Then let’s see it.”
All three of them sat up a little straighter. I thought again about lying, about telling them the rough draft was at home, on my computer. But there was a voice in the back of my mind. A new voice.
A voice that was telling me the time for lying was over
.
Instead I pulled out my phone and punched a series of buttons. It took a few moments, but eventually I called up the same email draft I’d sent to Chloe.
“It’s… not finished,” I said defensively. “This was only a rough—”
Trey stopped me again, this time by holding up one finger. He began reading. The others moved in on either side of him, so they could read too.
Oh my God…
I felt like shit. Utter shit. The biggest piece of shit on the entire fucking planet. For the next three minutes I could do nothing but sit there quietly as they read my story, which was really their story, all told through the perspective of “Hannah.” A girl who, up until a couple of hours ago, they shared time with. Played with. Laughed with.
Maybe even loved.
You’re such an asshole, Brooke.
It was Trey who looked up first. His gaze was more incredulous than accusatory, and somehow that made me feel even worse.
“You used our names?”
Twenty-Eight
BROOKE
I’d deceived them from the beginning. Lied to them about everything. But suddenly, maintaining their identity within the scope of my article seemed like the ultimate betrayal.
“I—I only used your first names,” I countered weakly.
“But they’re our names,” Trey swore. “Do you have any idea what would happen if this got out? If any of my peers or students got hold of this information?”
My throat swelled. The tears were threatening to come again. I shook my head.
“I teach at Cornell, Brooke. Shit, I’m about to defend my thesis.”
“I— I know.”
“And Dante,” Trey went on. “He’s the CFO of a local company. For years he’s kept his personal and professional life entirely separate. And you go ahead and just—”
“What magazine are you writing this for?” Adam interrupted.
I must’ve gone white as a ghost, because suddenly they all stopped. I could feel them staring back at me, waiting on my answer. Looking down into my own lap, I could barely choke out the word.
“Cosmo.”
I heard a sharp intake of air. I had to wince and turn away.
“Cosmo?” demanded Trey. “As in… Cosmopolitan?”
“What the fuck Brooke?” cried Adam. He shook my phone at me. “Hundreds of thousands of people will see this!”
“Millions,” Dante corrected him.
“Okay, okay!” I blurted helplessly. “I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!”
“And my parents,” Adam protested. “They’re super-conservative. I couldn’t even begin to break something like this to them.” In the storm of disappointment, his eyes found mine. “I mean one day, maybe. But not now. At least not until I was—”
“I’m sorry!” I cried again. “I—I promise, I’ll change the names! I can do that. I just… I left them this way temporarily because it was easier to relate to each of you. And to the way you… well…”
I trailed off, having completely lost my train of thought. I’d destroyed everything we’d built together! All of it, in an instant. All because of one stupid notebook.
No, not because of a stupid notebook, the new voice chided me. Don’t blame the notebook, Brooke. Blame your actions.
They were slumped back in their seats now, all three of them regarding me coldly. I wanted them to keep the anger going. To keep berating me for what I’d done, so I might eventually get to the point where I could feel somewhat better.
But somehow I knew I wouldn’t feel better. Not about this.
“So you sought us out for an assignment,” Adam said at last. “Made up a fake persona. Hooked up with us — wholly and completely — for the past two weeks, all so you could take notes for your one big article?”
I dropped my head into my hands. Now the tears did flow. I couldn’t stop them.
“Did you have fun at least?” Dante asked, mockingly. “Screwing us all this time? Getting your rocks off, while getting your story?”
Trey shook his head back and forth. “Sportfucking,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “That’s all it was.”
“No!” I said abruptly. “That’s not true at all.”
“Oh, but it is,” he replied. It hurt so much, seeing his beautiful mouth curled into a sneer. “It always is.”
I waited until they were finished — until at least ten seconds of silence had passed. Then I looked up through tear-streaked eyes, trying my best to keep it together.
“It was never like that,” I said miserably. “Not ever.”
“You lied, Brooke.”
“About some things, yes,” I said, my mouth dry. “But not about us. That part was real for me. Is real for me! I— I just…”
I let my sentence trail off, expecting at any moment to be interrupted again. But they were silent now. Emotionally spent.
“It all started out as a lie,” I said. “But then I fell for you. All three of you, each in your own way.” I swallowed hard. The lump in my throat felt like a small apple. “I wanted to be Hannah,” I said. “For you. For me. For all of us. I wanted to live her life, to enjoy things the way she did. The freedom from societal norms. The ability to let go, and enjoy the affections of three amazing people without any guilt.”
Their silence continued, as I scrambled for something to wipe my tears. A few hours ago, they would’ve all rushed to my side. Right now, they only stood to leave.
“We loved you Brooke,” said Adam quietly. “Or rather, we loved Hannah. She was everything we ever wanted. Everything we’d been looking for.”
Through my tear-glassed eyes I could see Dante, nodding soberly. Trey too.
“We’re sorry it went this way,” Adam finished. “But know what’s the worst part? If you’d only told us, we would’ve understood. We could’ve helped you out with your article. Given you the best piece that magazine’s ever seen.”
One by one they filed past me, moving with all the somberness of a funeral procession. In a way, that’s exactly what it was. The death of our relationship.
“Goodbye Brooke,” someone murmured. “And… good luck.”
Sobbing openly now, I felt a soft, hesitant touch. One last lingering hand, tracing lightly across my shoulder.
And then they were gone.
Twenty-Nine
DANTE
She’d deceived us. Used us. Started our whole relationship on one big lie. We had every reason to be absolutely furious with her. To never, ever talk to her again.
So then why the hell did I feel like shit?
“Here’s to another one down the drain,” Adam toasted. “She was a good one, this one. Better than most.”
He was drunk. To be honest, I was getting there myself. Trey was sober of course; Trey hardly put anything in his body that wouldn’t make it stronger or sharper, although in this case he’d actually drank two whole pints.
“Here’s to Hannah,” I said, then stopped mid-toast. “No wait… Brooke.”
“Nah,” said Trey, clinking both our glasses. “Fuck Brooke, you had it right the first time. Here’s to Hannah.”
We grinned weakly and tipped our mugs back, and for a good five or ten seconds all I could think about was how good the beer felt sliding down my throat. Three arms swung down. Three mugs clacked back to the shitty wooden table, and the grim reality of our situation set back in.
Hannah was gone.
“God she had a great ass,” Adam swore.
“A great mouth too,” I acknowledged.
“Every part of her was great,” Trey agreed. “Except her real name. Her occupation. Her reasons for meeting up with us.”
A rogue dart-player stumbled backward, bumping into Trey’s chair. He started grumbling curses under his breath, but only until he glanced down. Once he got an eyeful of Trey’s size and shape, his whole expression changed.
“Uh… sorry man.”
Trey nodded and waved him off. “No worries.”
We drank again, and again af
ter that. The place was ours, had been since college. It had changed hands so often, none of us were even sure if it was a college bar anymore. But they served cold beer and hot wings. They played all the major sports on a bunch of flat-screen TV’s, and the crowds were sparse enough to hold an actual conversation without shouting.
Adam filled our glasses from the pitcher in the center of the table. I called for the waitress to order another one.
“So she’s a journalist,” Trey sighed. “She said she did freelance work, typesetting, editing.”
“She probably still does those things,” Adam noted.
“Yeah, but neglecting to tell us you’re a writer?” Trey went on. “And for Cosmo of all places?”
I shrugged and cradled my beer. “She was protecting her lie,” I shrugged. “Keeping us in the dark by only telling a partial truth.”
Trey scowled at me. “Are you actually defending her?”
“No,” I said quickly. “No, I’m not. I’m only explaining her reasoning behind the lie.”
“The lies started the second she made up a fake profile,” said Adam. “The minute she told us she was into trying a poly lifestyle, then met up with us under false pretenses.”
I drew absently against my beer with one finger. Little circles, in the condensation of the glass.
“Technically she was into trying out the poly lifestyle,” I said. “And try it she did. Shit, she got the whole enchilada.”
My comment actually elicited a chuckle from Adam. Trey however…
“You guys don’t get it,” Trey said. “This article comes out, and people figure out who we are? We’re finished. All of us. Me, you…” he pointed at me. “Our professional lives are over. Even if we’re not outright fired, we’d be ridiculed and poked fun at for the rest of our lives. Passed up for promotions, and—”