Whisky Moments

by Bowie, Emily

  Maybe that’s why I want to be back home. I feel like I’m in charge of myself there. And to be honest, their lives seem more fun than mine right now.

  *

  Camilla has been avoiding me. I hear her come in late at night and she’s gone before I wake up. But her presence is everywhere. Yesterday, I woke up with a sticky note on my forehead, telling me to get out. Her coffee cream has a note that says Not for Rhett.

  Her last retaliation was placing my boxers on a clothesline she just put up in her front yard. Joke’s on her; I don’t get bothered by stuff like that. I made sure to walk around with my pants low on my hips to remind her that I’m not wearing underwear.

  I see the way she looks at me. She might hate me, but she likes what she sees. Each dirty little conspiring thing Camilla has done to me this year plays on repeat in my head. I have to remind myself of it all, because her good deed of dealing with my allergy issues squeezes my chest hard like it’s a noose starting to drag its way up toward my neck.

  My body turns to the side, having muscle spasms from what seems like endless nights on the couch. What I wouldn’t do to sleep in a bed. I can hear her stirring from just behind her closed door.

  I listen for every sound she makes, while I pretend to be sleeping. Her door opens with hardly a sound, my body staying completely still till I hear her let out a breath then the sound of her feet crossing the wood floor. Only when I’m sure she’s passed me, I open my eyes to see her in lacy panties and a T-shirt that does nothing to hide her bottom half. I can smell her perfume float by me, landing on everything in the house, including me.

  My morning wood becomes harder, seeing her toned legs that go on for days. Knowing she plans on leaving before I get up has me wondering if I should stroke one out in her bed before I crawl in there for an hour of deep sleep. Mentally taking a picture, I close my eyes, not wanting her yelling at me for being a pervert to ruin my day.

  I try to snap myself out of visions of her underneath me in her bed as my mind already begins to wander, making my dick start to get uncomfortably hard, wanting to touch her.

  She fiddles around some more, grabbing a cup of coffee, all while I pretend to be sleeping. I can sense her stop in front of me, and I wonder what she’s thinking. I’ve never really been able to figure her out.

  The feeling of sexual frustration surrounds us, coiling us closer and closer together, making both of us want to fuck our frustrations out on the other person, yet not wanting them to get that satisfaction. It makes me wonder when the last time she truly was fucked senseless. The “I can’t catch my breath, legs wide open, can’t move, head still in a fog” type of orgasm. One that stays in your mind for months, if not forever.

  My fingers want to twitch, needing to pull her to me as she looks down on me. She must feel this energy, because she huffs out a breath before she leaves. The door closing is my only signal that she has left the house. Sitting up, I look around to see what she must have seen with her own eyes while she stood here.

  Hoping maybe it was my erection, I go lie down in her bed, wiggling my shoulders deep into her silky sheets. I use a corner to start stroking myself it’s so soft, feeling too good. I imagine this is what her lips must feel like. Taking my time, I tease myself to images of her.

  I do this until I can’t take it, and hot spurts come flying out, hitting me on my chest. It feels so satisfying doing it in her bed and she’ll never know. Standing up, I go clean myself off in her bathroom. Taking my time, I use all her delicious-smelling girly stuff. I try everything just to test it out.

  When I walk through her room to grab my stuff from the living room, a crumpled piece of paper catches my eye. My fingers unravel the paper, each wrinkle crackling as I flatten it out. The first thing that stands out is my name. She has traced her own pen marks, making it bold. Going to the top, I begin reading, and I slowly realize I’m holding an “I hate you” song about me.

  This is too good to be true.

  The pages underneath in her neat handwriting are notes for the tune to the words. Texting my manager, I get him to schedule me a free room to record in, because this will be going viral in a matter of days.

  CHAPTER 16

  I’m beyond exhausted. Today is my third injection. Like the two other times, I faint at the thought of the needle going anywhere near me. It’s embarrassing. I’m mentally drained. All I want to do is come home and have a hot bubble bath.

  I can’t help that Rhett’s sexy body comes to my mind right after that thought. It makes me wonder if his fame has made him lazy. Is he all about himself as a lover or more of a connoisseur who loves the female form and knows exactly what to do?

  Walking through my door, his mess is still in the middle of my doorway. Apparently, his talent is not cleaning or being tidy. I can tell everything he has touched in my house. Nothing is placed back where it should be.

  Going to Mrs. Skunk, I let her out, taking all of my cuddles in. I don’t know what to do with her. I would love to stick it to Rhett, but his breathing already scares me. I don’t want his death on my conscience. I have enough guilt that plagues me; I don’t need to add to the list.

  Taking my phone out from my purse that sits around my shoulder, I dial my parents.

  “Camilla!” I hear my mom muffle the phone and yell out that I’m on the phone. “How are you, dear?”

  “Good, Mom. Listen.”

  My mom wastes no time interrupting me. “What’s wrong, baby girl?”

  “Would you be able to watch Mrs. Skunk for me for a few weeks? I have a gruelling schedule and don’t think it’s fair that she stays cooped up in my house all day by herself.”

  My mother is a bullshit detector. Holding my breath, I hope she lets this pass.

  “Does this mean we get to see you?” Her voice is so hopeful it breaks my heart.

  “I can’t with my schedule. But I promise to make it home the first opportunity I can,” I lie. I can’t go home. My mom would see me and know something is going on. All it would take is for her to ask me in person, and I’m sure I would word-vomit it all out. It’s not fair to see the heartbreak in their eyes when I know how much I’m affected by it too.

  This is on me, my pain to feel.

  “Of course, Camilla. It will give your father and me a reason to go for walks anyhow. I keep telling him sitting on the couch watching his famous daughter isn’t going to help his weight issue.” She begins to go on and on about their new walking club and what each of our neighbors has been up to, including keeping me in the loop about all my old high school friends.

  At the first lull in conversation, I tell her I need to go as I place Mrs. Skunk back into the bathroom. Seeing that Rhett’s not around, I take off my shoes one at a time as I walk into the living room, not bothering to place them in their rightful spot. There is no point with Rhett’s stuff taking up my space.

  Taking off my shirt, I toss it into my laundry hamper before removing my form-fitting sweatpants. It feels so good to get out of these clothes, getting that hospital smell off of me.

  Rolling my shoulders back, I try to get the knots from the stress I’ve been dealing with for the last couple months to go away. Nothing seems to help. Even massages only work for a couple hours. Unclasping my bra, I feel the straps that were digging in release and I’m free.

  If I weren’t famous, I’m pretty sure I would go braless most of the time. The weight of just that releases a small amount of pressure. My fingers work where my straps were, feeling the tightness where the indents are left in my skin.

  Pushing my bathroom door open, I already have my fingers hooked in my underwear, ready to forget the world, even if it’s only momentarily. I have my ass in the air as I glide my sensible underwear down my thighs, allowing them to fall with gravity before I use my foot to fling them. If Rhett can be a slob in my house, I can be in my bathroom.

  Turning to where I kicked my panties, I’m left staring at a very amused, very excited Rhett, who also happens to be as naked as the da
y he was born.

  My eyes go wide, my hands not knowing what of mine to cover first. They go to my breasts before they fly down to my crotch. I just got a Brazilian, so nothing is hiding it.

  He’s doing nothing of the sort. His arms are not even crossed.

  “Eyes up here, asshole,” is the first thing I can think of, and it comes right out. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I’m completely mortified. Why did I wear my laundry day underwear and not that cute pair I bought last week? I look down at myself, taking inventory. At least my legs are shaved.

  My one hand snakes across my chest as I fan my hand out, trying to be somewhat modest of everything.

  My towel is draped across his shoulder as decoration.

  “Your other bathroom is infested, and I’m sure I’d stop breathing if I stepped foot in there,” he says matter-of-factly. “To be honest, this bathroom has a better view too.” He winks at me, and I swear his voice becomes smoother than honey.

  “Get out!” I scream, not remembering why I haven’t thrown his stuff on my front yard yet.

  He chuckles as his overly toned body moves past me. He doesn’t close the door behind himself and tosses my now wet towel onto my clean made bed. Waiting till he’s out of sight, I march to his dirty towel, tossing it into my hamper before getting a new towel.

  Wrapping it around me like a dress, I pace back and forth in my room, not getting over how at home he has made himself.

  When I hear my door close, I peek out of my room and tiptoe past the living room to the window to see if he’s leaving. All he has on is his new bright pink silky boxers that do nothing to hide his package. His keys sit in the same dish as mine. I can’t help myself. Leaning over, I pick up his keys, locking his car doors before setting off his alarm. The alarm wails and he turns back to look at me. Our eyes meet, and this time, I am the one smiling. I lock my door before he has a chance to move his feet to stop me. The wails of that awful alarm cause people to come out of their house to see what’s the matter. Rhett has nowhere to go as he pivots on his toes in only his underwear. Serves him right for being in my bathroom and seeing me naked.

  He doesn’t get mad as I expect, but laughs so hard his shoulders shake up and down then points a finger at me. My heart shouldn’t flutter against my ribs. As much as I hate him, I look forward to seeing what he does next.

  Closing my curtain, I drop my towel, walking around my house naked now that no one is here. I leave the towel by the front door just to tease him, and just to be a bitch, I also let Mrs. Skunk out of her bathroom before I head into my en suite. I lock my bedroom and bathroom doors before I fill myself a comfortable hot bubble bath to relax in.

  CHAPTER 17

  Camilla thinks she’s in it to win it. I’m betting she doesn’t have brothers. I tiptoe in through the already open back door, the same way I came in the first night. I shake my head at her naivete. The smile on my face feels like it’s splitting me in half. This brings me back to when my brothers and I would prank our sister Shay.

  Slowly, I open the cabinet with her pots and bring it up to start filling it with cold water. I don’t think much farther than getting the water. It takes a long time, enough that when I creep into her room, I only hear her light singing voice floating around in the bathroom. I have to admit her voice is beautiful. I shake my head, knowing she thought locked doors would keep me out. Picking house locks is my specialty.

  My hand pauses on the bathroom door, checking to see if it’s locked. Just like her bedroom door, I pull out the pen, inserting and pushing it into the tiny hole that opens the lock. Picking up my pot, I breathe and count to three, getting ready for my next move.

  Flinging the door open, I toss the contents into her bath. Her screech hurts my ears as she curses my name out loud. This time, she holds nothing back, standing up as small, white bubbles cling to her perfect ten of a body.

  My feet are cemented to the ground as I try not to stare. Holy fuck. I didn’t think this through. My feet won’t run away as her evil glare needles right into my skin.

  For the first time, I know I crossed the line. She’s throwing her small wireless earbuds at me while still cursing and yelling my name.

  I instantly realize I’ve overstepped her take-no-bullshit attitude that keeps pulling at me, making me feel like we can horse around and be friends. I am a jackass, something I never set out to be. I just wanted to get into a playful area where we can banter back and forth with the odd prank.

  Finally, I turn around, trying to be a gentleman, her tiny fists hitting my back and side. I’m pretty sure I hear tears in her words. I never meant for her to cry. I just wanted us to be real with each other, a feeling I have lost through the years with everyone but my family. I miss it.

  “I’m sorry,” I stutter as I allow her to push me out. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I want to punch myself in the face for this stupid plan. Not wanting her to throw me out, and hoping she’ll maybe talk to me one day, I begin to declutter the mess I’ve made in her house.

  *

  I make sure I get up early the next morning and make a batch of French toast. It’s one of the few things I can cook. I wait for the smell to wake her up, but there is no movement from behind her door.

  Lightly, I knock on her door, and I’m met with crickets. I slowly open the door, only for it to be pushed against me with a loud thud.

  “Leave me alone. I’m reading,” she calls through it.

  “Did you want to read while eating French toast?” I ask in my nicest voice.

  “No,” she huffs out.

  “Please?” My finger taps on her door.

  Eventually, she opens it up. She’s wearing tight leggings with a longer casual T-shirt. Her hair is braided to one side, making this the best I’ve ever seen her.

  “I’m sorry.” I look right into her eyes. The way she is right now, looking perfect, could make me get drunk off of her.

  “No, you’re not.” Her lip curls with attitude.

  “Would I make breakfast if I wasn’t?”

  Her eyes narrow on me, and her lips pout like she’s trying to think how to get me back.

  “Fine. But I expect you to serve me in the buff. After all, it’s only fair. You’ve seen me.” Her hips cock to the side, and I refrain from saying she’s already seen me. If she wants another look, who am I to deny the girl her request? It takes everything in me not to smile, and I do a shitty job of it.

  Right there, my arm reaches for the back of my shirt, tearing it from over my head and off. Then I pull my pants down in one motion, baring myself to her.

  She doesn’t even look at me as her shoulder bumps mine, taking in the cleaning job I’ve done to her house. It’s not as good as she had it before me, but it’s a hell of an improvement.

  Just watching Camilla turns me on. I’ve never had a woman be immune to me before.

  She turns to look at me. “You—” Her sentence dies on her tongue as she looks down and definitely notices I’m a happy man this morning. “Are you ever not hard?” She shakes her head, but I notice she doesn’t seem angry at the fact.

  “This is just my regular day,” I flirt.

  I see her eyes roll as she ignores me once again, heading into the kitchen. It doesn’t deter me; it only makes me more curious about her.

  “Coffee, juice, water?” I ask.

  “Water is fine,” she huffs out, taking a seat like I’m forcing her to be here. This is hardly a hostage situation.

  I pour her a glass then set a plate of goodness in front of her. I stand there watching her pour her syrup, waiting for her to compliment me on my cooking. It doesn’t come. She brings out her phone and begins to read while taking small bites. She hasn’t even finished two full pieces when she moves her plate away from her.

  “Do you not like them?” I’ve always had compliments and girls moaning from this dish. My ma says it’s the best French toast in all of Three Rivers County.

  She shrugs. “They’re all right,” she replies, a
nd continues to ignore me.

  I stand there looking at her in disbelief. Grabbing her fork, mostly to try to annoy her, I spear a piece and plop it into my mouth. It’s fucking perfect.

  “You seriously didn’t like them?” I have to ask again.

  She puts down her phone “Listen, if I was trying to bang you, I might lie and say it was perfection. But, you see, I want nothing from you. You’re the one who seems to need me here. But don’t worry. Practice makes perfect.”

  She goes back to reading then looks up over her device at me. “I also like you better clean-shaven.” She looks down at my package, which seems to be deflating with each of her words, then back at me and winks.

  My hand rubs at the two-day-old stubble on my face and I look down at my cock, liking the small amount of hair there. It makes me feel manly. I’ve never had any complaints before.

  “It would help it look bigger too.” She brings up her pinky finger and waves it at me.

  There is no way I plan on shaving anything now. I can rock a beard. The only reason I haven’t is Dick keeps telling me it’s not my image. But fuck him.

  Plopping into a seat, I make myself comfortable, making sure my legs are widely spread as I sit next to her. This was her request, she asked for it.

  “Want to go to a concert with me tomorrow?”

  I wait and think maybe she didn’t hear me.

  “Will you go to a concert with me tomorrow?” I ask again. I’m staring at her reading, and her eyes are still moving back and forth across the digital page. My hand goes to rest on hers, and she huffs out.

  “For fuck’s sake, Rhett, can you leave me alone?”

  I’m getting under her skin. Good, because she’s been under mine for far too long now.

  “Come to the concert, please.” I stress the please as I say it slowly.