by L.J. Shen
Mal and Brandy go back to their places, and I can feel my face heating up, like I did something wrong.
“Rory, your turn,” Callum clips.
I try to ignore his tone as I grab the bottle, look up at the ceiling, and say a silent prayer.
Please don’t let it be Mal.
I’m fine with anyone else. Preferably a girl. Even kissing Ashton would be okay. He is cute, a rock star, and not conscious enough to even remember this tomorrow.
My fingers clench the bottle.
“Are you planning on spinning it, honey pie, or just staring at it, hoping it’ll turn through the power of telepathy?” Ashton inquires, snickering.
I close my eyes and inwardly scold my no-show dad for the very first time since I was born.
Hey. So…we don’t really know each other, but if you’re up there, spare me the awkwardness. It’s the least you can do.
I spin the bottle, suck in a deep breath, and watch. It turns and swirls one, two, three, four times before it lands on…
“Mal,” Callum states with conviction.
“Ashton,” Brandy says at the same time.
Of course, she wouldn’t want me to kiss her crush.
Oh, and by the way, Thanks, Glen.
“I think it landed on Ashton,” I contribute.
Though I have to say, on the off-chance Glen is up there, trying to make amends by pointing the bottle toward Ashton, he is not keeping sober in heaven, because it does seem like the bottle is pointing smack between Ashton and Mal.
“It’s definitely pointing at Mal,” Callum disagrees, tapping his smooth chin.
What the hell is he doing? I’m not stupid enough to actually ask this when we’re with company.
“Guess it can only mean one thing.” British Bombshell cackles like a hyena, staring at Callum with a look pregnant with lust.
Everyone here has a dog in this fight, and hers seems to be the hungriest, most vicious one.
“And what would that be?” Callum turns to her without patience.
“A three-way kiss,” she purrs, twirling a lock of her hair over her finger.
“Yes!” Ashton pumps his fist in the air. “Fuck yes. Sex Slave and Pouty Poet in the same pot. Sign me up.”
“Sex Slave?!” Callum loses his cool.
“Chillax, it’s a pet name.” Ashton laughs out a curling ribbon of smoke.
I swear I will get stoned just from kissing him.
“Works for me,” Malachy says tonelessly.
I feel Callum giving me a shove toward the center of the circle.
“Go on, then,” he says.
“Wait, I don’t know about this,” I mumble.
“We had this conversation!” the British girl cries. “Don’t pussy out on us.”
“Yeah, don’t be a party pooper, Rory,” Callum presses.
I turn toward him, scowling.
He shrugs, a private, secretive smirk on his lips. “You’re not the only one who’s good at sharing. That’s good news, right?”
I walk toward Mal and Ashton, feeling my palms getting clammy.
“How are we going to do this?” I put my hands on my waist. “Do we want to start kissing just two people, and the third one will join in, or is it going to be…”
Without further ado, Ashton grabs the back of my head, pulls me in, and kisses me silly. He shoves his hot, alcohol-soaked tongue into my mouth, and that’s when I realize we’re all kind of drunk—Callum included for once.
Shitty music aside, Ashton Richards can kiss. I’m starting to enjoy it when I feel a second tongue wrestling its way into the mix, and now I have two tongues in my mouth. One of them is Malachy’s, and I know exactly which one’s which.
I can feel my clit swelling, my lower belly tingling in anticipation as we kiss slowly and passionately, Ashton nibbling at the corner of my mouth and Mal Frenching me to oblivion and back. It becomes clear that this is not a three-way kiss as much as it is two guys kissing one girl. They have minimal contact with each other, and they are here to serve me.
Just when I begin to wonder if I’m the only one getting carried away in the situation, Ashton puts a hand on my waist and plasters me to his body. I feel his thick, throbbing erection against my thigh and let out a groan. Mal is having none of it and pulls at my other side, tugging me close. I’m nestled between them, feeling hot, liquid lust slithering down to my panties.
I should feel ashamed, or self-conscious, or embarrassed, and I do—I feel all three, I swear. But I mostly feel like taking my clothes off and kissing every inch of their bodies until they screw me from both sides. My mouth is full, and my nipples are erect and painfully sensitive.
It occurs to me that this is the shot of a lifetime—the one Ryner wants to see on the cover of Rolling Stone—of his rock star, his songwriter, and his photographer making out fervently. But he can’t have this shot, because all three of his artists have gone rogue, and there’s no one to take the picture.
We kiss for long minutes before I feel someone tugging me back by my shirt. I snap my eyes open and find out it is Ashton. I also realize he’s a step away from us. He’s not a part of the kiss anymore. He hasn’t been a part of the kiss for a while, I notice when my mind adjusts to the fact that there was only one tongue in my mouth for a few good seconds, if not minutes. My legs are clasped around Mal’s thigh. I’ve been riding it. Jesus.
“C’mon,” he whispers to both of us through a mostly closed mouth. “You’ve been soloing for a full minute now. People are starting to rub their genitals on the floor to get off.”
My eyes flare, and I look over at Callum, who stands up from the circle, turning toward the door. He grabs my camera before dashing out, and the thick, red cloud of lust I’m engulfed in evaporates. In a knee-jerk reaction, I launch myself after him, chasing him down the corridor.
“Callum, wait!”
He thunders toward the elevators, swinging the camera here and there. By the time I catch him punching the elevator button, I’m out of breath. I put a hand on his shoulder, but he turns around, swatting it.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Please,” I beg.
I don’t even know what I’m begging for. It’s pretty obvious what happened there got out of hand, that Mal and I shared more than a kiss. There were feelings there, too.
“Please, what? Please, let me make a fool out of you, Callum? Please, let me go suck someone else’s cock? Please, leave me alone so I can pick up where I left off with a man who so very willingly let me go?”
He screams in my face, and he is red and angry and no longer the Callum I know and feel comfortable and safe with. The elevator dings, and he walks in. I follow him.
“I wasn’t going to let you go, Rory. I was supposed to be the last man standing. I put up with your bullshit attire and stupid quirky dreams and boring colleagues.”
He stares at the corridor, the elevator doors still open. I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t even know if it’s worth coming clean about what happened, because this is a breakup, and even though I did something vile, he is being no less despicable.
That night on the balcony, at that Christmas party, I took one look at Mal and knew with certainty what he’d said was true.
Loving someone is willingly accepting that they can destroy you.
Mal ruined me.
I wrecked Callum.
I think you were put on this Earth to destroy me, Callum said all those months ago.
Was that the truth, or did Callum simply want to be destroyed?
“I wanted to play the stupid game so I could see how you’d react. You didn’t care when I snogged that cow over there.” He points sideways to where we were, in the presidential suite.
I flinch at his offhanded insult. The doors slide shut, and we begin to ride down to his room.
“But when Mal kissed that bird, you almost exploded. Then you went and continued kissing him long after Richards withdrew.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, cur
sing Summer inwardly for creating all this mess, even though I know I’m more responsible for it than anyone else. “God, Callum, I never meant to hurt you.”
Even I know how lame I sound. I wish I could turn back time.
I’d change one thing and one thing only—I wouldn’t have touched Mal before I broke up with Cal.
The elevator dings, and Callum steps outside and turns to face me.
“By the way, if you’d waited just a little longer, you could have broken my heart and my bank account, walking away with half my shit.” He shoves his hand into his front pocket, produces a small, velvety black box, and throws it at me. I catch it, but don’t open it, already aware of what must be sitting there.
God, Callum.
“I bought another one in London, because the first one was left in that godforsaken dumpster in Ireland, and I wanted to propose as soon as possible.” He stops, looks down. “But not soon enough, apparently.”
My eyes are full of tears. My head hurts. I’m losing it. I’m breaking apart, and suddenly, all I want to do is make him feel better, no matter the cost. I take a step toward him, but he shakes his head. He punches the button to call the elevator when the doors begin to close, not quite done hurting me.
“This is the line.” He juts his chin to the threshold between the elevator and the corridor. “You don’t get to pass it anymore. We’re done here, Rory. We’ve been done from the beginning. I was always temporary, a starter to pass the time until the entrée arrived.”
I fall to my knees, letting out a sob.
He slings the camera into the elevator, and it lands next to me.
“You’re always so obsessed with taking the perfect picture. Well, I took photos of your little threesome. That’ll keep your slimy boss happy. You’re welcome.”
I look up, my eyes blazing with shame and anger.
He is going far.
Too far.
Twisting the knife in my chest, watching me bleed.
Yet I’m full to the brim with guilt.
“I know we should break up. I know. But if it’s the right thing to do, why does it hurt so bad?” I ask, feeling snot running down to my mouth.
Nothing about this situation is pretty, me included.
“Holding on to something that never existed is far more painful,” he spits. “Trust me, Rory, I’ve tried.”
A NOTE FROM SUMMER
Time to air the dirty laundry, and boy, there’s a suspicious-looking stain the size of Alabama on my conscience.
Okay—insert deep, cleansing breath—here goes.
A month after Rory and Callum started dating, he dropped in unannounced while she was at work. It was supposed to be a surprise. He brought flowers and champagne and sashimi from her favorite sushi place and wore a bowtie—and not even in a hipster, looks-good-with-skinny-jeans kind of way. Rory was supposed to be home, but Ryner had called her in—some emergency about a pop star who lost a bunch of weight and decided she wanted a reshoot of her album cover.
Rory never turns down work. I think she’ll die clutching her camera to her heart.
Anyway, so Callum knocked on the door with all this stuff, and I happened to answer it. I’d just broken up with the guy I’d been dating for three years who had cheated on me that day. Suffice it to say, I was not in a good headspace.
Callum stuttered, apologized, and said he’d drop in at her work. I laughed, knowing she’d probably take the opportunity to dump him if he did that.
We ended up sharing the bottle of champagne Callum brought. He wasn’t much of a drinker. That’s what he told me, anyway, but he said he was feeling really on edge. He said he knew Rory was going to break up with him. He thought she found him boring and too straightedge and overtly proper.
He thought correctly.
Rory did find him boring. And she always compared him to Mal. Which grated on my nerves, because yes, Mal was awesome, gorgeous, and great in the sack, but that was over, and it was time to move on.
When she came back from Ireland all those years ago, she showed me the pictures she took of him. I had a brilliant idea of how to help her get over him. I told her to come up with negative things about Mal and write them on the back of the pictures, so every time she thought about hopping on a plane and begging him to be with her (which happened more often than logically acceptable), she’d remember.
But all we could come up with was that he was a flirt and tried (and succeeded) to be really good in bed. It was useless. He was perfect. Other than, of course, the fact that he’d let her go.
Anyway, back to Callum and me. That night, one bottle of champagne led to two others.
“I don’t get it. I have demons, too, you know?” he said. “I’m not the squeaky-clean bastard she thinks I am. I can be a horrible person, Summer.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said.
“I’m selfish,” he replied.
“We all are.”
“Me more than most.”
That was the last thing he told me before his mouth descended on mine.
We slept together.
He cheated on her.
I cheated on her.
It was brief, quick, four-minutes-and-he-came sex. So anti-climactic in every sense of the word. I still consider it the worst thing I’ve ever done. And I wasn’t even close to climaxing. I didn’t enjoy it, but Callum had always been the fantasy—well-bred, well-endowed, and well-hung. Not to mention, the guy in a suit was the eighth wonder of the world, I’m pretty sure. It was a moment of weakness.
“See?” he said as he put his shoes on in a hurry. “I told you. Selfish.”
I said nothing to that.
“But I thought she’d be different, you know? I thought she’d get me out of that behavioral pattern. I don’t know. Maybe I have a sex addiction.”
I stopped answering him because I didn’t pity him. I had my own problems, my own issues with life.
The thing is, I didn’t know she would come back home, plop down next to me on the couch, notice the roses and sashimi on the counter, the traces of the masculine cologne he’d left behind, and say: “You’re right. I’m so stupid. I should just get over Mal and give this thing with Callum my best shot.”
That’s what she said when I could still smell the rubber of her boyfriend’s condom wafting from my pajamas, even after I took a shower. And Callum wasn’t doing much better guilt-wise. I’d watched from the window half an hour earlier as he shoved himself into the back of an Uber, on the verge of sobbing.
“I think you should,” I told Rory, thinking, but please don’t.
So now you see why I’m carrying five tons of guilt on my shoulders.
I never thought it would pan out this way. And even though I want to throw up every time the three of us are together in the same room (which doesn’t happen often), I just can’t be the one to let her break up with Callum.
My conscience can’t handle the failure of their relationship, no matter the reason. But secretly? If you asked me in a closed room—padded and soundproof—what I thought, I’d tell you my best friend, whom I love to death, is a brat.
She should just choose a guy and put everyone out of their misery.
I wish I had a pouty napkin boy who would rip the world apart to be with me.
I wish I had a rich, selfish-but-irresistible boy who would do anything he could to make sure Napkin Boy couldn’t.
Present
Mal
It is worth mentioning how I ended up writing songs for a living, when initially, I made having people beg to buy my songs somewhat of a competitive sport.
The answer—as it is to many questions—is Rory.
After she left, I worked through the pain. I wrote songs about love, and about hate, and about indifference. About loneliness and alcohol and the dark corners of my soul that frequently sent a hostile breeze through the rest of my body.
Hundreds of songs became thousands of songs, and thousands of songs became something bigger than me. Like a monster
in my closet, lurking every night. Every song became a demon, and each demon was out for my blood.
I bled onto the pages until there were no more words to be written. Still, I wouldn’t sell them. I couldn’t sell them because I didn’t want to change my circumstances. I didn’t want to become big and famous and rich (not that I thought I would, but one can’t take any chances). I didn’t want to brush shoulders with Ashton Richards and his likes. I wanted to busk till I died, and come back home to my small cottage, and live a life where I didn’t chase inspiration—it chased me. Where my art didn’t stem from the need to have a bigger house or a fancier car or more money in the bank. I did it because I wanted to, a luxury not many paid artists have. It helped that I’d never been a particularly materialistic person.
But then the accident happened.
Katherine died. But before she did, there were a series of surgeries that required specialists to fly out from Switzerland and America and whatnot. The medical bills began to pile up. Mam and Elaine, Kathleen’s mother, needed a place to live. There was shite to buy and people to pay, and I felt the world cornering me into a place I couldn’t get out of.
So I sold out.
I unchained my demons and sold them to others as pets. These people put leashes on those demons, slapped them with a cheery tune, and sold them to the masses as Billboard hits.
I sold out, hoping Rory would hear, listen, make the connection, and hopefully find me.
It was the kind of stupid, boyish hope I’d admire in a fictional, hopeless character, but hate in myself. Then again, what were the odds of her not deciphering the unmistakable words?
“…summer rain on Drury Street. Stupid me, I thought you were mine to keep.”
“…underneath the stars, you ask, do you believe in God? Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t, but after we’re through, I think I won’t.”
“Across the ocean, there’s a girl, made out of marshmallow and cyanide and shiny dew.”
Then I thought, I don’t know, maybe she simply hadn’t had the chance to listen to some of the BIGGEST FUCKING BILLBOARD HITS IN THIS DECADE because she had something against the radio and YouTube and TV and Western culture.