Immoral

by Skylar Cross

  Isabella sits.

  Uncomfortably.

  "Isabella," says Jasmine. "Annika and I have been sucking and fucking each other here, yes. I told you I thought Annika was hot and wanted to fuck her. We'll iron that out soon enough. But the two of you have unfinished business. Now Annika, say what you said you were going to say to Isabella."

  I shift a little on my barstool, then clasp my hands together and face Isabella.

  "Iz", I say, "I'm sorry. I said some bad things."

  Isabella just folds her arms, looking down at the floor.

  "Con-tinue," says Jasmine. You ain't done yet, sister." The Beast twitches a little. I see Isabella's eyes widen.

  "And Iz," I say, "I love you and I'm committed to changing. You were right about everything you said." I take a deep breath. "And I don't regret anything we did. I was wrong to bring that into it. What we did was beautiful and... magical... and one of the best experiences of my life. I love you. Will you please forgive me?"

  Isabella looks at Jasmine's feet, then up to her eyes. Jasmine glares at Isabella, nodding.

  If Jasmine were being attacked by a bear, I swear that glare would send the animal running back into the woods.

  Isabella turns to me a little. She has tears in her eyes. She just leans in and hugs me. I squeeze her tight, my own eyes tearing up.

  "I promise I won't talk to you like that again," I say.

  "Un-uh," says Jasmine. "No bullshit promises. We all human beings. We yell at each other and say nasty shit. If the two of you love each other, then you going to say nasty shit to each other again. It goes with loving someone."

  Iz and I separate enough to cup each other's faces. We look into each other's eyes and smile.

  "Who invited her?" I say.

  "I don't know," says Isabella. "And you are...?" she says as she turns to Jasmine.

  "I am the gorgeous black woman whose cock needs to get sucked!" says Jasmine. "Now who is going to do the honors? I'm not picky."

  Isabella looks at me, laughing silently. I'm laughing too. Actually, half-laughing, half-crying.

  "Okay, you two," says Jasmine, pointing both hands down at the now fully extended Beast. "Enough with the tears and the girly bullshit. This cock ain't going to suck itself."

  Isabella and I get down on our knees.

  Chapter 30

  What the fuck is that bright light?

  Shit, it's the sun, isn't it?

  Oh God, it fucking hurts. Somebody pleeeeeeeeeeease turn it off!

  I open my eyes.

  Well, eye. One refuses to cooperate.

  I see a leg. A tit. An arm.

  They're all splayed together.

  Where the fuck am I?

  Oh, right. I'm at Jasmine's. Well, Damien's.

  Holy fuck.

  I'm not sure where Jasmine ends and Isabella begins.

  I laugh.

  For some reason the bed makes me think of an assorted box of Lindt truffles. Dark chocolate, milk chocolate, and white chocolate.

  I chuckle to myself.

  I try to move my arm.

  A searing pain erupts behind my left eye when I do so.

  Fuck.

  It's going to be a long day, isn't it?

  I turn to my left. The room spins a little.

  Oh fuck no, not the spins. Please God no, not the spins.

  I hate the fucking spins!

  That's it. I'm never drinking again.

  I swear.

  Hey, I'm enjoying all this free-flowing fucking shit, not gonna lie.

  But Damien... oh, Damien. I want you. I want to free you. You're helping me to get free, I want to free you.

  I close my eyes, losing myself in his chest tattoos.

  * * *

  "Helllllloooooo!" says a big feminine voice with masculine undertones.

  I open my eyes.

  "Wakey wakey sunshine!" says Jasmine, looking down at me.

  Wait a sec. I was just looking at her and Iz all splayed together. Now suddenly I'm the only one on the bed.

  How the fuck did that happen?

  "Yo, sleepy-head! It's eleven fucking o'clock!" says Jasmine.

  I sit up.

  The room spins a little, but rights itself. I feel some bile about to launch from my stomach, but it too stays down.

  "Drink this," says Isabella, appearing from nowhere with a glass of fizzy liquid in her hand.

  Isabella and I have been here before. She knows Alka-Seltzer and I have a love-hate relationship. I hate it, but after I drink it down I love it. Because it magically makes me feel better.

  I take the glass and wolf it down, passing through the hate phase.

  "Klarrrrgh!" I say after it's down.

  "You don't hold your alcohol very well, do you?" says Jasmine.

  "I had seven fucking vodkas," I say.

  Jasmine looks at Isabella.

  "Seven?" says Isabella. "She's a four-and-done girl usually."

  Both are dressed for the day. Jasmine is in a spectacular yellow dress with a big yellow flower in her hair. Yellow shoes.

  Isabella is in one of her perky ass white shorts with a neon pink half tee. Leather sandals.

  Head pounding, I find the shower and bask in the cool water. I spend a little too long in there.

  It's noon by the time I'm out. Isabella sits alone at the countertop. She's reading something on her iPhone.

  "Where's Jasmine?" I say.

  "She had some work to do," says Isabella. "Something about a firewall breach."

  "Oh, yeah. She got a text about that last night. Jasmine said Damien has a ton of girls' clothes here somewhere." I gesture at my naked body. "I think I need something."

  "Been there," says Isabella, getting up. "I know where it is. I'll show you."

  A little pang of jealousy snaps through my head. Isabella knows Damien's house better than me. Well, Jasmine's side of it anyway. I slap the thought away, reminding myself we're all in this weird but sexy relationship together.

  "So are you just hanging around waiting for Jasmine?" I say as she opens the door into the Spanish-style medieval hallway.

  "No," says Isabella, "I'm waiting around for you, actually. I thought maybe we could spend the afternoon together... talking. I need someone to talk to."

  "Sure," I say, touching her arm as we walk. "You bet."

  Isabella leads me down the stairs and to the end of a hallway. The wall sconces flicker almost like they're real candles. I half expect Kenneth Branagh and Emma Thompson to pass us reciting witty banter in iambic pentameter. We end up at an old wooden door. Isabella opens it. We walk in.

  My eyes almost pop out of my head.

  No shit, it really looks like a Forever 21 store. Jasmine wasn't kidding. Lighting, racks, and displays. Even better. A more varied selection. But no price tags.

  I think I'm in heaven.

  "Holy shit!" I say.

  "When you're Damien Cage," says Isabella, "it helps to have all this on hand. You never know when a pack of hotties will show up and somehow lose their clothes."

  I pick out a cute bow print bra, lacey boyshorts, a paisley floral top, and a pair of mineral-washed denim cutoffs. Thirty minutes later, I'm my usual pseudo-hot hipster chic and we're in Isabella's Porsche Cayman S heading to SoBe.

  "Hangover cure?" says Isabella.

  "You know it," I say.

  There is nothing... and I mean nothing... that fixes a hangover better than Checkers.

  I know it's terrible for you. But something about the grease makes the world right, I dunno.

  "I've got a problem," says Isabella as she bites into her Checkerburger with Cheese. We're in the parking lot directly across from the Hilton.

  "Shoot," I say, then take a sip of my chocolate shake.

  Ah, soothing.

  "Remember how you felt about Jason Stark?" she says.

  "Oh God, I loved him," I say. "I swear he was the one."

  I bite into my own Checkerburger with Cheese. Delightful.

 
"Yeah..." she says. "That feeling. Could you tell me what that was like again?"

  "Oh, wow," I say. "It's kind of like an overwhelming knowledge that he's the one. Funny, I don't feel it when I think of Jason Stark now. He's history. Now I feel it with Damien. But so much more."

  Isabella just looks at me.

  "Yeah, go on," she says.

  "It's kind of like a melting thing," I say as I spill some ketchup and pickle onto the makeshift tray I fashioned from the wrapper. "I dissolve. I seriously become somebody else. Knees weak. Kind of like I lose control. And while it's sexual definitely, there's another component. It's like... I don't know how to put this into words... it's like we're one. God, that sounds stupid. But that's how it feels."

  "Oh."

  "Oh? Why? What's up?"

  "I don't know," says Isabella. "I just... you know me. I'm not one to fall in love."

  "Wrong. Two words... Mark Mullaney."

  "That wasn't love. I was fifteen and he was the captain of the football team! Not to mention a senior. Seniors carry at lot of cachet when you're a sophomore! But no. That was unrequited lust because I couldn't get him to cheat on his perfectly blonde girlfriend. I could get every footballer to cheat except for him. All because of... what was that bitch's name again?"

  "Caitlin."

  "Caitlin, right. Fucking whore. Bet she's fat now. With herpes."

  How come Caitlin from all those years ago sticks in my head but I can't remember the third pool girl's name from last week?

  Shit, it's gone again.

  "So what's up, Iz?" I say. "Is somebody I know in love with a big black girl with a beast of a cock?"

  Isabella starts to say something, then stops.

  "No", she says. "That's just some fun. I'm beginning to wonder about myself. I... I'm not... normal."

  "No shit," I say with a mouthful of my last delicious bite of Checkerburger with Cheese. God, I wish I had ordered two.

  "Jasmine isn't normal either. I love that about her."

  "Hadn't noticed."

  Isabella just looks at me and laughs.

  "Look, Iz," I say, "I'm beginning to think none of us are normal. With all the stuff we've been doing lately, I don't know how to define normal anymore."

  Isabella takes her burger wrap, scrunches it up, and puts it in the bag. She sips her shake, gets out, throws it in the nearest trash can, gets back in, and starts the car.

  I'm still working on my fries.

  "I've done a lot of sexual shit," says Isabella as she backs us up out of our space and heads toward the parking lot exit. "But I don't think I've ever felt that thing you just described. I'm twenty-three next month and I'd really like to try that."

  "Iz, falling in love is not something you try," I say. "It's beyond your control. It just happens."

  "Yeah, I know. I fucking hate things that are beyond my control."

  Isabella takes the MacArthur, then turns right on Alton and left onto South Pointe. She pulls into the parking lot of a just-finished luxury building. A sign says Colton Development - Contractors Only - Hardhats Required. But she just breezes by it and parks.

  "Why are we here?" I say.

  "There's somebody I want you to meet," says Isabella. "I set it up before but cancelled it when we had a fight. I texted him this morning and he agreed to meet us."

  "What the fuck, Iz? What's this about?"

  "It's about showing you a couple of apartments. It'll be fun."

  "Apartments? What the fuck are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about your mother! I've taken the liberty of setting you up with someone who can probably get you a place today. Did you hear me? To. Day."

  I squeal. The excitement of maybe finding a place of my own... oooh, a place of my own!... takes over.

  "Really?" I say. "You did that for me?"

  "Of course I did," she says. "You're fucking welcome. Now let's go."

  We get out. We walk toward the building. Brand spanking new. Lots of glass. The sign on the outside says Colton Development.

  But shit, I don't want to live here. It's nice and all, but it's got no personality. Plus it will be full of old rich people.

  "Is this Greg Colton's company?" I say.

  "You know him?" says Isabella.

  "Steve interviewed him for MiamiImproper.com about a year ago. He's like the Donald Trump of Miami Beach real estate."

  "He's much more than that," says Isabella, making a wide motion with her two index fingers.

  "No you didn't!" I say as I hit her on the arm. "He's fucking old!"

  She just nods and holds the door for me.

  The blonde at the desk looks barely out of high school. She's wearing a strapless purple dress that's almost nonexistent. Her nails have little smiley faces painted on them.

  I feel old suddenly.

  "How may I help you?" she says like she's been rehearsing it all day.

  "We're here to see Mr. Colton," says Isabella. "Isabella and Annika. He's expecting us."

  "Oh, of course. Go right up."

  We get in the elevator and Isabella presses the button for the Penthouse Suite.

  At the top, the doors open into a sunny glass hallway with a door on the left and another on the right. A view of the ocean streams in through a tall window at the other end.

  Isabella goes to the door on the left and presses the buzzer. In a few seconds the door opens.

  Meet the famous Greg Colton. About fifty. Gray-black hair, some white. Good-looking in a George Clooney-kind of way. Lean. Lots of chisel around the chin. Some wrinkles, but good ones. Light expensive suit, dark blue shirt, black shoes.

  Tingle.

  Oh my God, did I just get a tingle from an old man?

  Shit, I think I did! Holy fuck! What's happening to me?

  "Greg!" says Isabella.

  Unlike most guys who melt when Isabella walks into a room, Greg holds his own. He leans on the door jamb with his arms folded and a smirk on his face as he looks at Isabella. His expression is like he's inspecting her. Sizing her up. Then he nods and with a head movement motions her to move in and hug him.

  Damn, that's sexy.

  Come to think of it, that's how Damien acts. Maybe there is something to this teaching men how to act sexy bullshit.

  "You look amazing," says Greg in a totally non-kiss-ass manner.

  Yep, they've definitely fucked. There's that glow between them.

  Shit, they're staring into each other's eyes now. What the fuck do I do?

  "Greg," says Isabella, "this is my friend Annika. She's the one I texted you about. She needs a place ASAP."

  "Hello, Annika," says George Clooney... er... um... I mean, Greg Colton... as he turns his stunning face to me.

  He takes my hand, a firm grasp with just the right amount of touch. His eyes are brown and deep.

  Tingle.

  Shit, why am I getting tingles? Stop it, Annika. He's ancient. Fuck!

  "Annika, it will be my pleasure to help you find a place," he says with a smirk that sends goosebumps all over me. He steps out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

  Before it closes, I catch a glimpse of a spectacular penthouse suite done in dark wood with lots of leather. I bet there's a girl in there.

  He steps between us over to the opposite door. He keys in a code and it opens. He holds it for us as we walk in.

  We are in the biggest office I've ever seen. The view of the Miami skyline behind Greg's desk is breathtaking. I think I even see the orange roof of Damien's house way over to the left.

  Greg steps behind his desk and fires up his desktop. The walls are dark paneled wood with fancy oil paintings. A glass case encloses a series of baseballs, each one on display facing a different direction. I see Derek Jeter's signature on one.

  "Sit," he says, gesturing to the two chairs in front of the desk.

  I look at Isabella, communicating Wow! to her silently. She communicates back I know, huh? silently.

  "So Annika..." says Greg.


  Oooooh, I love the way he says So Annika. God, I'm hopeless. I'm a complete out-of-control horndog, aren't I? Seriously, is there anybody I wouldn't fuck lately?

  "What type of place are you looking for?" he says.

  "Well," I say, "I hate to say this but I don't have the kind of money Isabella does so I don't even think–"

  "How much can you afford?"

  "I... uh... hadn't thought–"

  "How's a thousand a month?"

  "Well, I could go up to fifteen."

  Isabella looks at him. He smiles at her.

  "A thousand it is," he says. "How's this place?"

  He flips his computer screen around.

  According to the photos, it's the entire second floor of an old restored Art Deco house. Surrounded by a rose garden and elaborate fence. Far enough from the beach but not too far. Close to shopping & Isabella's.

  Oh my God!

  "That's more than a thousand," I say. "That's three thousand at least. I can't take that."

  Greg faces me directly. His eyes are commanding, almost fierce behind his friendly smile.

  "When Greg Colton says a thousand, he means a thousand."

  I freeze.

  "Okay," I say. "That's... gorgeous. Um, I don't have my checkbook with me."

  "I'll bill you," he says with a smirk. "First month is on the house anyway."

  He prints the listing and hands it to me. He stands up.

  "Go there right now," he says. "I'll have Janice meet you there with the keys." He turns to Isabella. "Now, as for you, babe, I haven't seen you lately and that is not acceptable."

  Isabella looks down and smiles as we get up.

  "I know," she says, "I've been busy."

  "No excuses," he says as he walks to the door and opens it. "Here. Friday. Dinner."

  "I–", says Isabella.

  "Enjoy your new apartment, Annika."

  "Thank you so much," I say as I reach out to shake his hand.

  "My pleasure," he says as he hands me his card. "If you need anything, call me."

  He kisses Isabella and disappears back into his penthouse suite.

  I squeal. Isabella and I jump up and down like schoolgirls.

  Then we drive to my new apartment.

  Janice is a plump woman in her fifties. She's waiting for us.

  One thing I now know about Greg Colton is he's efficient.

  Janice shows us in and hands me the keys. No paperwork. Weird.