by Julia Kent
And then they started humping.
Only I didn't know it.
Parker folded over, one hand on my thigh, the vibration above me making me sit up, turn around, and lose it.
We laughed together until our stomachs hurt.
But we did it together.
For what felt like an eternity, we created this little pocket of space, naked and sated, so comfortable with each other. We were at his mother’s place in DC, the two of us staying in Parker's childhood room. The doggies were part of the household, Jennifer's pampered, precious twins, and the moment was too ripe, too delicious, too much a collision of competing interests not to be downright hilarious.
Until.
Until.
Casting my phone aside, I glare at Fi and point at it.
“Don’t feed me that forgiveness bullcrap. Forgiveness is what other people tell you is required to make them feel better. Not the victim.”
“You are living life with a victim mentality.”
“I’m more of a survivor.”
“You’re stuck,” she says, withdrawing that hand with an irritation that makes me snap to attention. Fiona has a strange power about her. Unconditional love and acceptance ooze from her pores. To have her withdraw it means I’ve done something bad.
“How do I get unstuck?” I ask reluctantly, knowing the answer before she says it. It's worse than witches. Worse than labyrinth meditation. Worse than past-life regression.
Worse than master cleanses and fasting designed to achieve enlightenment.
Not that I'd know. Those programs involve giving up caffeine.
“Quantum,” is her one-word answer. That's a big step up from the dowsers. It's the nuclear bomb of woo. “First we soak in the hot springs, though. Your energy grid is giving me a headache. I need to absorb soothing minerals.”
“Mom has magnesium cream that can help.”
She rolls her eyes. “I just like the hot springs, okay?”
“Fine. Hot springs first, woo second.”
“It’s all woo, Perky. You just haven’t realized it yet. Science is woo people agree on, nothing more. Anyway, why not try it? You’re suffering. You’re stuck. It can’t hurt, right?”
Darting to the side, my eyes are drawn to my phone. A bitter taste takes over my mouth, evicting the Thai food.
All right. Fine.
Quantum it is.
10
My finger shakes as Fiona drives, but I do it anyhow.
I unblock Parker Campbell's number on my phone.
I close my eyes.
I wait.
And... nothing.
Five years of blocking him has led me to imagine his texts as a pile of pent-up words all pressing against a wall I built, the pressure enormous, the sentiments pressed together like sediment to form immovable rock.
“What are you doing?” Fiona asks as we walk into Beanerino, on our way to some cottage in Westford where Fi says underground magnetic lines converge to create a clarity point that allows our healer to do her work.
“Refueling. I can't believe I let myself run out of my espresso at home.”
“Not that! I know why we're here. But I just saw you on your phone with your eyes closed, pecking.”
“I unblocked Parker.”
A flat grimace is all I get, making the sparkle in her eyes dull, like I've unplugged her. “Oh. You're really going forward with this?”
“Forward with what? The double date he wants to have with Mal and Will?” I pretend not to pick up on her judgmental eye roll.
“You know what I'm talking about.”
“My plan makes sense. It balances the energy. Isn't that what karma is all about?”
“You have a perverted view of energy.”
“I have a perverted view of everything, so how is that any different?”
“Because you're talking about ruining an elected congressman's life.”
“It's only ruined if he actually sleeps with me and I get it on video.”
“Listen to yourself! Your amygdala terrifies me.”
“You can't see it! Or even touch it! How can it terrify you?” I scoff. “And quit using Mallory science words.” I wave her away like she's a gnat.
A myrrh-scented gnat.
“Your amygdala is a demented playground where bad ideas go to run themselves into the ground, unrestrained, exhausting their energy by running in erratic patterns until they wind down and finally collapse.”
“That's what my mind does every night when I climb into bed. It's how I fall asleep.”
“See? Terrifying.”
“And also, you're getting the amygdala completely wrong. That's not how it functions,” I reply, really sounding more and more like Mal every day.
Ugh.
“What's terrifying?” Raul asks as he starts up the espresso machine, knowing our orders by heart.
“The dark underworld of Perky's mind.”
He shudders. “Oh, girl. You need a talisman? A sage stick?” he asks Fiona with a wink.
Her face splits with a huge grin, the dimmer switch inside her suddenly turned so far to the right, it's like Raul is her own personal nuclear reactor.
“Her third chakra is stuck. Won't move at all.”
I hip check her. “I am seeking justice.”
“You're turning it into revenge. That's not going to work well for you.”
“Since when did you become the judgmental friend? That's Mallory's job.”
Raul watches us, caramel eyes flecked with gold, the dark outer ring of his iris a boundary made stronger by his narrowed gaze. “You two are weirder than usual.”
“I'll take that as a compliment,” I inform him as he pours cream into Fiona's macchiato.
“Perky's out for revenge.”
“Against who?”
I slice my finger across my neck. “Shhhh.”
One of Raul's thick eyebrows goes up. “There's a story here.”
“It's my story,” I insist.
“So now you're shy? In what universe do you not spew every detail about your personal life to every person you spend a nanosecond with?” Fiona challenges.
I open my mouth to protest indignantly.
“Date of last menstrual period,” Raul recites, blinking hard. “Underwire escaped bra last week and stabbed her. Preferred brand of antiperspirant. Something about gaining weight and camel toe–” He curls his lips in and walks away.
Grabbing her hand, I pull Fi away from the counter and hiss, “I haven't told anyone here about the meme.”
“You think no one who works here has ever figured out you're Two Dog Tits Girl?” The way she says it makes a minor chord explode in my head, like the beginning of every creepy horror film's final climax.
“Don't call me that!”
“I'm sorry! But that's–that's not even the worst of it. And sweetie,” she whispers, complete compassion radiating out of every pore, “if you think Raul hasn't figured it out–”
“I know he has! I know everyone has! I just need to maintain the illusion that they haven't, okay?”
Fiona frowns deeply, distracted.
She points outside to a red sedan, the kind of nice, upscale rental car you get when you're a preferred platinum member of every travel-rewards program and get upgrades for simply breathing.
Parker is getting out of the car.
“Oh, God! I cannot deal with him right now.” I grab the finished drinks and hurry to the door, Fiona following in my wake.
“Why the rush?” Raul calls out.
“My ego needs fresh air.”
“Perky, wait! He's coming around the–” Fiona gasps, hands on my shoulders, but I don't stop, can't stop, have to get away, ears closing off, her words dissolving into thin air. Blindly, I move, time divorced from my reality, my body just disconnected chunks of flesh that can't listen.
I shove the front door with my shoulder, twisting myself outside, and my face smashes into a t-shirt.
A t-shirt that covers a
wall of muscled steel.
A wall that is now covered in splashed hot coffee.
“Oh, my God!” I shout. “I am so, so sorry!” Fortunately, Raul put lids on the coffee containers, so there's only a bit on the poor guy's shirt, but it's hot and–
“I'm fine, Persephone,” says Parker, whose hand is on my hip, the other holding the door open. Coffee blends with his cologne, a whiff of shaving cream, and the all-too-familiar scent of plain old Parker.
Who is anything but plain or old.
“Did I burn you?”
Fiona moves fast, taking the to-go cups out of my hands.
“No. I'm fine. But what about you?” His fingers move, nimble and caring, to brush against the wet web of my right hand. “You look like you need to cool that down.” Blowing softly on my hand, lips full, he meets my eyes.
I can't breathe.
Can't swallow.
Can't move.
But oh, how my blood can pump like an enormous fountain of lust crashing against my clit.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
My libido is the Bellagio water show, complete with flashing lights and a symphony score.
I'm wet and pulsing, all from his touch, his loose breaths and tight gaze.
“You burned him,” a woman says in a low, offended tone from behind us, Parker's body going tense as a red-tipped manicured hand moves into my field of vision across Parker's ribs, over the coffee stain, a possessive grasp that makes me want to rip hair and claw eyes.
Saoirse.
Quickly, I step out of Parker's hypnotic orbit, my nether regions slow to grasp the reality of what I'm experiencing. They're together. Her hand is on his waist now.
I am just a coincidence.
They are a couple.
Fiona watches, eyes angry on my behalf, calculating the narrow truth of whatever we're witnessing.
“I'm fine. It's Persephone who was hurt when we collided,” Parker responds, brow creasing as he frowns with concern.
False concern, I'm sure.
“If she'd watched where she was going, you wouldn't have–”
“We're just doing a newspaper interview,” he says coldly to her. “No need to worry about optics.”
She tilts her head, looks at him–but doesn't move her hand.
Peeling out of her hold, Parker stands before me, hands on his hips, eyes bouncing from me to Fiona. “Can I get you another coffee? Half of that one has turned my t-shirt into a Rorschach test.” His laughter makes the chaotic feelings inside me all rush together, uniting in one huge, confused ball.
“I–I should be the one offering something,” I say, clearing my throat around the feelings that are gathered there.
Anger is slowly building a three-story condo in the back of my throat.
“Indeed. I'll take whatever you have to give me.” Eyes flashing, he turns the words into a pointed double entendre.
One Saoirse cannot let stand.
“You should pay to clean his shirt,” she says smoothly, having discerned that hysteria and drama don't work on Parker. Never did.
Never will.
What works to charm Parker is connection. Authenticity. Being real and unguarded, genuine and, well...
It's hard to put into words.
How do you put magic into words? It's magic. It works outside of reason and description.
What works on Parker is the magic we had.
Have?
“I absolutely will pay to clean it,” I announce as Fiona takes a sip from the wrecked cup, nonverbal signals telling me it's fine, we can go, we can leave, we can escape.
And later, we can talk.
Joking, Parker starts to strip out of it, his belly shown for the flash of a few seconds, Saoirse's outraged gasp enough to tell me everything.
They're really together.
She's controlling his image.
He's playing me.
So I bolt.
“Bye, Parker and Saoirse! Send me the bill for cleaning your shirt!” On my heels, Fiona's acting like a lady's maid doing the good work of serving the shamed. I pull open her car door and my phone buzzes as I sit on it, eyes cast down, ass humming.
Fumbling, I find it.
And read Parker's text. The first one allowed on my phone in five years.
See you tomorrow, it says.
Slamming the car into reverse, Fiona takes us the long way out of the parking lot, away from the building and prying eyes. The car is smooth as she accelerates, and soon we're on our way.
Away.
Which is the only direction that matters.
“I can't believe that bitch,” Fiona mumbles as she makes a sharp right, two cars honking at her as she claims her lane like a Boston pro. Driving in this area is a contact sport.
And if anyone knows contact sports, it's a former kickboxing champ.
“So it wasn't my imagination?”
“Is your imagination living in Westeros and do you have control over dragons? Because that woman needs to be flame roasted.”
“They are together! Then why did Parker flirt with me?”
“Because he's a sociopathic pig who gets off on trifling with your emotions?”
“Seriously, Fi? Seriously? You think it's that bad?”
“I think it's pretty bad.”
“I wish Mallory were here. We need a voice of reason. You're the woo chick and I've got a temper the size of the Green Monster. How can we figure out what Parker's up to without Mallory?”
“Call her.”
“What?”
“Call her. Now.” Through gritted teeth, Fiona makes another crazy turn and bam–we're on the road to Mallory's apartment.
“She's busy.”
“I think this is a little more important than–”
Bzzzz.
I ignore my phone.
Bzzzz.
“Are you going to answer that?”
“It's Parker.”
“Then definitely answer it!”
“All I can think about is texting him a picture of my middle finger.”
“Photoshop two dogs humping above it.”
The giggle starts in the back of my throat, the bitter tang of the past mingling with a sudden craving for a cigarette and a wish for Photoshop, Phone Edition.
Fiona grabs her phone, puts it on hands-free settings and gets Siri going. Soon it's ringing.
“Who are you calling?”
“Hey!” a voice cuts in. “Why are you calling me?”
“Mal? Emergency. We need you to come right now.”
“That's what I just said,” chimes in a deep male voice from Fiona's phone.
“Will! Shhhh!” Mallory says, giggling.
“Great,” I mutter. “There goes the reasonable one.”
“What's wrong?” Mal gasps.
“You're having sex and I'm not?” I say under my breath.
Fiona elbows me, the car swerving slightly. She looks like a cartoon character in a road race, clutching the wheel, intently focused.
“We need your brain right now,” Fiona shouts as she winds the car down a narrow side road, a hedge suddenly disappearing to reveal a big swamp, all of the trees still standing but half dead at the tops.
“She's not using it. You can have it as long as I get the rest of her!” Will calls out.
“Oh, God. Turn it off, Fi. Turn it OFF.”
“No, no! Wait!” Mallory says, the sound changing as she's clearly pulled away from Will. “What's wrong? Do you really need me?”
“Fiona's taking me to the Quantum Cottage.”
A sound like one thousand bats being sucked into a vacuum cleaner fills the air. “She what?”
“Right?”
“And you let her?”
“You think I had a choice? We need you, Mal.”
“Oh!”
Fiona fist bumps me and mouths, Perfect.
“This means a lot,” Mallory says in a soft, slightly stricken voice. “You two, you know, lately, well... you do stuff together and
don't invite me. I thought maybe you didn't like me as much.”
“That's just for Taco Cubed. You're never allowed to eat there with us again,” Fiona declares.
“But for everything else, we love you! And for this, we need your logical mind,” I soothe, knowing Mal will be stung by Fiona's words, hoping my jumping in is like smoothing aloe vera on a burn.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“And you're going to the Quantum Cottage?” Trepidation fills her voice.
“It's time,” Fiona says ominously. “Perky's planning to make a sex tape and we need serious intervention.”
“MAKE A SEX TAPE?” Mallory shouts.
“SURE!” Will calls out from the background.
“Omigod!” she squeals. “NO! Not us!”
“But why not us?” I hear him say in a low, sexy voice that one should never, ever hear from one's best friend's fiancé, because Sex Voice is like O Face. You only reveal that to people who have mingled their juices with yours.
Even I have a line.
“You have ten minutes to be standing outside your apartment. And you can't smell like sex,” Fiona adds.
“Why not?”
“The olfactory energy is part of the healing evaluation.”
“Your quantum healer uses scent to find... auras?”
“What? No. That makes no sense.”
“And the rest of this does?” Mal squeaks.
“Ten minutes!” I shout. “No Will sexfunk on you. And charge your phone! Bet it's under ten percent.”
“How did you – ”
“See you soon!” I shout. Fiona ends the call and looks at me.
I look right back.
“How,” I ask with a long sigh, “did Mallory become the only one of us getting laid regularly?”
“True love.”
“I want some of that!”
“I'd settle for True Sex.”
Parker's chest comes to mind, the way his warmth felt against me just a few minutes ago, but then the creepy red fingernails attached to Saoirse ruin that.
And make me realize I'd settle for plain old truth.
11
The first thing I notice on Jolene's land is the hum.
“Why is everything buzzing in her driveway?” I whisper to Fiona, who gives me a blank look that makes it clear she can't hear it. We've picked up Mallory and spent the last forty minutes teasing her about her pink cheeks and relaxed body, drinking really good coffee, and musing on what Parker's balls would feel like if a rabid opossum got hold of them.