I shake my head. “Right before the engagement party. Two days.”
“Then you should come,” she says. “And tell Caulter to come too.”
“Caulter?” I ask. “I don’t think so.” Like I'm going to bring Caulter to a party so I can watch him hit on girls? Yeah, right.
“Come on. It’ll be fun. It's Caulter Sterling. You’ll be legendary for bringing him. Do it. Slum with us commoners.”
I laugh, but I secretly hate her little comments about slumming it, or me being a rich kid. How am I supposed to respond?
Jo kicks the water in the lake. “There will be hot guys, guys who aren’t rich prep school kids. Guys with tattoos.”
Guys like Caulter. I glance up at the balcony, but it’s empty now. “Fine.”
“Seriously?” she asks. “You’re really going to go to an actual, real-life party? Like, with booze and guys?”
“I said fine, okay? You’ve worn me down.”
“You’ve never gone out before,” she says. “I can’t fucking believe it. I was just giving you shit; I didn't think you would actually go. What’s gotten into you?”
What's gotten into me? My mind immediately flashes to Caulter.
Caulter bending me over the desk in my father’s office. Caulter thrusting into me as the ladder falls from beneath me in the library. Caulter’s hot breath on my stomach, his face moving lower as the warm water drums over our bodies in the shower. My lips wrapped around Caulter’s cock, the saltiness of his pre-cum on my tongue.
Shit.
I have to blink several times to erase the images in my head. I definitely need to meet someone else -- if not someone appropriate, then someone inappropriate. Inappropriate and filthy enough to get my mind off of Caulter.
“Caulter should come with us,” she says, interrupting my thoughts.
“What, are you obsessed with him or something?” I snap. “No Caulter.”
“Okay, no Caulter,” she says, giving me major side-eye. “I didn’t know you were so touchy about him.”
“I’m not touchy about him,” I say. “I just don’t -- he’s irritating, that’s all. I don’t want him killing my buzz.”
She laughs. “Yeah, okay, I can see that. Who wants your new step-brother tagging along with you to a party, anyway?” She pushes herself up to her feet, reaching to take my hand and pull me up. “Ten-ish, okay? I’ll text you.”
***
“I said, it’s really loud,” I yell.
Jo hands me a plastic cup filled with beer and motions toward her ears, yelling back. I can’t hear her, but I can read her lips. “I can’t hear you!”
A guy sidles up behind her, wearing a leather jacket even though it’s probably still seventy degrees outside and inside it’s hot as hell. I’m sweating, even in the dress I’m wearing -- one of the new dresses Ella’s stylist sent.
I still haven’t forgiven Caulter for burning all my stuff, either, even though a box showed up with exact substitutions for all my jeans this morning. No note from Caulter, no explanation. Just brand-new versions of everything that he’d burned.
Part of me is impressed he went to so much trouble for a stupid prank, noting all of the sizes and brands and then tracking them down. It couldn’t have been easy, although he probably hired someone to do it.
I nearly pulled on a pair of jeans tonight, but I had to admit that what the stylist picked is actually pretty hot, much better than I’d have picked. It's not something I’d usually wear, either. It's this fire-engine red mini-dress that I’m sure my father was not imagining when he jumped on board with the redo-Kate’s-wardrobe plan. But my father isn’t home, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?
Jo leans back against the guy, who pulls up the hem of her shirt and slides his hands over her stomach. From behind her, he cups her face with his hands, and leans over to kiss her, all tongue, then slides his hand down the front of her shirt.
Well, this is totally awkward.
I down my warm-ish beer, wondering where the hell I need to go to get more. This is why I don't fucking go to parties. At Brighton, I went to exactly one, and it was during my spring break, only because I was stuck there with nothing else to do. That was at someone's parents' house in the Hamptons.
That was not this kind of party. There was no warm beer, just expensive champagne and liquor from kids who had access to unlimited supplies of the best stuff. There were models. I don't know why I went to that one, either, because it was just as awkward as this. After two glasses of champagne and fending off a series of dumb pick-up lines, I was in a cab back to my dorm at Brighton.
Jo finally comes up for air and takes my empty cup, handing it to the guy who’d just mauled her face. She grabs my arm and pushes me toward a hallway where it’s quieter, but still just as crowded with people. “Bathroom,” she explains.
We stand outside the door, waiting for three more people to use it before she pulls me inside. It’s a nice reprieve from the loud pounding of the music in the house. She squats over the toilet and pees, talking the whole time. “It’s fun, yeah? I mean, it’s loud, but fun.”
“Sure.” I’m feeling out of place and agitated. I can’t imagine why Jo thinks this is going to be fun for me.
“Come on,” she says. “Loosen up a little.”
I squat to pee. “Who was the guy?”
Jo laughs. “Some guy,” she says. “A hook-up, no big deal. We’re on again, off again, you know? But he has some hot friends. I told him I was bringing you with me.” She opens her purse and pulls out a bottle of prescription medication. “Want one? You need to relax.”
I shake my head, but ask anyway. “What is it?”
“Anxiety meds,” she says. “My mother’s stash.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to drink with that, Jo.” I feel like a parent scolding a child. She should know better.
Jo laughs and dries her hands. “Sure you don’t want one?” she asks. “Come on, girl. You have the rest of the summer to be the perfect little Senator’s daughter. No one knows who you are here. And no one cares. Live your fucking life, for once.”
“I am living my life,” I say. I’m annoyed with her, and I'm annoyed with this situation.
“Here,” she says, holding out a tablet. “Take half if you don’t want to take the whole thing. It’ll let you relax. It’s not coke or something. It’s prescription. From a doctor. For anxiety, which you definitely have.”
I exhale heavily, taking it from her hand and popping it into my mouth. “Fine. Whatever.”
We exit the bathroom and her hook-up, the leather-jacket clad guy, hands us each a cup of beer. I hold it, not drinking it because I'm afraid of mixing the pill with more alcohol.
He introduces me to two of his friends. They’re cleaner cut than he is, but they look older. One of them stares at me like I’m a piece of meat, licking his lips. I want to get the hell out of here, but I force myself to take a sip of beer to calm my nerves.
The other guy steps closer to me, pulling me away from the group, and gestures, asking if I want to dance. Okay, so he’s hot -- blue eyed and brown haired and clean-cut. Totally appropriate, I think.
I don’t know how long it is, maybe thirty minutes or so, before I start feeling relaxed. Like, really relaxed. I feel kind of woozy, actually, like my head is thick and foggy and I just want to sleep. The guy, whose name I don’t even know, is behind me, sliding his hands over my stomach and down the front of my hips, his hardness pressing up against me as he dances with me completely out of sync with the music.
The fact that he’s hard is what makes me feel nauseous. When I try to pry his hands off my hips, he grips them tighter and I yank myself away from him.
I don’t know where Jo is in the crowd; I can’t see her or the other guy, but I need some air.
Outside the house, I shiver as the now-cool evening air hits my skin. There are a handful of people outside, party-goers that have spilled out onto the lawn, and a few couples making out near t
he side of the house.
I walk toward the other side of the house to get away from the people. I’m so fucking tired, and I just want to go home.
I'm trying to remember the name of the cab service in town, but I can't think of it. When I slide open the screen of my cell phone, there's a text waiting for me from Caulter.
You’re out late.
It’s accompanied by a picture of his cock.
I smile, because I can’t help myself, and turn the camera in my hands, admiring it from a different angle. Caulter doesn't have just any cock. He has a beautiful cock. A large cock. A glorious throbbing, always-ready cock.
I think I'm drunk. I start to type what's going through my head. How do you spell glorious? Instead, I type:
Aw. no 1 too suck.
Why is typing so hard? My hands feel so slow. No one to suck your cock is what I mean, but it looks wrong on the screen.
What’s with the spelling? Are you drunk? Where are you?
I exhale heavily. If Caulter would stop texting me, I could call a cab and get home. Leaning against the house, I squint, trying to text back.
Yes. Nove ur busines.
I hit send, and stop to think. What the hell do you dial for directory assistance? The phone rings, and for a second, I think its directory assistance calling me.
“Where the hell are you?”
It takes me a minute to recognize the voice. “None of your business.”
“Your voice is slurred, Princess,” he says. “You’re drunk. Tell me where you are.”
“At a party,” I say. “I’m a grown up, and you can’t boss me around.”
“The fuck I can’t,” Caulter growls in my ear. The sound reminds me of the last time we screwed, and I feel a tingling sensation between my legs. “Tell me where you are. I’m coming to get you.”
“I’m trying to call a cab,” I say. "Get off the phone."
“I’m getting in the car now,” Caulter says. How is he moving so quickly? He’s like a superhero. I giggle at the thought. “Where are you?”
“At a house.”
“Where?”
I exhale. “Somewhere,” I say. “I don’t know. I’m wearing that red dress, not even jeans. I really like it.” I can hear my voice slurring now. There should be a number on the house, I think.
“The red dress.” He speaks the words low, and I think he’s angry.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask. I don’t know why I find it funny, but I giggle.
“What’s the address, Kate?”
“I’m looking, geez,” I say, stumbling forward to look at the house. “Thirty-four.”
“Thirty-four what, Kate,” he asks. “What’s the rest of the address?”
“Well, how am I supposed to know that, smarty pants?” I ask. “Thirty-four. It’s what it says on the house. Hey, you’re calling me Kate. Not Katherine. Kate.” That seems significant, I think. Kate. I like the way it sounds when he says it, so I repeat it a few more times. Kate, Kate, Kate.
He ignores me. “Ask someone. Or look at the mailbox. Are you on the lake?”
“Nope, not the lake. I'm somewhere not far. Hey! Do you know where we are?” I yell as I walk toward a couple making out. “They’re just looking at me like I'm a weirdo, Caulter.”
“Ask them the address.”
“Are you annoyed with me?” I ask him, then more loudly toward the couple, “What’s the address?” When they tell it to me, I repeat it slowly to Caulter. “You're irritated, aren't you?”
“I’m not annoyed with you, Kate,” he says. “It looks like it’s fifteen minutes from here. Where are you?”
I exhale. “I just told you. Why are you asking me the same questions over and over? My head hurts.”
“I mean, are you outside?” he asks. “Are you somewhere safe?”
“Yeah, I’m totally safe.” I stumble back toward my spot on the side of the house. “I need to sit down. It was hot in there, and the guy that was dancing with me was too grabby. And he was hard and it was nothing like --”
“What guy, Kate?” he asks, his tone menacing. “Who was fucking touching you?”
I laugh. “Some guy,” I say. “We were just dancing.”
“In that red dress.”
“I look hot,” I say. Am I slurring more now? It feels like I have a wad of cotton in my mouth. “I have to admit you were right. Dresses are good on me. Hey, has anyone ever told you that you say fuck a lot? Because you do. Fuck fuck fuck. You also do it a lot -- the fucking, I mean. A lot more than I expected.”
Caulter growls. “Do not fucking move an inch,” he says. “Nobody lays a hand on you, do you understand?”
“You don’t own me, Caulter.” I say, but the phone cuts out. Or I’ve accidentally hung it up. I’m not sure. I sit down on the grass, cross-legged, not caring that someone can totally see my crotch. Where is Jo, anyway? I type slowly and methodically, sending her a text.
Outside. wher ru
I don’t get anything back, so I try to keep my eyes open and wait for Caulter.
CHAPTER
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Caulter
She hung up on me. Kate fucking hung up on me, after telling me some asshole was grinding his hard-on against her all night, while she’s drunk at a party.
She’s out at a party, drunk off her ass, and wearing that fucking red dress.
I chose that red dress. I did not imagine her wearing it to a party where some guy would run his hands all over her.
That red dress was made for Kate, crafted to perfectly accentuate her long legs and that curvy ass. I can imagine what she looks like in it right now, at a party full of horny guys.
I step harder on the gas pedal.
I’m beyond irate. I passed that a while ago, back when I realized she’d gone to a party. I don’t know what’s a million times more angry than irate, but that’s me.
I’m flying down these windy roads, taking the turns without breaking. If some guy so much as lays a finger on her…
I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white.
I can’t think straight, even when I reach the house. Cars line both sides of the street, so I just stop mine in the middle of the road and leave the lights on. Tearing down the walk that leads up the lawn, I see her.
There she is, leaning awkwardly against some guy who’s trying to steer her away from the house.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I yell. Kate’s eyes open wide at the sounds of my voice, but she's obviously intoxicated.
“I’m just standing,” she slurs.
“She’s with me,” the guy says. “Who the fuck are you?”
Kate wrinkles her forehead and pushes her hand against his arm. “No,” she says. “He’s helping me stand up. He’s a cab driver.”
“Mind your own business,” he mouths, but he lets go of Kate, who stumbles a step forward. I don’t think about anything -- I just hit him, hard, my fist connecting with his face. I can hear the crunch of cartilage, and he falls back. “My fucking nose, you psycho!”
I sweep Kate up in my arms, carrying her across the lawn toward the car. “You had better not puke in my car,” I say.
“Did you hit him?” she murmurs. Her head is against my chest, and I inhale the scent of her shampoo, jasmine and lemongrass. It smells like Thailand, and I wonder if she’s been there.
“I hit him.”
“He wasn’t a cab driver.” Her voice is soft.
“Just some asshole.”
“You rescued me.”
I don’t answer, turning so I can angle myself to open the car door with the same hand that’s holding up her ass. I’m trying to ignore the fact that the fabric of the very short skirt is barely covering it, her smooth skin pressed into my palm. I deposit her in the seat and buckle it and she smiles at me. “You like me.”
I roll my eyes before I shut the passenger door and get behind the wheel. We’re silent for a few minutes, and I think she might be passed out.
“You like me,�
� she says. “You came to get me.”
“You were incoherent and drunk at a party.” I keep my eyes on the road, refusing to look at her, sitting in the seat with that skirt riding up her thighs. “I would have to be the worst person in the world if I didn’t come to get you.”
“You punched that guy in the face,” she says. “For me.”
“It doesn't mean I like you, Princess. So don't take it personally.” I don’t look at her. I don’t want to look at her as she insists that I like her. Because it's the truth.
When we get back to the house, she stumbles against me as I help her out of the car. “How much did you have to drink?” I ask, my arm around her as we walk.
“One beer,” she says.
“What the hell -- were you roofied?”
“And --”
“And what?” She starts to step away from me, but stumbles again, and I pick her up the same way I did before.
“I don’t need carried,” she says. “I’m perfeckly -- perfectly -- able to walk.”
“Yeah, you’re real steady on your feet, Princess,” I say, carrying her inside the house and up the stairs to her room. I’m trying really hard not to focus on the fact that my hand is cupping her bare ass again. My cock is more than aware of that fact, though, pushing up against the zipper of my jeans like it wants to be unleashed.
“I took something,” she says.
“Something like what?”
“A pill,” she says. “I was anxious. Jo gave it to me.”
“Your friend, Jo?” I ask, thinking about murdering Jo. “Was she at the party?”
“Yeah,” she says. “But I don’t know where she went.”
“Was she drunk too?” I exhale heavily as I set her on her bed. “Give me your phone. You could have told me this before we left, so I knew if I had to go get her ass out of there too.”
“Don’t read my messages,” she says. "That's private."
“Relax, sweetheart,” I say, my tone sarcastic. “I’m not interested in reading your text messages. I’m trying to make sure you’re friend isn’t at some party being gang raped by who the fuck knows.”
A Very Dirty Christmas Page 13