by Emerson Rose
It’s now or never. I have to make a decision . . . tell them or make something up.
“We just kissed—that’s all,” I blurt out.
Mika blows out a breath of relief and Savannah’s shoulders relax.
“Well thank God for that. Let’s get home and forget this night ever happened. We can scratch IDs and clubs off the itinerary. I’ve had enough of all that until I’m actually twenty-one,” Savannah says.
That damn itinerary.
“Well, not me. You know where to find me every Friday night, ladies. I’ll keep an eye on him for you, Holland.” Mika winks and slugs my arm lightly.
“You feel good enough to go home now?”
“Yeah, we’d better sneak in before my mama figures out we’re gone. So far this night hasn’t at all gone as planned. It would be just my luck to get caught and punished for such an epic failed attempt at being a rebel.” Savannah reaches for my hand and leads me to the front passenger door.
“Sit on my lap. It’s only a couple blocks.” She climbs in and pats her lap.
“My breath smells like puke.”
“It’s okay. This is sort of my fault. I feel bad.” She pulls me down onto her lap, and I shut the door and lean my head against the frame of the open window. Mika enters the driver’s side. Her seatbelt clicks, and in seconds, we’re pulling away from the curb and toward my house.
Thank God we are able to safely climb the shaky trellis to my bedroom without breaking our necks. We strip out of our sweaty club clothes and stuff them in her duffle bag. Savannah zips it up and sprays perfume all over the outside, hopefully covering the smell of alcohol, puke and cigarette smoke. I pull a brush through my hair, brush my teeth and wash all traces of makeup from my face while Savannah does the same. When I look like myself again, we crawl into my comfy bed and face each other on our sides. Savannah begins quizzing me. I knew it was just a matter of time, but I was hoping she’d let me sleep a while before starting in.
“What was it like?” She presses her palms together and slides them under her pillow.
“Making out?”
“Not just making out—making out with an older man who looks like he belongs on the cover of GQ.” I’m so glad the room is dark when I feel the heat of a hot blush creep up my neck.
“It was nice.”
“Nice? That’s it? Just nice?”
What am I supposed to say to her? That he’s a chiseled god who stole my virginity and my heart in less than an hour? That I can still feel his hands all over my bare skin and his lips on my . . . Oh God, no way.
“He was sweet and polite, and he’s a good kisser, although I don’t have anything to compare it to. What else is there to say?”
She sighs and kicks me in the shin—not hard, but enough to let me know that she’s not believing my abbreviated version of the story.
“Why are you holding back?”
Because I’m embarrassed that I had sex with the first man to ever show me any attention, and because I was reckless and careless and juvenile.
“There isn’t anything else to tell. We went upstairs and had champagne, he kissed me, and we went inside his apartment to talk, and he kissed me again. End of story.”
It’s hard to see in the dark, but I know she rolls her eyes before she fires another question.
“What’s his apartment like?”
“It’s big and clean, and it has a ridiculous bathroom that looks like it belongs in the Taj Mahal.”
“What? Why were you in his bathroom?”
“Uh, I had to pee.” Sarcasm isn’t really my forte but I think that question warrants a little.
“The Taj Mahal?”
“Everything was black lacquer and gold, with candelabras and angel statues all over the place. Super weird.”
“Really? Yeah, that is weird.” She’s quiet, and I imagine she is trying to visualize King’s crazy bathroom, but after a few minutes, I’m starting to think she’s fallen asleep when she speaks again.
“Do you really like him?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to . . .?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
Tired and warm, we both snuggle deeper under the blanket at the same time, signaling the end of our conversation.
“Night.”
“Goodnight, Savannah.” I wait until she’s softly snoring to turn over and stare out the window at the fingernail moon while I think.
I am going to see him again. If he calls, I’m answering. We may be light years apart in age, but he doesn’t have to know that. It’s stupid and risky, but I need to see him. I can’t lose my virginity to a man and never see his face again, especially his beautiful face. I have all summer to be reckless before going to Juilliard, and I want to spend it being reckless with King. The only thing I regret about tonight is the unprotected sex. I’m kind of freaked out about that. What are the chances of getting pregnant the first time? I mean, I know it happens. I just really hope it hasn’t happened to me. I’ve been a good kid all my life—nearly perfect, actually. I can’t believe the first mistake I end up making is such a whopper.
It’s two in the morning, and I still haven’t slept. My head is pounding, and my tongue feels like it’s covered with sand. I slide out of bed, careful not to wake Savannah. I wait until the door is closed to turn the light on in the bathroom. Under the harsh light, I catch my reflection in the mirror when I reach for the bottle of Ibuprofen. King will never believe I’m his age without the dim lights, the makeup and the stiletto heels. After popping the three pills into my mouth, I down a full glass of water. I place my hands on the edge of the counter and lean toward the mirror to look closer at myself.
“What are you doing, Holland?” I whisper to my reflection. I drop my chin to my chest and sigh. I feel sloshy and bloated, but more than anything, I’m tired. I push off the counter and switch off the light, pad across the room and crawl back into bed. I’ll figure it all out tomorrow. Right now, I just need to sleep.
“Up and at ‘em, girls.” My mama bursts through the bedroom door, clapping her hands at the ungodly hour of . . . ten a.m.
I grab my head and cover my ears.
“Dear God, why does she have to do that?” Savannah moans next to me and rolls over.
“You girls must have been up late last night. What were you doing up here, anyway?” she says as she crosses the room to my window.
“Um, just watching movies and messing around.” I lie to my mother for the first time in my life. She pushes my curtains open wide and pats me on the behind as she breezes by, leaving the smell of bacon and honey wafting behind her.
“Get up. Breakfast is ready, and you have a room reserved to practice in today, so we need to get going.” Shit, I almost forgot.
“You said we were going swimming today,” Savannah whines from under the covers.
“I forgot, sorry. Maybe when I’m done?” I squint out of one eye at my mama to see if she approves. She stops in the doorway with her hand on the knob.
“Yes, that’s fine as long as it’s after you practice.” I nudge Savannah with my elbow under the covers.
“Give me a ride?” I ask.
“I will take you, Holland,” Mama says. Now her hands are on her hips. She’s irritated that I’ve asked Savannah, but I need some freedom today, and I’ll never get it being shuttled around by my mama.
“Mama, Savannah can take me. It’s okay.” We both look out from under the covers with pleading eyes.
“Oh, alright. I guess I need to get used to you doing things for yourself soon anyway.” She focuses her attention on poor Savannah. My mother is seriously overprotective. I can’t believe she’s letting me go away to school in New York. She plans my days from sunup to sunset, organizing all of my practices and concerts, study times, and the few social events I’m allowed to attend. I never minded that before, but today her rigid schedule feels suffocating. I need to be able to see King.
“Okay then. Get dressed and come downstairs
, chop chop.” She spins around to leave, and I watch her sleek, black ponytail slip through the crack of the door. We simultaneously pull the comforter over our heads to block out the painful sun.
“God, your mama is cheery in the morning. I thought she was on to us for a second, but I’m pretty sure we’ve got this.”
“Yeah she’s a morning person. I feel sorta guilty. I’ve never lied to her before.”
“Never? Like, not even a little white lie or anything?”
“Nope. I’ve never had reason to, I guess. I’m a homebody, I get good grades, I play the violin, and I don’t have a boyfriend, so what’s to lie about?”
“Yeah, true. Boring bitch.” There’s a pause before she pounces on me and starts to tickle me mercilessly.
“Ugh. Stop. Stop. I can’t help it that I’m a good girl.” She shoves me aside when she’s finished torturing me, and I curl up into the fetal position to guard my belly and moan.
“I’m gonna barf. I’m never drinking again. This isn’t worth it.”
“Oh yeah, but meeting Mr. Male Model Club Owner was worth it, wasn’t it? I still can’t believe you messed around with that guy—or any guy, for that matter.”
“Me neither.” If she only knew just how much messing around we actually did.
“I want to invite him to the rehearsal studio today. That’s why I wanted you to drive me.” Savannah sits up in bed and turns her whole body to face me.
“Have you lost your mind? I know you two had fun last night, but that was like an adventure. This is real life, and he’s old.” I look up at her out of the corner of my eye and see her throw her hands up in the air and drop them at her sides.
“He’s not that old.”
“Let’s look him up. I’m sure there’s something on the Internet about the new club. There has to be something about him too.”
Shit, I didn’t think of that. Do I really want to know how old he is? It doesn’t matter, though. Savannah is already digging her iPad out of her bag and tapping in Ecstasy before I can stop her.
“Okay, here it is. Ecstasy, the newest dance club on the nightlife scene, boasts three levels of entertainment, including the Psychedelic Circle dance floor and a private membership-only club. World-renowned guest D.J.s every weekend. You never know who you might meet at Ecstasy. Only open Friday and Saturday, from six till last call. Reserve a table for the most comfortable evening possible. Table service available on every floor, and seven bars for easy access to drinks. Be where the IT people are. Be at Ecstasy. Owned and operated by Mr. King Romero.”
“Well shit. That doesn’t tell us much we didn’t already know, except his last name. I’m Googling King Romero.”
I’m actually relieved that she hasn’t found anything on him, but now she’s digging deeper.
“Okay, here he is. Damn, that man looks fine in a suit.” She straightens her back and holds up the iPad while I peer over her shoulder at the photograph of King with a blonde woman on his arm, attending some kind of red carpet affair. She’s right. He’s striking in his black pinstripe suit, and the woman is gorgeous in a floor-length red gown with a slit up the front that probably shows all of her girly parts if she isn’t careful.
“Says here he’s twenty-five, born and raised in Puerto Rico. His parents are Arturo and Isabella Romero. He owns a bunch of other clubs around the world, and he just happens to be one of the United States’ most eligible bachelors, if you’re looking for the dangerous bad boy type.”
“What? It doesn’t say that.”
“It does too, look here.” She points at the article.
“You made out with the most eligible bachelor in the United States. Holy shit, Holland. How does it feel?”
I can’t get past dangerous bad boy. What does that mean? What does that say about what happened between us last night? He’s not just a player; he’s the ultimate player. How could I be so stupid? Shit, I think I’m gonna puke again. I slap my hand over my mouth and fly into the bathroom, making it just in time to dry heave bitter stomach acid into the toilet.
“Holland. God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Shit, you have a sensitive stomach.” I grip the edge of the toilet and manage to tell her it’s okay, but this is so far from okay.
“You want me to tell your mama you’re sick?” She gathers my hair at the base of my neck and rubs my back.
“No, it’s just a hangover. I’m okay. I’ll take a shower and be down in a minute. You go eat.”
“I don’t know about eating, but I’ll go down and keep your mama company. Don’t take forever, though. She drives me nuts, and I need to shower too. Holland?” I sit back and rest my bottom on my heels and rub my hands on my thighs.
“Yeah?”
“Are you really gonna meet with him?”
Five minutes ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated in answering yes, but now that I know that I’ve given my virginity to the biggest player in the country, I’ve changed my mind. It was all a game to him. I was just a conquest, a notch on his bedpost. I wonder how he would feel to know that notch was nineteen years old?
“No, what’s the point? I’m sure I’ll never even cross his mind again.”
“Oh, now stop. That’s not true. Nobody can forget you.” She drops my hair and pulls me into a side hug. My mouth starts to water, and another round of nausea rolls through my stomach.
“Thanks, Savannah, but you’d better let go. I still don’t feel so good.” She quickly releases my shoulder, stands up, and backs out of the bathroom.
“Okay, um, I can’t watch you do that again. I might throw up myself. Meet ya downstairs.” I wave her away, and she closes the door, leaving me to agonize alone. I can’t believe I was so stupid and gullible. What on earth made me think a gorgeous, worldly man like King would be interested in me? He did text me right away, though, right? Yeah, right. He just wanted to make sure he wasn’t responsible for a drunk girl getting into an accident that he was just seen making out with in his club.
When I’m positive I’m not going to throw up again, I drag myself off the floor, flush the toilet, strip down, and turn on the water. I rest my forehead on the glass shower door and wait for the water to warm up before stepping in. It feels so good that I moan and drop my head back to let the water run through my hair.
Maybe Savannah and I should skip practice and just swim all day. I need to work on forgetting about last night. I really need to focus on having good, clean, King-free fun for the rest of the summer. And practicing my ass off—always practicing my ass off.
Chapter 4
King
I stretch my arms above my head and instantly feel a kink in my back. That’s what I get for passing out on the couch, though. Wait. I don’t think that’s how I ended up here. My pillow is under my head and my legs are tangled up in my comforter. I would never drag all that out here if I were drunk.
I open my eyes and it all comes rushing back. Transparent grey eyes, brown skin as soft as silk, long, black hair tangled in my fingers, and the scent of an angel, or how I imagine an angel would smell. Holland. Sweet, sweet Holland. That woman has somehow ingrained herself into my soul. What I feel for her isn’t the typical physical lust I usually have for a woman. Holland seems to have woven herself into a place in my heart that I didn’t know existed. She just opened the door, lit up the dark, forgotten area, and made herself comfortable. How the hell does that happen in an hour? I mean, literally an hour with her, and I can think of nothing else.
I feel around for my phone to check my texts. When the screen glows bright, I see there are eight new messages, and none of them are from her. I don’t know why I expected to hear from her already. Get a grip, King. The first message is from my floor manager last night, checking in with me before closing. Another is from Crystal. Shit . . . Crystal. That’s a mistake I wish I’d never made, a one-night stand that has been holding on for over a year now, waiting for something more. I haven’t helped the situation much by taking her to formal events and having casual sex
with her. She’s great eye candy, but there is no chemistry there—not for me, anyway. Crystal has made it ‘crystal clear’ that she would love nothing better than to marry me, settle down in the suburbs, and have a slew of babies. She knows what I do and what I am, and for some insane reason, she still believes I could give her that life. Delusional. She’s totally delusional. I’ve told her that we are going nowhere, but she refuses to believe it, and until now, I haven’t had a reason to quit leading her on. The moment I pressed up against Holland on that dance floor was the moment any desire for any other women ceased. I can’t even entertain the thought of anyone else.
I need to see her again . . . soon. This is ridiculous. I’m acting like a teenager after his first date. Just call her, you fool. It’s ten o’clock. Would she be up by now? I don’t know the first thing about her, let alone her sleeping habits. This is so stupid. Just call her, King. Quit acting like an idiot.
Sitting in the middle of my couch with my legs drawn up and my elbows resting on my knees, I run my fingers through my hair and listen to the phone ring—once, twice, three times—until I’m forced to either hang up or leave a message. “Hi, you’ve reached Holland Bennett. Please leave a message after the tone.” Beep. I’m usually a very smooth operator, never at a loss for words, a natural sweet talker. But Holland renders me speechless with her musical voice, asking me to do the simplest thing . . . leave a message. After a few seconds, I finally get a grip and ask her to call me soon.
Is she still sleeping? Is she ignoring my call, screening it? Insecurity. Wow, this is new, and it fucking sucks. I’ve never worried about contacting a woman. In fact, I’ve never called someone the next day—or ever again, for that matter. Usually, I run into my conquests in the club or at a party, but I don’t consider Holland a conquest. She’s more of a blessing or a gift.
I launch myself off the couch, thinking about my meeting this morning. I’m going to be late if I don’t get my ass in gear. Something pink on the floor next to the couch catches my eye. No way, she didn’t. When I reach down to pick up Holland’s pink lace panties, my heart pounds in my chest like a prepubescent boy seeing a nudie calendar for the first time. My fucking morning wood is bordering on pain, and I need to relieve myself, but I choose torture instead, burying my nose in the pink scrap of material that is rich with her scent.