Connor puts an arm across the top of the stretched seat, wearing a cape, a cloth mask over his eyes, and a plastic sword. Zorro. “Most people disapprove of the limo, but those people aren’t the ones I’m trying to impress. Do you see how many people this can hold? Plus, I’m facing you. I don’t even have to strain my neck to talk. Those things are valuable to me.”
“I can get along with that.” Lo sets his mischievous eyes on me. “What about you, love?” I thought the teasing would stop after we solidified our relationship. This kind of taunting, I like way too much, and he knows it. He snakes his hand on my knee, running it up my leg, too casually to be taken as something overtly sexual. For me, he may as well have dropped on his knees a second time.
I mouth, stop.
He mouths, why? And he breaks into a gorgeous smile. Lo looks to Connor, but he tightens his fingers on my thigh. “You want to hear a story?” Where is this going?
Connor raises his glass. “I’m all ears.”
Lo’s eyes flicker to me, too briefly to make sense of his intentions. “Fizzle has company tours all the time, you know, the ones where they show the history of the soda and then let you try all the imported flavors.”
“Sure, I toured the factory with my ninth grade class.”
“It’s not real, that place. It’s not really where they make the drinks.”
Connor nods. “I suspected.”
“Well, Lily and I were twelve and her father left us in the museum area.”
The memory floats to the surface. I smile and add, “He thought we’d be occupied by tasting all of the sodas.”
Lo looks to Connor. “But Lily had a better idea. She said the real factory was a street over.”
Connor’s brows shoot up. “You went to the actual factory by yourselves? How’d you get in?”
Lo cocks his head at me. “Want to take this, love?” His hand sinks down my inner-thigh.
My breath hitches, not able to form actual words.
“No?” He grins and adds to Connor, “She told them her last name and said her father wanted her to take a mini-tour. When we went in, we darted off in another direction.” He ran so fast. He always does. I struggled to keep up, and he’d slow or run loops around me. As the security started gaining on us, he lifted me on his back. I held tightly to his neck, and he sped towards a giant, spinning vat of dark liquid. We hid out for a little while, and when the footsteps died in the distance, he concocted a masterful plan.
“Did you get in trouble?”
Lo shakes his head. “No, her dad has a heart of gold. He was actually flattered that we wanted to see the factory. If he’d known what I did, maybe he wouldn’t have been too kind. I found some alcohol around the place.” Correction: He took out his flask. “And I dumped it into the syrup.”
“Shut up,” Connor says. “You spiked the soda recipe?”
“They probably couldn’t taste it. There wasn’t really that much compared to the amount of syrup, but I take pride in the fact that a handful of people got a little something extra because of us that day.” He turns to me, and I think, maybe, he may kiss me. He has that look in his eye, the one that trails the fullness of my lips, the one that could tip me over the seat and give himself over to me. And then his phone beeps, breaking the connection.
I sigh, a little deflated. It’s not mere coincidence that the phone all of a sudden rings. My parents and sisters have been trying to wish him a happy birthday since this morning, but Lo would rather listen to the incessant beeping than confront them—or have a prolonged conversation with Rose.
“Just answer them,” I urge.
Lo glances at the screen, and I peek over his shoulder, seeing a photo of his father.
His face sharpens. Unlike my family, he never rejects his father’s calls. Sometimes I think it’s more than fearing the wrath of Jonathan Hale. I know, somewhere deep down, he loves his father. He just doesn’t know what type of love it is or even how to process it. Lo puts the phone to his ear. “Hey.”
In the quiet of the limo, I hear Jonathan’s rough voice through the speaker. “Happy Birthday. Did you receive my gift? Anderson said he left it in the lobby with the staff.”
“Yeah. I meant to call you.” Lo glances warily at me and takes his hand off my leg. “I remember you drinking it when I was younger. It’s great.” His father gave him a bottle of fifty-year-old scotch, Decanter or Dalmore or something. Lo tried to explain the value of it to me, but it whizzed right over my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about how perfect and wrong the present is and if his father knew it too.
“The next time you come over, we can break it open,” he tells him. “I have a couple cigars here too.”
“Sounds good.” Lo shifts his shoulder, closing me off.
“How has the day been for you so far?”
“Okay. I aced an econ exam.”
One of Connor’s eyebrows arch, disbelieving.
“That so?” His father also sounds unconvinced. I must have been the only one who had any faith in Lo’s grades.
“I can’t really talk now,” Lo tells him. “I’m with Lily. We’re headed to a Halloween party.”
“Okay. Be safe…” He pauses, as though he has something else to say. After a long moment, he adds, “Have a great twenty-first, son.”
“Thanks.”
His father hangs up, and Lo acts casual as he pockets the cell. He tightens his arm around my shoulder, bringing me closer. But his muscles stay taut, a subtle difference that also punctures the amusement in his voice. “Maybe you should just tell your sisters that I said thanks. Send out a mass text or something.”
“Why can’t you do that on your own phone?”
“Because they’ll reply back and then I’ll have to reply to that, which sounds exhausting.”
“He has a point,” Conner tells me.
Uh, shouldn’t he be siding with me? He’s my tutor. “Don’t tell me you find small talk draining. That’s your thing.”
Connor cups his champagne glass. “It sounds exhausting for him. I’d enjoy a talk with your sisters.”
“By the way,” I say. “How was your conversation with Rose? You’re still in one piece, so I presume it went well.”
Lo chokes on a sip of whatever’s in his flask, and I pat his back. “Excuse me,” Lo says. “You talked with Rose? Like had a fully formed conversation?”
Connor nods. “I even invited her tonight.”
Lo groans. “You did not invite the ice queen here.”
“Hey,” I shoot back. “That’s my sister. She has a good heart.” I pause. “You just have to be liked by her first.”
“Or be related to her,” Lo points out. True.
“So she’s coming?” I wonder, kind of nervous. I’d rather not explain Lo’s intoxication to her, especially since he’s supposed to be reformed from his boozing, careless days. It’s his birthday, and she’ll add that to his list of negative attributes and reasons why he’s not good for me.
Connor says, “She’s not coming.” Is that disappointment in his voice? “She said she’d rather skin my cat.” He smiles. Like actually smiles at that. Oh my God, were they flirting with each other over the phone?
Lo relaxes and mutters, “Thank God.”
Connor nods to me. “By the way, what are you supposed to be?”
Am I going to get asked that all night? I guess I should prepare. I flash my plastic claws. “X-23.”
He squints, confused.
“The girl version of Wolverine, technically his female clone.”
“Oh. Okay, cool. You kind of look like a hooker with knives though.” What?! That is not helping my confidence. “Lo, you need to prepare yourself for this party. So many guys are going to hit on her.”
Just when I thought I snuffed out my insecurities.
Lo gives me an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder. The thought of guys everywhere used to be exciting—a playground for my compulsions—but now, I couldn’t be more scared. Maybe a party is a bad i
dea.
To Connor, Lo says, “Good, it’ll give her practice saying no.” Oh, that was mean. I push him off, untangling his arms from mine. He focuses on tipping bourbon into the tiny opening of his flask, not caring anyway. He would have before he talked to his dad. He might have teased me back and whispered something dirty in my ear. Now, his mind has switched tracks.
“I can say no,” I defend with an unconvincing mutter. I haven’t tested this theory since we’ve started dating.
Lo caps his flask and looks to Connor. “If you see her flirting with someone, just yank her off him.”
“Lo,” I warn with wild eyes. What the hell is Connor going to think? That I really am a whore with claws?! My entire body heats and I struggle not to bury my face into my hands.
“You two are so weird,” Connor says, very casually.
Being called weird by Connor is like a unicorn calling a horse magical. It makes no damn sense, which is why Lo and I break into smiles, even if Lo’s mood has somewhat shifted since the phone call.
Abruptly, the car jerks to a stop. Gilligan mumbles out a “we’re here” and unlocks the doors. I press my nose to the window, ritzy suburbs right in view. A glowing mansion sits at the top of a steep hill, lighting up the dark sky. Out of all the parties, Connor said he picked the one that would have the best food. In the same sentence, he mentioned that I looked like I needed a good meal.
More cars roll up to the circular drive, and we climb out to confront the hoopla. A fountain crests the center, red, bloody water spurting from the stone. Zombies are staked in the green lawn, so life-like that I thought the gory limbs and droopy mouths were facilitated by paid models. Upon closer inspection, they’re nothing but silicon, prosthetics and paint.
We follow Connor up the stone stoops, and he bangs a bronze knocker. While we wait for an answer, more people gather behind us.
The door whips open quickly, loud music booming from inside. George Washington or possibly Mozart stands in the archway, holding a champagne glass. A white pill fizzles at the bottom of the gold liquid.
“Connor Cobalt!” He grins and sways on his feet, the white wig slightly off-kilter.
“Hey.” They go in for the bro-hug. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”
“Thomas fucking Jefferson.”
“Of course,” Connor says with a sarcastic smile. Thomas Jefferson doesn’t pick it up, and before hanging around Connor, I wonder if I would have noticed it. Connor motions to Lo and me, and I grip onto Lo’s hips, hiding my exposed midriff behind half his body. “These are my friends. Lily and Lo.”
Thomas Jefferson narrows his eyes at Lo and I duck further behind his back. “What are you?” he wonders. “Mr. Spandex?”
“Clever,” Lo says with a glare.
“They’re X-Men,” Connor clarifies.
With this, Lo grabs my wrist and pulls me into view. He plants a hand firmly on my waist, as if this guy will know the New Mutant couple.
Thomas Jefferson stares at my long claws. “Right!” He claps his hands in recognition. “Wolverine Girl.”
“There’s no such thing,” I correct him. He gives me a funny look, and Connor sighs, slight impatience cracking his leveled exterior.
“Can we only be invited inside if you understand our costumes?” Connor asks. He cranes his neck to look past the host’s shoulder. “Because I think I spot a Sweeny Todd in there, and I know for a fact you’ve never heard of him.”
“Huh. Connor Cobalt. Always got to be right.” He swings the door and mockingly motions us inside. His staff must have evacuated for this college party, not wanting to be swept up in a hurricane of puke and candy corn.
Unfazed by the insult, Connor steps into the massive grand foyer where crystal chandeliers twinkle from the ceiling. Partygoers go up and down the marble staircase and further into glowing rooms, cobwebs strewn across door frames. People stumble around and sway to hypnotic music.
I step through the doorway, and then Thomas Jefferson blocks off the entrance before anyone else can cross.
“I don’t know you,” he says to the people behind us. “Or you.” The door slams. He traipses back in and passes Connor. “Freeloaders,” I hear him say, as though Connor will nod in agreement. He doesn’t do anything but pluck a steaming pumpkin mug off a goblin’s tray. Now those hairy things are models, waddling about with warty faces.
Unlike the highlighter party, Solo cups are replaced with champagne glasses and pumpkin mugs. Little baggies of pills and powder are clandestinely passed from palm to palm. I grew up with these blowouts—rich teenagers needing drugs to satiate the endless expanse of time. As if they reanimated straight from the pages of Bret Easton Ellis’ Less than Zero.
Drugs have never been my problem, and maybe I should feel a sense of gratitude that my compulsion is less dangerous than shooting liquid fire into my veins. Sex is a part of everyone’s life, addicted or not.
Drugs aren’t.
Alcohol isn’t.
You can spend years without both, but most people never become lifelong celibates. Every time I catch a girl tucking a baggy into her bra, eyes glazed and gone, I feel a pang of jealousy. Why can’t I have an addiction that people understand? It’s a vile thought—to wish for an addiction many die with. I’d rather have none at all, but for some reason, I never allow myself that option.
Before I made sense of my compulsions, I would spend hours lying in bed, emotionally drained from my ping-ponging thoughts. One minute, I vehemently defended my actions inside my mind. It was my body. Sex made me feel better and stopping would cause more problems than continuing down the destructive path. The next minute, I cried for hours and convinced myself to quit. I told myself I didn’t have a problem. I was just a whore looking for a way to justify my constant sexual thoughts. Sometimes I tried to stop. I trashed my porn and refused my body the luxury of climaxing.
But I couldn’t stomach the withdrawals, and those fruitless goals quickly ended. I always found a reason to start again. Maybe that’s my biggest fear—that I’ll find one excuse to move on from Lo. And I’ll be compelled to take it.
Lo dashes off in front of me, and I run to keep up and hide behind his back. A gaggle of hippies in flowery mini-dresses bombards Connor. He nods and smiles perfunctorily, and it sets off a wave of giggles.
He’ll have to fend for himself. I trail Lo into the kitchen where bodies compact near the silver stove. They flick on the gas and light cigarettes from the flames. The sliding glass door sits ajar, smoke wafting out into the chilly night. A couple girls in bikinis shriek and laugh loudly as they race into the house, goose-pimpled and wet.
Lo jiggles the knobs to a glass cabinet. Crystal bottles line about seven shelves, filled with amber liquid. Every lavish party starts the same. Lo beelines for the most expensive alcohol in the house and impulsively craves the taste of the different brands.
“It’s locked,” I tell him. “Can you stick to your own bourbon tonight?” His flask stays in the waist of his belt that matches his red and black suit.
“Hold on.” He departs for a second, vanishing around the corner and I pretend to be interested in a still life painting on the wall. Better to look fascinated by apples and pears than like a lonely loser.
Lo returns moments later with a safety pin.
“Lo,” I warn as he starts to wiggle it into the keyhole. “We just got here. I don’t want to get kicked out.”
“You’re distracting me,” he says.
Visions of high school parties swim to me. Lo creeping down the cellar of a kid’s house—a kid who invited everyone in his grade. Those parties happened far too often. Lo would drink the vintage wines and imported scotches, the angered host dragging him out by the shirt. Lo stumbling to stay upright. Me, exiting the bathroom with flushed cheeks, only to hurry after my only friend.
I don’t like repeating mistakes, but sometimes, I think we’re both forever stuck on a turntable.
Even with the smokers’ chatter by the stove, I hear the c
lick of the lock. The glass doors swing open, and Lo’s eyes light up. Watching him delicately touch the bottles with hungry anticipation reminds me of my desires.
Which is why I blurt out, “You want to do it in the bathroom?” My voice remains small and timid, not yet a confident, sexy girl that I’m sure fills Lo’s dreams. It’s hard to be her when Lo isn’t a conquest I sleep with and then ditch.
“Huh?” Distracted, he gathers the best liquors in his arms and sets them on the granite counter beside me.
“After you drink, do you want to go to the bathroom to…” I trail off, fearing the fatal blow of rejection.
He pops the crystal plunger on a bottle and tips the liquid in a glass. “I thought I rocked your world,” he says. “Unless I imagined you saying it. You were making all kinds of noises, so it was hard to tell.”
My elbows blush as I remember the scandalous acts before we left. “You heard incorrectly. I don’t think it was possible to form actual words.”
He smiles and then takes a languid sip from his liquor.
“But,” I continue, “we’ve only done it at the apartment or on the yacht.”
He looks back to the depths of his drink. “Is that something you have to have?” he asks. “I didn’t think location was a big fucking deal.” He grimaces at his biting tone and then throws the rest of the liquor back in his throat. He refills the glass quickly.
I open my mouth but end up looking like a fish trying to breathe air. Where we have sex shouldn’t matter, but there’s an allure to doing it somewhere deviant. Always has been. “Okay.” The one word does not properly answer his question or his rudeness.
He clenches his jaw, fingers tightening on the glass. “I’m stuck in this suit anyway. Unless you want to cut a hole for my—”
“No.” I hold up my hands. “You’re right.”
“And in case you’ve forgotten, Laura,” he emphasizes X-23’s real name. “It’s my fucking birthday.” He raises his glass. “Which means this trumps that.” He eyes my nether region.
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