Five Parties With My Worst Enemy

by Sharpe, Elle

  “I sing it to myself sometimes in my head when certain people are being particularly infuriating. It’s got a great grinding guitar. Makes you think of smashing skulls.”

  “Quite a taste in music you’ve got there. Country pop and 90s punk rock?”

  “I’m eclectic.”

  “Does your taste include anything good?”

  Yup, he really enjoyed testing me. I plastered a sunny, obnoxious smile on my face.

  “Good is overrated.”

  From behind us came the loud, disgusting sound of someone vomiting. This was the first sign that the party was moving towards the “everything goes to shit” stage.

  “Yeah,” Ronan said, “what he said.”

  “Oh God,” I moaned. “The carpets.”

  Jen and I had a deal: she organized parties, I cleaned up after the parties. I sighed as I imagined scrubbing cleaning products into the gross brown carpet fibers. I’d have to work fast if I wanted us to get our deposit back. Jen and I were due to move out in less than a week.

  The vomiter decided to help me out by unloading the contents of their stomach once again. Great, double the barf. This was one of the many reasons why I did not like parties.

  Ronan wore a sour expression on his face. These were clearly the sorts of undergraduate party shenanigans he had also been hoping to avoid.

  Then his eyes narrowed, and his face went tense.

  “Oh, shit,” he muttered.

  As people scattered to get away from the awful smell, we were able to see who the vomiter was. Chris.

  Ronan’s hands clenched up at his sides and his brows knit together into a straight, hard line. He pushed forward through the few people left in the living room who had chosen to stand and stare.

  “Get out of the way, idiots,” he barked. “This isn’t a show. Move!”

  He reached Chris. Jen was patting Chris’s back, pulling his mid-length surfer-dude-esque hair out of his face. Ronan got straight to work, grabbing Chris and hoisting him to his feet.

  “Get him some water,” he said to Jen as he steered Chris towards the bathroom.

  Jen didn’t seem to mind his harsh tone of command. She dashed to the kitchen and filled a glass like a woman on a mission. She looked more worried than I would have thought necessary. People did sometimes throw up at parties, after all.

  After looking at her for another moment, I realized that she also looked...practiced. Like she might have done this before. I felt like I was missing something.

  After laying a dishcloth over the vomit patch and promising myself I would deal with it as soon as possible, I followed Jen and Ronan into the bathroom. Ronan was holding on to Chris’s shoulders as he leaned over the toilet. Jen turned Chris’s face towards her and tipped the water glass up to his lips.

  “How much did he have?” Ronan demanded with a voice like a police interrogator.

  Jen looked wide-eyed and afraid—not a look I was used to seeing on her.

  “Honestly I didn’t see him drink anything. And I watched him close. I really did.”

  Ronan sighed a long, resigned sigh.

  “He’s getting sneakier. Sorry, I should have kept a better eye on him.”

  My mind was reeling. Was Ronan saying he was sorry for something? Was he being...helpful? Yeah, it looked like he was. At least in a dominant, bossy sort of way.

  “Sorry Ro,” Chris mumbled into the toilet. Ronan just patted his back in response.

  I snuck in next to Jen and whispered in her ear, “Does this happen a lot?”

  I realized that Jen and Chris had probably been to a lot of parties without me. She’d kept asking me to come out with her, and I’d kept turning her down in favor of Netflix binges.

  She turned to me and gave me a sad nod. The full meaning behind her distressed expression struck me all at once. Jen was really, genuinely worried about Chris. Because she liked him. Maybe...even...loved him?

  It was a difficult thing to wrap my head around. Jen was such a competent person, and in my opinion Chris was kind of a fuck-up. How on earth did they go together?

  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it made a strange sort of sense. They were both party people. People people. They were both fun.

  My opinion of Chris shifted in just those few seconds. If Chris was someone that Jen cared about, then I cared about him too. It was automatic.

  “Can I do anything to help?” I asked.

  “Can I go to bed now?” Chris moaned, pitifully. “I’m so tired. I think all my insides are on the outside now.”

  Okay, I might care about him now, but I could still think he was an idiot.

  “Go, prop up some pillows on Jennifer’s bed,” Ronan instructed. “We’ll take him in there so he can sit up.”

  He issued his order without looking at me. I was a little annoyed at his tone, but I figured Chris’s health took priority over my prickly ego. So I went into Jen’s room and arranged the cushions in a way that would allow Chris to sit upright.

  Jen and Ronan followed shortly after. They guided Chris from the bathroom into Jen’s room, maneuvering him around several boneheaded party guests who couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of getting out of the way. Ronan actually had to swat one guy on the back of the head. After they got him inside they slammed the door shut to keep the idiots at bay.

  “Don’t let him lie back,” Ronan told Jen, once they got him onto the bed. “Keep him upright. Turn him on his side if he throws up again.”

  Jen nodded gravely.

  “‘You go get a bucket,” he told me. I was beginning to regret offering my services. Did Ronan think I was his to command for the rest of the night?

  I laughed inwardly at the shadow of innuendo contained in that thought. Then I shuddered involuntarily. Probably in revulsion. Probably.

  Outside the party had resumed in full force. The karaoke moment seemed to be over, but someone had figured out how to turn Jen’s dance mix back on, and people were dancing happily around the vomit pile in the middle of the floor. Charming.

  I leaned over a making-out couple in the kitchen to grab a pot from a hook above the sink. They glared at me in annoyance.

  “Go about your business folks,” I said. “Just trying to tend to the sick over here.”

  I remembered Jen had some Gatorade in the cupboard, so I grabbed a bottle of that too.

  “Here,” I handed it to Jen when I got back to the room. “Electrolytes.”

  Chris already looked like he was ready to fall into unconsciousness, but Jen managed to get him to swallow a few gulps.

  “Is he okay?” I asked.

  “He should be fine,” Ronan said. “As long as you keep hydrating him. Probably shouldn’t let him fall asleep until he’s had more to drink.”

  “I didn’t realize hoteliers were trained as doctors,” I commented. He glanced back at me in irritation.

  “Unfortunately just very practiced at this sort of thing.”

  “I can stay with him,” Jen said, propping Chris’s head up as it started rolling to one side. “You guys should go back out and enjoy the party!’

  She was still making some effort to sound like an enthusiastic hostess. But she just sounded worried and tired.

  “Yeah, right.” Ronan stood up and strode purposefully out to the living room.

  “Okay everyone,” he shouted, his voice booming over the sound of the music. “Party’s over! Everybody out!”

  They all knew he wasn’t the host of the party, and shouldn’t really have any say about whether it was over or not. But his tone of authority was hard to ignore. He only had to yell it a few more times and the music suddenly came to a halt.

  People started wandering back out into the night. Ronan folded his arms and watched them, until the last person finally left. I probably should have been annoyed at him for being so presumptuous, but instead I was just relieved.

  After everyone was gone I flopped down on the couch and let out a massive sigh.

  “How often do
es this happen to him?” I asked Ronan. He was standing in the center of the room scrolling through his phone. Probably checking business emails about very important business things.

  “Too often,” he said, without looking up. “I keep telling him to quit but he just won’t listen to me.”

  “Ah, so you can’t always get everyone to do exactly what you want.”

  He had given a presentation in one of my classes that had implied that he—and anyone who learned to work deals at his impressive level—could basically wrap anyone they wanted around their little finger. I had found it very over-the-top. I may or may not have laughed out loud once or twice.

  His eyes snapped up from his phone and fixed me with a hard glare.

  “No,” he agreed. “Just most of the time.”

  A few moments passed, and he added, somewhat defensively, “I’ve gotten him to dial it back a lot.”

  “If that’s him ‘dialing it back’ I’d say you have a long way to go.”

  “I was supposed to be keeping a better eye on him. But I got distracted.”

  He shot me a meaningful look.

  I dropped my jaw, affronted.

  “What, by me? You can’t blame me for this. How could you let yourself get distracted by someone so inconsequential and silly? You should really know better.”

  He frowned.

  “I probably should. But you did make such a spectacle of yourself.”

  I glowered at his frown. I could feel my face turning red.

  “Hey, maybe you’d be a better friend if you weren’t constantly busy being mean to people.”

  He put his phone into his pocket, and really looked hard at me. Studying me closely. His gaze bore through me, like he was trying to pry some secret out of me using only eye contact. I felt myself grow even redder, though it didn’t feel like it was for exactly the same reason as before.

  “You know,” he said slowly. “I’m not some kind of a bully.”

  I let out a guffaw.

  “Good one. You’re hilarious.”

  He walked over to the couch, in a way that somehow reminded me of a shark closing in for the kill. He was still studying me. Examining. Analyzing. Like he was cooking up some kind of wicked scheme.

  “You really don’t like me, do you?” he asked.

  He didn’t sound sad about it. Or happy. It was just a statement of fact.

  “Uh, duh. Man, I thought you were supposed to be some kind of a super-genius at reading people. Turns out you’re pretty slow.”

  He slid down next to me on the couch. Why did he keep looking at me like that? It was starting to freak me out. Stop looking straight in my eyes like that, dude!

  “I could make you like me,” he said. His voice was low and smooth.

  What the fuck is happening. What the fuck is happening. What the fuck-

  “I’m sorry, what? You could make me?”

  “I mean, I could convince you not to hate me.”

  “Ah, right, with those superhuman powers of persuasion you have. You want to win me over as one of your power plays, with what, an amazing pitch deck? Top five reasons why I should invest in this moonshot new startup called ‘Ronan Baylor isn’t actually an asshole.’”

  He smiled, like he was biting down on a laugh.

  “Actually I have more interesting methods of persuasion than that.”

  His hand was on the couch, very close to my hand. He was looking down at my hand. I felt like I could read his mind all of a sudden, and my stomach dropped through several floors inside my body and landed between my legs. I drew my hand away fast.

  “Wow. You are one arrogant bastard aren’t you?”

  He peered into my face, still studying, with a hint of a sparkle in his eye.

  “Can’t argue.”

  “Are you actually trying to seduce me right now? Just to prove a point? Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  He blinked.

  “No.”

  “No? You’re not dating that fashion designer?”

  “Oh, Mara,” he waved his hand. “We broke up two weeks ago.”

  “Wow, that was fast.”

  Fast, but not surprising. Ronan had a bit of a reputation for going through girlfriends quickly. Rich, stunning, accomplished girlfriends. The types of girls who were miles above my level, and he still discarded each of them in a matter of months.

  “Anyway,” I said over a scratchy feeling in my throat, “you don’t even like me.”

  “Relax. I’ve barely done anything. I’m just sitting next to you, Norah.” He paused, and when he spoke again there was an extra softness and slowness in his voice. “And who says I don’t like you?”

  Oh, he really did have a very nice voice. And eyes. Eyes that were looking at me all innocently, but also dangerously at the same time. Eyes that could slow time down and make you forget where you were.

  “You have never once been nice to me,” I reminded him.

  He leaned in closer to me. Only an inch or so, but I suddenly felt like he was the only thing in the room.

  “Do you want me to be nice to you?”

  The way he asked it made me think that he thought of “being nice” as something very specific. Very specific and very...physical. That may have been because of the way my body reacted to those words—warming and tightening in embarrassing ways.

  “No,” I managed to say.

  He cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “Do you want me to be mean to you?”

  “No!” I said quickly. I was alarmed that this second question actually made my body react even more.

  He sighed. Or maybe it was something more like a groan. Like I was being impossibly frustrating. Somehow that was the worst of all.

  “Then what do you want, Norah? What do you want me to do?”

  I want you to make that sound again, said my deranged brain. I want you to make that sound again, but more. I want to drive you crazy. Crazier and crazier until you lose your mind. What is the most annoying, most crazy-making thing that I could do to you right now?

  I leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

  My intention was to surprise him, and from the sound he made I knew I had succeeded. It was not an in-control sound. I felt a burst of triumph in my chest, like a tiny explosion of light.

  I kissed him slowly. Thoroughly. Deliberately. I wanted him to remember this kiss for a long time afterwards. I wanted it to haunt his dreams.

  For a moment he just sat there, like he was too stunned to move. He let my lips play with his mouth—such a soft, mean mouth—but he kept his own lips still. His hands sat limply at his sides. I kissed him once, and twice, and again, taking my time with him. He shuddered and breathed out heavy. Finally his lips opened, and he started kissing me back.

  His mouth slid over mine, matching my pace and pressure. Against my will this was becoming a coordinated effort. He worked back against me with languid, luxurious motions. I responded in kind, savoring each sensitive brush of our lips against each other.

  I wasn’t fighting anymore. I was sinking deep into a warm, wet bath of feeling. I could feel my whole body turning soft and pliable like hot dough. Sweet, gooey and melting.

  He reached a hand up to the back of my head, gripping at my hair. The tiny tug sent a sharp spike of sensation right between my legs, jolting me painfully awake.

  I pulled back. I didn’t even need to try to look haughty. Angry. Mean. All of those feelings seemed completely compatible with the sizzling energy that was invading my body. I fixed him with my hardest, hottest stare.

  “I want you to do nothing,” I said. And I got up from the couch and started walking away to my room.

  He followed me. Which, I think I should point out, was the opposite of doing nothing. I turned around to say something smug and triumphant to him, but before I could he pressed his mouth into mine and pushed me back against my door frame.

  This kiss was rough and demanding, like he was trying to draw all the air out of my lungs. He gripped my waist so h
ard that I felt weightless, pinned against the wood. The force of his mouth kneading into mine made my head dip back. My mouth went slack, and opened under his. Humiliating moaning sounds may or may not have come out of it.

  When he pulled his head back his hands stayed firmly planted on my body. It felt like they were burning through the clothes.

  “Doing nothing isn’t an option for me, Norah.” He practically growled the words into my ear.

  I wanted to give some snarky reply. But my chest didn’t have any more air in it, and therefore speaking was impossible.

  Did my eyes look fearsome and accusing like I hoped, or did I look like a scared little woodland creature in the headlights of an SUV? I was pretty sure it was the second thing.

  He looked like he wanted to smash my body into pieces.

  “I’m going to pick you up,” he informed me. “And I’m going to put you onto the bed.”

  I should have scoffed. Thrown my head back and laughed.

  Instead I said, “The bed is that way,” and pointed to the bed, which was very much in full view. It took up most of the space in my small room.

  “Yeah, I noticed it.”

  “So, you’re going to put me onto it?”

  “That’s what I said, yes.”

  “But you don’t seem to be doing that, yet, so I thought I might just double check, just to, you know, confirm...the plan…”

  He laughed at me. And smiled a real smile. Not a mean, “You’re such an idiot,” smile, but a sunny, gorgeous, “You are such an idiot,” smile.

  Gah. No. What? What was this? Abort. Abort!

  The next thing I knew I was on the bed. He was on top of me. All over me. His arms caged me in at either side. He smelled like some kind of manly perfume. The kind that was probably expensive. Cologne. Cologne was what they called that stuff. Jesus, my brain was broken.

  His mouth was on my neck. Nibbling on it, like it was a dish he found very tasty. Then he was tugging down the zipper of my zip-up sweatshirt.

  Why did I wear this ugly sweatshirt to a party? I asked myself. What on earth was I thinking? I remembered that the old, stretched-out t-shirt I was wearing underneath was even uglier.

  “Don’t judge me,” I muttered. “I sometimes dress better than this.”

  His laughs vibrated against my chest.