by Sunniva Dee
Arriane is gone. Lyric went with them. And Ingela. Ingela.
Without this inkling of a rush, I’d be dead inside right now.
I arrived early to hang out with Robin. Since Inga had the day off, I didn’t expect her to be here, but she came for Arriane. The last thing she did before she left was come up to me. Slink her arms around my waist and lean her chin on my shoulder. “Cam…”
“What.” I couldn’t look at her knowing she’d be out the door in a minute to hook up with another man.
“Arriane and I are going to a concert in Talco,” she said.
“I know, Ingela.”
“You do?” She seemed surprised. Concerned and surprised. “Cameron, I’m sorry,” she whispered against me. “I’m sorry about this week, since I learned about Petie’s death. I’m so confused.”
“No worries.” I’d sniffed and stared over her head to the bar. Tara was there, checking us out and meeting my gaze. “You’re making a fucking shitty decision, Inga, but I can’t butt in every time. That you didn’t even tell me until now says it all.”
“Cameron, please understand. Things are rough. I’m just missing everything. Everyone at home. I’ll be back tomorrow, okay? Talk more then?”
“Have fun.” The tone of my voice sounded bitter even to me.
Me. Bitter.
So fucking crazy.
Once she left, I headed straight to the bar and Tara.
Beth just came in the door, bright-eyed and pouty-lipped. It’s looking up for me tonight. Her eyes go to the counter, find me, and I stride out on the floor and grab her hand. She’s tiny so I bend down and speak into her ear over the music.
“Hey, you. I was hoping you’d come.”
“You were?” She arcs a thin brow and tilts her head coquettishly.
“Yeah, was thinking we could have some fun after work.” Beth’s hand goes to her chest at my words. “You know Tara?” I ask, pumping my chin in my coworker’s direction.
Beth’s eyes flash with disappointment but settle as she nods. “I do.”
I let my hand slide up her back and in under the long hair covering her neck. Then, I steer her to the counter and wave Tara over.
My plans for the girls kept me busy all night. I hardly thought of Ingela, because I’d be doubling her crimes.
Finally, I’d be having a threesome. About time. I’d been jonesing for it since I was fifteen. Yeah, if there were ever a perfect moment, this was it.
Now we’re here in Beth’s apartment, the three of us. My dick’s so ready it’s peeking over my lining. Tara’s kissing me, rubbing her chubby little body against me like a cat in heat.
No. Not like a fucking cat. She’s not like Ingela at all. She does it like a slut. Nothing wrong with that—I’m living the dream, and I’m not letting anything ruin it.
I widen her cleavage and pop both tits out over the top. It’s sinful and nice the way they tremble over the fabric.
“Take your skirt off,” I say, and she immediately obeys. She’s bobbing breasts and pink thighs. When she makes to remove her shirt too, I shake my head. I’m not here for skin. I’m here for pussy and for the view.
Beth moans as she rubs against my thigh on the other side. Her hand traces the outline of my cock while she asks for permission to open my fly.
“Go crazy,” I tell her.
I get the weirdest sensation. It’s nine p.m. and we’re late for the show, because Lyric didn’t want to stay with Grandma. The bad sort of adrenaline runs high in my chest when I think of Bo waiting, but then—
I think of Cameron.
I stare at Arria who’s next to me in line. She meets my gaze, frowning. “Are you having second thoughts? God, I hope.”
“Cameron… I just thought of Cameron,” I say and watch her roll her eyes. Why does she always do that when it comes to him?
“You did, did you? Shocker.”
“No, I think he’s up to something I won’t like.” The gut feeling hits me full force as I formulate the thought, and I start fumbling with my phone. A bouncer holds out thick fingers to take Arriane’s bills. I’m paying her back in drinks.
Arriane is my friend for a reason. It is rare that she abuses my weak moments the way I do with just about anyone. Now, her violet gaze goes soft with compassion. She touches my cheek and says, “Inga, he can’t be up to anything bad, okay? No base jumping, no threesomes, no nothing. He’s at work, remember?”
I smile. She’s right—what could he possibly do there? I care for him. So much. Even though I’m unsure of the extent of my feelings, this sunny, gorgeous, wild man needs to be safe. And he needs, needs to—
Not have threesomes. Ha.
Cam, I hope work’s not crazy, I text.
Club 50 is small and grimy. The walls are a matte black and the floor sticky. Behind us, narrow stairs lead to a balcony with a few tables, but apart from that, the downstairs area is dedicated to standing room between a bar counter and the stage.
Clown Irruption was supposed to get on at nine. I guess they’re on what they call “island time,” though, because we’re fifteen past and the band’s just starting. Emil, the singer, emerges as we enter the room, saluting the crowd with a hand high in the air.
Bo’s latest text told me where to stand. Far right and to the front so he’d find me easily. I pull Arriane with me to the bar, because drinks first. At the sight of inky bangs under red spotlights, I stare. I stop worrying about Cam.
For once I won’t allow life to take over and be complicated. Tonight I’m good old me, the way I used to be: I’ll have easy, wicked, awesome fun. There are no boy issues, and on stage is just some sexy piece of musician whose eyes dole out frost burns. I’m good, so good with that.
“You see him?” I scream to Arriane, grinning.
Her expression is stern, but she nods when I point. “On guitar?”
“Yup. My sweetheart.”
She shakes her head slowly, remembering everything I’ve told her about him, I’m sure. Bo and I are not together, but he’s still my sweetheart. In my heart, he’s the sweet one. I’m sweet on him.
I pass Arria her wine, and we weave through the crowd to the stage. Bo’s got his fuck-me face on already. Until I told him back when, he had no idea he makes it whenever he’s deep into his noodling on the strings.
Noodling.
I smile. He hates the expression. Although he agrees it’s better than when Elias, the bass player, says he’s jacking off. In both cases, it refers to his solos lasting too long.
The crowd isn’t huge, which makes sense for an unknown band from Sweden. They’ve got no following in the US as far as I’m aware, so like Smother, the club must have their loyal regulars. Channeling Gothenburg, the ladies are in the front already. Emil, the singer, is handsome, but Bo’s the beautiful one. Bo has charisma and a far-reaching stage presence that sucks you in. He’s the one everyone’s eyes stick to.
Unconsciously, he lifts his chin enough to reveal irises that shine beneath soft chunks of hair. No matter where he is, the girls notice him. My bet is most of them don’t even like hard rock. After Bo, though, they become staunch followers of Clown Irruption.
They’re on Facebook, on Twitter, and at every concert close enough to attend. It’s pretty funny. Or stressful if you’re the girlfriend. Yeah, once it snowballed? I didn’t handle it well.
The audience claps as the first song fades off.
You.
Bo’s eyes lift to me as if I say the word out loud. I haven’t waved. Haven’t showed myself to him. Two steps forward and he’s bending over the ledge of the stage.
I wanted to grip on to freedom, to the lack of inhibitions that accompanies innocence and never having been hurt. But his guitar starts a song of pain and heartache that’s about us, about our first breakup, a tune I want to block out because I don’t want to feel our past.
Still, I step forward, into our memories as his face lowers to me. Eyes deeper than fjords say all he doesn’t with his mouth. They speak
of love. Of conflict. They speak of what he can’t summon for me.
I swallow. My chest, which bubbled with freedom a moment ago, submits to gravity, and I squeeze my eyes shut while Emil sings Bo’s lyrics. Emil is a spectator to our story. He doesn’t understand. And still he paints our ache so perfectly.
My hands press into the wooden plank as Bo sinks to his knees. I shake my head, begging him, “Stop, please don’t.” I’ve told him before—this song’s not one they should play. He shuts his eyes. Doesn’t listen. He strums on and on, playing my agony as perfectly as he does his own.
When the music dies, I’m on my toes, stretching toward him. I’m higher, taller, needing, wanting. Bo bends to me, craving me back. His mouth is under my hair, meeting my neck with a kiss, finding my ear with my name.
He lets go of the guitar and forms his hands around my head. For an instant, we stay close, breathing, lost, until Emil shouts into the microphone.
“And that would be Ingela, everyone, Bo’s muse for the sad-as-shit song you just heard. Now, get your ass back in the game, Bo.”
Bo stands sluggishly. His eyes remain on me, hair unruly over his forehead and obscuring naked feelings he never shows. With Bo it’s always this way—the music leaves him raw and real. It reveals the depths of a person I’ve loved for so long I can’t remember anything else.
Our love has stung for years, and I’m stupid to keep seeking it. In lucky moments, survival instinct kicks in. It does now, and as the next song begins, I swing so I don’t have to watch. I’ll support him again in a minute, but I need a timeout to pull myself together.
I’m thankful for the bass and the drums vibrating through my bones. They disturb my shattered dam of adrenaline. Arriane meets my stare. Manicured fingers cover her lips, and her eyes brim with tears.
What? I mouth.
It dawns on me that she must be getting it. She heard the song, listened to the lyrics. For the first time she’s seen Bo and me together. Yes, perhaps she understands our deal.
So sorry, she enunciates back. I didn’t know.
I’m living my wildest fantasies. I make Tara’s head bob over my cock. She takes it deep. She’s good. Gags but doesn’t pull away. She’s a fucking porn star waiting to be filmed.
“Down,” I command, and Tara listens. Mouth like pussy lips and ready to entertain. “Beth, lick her,” I continue. Beth hesitates only for a second, and I’m thrilled and disgusted that she does it against her desire.
Neither girl is here for each other. They’re here for me. I’m not sure if it’s a girly crush they have or if they’re after the experience. That rumored big cock—is it as good as they say?
I smirk and stare down at them. Watch them squirm and show off for me. Their lust is not real, but I don’t fucking care. All I care about is forgetting how Ingela’s absent from her apartment and the clock nears three a.m. In deep red lace, she’s probably mounting a guy I want to destroy.
I wring my briefs off and grab a condom from the coffee table. I insisted on the living room instead of Beth’s bedroom—anything to make it different, so fucking different to Ingela and me.
The chicks both gasp when they see my hard-on. For an instant, I feel great again, the rush of what I’ll do next overpowering me. The high of impressing the hell out of them.
“That’s a monster,” one of them breathes.
“Too much for you little girls?” I ask. “Your pussies not ready for this?”
“Oh, I’m ready,” Tara purrs, spreading her thighs and jiggling her tits.
I position them how I want them, face to face, one at the bottom and the other stacked on top. Butt in the air and ready for me to slam deep. Their bodies are similar, but I think that’s Beth on top. She squeals, murmuring shit I don’t focus on, because—
I’m not sure how I feel about this.
She’s tight around me, taking me. Moving her ass toward me in rhythm. It’s ridiculous. I laugh quietly, remembering bright eyes that go soft with concern over my broken ribs.
Tonight, I’m deep in whiskey-and-pain-med heaven. The chicks started in on their laments over my beat-up body. Fake and insignificant, they overdid each other until I told them to shut the hell up.
Across my inner screen, memories of a taut waist and tiny breasts stream by. Those breasts, they were made for my hands.
Shit’s complicated. It’s out of control.
I pull out and grab the girl at the bottom. Draw her up to stand and ram into her from behind. She cries out, acting overwhelmed. In the full-length wall mirror, I see fake call-girl pleasure, small rolls of fat over a sunken belly button.
Which is fine. It’s not Inga.
If this were she, though, I’d see real pleasure, real lust. A svelte body with a flat stomach. A small belly button that pops out a little bit.
Tara’s skin is white. This girl has never seen the sun… which is also fine. She’s not Inga.
I speed up, wanting this to be over. I touch her, inviting her to come too. She gets the point and promptly launches into some faux squeaks that convince no one. There are no contractions around my dick. No trembling legs. All she does is arc her back elegantly, showing off big boobs and soft nipples in the mirror.
I’m tired. I have Tara kiss Beth as I take her missionary-style on the floor. I can’t satisfy this woman either. They’re oh-so-impressed with my boner, ooh-ing and aahhing between themselves like they’re looking at jewelry. I don’t get why if they’re not into the sex.
I accelerate. Rock hard and fast until I’m there. Beth is excited that she’s the one I come in and not Tara. I’m excited they’re not in my house. That I don’t have to kick them out in a minute.
As I discard the used rubber, I eye my phone. It’s fallen out of my jacket. Face up on the floor, it blinks with a message from Inga.
Cam, I hope work’s not crazy.
Her text leaves me too rattled to go home. Who the fuck wants to be alone with my thoughts?
So I fall asleep between them on Beth’s bed. Two sets of naked thighs braiding with mine, a soft arm over my chest and another over my dick. When I wake up, it’s morning.
The first thing I think of is my hangover.
And where Inga wakes up.
Arriane didn’t agree. She tried and failed to take me with her back to her mom’s. The guys are staying at a crappy little motel, but Bo and I don’t care.
The night so far feels never-ending. Really, their set was only an hour long, but they added a few more songs after the round of applause and even sold some merchandise to new fans.
But now we’re here, alone in Bo and Emil’s room. If all goes according to Emil’s plans, he won’t need the queen bed next to Bo’s. By the time we left, he had his eyes on a smirking redhead. She looked too clever for him, though, so we might see him back in the room sooner than he expects.
“Is this where we get our shit together and stop hurting each other?” Bo murmurs next to me.
Sitting here, on the edge of the mattress with the heat from his skin against my side, I understand what he means. I don’t answer, though, so he cups my cheek and says, “We shouldn’t. You should have gone home with your friend.”
“I know.” Not once has that been my answer, not even the time we collided right after an explosive breakup.
He pulls away in the semidarkness to study my eyes. “What’s going on, Inga? You’re different.”
Bo, he’s full of flaws. He’s weak and hooked on consoling me. But there’s hope in his next question tonight. Despite what he does to me, he wants to see me happy: “Are you better?”
“I am,” I say. I’m less confused now that I’m alone with him. I love him so much. There will never be a place in time where I don’t love Bo. But the adrenaline sifts slower through my muscles and doesn’t make me tremble.
He kisses my temple tenderly, the way a father would a child. A burst of warm air accompanies the kiss and makes me close my eyes. “Maybe you should go back to your friend. Do you want me to ca
ll a taxi?”
“No,” I say. My chest is lighter than at Club 50. I am me, and I feel strong. I’m where I need to be tonight. Looking at Bo, I start to believe in a time beyond unstoppable obsession.
Instead of answering, my love since forever lays me down on the sheets. He seeks my mouth without a word and strokes my stomach free of fabric. “I’ve missed you,” he whispers, compliant with my decision to stay.
I shut my eyes around my newfound control. Accept that he is what he insinuated on the phone months ago: my first—just my beautifully flawed first. Not my last. If I don’t stare at him, it works.
Yes, not seeing white muscle working over me, sliding down and finding all of me, makes this possible. My mental pictures are still there, recalling the quiet way he moves under the nightlight glow, but it’s not out of control.
It’s just Bo and me. But when my hips are off the mattress, naked and waiting, someone else’s smile fills my mind. My nipples are taut for the man above me, but my brain isn’t a hundred percent here.
“Condom?” Bo says, considerate, never forgetting to ask.
I open my eyes, look up at him, and answer—
“Yes.”
He stills. Waits for me to explain. I don’t, because we don’t speak about other men or women. Bo lowers his forehead to mine. “Inga. We don’t have to go through with this.”
“I think… I need it.”
“If you’re happy, if you’re with someone…”
Bo can never think badly of me.
“I’m not. I wouldn’t do this to him if we were dating.”
He doesn’t ask me again. He takes my words and enters my body slowly with protection. We both hiss in a breath and wait, taking in the sensation for a moment.
“Does he know about us?”
“What we keep doing?” I puff a laugh. “Yeah, he watched me run to Los Angeles for you.”
As my limbs go rigid, my sex swelling with pleasure, Bo takes in my ecstasy. “If we don’t end this, Inga, you’ll never find someone besides me.”