by ANDREA SMITH
“Are you a nag already?” I ask. “Don’t you think it’s best to wait until after he’s boinked you?”
“Boinked? Boinked? Where in the hell do you get these words?” she says, sounding exasperated.
“Around,” I say, trying to sound playful. “So, I take it Marcus isn’t sure of his costume. What about the rest of them over there?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says absently. “I don’t really care. What matters is that Marcus gets his ass in gear. This is their fraternity hosting it. Doesn’t look good if they’re not prepared.”
“Well that’s what I was thinking, which is why I asked,” I lie.
“Kevin isn’t going like I expected. And maybe not Weston either. That’s gonna put a lot more work on the rest of them.”
“Oh?” I ask, “Why is Weston bailing?”
“Well, when he wasn’t at the hockey game this past weekend, I asked Marcus. I mean he’s injured and all, but that doesn’t excuse him from sitting on the bench plus, you know, Weston? What else could possibly have kept him from being there?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, silently wishing she’d get to the crux of the matter. “Tell me.”
“He has some kind of family emergency. He’s in New York City with them. He told Marcus he would fill him in later, but he hasn’t. Marcus has tried to reach him, but his phone is off, so that’s all we know.”
“Well that doesn’t tell me a thing,” I remark, shaking my head.
“Since when do you give a shit about Weston Matthews?” she asks, eyeing me suspiciously. “Seems to me you kinda like him.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I reply, waving her off, “I swear, you make such a big deal over nothing, Eva. I was just trying to make conversation.” I huff out of the living room and head into my bedroom, but not before I hear her reply.
“Apparently so,” she says with a soft smirk.
Whatever.
Chapter 19
Beep-Beep-Beep
Weston Matthews was at his sister’s bedside. It had been four days and though Carson was stabilized, her treating physician wasn’t inclined to take her out of the medically induced coma for another day. They still knew nothing about how her injuries had occurred.
No one had seen anything.
No one was saying anything.
But then, that wasn’t all that unusual for New York City. And Carson wasn’t flanked by a lot of friends – male or female. She was a loner, but a social loner if that made any sense at all. He sat inches from her, watching the machines at work, helping her to heal physically.
But what about emotionally? How could a doctor even gauge the battering her emotions had taken through all of this – or leading up to this? He kicked himself over and over again for not listening better to the stories she had shared with him. He had taken them with a grain of salt because well…it was Carson. His baby sister and resident drama queen, that was why.
He didn’t picture her being involved in dark sex. Or maybe he couldn’t picture her playing those sexual games. Dom and Submissive. What the fuck?
So how did Carson get into that shit if, in fact, she had? Maybe it wasn’t a fad. Maybe it was a way of life that, for whatever reason, his younger sister embraced.
His parents had gone to the cafeteria to get something to eat. His mother was exhausted, and Weston observed how much his father had taken charge once he arrived. Easton was his mother’s rock, there was no doubt about that, and his mere presence had unleashed a soothing effect on her. That had been obvious.
Weston stood and walked over to Carson’s bedside. He picked her hand up and, very gently, placed it in his. He needed to feel her warmth, to know that she was with him, and he needed for her to listen up. The nurses had said talking to her was thought to be therapeutic.
“Hey Carson,” he began, speaking softly, gently massaging her fingers. Her polished nails had been broken off, many down to the quick. She had fought back with whomever had done this to her. “You’re going to be fine, you know that right? Mom, Dad, and I are here with you to make damn sure of that, okay? Tomorrow, you’re going to wake up, and then little by little, you’re going to get stronger and you’re going to tell us who did this to you. Don’t worry about a thing.”
I watched her face to see if her expression indicated that she was hearing my words. It was impossible to tell.
“But I can’t help but feel this is my fault. I’m your big brother. I should’ve listened more closely to the things that you’ve been telling me over the past year. The truth is, I thought you were making it up, you know? For shock value or some shit like that. I didn’t want to believe that you were really into all that sadistic shit you described to me. Remember? I told you it was too much information and I didn’t want to hear it. Maybe if I had bothered to hear you out, I might’ve been able to somehow influence you to leave this shit alone. Maybe you wouldn’t be laying her right now with all these tubes going into you. Maybe I could have saved you from yourself.”
Weston’s voice was cracking with emotion. He was fighting to hold back tears of guilt. Hell, he wasn’t even sure that her current condition was connected to her sexual encounters. Some club she had told him about that several of her fellow students at Juilliard had introduced her to last year. This could be something totally unrelated to that. It didn’t matter though, he wasn’t about to let himself off the hook.
“Anyway, Sis, when you wake up you and I are gonna have a long talk about that shit, you hear me? You’ve been playing Russian Roulette with your life, and I need to know that you’re going to stop that. So, you focus on getting better for now. And then I will make sure that you’re safe from here on out. I love you, baby girl.”
Weston leaned down and brushed his lips across his sister’s hand, making sure not to disturb the IV needle taped to her wrist. He wiped a tear from his cheek and then heard his father clearing his throat behind him.
He turned to see his parents standing in the doorway. He hadn’t heard the swinging door open, but by the expressions on their faces, he knew they’d been there long enough to draw their conclusions.
His mother rushed over to Carson’s bed, looking up at Weston, tears brimming in her eyes. “Oh Weston,” she breathed, “What…?”
“Weston,” his father’s voice interrupted, “can we step outside to get some fresh air?”
Weston nodded, turning from his mother and following his father out into the hall. “What is it?”
“Not here,” his father snapped quietly. “Outside. We need to talk.”
Once outside in the crisp October air, the sun was shining, and leaves swirled around the asphalt pavement of the parking lot.
“Over here,” his father directed, moving towards an area by the trees where several picnic tables and benches were arranged for staff and visitors he supposed.
“What was that about inside?” Easton asked, and Weston could see the twitch in his cheek. A sure sign the old man was royally ticked.
“That was me. Talking to my sister in private, I thought.”
“Weston, are you telling me that your sister was involved in some…sadistic sex torture club? And knowing this, you never said a word about it to your mother or me?”
Weston knew how this was going to play out. Once again, he had failed to do what his father felt was his responsibility to do. Hell, maybe he had but he sure as hell didn’t need to be grilled about it right now.
“Dad – I’m not sure of anything. She mentioned shit like that a few times over the past---year, maybe? But you know Carson. She’s got a flair for the dramatic. I wasn’t sure it was really true or just something she enjoyed putting out there for shock value.”
“That’s no excuse, son. You’ve been around long enough to know this sort of thing is prevalent in college. And to be aware of the dangers of participating in sadomasochism. You had a responsibility, no, an obligation to clue your mother and I into this, no matter what you thought about it!”
Weston’
s blood was starting to boil. Too many arguments like this over the years. Always feeling as if he’d failed his family in some way. Didn’t his father know that he loved Carson, too?
“No! Weston yelled, his steely gaze meeting that of his father. “You’re not going to put this on me, Dad! I love Carson. Don’t you ever say that I don’t! I’ve spent way more time with her than you have over the past nineteen years. So you don’t fucking get to second guess me!”
His father was unruffled. No one talked to Easton Matthews like that, but Weston had just done so for the first time and felt release. That feeling was to be short-lived.
His father ran a hand through his thick, salt and pepper hair. He was doing his best to remain composed.
“Go on back to school, Weston. Your mother and I have this. One of us will contact you if you’re needed.”
“No! Fuck that! I’m not leaving until I know my sister is going to be okay. Deal with it.”
Weston turned to leave, but his father’s arm shot out and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him around to face his angry gunmetal eyes that were flashing darker now with anger. “Don’t you use your sister’s injuries as an excuse not to finish this semester. You’ve fucked off enough the past three years. I’m not paying your tuition past this year. You will not be a professional student because you can’t manage to pull your life together and plan for your future.”
Weston pulled his shoulder out of his father’s grasp. Now his grey eyes matched his father’s. “I’ve got no issue planning my future, Dad. I just won’t be forced into a future that you’ve designed for me. I don’t want to follow the path you’ve taken. I want to blaze a fucking path of my own!”
“Then do it!” his father bellowed, catching Weston off guard with his fury. “Just once, I want to see you give a damn about something in your life. If you don’t want to be in the business, that’s fine with me, but do something! For Chrissake, be a plumber if you want! Or teach yoga, or join the circus and be a god damned clown for all I care! Just find a path and stop fucking around. Take life seriously because if you don’t, life won’t take you seriously, Weston. Now, I’ve got to get back inside to see to your mother. Stay or go, that’s up to you. What’s done can’t be undone by you spewing your guilt all over the place.”
“I’m staying through tomorrow, Dad. I want to be here when Carson wakes up.”
Chapter 20
D-day was upon us. And by D-day, I mean an overzealous attempt at playing dress up for rich and horny twenty-somethings.
Except for me, of course.
I am the socio-economic outcast who is going for two very different reasons. First and foremost, I need to make sure some frat/jock boy isn’t playing double-dip the stick behind my best friend's back. I may not have many friends, but I know the BFF handbook from cover to cover. Rule number twelve: Do not accuse your friend's boyfriend of cheating unless the proof is irrefutable.
My second reason?
Research, of course.
It’s one thing to have private tutoring sessions with one of my subjects, but an entirely different ball game to observe the entire pool of subjects in their natural environment. The costume party will provide me with not only anonymity, but also a wide-range view of uninhibited behavioral data.
In short, I will be able to scope out the entire student body from their sober entry to their drunken departure. Surely, within those hours of transformation the male need for establishing his superiority will come into play. The feminist in me is rubbing her hands, and cackling like the witch I am portraying for the party.
Oh. Did I not mention my choice of disguise?
An honest to God, green-faced, black funky wigged and wart-adorned, fake-nosed witch. The costume gives the “Wicked Witch of the West” from the Wizard of Oz a run for her money!
My favorite part of the costume? The stuffed black cat perched on my right shoulder.
Meow, motherfuckers.
"Please tell me you are NOT dressing in that outfit to go to the party."
It is wrong!
As a woman, I can accept the fact that Eva dresses as the epitome of the male wet-dream for a public event. I mean, shit, to each their own behind closed doors, right?
But this?
No.
"What's wrong with my costume?" she asks, her eyes pools of innocence.
Is she serious? I would have dug my fists into my hips to portray my annoyance at her obviously ridiculous question but the damn wooden broom prop is getting in my way.
Instead, I glare at her from behind as she reapplies her deep rose lipstick before smacking her lips together and sending herself a kiss at the mirror.
"You're a cliché, Eva. Simone de Beauvoir just rolled a few hundred times around in her grave, crying out at the giant step back in the feminist cause."
Seriously? Can’t she see that?
Apparently not because her reaction to my outrage is full-blown laughter with a side of snort. "It's a costume party, Pey. Come on! Even you can appreciate the beauty of sex-on-heels," she says as she shakes her ass so that her bunny tail can taunt me from afar.
I want to rip it off of her. The worst part is that she gives Playboy Bunnies across the globe a run for their money. The entire costume is sexy, yet has a hint of cuteness that fits her perfectly.
I am offended.
And jealous.
But mostly, I just want to get this shindig over and done with.
Yeah, I used the old-timer word again. Let's all just try to get past my forties vocabulary, shall we?
"Besides, talk about a cliché! You're dressed as a witch, Peyton. And not the sexy kind either. There's a fucking mole on your rubber nose! Are you trying not to get laid? Wait, don't answer that. Douchey-Stewie, blah, blah, blah…"
It’s my turn to burst out laughing.
Mine eyes hath seen the glory of the orgasmic light. Stuart is no longer my concern. Time to fill her in.
"I broke things off with Stuart. He's out like yesterday's trash."
Oh my god! I sound like a fucking airhead. All I need is to add another "like" to my phrase, and all the sororities across campus will be begging me to join their cults.
"What? Why am I just hearing this now? BFF code of conduct, Pey. Page one, rule three, clearly states that all important information must be relayed immediately upon happening."
Damn it. I knew that, but had forgotten the whole thing as soon as I pressed the "send" button.
"I'm sorry, okay? It slipped my mind in all the excitement of getting dressed up."
Okay, so I’m laying it on thick. Sue me.
When Eva turns around to face me, I take in her outfit. And I mean really take in her costume. How can this woman not know how gorgeous she is? Her dark hair is pulled up in two side buns that she has tucked inside her long-ass bunny ears, exposing the slender length of her bare neck.
Her make-up is extravagant with fake lashes and a bunny nose with whiskers. She has painted her cheeks in a deep rose color to match the shade of her lips, but the icing on the cake? The cat-like contacts she has put in. The look heightens her mix of docile versus vixen appeal. As hot as she looks, I obviously am not a lesbian because my hormones are not begging me to undress her.
Sorry to disappoint you, Stuart. I like dick…just not yours.
"Okay, let's go before I change my mind and curl up with a good Charlotte Brontë book instead of going to a party that may very well eat up a quarter of my brain cells."
Eva snorts as she slips on her pink fuck-me heels and a long white wool coat that will be a necessity considering she is practically naked underneath. That being said, my black, clingy dress is scantly better, although it does cover my thighs.
"Onward we go, Wicked Witch of Hardwick."
As we head to the Crowne Plaza, a tingling sensation travels down my spine. I have a feeling tonight will be quite memorable.
Two hours.
That's how long I’ve been at the bar looking around, watching the room full of
college-aged, supposedly adult, horndogs vying for the attentions of the female gender.
It is all here in vivid Technicolor® and 3D action. Some think they are being subtle, their gazes hiding behind masks travelling up and down the barely there costumes. Others clearly have no qualms about eye fucking the passersby.
One is even pretending to be mute. It’s a bit creepy. His costume is even more disturbing considering that he’s dressed as a sad clown.
I mean, who does that? What dignified college jock or rich frat boy would volunteer to be a creepy clown? Maybe some Emmett Kelly wannabe?
The silent clown.
I’ve read everything about his clown career. He was epic in his day, and his followers still live on, trying to capture the unique dignity of that silent, but sad clown. Okay, seriously, am I really nerd-reflecting when what I really want is something so un-nerd-like?
Maybe I really am an old soul? So old that I can’t comprehend this charade. All in the hopes of getting laid? What ever happened to charm and respect? Oh wait. It was a myth invented by Disney to pull the wool over our delicate feminine eyes.
If you ask me, college is the disappointing eye-opening years of our naive lives. I turn my attention away from the sad clown who is now being scoped out by three women. They should be dressed as Catwoman for all the rubbing they are doing with their pelvises.
I catch the attention of the bartender. We met a couple of hours ago, when I ordered my first drink. I am now finishing my third ‘Adios Mother Fucker.’ Yep, we’re well acquainted. I hiccup when he asks me if I’m ready for another.
Classy. But sure, why the hell not?
My vision is slightly blurred from the alcohol I’ve consumed like a school kid addicted to Kool-Aid, but I refuse to let that get me down. I give the bartender my best sexy smile, as he places my fresh drink down in front of me. Actually, I think it may have been more of a leer, although he smiles back and even chuckles. I frown, thinking my sexy smile should not have made him chuckle, but then I realize my mistake...I’m wearing a rubber nose with a fucking wart on it!