When Tami finally arrived, I didn’t want to leave. But not because I was hoping to get lucky with Fiona. I already had. I had found someone who got me. In this big, wide, lonely world, I had found my soul mate.
And now, as I look at this beautiful, bronze-cheeked being in a dress and heels that could inspire most men’s dirtiest fantasies, I’m wondering what happened to that cute girl that would steal my sweatshirts and talk to me for hours about the lack of real courtship in modern books. The girl who would read with tears streaming down her face and make playlists for her favorite novels. The girl who fell so deeply in love with fairytales that she began to live her life on those pages.
Heartbreak after heartbreak with guys that could never measure up to her favorite literary heroes, and she had found the one person to make her live outside the pages. Yet, that person was not the hero of her story. He was the villain. She just didn’t see it yet.
A server comes over with a heaping plate of Poutine and Fiona’s wine, breaking me from my reverie. I slide the plate over to her before taking any for myself.
“No, thanks.”
“Why not? You love these things.”
“I had a salad a little bit ago. I’m ok. And honestly, you probably shouldn’t eat that stuff either. It’s horrible on your digestive tract.”
I grab a few fresh, crispy fries smothered in gravy and cheese curds and haughtily stuff them in my mouth. “You were saying?” I mumble around the scorching hot potatoes.
Fiona rolls her eyes and takes a sip of wine. “Your colon, not mine.”
“Oh! Speaking of… how in the hell did you fail to mention Josh’s specialty? Anal Rejuvenation? Holy shit, Fi, how could you leave something like that out?”
She heaves a sigh and looks down at her watch. “Because I know you. I would have never heard the end of it, and you would have teased me until I broke up with him and/or you put it in a book. It’s really not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal? The man plays with asses all day. Fi, at dinner, he described the butthole as a beautiful flower. No bullshit. A flower in shit.”
“Can we not do this right now? I really don’t need the visual, tonight of all nights.”
That’s when I notice that her wine is gone, and she’s signaled for another.
“Something’s wrong.”
“No, nothing’s wrong,” she shakes her head. “Tonight is just…special.”
“Special as in meet-the-parents or special as in wine-dine-and-69?”
“Special as in the 3 month anniversary of the first time we…did it.”
I lift a brow. “Is that a thing? That people actually celebrate?”
“Apparently so. Joshua is getting a room at the Grand.”
“Oh,” I bristle. “Swanky. So what are you two gonna do? Reenact the first time? Ooooh, did he make a sex mixtape? Does he want you freshly shaven or would he like to scalp you once you get there?”
“Can you be serious for one second, please?”
“I am being serious,” I insist. “Come on, tell me what you have planned tonight.”
“I don’t know.”
“So it’s a surprise?”
“Yes. No.” She heaves out a heavy sigh, releasing her anxiety into a fresh glass of Pinot. “I don’t know. He’s so…experienced. And don’t get me wrong; I’ve had my fair share of lovers. But being with Joshua kinda intimidates me.”
That gets my attention. “Intimidates you? You think it’s intentional?” I know some twisted fuckers—hell, it’s kinda my job to know what’s going down in the world of kink. If Joshua is into some BDSM shit, I can’t say I’d be cool with it. In fact, I’d be downright pissed and I wouldn’t hesitate to tell him so.
“I don’t think he does. It’s just… in person, he’s this great, charismatic guy. He’s gentle and sweet with me, and treats me like a princess. He even likes to dress me. But in bed… I feel like he takes on this persona. Like he’s a stranger, and I’m nothing more than some slut on the street. And he keeps…encouraging me to try things that I wouldn’t normally do.”
“He’s not forcing you to do anything, is he?” I ask, my voice dark and gravely with the threat of violence.
“No, no. Nothing like that. He’s just so eager to get me to open up. And I’m trying, I swear. I just feel like I’m doing it wrong.” She downs her wine in three big gulps then checks the time again, sighing. “I better go. Joshua likes it when I’m punctual.”
“Fuck Joshua.” There. I finally said it. And it felt fucking fantastic. “We still need to talk about this. You shouldn’t be made to feel inferior in anyway, especially in bed.”
“August, can we please not do this now?” she rage-whispers, her gaze darting everywhere but on me. “I should have never said anything. It’s nothing but my own insecurity.”
“Insecurity that he’s projecting on you. Seriously, Fi, fuck him. No decent guy should make a woman feel like no more than a blow up doll provided to fulfill all his dirty fantasies.”
“Well, isn’t that how you make all your dates feel? Like they’re only good for one thing, and one thing only in your little bubble of detachment?”
She says it without blinking…without feeling…as if she’s merely stating a fact, not trying to cut me to the bone. Yet, as I bleed out in a pool of my own denial, I know she’s absolutely right.
I am that guy. That guy that keeps every woman at a distance, unless I’m inside of her. Or unless that woman is Fiona.
“Look, I gotta go. My Uber will be here any second. Let’s just forget this whole conversation and talk tomorrow,” she relents, slapping a twenty on the table and sliding out of the booth. And I’m going to let her. I’m going to let her walk out of here with my blood on her hands. And I’m going to pretend like what she said didn’t matter…didn’t sting. And a few days, weeks, months from now when the distance has grown so vast between us that I can’t even remember the sound of her laughter, I’ll tell myself that we just grew apart, like all people do.
I’m going to let Fiona chase her HEA. Even if that means I have to play the villain.
The fries go virtually uneaten and I order another drink, then another. I kill time by scrolling through my messages, searching for something. Something to ease the burn of Fi’s words.
Within twenty minutes, I have company.
Within an hour, we’re at her place.
I may be cold. I may be detached. But at least I’m honest.
No, I’m not even that.
IT’S HALF PAST EIGHT, AND under normal circumstances, I would be naked by now. But with any new “friend” you have to keep up with certain expectations until you learn each other’s rhythm. And since I was raised to have some modicum of decency, I try to go along with the usual pretenses that come with any new “friendship.”
Would you like to come up for coffee? How about a nightcap? A little Netflix and Chill?
Of course, there’s usually never any coffee or Netflix, but somehow I find myself sipping French Roast and chatting about everything under the sun while episodes of The Office play in the background. And all I can think about is how I left things with Fiona. Or should I say, how she left things with me.
“Okay, dude. Spill it,” April says, finally exasperated with my less-than-stellar conversational offerings.
“Huh?”
“You’ve been preoccupied all evening. Wanna talk about it? I promise you, I’m not trying to pry. Just putting the offer out there.”
I look at her lovely face¸ and force myself to remember how it contorted in overwhelming bliss when I slid inside her. So full of expression. She wasn’t loud, but she didn’t have to be. It was written all over her face. And now that same face is painted with concern and a little bit of skepticism.
“I’m ok,” I say, sipping my brew. “Just a spat with a friend.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”
“Can I ask you something?” I don’t know where the question comes from, and I don’t wait for a respo
nse before I’m unloading all my crap onto her black Ikea coffee table. “If your best friend that you had known for years started dating someone that was all wrong for them in every way, even though they looked like the epitome of perfection and made your friend happy, would you interfere? Would you do everything in your power to break them up? Or would you step back and let things play out on their own, even at the risk of your friend getting hurt?”
April blinks, startled by my candor. She didn’t expect me to actually tell her what was bothering me any more than I expected to spew my inner unrest.
I put down my mug, and prepare to make a mad dash for the door before I blow any more truth chunks. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“No, no. It’s fine. I’m glad you did. And you’re right to be concerned about your friend’s happiness. That just proves that you care, even if it makes you unpopular.”
“So you would tell the friend that they’re making a huge mistake, right?”
She shrugs a shoulder, causing one side of her black tunic to slide down her arm. “Maybe not in those words, but I would definitely express my reservations. Your friend may not want to hear it, but you’d never be able to rest knowing that you could potentially stop them from making a huge mistake.”
“That’s how I feel. Like…my friend is going too fast and changing the person that they are for this…this shiny new toy that may look enticing on the outside, but is just rotten to the core.”
April nods thoughtfully, listening to me go in circles about my Fiona crisis. After digesting my muddled diatribe, she looks up from her cold cup of coffee and asks me the million-dollar question that’s undoubtedly been souring her tongue for the last several minutes.
“And this friend… are you in love with her?”
I knew it was coming, yet it stuns me just the same, instantly sobering me. “Me? In love with…”
“It’s just the way that you talk about your…. friend… I know it’s a woman. And you’re so passionate and caring, and I can see the way you react just talking about—”
“I’m not in love with Fiona. That’s preposterous. We’re just friends. Always have been, always will be.”
“Oh, is that right?”
“Absolutely. She’s not someone I would go for. She’s not even my type.” That confession seems to ease her mind a bit, and I take it a step further, remembering tonight’s task at hand. “April, Fiona and I are strictly platonic. If I were in love with her, why would I be wasting my time here with you? If I wanted to be with her, wouldn’t I be sitting on her couch, drinking her coffee, wondering if her lips are as sweet as the last time I tasted them? Hoping she would let me help her out of her clothes so I could trace her tan lines with my tongue? And longing to feel her long, silky legs tighten around my waist and her fingers running up and down my back?”
April can’t even respond, and I don’t need her to. Her hungry expression is saying it all.
I’m a man of my word, and I do everything I promised to Fiona—I mean, April. April. Shit.
I’m doing everything I described to April and more. And by more, I mean, I am trying to overcompensate for the fact that I can’t seem to stop thinking about Fiona, with the hope that submerging myself in sex will cleanse the impure thoughts I’m having about my best friend. But even as I part April’s thighs and taste her, all I can think about is the way Fiona calls her pussy her love biscuit. And when I suck April’s pert, pink nipples, I’m reminded of the way Fiona looked in that black dress last night. Even when I sink every inch of myself inside her, I can’t feel April. I can only imagine Fi looking up at me with devastating ecstasy in her eyes.
My cell sounds from my rumpled jeans on the floor, and I nearly jump out of April like her vag is on fire. I’m so frazzled and distracted that I don’t even check who it is.
“Hello?”
There’s sniffling on the other line before a meek voice plummets me back into my biggest fear. “Rhys?”
“Fi. Are you ok?”
She tries to say yes, but her voice cracks, breaking into a sob. “Something horrible,” and “It’s over,” are all I can make out.
“Fi, what’s wrong? Tell me what happened,” I bark out, not meaning to scare her, but growing more and more worried with every second that ticks by without me with her, knowing for certain she’s safe. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she croaks, allowing me to find a tiny speck of comfort. It’s still not enough.
“Fi, I need to know you’re ok. Where are you?”
“Home.” Her voice is just a hoarse whisper.
“Stay put. I’m on my way.”
Only when I’ve hung up do I spare a glance in April’s direction. Her expression is about as limp as my cock.
“I’m sorry, I have to…”
“Yes, go. Whatever you need,” she nods, sitting up and covering herself with a blanket.
I grab my clothes and make a turn for the bathroom, when a foreign emotion strikes me just before I hit the doorjamb. I turn to her, feeling the need to say…something. To explain. To apologize. To just say something.
“It’s not what…” I don’t know if it’s what I mean to say, but it’s all I can manage. I’m a mess. “I didn’t mean…”
“Go to her. She needs you right now.” Her words are full of understanding and compassion, but the look on her face is all hurt and disappointment. Both of which I’ve caused. I just don’t have it in me to make it right.
I wash up in the bathroom as quickly as possible before racing into the night in search of clarity. Luckily, Fiona’s apartment isn’t far and cops are more heavily scattered around the bar district, so I’m able to make it there within minutes. I don’t even remember the ride or the sting of the crisp air whipping my face. All I can imagine, as I take the stairs up to her apartment two at a time, is her tear-streaked cheeks, and all I can feel is the uncertainty that has constantly pummeled me in my gut all evening.
With my fist raised to strike, I pause at her door, forcing my brain to still enough to gain an ounce of perspective. What does this mean? If things are truly over between her and Joshua, do we just go back to how things were before? I mean, that would make sense, right? It’s not like she is thinking of me the way I’m thinking of her. And all those insane thoughts of her, existing in spaces where someone else already exists, could all be just a fluke. They could very likely dissipate the moment I see her.
I expected tears, red cheeks and smeared mascara. What I don’t expect to find is Fiona in an oversized sleep tee and knee high socks, holding a half empty bottle of wine.
“Oh, Rhys. Thank God you’re here,” she cries, pulling me into her apartment as if she’s frightened of the world outside her window.
“What’s going on, Fi?” I grasp her shoulders, searching her for any signs of harm. Her eyes are puffy and red, and her smudged makeup and wet hair are a mess. But other than that, she seems fine. Which leads me to believe that whatever trauma she suffered tonight has left its scars internally.
She twists from my grip and buries her face in her palm. “It was awful, Rhys. Mortifying! My life is officially over.” She lifts her head only to take a swig of Pinot straight from the tap.
“Stop being melodramatic and tell me what happened,” I demand as gently as I can possibly muster whilst wrestling the bottle from her clutches. Fi is a lightweight. In college, she used to think Malibu and pineapple was a stiff drink.
“I can’t! I can’t even say it!” More tears. A good amount of snot.
“Fi, there’s nothing you can’t tell me. You know that. Come on, have a seat and catch your breath.”
I lead her to the sofa and cover her with her favorite quilt. She’s had it since she was a kid and refuses to let it go, no matter how many patches she’s had to mend. A few feet to the left and I’m in her tiny kitchen, which is no more than three feet of counter space, a refrigerator, a sink and a range. The rest of the wine goes into a glass for her and a few fingers of Macallan for
me from my stash. And a box of tissues for the situation under her nose.
“Start from the beginning. I promise you it’s not as bad as you think,” I say handing her the glass.
“It’s worse. It is absolutely the worst thing that could ever happen to me…to Joshua. Oh my God, Rhys! You should have seen his face! He will never speak to me again. And if this gets out, my reputation is ruined.” She looks around at her tiny shoebox apartment with alarm in her eyes. “I’ll have to move! Where will I go? How will I find a job on such short notice?”
“Calm down, Fi.” I swap out her Barefoot Bubbly and replace it with my glass. She downs it like it’s iced tea and not 25-year-old scotch.
“I ruined everything, Rhys,” she croaks through the sear in her throat. “It’s over.”
“It’s not over yet,” I assure her, looking down at my sad, empty glass. “Tell me the story, and maybe we can try to fix it.” Fix it. Yeah, let me get right on that.
“I don’t know, Rhys,” she shakes her head before looking up at me with brown eyes drowning in tears. “Just promise me, that no matter what, you won’t look at me differently. Please, don’t let anything I say change the way you feel about me.”
I gaze back, unblinking, my face of mask of my denial. Trying desperately to hide the fact that it’s already too late. “I won’t.”
“I’M NERVOUS WHEN I ARRIVE, and he can tell. It’s as if my fear arouses him. He invites me in, greeting me with a kiss that steals the very breath from my lungs. He tastes like alcohol. Maybe he’s not the only one that’s nervous. Or maybe he knows that we’ll both need a little help for what we have planned. Or should I say, what he has planned for me.”
“And that is?” I call out, grabbing my bottle of Macallan from the kitchen cabinet. I re-fill and settle in on the couch next to Fi, who is drawing comfort from her old quilt.
Ink and Lies Page 8