by Dylan Heart
“Where is your sweet roommate?” Bricks voice cuts through the silence as he closes the front door behind him.
“You can find her in the library when she’s not in class.” I push myself back against the chair and throw on my game face. “Thank God.”
He cuts into the living room and drops down onto the couch opposite of me. He kicks his feet out onto the fabric of the couch without taking his shoes off. “She’s a good girl, Apple.”
I reach down, remove my shoe and throw it at him. He dodges out of the way, and spins his feet onto the floor. “That’s the fucking problem. If I wanted to be a nanny, I’d don the nicest sundress I own and be a fucking nanny.”
“You don’t own any sundresses,” he says with a sly nod of his head.
“Touche.” I rise to my feet and slip off my other shoe. “Speaking of sundresses and imbeciles, are you making any progress with Tyra?”
“I met her for lunch today.” He smirks and crosses his right leg over his knee. “Well, I ran into her during lunch.”
“How did that go?” I move to a tall table lobbied in the corner of the room, and twist the cap off a bottle of expensive vodka. “Was she on her knees begging to suck your cock in the Domino’s bathroom?”
“Funny, but no. Quite the opposite.”
“Don’t leave me hanging.” I pour two drinks—one for him and one for me. “Get to the fucking climax of the story.”
“To be sure, there was no climax.”
I give him a look of pity, followed by one of exhaustion. “You wear me out.”
“I know.” He bites into his lip and begins to undress me with his eyes. “I remember.”
I had every intention of handing him this drink, but I’m gifted with satisfaction when I pour the drink onto his freshly-ironed button-up. “Oops,” I say through a thin pout and then take a gulp.
In typical Brick fashion, he ignores my liquid assault. “If you must know… She slapped me.”
I’m not quick enough to cover my mouth before I’m spitting out vodka through a fit of laughter. “That is the greatest thing I have heard since I first heard Josh Groban on the radio.”
“It was a traumatic experience.”
“Yeah?” I pout again and caress the side of his face. “Your poor wounded ego.”
“Again, you’re close but no cigar.” He pushes me away and moves past me. “I had a few too many drinks.”
“Before noon? Typical.”
“Says the girl who wakes up to mimosas.” He’s got a point there. “Anyway, I approached her and told her she was beautiful, but unfortunately I don’t fuck before noon.”
“You idiot.” The look painted across my face is a beautiful, abstract collage of equal parts amusement and shame.
“And then, I checked my watch and it was a minute after twelve.” He smiles wide, a little too proud of himself.
“Did you really think that shit-fucked pick up line was going to work?”
“I pity you, Apple.” He places a hand on each of my shoulders. I pull away ever so slightly, but not far enough so I escape his grasp. “It worked exactly as planned.”
“Oh please, enlighten me, your majesty.”
“I’m addicted to the booze.” He moves closer and this time, I don’t resist. “My life has become a wreck.” His palm trails down my side and against my stomach. “I’m spiraling out of control and the only thing that’s going to save me is the love of God.” He breathes a deliberate symphony of breaths against my skin before grabbing the glass out of my hand, and pulling away. “Or maybe, an innocent girl to guide me through the darkness.”
“It’s never going to work. She’s too smart.” I turn around to face him.
He finishes off the glass of my very expensive vodka. “All girls want a fairytale and none quite have the emotional punch as the one where the princess saves the bad boy.”
“That’s funny.” I rip the glass back out of his hands. “I never read that in the book of Grimm.”
“That’s because it’s a modern-day fantasy. I’ll autograph your very own personal copy when my legacy is unleashed upon this world in print.”
“You’re a dreamer. I’ll give you that,” I say as I find myself pouring my fourth glass of Vodka I have poured since returning home from True Love Revolution. Suddenly, I’m regretting wasting an entire glass on Brick. “But if that should ever come to pass, it’ll be me writing the forward. Signed, the girl who beat him at his own fucking game. Your delusions of grandeur are amazingly entertaining.”
“You are so bitter.” He laughs, because it’s either a joke to him, or most likely because he’s prepared to revel in my misery.
“You’re wrong, but lets pretend you’re right. Why the fuck wouldn’t I be? If you win, it’s not because you’re better than me. It’s because society gave you a hugely unfair head start. Men are expected to fuck everyone and everything. It’s the cool thing to do. If I should ever do the same—“
“You do,” he points out.
“When I do the same thing, I’m a Goddamn whore. The whole city is ready to gather in town square to stone me to death. I was branded a slut long before I ever sucked a dick.”
“I’ll counter your point.” He reaches for my glass again, but I’m too quick for him this time. “It’s easier to lure a man into bed than a woman. Men are sleazebags—“
“Agree.”
“They’re horny and ready at any given moment. Women, however, take careful and intricate patience.”
“Why do you hate women?” I ask with an undercurrent of a serious inquiry and slide back into my throne, leveling my drink on the arm of the chair.
“That’s the most idiotic thing I have ever heard. I love women. You, of all people, should know that.”
“There’s a difference between loving to fuck women, and loving them.”
“Like you have room to talk.”
“I have to get to work, so you’re going to have to leave.” I take a sip of my vodka and relish it, moaning in voyeuristic delight as he watches me. “Really, though. I have to get to work.”
Brick left the house, at my command, about thirty minutes ago. In that short span of time, I have readied myself for work. I’m low maintenance like that.
Kidding.
I’m slouched in my throne, wearing nothing but a matching pair of white panties and a bra. My feet curl around opposite sides of a jumbo dildo, a dildo that could pass for the real thing if it were strapped onto a pelvis. The skin is smooth, with painted dark veins spread across the shaft.
In front of the monstrous dildo, is my computer—my workstation. The camera is on, and on the other end of the world and the other side of the internet connection is a sad, old man who wants nothing more than to fuck a freshly washed pair of toes.
I’m as close to that fantasy as he’s ever going to get, and I crave my alone time. If not for the money, then because like everything else that has the power to make me feel alive, it’s all about the power. I have something he wants, something he yearns for.
That’s power.
I have it.
He doesn’t.
My mind wanders into an alternate reality. A reality where Lydia tires of the library on a chilly Sunday night, and stumbles into our shared house to receive the shock of her life. Poor girl would have a fucking heart attack, and I’d be left with the difficult decision of whether or not to call the ambulance.
Okay, I’m not that fucked up. I’d call for help.
There’s something about stroking a fake cock with my toes that brings out the Plato in me. I’m lost in the emotionless act, and cling to something to dream about—something, at least, to think about.
I raise my head and take a quick glance at the screen of my computer to make sure the volume is on mute. When I’m certain that it is, I pick my phone up from the arm of the chair and dial Cece’s number.
Before I logged into work, I engaged in a little Facebook espionage. I was prepared to walk away from the computer empty
-handed—of information, not money—so it was a pleasant surprise to find this imbecile had her phone number splashed across her home page.
“Cece?” I ask when the ringing comes to a clipped stop, and I can hear someone on the other end.
“Yeah… who is this?”
“It’s Apple. We met at True Love Revolution earlier today.”
“Oh, hey,” she squeals, forcing me to pull the phone away from my ear. “How did you get my number?”
“You have it listed on Facebook.”
“What?” she asks in her most panicked tone. “I thought that was private.”
What I want to say: Then why the fuck did you put it on there? Do you need to be reminded of your own phone number?
What I actually say: “Do you want to hang out sometime?”
“Sure!”
This is entirely too easy. “Why don’t you meet me at Gatsby’s tomorrow night?”
“Isn’t that a bar?”
“Not only is it a bar, but it’s the best bar in the entire damn city.”
“I don’t know…” her voice trails off as I catch a notification on my screen. It seems Mr. Footie wants sound. I’ll need to wrap up this conversation real quick, or risk losing a loyal customer.
“Come on, it’ll be fun.” I reach my foot out and point my toes along the top of my keyboard, searching for the mute button to turn the sound back on.
“I’m not twenty-one.”
“It’s fine. I know the bouncer.” I finally manage to click the button with my toe and hang up the phone, throwing my head back and moaning in the process. “Yes, fuck my toes. Fuck them!”
Since the majority of my body—and my face—is out of frame, I continue to carry on with the vocal cries of ecstasy as I shoot Cece a quick text: Sorry. Lost service. Meet me at nine tomorrow night.
Chapter 6
Somebody somewhere did something right. Uber has become my knight in shining armor as of late. They have changed the world for the better, and I’ll be the first in line to toss them a fucking Nobel Peace Prize.
I scoot out of the backseat of a Honda Civic and wave my Uber driver goodbye as he pulls out into a thickening clusterfuck of nighttime traffic. I paid twelve dollars to arrive in fashion, as opposed to the thirty to forty dollars it would have cost to hail a filthy cab.
When I grow up, I want to be an Uber driver. That’d be a great book if anyone was willing to write it. I had Adam—my cute and flirty driver—drop me off two blocks from Gatsby’s.
A soldier preparing himself to go to war.
A football player streaking grease paint across his cheeks.
A Catholic priest zipping up his slacks before facing his congregation.
And then me, needing two blocks to prepare myself for my very own special version of war. Distraction is one of the greatest weapons in any arsenal. Distraction is a powerful tool, and Cece is going to be one hell of a distraction for Brick.
Like a game of chess, moving each piece into careful place is a daunting task. I need to figure out a way to convince Cece to fall for Brick, so I must first figure out what makes this good girl tick.
I take in the sights around me, and I’ll never fail to be mesmerized by the dazzling lights. I’ve never been to New York City, but I imagine this is exactly what it looks like, albeit on a smaller scale.
I was born in a trailer, and then raised in another. The life I live remains an illusion to everybody that used to know me. I separated from that world a long time ago, with no intention of ever going back. There’s nothing for me in Small Town, North Carolina. There never was.
I know things now that I didn’t know then. I’m stronger than anyone back home ever could have predicted, even if it’s all a façade. A beautiful charade of which I have no other option than to continue hiding behind. I’m not begging for understanding or empathy, I know exactly who—and what—I am. But like a house of cards built of nothing but face cards, I know the Queen will always rest atop the throne. And I know as soon as my reign is over, I’ll become a nobody again—just another useless two of hearts.
I have no intention of ever losing my crown.
I hold my sparkling, silver clutch tight against my hip as I make my way down the crowded street. My matching silver dress shimmers under the green neon lights of a flashing billboard. My heels click along the sidewalk as I weave my way around an entourage of suits and gowns.
“Apple?” I hear someone yell my name from the opposite side of the four way street. I shift my attention and see Jensen—of all fucking people—waving me down. He checks both ways before rushing across the street, barely outrunning the red light. “Hey,” he says with a quick gasp for air.
“Hey.” I take a mental picture of him, because he looks so different. He wears nothing but a white tee and black basketball shorts. There’s a visible line pressed from the inside of his shorts, a clear sign he’s not wearing underwear. There’s a black gym bag slung over his broad shoulder. “What are you doing out here?”
“Heading home from the gym.” He stuffs one hand into the silk pocket of his shorts.
“Oh, you live downtown?”
“Right down the street, at the Apex,” he says as he points to a high-rise condo that’s situated about ten blocks away from here, and eight blocks away from Gatsby’s. It’s a condo I’m all too familiar with, as it’s the same building Brick calls home.
“Nice. I hear those apartments have great views of the entire city.”
“Beautiful views, especially during sunset. You should see it sometime.” I chuckle and his free hand travels to the base of his skull, massaging nervously through his mocha-tinted hair. “Not that I’m inviting you back to my place or anything, especially at such a late hour where you’re able to see the sunset.”
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“Anyway, you look beautiful tonight.” He gestures with his hand, followed by a knowing look of regret. “I can’t stop putting my foot in my mouth.”
“Do you always act this impulsively after leaving the gym?”
“I think I just have a bad habit in general of saying what’s on my mind.”
“Have you met me? I can’t believe the shit that comes out of my mouth half the time.”
“Yeah, me either,” he says with a knowing wink. “You’re one of a kind.”
Two of a kind. Brick and I. “That’s what everyone says, but I still haven’t decided if it’s a good thing or not.”
“Oh,” he says through a mischievous grin, “it’s a terrible thing.”
“If I wasn’t counting on you to graduate, I’d kick your ass.”
“Oh. I would love that.” His cheeks flush red. “I’m going to stop talking...”
“Okay, but before you do—“
“Do I have any news on what we talked about?”
“How did you know that’s what I was going to say?”
“Because I can read you like an open book. You’re easy.” His fingers roll into his palm and he shakes his fist.
“I’m easy, huh?” I arch my brow and move toward him. “You know this how?”
“I have a way with words tonight.” He swallows a visible gulp as I inch closer and look him straight in the eyes.
“I’m prone to agree.”
“Anyway,” he says nervously and takes a measured step back. “I was going to tell you at the next meeting, but I got it approved through the dean. You now have an ‘A’ on your transcript for History 112.”
I’m taken aback and flip my head. “I haven’t even started working yet.”
“We were already past the deadline, and the longest extension I could get was for next Monday.” He crosses his arms, creating a tangible barrier between our bodies. “So, you’ll be working on the honor system.”
“That’s trusting of you.”
“You seem to be a lot of things, Apple. But I don’t imagine you’re one to break promises.”
He has a point there, thus t
he reason the word promise almost never escapes my lips. “While we’re on the subject of honor, I’m going to come out and say it. I’m not going to anymore of those meetings.”
“Shocker.” He’s back to being playful and I can’t help but notice a scientific pattern. The closer he stands to me, the more guarded he is. But when he pulls back, and the gap between us widens, he’s freer with his words.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask with faux shock.
“It means I know you don’t belong there.” He shrugs and takes a quick look at something in the distance, anything that’s a quick distraction from the realness of this conversation. “Hell, I don’t even belong there.”
“You mean you’re not the shining beacon of all that’s holy?”
“Something like that.”
“You’re sparking my curiosity.”
“Why don’t you meet me after my morning class tomorrow and maybe you can spark mine.”
“I like the way that sounds.”
“Don’t read too much into it.” He turns to walk away, bringing an abrupt end to the conversation. He’s leaving behind a trail of mystery and he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Or do,” he says with a sly smile as he cranes his head to meet my eyes. “Whichever.”
Chapter 7
“This is so cool,” Cece says through a glowing smile as she stirs a straw through a glass of rum and coke. I’m not sure if she’s talking about the drink, or the general idea of being in a club itself. “I’ve been living on the wrong side of the tracks.”
I respond to her with a glowing but forced smile. She’s so out of her element that it’d make one hell of a primetime sketch show. “Be careful what you wish for. Everyone wishes they were on the other side.”
“That’s true, I suppose.”
For her first time in a club—and for her personality, or lack of therefore—she actually managed to look decent. She’s outfitted in a black dress that’s a size too small on her, but she wears it good. However, I’m sure her mother wouldn’t approve.