Good In Bed

by Bromberg, K

  I froze. The blood drained out of me and my body went hot and cold at the same time, hands clenching around sticks I didn’t have yet.

  Amy.

  It really was Amy.

  The last four years had been damn good to her.

  She still did that little thing where she stuck her pinky finger into the corner of her mouth, her tongue worrying it in a way that was so hot it made parts of me come alive.

  If anyone was going to make me hard, it would be Amy. Not that I had any right to it. What I did to her four years ago was so shitty, I should be flogging myself, and not in that way.

  As penance.

  The Sam that I had been my senior year of high school couldn’t handle the fact that she, with one hug, one kiss, and then one big, killer win, had cut off my balls and served them on a platter for my father to shove down my throat.

  I knew better now.

  Now that it was too late.

  “Hey, Sam.” Liam stalked over, jaunty and sweaty. “Here,” he said, shoving a little piece of paper at me.

  It was a business card, and I flipped it between my front two fingers. “What is it? L. Entertainment.”

  “It’s a job opportunity,” Liam said. Something in the way he smiled at me made it seem like a leer.

  “Job opportunity? Like a gig?”

  He pressed his lips together and puffed some air out. His arms flexed, and if he’d been wearing anything other than a cotton t-shirt, he’d have split the seams. He crossed his arms over his chest, looked down at me, and whispered, “Give her a call. Seriously, dude. It’s a good job.”

  “What job?”

  He stalked off and called out over his shoulder, “Pays a couple hundred a night.”

  Couple hundred a night? Serious money. That could save me.

  I looked back at the table where Amy had been sitting and she was gone, her drink still there. Maybe I was fooling myself and it wasn’t really her.

  Why would she come here?

  But more to the point — why couldn’t I stop thinking about her?

  Amy

  The bar’s bathroom was as scuzzy as I’d expected, and the face that looked back at me from the mirror was exactly what I expected.

  The Amy who always stared back seemed too plain for the person who lived inside.

  Long, brown hair, with just enough wave to give it shape. Big, brown eyes that seemed too fearful for the strong person I knew was smothered under some of those layers. My nose wasn’t big or small. My skin wasn’t clear or a mess.

  And then there was my body.

  I liked to think that I was just a head. Literally. A head that walked around attached to this thing that I required in order to function in daily life.

  My body didn’t really matter to me, until it did.

  Some people like to use the word voluptuous. My mother called me curvy, while my grandma called me chunky.

  The paradox was that the same body that I pretended to ignore was the one that I explored so tentatively, and at other times aggressively, in trying to understand the core of myself.

  What I wanted was someone else’s hands to do that work, someone else’s obsession to be zeroed in on me, a man’s desire to be at the center of finding Amy’s sensual self.

  Instead, there was only me and my books, essays, readings, and the occasional prop ordered discreetly online. None of those, not even my ex, Brent, came close to being a substitute for the richness that I knew was out there in the world.

  Couldn’t I find that one person who would come to treasure me? Who would view me not just as a mind, as a bodiless head wandering around, or not just as a headless body, there to be fucked and thrown away—but as the whole package?

  What I wanted most wasn’t Sam, although as I settled back at my table I found myself searching the crowd and the stage for him.

  It wasn’t the idea of Sam that I wanted.

  It was the reality of a partner who would go the distance with me. Someone I could give up the entire world for, so that we could go deep and burrow into each other.

  As I looked up and found Sam on stage, getting ready for the next song, and wondered if he could be the one, I saw Darla walk over to him.

  No — past him.

  She reached for Trevor, who reached back with a familiar embrace, and then a kiss that practically set the stage on fire.

  Jeez, the two of them needed to get a room.

  I finished my drink, the watery taste of melted ice cubes and alcohol familiar, like the words “the end” on the final page of a book. Out of the corner of my eye, Darla stepped away from Trevor as a hand slid up her back, under her shirt. The hand was attached to —

  Joe?

  Who then proceeded to —

  Oh, dear. If they showed any more tongue I would think I was at a butcher shop.

  Who on earth was she actually with? The kiss with Joe went on and on until my own face started to flush, and the creeping red from my chest stretched up, then down.

  I felt like a voyeur, as if I weren’t supposed to be watching this, but what do you do when they’re onstage in front of a crowd? Trevor’s hand splayed across Darla’s ass, an ass about the size of my own.

  Was it possible? Were the two of them... no, the three of them?

  Sam approached her. My whole body turned to melted chocolate, and then tensed up to granite, revolving in a cycle that left me weak.

  Then very, very angry as Darla reached out for Sam.

  Oh, no, she didn’t.

  I stood, hands twisted into fists, the blood pounding at my scalp, making the lights on stage go dim. Liam McCarthy jumped to the mic and shouted, “Are you ready to party?”

  My mouth went dry as I watched him own the stage. Hadn’t interacted with him in years, either.

  Seeing the person who took your virginity really should generate an emotional reaction, right?

  The crowd leapt to their feet and my view of the stage was obscured. The raised arms, shrill whistles and screams from about a hundred fans made me lose track of what, exactly, Darla was doing to—or with—Sam.

  Liam tried to calm the crowd, arms out, palms down in a gesture of quiet. “Let’s get the raffle out of the way.”

  Anemic cheers.

  “Three prizes tonight.”

  “Free drinks!” Someone shouted. That got another round of hoots and some clapping.

  “Sorry—go hook up with someone in the crowd for that.” Loads of giggles from the women.

  Groans from the men.

  “First of three prizes—free tickets to our next concert!”

  I pulled my ticket out of my pocket. Why not? Going home with a prize was better than going home alone.

  Standing on tiptoes, I kept trying to catch a glimpse of Sam, and to see what Darla was doing to him. With him.

  Whatever.

  Liam called out a number that wasn’t mine. As the crowd settled back in their seats, I saw Joe and Sam setting up equipment in the background. No Darla.

  Good.

  “Second prize—a CD from our best live performances.” He read off a number.

  Not mine.

  “Third and final prize.” Cocky grin. “Let me call out the number and then I’ll tell you what you get.”

  “A night with you, Liam!” some drunk girl screamed.

  He cocked a sexy eyebrow at the crowd and leered. “That would make any woman a winner.” He drew the word winner out like a finger running down a woman’s breast, over her ribs, down her torso.

  The women in the crowd shrieked.

  And then he called out my number. I blinked and looked at the ticket again.

  “Anyone?”

  I was frozen. Yep. That was my number.

  “I’ll take you if someone doesn’t claim it!” a woman cried out.

  “Me, too!” screamed five or six other women.

  The waitress happened to pop over and look at my ticket. “Here! She won! Right here!” She pointed at me with a big gesture that caught the
crowd’s attention.

  No no no no no. Sam couldn’t know I was here.

  “What are you waiting for, honey? Don’t be afraid. Go for it!” With a mighty shove, she pushed me out into the crowd, a spotlight finding my face.

  “Hey there! Our winner! And it’s a chick—whew!” Liam said.

  Every woman I walked past looked at me as if I’d won the MegaMillions lottery. I got to the stairs to the left of the stage, feeling like I was walking a death march. A red EXIT sign glowed to me right. If I bolted right now...

  “Not that I wouldn’t mind kissing a dude,” Liam added. A few guys in the audience cheered really loud.

  “Because the prize is a kiss from me.”

  Liam peered down the stage steps and when his eyes set on me, all that confidence faltered for a split second.

  A what? A kiss? Couldn’t I just get a CD?

  One of the stage hands nudged me to join Liam, and I walked on feet made of electrified concrete.

  “Amy!” I heard Darla squeal from backstage.

  “Amy?” The way Sam said my name made me nearly faint.

  “Amy.” Liam’s smile spread slowly, his voice like buttered suede. “Our lucky winner.”

  Lights sprayed across my face, making me half-blind, as hundreds of eyes watched me and Liam on stage. He put his arm around my shoulders as people in the crowd began began to chant “kiss!” over and over.

  I couldn’t even look at Sam. Because I knew he was staring at me.

  Covering my body with his to shield the view, Liam’s face came so close to mine I could inhale his aftershave, smell the sweat and musk of excitability the performance must bring out in him. A quick peck on the cheek, and he whispered, “Let’s make this look nice and juicy.”

  One hand went around my hip, the other snaked up my back, between my shoulder blades, and he dipped me, the crowd seeing mostly his body and my legs.

  The roar made me go out of my mind.

  And when he let go, I fled out the side door.

  Maybe Sam wasn’t the only one who could just walk away when it was all too much.

  Chapter 2

  Sam

  Unh. Gasp. Uhn. Gasp.

  I shifted on the couch and turned over, shoving my face into the back of it, trying to block out the sun. Trevor and Joe had a great place here on the Fenway now, but I could do without the porny soundtrack.

  Uhn. Gasp.

  A door creaked open and I heard Trevor mumble, “Where the fuck is the extra lube?”

  I rolled my eyes and turned enough to wedge my entire face into the corner of the couch.

  Again?

  It didn’t help that I woke up with morning wood and the last time that I’d actually been with a woman…

  Let’s just say I was dating Pamela Handerson or Jennifer Handiston. I had been arguing with Harry Longfellow. Strangling Patrick Stewart.

  And it made me feel like Hand Solo.

  “Right there,” I heard Darla groan.

  The bathroom door slammed and Trevor’s feet pounded on the floor as if he were running, and then, the unmistakable sound of bedsprings.

  Did he just launch himself onto the bed?

  I crammed the pillow over my head. In my dark little cave I could still hear the sounds of obvious hotness. While my friends were acting out a scene from an amateur YouPorn video, I was sitting here on the couch with an aching dick and no end in sight.

  Amy.

  Her name flashed through my head and damn if the morning wood didn’t grow from a branch to a goddamn log.

  She’d disappeared last night, out of the blue. Darla had come up on stage and then poof! Amy was gone. Kissed Liam and left.

  Left me pissed.

  A slapping sound hit the wall and the bedsprings creaked in a steady pattern. This was one macrobeat I did not need to hear.

  Whenever Darla was over here they went at it like ferrets, or bunnies, or whatever rodent goes at it a lot. At least twice a day, usually more. Who the hell has the stamina?

  Who was I kidding? I had that kind of stamina. I just didn’t have a girlfriend.

  An image of Amy in Liam’s arms made my fists curl with rage.

  “Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah!” came a feminine chant from the bedroom.

  I flung the blanket off of me, threw the pillow against the wall, where it smacked with an utterly unsatisfactory sound, and slammed my way into the bathroom down the hall. Peeing was like pulling a tight slot machine lever. I had to use a lot of forearm force to keep it down or I was gonna get splatter in my face.

  Morning rituals complete, I wandered back into the kitchen and opened the fridge to see what I had to eat for breakfast. My share of the food consisted of two eggs and a half a quart of chocolate milk.

  Better than nothing.

  Finding a dish was more challenging than figuring out what to eat.

  “Get the one with the tickler,” Darla said, the walls impossibly thin here. I shuddered.

  A sauté pan caked on with something that looked like it had been cooked four days ago was on top of the heap of dishes. Joe and Trevor didn’t have a dishwasher.

  Technically, I was the dishwasher, considering they weren’t charging me any rent to couch surf.

  I pulled the plates, cups, and pans out, stacked them neatly, put them back in and filled the sink with hot water and soap, letting everything soak before I tackled them.

  The chocolate milk, thank God, wasn’t rancid, so at least I filled my stomach before setting down on my bed—that would be the couch—to wait for the water to do its job.

  The wait gave me five minutes to obsess about Amy, not that I needed an excuse to think about her.

  The events of four and a half years ago came slamming through my mind, boom, boom, boom, like paintballs, multicolored and painful.

  Slap. Slap. Slap.

  It sounded like someone’s upper body was being flung against the wall. Why did they have to do it right there? The wall that they were sexually bitch-slapping was the one right behind the kitchen sink.

  “No, you climb on top,” a guy’s voice said. I couldn’t tell whether it was Joe or Trevor, and I didn’t want to know. I grabbed my pillow and curled it around the back of my head, palms pressing against my ears.

  Amy. Amy. Amy.

  That long brown hair, her sweet smile, that intense gaze when she was laser-focused on something. Why hadn’t she come up on stage and said something to me?

  You stupid idiot, I thought, of course she’s not going to do that. You’re the one who blew it.

  Four and a half years and I hadn’t spoken to her. Nothing. It was as if she didn’t exist. All of that anger, resentment, confusion, and desire from four and a half years ago.

  None of it had ever gone away.

  The anger had, the resentment, too. It was what had happened when I went home and saw my Dad that made me never contact with her again. It had absolutely nothing to do with her—that was the kicker.

  It was my own shame. All me.

  Knowing her, she assumed that it was all about her, and bridging that was like asking me to go to the moon on a pogo stick.

  Joe rounded the corner, naked, ass muscles rippling as I caught him out of the corner of my eye before I could quickly turn away and close my lids, wincing.

  “Damn it, Ross, do you have to parade that shit around?”

  “Sorry.” I could tell from his tone of voice that he wasn’t. “We just need some food.”

  I could hear the refrigerator door open. He grabbed something, slammed it shut, and padded away.

  The unmistakable sound of a can of whipped cream being discharged came next.

  “I’ll get a yeast infection if you put it there!” I heard Darla say.

  My stomach tightened and I cringed.

  “How about there?” I heard one of the guys ask.

  Sshfft!

  “Oh, that’s nice,” she moaned.

  I walked to the window and stared out over the rooftops. Joe and Trev
or had an apartment in one of those brick blocks that littered the Fenway, where all the students were crammed in.

  I needed my own place.

  I reached in my back pocket for that card Liam had given me last night, pulled it out. L. Entertainment, huh?

  I found my smartphone—even when you’re stone cold broke, you’ve got enough for a basic plan—and dialed the number. I reached a machine, some woman, so I left a message saying that Liam had given me her number, and that I was interested in applying for the job.

  Entertainment.

  Probably some DJ thing, or helping set up and break down for a crew, whatever. I didn’t care.

  I needed money.

  I wasn’t exactly a trust fund kid. Dad had cut me off in more ways than just financial the day I lost that debate to Amy. I’d moved out and pinged between Trevor and Joe’s houses. Both had been nice enough—or, at least, their parents had been nice enough—to let me live out my senior year. My school district never knew.

  My dad apparently covered up the fact that I didn’t live at home with a story that still enraged me. Couldn’t have the flock thinking that there was something wrong with their shepherd, right?

  “You are a bull!” Darla shouted.

  I looked at the counter, reached in my front pocket — three bucks and a debit card for an account with seventeen bucks left in it. We wouldn’t get paid for last night’s gig for at least a month.

  I grabbed some earbuds, shoved the cord into my phone and found whatever the first song was on my playlist. The combination of Black Sabbath, Nirvana, Yes, Foo Fighters, Rush, and Nickelback could kill anything, override whatever tortured fun was taking place in the other room.

  All I could do this morning was scrub that pan, make my eggs, and wait.

  Sshfft!

  I cranked up the volume.

  Amy

  The greatest part about living in the city is that everything is right there. You walk out of your front door and hop on the T to some other part of the city or across the river to Cambridge. You walk a block and hit three different restaurants of three different ethnicities. Fifteen different buskers playing eleven different instruments give you music for free—of course, they’d love it if you throw them some cash for their effort.