“Fuck!” is my throaty bellow. “Oh shit!”
My ears are ringing loudly and my vision’s literally blurry as intense pleasure rockets down my spine. But suddenly, I realize that it’s not just my bellows filling the air – there’s another scream as well, and it’s not Laurie either.
Confused, I lift my head, and to my horror, my best friend Channing Saint is standing in the doorway, his expression filled with shock.
“What the fuck?!” he shrieks. “What the fucking hell? Laurie? What the fuck are you doing with this bastard?”
I nearly choke, unable to process what’s happening at first. Meanwhile, my love lets out a muffled scream too when she sees Channing, but what can she do? Her mouth is filled to the brim with my semen, and her pussy’s still twitching beneath my tongue. Finally, she swallows and manages to gasp aloud, “Channing? Is everything alright? What are you doing here?”
I stop, even as my body continues to pulse. Wait, Laurie and Channing know each other? How can that be?
8
Tate
* * *
To say this is an awkward moment would be a vast understatement. Instead, I withdraw my member from my girl’s mouth and quickly toss her a towel before wrapping one around my waist. Laurie sits up, her face red, and wraps the terrycloth around her breasts. Nothing can hide, however, the fact that there’s a bit of semen trickling down her chin, although she wipes at it quickly.
“How the fuck did you get in?” I demand angrily. “What are you doing here, anyways? Haven’t you heard of knocking first?” Laurie’s scent and taste still linger on my lips, and I do my best to adjust the towel so that my still semi-hard cock isn’t visible to my buddy. We’re close, but not that close.
Channing holds up a spare key that I had given him and promptly forgotten about. “We had plans to go to a bar tonight, remember?” he says. “You didn’t show, and weren’t answering your phone, so I figured I’d swing by. Plus, it’s a glass door, haven’t you noticed? So yeah, I just caught you fucking …”
He trails off, and I realize that his gaze is locked on Laurie.
I look between the two of them and realize that they both look stunned. Oh, God, I groan. Have they had sex before? But that seems highly unlikely because Laurie has been living on the streets for a while, although I don’t know the exact range of time. Besides, Channing is married, and definitely not the unfaithful type. So could Laurie be a girl from his past? Someone from college? Or even before?
“You know each other?” I ask, point blank. “What’s up with the googly eyes? Don’t tell me you’ve hooked up in the past.”
“Oh, my God,” Channing groans, holding his hands up to cover his face. “That’s fucking disgusting.”
My hackles raise.
“She’s a gorgeous girl,” I literally growl, rage beginning to spark in my eyes. “There’s nothing disgusting about what you just saw.”
But Channing interrupts then.
“Yo, yo, yo. Calm down. It’s disgusting because I just saw you fucking my sister. Who wants to see that?”
I’m automatically prepared to respond, but the words catch in my throat like I’m choking.
“Sister?” I manage in a strangled voice.
“Uh, yeah,” Channing says, now looking incredibly surprised. “Laurelin, did you not tell him…?”
Laurelin. Sister. Channing Saint’s sister. Laurie. My thoughts whirl in a tornado that take me out of the present. Not only did Laurie--Laurelin?--tell me that her brother was dead, but she definitely neglected to mention that he was a friend of mine who is certainly still among the living. She also left out another important detail: that she’s a member of one of the richest families in New York.
I can’t speak. I can’t move. There is nothing I detest more than feeling like an idiot, and right now I could put on a fucking dunce cap and be forced to sit in a corner.
Laurie’s voice shakes me from my stupor. “Tate,” she whispers. “I can explain.”
“Explain what?” Channing says in a bewildered tone. “What exactly is going on between you two? I mean, I get you were having sex, but surely the fact that you’re my sister isn’t a surprise? Haven’t you met before? Tate, my man?”
Feeling like my legs are made of jelly, I manage to tighten the towel wrapped around my waist.
“What?” I croak, still unable to process what’s happening.
But Laurelin starts again, with tears in her eyes. “Tate, just give me a few minutes to explain,” she begins.
Suddenly rage bursts from my chest.
“To explain what?” I whirl on her faster than I mean to, and a shadow of panic crosses over her beautiful face. In that moment, my heart cracks a bit, but I steel myself. Let her feel as shitty as I do. “That your brother is still alive, and is my buddy? That you lied to me about that? Oh, or maybe that you lied to me about being homeless when your family has even more goddamn money than I do. Not sure where to start, really.”
Anger crackles in my tone, and Laurelin shrinks back, her eyes filling with tears. She’s never seen me, or heard me, like this. I can be a real dick if I want to be, and at this moment, I sure as hell want to.
“Yo, yo, yo, clearly you two have something to work out,” Channing begins again, and starts to head toward the stairs. “I’ll leave you to it.”
I snap then.
“No, no need.” I hold up my palm and Channing and Laurelin both freeze. “Let me just clear a few things up. Has Laurie here ever had a falling out with your family? Has the Saint clan collectively abandoned her and left her out on the streets?”
“What?” Channing looks and sounds absolutely baffled. “Of course not. My sister has always been a Saint, literally and figuratively. No, she doesn’t work in the family business, but we provide for her because she’s one of us. In fact, her trust pays for an apartment just a few blocks away from here, so what’s this stuff about being left on the streets? Did I miss something, Laurelin? Did you move out and not tell me?”
Laurelin’s chest heaves and she lets out a tortured cry.
“It’s just that—” she begins before turning to me with pleading eyes. “Let me explain.”
But I interrupt with a rude sound.
“Thanks, Chan. You can go now. I’ll take a raincheck for the bar tonight, okay? This isn’t a good time for me, as you can see,” I add sarcastically.
“Tate, if you did anything to hurt my sister…” he warns, his eyes growing fierce.
“No,” Laurelin says, shaking her head helplessly. “No. Tate did nothing to hurt me. I did everything to hurt him.”
I let out a rude snort and Channing merely looks at both of us again.
“Okay,” he says, his tone still bewildered. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it then. Hasta la vista, buddy.”
And with that, he’s gone. I’m sure I’ll get an earful from him later, but in this moment, I couldn’t give less of a shit. I want everyone to leave. I want everyone out. I need to be alone so that I can think and process this clusterfuck.
“Tate, I’m so sorry, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” Laurelin says in a rush. “This is the worst-case scenario, and I just need some time to explain.”
“Okay.” Summoning my blankest, calmest face, I look her dead in the eyes. “Explain then.”
Laurelin hesitates, just for a second, and that’s enough.
“Time’s up.” I walk past her as if she’s a ghost, as if I can’t even see her.
“Wait!” Laurelin cries. “This can’t be it. This just can’t be the end.”
I whirl around, rage making my features ugly.
“It is,” I rasp before looking her curvy form up and down with hardened eyes. To my own self-disgust, my body responds and actually stiffens a bit, seeing those creamy curves wrapped in nothing but a towel. But then I turn my back. “Grab your shit and pack your bags; I don’t really care what you take. Just get out, you fucking cunt.”
I can’t imagine how much I’m hu
rting her, how painful my words must be. But I don’t care. I can’t. If I allow myself to care, or allow myself to feel any iota of emotion, I’m going to break down worse than I ever have in my life. I can’t afford to do that, especially not now.
I stalk back to the kitchen and immediately pour a double shot of tequila. It burns like hell going down my throat, but I barely feel it. Then, I hear Laurelin slowly coming up the stairs from the basement. She’s crying quietly, obviously trying to muffle the sound. Good. I don’t turn around as the door opens. Her footsteps pause for a moment, and then she heads upstairs, moving slowly like a wounded animal.
I pour another double shot.
After I down it, I put the tequila away, and sit down at the kitchen table, my back to the front door. I do everything in my power to control my breath, keeping it calm and even. I took a tai chi class many years ago and learned how powerful the breath is. It’s a source of strength and right now, I can’t let my emotions spiral out of control. Not now. Not yet. Not ever.
I lose myself in the ticking of the clock on the wall, breathing in and out in a steady rhythm while letting the tequila work its dubious magic. Soon, Laurelin will be gone, and I’ll be able to return to my normal life. It’ll be awkward to see Channing again, but if I tell him I want to avoid the subject, he’ll understand. We’ll never speak of his sister again. She’ll be dead to me.
Suddenly, a memory flashes into my brain, as if on a big-screen TV. A year or so ago. A birthday party. Channing’s daughter. Introductions around the room to various friends and family. A gorgeous, svelte blonde with an infectious laugh, who leaves me during the party to go play with her niece.
Laurelin.
I have met her before, and I didn’t remember.
I slam my fists on the table, and a small gasp sounds behind me. I don’t even bother to turn around. “How long have you been standing there?” I growl.
“Just a second,” she promises, her voice shaking. “I wanted to apologize. Tate, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, I swear.”
“You can swear all you want,” I say in a tight voice. “But it happened. So leave.”
She’s silent for a minute. Then, I hear the faintest “I’m sorry,” and after what feels like an eternity, the front door opens and then closes with a solemn, somber click.
I don’t say goodbye. I can’t. I don’t say anything at all.
9
Laurelin
* * *
What else could I have done? What could I have said? After all, my brother caught us at the most unfortunate moment, with Tate’s seed in my mouth and my pussy convulsing from the man’s ministrations. Channing was at his absolute worst with those endless “yo yo yo’s” but it’s not my brother’s fault. It’s mine.
Now, months have passed since I left Tate’s home for the last time. Channing’s called at least twelve times to apologize, or to ask what the hell was going on, or a combination of the two, but I never answered, and eventually, my brother stopped. I haven’t spoken to him since. The leaves have fallen off their branches, and the days go dark early now. Everything is turning cold and barren, appropriately so, I think.
But what else could I have said?
I torture myself with this question every single day. It haunts me as I take a shower, and as I’m brushing my teeth. It invades my mind when I’m taking a walk through the park, or volunteering at the shelter, or playing with Toodles. I beat myself up when I wake in the afternoon and before I fall asleep, usually in the small hours of the early morning. I doze fitfully, torturously, but it’s the only relief I can find from this question, the question I can’t stop, won’t stop asking myself.
What else could I have said?
I don’t know. I guess I could have used my words more effectively, instead of stammering nonsense, but would it have made a difference? If I admitted that I’d been bored of my life and wanted to do something different, something scandalous, something entirely unexpected, would Tate have understood? Would he have pitied me, or thought I was an idiot? Would it have alleviated any of his pain? Would it have made anything okay?
Then again, I try to make allowances. Tate didn’t give me the chance to get a word in, so even if I’d had the truth prepared, it wouldn’t have mattered. Somehow, that just makes me feel even worse, as if I’m trying to pin the blame on an undeserving victim.
I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and realize I’ve been trying to brush my teeth for the past ten minutes. I move the toothbrush around in some half-hearted circles, and then give up. It’s not like I have anyone to impress these days, anyways. Suddenly, a voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Heyyyy Laurie!”
I nearly jump out of my skin as Rachel slides on the hardwood floor in her socks and skids to a stop outside of the bathroom door. She aims two finger-guns at me, her smile wide.
“I learned a new TikTok dance!” my buddy proclaims with obvious glee. “Want to see?”
Truthfully, I would rather throw myself onto the ground and die.
“Sure.”
Playing the attentive audience, I sit down on our battered couch in the living room, and gesture at her to begin. But as my best friend whirls and twirls and twerks around, I’m unable to focus. The question is still ringing in my ears and buzzing around like a fly I’m unable to swat. All I want is for it to be silent, and for everything to be silent frankly. I’ve never been this depressed before. I’ve never felt so alone, so guilty, nor so ashamed.
“Are you even watching?” Rachel demands, freezing in the middle of a dance move with her arms flung over her head.
I nod dutifully.
She sighs. “No, you’re not. Here.” She walks over to the cat tree, picks up a sleeping Toodles, who meows reproachfully, and sets him in my lap. He eyes me in confusion, and then settles himself comfortably on my thighs and falls back asleep. I stroke his head with my finger, from the crown down to his sweet little pink nose. It makes me feel a little better, but only marginally.
“Did that help?” Rach asks, sitting on the floor across from me.
“A little.”
“No, it didn’t,” Rachel says. Her brown eyes are full of warmth and concern, and kind of make me want to cry, so I try to avoid her gaze. “Hey,” my friend says softly. “Look at me, okay?”
I do, and this time, my sniffle’s audible.
“Are you alright?”
I shake my head no.
“Can I help?”
I shake my head no again.
“Okay. That makes sense, but I want you to know that I’m here for you.”
I wince. The last person who said that to me immediately kicked me out of his home, and out of his life, forever. The thought immediately brings a gray cloud back down.
But my bestie’s different. Rachel’s been in my life for years now, and despite our arguments and idiotic fights, I know that she would never abandon me. For better or for worse, we’re stuck with each other, the way true friends are supposed to be. She senses my change in mood and tilts her head to one side.
“Want to talk to me about what’s in your head?”
I sigh, petting Toodles as he purrs dreamily in his sleep. “It’s nothing new,” I sigh. “Just the same old shit. ‘What else could I have said?’ ‘What could I have done?’ ‘Why did I even lie in the first place?’”
“Those are impossible questions to answer,” Rachel consoles. “You’re just torturing yourself if you keep ruminating and letting them spin around in your head rent-free.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Are you picking up lessons from your therapist?”
She laughs. “Maybe. But am I wrong?”
I sigh again, leaning back into the couch. “No. But I don’t know how to make them go away. Tate meant so much to me, Rachel. I think… I think…” I let out a breath, closing my eyes, unable to even look at her. “I think I was falling in love with him.”
Rachel gets up and sits next to me on the sofa. I lean my head onto her s
houlder and she slings an arm around my shoulders.
“I know,” she says quietly. “But it’s okay, honey. You’ll move on eventually. This will all be in the rear-view mirror someday, I promise.”
But I’m not convinced. Life isn’t rainbows and sunshine and butterflies, like I believed as a child. Life, sometimes, punches you in the gut, kicks you in the teeth, and leaves you squirming and helpless on the floor. There have to be instances in which things don’t just magically get better, and I think this might be one of them.
Then, I think of Marla. I see her every weekend now at the shelter. Against all odds, I still manage to drag myself there because I would feel even worse if I didn’t, and suddenly, guilt comes over me. Marla’s a woman who lost everything: her husband, her job, and, eventually, her home. However, she’s still one of the kindest, most positive, most badass people I’ve ever met. So many people in the homeless community are like that: strong, powerful, and utterly unwilling to let their horrific circumstances dictate their happiness. Why can’t I be like that?
Suddenly, I realize I’ve been utter moron. Sure, my feelings are valid, and it’s okay that I’m sad. But if people can have their whole lives turned upside-down and keep moving on, I can get over some dude dumping me, right?
I’m feeling marginally better when suddenly, my stomach gurgles. I narrow my brows. Did I eat something weird? I have been feeling a little queasy the past few days, on and off, but nothing worth noting. I hope I don’t have a stomach bug.
Or maybe…
“Oh, God.” I frantically scoop Toodles off my lap and dump him into Rachel’s. Clutching my hand to my abdomen, I sprint to the bathroom and manage to close the door halfway before I empty my stomach’s contents into the toilet. My throat immediately feels raw, and my tongue is reminiscent of sandpaper. I retch several times, my entire body seizing until my stomach cramps in on itself. Then, when things seem to have calmed down, I lean my forehead against the cool toilet lid, breathing hard.
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