by JD Hawkins
It’s almost enough to make me forget that I’m here to meet someone: Kyle. My best friend since childhood, and the only person who I’d stand at the edge of a party doing nothing for. Even though all I want to do right now is get my hands on whatever that blonde is hiding under her dress. As an ex-linebacker with a short temper, though, Kyle’s not the kind of person I’d disappoint even if he wasn’t my friend.
I check my watch – he’s almost an hour late.
“Nice watch,” comes a voice a few feet away.
I look up, taking my time, eyes lingering on a perfect pair of olive-toned legs, a little black dress that emphasizes the ‘little,’ and a pair of large, brown eyes that make you feel like someone turned a spotlight on you.
“I like things that are built well,” I say, smiling at her.
“It’s nice to meet a man with good taste.”
I take another look at her figure, leaning on one leg, a hand against her hip, her other holding up her martini. Time’s up, Kyle.
“Men need to have good taste,” I say, stepping a little closer and bringing my voice down, “after all, we’re not lucky enough to be as beautiful as women.”
She giggles a little, her pink lips parting softly in a way that makes my balls ache.
“I dunno,” she says almost in a whisper, “you’re kinda cute.”
“Then we’ve got something in common,” I say, moving in even closer and putting a hand against her waist.
“I’m Sophia.”
Just before I can tell her my name, I hear it called out in the last voice I want to hear right now.
“Nate!”
It’s a husky, energetic voice that I know much better than I ever wanted to. I turn towards it, only because I can’t really believe it’s her.
“Jessie?” I say, as she marches towards me.
“Where’s Kyle?”
“I don’t know. He should have been here already. Traffic?”
“Ugh!” Jessie groans, slumping her shoulders. “I’ve been texting him all night and he won’t respond. Can you try?”
“Jessie,” I say, controlling my impulse to throw her over the railing only because it wouldn’t look good in front of Sophia, “now’s not a good time. Why are you even here?”
“Who’s this?” Sophia whispers in my ear, her eyes darting over to Jessie.
Before I can explain that she’s just a friend, Jessie senses the opportunity to screw me over – a thing she’s always been happy and willing to do.
“Who am I?” she says with mock-bitchiness to the beautiful girl in the tiny dress. “Who are you? I’m his wife of fifteen years. We have three children together. And he sold one of them to afford that suit he’s wearing.”
“What?” Sophia sputters, jerking her hand away from my arm.
“No. She’s not – I can explain,” I say, looking at Sophia pleadingly. Begging has never been a good look for me though. Before I can get anything else out, she shoots me a look of utter disgust before walking away far quicker than you’d expect in heels that high.
“Wait, Sophia! She’s not my wife, she’s just—” But she’s gone, and I turn back to Jessie. “Just my best friend’s annoying kid sister who hasn’t matured in the fifteen years I’ve known her.”
Jessie grins, snatches my beer out of my hands and swigs from it.
“What the hell are you doing here, Jessie? Besides ruining my night?” I snatch my beer back from her, and realize that it’s empty now.
“I told you, I’m looking for Kyle. I’ve got a feeling that he’s avoiding me.”
“He’s got the right idea. How did you even get in here dressed like that?”
I nod at her outfit. Jean cut-offs and a plaid shirt tied in a knot over a torn-up old band t-shirt, just short enough to tease the line of her hips, just soft enough to fall over the gaze-stealing teardrops of her breasts. Her dark, wavy hair makes her look like she just rolled out of bed, and her wrists are stacked with the kind of bangles and bracelets that you’d get in the kid’s section of a dollar store. It’s the kind of edgy-sexy, rocker chick look I normally can’t resist, but Jessie is, after all, like a sister to me. Which is why I drag my eyes away from her body and focus on the party still raging all around us.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says sarcastically, “I forgot to bring my Tiffany dress with the push-up bra. Am I not slutty enough for your Hollywood parties, Mr. Big-Shot Talent Agent?”
“No. It’s just that unless nineties grunge music is going to make a comeback in the next ten minutes, you look ridiculous. And for future reference, Tiffany sells jewelry – not clothes.”
“I look ridiculous? Look at you! That suit! Everything’s so…meticulous. Not a thread or a hair out of place. And so clean! It’s psychopathic. You look like a piece of furniture.”
I look up at the night sky, close my eyes, and take a deep breath.
“Well, thanks for scintillating conversation, Jessie. It’s always a pleasure. Take care of yourself.”
I start walking.
“Hey!” she calls out as she quickly catches up to me. “Where are you going?”
“First, I’m going to get myself another drink. Then I’m going to select one of these astonishingly beautiful women to come back to my apartment. And then I’m going to drink a Red Bull or three because lord knows I’m gonna be up all night long having fantastic—”
“Ew! Stop!” Jessie says, covering her ears dramatically for a second before grinning and punching my arm. “What about my brother? Where is he?”
“I already told you I don’t know,” I say, as I pretend not to inspect whether she’s damaged the sleeve of my suit. “I’ve been waiting for him for nearly an hour.”
“But I really need to talk to him. He said he’d be here.” The worry on her face is real, and I slow my pace and turn towards her.
“Look, it’s Kyle. He probably had a load of work dumped on him at the last minute. I’m sure he’s fine. Let me know when you find him. You still have my number, right?”
She nods. I move to go again. “Wait,” she says, tugging at my sleeve. I turn back to look at her. “I came all the way downtown by myself.”
Then she hits me with the full puppy dog eyes. I’ve seen that look a million times since we were kids. Usually it came when Kyle and I were going out and Jessie wanted to tag along. Sometimes it came when Jessie did something bad and needed me and Kyle to cover for her. Whatever it was, when Jessie made her eyes big and her lips pouty, as if she were about to cry, like she was the most vulnerable thing in the world – she always got her way.
“Let me guess. You’re low on cash, right?” I say, defeated.
She shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “I spent what I had coming down here. I don’t get paid til next week.”
“Okay,” I sigh. “One drink. Then, if your brother still hasn’t shown up, I’ll get you a cab home. After which I’m definitely going to—”
“Go back to being a douchebag, I got it.” But her grin’s so wide now, I can’t even get mad that she’s teasing me again.
We enter the glass enclosure that houses a few couches and the bar. It’s nearly empty, everybody preferring to stand out on the roof and have their drinks delivered. I pull out a stool for her like a gentleman – and yeah, I can act like one when the situation requires it.
“Two beers please,” I call to the barman.
“And a couple of shots,” Jessie adds, without even looking at me for approval. I stifle a grin. She’s still a little troublemaker.
The drinks are in front of us within seconds. Jessie picks up her blue shot glass and raises it, waiting for me to do the same. She smiles, winks, clinks her glass against mine, and we down them.
“So how’s the talent agent-ing going? Taken advantage of many actors this month?”
I snort and take a long drink of my beer. “I don’t take advantage of actors.”
“Sure you don’t,” Jessie grins behind her beer bottle. “You just let them do all the
work and then take a nice slice of what they make.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Right.” She rolls her eyes as she wraps her lips around the opening of her beer bottle to take a swig, a sight I have to force myself to look away from. “You’re totally not a leech at all.”
“Jesus,” I grin, taking her abuse with good humor. “You should know how it is, Jessie. You work in a costume department. You think actors can negotiate their own deals, set up meetings and networking opportunities, not to mention vet contracts and make career decisions? They can’t even dress themselves!”
Jessie laughs. “Truth,” she says, pointing out our empty shot glasses to the barman. “Maybe you’re not so bad after all.”
The bartender slams a couple more shots on the bar. We repeat the clink and drink again. “How about you?” I ask. “How’s the TV gig going?”
“Honestly? It’s a shitty job,” she says, suddenly sounding a bit empty.
“What do you mean? I thought you were living the dream.”
My tone is light, with no sarcasm in it, but still she pauses for a long time before answering. I don’t even notice the barman replace our empty shot glasses again.
“Well, when I left UCLA,” she says, peeling at the label of her beer bottle, “I thought I’d be working on period dramas, interesting TV shows, sci-fi projects…I don’t know. Something creative. And now I’m just stuck doing detective dramas. I mean, they’re great shows, steady gigs, but a police uniform is a police uniform. I feel like my job right now is to be as least creative as possible. Like a robot could be doing my job.”
I watch her take a slow swig of beer. It’s been a while since we really talked like this.
“It’s a step,” I say sympathetically. “You’re starting out, making connections, paying your dues. You do this for now until something better comes along. It’s just a step.”
“Is it?” Jessie asks, almost as if I can change it. “It feels more like a dead end.”
This time it’s me who picks up the shot and waits for Jessie to do the same. We clink, smile, and drink.
“Do you remember that time when we were in high school,” Jessie says, smiling from the drink hitting her, “and you and Kyle took me to see that shitty punk band I liked?”
“The night he knocked me out?”
Jessie laughs and slaps the bar.
“Yeah I remember,” I say, laughing along. “But I still don’t know what the fuck set him off like that.”
“I was hitting on the lead singer, and Kyle found out. He went for the other guy but then you tried to stop him—”
“And paid the price. Yeah, I figured it was something like that. Most stories involving Kyle start with him getting pissed.”
“And end with someone getting knocked out.”
“How the fuck did he end up a lawyer and not an MMA fighter?”
“Beats me,” Jessie says, giggling. “But he always had a strong sense of right and wrong.”
“For sure,” I say, as we clink, smile, drink again.
The barman slams a couple more shots in front of us. Then more beers. Then more shots. Soon I lose count. And in between the sound of glass slamming on woodgrain we tell more stories. The erotic story I submitted for eighth grade English homework that almost ended up getting me expelled. The time Jessie and Kyle got into a fight over who should beat up one of her ex-boyfriends. The night the three of us spent hours figuring out what to wear for a big costume party at Kyle’s college fraternity – Jessie agreed to help us if we promised to sneak her in – only to arrive and find out it wasn’t actually a costume party.
It's only when we both get up to go to the bathroom that I realize how drunk I am. Just about able to walk and barely able to keep my head from lolling around my shoulders like I’m doing yoga. We wrap our arms around each other for support as we stagger to the bathrooms, still laughing at everything and nothing.
I’m done before her (of course) and I lean up against the wall outside the women’s bathroom, breathing deeply to try and regain as much sobriety as I’ll need to get home. The rooftop party’s already dead, and the only people out on the roof are sitting and talking quietly or passed out completely. I have no idea what time it is, or how long we’ve been here.
Jessie opens the door, sees me, jumps in fright, then laughs hysterically – all in slow-motion.
“Gotta go home,” I say, struggling to wrap my tongue around the consonants. “It’s…” I look down at my watch, but with my beer-goggles I can’t make out the time on the over-designed piece of crap. “Late.”
“I can’t go home,” Jessie says, patting me on the chest as she staggers past.
“Kyle’s obviously not coming,” I slur. “And I’m done drinking. Come on.”
She turns around, her eyes half-lidded, her shoulders slumped. “No. I can’t.”
“You have to,” I say, trying to sound authoritative, and failing miserably.
“I can’t. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Kyle has the key to my apartment.”
It takes a long time for me to process this information, but Jessie seems happy to sway on her feet and gaze at me like a zombie while I do. “Why does he have your key?”
“No.” She grins. “I lost mine. Kyle has the spare one. No Kyle, no key. No key, no my apartment.”
Jessie giggles like it’s the most hilarious thing in the world. I can’t help joining in.
“Shit,” I finally say, recovering.
She nods and almost falls over. I catch her just in time and she giggles again madly, a sliver of bare skin between her waistband and her shirt directly under my hand. I feel the heat of her skin through my fingertips, like a static shock of intimacy. Even this drunk, it’s the gratifying way it feels that makes me leave my hand there a second longer than I should.
“Wait a second,” I say, managing to connect some thoughts in between the dizzy spells and complete blankness of the drink. “This is a hotel.”
Jessie pushes me.
“This is a bar!”
“I mean the building. This building is a hotel. Come here.”
She does.
With my arm around her waist, I manage to guide us into the elevator, down to the main desk, and achieve the monumental task of booking a single room through a drunk fog so thick I can barely remember how to spell my name. With another huge effort I get us back into the elevator, and miraculously remember what floor our room is on. Jessie mumbles something about my furniture-suit, and I laugh along this time.
When we step out of the elevator, I feel like my walk to the room is being directed by Stanley Kubrick, as the walls close in and then stretch out into space, and the pattern on the carpet hypnotizes me to the point where I have to reach out and steady myself on the wall. I thank all the gods for whoever invented key cards as I rub it in the vicinity of the lock and we both go flying through the door, collapsing in a heap on the floor.
Jessie laughs maniacally again. I scramble to my feet and step back into the doorway, putting my hand on the door handle.
“Okay. Okay, Jessie. Good night. And for the love of God, don’t touch the minibar.”
Jessie looks up confusedly at me.
“Where are you going?”
“Back. Back to my apartment,” I slur, gazing down the corridor as if I’ll see it at the end.
“No. No no no no no.”
Jessie pulls me by the arm into the room and kicks the door shut behind me. I try to protest, but I can’t think of the words. And anyway, the last thing I want to do is stagger down the streets of downtown L.A. at three in the morning looking for a cab.
I stand in the middle of the room, waiting for it to stop spinning before I make a move. It takes a lot of effort to keep the world from going out of focus, and I can hear blood rushing in my ears. I see a pair of elegant legs, sexy curves leading up to an ass that I want to pull onto my face – then I realize it’s Jessie and look away. It’s fucking Jessie! My best friend’s little sis
ter.
Then I look back. She’s leaning over the bathroom sink, drinking water from the tap. I let my eyes go back to her ass. The jean shorts she’s wearing suddenly look like the hottest fucking thing I think I’ve ever seen a girl wear. Her shirt’s slipped up a little to the arch of her back, accentuating the curve from the feminine slightness of her waist down to her hips. I can’t help imagining what it would be like to take her from behind and— What the fuck am I thinking? But it’s like she’s someone else. Like she’s just another hot girl with an ass that’s begging for me. But it’s Jessie.
I move over to the armchair in the corner opposite the bed and drop down into it. I take my shoes off, then my blazer, and lean back. She comes out of the bathroom and walks over to the bed. I can’t stop looking at her legs, then feeling ashamed, and then looking even harder. She unties her plaid shirt and throws it off, leaving just the t-shirt on. It tightly hugs her breasts, and I see she’s not wearing a bra. I go dizzy from watching her tits bounce when she slumps back onto the bed.
“I’m so fucking wasted,” she says, laughing softly. She rolls her head to the side and looks at me, smiling. “What’s the matter? You look like you’re gonna hurl.”
“This is my drunk face,” is all I can manage to say. It sounds better than, ‘I’m trying to not fuck you.’
She keeps looking at me, then suddenly sits up on the edge of the bed, a mischievous grin on her face.
“You’re fucking hard!”
“What?”
She points in the general direction of my crotch. “You’re fucking hard! I can see it!”
“I’m not hard,” I say, standing up, which only makes the fact I’m about as hard as I can get even more obvious.
“Yes you are!” Jessie says, moving toward me and reaching out clumsily for my cock. She fumbles her hand over it, and my reactions are way too slow to jump back, leaving us standing there, inches apart, her hand clutching my rock-hard erection through my pants.
“Uh. Guess I am.”
I put my hand over hers, but I don’t have the willpower to pull her away. Her smile drops, she bites her lower lip, and her eyes dilate as she looks up at me. Everything comes zooming into sharp focus. I can hear her breathing and my own, feel the heat that’s radiating off her. It’s as if time stops for a few seconds. We’re thinking the same thing.
