Perky

by Julia Kent

  “Yes,” I gasp.

  “So do I. I’ve wanted to do this every day for the last five years, Persephone.”

  And then he finishes me off with three strokes of his tongue, three strokes of his fingers, and three strokes of the clock.

  Wait. There’s a clock?

  As I come so hard, my mind holds two realities–the sins of the flesh and the sins of the phone. It’s beeping, the sound right next to me, and I lose momentum, foiled by my own devious plan.

  Distracted from the best orgasm of my life by my own need for revenge.

  Damn it.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  “My phone.”

  “Why is it beeping?”

  Knock knock knock.

  “Seriously, guys? AGAIN?”

  “Mallory,” I hiss, pushing Parker away with my knee, sitting up fast. My left ass cheek, bare against the shelf, is resting on my phone.

  I carefully climb down, aided by a gentlemanly hand from Parker. The movement pushes my phone to the ground, and I’m thankful for the rubber flooring. A light flashes as it falls, face down.

  What the hell was that beep?

  Parker wipes his mouth with his palm, laughing eyes meeting mine. “Shhhh,” he says, pressing his finger to lips that would taste like me if I kissed him.

  Which I won’t.

  Because if I do, I won’t be able to stop.

  Bending down, I retrieve my phone and shove it in my skirt pocket, hitting the power button to stop it from pointing fingers at me.

  The door opens. Mal and Will are standing there.

  “Is this a fetish?” Will asks. “Not judging you two, but this is a pattern. If every time we go to a restaurant with you guys, you’re going to have sex in a closet or a cooler or a coat-check room, we just need to know.”

  “We were talking,” Parker lies.

  Mal sniffs the air. “Mmm hmm. Smells like 'talking' in here.”

  “I smell none of our business,” Will says, backing her out.

  Taking in a deep breath, I decide I smell something, too.

  The scent of confusion.

  The scent of an abandoned plan.

  And the sound of my heart, trying to sort out truth from wishes.

  13

  “Why are we here, again?” Fiona asks as she sips the coffee I’ve just made her at Beanerino. It’s the morning after my impromptu sexfest with Parker on our double date. I was too scared to look at my phone last night, so I’ve been waiting for this moment.

  “To watch the sex tape Parker may have made with me yesterday.”

  Mallory’s jaw does the O thing. “You were recording when you were having sex at the restaurant?”

  “You had sex in a restaurant?” Fi squeals just as Raul walks by.

  “In the supply closet,” I clarify. “It was private. And the sex tape was an accident.”

  “You are hereby restricted from our supply closet,” Raul declares.

  “What? You can’t do that!”

  “Does Perky even know where your supply closet it?” Mal asks. “She never fills the sugar or cream or sleeves on her own.”

  I punch her arm as Raul fistbumps her. “Hey! And besides, we’re not talking about that. We’re talking about the sex tape!” I hold out my phone. Terror rips through me. “I didn’t mean to do it. I think it’s all Parker’s fault.”

  Fiona and Mallory freeze at the same time, then look at each other.

  “And how is it Parker’s fault?”

  “So, first of all, you need to know I did not record this. At all.” I put my hands up in a defensive gesture.

  “The recording fairy magically sprinkled dust on you while you screwed in a restaurant supply closet and that’s how you have the video?” Fiona cracks.

  “Basically.”

  “Ha ha. That’s impossible.”

  “Says the woman who uses a dowsing rod to find free parking.”

  “That’s energy, not fairy dust!”

  I cue up the video on my phone. “All I know is, I did NOT record this. And there’s a fifty-seven-second video on my phone. We were having sex and the phone suddenly beeped.” I start to hit Play.

  “Oh, no,” they say in unison.

  “She wants us to watch it,” Mal groans.

  “Of course I do! I can’t do it by myself. I don’t know what’s on here!”

  “How would Parker record it? Did he touch your phone? You think he’s setting you up by recording sex on your phone?”

  “I’ve thought about our conversation in the supply closet when his head went between my legs, and–”

  “You talk during sex?” Mal asks.

  I glare at her. “–and at one point, he said, ‘Hey, seriously.’”

  “Aaannd?”

  “I think it made Siri wake up. And then he said something that had the word 'record' in it.”

  “Parker’s a formal talker, isn’t he? Most guys just grunt about where to put your pinkie and call you by the wrong name,” Fiona mutters.

  “You are seriously screwing the wrong guys, Fi,” Mallory chides.

  “See! Seriously sounds like Siri! It’s all Parker’s fault!”

  Mallory pulls out her phone and starts tapping. Eyes bouncing all over the screen for about ten seconds, she finally stops, giving me a troubled look.

  “A quick Google says Perk might be right. There are voice-activated recording apps, and the sequence of words could trigger an app to start up, but–”

  “You had a plan to get him on video, Perky, and now you have the video, but you’re saying you didn’t make it?” Fiona asks, clearly not believing me.

  “Exactly! This is not my fault!”

  “This is totally your fault,” Fiona chastises.

  I stick my tongue out at her and hit Play.

  Mal covers her eyes.

  Fiona leans in.

  At first, it’s just darkness, a handful of words between us audible but muffled. Parker’s voice says what sounds like heart, then something else, then want you. Then the phone scrapes, a sudden, jarring movement. More shadowy motion, then the unmistakable sounds of two people getting it on.

  Mallory plugs her ears.

  Another scraping sound. More darkness.

  And then some light.

  “What is that?” Fiona asks, peering intently.

  “Us! Having sex!”

  “It looks like a spider.”

  “What?”

  Her fingertip touches the screen. “See? Maybe you filmed a hairy spider in the supply room? Were there cobwebs?”

  “No! That’s me and Parker!”

  “Oh, God,” I groan on the video.

  “Huh. That’s definitely you guys having sex,” Mallory announces. “Hear all the moist sounds?”

  I shudder. “Don’t say the word 'moist.'”

  “Calm your tits,” she replies.

  Raul shuffles over and looks at my screen.

  “What are you watching?” he asks.

  “Perky made a sex tape.”

  “You know the rules, Perky! No pornography at work!” He’s outraged.

  “You never said anything about my own sex tapes.”

  “We shouldn’t have to specify!”

  “But you didn’t. Plus, I’m only banned from watching pornography at work on a laptop. Phones weren’t in that agreement.”

  “That is definitely a spider,” Mallory concludes, finger on the screen like Fiona’s. “See the fuzziness? It’s hairy, and it–”

  Raul stands up straight, hand over his chest. “That is not a spider.”

  “What is it?” Mal asks.

  “That is a starfish.”

  “A what?”

  “A starfish,” he says in a strange gagging voice as he walks away.

  “What does he mean, starf–”

  “Are you kidding me?” Fiona groans. “Perky! You filmed your butthole the entire time.”

  “My what?” I try to grab the phone but Mallory and Fiona sudden
ly engage in an infuriating version of Monkey in the Middle.

  “OMG!” Mallory snorts. “That is totally a butthole. I can see it now.” She strokes the screen as Fiona holds it where I can't reach. “See the outline of the–” A mortified expression covers her face as she snatches her finger away, holding it like it's contaminated.

  “I didn’t film it! Parker filmed my butthole!” I screech.

  “What did Raul mean by 'starfish'?” Mallory persists in asking.

  “Brown starfish,” Fiona explains.

  Mal’s blank expression makes it clear how she ended up on a porn set last year after applying for a fluffer job, assuming it was a real estate industry term for a house stager.

  “That,” Fiona says, finger quickly withdrawing from my phone screen, “is fifty-seven seconds of nothing but Perky’s bare asshole.”

  “Why would you record your butthole?” Mallory asks me, head tilted, red curls covering her shoulder like she's protecting it from my video.

  “I didn’t intend to! It wasn’t me! I did not film my own butthole! WHO VOLUNTARILY MAKES A SEX TAPE OF THEIR OWN BUTTHOLE DURING SEX?”

  “Apparently, you do,” Mal says with a shrug.

  Fiona cuts in. “Is this an aspect of the restaurant-sex kink you and Parker have? Is ass play–”

  “An aspect?” Mallory giggles. “Get it? ASS-pect?”

  I snatch the phone back and watch. They’re right. Raul was right. That’s nothing but a recording of my actual butthole. It clenches in solidarity.

  “And someone needs a waxing session. Stat!” Fi says dryly.

  “Hey! Don’t judge my bits!”

  “Your butthole looks like it could compete in a beard contest.”

  “And win,” Mal adds.

  “You two are such assholes!”

  Mal slings her arm around Fiona and smirks. “Then take a video! That seems to be your YouPorn category.”

  I power my phone off and sigh. The memory of Parker’s mouth and hands on me makes me shiver.

  Fiona appears to be deep in thought before catching my eye. “Isn’t this the second time Parker’s given you an orgasm in a restaurant and you’ve left him hanging?”

  “Left him what?”

  “Or not hanging,” Mallory snickers. “Bet he’s hard and blue right now.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For a guy who betrayed you, he’s awfully generous with the orgasms. A selfish jerk wouldn’t do that, you know?”

  She’s got a point.

  “Maybe I can give him a blowie,” I say, oozing sarcasm. “But how do you video that while using both hands?”

  “A GoPro camera on your head?” Mallory suggests.

  Fiona folds in half laughing.

  “That’s a great idea!” I shoot back.

  “I WAS KIDDING.”

  I slump in my seat. “What am I going to do now? Parker–not me!–made a sex tape of us and it’s nothing but fifty-seven seconds of my butt.”

  “Perk, you need to drop this stupid, immoral stunt.”

  “Nope,” I say, shaking my head. I let out a long sigh. “I know what I need to do next.”

  “What?”

  “I have no choice.”

  “WHAT?”

  “I have to sleep with Parker again.”

  Bailargo. Mallory dragged us to this dance studio, insisting that the wedding party needs lessons. Of course, she's doing this while Parker is still in town. Of course, she is doing this while I'm still processing last night.

  My blood is racing through my body at double time as I stare at the front door.

  The Bailargo building is nothing but shades of red and black. Black trim, red walls. Red trim, dark grey walls. A perfect turret that looks like a bullfighter standing at attention. A multicolored door, if by “multi,” you mean red and black.

  There’s a splash of white and a mural possibly done by Salvador Dalí… or Pablo Picasso. I’m not sure.

  My mother calls this kind of building a “painted lady.” It’s a Victorian mansion that’s been renovated, with wooden shingles and trim in all shapes and patterns. I’ve been here a bunch of times. This is where we learned to dance in middle school. Rachel Rabinowitz invited us to a Purim ball, and we took our first dance lessons… not that any of the boys actually asked us to dance at the ball. We just felt cool to know that we could.

  The walk up the steps is filled with laughter and chatting as Fiona, Mallory, Will, and I enter the studio together. The entire wedding party couldn’t make it today, but the gleaming floors of the ballroom beckon to those of us who could.

  “Hey!” says a loud male voice.

  We turn as a group to find Chris Fletcher standing there in front of big trays of cookies and a large lemonade dispenser. He waves, his hand halting in midair as Fiona inhales sharply and halts.

  “What’s he doing here?” she hisses in an accusing tone, all of it piled on Mallory.

  “He’s in the wedding party,” Mallory says in a patient voice that only serves to escalate Fiona’s wrath.

  “I know he’s in the wedding party,” she snaps back. “But what is he doing here? You didn’t warn me!”

  “You require a trigger warning for Fletch?” Will pipes up. “I know we're millennials, but come on.”

  I shut my eyes hard. He just took a level-six situation and escalated it beyond ten.

  “I don’t need a trigger warning,” Fiona practically growls. “But a heads up would have been nice.”

  “Why? He’s just Fletch. Nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I'm not afraid of him!”

  “Besides, you can take him. You did in seventh grade.” Will crosses the line when he adds one word, two syllables, and sixteen years of baggage: “Feisty.”

  His whisper of her nickname causes Fiona’s entire spine to stretch up along the curve of an S, a cobra rising up and spreading wide before it strikes.

  “I don’t have to defend the fact that I don’t like him to you,” Fiona says in a, well, feisty tone.

  “And I don’t have to defend the fact that my friend is going to be one of my groomsmen,” he responds in kind.

  Fiona turns to the right just as Will turns to the left, mirror images of misplaced anger and outrage. Mallory catches my eye and without another word, we take our positions.

  “Will. Fi,” we say, each of us touching our separate person’s shoulder, each of us designed to neutralize. We are Switzerland. We are a United Nations field team. We are the backstage staffers of a Dr. Phil episode, trained to defuse.

  Yet prepared for combat.

  “Hello, hello!” says a man with an accent, his hands rising up in the air at forehead level for two staccato claps. “Welcome, welcome to the group DANCE lesson,” he says, the word DANCE shouted as if in all caps. “I am Philippe! Many of you are here to celebrate Will and Mallory’s wedding! How wonderful. The rest of us are here to have fun, too! You know they met here, yes? Bailargo is for lovers!”

  “No, we… didn’t?” Mallory says, her voice going up in a question, as if the suggestion itself violated her sense of order in the universe.

  “You reconnected,” he corrects, his left arm spread out, as if he’s the emcee and we are but a circus act.

  “No, actually, we had reconnected before that lesson?” Mallory says, her voice rising at the end even more. Uptalk is a sure sign of anxiety.

  Meanwhile, Will and Fiona are shooting lasers at each other with their eyes.

  “Hey, what’s goin’ on?” Fletch ambles over. He’s a muscular guy, but not as big as he was in high school. Tighter. Leaner. More muscle than fat. More compact.

  He’s genial, and if you don’t pay close enough attention, you think he’s a little bit stupid. In high school, he hung out with Will, Sameer Ramini, and Michael Osgood, all four of them football players, the four of them inseparable. But of Will’s three friends, Fletch was the nicest.

  Not that that was saying much.

  And of the four of the
m, he’s the one I’ve had the most interaction with over the years. Fiona teaches his nephew now, but she pretends not to know what’s going on with Fletch. He owns a small personal training and boxing studio in the next town over, and my mom told me he’s a volunteer paramedic and firefighter, too.

  You know the type. Hometown hero.

  He’s also entirely clueless when it comes to social tension.

  “Hey, Feisty,” he says, giving Fiona a shrug. “What’s up?”

  She pretends he doesn't exist. Which works.

  For about three seconds.

  “Hello?” He gets in her face, not in an aggressive way, but like a well-meaning church member at coffee hour who genuinely thinks you just didn't hear him greet you.

  Eleven years disappear.

  In high school, Fiona was a shit-kicking, ball-breaking, give-no-fucks grrrrrllll who was disagreeable, opinionated, and quietly seething.

  But since we graduated, she's changed. Dramatically. Her first semester of college altered her, moving her closer to the sprightly fairy-like preschool teacher she is now, a free spirit with the emphasis on spirit.

  Have you ever known someone so kind, so pleasant, so generous of heart that the very idea of their being angry or ungracious would shatter your world?

  Well... here you go. Get ready to pick up the pieces.

  “Go to hell, Fletch,” she whispers. Don’t mistake the soft tone for anything but strength, though.

  Parker is suddenly beside me, holding two clear plastic cups of lemonade, wearing a confused expression. “What did he say to piss her off?”

  “Called her Feisty.”

  “She is feisty right now.”

  “Shhh! Don't let her hear you call her that, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “She hates it. In seventh grade, she dropkicked Chris Fletcher and earned the nickname.”

  “Isn't that guy's name Chris Fletcher? The same Fletch?”

  “Yep.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest, biceps flexing. “Got it.” His phone rings. With an apologetic look, he examines the screen. “It’s Omaia. Have to take this.” Pivoting, he walks near the door, speaking firmly and with precision.

  CLAP CLAP!

  I turn toward the sound to see Philippe standing next to a group of whitehairs, three women and one gnome masquerading as a human being, all looking at us eagerly. We're two generations younger than any of them, grandparents on one side of the room, grandchildren on the other. Nothing makes a group of late twenty-somethings devolve into children faster than a grandparent.