Amped

by Teagan Kade

  Back home, I take out the lingerie set—a lacy black and gold teddy with matching thong that leaves very little to the imagination. I hold it up against myself in the mirror. I’m not a big lingerie girl, though most of what I’ve been wearing in my music videos could be considered such. Still, it looks suitably sexy and I’ve yet to meet a man who doesn’t get off on this kind of thing.

  I think of Mat but shut it down just as fast.

  Rick. Focus. On. Rick.

  Growing up, it was hard to gauge the difference between the boys, but as we went through puberty I started to see two very different individuals emerge. Mat wanted the lifestyle that being a musician allowed. He wanted to bring the Barton name back into the mainstream, remove the tarnish, so to speak. As for Rick, he was all about the business, making money. Me? I just wanted to sing. I still do, but it’s never that simple. Everything becomes business at the top.

  I put on the lingerie and select a trench coat from my wardrobe, wrapping myself up like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

  I pucker my lips in the mirror. “Brace yourself, Ricky boy. Mama’s bringing the sexy back.”

  *

  Rick’s office is in the heart of the LA central business district. At this time of night the tower he works in is deserted, but the security guard knows me well enough to let me through. He looks twice at my get-up but says nothing more. I imagine more than a few executives in this office building are privy to such visits from time to time.

  I cinch the belt tighter around my waist in the elevator, cool air reaching up between my legs. I start to run over how this will play out in my head as the elevator rises. This kind of thing has been a fantasy of mine for a while, but I’ve never had the cojones to go through with it, too scared someone will catch me in the act.

  By the time the elevator doors open, I’m ready for action, unable to wipe the smile from my face and a spider’s web of anxiousness is fast spanning throughout my body. It’s been a while, after all. I tend to myself, but it’s not the same as flesh meeting flesh, the welcome weight of a real-life cock driving inside you.

  I pad down the hall quietly still smiling, the heels I’m wearing add inches to my height, but make progress difficult. Rick’s a sucker for heels. That alone is going to send him to his knees, and once he’s down there…

  I see there’s a light on at the end of the hallway where’s Rick’s office is. That’s good. I want him to see exactly what I’m wearing.

  I’m thinking of entering and placing my finger against my lips, slowly un-cinching my belt before letting the trench coat fan out completely and the treasures below be consumed by Rick’s eyes. There’s no way he’ll be able to resist.

  I enter the small reception area—empty, of course. The door to Rick’s office is closed, the blinds drawn.

  I slowly step to the door, my hand moving to the door knob, and that’s when I hear it.

  Someone else.

  Heavy breathing.

  A feminine moan.

  It can’t be.

  My fingers remain locked around the door knob. I can’t decide what to do, if I even want to see, but I have to. I must.

  I turn the door knob quickly, like pulling away a Band-Aid, and take it in.

  My eyes adjust quickly to the light, to the lurid scene playing out.

  All of my worst fears are realized.

  Rick’s lying back on his desk. There’s a woman straddling him, her back to me and her hips rising and falling as she takes him inside her. I can see the act, the way his cock drives up to meet her slick opening.

  I want to be sick.

  Neither of them has seen me, too caught up in the sex, oblivious to anything but themselves, so I stand there, frozen, eyes welling and bile rising in my throat.

  “Rick,” I croak out.

  The effect is immediate. They both stop, the woman turning, seeing me and covering her breasts, Rick sitting up with his mouth slack and eyes glassy, the realization settling in.

  I didn’t think it could get worse, but when I look at her face, it does.

  It’s Alice.

  My best friend is fucking my boyfriend.

  “Alice?” my voice breaks halfway through her name, a fat tear falling from my face.

  She wants to speak, but her mouth remains locked in an obscene O of surprise.

  I notice Rick is wearing a condom. At least he had that much forethought.

  I actually have to hold onto the doorframe to stop myself from collapsing with shock.

  Alice climbs off him, Rick’s cock slapping wetly against his stomach.

  My god.

  “Selena,” says Rick, standing and pulling up his pants. “It’s not what it looks like.”

  Does he think I’m an idiot?

  Maybe I am if I couldn’t see this.

  My vision’s blurry, my legs shaking, but I concentrate on Alice. Rick’s betrayal is one thing, but Alice? The girl who I used to share passionfruit ice cream with, who would sleep over, both us of talking about boys until we fell asleep. I can’t wrap my head around it.

  She gathers up clothes and holds them in front of herself, but refuses to come forward. Finally, she finds her voice. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Sel.”

  The anger rises too fast at those words for me to contain myself any longer. I jab my finger, my belt coming undone and the lingerie I just spent hundreds on in full show, adding further to the humiliation, but I won’t be undone. “You? Of all people? I trusted you. You’re my best fucking friend, Alice.” The cursing sounds strange coming from my mouth.

  Alice looks to Rick, unsure.

  “Sel,” Rick starts again, making for me, but I’ve seen enough. There’s not an excuse on earth that can dig either one of them out of this hole.

  I turn and run, losing one heel and then the other, my bare feet padding down the carpet until I hit the back of the elevator with both hands.

  I turn and see Rick running for it, but he’s too late, the doors close and his body slams against the other side.

  “Fuck!” he yells, his voice growing weaker as the elevator starts to drop.

  I press my back against the glass on the back of the elevator and try to breathe, to make sense of something, anything, but it’s useless.

  The doors open on the ground floor and I run across the lobby, the security guard calling in concern. I come outside into the cold. Ari clearly wasn’t expecting me out so soon, but when he sees me coming he hops out and opens the back door, ushering me in.

  “Go,” I plead. “Please, just go.”

  Rick emerges shirtless from the building as the SUV starts to pull away. He stumbles to the road and slaps his hands against the window, calling my name over and over, but I can’t bring myself to look at him.

  “Miss Torres?” questions Ari.

  “Just drive,” I tell him, the SUV pulling away, Rick left standing there in the middle of the street half naked, hands on his head.

  I watch him shrink in the passenger-side mirror and with it any chance I had of happiness this night.

  *

  As soon as I’m home, I take a shower. I make the water lukewarm, and the crazy thing? I feel dirty. No amount of soap or scrubbing seems to be able to wash it away.

  I slide down the tiles and pull my legs under myself, great sobbing racking through my frame, my tears flowing away with the shower water around my feet.

  Everything’s such a mess. What do I do now? Rick was my agent, but that has to end. I can’t let the man who cheated on me with my best friend call the shots any more.

  All those nights working late. What was he really doing?

  Or who?

  I know the answer, but I also know thinking through it, imagining every scenario, is not going to change things.

  I shut off the shower and find a bathrobe. I sit on the bed and stare vacantly out the window.

  Elvis jumps up into my lap. I stroke the spot between his ears. “At least you know how to treat me right.” He gives a little y
elp in reply.

  My cell rings again. I pick it up expecting it to be Rick for the umpteenth time tonight, but it’s Mat.

  My finger hovers over answer. Should I?

  I’m weak and vulnerable. Now is definitely not the best time.

  The pressure of my finger must be too great, because the phone answers and soon I hear his voice. “Sel? You there?”

  Slowly, I bring the cell up to my ear. “Yes.”

  It only takes one word for Matt to sense something is off. “Sel? What happened?”

  I try not to let my voice crack further. “Why are you calling, Mat?”

  “I wanted to say sorry, Sel. I was an asshole, and I know that’s not saying much, but I was and I have to apologize. The way we ended things, I can’t—”

  “It’s okay. Nothing happened.”

  He seems surprised. “It’s not okay, Sel. It’s really fucking not. I should have respected you, your career. What you’ve achieved is amazing and I have no business trying to tell you otherwise. I mean fucking look at me. I’m working in a god damn bar, the son of Mason Barton. It’s crazy.”

  He isn’t talking about what happened in the den at all.

  It’s sensible is what it is. Maybe a little crazy, yes, but Mat cares more about other people than he lets on. His mother could go into state care. He wouldn’t have to pay a penny, but no. He won’t allow it. He makes it out that it’s all about him out there in the world, the ‘Mat show,’ but I know better.

  I see Alice again, her ass shifting, hands cupping her breasts, bigger than mine, and I start crying fresh.

  “Sel? Jesus, I didn’t want you to get upset.”

  “It’s not you, Mat.”

  “It’s not?”

  I shake my head knowing full well he can’t see it.

  “What happened?” He’s onto me.

  Do I tell him? We’ve only just met again. Can I trust the new Mat? I don’t know, but right now I need someone to confide in, and it sure as hell ain’t going to be Alice.

  It comes out in a verbal torrent. I tell him about catching them in the act, the horror of finding Rick with my best friend, the way he ran after me, the excuses, the late nights, the constant calls… It all seems so clear now. How did I miss it?

  “Motherfucker,” says Mat. “I’m going to kill him.”

  “Mat…”

  “The fucking arrogance. I mean, Jesus Christ, with Alice? Alice fucking Garcia. He’s got to pay. I’m coming over.”

  “No. He’s not here.”

  Mat gives a grunt. “That would be fucking right. Skulking away like a coward.”

  “Can I come to your place? I don’t want to be alone.”

  I don’t even really take stock of my mouth forming the words, the idea abstract at first but growing, and it’s true. I don’t want to be alone right now. I need a familiar face—one which isn’t fucking me over.

  “Of course,” he replies, quick as a flash.

  “You’re still at the White House?”

  “For now.”

  I wipe away the tears and sniff back the rest. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MAT

  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Selena cry. She was a sort of tomboy growing up. I saw a kid punch her square in the chest and still she didn’t shed a tear. She punched him back instead, almost broke his jaw. That’s the Sel I know—not the wet-faced husk that shows up at my door with Elvis cradled in her arms.

  I pat his head. “I haven’t seen you in a while, buddy.”

  Even upset, Sel looks beautiful, angelic, and I suddenly realize it’s because she’s vulnerable. The Selena Torres the world knows is strong and fierce, but she’s human, too.

  Sel places Elvis on the floor. He goes scurrying off down the back.

  I take her in my arms, holding her tight. She smells of vanilla and home, an open field of flowers, of everything I left behind to chase myself around the world. I’ve missed this smell, missed her more than I realized.

  She holds herself away, an unsteady hand planted on my heart, and looks into my eyes. Her own are wet and glassy, pools of emotion. “Thank you,” she says simply.

  I reply by pulling her in and letting her head rest on my shoulder, her silky hair against my cheek.

  My cock stiffens, but I shift to the side. The last thing I want is to give her the wrong impression. No, right now my feelings don’t matter. I’m here for support and nothing more.

  As for Rick… That fucker better hope I don’t find him. Bartons are lovers and fighters. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than smashing his head in.

  I feel the soft swell of Sel’s breasts against my chest. Well, almost nothing.

  I don’t know how long we stand in the doorway like that, the cool night breeze wrapping around us. I don’t really care. I could happily hold her forever.

  Eventually she peels herself from my shoulder and wipes her face. “I’m such a mess.”

  I run a lock of hair behind her ear. “You’re beautiful.”

  She punches me playfully in the chest. “And you’re an idiot.”

  “What are you going to do now?” I query.

  She looks defiant, the Sel I know returning. “I’m going to find a new agent and I’m going to record that album. Did I have a contract with Rick? Yes. Is there going to be trouble? Most definitely, but screw him. I’ll work it out.”

  “We will work it out.”

  She nods. “As you wish, bozo.”

  God, it’s been years since anyone’s called me that.

  I signal to the back of the house where the den is. “How about a drink?”

  She tries to smile. “What have you got?”

  I smile back. “Your favorite.”

  *

  Sel takes another swig from the bottle and holds it away, coughing. “Do you know how long it’s been since I had tequila like this?”

  I take the bottle off her hands and take a slug, the warm liquid lighting up my insides—not that I need much encouragement with Sel so close. “What did we used to call you? The ‘Tequila Queen’?”

  “La Princesa Tequila.”

  “Only you can make Spanish sound that sexy.”

  I hand the bottle over.

  Reluctantly, she takes it, rolling her eyes. “I bet you had your share of Latina girls on tour.”

  Was that a question? I make sure I hold eye contact. “There are Latina girls and then there are Latina girls.”

  “And which am I?” she purrs.

  I put my feet up on the table. “Oh, you’re quite the latter—fiery, strong… scary”

  She laughs into the bottle, pulling it free from her lips. “I don’t feel very strong, or fiery.”

  “Don’t let that asshole get to you, Sel. God knows what he was thinking cheating on you. I mean what sane male would do that?”

  “As much as I’m enjoying this flattery, I still feel like shit.”

  “So drink. I’ll get the guitar.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “You’re going to serenade me now? Wow, you really are pulling out all the stops. What next? A fruit platter? Chocolate-dipped strawberries?”

  Chocolate-dipped something else, maybe… “If you so desire, La Princesa.”

  There’s a grumble from Elvis, curled up on a pillow by the kick drum in the corner.

  I shake my head. “He hasn’t changed a bit.”

  Sel smiles. “He is the one constant in my life at the moment.”

  I stand and retrieve one of Dad’s acoustics from the wall. This one’s a worn Martin made of Hawaiian koa. Dad had pet names for all his guitars. This one he called Sally.

  Selena remembers. “Sal’s not looking so bad for an old girl.”

  I set the guitar in my lap and take a pick out of my pocket. I always keep one on me. I tap the body. “Sal’s got a lot of life left in her yet. So, what’ll it be? I’m taking requests.”

  Sel places the tequila bottle between her legs and folds the
m up onto the couch. “Given we’re in your Dad’s den, it’s only fitting we pay him tribute by singing one of his songs, right?”

  “Son of a Party? Love Attack? Though I was always partial to Can’t Stop the Samurai.”

  Sel laughs. “No one likes that song.”

  “Millions of Mason Barton fans would argue that point.”

  She gives me the eye. “Only because it’s so woefully bad it’s good. I mean, what’s the first line? ‘Today, today is the day I die, fuck you, you can’t stop the samurai’?”

  We both ball over laughing.

  “I don’t think you were around,” I note. “But Dad literally wrote that drunk on the floor here. He actually scribbled the lyrics on the tiles with a permanent marker. Over there. See?”

  Sel looks over at a swirly back stain on the tiles near the TV. “Holy shit. I always wondered what that was. I thought somebody puked after overdosing on licorice or something.”

  “Looks like you don’t know everything then.”

  She shifts a little closer. It doesn’t go unnoticed. “I know all I need to know.”

  I start strumming an open minor chord. It’s my go-to whenever I’m not thinking, because god knows my mind isn’t on playing right now. All of my attention is on Sel, the tight pull in the crotch of my pants as my erection grows.

  Like an automaton, I start to sing the first song that comes to mind, one of Dad’s ballads—The Reaping, a heartfelt description of love and loss.

  I sing through the first verse, tapping my foot in time, my throat scratchy from the tequila. I can feel her eyes on me as she joins me in the chorus, our voices twining together in perfect harmony. It’s always been that way. We never had to practice or think about how to make it work. Our voices were made for each other.

  Pitch fucking perfect.

  We smile at each other as we sing, the key shifting up as we enter the bridge, Dad’s words speaking truer than ever before as I look into Sel’s eyes, no one in the world but us. I’ve forgotten how good this feels, how good we are together. If we can bottle this magic, we’ll sell millions, but it’s not the money I’m thinking of. I’m looking at Sel and I’m seeing possibility—a partner, a girlfriend. Hell, perhaps a wife, a mother…