Play Boy

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  If I’m honest, her vehement rejection of the idea of something more than friendship with me, stings.

  One night with her and I’m already losing my identity. I have to take a deep breath and remind myself of who I am. I’m Charlie Hartley, playboy. I can have any woman I want.

  Except the woman I really want.

  I drop our empty coffee cups into the sink and offer to drive her home. She has no choice but to accept. Her options are limited seeing as she has no shoes and her dress is falling apart at the seams.

  She climbs into the front seat of the rental car and we travel in silence back to her house. I push back against the urge to say all the things I’m thinking. I want her. Not just for sex. I’m not exactly sure what I need from her but it’s definitely more than the platonic situation we had going before last night.

  Just as she swings one long leg onto the sidewalk, ready to do the walk of shame up to her front door, I lean over and touch her chin. “Come back tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Come back to my place tonight, Nova.” My tone is playful but I’m serious as fuck.

  She laughs in my face. “No fucking way!”

  The rejection stings but still I’m grinning, watching after her as she stumbles barefoot up the walkway.

  Chapter 20

  Nova

  Something is wrong.

  From the minute I unlock the door, I can feel it. There’s this unnerving prickly feeling at the back of my neck. The air is just too quiet, too heavy.

  Moving cautiously, I step over the threshold and peer into the living room. Nothing seems to be out of place there.

  “Mom?” I call out as I inch down the hallway toward the kitchen. No response.

  I stop and peek into the laundry room and the washroom. Looks normal.

  But when I step into the kitchen, I stumble upon a sight that sends me immediately into panic. “Oh my god!”

  My mother is at the kitchen table with a black scarf wound tightly over her mouth. She’s been stripped down to her bra and panties, and is tied to the chair. When she sees me, her eyes go wide. She’s shaking her head back and forth in warning, her messy blonde hair whipping into her face as she pleads with me to leave, to run away, to save myself.

  “Don’t worry mom. I’ll get you out of this.”

  As scared as I am, there’s no way I’m leaving my mother here naked, shackled and alone to face the psychopath who did this to her.

  Thinking fast, I grab a knife off of the kitchen counter and I drop to my knees behind her chair. Employing all my strength, I use the blunt blade to saw through the fibers of the rope binding her wrists. She protests through her gag, rattling the chair as she wiggles back and forth. I shhh her. “Be quiet, mom. You’re gonna get us both killed.”

  Powered by adrenaline, I slice through the binding, one fiber at a time. My arms grow tired and there’s sweat sliding down my armpits, but I have no intention of giving up. I’m almost done, she’s almost free, when I hear heavy footsteps and ominous whistling approaching the kitchen. Just like in a clichéd horror movie.

  Oh god. The bad guy’s back.

  I fall to my butt, cowering behind the chair, holding up the knife defensively. I curse myself for not having worked faster to cut the binding. Now, it’s too late. My mother and I are both going to die…My eyes squeeze shut as I curl myself into a little ball and wait for that fatal blow.

  “Cricket?”

  Huh?

  I peel one eye open and look up in the direction of the familiar voice. I blink a few times to adjust my vision to the perplexing sight.

  My dad is standing over the chair where mother is being held prisoner. My chest shakes with relief. “Daddy, quick! Help!” I grab the knife and resume my frantic and ardent mission to free the woman who gave me life.

  My father flips his head back and laughs, his big brown belly shaking with each cackle.

  That’s when it hit me.

  “Wait…You did this to her?”

  I didn’t have the perfect family growing up. My parents always had issues. They fought with a fierceness that often shook this house to its foundation. I knew that they loved each other so that’s why I couldn’t understand why they fought and why they broke up. And the custody battle was the worst.

  No wonder so many people my age are majorly fucked up. Knowing that you were the subject of a bitter, costly, years’-long court battle will either make you feel a heaping amount of guilt or it will turn you into an insufferable narcissist.

  But despite the explosive nature of my parents’ relationship, I am utterly appalled by the idea that my own father could be callous enough to hold captive the mother of his children against her will.

  Tears run down my face as I flail my limbs and shout a string of obscenities at him, cursing him for being a monster. With a crooked half-smile, he dawdles toward the refrigerator. Meanwhile, mom wiggles about in her chair, frantic to be set free.

  Taking all the time in the world, he grabs a pair of scissors from the top of the fridge and cuts off the gag before unbinding her hands. She twists her mouth in all directions, loosening out the discomfort.

  She turns on me with a glare. “What are you doing here?!”

  “Uh, you’re welcome, mom. Good to see you’re grateful that I saved you from your ex-husband who apparently has become a kidnapping psychopath.” The woman is unbelievable.

  I jump back protectively when my father pulls a gun from his holster and spins it around his finger as he calmly—

  Wait—why does my dad have a holster?

  I pause for a minute to re-evaluate the situation in front of me. My father is shirtless in a pair of brown pressed trousers with a single black stripe down the side. There’s a six-point badge on his belt. And handcuffs. And a bottle of lube!!!

  My mom grunts. “The only thing you ‘saved’ me from was another life-altering orgasm. I hope you’re proud of yourself, young lady.”

  I’m standing in place but my stomach roils with motion sickness. “Argh! Are you two roleplaying?!”

  The innocence of my childhood goes up in flames. It was all a lie. It was all a lie.

  The Easter Bunny is a cross-dresser. Santa Claus is lactose-intolerant. I just walked in on my divorced parents having sex with each other at the table where I ate my Fruity Pebbles yesterday morning.

  I stand up and start pacing the floor. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god.” I rub my eyes again and again to erase the memory.

  Concern covers my father’s face. “Cricket?”

  “Do not ‘Cricket’ me, dad. Not now.”

  My parents share a look.

  “Maybe, I should leave the two of you alone. To have a mother-daughter talk about this,” he suggests.

  I stop for just long enough to glare at him. “Yeah, dad. That’s a good idea.”

  Shoulders shaking with laughter, my father ducks out of the kitchen, the spurs on the backs of his cowboy boots clicking the floor with each step.

  I spin to my mother and shoot daggers her way. “What the hell is going on here?”

  She gives me an impish grin. “What can I say, love? Me and your dad are reigniting the old flame, getting to know each other again.”

  “But I thought you hated each other. Two days ago, you were wishing male pattern baldness, among other things, on him.”

  She shrugs. “Well, when I saw him at the wedding last night, we started talking and I opened my mind up to the possibility that I may have been wrong about him.”

  “Jeez, mom. But do you have to reignite the flame at the kitchen table? Come on!”

  She shrugs. “We had the house to ourselves. Nadia got on a flight back to New York first thing this morning. And don’t think I didn’t see you sneaking out of the wedding last night with that strapping piece of man-meat you brought with you yesterday.”

  "Charlie's just a friend, Cleo."

  She shakes her head disbelievingly. "Everybody's just a friend until you're queefing on his chin i
n a parked car behind the gas station off of Cumber Street. Take it from a gal who's been there."

  "Oh my god. I really, really don't want to hear that story.”

  She sighs breathily as she fans her flushed face with her fingers. She’s obviously reliving the memory. “Girl, you have no idea the things you’re missing out—”

  “Mom, if you could keep it together right now, that would be great.”

  “Nova, honey. You’re overreacting.”

  “Do you understand how traumatic it is to walk in on your mother bound and gagged at the dinner table?”

  "The minute you decide to stop being a prude, you can benefit from the world of experience I'm eager to share. Here you are stumbling in at seven o’clock the morning after and you want to deride me? While you’re wearing your half-ripped dress from last night?”

  “Mom…”

  “No! Where are your dress straps, Nova? Tell me. Where. Are. Your. Dress straps?”

  Well, Charlie ripped them off last night before he pulled my pussy onto his face. But that’s not something you tell your mother.

  Her expression softens. “Don’t be a hypocrite, babe. We’re only human. We’re all just tryin’ to have a few mind-blowing orgasms before we curl up and die."

  Having a few mind-blowing orgasms before we curl up and die…the true meaning of life according to my mother. Profound and deceptively simple. What have the philosophers been beating themselves up over for all these centuries?

  I hold up a hand as I walk away. “Y’know what—I’m not having this conversation right now. I’m gonna be late for work.”

  Have a few mind-blowing orgasms and then what? Feel like shit the next day? When the reality hits that you just fucked one of your best friends, the biggest player in the universe? When the memory of his hot, naked body replays in your mind even as you’re promising yourself that you’ll never have him again?

  No, my mother is wrong. Being with Charlie last night was a mistake. A mistake that changes everything.

  …Yet still, a mistake I want to make again and again.

  Chapter 21

  Charlie

  I hate nights like tonight.

  The other side of my bed is cold. There are ghosts in every corner of the room. I feel like I've got a Volkswagen strapped to my chest. I sit up in bed and stare in to the darkness. I'm sweating. I grate my palms over my scalp, trying to rub the nightmares out of my brain.

  The sound of my own screams echoes in my head. I can smell the metallic odor of my own blood. I can taste it on my tongue. My heart thrashes wildly.

  I reach blindly for my phone sitting on the nightstand. I need to call someone. I need a woman’s body wrapped around mine. I need a warm pussy to pound my fears and frustrations into.

  It's never just about the sex. It's about the escape. It's about a few minutes of freedom from the torture chamber in my skull.

  I try to think of the dirtiest, easiest most willing fuck in my contact list. But for some reason, I pull up Nova’s number instead. I stare at my phone.

  Shit—if only she were here in this bed with me. I'd get lost in those womanly curves, that wild hair, those bottomless pools of emerald light. I'd make her scream my name, I'd find my release in her body. I'd forget about the demons in my head.

  Grunting, I toss the phone across the mattress. I should be used to feeling alone. I should be okay with it by now. And looking to Nova for relief? What the hell is wrong with me? Using her body as a fuck toy to bury my anxieties in would be the easiest way to lose her friendship.

  I’ve got to get it together.

  Climbing out of bed, I pad down the stairs and go into the kitchen. I yank the stainless steel doors open and a flood of light beams into my face. I peer inside but I’m not really looking for anything other than some respite from my thoughts. I decide to grab a cold beer. Leaning back against the counter, I crack the can open and take a long gulp.

  The shrill sound of the doorbell bursts through the quiet house and I jolt. “Who the hell…?”

  Leaving the beer on the counter, I let the fridge doors swing shut and I make my way to the living room. When I glimpse out the front windows, I see a busted up white Acura parked crooked on the curb. A cocky burst of male pride explodes in my chest.

  I knew she’d be back.

  She tried acting like last night could just be swept under the rug, forgotten. Well, I’m not the kind of man a woman can just forget. Not even a woman like Nova Chester.

  I swing the door open and watch her with a brash grin.

  She holds up a hand like a stop sign. “Okay, before you start gloating, just know that I am not here to have sex with you.”

  Chapter 22

  Nova

  Really—I’m not here to have sex with him.

  That’s what I keep telling myself.

  I just couldn’t stay home tonight. Not as my parents continue their vigorous and enthusiastic reunion. It started to sound like National Geographic was filming a special about the great water buffalo herds of New Zealand inside my mother’s bedroom. Guttural cries, animalistic groans, the thundering bang of the headboard slapping the wall. I had to get out of there.

  And since Sophia is still bunking on Reese’s couch, the only friend who could take me in for the night was Charlie. So, it was logical for me to come here. Right?

  Yes, that’s a totally logical argument. I think I’ll stick with it.

  My gaze leaps to the doorway when Charlie saunters back into the room. At the sight of him, my mouth dries out. He’s wearing nothing but his dark cotton boxers. Every bulging muscle in his chest, every hollow ridge of his torso, every sinewy inch of his forearms is on display. And even with the best of intentions, a girl can’t help but gawp as he swaggers into the dark room.

  He flicks on the fireplace and takes a seat next to me. “Water?” He tilts a plastic bottle my way as the cushions of the couch shift under his weight.

  Like a dehydrated voyager stranded in the Sahara, I grab the bottle from him and suck down half of its contents in one go. “Thanks.”

  He grins at me, holding my gaze like he knows exactly how hard I’m fighting the urge to leap into his arms and explore every inch of his flesh with my tongue.

  “So, how was your day, Butterfly?” He angles his body toward me, throwing an arm over the back of the couch.

  The overwhelming heat of his nearly-naked form swallows me up and I take another gulp from my water bottle. “You mean aside from bearing witness to my parents’ mutual sexual reawakening?”

  He chuckles. “That’s what you get for still living at home at your age.”

  “What can I say? The Millenial clichés are true.” I laugh through my nose. “In my defense, my mom works 20 hours a day. And before yesterday, the only time my father stepped foot on that property in the past five years was to yell at her for egging his car that time he showed up in town with some woman he met on a cruise.” Charlie’s still laughing. The sound is sort of intoxicating, making my skin feel tight and edgy in this shadowy room. “You know my financial situation. It’s not like I’d be able to afford anything decent anyway. At least not without a roommate. And I don’t do roommates.”

  “Have you done any gigs lately?”

  I don’t know why, but every time he asks about my gigs, it makes me feel like I have wings. He truly believes that it’s only a matter of time until something good happens for me, career wise.

  “Actually, I got a phone call out of the blue the other day. This indie production company. They were asking about my Love Bugs comics. Said they liked what I had on my blog. They wanted me to send in some more sketches and story ideas.” I shrug a shoulder. “That’s why I asked you to bring my sketchpad to the restaurant that day.”

  He tilts his head, catching my eyes. “Nova, that’s awesome. Why aren’t you more excited?”

  “They haven’t even called back,” I chuff.

  “They’ll call.” There’s not an iota of doubt in his voice.

/>   I wave a hand dismissively. “I don’t want to get my hopes up. In case it doesn’t work out.”