Lost In Us

by Layla Hagen

  Sophie just stares at her.

  I wonder how long it would take them to jump at each other's throats if there wasn’t an actual law punishing them. Funny how they immediately thought I was a high school girl. Probably because they never outgrew that phase. I clutch my mask forcefully and exit the room, wishing more than ever that Jess were here or that I was home. What was I thinking? What was James thinking? Why did he invite me here? He's already got a group of desperate hyenas, whose beauty nor silliness I match, to choose from.

  There are less than a hundred feet between the front door and me. Loren is still there, guarding it, but I'm pretty sure he won't try to stop me from leaving. The taxi back home would cost me a week's salary, but right now, that doesn't sound half bad.

  And yet I don't move one inch from my frozen position against the door. There's something rooting me to the spot. Something that tells me this isn't the time to chicken out and flee.

  I unhitch myself from the door and put the mask on just as the hyenas burst out of the room. They, too, are wearing masks.

  "There you are," Sophie giggles. "We were afraid we lost you."

  The lark opens a door to a hall that looks as long as this one and the four of them walk inside. Sophie steps on her own dress and stumbles forward, nearly knocking the other girls over. As she bursts into yet another torrent of giggles, under the disdainful look of the lark, I make a mental note to get lost among the other guests as fast as possible.

  "Wow," I exclaim for the third time tonight when we enter the ballroom.

  A high glass arch spans above us, contrasting with the house’s cubic form. It also contrasts with the classical dresses and tuxedos in a whimsical, almost eerie way. There must be more than a hundred people here, not including the orchestra. Finding Dani among the sea of masked men and women won't be an easy task, though there aren't many white dresses in sight. I step away from the hyenas as fast as possible, hoping the mask on my face and the champagne in their blood are a good enough camouflage.

  I stand on my toes and try to spot Dani in the crowd, something that becomes increasingly difficult because everyone is regrouping along the edges of the dance floor. I give up trying to advance when I'm so squeezed in between a middle-aged couple that I can barely breathe. The woman must have spilled an entire bottle of a nauseating sweet perfume on herself.

  "Red suits you," a voice calls behind me. I'm suddenly very grateful for being squeezed in, because my knees seem to have turned to rubber. But my relief only lasts for a few seconds, because the music starts and everyone around me disperses, moving to the dance floor.

  I don't fall. I can't move, either.

  When he finally comes into view, my breath is cut short. There is something about seeing his beautiful blue eyes behind a mask that makes every inch of my skin burn.

  So it wasn't the tequila last night.

  "Dance?" He extends his hand.

  "I can't dance." Out of the corner of my eye I see Sophie watching us, crestfallen.

  "That makes two of us," he says, though unlike me, he doesn't sound panicked in the slightest. I really can't dance. Especially not waltz. But he doesn't lower his hand, and instead of protesting further, I raise my hand and place it in his. As if in slow motion I see him putting his

  other arm around my waist, and pulling me so close to him that I feel his every breath against my skin. This doesn't help the burning sensation. At all.

  "You came," he says and his lips curve into last night’s same conceited smile.

  "I make a habit of honoring my invitations," I say, surprised by how aggressive I sound. I bite my lip and look away, fixing my gaze on the highest point of the glass arch.

  "Did you and your friend arrive home safely last night?"

  Small talk. Fantastic.

  "If safely includes Jess throwing up twice on the way home, then yes."

  "Quite a party girl, your friend," he says appreciatively.

  "What makes you think I'm not one?" I regret the question instantly. Thinking that a former math whiz kid isn't the most hardcore party girl at Stanford is not an absurd conclusion to draw. But his answer takes me by complete surprise.

  "Having a steady boyfriend usually means you spend your free evenings and weekends… otherwise."

  "You asked Dani to spy on me?"

  "Of course not," he says with fake affronting. "I just know how to get the info I need from her."

  "What happened to old-fashioned questioning?"

  "It's old-fashioned," he answers with a smirk. "I like to consider myself modern."

  "Make that lazy and sneaky." I finally unhitch my gaze from the ceiling and look him in the eyes again. They are so much darker than a few minutes ago.

  He tightens his grip on my waist. "Fine. Tell me three things about you."

  I try to put on my most serious look. "I grew up in London and San Francisco, used to play volleyball in a minor league, and want to work in investment banking." Did he really think I'll make it easy for him?

  "Let me rephrase," he smirks. "Tell me three things about you I won't find in your CV. Three dreams."

  The next sentence rolls out of my mouth despite my firm resolution to torment him by not really telling him anything about me. Especially not the weird things.

  "I want to taste every single recipe in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, get myself kidnapped by elves and locked up in Rivendell, and attend the midnight release of the next book about the wizarding world that I know Rowling will write. If that last thing fails, I want to learn how to fly on a broom, at the very least."

  He bursts into a cascade of laughter. But it's not in the slightest mocking or mean. It's warm and heartfelt.

  And loud.

  "Your turn," I say, in an attempt to stop him, because we are attracting less-than-friendly stares from the couples around us. "Stop laughing like a maniac and tell me three things about yourself. Three fears."

  He laughs for a few more seconds before assuming a solemn face.

  "I hate snakes and always keep a light on when I sleep. And I suffer from chronic commitment phobia."

  His words hit me like a whiplash. Amazing how lighthearted and playful he throws them at me.

  "So I've heard," I say, trying—and failing—to keep my voice steady.

  "I wanted to make sure you know it from me," he says in a soft voice. Yet for all the softness, it still feels like whiplash.

  "That's very considerate of you."

  Why do his words have this impact on me? Why do they have any impact at all? I guessed a while ago how things are. I wish we weren't dancing so I could run away. Put as much distance as possible between him and me. My wish is not far from being granted. Though I haven't listened to many waltzes in my life, I'm sure the orchestra is playing the ending tones right now. I try to distance myself from his intoxicating presence, but his grip on me is firmer than ever.

  "I saw how you were looking at me in that bar," he whispers with urgency.

  Crap, so Jess wasn't exaggerating. I do my best to put on the poker face she mimicked on our way home, then I remember I have a mask on anyway.

  "Why did you invite me here?"

  "Why did you come?" he asks, and there is a slight uneasiness in his voice.

  "Because you invited me," I answer as sardonically as possible.

  "I was curious," he says quietly.

  I don't wait to find out what he was curious about. The second the music stops I tear away from his arms and start walking as fast as possible through the sea of people, most still entangled in their partner's arms.

  It's only when I reach the bar that I realize I've been walking in the opposite direction from the door. I swirl on my heels, determined to get out of here at any cost before the next song begins.

  And then I collide with someone so violently I lose my balance and start losing height. I close my eyes and grit my teeth in preparation for my impending clash with the parquet.

  It doesn't come.

  A sharp pa
in in my left arm tells me someone caught me in my free fall. The guy I collided with. He helps me get back on my feet and I open my mouth to thank him but the words freeze in my throat when I meet his eyes. I know those blue eyes. And the lopsided smile.

  It doesn't have that conceited, almost insolent air James's smile has, but the full lips and very fine dimple in his chin are identical.

  "So sorry. Are you all right?"

  He's English.

  "Are you related to… Ja—the Cohens?" I say, biting my lip.

  He looks taken aback for a moment, then his smile widens. "You’re English. What a nice surprise. To answer your question, yes, my mother, Lady Catherine, and Lady Beatrix Cohen are sisters," he says in a formal tone that doesn't match his smile. "That makes me a first cousin to James and Dani. Of course, the paternal side of my family might also be of interest for you. Astounding pedigree. I'm two-hundred-forty-sixth in line for the British throne," he finishes, and I crack up.

  "Not bragging about that again, Parker?" Dani says, appearing at Parker's side out of nowhere.

  "Just using everything in my arsenal to impress the fair lady here—"

  "Serena," I say.

  "Serena, in the hope she'll forgive me for knocking her over in the most unceremonious way."

  Dani and I both burst out laughing.

  "Are you okay?" she asks after we both calm down. There's too much concern in her eyes for her to be referring to my near encounter with the floor. She must have seen me pulling away from James's arms.

  "Of course she is," Parker, who seems blissfully unaware of anything, says. "If she isn't, she will be in a few minutes. There's nothing a gin and tonic can't remedy." He signals the bartender to make one.

  "Can you get me one too?" Dani says, looking at him with hope.

  "That's my girl." He puts one arm around her shoulders affectionately and the other one around mine as we watch the bartender make the drinks. "So, how come you never introduced me to your adorable friend before?"

  "She didn't know her until today," a voice says from behind us.

  Parker instantly stiffens and withdraws his arm.

  Dani and Parker turn around, but I take my time. I wait for the bartender to hand me the drink, take a sip, and only then follow suit. I find James's gaze fixed on me.

  "Then I can blame you for not introducing us earlier," Parker jokes, but his posture is far stiffer than it should be.

  "Indeed," James says without taking his eyes off me. "Dani, I hope the drink behind you is for someone else."

  A wave of warmth surges through me at such a blatant display of overprotectiveness toward his sister while Dani, understandably, scoffs.

  "Would you mind if we finish our conversation?" James asks me.

  The honest answer is yes, but he looks so determined I can't see how I can get out of this without causing a scene.

  "Sure," I say and follow him, thinking it can't be worse than before with so many people around us who don't even have dancing to concentrate on anymore. My reassurance shatters when I realize the wooden wall behind the bar is a fake one, and the real wall is behind it. The room between the two of them is filled with empty tables and cabinets carrying every imaginable type of glass and porcelain plates. Unfortunately, there is plenty of space among the cabinets for two people to talk, sheltered from absolutely every guest's view.

  "That wasn't polite," he says the second we're inside, and I can tell he's refraining from using a harsher word.

  "I wanted to leave," I admit.

  "And ended up at the bar?" he says with a laugh that feels forced. I wonder what wouldn't feel forced, what would alleviate the unbearable tension between us. As he stands with his back turned to me, inspecting—or pretending to inspect—one of the glass-filled cabinets, I have an inexplicable, almost frightening rush to close the distance between us and look him in the eyes, stroke him, touch him.

  Kiss him.

  "What do you want from me?" I ask.

  His intoxicating ocean-and-musk scent invades my senses a fraction of a second later, when he pushes me against one of the empty tables, his arms around my waist again, every inch of his body glued to mine. He breathes heavily against my neck, and each warm breath of his against my skin sends shudder after shudder through my body. I think I'm trembling, but I can't be sure. The only thing I am sure of is I don't want him to step away.

  He doesn't step away. Instead, he takes off both our masks and kisses me.

  A thousand icicles glide down my skin and I discover that I am truly trembling. Violently.

  And now I know why I came. For this. For the touch of his lips and the stroke of his strong, warm hands that have the power to turn every icicle into a flaming spear. One of his hands is still on my waist, the other one is on my thigh, furiously pulling up the fabric, until it reaches my skin. We both moan at the same time.

  And then, just as suddenly as he started it, he breaks the kiss and pulls away his hand, allowing the fabric to cover me again.

  "Do you want to leave?" he mutters in my ear in a low voice.

  "What?" I ask in alarm. Of all the things I want right now, leaving is not among them. "No."

  He distances himself from me, just enough to be able to look me in the eyes. And I thought they were dark while we were dancing! That was nothing compared to the deep dark blue they are now.

  "You wanted to leave not ten minutes ago. What's stopping you now?"

  "Do you want me to leave, but don't know how to say it?"

  "God, no," he says, digging his fingers deeper into my waist.

  Our heavy breaths are the only things filling the silence between us for a few seconds.

  "You just ended a long relationship. You're used to something I can't give you," he says.

  "Maybe I want to try something different," I say and his eyebrows shoot up in the same bewildered surprise that overwhelms me.

  "You won't—"

  I lean forward and kiss him without giving him the chance to utter one reason that could change my mind. There are so many of them. And I don't want to change my mind. I don't even want to think this through. I want to have fun.

  I want to be reckless.

  Just for once.

  He gasps for breath a few seconds later and I feel his conceited smile form against my lips as he says, "Let's get out of here."

  It is a good thing he remembers we are not really in a private space, because it completely slips my mind. He grabs my hand and opens a door between two cabinets that I hadn't noticed before. We step into a hallway similar to the one at the entrance, except there are no paintings in this one, and there are fewer doors.

  He opens the door directly in front of us and pulls me in, flattening me against the door as soon as he closes it. We're in a library.

  "Have you changed your mind?" He passes his thumb gently over my lips.

  "No."

  "Good." He leans in and starts perusing my neck with his lips, sending delicious little tingles down my spine. "Because I want you so badly."

  A soft moan escapes my lips, triggered by his confession. It's not just his words. His whole body expresses a craving that mirrors mine.

  He covers my mouth with a kiss, an even more hungry and passionate kiss than the ones before it. His hands travel up my back and the slightest spasm of panic shakes me when he unceremoniously rips the eyelets apart, allowing my dress to fall to the ground, leaving me completely naked except for my panties. One second later, they land on the floor as well.

  He breaks off the kiss and steps back. His eyes travel slowly over my body, the blue in them getting darker and darker by the second. When they reach my chest I automatically move my hand in an attempt to cover my minuscule boobs, but he stops me midway and wraps me in his arms.

  "You are so beautiful, Serena," he says in a low, raspy voice before kissing me again.

  My desperate hands search for the buttons of his shirt, and I start undoing them one by one. I feel eighteen again, preparing for my firs
t time. In many ways it is a first and it's even more nerve-wracking than the real first time. There was at least a bed involved, and a guy I had been dating for two years.

  I press my fingers into his skin the second his shirt comes off, my touch leaving red marks on his perfectly toned body. God, he's hot.

  He lifts me in his arms and I wrap my legs around him as he carries me around, never ceasing to kiss him, never ceasing to touch him.

  A spasm of panic returns as he places me on my back on the leather couch and leans over me.

  "You're nervous," he whispers in my ear.

  "A bit." I have no doubt the tremble in my voice reveals just how nervous I am. "You have an unfair advantage over me," I point to his pants.

  "You think?" he asks and presses himself to me. His erection against my bare midriff wipes every wisp of nervousness from my mind, leaving only one thought.

  I want him.

  I unbuckle his belt as clumsily as I unbuttoned his shirt and take off his pants and boxer briefs at the same time. And then I touch him.

  He is huge. Really huge.

  "Fuck," he says in a husky voice, lowering his fingers to my thighs.

  To my intense frustration, he breaks off a fraction of a second later, and bends over to one side, searching for something in the pocket of his trousers.

  A condom. I didn’t stop taking birth control pills after breaking up with Michael, but say nothing. Given that I barely know him, using a condom is a good idea.

  He places it between my breasts and commands, "Put it on."

  I don't wait to be told again and rip off the cover with trembling hands. I look him in the eyes as I roll the thin condom over his erection, watching as his perfect face contorts in spasms of pleasure and frustration. It gives me immense pleasure to know I'm causing it. I arch my back, seeking to cut our prelude short.

  "Not so fast," he teases and starts kissing my ear, descending painfully slowly on my neck and then my breasts. His tongue plays around one of my nipples while his fingers touch my sex.

  Gently.

  Teasing.