by Kay Harris
“I have not!”
“Meno and that dude in France,” I said, a touch of gotcha in my tone.
She dropped down onto her butt so we were facing each other. “Oh. You think me and Meno had a thing?”
“That’s what it looked like to me,” I admitted.
“Well, we didn’t.”
“No?” I asked, surprised and definitely pleased.
“No. He’s my big brother’s best friend. I would think it was too weird, and he’d be scared of Jack, with reason, I might add.”
“Well, you two seemed quite cozy.”
“He was just…” She paused, biting her lip and shifting her gaze away from me.
I looked at her expectantly. “Yeah?”
“I don’t know. Meno’s just a flirt.”
“What about Charles?” I probed.
Her eyes snapped back to mine, and she grinned. “I admit I had a fling with Charles last year when I was in town on a shoot. But not this time. We just went out and had a drink. He has a girlfriend now. Besides, I wasn’t as interested this time.”
I suddenly felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Chelsea hadn’t actually been with anyone this entire time. “Hmmm,” I mumbled, relaxing myself further. “Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“What changed from last year that made you no longer interested?”
“Why the third degree about this?” She leaned toward me, and I leaned toward her. We sat on her bed, half-drunk, our faces maybe four or five inches from each other. I could feel how close she was to me.
“I’m curious,” I said softly, my gaze dancing between her eyes and her plump lips.
“He doesn’t do it for me anymore,” she said, her voice sounding low and hoarse.
“No?” I reached up and pulled the glasses off her face. I folded the arms in and set them beside me on the table without ever taking my eyes off her.
“No.” She was practically whispering now. “My tastes have changed.”
“Yeah? What do you like now?” I asked, placing one hand on her waist.
“Dark brown eyes,” she said, staring into my mine.
“Hmmm. What else?” My other hand moved to the back of her neck.
“Long black hair,” she said. She reached up, her left hand drifting into my hair.
“Hmmm,” I mumbled, just before pulling her head gently with my hand until my lips were pressed to hers.
She sighed, and her mouth fell open. I opened my own mouth and deepened our kiss. She angled her head. I pulled her waist toward me while the hand on her neck moved into her hair. As I pulled her silky locks through my fingers, she reached out to me with her tongue. This move increased my enthusiasm. I reared up on my knees, then pushed her gently onto her back, following her down until I hovered over her.
She slid her hands down my back and sides, which I absolutely loved. Then she tugged on the waist of my jeans. It took me by surprise, and my muscles gave way, pulling me down on top of her. I managed to readjust my weight to keep it off her, all the while still kissing her like crazy.
I groaned and pulled my mouth back just enough to speak. “Chels, you are…” Unable to find the word I was looking for, I plunged my mouth back into hers.
My hands roamed, and so did Chelsea’s. But our mouths stayed locked together. I wasn’t willing to stop tasting her, and she must have felt exactly the same way because she didn’t pull away, not for a second.
I had no idea how long we stayed like that, making out like a pair of horny teenagers. Eventually, my roaming fingers made their way into her jeans and under her panties, exactly where I wanted to be.
I was completely attuned to Chelsea as I stroked her, kissed her, and inhaled her scent. I knew she was getting closer and closer to climax. Then she ripped her mouth away from mine. I turned my lips and tongue to her neck while she gasped and moaned and yelled, “Jesus, Henry!”
My stomach rippled as she cried out my name. I reluctantly pulled my hand back and smiled down at her.
“You look pretty proud of yourself,” she said, stretching languidly.
“Oh, I am,” I told her, propping my head up above her with my hand, my elbow on the bed beside her cheek.
“What now? We just went at each other like rabbits.”
“We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“Really? That’s your solution?” she asked, a touch of incredulity in her tone.
“Yeah. We’re too drunk to have a rational conversation now. But”—I pulled myself off her—“not so drunk we’ll really fuck up.”
I knew better than to go any farther. And I knew Chelsea did, too. So I wasn’t surprised when she agreed. “Okay. So we’ll talk about it tomorrow. But you have to promise it won’t be weird.”
I stood up beside the bed, desperate to get out of there. The longer I stayed, the more I would want.
“I promise.” I leaned down and gave her a quick kiss on the lips.
I knew we’d have to talk about all of this sooner or later. But I wasn’t in any hurry to do it. And I had more pressing needs. I stood and her eyes went to the bulge in my jeans, which was now directly in front of her.
“In the meantime, I need a cold shower,” I told her.
The truth was, I needed to be alone so I could fantasize about what I really wanted to do with Chelsea and take care of this bulge without the guilt of having done it with my half-drunk best friend.
I leaned down once more to kiss her forehead. “Night, Chels.”
Chapter 11
Present day—San Francisco, California
Chelsea
I bite my lip and look up at Jack. As I expected, he’s making a face. I roll my eyes and turn to Candace. She waves a hand dismissively at him. “Ignore him. This is an important part of the story.”
“Ugh,” Jack finally says.
“Whatever, Jack. It’s not like you were a virgin when I found you,” Candace says.
I laugh.
“Not the same,” he protests.
I roll my eyes again.
“Okay, so,” Candace says, adjusting herself in her seat. “You were ‘intimate’ in London.” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “But you were both a little tipsy.”
“Yeah, but I think it had been building for a while, at least for me.”
“I’m sure that road went both ways,” Candace says.
“I hate to even talk about this, but I agree,” Jack says.
“Yeah?” I question.
“Did you honestly think you were the only one feeling the attraction?” Candace asks me.
“Well, yes. I did. At least at that point.”
Jack is staring at me like I’ve just spoken in ancient Greek.
“You wouldn’t understand a dorky girl’s basic sense of low self-esteem when confronted with a beautiful and perfect specimen of a man,” I tell him.
“No, he wouldn’t,” Candace says. “But I do.”
I rolled my eyes because Candace is basically a cover model for Vanity Fair as far as I am concerned. Of course, she doesn’t see it that way. I complain about being boney. She complains about having too much excess around the middle. We both know we should love our bodies for what they are. And we both know what a great idea that is in theory, but not so practical all the time in reality.
Candace ignores the face I’m making because she’s completely used to it and says, “So. You two got frisky at the hotel in London. What happened next?”
****
One month, three weeks, six days ago—Boston, Massachusetts
We’d taken a commercial flight back to the US on a great big jet. Henry and I had managed to sit in the same row, but we had Tom beside us and Gerry in the row in front of us. It hadn’t exactly been conducive to having a conversation about our accidental drunken make-out session.
The time together, but not alone, had been therapeutic, at least for me. From the moment Henry had left my room the night before, I’d been stresse
d out over what we’d done. I valued my friendship with Henry in a way I’d never treasured any other friendship in my life. I didn’t want to risk harming it in any way. So I’d stayed up most of the night worrying about the consequences of our actions.
On the plane, however, we’d easily fallen back into our previous arrangement. We’d been just Henry and Chelsea again. We’d laughed, we’d teased, we’d caused everyone around us to groan and roll their eyes at our antics. And I’d completely relaxed again, my stress nearly forgotten.
But the conversation Henry and I desperately needed to have had not left my mind. So once we were settled in our hotel in Boston that night, I went to Henry’s room. It was late, and everyone was jetlagged. So, knowing the rest of the crew would be in their rooms, I asked Henry to go with me to the hotel bar so we could talk.
He looked at me strangely when I asked, and I knew why. We usually preferred to stay in one of our rooms alone, talking into the night. But I didn’t want to be alone with Henry again just yet. So we sat on either side of a small table in the thickening quiet of the bar, having a drink and trying to complete our awkward conversation before last call.
“I just think we need to talk about it,” I said quietly, leaning toward Henry as if we were discussing a bank robbery.
“If you say so, Chels. I’ve never really had a close friend before who was a girl, let alone…this. So, you tell me. What’s the sitch?”
“I’ve had two friends with benefits, Henry. I’m no stranger to the concept.”
He leaned forward, propping his forearms on the table before us. “Okay, and how did that go?”
“One went well, and one not so well.”
“Tell me about them.”
“My friend Gary and I had a thing. We were friends, and we slept together occasionally.” I stopped for a moment, swallowing hard. Henry and I had not slept together, and the idea hadn’t even been broached until now. But I continued on. “And then Gary got a girlfriend. We stopped sleeping together, and we just went back to being friends. He told his girlfriend about us, and she was cool with it. In fact, she and I became good friends.”
“And the other one?” he asked.
I let out a heavy sigh. “His name was Roger. And he and I were friends with bennies for about six months. But he wanted to date, and I didn’t. So I insisted we end it. And he didn’t take it well. We haven’t spoken since.”
“Okay, but were either of them like us?” he asked, taking my hand in his across the table.
I understood what he meant. “No,” I admitted.
“We’ll be fine, Chels.”
****
One month, three weeks and two days ago—Kalamazoo, Michigan
We’d kicked off the “lesser-known tourist destinations of the US” segment with Detroit. It had been a great three days of shooting in the Motor City, and busy ones at that. We’d gone all over to shoot. Henry had dragged us to the Detroit Institute of Art, Hitsville U.S.A., the Fox Theater, and several smaller clubs and venues, not to mention a ton of Greek, Polish, and Middle Eastern restaurants. Between eating, shooting, traveling, and cutting film, I hadn’t had a single moment alone with Henry.
All that changed on our last night in Michigan. We were headed to Chicago next, and instead of flying, Henry rented a car and planned to drive. He intended to stop halfway and spend the night at his grandparents’ old house, the house where his father had grown up. His grandparents lived in California now, but they’d retained ownership of the house and used it for short-term rentals and as a vacation house for their family. Henry had asked me to join him.
In all our traveling, this was the first time we’d really been on a long car ride. It gave me the chance to truly absorb my surroundings in a way hopping around the world in airplanes couldn’t. I got lost watching all the trees, their colors just starting to turn, as they sped by the car window.
When we arrived in Kalamazoo, we’d wandered through town a bit, then Henry had called his dad and gotten a dinner recommendation. After dinner, we drove around with Sean Rush on speakerphone pointing out his childhood haunts, which was a little hard to get used to at first. I mean, how often does one have a famous rock star’s iconic voice belting through their car speakers telling you to turn down Drake Street and take a right at the grocery store?
Eventually, we drove to the house, a quaint little Victorian tucked away in a quiet neighborhood. A big, fenced-in yard sat behind it, and a detached garage stood beside it. It was painted butter yellow with white trim and sported an incredible set of gardens.
“My grandmother was a landscape architect,” Henry told me as he used the key to open the front door. “It’s nice to see the caretaker is keeping up her beloved gardens.”
Henry got the door open, flicked a light switch, and then held the door for me. I pulled my backpack up on my shoulder, pushed my glasses to the top of my nose, and walked in.
The house was beautiful, cozy, and quaint, the kind of home anyone might have. It was fully middle-class, well cared for on a budget. It was a far cry from the Morrison mansion I’d grown up in or, I was sure, the house in Malibu Henry had grown up in.
“I love it,” I told him honestly as I looked around the living room and open dining room.
“Yeah, it’s pretty great.” Henry set the keys on an antique table beside the door and moved farther into the house. “Come on, I’ll give you the tour.” He lifted my backpack off my shoulder and laid it on the couch before taking my hand and pulling me toward the kitchen.
Henry took me through the two stories of the house, stopping to show me the bedrooms where his grandparents, aunt, and uncle had stayed. Then we moved into the finished basement.
“This is it. This is where my dad spent his youth,” he said, sweeping his hand across the room.
The room was muted now. Covered in a plush carpet, it contained a dark burgundy couch, coffee table, and a few shelves with books and records. But I could imagine it as the teenage den it had once been. It had probably been filled with concert posters, guitars, and stereo equipment.
“My dad always said he wished we’d had a basement he could give me in my teenage years because he loved this one so much.”
I ran my hand over the back of the couch, then walked around to the front of it and sat down. “Original couch?”
Henry plopped down next to me. “I think so.” He ran his hand over the arm. “It’s gotta be old as shit.”
I laughed. “I’m sure your dad would appreciate that sentiment.”
“It’s true,” he said defensively. “And it’s his fault. He’s the one who waited until his mid-thirties to have me.”
I looked around the brick-walled room. “I bet your dad made out with a bunch of chicks down here.”
Henry laughed, throwing his head back. “God. I hadn’t ever thought about that. My dad as a randy teenager is pretty hard to picture.” He wiped at his eyes. “Yikes.”
“Yeah, imagining your parents as beings with sex lives is disturbing. I walked into a room to find my parents making out once. It was pretty awful.” I shivered at the memory.
“Once! Shit, that was a regular part of my childhood. My parents were crazy about each other. Still are.”
We were quiet for a minute as we both looked around the room that spawned a legendary rock star. Then, suddenly, Henry shifted, moving closer to me. He swung his arm over the back of the couch behind me and placed his mouth a few inches from my ear. “It would have been nice to have a basement of my own so I could seduce girls like you, Chelsea.”
I turned my head to look at him. “Please,” I said with a snort. “You wouldn’t have wasted your time with the likes of me.”
“Wanna bet?” he said, just before pulling me into a kiss.
I didn’t resist, not for a second. Instead, I grabbed the back of his head and pulled him closer to me, angling my head and tangling my tongue with his. My glasses went crooked on my face as we pressed together, but neither of us did anything about it.<
br />
Just like before, we were both lost in the kiss. Only this time, we were completely sober. Which meant I had a tiny corner of reason left in my brain. So when Henry trailed his hand down my stomach and into my pants, I pulled my head back.
“Wait?” I said. I meant to sound forceful, but instead it came out as a question.
Henry’s hand stilled and his brow wrinkled in concern. “You okay?”
“I’m, uh…I’m just wondering if this is a good idea.”
“Can’t I just give you an orgasm?” he asked, his thumb rubbing gently up and down on my lower abdomen.
“That’s all you want?” I asked, skepticism in my voice.
“Yep. It’s all I want.” He smiled at me sweetly, persuasively, like he was asking for a puppy.
“You’re weird…ah…oh God.” Before I could express how much this baffled me, Henry’s hand had traveled down and made its way into my pants. I reached up and popped open the button on my jeans, giving him better access.
“Good girl,” Henry whispered, his lips playing at my earlobe.
I leaned my head back on the couch and let my legs go limp in front of me as Henry stroked. Then as my orgasm built up, my muscles all began to tense. My legs went rigid, and my mouth fell open of its own accord.
“That’s it, Chels. Let go for me,” Henry whispered.
“Oh God!” I cried out as my orgasm crashed into me.
Henry didn’t stop his hand, though, and the sensation continued on. “Oh Jesus! Henry! Oh my God! You have to stop.”
He did, and my body slumped into the fold of the couch. I sat there for a few minutes just catching my breath. Then I turned to look at him. He had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face.
“Are you sure?” I asked, reaching my hand toward the fly of his jeans.
He caught my hand and pulled it to his lips. He kissed my palm then kept my hand tucked in his. “I’m sure.”
“Can we talk about this now?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“Why do you think this keeps happening?” I asked him.
For my part, I knew exactly why this kept happening, of course. But I couldn’t fathom why Henry was interested in me.
