Top Secret

by Sarina Bowen

  My father is in town. That’s the only explanation for why I’d set an alarm on the Sunday following a football victory and a night of intense—and well-deserved—partying.

  Annika is asleep beside me. We’re both naked, but I’m pretty sure we were too drunk to fool around.

  No time like the present, then.

  I roll toward her and wrap an arm around her sleeping body. My eyes drift shut again. But I don’t fall asleep. My mind goes back to the text convo I had. And the homework assignment SinnerThree asked me to do.

  Fill in the rest, he’d said.

  I’ve tried not to think about it these past two days. I mean, this threesome is supposed to be about Annika, not me. I’m not supposed to be intrigued by SinnerThree, or be wondering what it’d feel like to fool around with him.

  But he’s right. If we go through with this, I should have an idea of how far I want to take it.

  So, fine. I’ll do the homework. I mean, what’s the worst thing that could happen? I’ll have an orgasm? Jeez, the terror.

  Okay…hmmm. What do I want SinnerThree to look like? Muscular. That goes without saying. I spend a lot of time working out, so fitness matters to me. A guy should take care of himself. Other than that, I don’t know if I have a preference. Jock or fashion plate? Tattoos and piercings, or untouched? There’s a hot version of everything, right?

  A male hand. That’s all I need for this fantasy. A big, rough hand wrapping around the base of my cock.

  Said cock stirs.

  Oh. All right, then. I guess we like the sound of that. I slip my hand down and run it along the underside of my thickening dick. Achievement unlocked.

  The thing is, I usually avoid these thoughts. Group sex is hot as fuck to me, but I don’t fantasize about guys. That’s like a dangerous, war-torn country that I stay clear of. But SinnerThree told me I have to. So that makes it a little less weird.

  I let myself picture a mouth. Lips tracing my shaft. And not just any lips—there’s the scruff of someone’s weekend whiskers, maybe. They’re teasing my thighs…

  And I’m hard now, pretty much instantly. Vacationing in my own mental Syria is surprisingly arousing.

  I drop my hand, and kiss the back of Annika’s shoulder. “Wake up, princess.” I give her smooth ass a playful nudge with my erection.

  “Sleepy,” she grunts.

  So that’s how it is.

  Only an asshole bugs his sleeping girlfriend for sex. So I give her a little squeeze, and then get out of bed for a shower and a shave.

  She still hasn’t moved when I’m almost done. “Annika!” I holler into the bedroom. “Come on, soldier. On your feet! Let’s move.”

  A muffled groan is the only sound I hear from my room. My girl likes to party, too. She’s just not as skilled at it as I am. Annika is always a wreck the morning after.

  As I rinse off my face, I realize I’m going to have to take drastic measures.

  Stalking into the room, I pull my comforter down, exposing her naked back. And then I grab my phone off the dresser and find an up-tempo song that I know she likes. “Crazy In Love” by Beyoncé starts playing from my top-of-the-line Bluetooth speakers.

  “I hate you,” she says from my pillow.

  Do I have a way with the ladies, or what?

  A glance at the clock reveals that it’s nearly eleven. “Up, princess. You know he gets all pissy when I’m late.”

  Annika turns her groggy face toward me and says the three words I’ve been dreading. “Go without me.”

  Fuck. “You said you’d come.”

  “It’s early.”

  “It isn’t.” I turn up Beyoncé.

  “Please?” I beg. “I really want you there.”

  Miraculously, the pillow slides off Annika’s perfect face. “Okay. But only if you turn this song up so I can hear it in the shower.”

  “Sure, baby.” It’s an easy bargain. I crank it up louder.

  Annika slides out of bed, grabs my towel off the hook, wraps it around her naked bod and stalks toward the shower.

  Thank fuck.

  I’m buttoning up a dress shirt when I hear a slam and a roar from across the hall. “…fucking bullshit is this? I’m gonna—” Whatever else my tool of a neighbor is saying gets drowned out by Beyoncé.

  Luke Bailey’s grumpy face appears at my open door. He’s shirtless, and I wonder once again how he’s so ripped for a guy who doesn’t play a sport. His inky-dark hair is a mess, and there’s a pillow crease down his cheek that makes him look more boyish than usual. But he ruins the effect by shouting at me. “Turn that shit off!”

  “No can do,” I yell over the dance beat.

  His eyes bug out. Then he stomps over to my speaker and yanks the plug out of the wall.

  Silence descends, and I have to admit that I don’t mind. And yet…

  “We had a deal!” Annika yells from the shower. “Where’s Beyoncé?”

  “Beyoncé,” growls Luke, “is on a coffee break! It’s fucking Sunday morning and I got home at four a.m.!”

  “Easy,” I say through a clenched jaw. “It’s not Annika’s fault you partied too hard.”

  “Partied too hard.” His fists are clenched. “Yeah, I was out late having a fine old time.”

  Whatever, dude. “Maybe take it down a notch? We’re on our way out, anyway.”

  His eyes scan me, and not in a nice way. He takes in my Zegna shirt and my Armani pants. “Tea with the queen?”

  “Brunch with my dad.”

  “Nice,” he says, but I don’t miss his eye roll. “Stay out as long as you like.” He turns on his heel, disappears into his room, and slams the door with a shutter-rattling bang.

  Charming fellow. How startling that he isn’t more widely liked. On the other hand, my presidential victory is totally in the bag.

  Annika starts singing Beyoncé in the shower.

  I roll my eyes at the whole fucking world.

  Forty minutes later I’m apologizing to my father for our tardiness.

  “It’s all my fault,” Annika admits. “I won’t leave the house without makeup.”

  “You’re worth the wait,” my father assures her, kissing her on the cheek.

  My father hates it when I’m late, but he loves the heck out of Annika. So I guess I’m getting a free pass on this one.

  “Nice tackle during the second quarter yesterday,” my dad says as I sit down. “Great game.”

  “Thank you!” I unfold my napkin in my lap, trying not to show how much the compliment means to me.

  Pathetic, much? I’m twenty-one years old and still trying to please my daddy.

  In fact, I just read a study, where a scientist did MRIs on some dogs. (I seriously can’t imagine how. Hold still... Good boy!) And he found that their brains light up just as enthusiastically for praise as they do for food.

  In other words, I’m as smart as a golden retriever.

  My girlfriend opens her menu. “I always get the eggs Benedict. And Keaton always gets the waffles and bacon. But maybe it’s time for a change…”

  “You always say that.” I drop my napkin in my lap. “And then you order the same thing, anyway. Maybe I’ll get the eggs Benedict.”

  She arches one perfect eyebrow over her menu. “Don’t you dare. I need a bite of the waffles with bacon.”

  My dad chuckles good-naturedly. “How’s your father?” he asks her. “It’s been a while since I brutalized him on the golf course.”

  “Has he brutalized you on the golf course in the meantime?” I ask.

  Dad makes a show of kicking me under the table. This is why I wanted Annika here. It lightens our relationship to a bearable level for me. Dad is goofier when there’s a girl present. Or anyone, really.

  Annika has no idea how fraught our relationship is getting lately. Even though graduation is still a year and a half away, I feel it looming. Dad’s interference in my life is only going to get worse, not better.

  Luckily, the waiter is here again to take our
order. My father orders the quiche and a mimosa.

  “A glass for the lady, too?” our waiter asks. But then he frowns. “I’d need to see some ID, though.”

  My girl shakes her head. “January, then. I’ll finally be legal. Just the eggs Benedict, please, and a glass of your fresh-squeezed juice.”

  After the guy walks away, my father asks a simple question. “Do you have any big plans for your birthday?”

  Annika’s eyes go wide, and when I try to swallow, my water goes down the wrong pipe.

  Well, Dad, we’re inviting a man to get naked with us and get us both off together. As one does.

  I spend the next couple of seconds trying not to cough, but Annika covers for me by launching into a story about designing T-shirts for her sorority. I finally regain control of my esophagus just as she gets to the punch line.

  Did I mention that I owe this girl big-time?

  “How was your week, Mr. Hayworth?” Annika asks as our food arrives.

  “I’ve known you since you were in pigtails and braces, Ani. How many times do I have to remind you to call me Keat?” Dad teases.

  “I’ll do my best, Mr. Hayworth.” She winks, but despite the playful response I know she’ll never, ever call him “Keat.” Annika had already admitted to me that she feels awkward calling my father the same name as me. It confuses her.

  Luckily, she’s never had to be in the same room as me, Dad, and Grandpa Keaton. Her head would spin.

  “My week was pretty ordinary,” Dad says. “I spent it chatting up the administrators at Columbia Presbyterian about our clinical trial. But nobody wants to talk about me—tell me about the campaign, Keaton. Have you decided what you’re doing for the Dance-off?”

  I take another sip of my coffee, stalling. “Not yet,” I admit when I can’t drag out the sip any longer. “I want to plan something different, something that hasn’t been done at the frat before, but I’m stumped.”

  “What event did you plan when you ran for president?” Annika asks curiously, the question directed at my father.

  He breaks out in a grin. “Not to brag, but it was the best party I’ve ever thrown, or even been to in my life. The best night of my life, honestly.” He chuckles. “I spent six months planning it.”

  Something twists in my gut. Six months? I’ve heard my dad talk about this party before, but it isn’t until now that I’m realizing how much effort he put into it.

  “The summer before, my sister Rosie and I went to a Cirque du Soleil show, and we had these VIP seats with a meet-the-performers party afterward.”

  Of course they had VIP seats. Dad buys the top-shelf version of everything.

  “I was really impressed. I thought a circus was just trained dogs and clowns. But their show was so eerie and neat. And when I read the program during intermission, I got an idea. They were coming through New England during the school year. And I offered a dozen of them two free nights of lodging at Alpha Delt in exchange for a private performance.”

  “Cool!” Annika gushes. “A performance at the house?”

  “In a tent on the lawn,” Dad says, sipping his drink. “There weren’t chairs, though. It was more like a rave where a dozen or so of the guests were contortionists, jugglers, and acrobats. I hired a DJ who really understood the vibe. And our guests wore only red and blue, like the performers. It was an experience just being there.”

  I know he’s not lying. The photos are epic. I feel tired just thinking about it. How the hell am I going to come up with something unique? And now the pressure is twofold. Not only do I need to out-party-plan Luke Bailey, but I need to top my father’s circus wonderland.

  And I have only two weeks to achieve this.

  Fucking hell.

  I chug the rest of my water, wishing the waiter would hurry up and bring me the mimosa I caved in and ordered. Unlike Annika, I am twenty-one—and boy do I need a drink right now.

  Dad’s phone buzzes, and he peers down to read the incoming text. “Sorry. You know I don’t typically condone phones at the table, but the docs at Columbia are giving me hourly updates on the trial.”

  “What trial is that?” Annika inquires.

  “We have a Phase III trial going on right now for a diabetes medication. It works by tricking your metabolism into speeding up while you sleep.”

  She leans in. “That sounds fascinating.”

  “Really?” Dad laughs. “Well, I’m hiring. Keaton can’t be bothered to take much interest in the family business. Maybe you can carry the flag instead.”

  And there it is—that little charge of hostility that’s always between us. And even though I know better, I leap into the fray. “I never said I wasn’t interested. I said I wanted to work for someone else first.”

  But he’s actually right. I’m not interested. I’m getting the degree in biology that he wanted me to get. But I don’t want to push pharmaceuticals into the world. I just don’t. I want to get a graduate degree and do research, preferably in the marine biology field. Pure science is much more interesting to me than trying to push meds to baby boomers.

  So I’m stalling. And we argue about it. A lot.

  “Good,” he says, oblivious to my pain. “I’m lining up a summer internship for you in the finance department. You’d be reporting to Bo, so there you go—you’ll be working for someone else.”

  That’s the biggest case of bullshit semantics I’ve ever heard. Bo works for Dad. Therefore, I’d be working for Dad, only I’ll be in the— Wait. “The… What?” I demand. Did he just say finance?

  “You heard me,” he says. “I know you like science more. And there will be plenty of time for that. But to understand big pharma you have to see how the money end of things works, too.”

  “But...there will be other internships I’m applying for,” I grumble.

  “Such as…?” Dad asks.

  Christ. I’m not ready to discuss the research expedition I’m applying for until I have a meeting with the grad student who’s in charge. And it’s only November. Who has his summer figured out in November?

  “I didn’t think so,” Dad says at my silence. “We’ll talk about it more later. Oh—HR needs your résumé, okay? That’s part of the standard application. Send me one before the holidays.”

  “Sure,” I grunt. But I’m not at all sure. There are only two ways this could end, either by me caving, or by me making him really angry when I sidestep his internship for the one I really want.

  That’s our relationship in a nutshell: me disappointing him, and then feeling bad about it. I’m a football player—it’s his favorite sport. But the team’s had two losing seasons since I started at Darby, and it’s doubtful we’ll see a championship this year. So I was only halfway successful in his eyes. He wanted me to be a scientist, so I majored in bio. But not biochemistry, which would have been his top pick.

  A future job at his company might be our final showdown. And I really don’t know who’s going to win.

  Your Manly Lobster Trunks

  Keaton

  I don’t fully relax until that evening when I’m finally home alone.

  Now that my study-group meeting is over, I should be working on my campaign speech and brainstorming Dance-off ideas, but I’m not in the mood to think about planning a party. Dad killed all my joy.

  So I pick up my phone and open up the app that’s been calling my name since I downloaded it. I have messages from a handful of guys. It’s the usual ‘sup and hey, but I don’t even bother with them. I go straight to SinnerThree’s page.

  He hasn’t reached out to me again. Is it weird that I’m disappointed?

  Pushing that thought aside, I tap out a greeting. Hey man. Sunday night. I should be doing work but I was thinking about what you asked me.

  I send the message and lie back. It’s been a frustrating day. I’m tense and in need of release.

  SinnerThree asked me to consider how I felt about getting blown by a dude. It’s still hypothetical at this point, but the hypothetical me do
esn’t hate the idea. I mean, at the end of a day, a blowjob feels great, right? Does it really matter who’s blowing you? Won’t it feel great regardless?

  So many factors to this hypothesis… Good thing I’m a scientist. Because scientists aren’t afraid to experiment, right?

  So that’s what I’m doing as I close my eyes now. I’m picturing a vaguely handsome guy leaning over me. And I’m imagining how good a guy could be at giving head. It takes a dick to know a dick, right?

  Then I step on the third rail and let myself imagine a masculine face looking up at me as he deep-throats my cock with a dirty gleam in his eye.

  And…hmmm. That image is more art than science. And I like the idea a whole lot.

  My phone pings with an incoming message. I pick it up immediately. And I’m just a little too stoked that SinnerThree has messaged me back.

  SinnerThree: Well? Did you ace my assignment?

  LobsterShorts: I’m working on it right now.

  SinnerThree: And?

  Lobstershorts: I’m doing fine.

  SinnerThree: Fine? Like B- work?

  LobsterShorts: In my family a B- means a lecture and public shaming. I study to get an A.

  SinnerThree: Bunch of nerds, are you?

  LobsterShorts: Sure. But not the kind that gets shoved into lockers. I’m supposed to be the kind of son who dominates every competition just because I can.

  Christ, I don’t know why I shared that. We’re getting off topic here. I signed in to talk about dicks, not my screwy family life.

  SinnerThree: It could be worse. Smart assholes are more fun than dumb assholes. Trust me here.

  LobsterShorts: Noted. You’re surrounded by dumb assholes?

  SinnerThree: Only when I go home. Which I never do unless I can help it.

  Lobstershorts: Smart man.

  SinnerThree: But enough about those losers. Let’s get back to the fun stuff. Are you ready?

  Lobstershorts: For?

  SinnerThree: Me, dropping down on my knees in front of you. I tug on your manly lobster trunks and pull them off.

  I sit up and fire back a message.

  LobsterShorts: Wait. Are you hating on my favorite bathing suit?