by Jones, Ayla
The problem was, though, he was starting to fall for her. He thought maybe they could run away together. Or at least hide in another part of the country. He hoped to tell her that night. “I put on the only suit I owned. I got a haircut and I went. I didn’t dance or drink at all. I just waited…and I waited and waited. Two hours. Or three. She came finally. But she wasn’t dressed up. She looked like she was in trouble. Big trouble. Her dress was torn at the shoulder. There was a cut on her lip, too. Then she took my hand and said, ‘Something happened. Something very bad happened. I can’t leave the country anymore.’” Julian paused and chugged the beer he was holding. I didn’t think any of us was actually breathing. “To be continued…”
We all groaned, a chorus of collective disappointment. “That’s it?” Deacon asked. “What the hell? Come on, old man. What happened to her? Is that how you met your wife or what?” He broke the seal, and everyone started asking questions.
“For next time!” Julian shouted. He turned up the music on the small boom box that was out there. “La Vida es un Carnaval” played. Drunk people were pretty suggestible, so a few guests paired up to dance when he coaxed them. Conversations and drinking picked up again, too. Julian asked me to be his dance partner, and I showed off what little salsa steps I remembered from when my mom taught me.
Charlie nodded off before the song was even over, chin on his chest, with his beer out of his hand and soaking the grass. Poor thing. He probably hadn’t really intended to leave the house tonight. I was having such a good night. But it was time to take him home. I walked over and flicked his nose. He swatted at my hand as he woke up. “I’m ready to go,” I said.
He grinned when he focused on my face. “Party’s just picking up.”
“Yeah, but you are struggling.” I held my hand out. “Keys. You’ve had quite a few.” He looked relieved. After passing them to me, he stood and yawned.
“Just go to your place. I don’t mind crashing,” he said. We made a long final walk through the house to say goodbye to everyone. I wanted to thank Julian personally because it was my first time here. He gave me a Tupperware container of ribs to take home.
“Cute girl…” I said as Charlie approached where I was waiting. It was my sly way of being nosy. He’d just hugged a woman goodbye, and jealousy twisted up my stomach for a second. Silly because we were leaving together. And I was sure if Charlie wanted to see more of Pretty with Perfect Curls tonight, he’d shove me in a cab and send me on my way.
“This one, too.” He ticked his chin up at me. Then murdered me with that smile. God, he was hot. Weren’t your friends supposed to stop being hot after a while? Wasn’t I supposed to stop thinking about the things I wanted to do to Charlie by now?
“Hey, I saw her run her fingers down your forearm. I know what that means. I’m queen of the forearm brush,” I teased…while still subtly inquiring into who that woman was.
“Haha. Sometimes, I see people and think they’d be perfect for one of my shows. Told her she should come in for an audition for Confessions.” He quickly finished off the new beer in his hand and set the bottle down on the curb.
“Whoa. Hillington bought it?”
“Yeah. And Traitor.”
“Charlie!” I pulled him into a hug. “That’s awesome!”
“Yeah,” he said flatly. Geez, no one was less enthusiastic about Charlie than Charlie. Taking the Tupperware from me, he set it on the car’s roof. He put his hand on my hips and shifted me back against the door. I held his wrists and the touch warmed my blood. His eyelids were heavy. He had this sleepy-sexy look going. Well, he had an in general sexy look thing going. “Do you feel safe right now?”
“With you? Yeah!” I looked at him questioningly. “Of course.”
“Well, now you know where this place is. You always have somewhere to come, if you need it. If…I’m not around.” He hugged me…or rather sort of fell against me and then put his arms around my neck. I loved the way he smelled and how his body felt against mine. My brain was already connecting this scent with security. “Julian’s door is almost always open, okay?”
“Got it.” He’d brought me to a place where everyone was welcome. Gratitude bloomed somewhere inside me. It was trying so hard to become tears, too. I’d sort of been an emotional wreck today (really my entire life); don’t hold it against me. I just couldn’t remember the last time anyone did anything this nice for me. “Thank you for this…and for letting me into your life.” Oh, yeah, he’d struck a chord that deep.
Charlie pulled back and gripped my waist. “How could I not? You tell your story and you don’t run from it. You’re brave. You inspire me…to not be afraid.”
“You?” I smirked. “Afraid? What could you possibly be afraid of?”
“Writing.” He turned away from me like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
“Really? But you—”
Love it? Fear and love…come from the same place, don’t they? Vulnerability and the loss of control. It’s all the same.” He shrugged.
“Yeah…I guess you’re right…” I picked up the Tupperware container.
“Damn…” I heard him say as I walked to the other side of the car. I turned around midway across the front bumper, and Charlie was staring at me—drunkenly swaying, too, but staring. And smiling. Good lord. My heart was sliding into my stomach. I couldn’t even hold his stare. My legs went numb but my brain got me to the driver-side door, anyway. I was giddy all of a sudden. I felt like my own smile was about to rip my face in two.
Attraction was a hell of a drug.
“What?” I asked.
He placed his hands on top of the car. “You’re beautiful, Nik. Sometimes it warrants a ‘damn.’ All the time, actually.” After wrestling with the door handle a bit, he flopped down hard in the passenger seat. Then he stuck his head out the window. “Fine with you if I say ‘damn’ sometimes?”
I laughed. “Yes. Definitely. Say damn whenever you want. I will take your damns.”
When I started the car he put his hand on the back of my neck. I held my breath. “Promise me you’ll come here on your own sometime…” His expression was serious and his tone was demanding. His thumb stroked the space between my shoulder blades.
“Yeah. I will. What’s going on?”
Charlie sighed. “Look, this isn’t pity. It’s not White Knight Syndrome. You were getting by before I got here. I know you’ve got it all figured out, but I just…I just don’t like imagining you ever being alone or people pushing you away because of what you did. I want people to really know you, too, I guess.”
Wow. My trembling hands settled on the steering wheel. I nodded. “I appreciate that. Thank you.” I was all heart flips and quivering stomach behind this poker face and calm tone. Here I was suddenly discovering that I mattered to the kind of person I hadn’t known I wanted to matter to a few weeks ago. You could go weak in the knees while sitting down, in case you were wondering.
Using Google Maps, I drove us the long way back, with Kings of Leon’s “Only By the Night” album playing. “Use Somebody” was our only duet. Then I sang the next few songs quietly and off-key as Charlie hummed, his fingers still outlining shapes between my shoulders.
Miami was being Miami outside—humid, bright, loud, and perpetually sleepless—and we had our comfortable isolation inside the car. His “shuffle mode” serendipitously landed on “I Want You” when we pulled into my parking lot. As he struggled to get out of the car on his own, Charlie hollered into the air, butchering the lyrics, singing to me. It was adorable but my neighbors would not appreciate serenading at this hour, so I ushered him inside as quickly as I could.
I had to open the front door to my apartment slowly. Charlie was leaning against it, debating me on which of us was right about the words in the song. I was, obviously. “You okay with sleeping on the couch?” I asked. I didn’t know why I said it. There was only one other option, and I didn’t think I could handle Charlie in my bed. Real or imagined, my tiny couch offe
red chastity.
“Just get me a blanket for this cold ass apartment.” Charlie took off his shirt, and I froze mid-walk. Smooth skin. Defined abs for days. Chiseled pecs. Other muscles I couldn’t name…for days, too. Guess it was my turn to drop a “damn.” My mind was suddenly on his full frontal again, conjuring up what that was going to look like, with “Sex on Fire” as my mental soundtrack. “Give me something to sleep in…”
Me maybe. God, I was such a perv. And Charlie was just so intoxicating, and it was way better than the woozy pleasure I got from booze. I felt vibrant when we were together, like it was fine to be old me, without the villain narrative attached. I skipped (yup, that happened) to my bedroom and changed into my PJs. I wanted to spin around with my arms out, like movie chicks when they moved into their first apartment. “Sure…one of my tank tops can probably get on your arm,” I joked when I returned with the blanket from my bed.
“Hey, Nik, you were staring at me before you went in there…”
“Yeah, so?”
“I mean, keep staring at me…but I wanted you to know I. Can. See. You.”
“What do you expect me to do?” I tossed the blanket at him. “I only get to look, right? Because we’re friends…”
“We are. You want me to put my shirt back on?” he asked, heading for the couch. He failed the obstacle course that was my cluttered living room and bumped into every piece of furniture on the way.
“No. Nope. No. No. Don’t you ever let anyone make you,” I teased. He looked up expectantly at me once he was supine. “What?” He could probably see the outline of my nipples. Lord knows I could.
He gripped my thigh. “Lie down with me.” When I did, Charlie pulled me against him until my breasts were smashed on his chest. I swam in the scent of him and alcohol. “So…earlier you were swinging my dick and then you were just eye-banging me. Are you trying to tell me something, Nikki?”
“Friend zone boundaries were poor drawn?”
Charlie laughed. “I like our friendship a lot but, you know, if you ever said yes…we wouldn’t be friends anymore, right?”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. Mmmhmm. You ever think about us…?”
“Yeah…we’ve joked about how a relationship between us would be.”
“…boning?” he continued.
I burst out laughing. “Who says boning? And…maybe…”
“Good. Then I don’t feel bad about what we do in my head…”
Every part of me coiled and pulsed. Was it better or worse than what I did to him in my head? Or what I let him do to me? Don’t ask like what. Don’t ask like what. “Like what?” It was taking too much effort to keep the words in. Plus my brain was all, Say it’s my pussy, Suck me all the way to my balls, Come on my dick in Charlie’s voice. “What do we do in your head?”
“What would you want me to do to you?”
I tensed up as his hold on me went slack. “Charlie.”
“What…what…” he said in sleepy confusion. He pushed his face deeper into the crook of my neck. His hand stayed resting just above my butt. “Shit. I want to keep talking to you, but I’m so fuckin’ tired, Nik.” He adjusted his head and squinted. We were eye to eye.
“You’re drunk, too.”
“And you’re really pretty. Okay, now say something about me again.”
I laughed. “Sleep, Charlie.” And as soon as he was out, I was finally going to try out that mysterious last speed on my Body Wand.
“No…talk to me,” he mumbled.
“Fine,” I sighed. He put his head on my shoulder again. “Do you know who the girl was? The one in Julian’s story?”
He shook his head, scruff brushing my collarbone. “No, but do you think she got what she wanted? You think she got her happy ending? I hope…” His words were buried in a yawn. Then his breathing slowed. Charlie was asleep again, and I didn’t get a chance to answer. I touched the side of his face before I flipped around, put my back to his chest, and snuggled against him. Why did you have to wait until the end to get to happy, anyway? Because right now felt like the beginning of something huge.
And I was ecstatic.
Chapter Seven
Charlie
“This is fucking bullshit,” I mumbled to Samira as I paced in front of the house we were filming in today. We’d gotten email feedback from Hillington and as expected, someone suggested changing Sami’s masturbation scene. That particular critique was pissing me off, but the entire script was covered in virtual red ink, too. Some of the comments hurt more than others, and the more I replayed them in my head, the more my anger was giving way to insecurity. Dread tightened my chest. Was it that shitty? I had spent literal weeks on that thing, sleepless weeks. I had taken breaks before reading it through again and then rewriting. How the hell had I missed all the potential problems?
Fuck.
Samira stepped into my path, a consoling expression on her face, but I knew the reality of our new work arrangement was overwhelming for her, too. “People are uncomfortable with a woman pleasuring herself for her own benefit. You know that.”
“But what about the other stuff? I get that they know better than us, but…shit…were we just fucking all of this up before they got here? Is there a chance they’ll destroy whole episodes because we’ve been fucking up so much? What if the story’s no good overall? What if the other scripts aren’t?” I was going to blow this. Then it was going to be three years ago all over again. That was the stuff my nightmares were made of. But mostly I thought of Samira. She’d given up her nonprofit/save the world job for Hillington’s paycheck. It was good money. I couldn’t screw this up for her. I’d write all day and night if I had to. I’d make it better.
She groaned and fell against my chest. “Shit, I’m sorry, baby,” I said, “I forgot to say ‘Real.’” Whenever Samira and I were going to metaphorically drop something heavy on the other person—and shit was about to get real—we always gave fair warning. I also looked around to make sure no one from the crew was watching me slide into panic mode, especially because their jobs were dependent on me. All these people here on set today. With families and mortgages and kids’ college funds.
Fuck.
Okay. I had to get my shit together. Freaking out wouldn’t help anyone. Samira’s arms folded around me. “It’s okay. I’m worried about you right now. You honestly look like you’re about to vomit. Today is supposed to be a good day, Charlie. The viewing party is tonight and everyone’s excited. Cut yourself a break. Let’s just get through these scenes, drink all the free booze later, and go apeshit tomorrow about how much we suck at this, okay?”
Before I could respond, my phone beeped with a text message:
Nik: We’re five minutes away. Sorry!
Nikki had been busy at West Side Story dance practice all morning, and we’d barely spoken today beyond one or two quick texts. For the past month, she’d been going to the rehearsals right after Castles and Cupcakes, and now that How to Fuck up a Friendship was on this demanding filming schedule, I was getting antsy about how much our work obligations were cutting into our time together. It fucking sucked.
Nik: Wait. Lea says ten more. But we’re close!
Me: Just fucking get here already.
Nik: In ten! Promise =)
“I’m glad someone can get a smile out of you today…” Samira slapped my arm.
“What?” I looked up and she was grinning, eyes narrowing, too, as she tried to peer at my screen. “I wasn’t.”
“When are you going to lock that down?”
“With Nikki? The fuck are you talking about? We’re just friends.” She exaggerated her laughter as I walked around to the side of the house. I fished out two pills from my pocket. My pulse raced. The urge to slip them under my tongue was immediate. I had been feeling sort of shitty about them since almost exposing my use to Nikki the night she first went to my place. They had been right there on the sink in my bathroom, and I’d remembered at the last minute. It wouldn’t have ta
ken a rocket scientist to figure out that no one had prescribed them to me.
My friends and I liked being under the influence, period. Ghost always had E or molly, Deacon brought the weed, and alcohol was just always there. We didn’t judge each other and we liked getting fucked up. I was taking Fallon’s meds nearly every day now. To work. Still just to work. Yeah, prescription drugs were different, especially when no one except you was monitoring what was happening to your body. Like I said, I paid attention in D.A.R.E. I had this handled.
But Nikki was going to have a problem with how I was using them, no matter how much I explained that I had it completely under control. I feared her reaction would have consequences for our friendship, especially because of her past. I didn’t want to lose what we had because I disappointed her in some way. I cared about that enough to keep this a secret.
I shook the capsules around in my hand but pushed them back into my pocket. Sometimes when I came down off amphetamines after a stressful day, the crash punished me with double the anxiety. Like Samira, I really wanted to relax tonight at the party, and I was anxious as a motherfucker right now. I had gotten into a vicious cycle recently: wondering if we’d top last season’s finale numbers, convincing myself that we wouldn’t, checking our YouTube channel subscriber number, finding out that it had tripled over the last few weeks, checking out how many people had RSVP’ed to watch on Hillington’s website, freaking out because the number was so high, and then freaking the fuck out because I was certain the premiere was going to suck and all those people would witness it sucking. Repeat. Repeat. Fucking repeat.
Nik: We’re here!
