by SM Lumetta
When my music comes on, I feel electricity in my veins, the guitar riff of Def Leppard’s “Photograph” kicking it off. My style is a little bit Jagger, but I’m all about being overdramatic and overexaggerated. Doc, who was obviously not part of our class but adopted himself anyway, jumps up on stage to shred some air guitar, which is totally kosher as far as the rules. I sidle up to him and we commence with the whole hair band singer and lead guitarist rubbing up together. He sort-of sings—no, shouts—into my mic with me and I nearly lose my composure because he’s so into it but so off-key. I might not be Adele or whoever, but I can hold a tune. Zeke, who drove in from Santa Barbara tonight, slides onto the stage on his belly and squats on a stool in the back, air drumming. I’m so pumped it’s almost like we’re a legit ’80s hair metal band. I damn near jump in the air to do stupid air splits.
Once I get to the bridge, I drop to my knees for the dramatic high note. Doc slides past me on his knees for the requisite guitar solo. I writhe around on stage because it’s ridiculous, and frankly, I need a breather. When I roll up for the rest of the song, I crawl toward the edge of the stage to see Elvis—excuse me, Fox—staring at me. No, not just staring. The look on his face is straight up predatory. If it were even remotely socially acceptable, he would climb up here and fuck me right on the stage. And the way he’s looking at me? I would let him.
As I psych myself up to belt the last high note, I reach the end of the stage. Fox is right there, so I sing straight to him. Well, karaoke sing. God knows I can’t sing sing. Nora exploits this all the time. I can at least hit the notes I intend, but the fact that I’m up on this stage singing this song is a feat. Good singers can’t sing this song. Luckily the whole point of this competition is to make the biggest ass of yourself as you possibly can. I do quite well in that respect.
For the final line “I want to touch you” and then the screamy-creamy note that follows—painfully so for the audience, I lean over the edge of the stage into Fox’s face. Even with the damn Elvis mutton chops stuck to his face and the pompadour wig, he’s panty dropping gorgeous. The gaudy-as-fuck gold sunglasses are up on top of his head so I grab them and put them on as the song is winding down. Before I can fall to my back on the stage to fake die, Fox grabs me by the face and plants one on me. I’m too surprised to wonder what anyone else around us thinks, but the hooting and hollering are a pretty good indication that they like it. Hell, I like it. The party becomes a fuzz and blur of lights and noise as my friend with benefits—and hopefully baby daddy—sucks the brains out of me. And just like that, his surprise attack becomes a surprise release. I’m not sure what he does as I flop onto my back, hanging off the stage, smeared lipstick and all, but the crowd’s reaction is loud and obnoxious. As obnoxious as Elvis? Hard to say.
Zeke gives me a hand and pulls me to my feet. He looks at me curiously, but doesn’t follow up with any weird comments. He’s far too perceptive for his own good. Doc looks at me, then wherever Fox went, and back to me in a visual pinball game. I wave him off so he shrugs and joins Zeke and me for a group bow. We follow up with a pose like a bunch of metal band imbeciles. There are camera flashes and raucous applause as we make our way off the side of the stage. The next act passes me on the steps, but all I see are pink and black feathers. Boas, I assume, but I can’t focus. I’m still a little dazed from the kiss, if I’m being honest. I’d rather not, so I won’t. Since I’m lying, I’m also not horny as hell. Damn Elvis the Pelvis. Or whatever. Fox’s kisses, man. Killer.
Cyndi Lauper gets started and I pump a fist in solidarity, though I’m insulted that she thinks girls only want to have fun. I want—
“So how about this girl?” Fox says in my ear, his body so close behind me. “Does she want to have fun?”
He can feel my agreement in the way my breathing changes. I know this because his chest presses more firmly into my back and a hand sneaks around my front. Fingertips play with the unnaturally high waistband of my shorts. Yes, they’re actually from the ’80s, people—low-waisted was clearly not a thing yet.
“How about multiple orgasms? Does she want those?”
I full out cackle, but I hold his hand in place. “Who doesn’t?”
With that, The King grabs me around the waist and directs me around the side of the stage to a back door. No sooner are we outside in the alley than I’m up against the brick.
“Don’t ruin my shirt,” I pant as his mouth hoovers around my neck and chest. “It’s vintage.”
My words are probably not as clear as I think they are. No matter, he pays no attention to me anyway.
“Jesus, would you take the fucking mullet off? How are you even this sexy with that damn hockey haircut on?” His growling just makes me hotter, though I find his annoyance hysterical.
“Same reason I can screw you while you have those godforsaken plastic sideburns on your face, you dick,” I say, breathing heavily. We mercilessly grind on one another, laughing, kissing, moaning. Every one of our noises seems to boomerang back to us, bouncing off the loading dock and alley walls around us. The minor phenomenon amps me up and I find myself gasping for breath.
Fox’s hands find my waistband and he curses. “Fucking hell, I need these off,” he growls.
“What about your studly jumpsuit, Your Highness?” I pant through my hilarity.
“Zips down the front, now—”
I stop him by biting his lower lip, and grind out through my teeth. “Push the fucking shorts aside. Rip the fishnets.”
His response is unintelligible, but the desperation of his hands, my hands—hell, the entire tangle of our limbs—is feverish. I feel frantic. If the seam of my jeans isn’t soaked by now, I’d be shocked. Finally his fingers find their target and curl around the fabric, yanking it to the side, easily pulling through the fishnets.
“Fuck, are you even wearing underwear?” he asks, but I don’t think he cares. I feel his fingertips sliding across my throbbing O-button.
“Oh my God, would you just—” I don’t need to continue. His mouth covers mine as he fills me roughly. It’s a good indication for how this is going to go. Hard. Fast. Everything I need right now. Thank God, because if I don’t get a release soon, I will more than probably die. Okay, that’s exaggerating, but obviously the state of desperation is where I’m coming from. Even though I’m not coming. Yet. I—
Ahem.
All I can do is feel him and hang on for dear life. My nails dig through the thin polyester jumpsuit that, holy shit, I want to burn, but at the same time, it’s just too goddamn hilarious. If the wall behind me wasn’t brick, I swear it would be shaking. I’ve already knocked my head against it twice, and I’m positive my shirt ripped a little. I’d be pissed, but the last violent thrust throws me into a shuddering orgasm. To avoid screaming—or more likely an embarrassingly weird sound that would echo all over the county, I bite his shoulder as I ride it out. Unbelievably, he doesn’t stop. He’s fucking relentless. Pun not actually intended but it kind of works here, no? He’s either chasing his own release or trying to drill through the mortar behind us. Anyone’s guess. Kidding, I’m kidding. Jesus, stay with me. Seriously, because the way he’s going, he’s going to pound another orgasm out of me. No lie.
“Oh, oh my God, baby,” I mutter. “Oh. I’m gonna… I’m… another one!”
Fox seems to speed up his pace. “Goddamn,” he growls, but says nothing else. Oblivion is so close the both of us can taste it on the back of our tongues. I start begging, babbling, giggling. He moves a hand up and over my mouth, effectively shutting me up. I’m a bit surprised he hasn’t done that before, quite honestly. My chest heaves and the hilarious thought of a chest-heaving bodice-ripper novel flits through my head just before the second orgasm hits me like a Mack truck.
Somewhere in the haze of my comedown, Fox freezes, groaning in my ear as he comes. The hand on my mouth disappears and slaps against the brick, the other under my ass grips the cheek so hard it may bruise. But I don’t care. It feels godly, power
ful, possessive.
Breathing off kilter for the better part of a minute, we relax and I slide down the wall. He kisses me softly.
“I think you’re up soon,” I say quietly as we straighten and clean ourselves up as best we can.
He responds with the stereotypical Kingly, “Uh uh-huh.” I lightly slap him on the face and adjust my shorts. He grins madly and follows me inside.
Whether anyone in the party sees anything outside of drunken idiocy, I can’t say, but no one’s asking questions or pointing fingers. I purposely avoid Doc, though he doesn’t seem to be seeking me out. Zeke eyes me strangely but nods and winks. I think we’re generally in the clear. I head to the bar for something cold. Fox is on deck on the other side of the stage, preparing to go on next.
Nora finds me as I’m leaning across to shout my order at the bartender. “One,” she begins, “that was amazing. I can’t fucking believe you actually hit the creamy note, by the way.”
I straighten and perform a tiny sarcastic curtsy. “Grassy ass.”
“Two,” she says and now I’m worried. “You just got laid.”
My beer arrives. I slide a bill across to pay before looking Nora in the face. Gives me time to school my expression. “No. What?”
“Don’t bullshit me, woman,” she scoffs. “Bullshit is my job. Or at least it was. Fucking Simon.”
“You’re fucking Simon?” I say, just to throw the conversation. It doesn’t work.
“That’s disgusting,” Cameron says as she leans on Nora’s shoulder. “We’re going to get you to confess, so just do it.”
Nora nods, twirling her hands in a silent “get on with it” gesture.
“So what?” I say, chugging down half my beer.
They laugh. “Babe, you’re practically afterglowing in the dark,” Nora says. Her drink disappears before my eyes. She clinks it on the counter and makes a circle gesture to the bartender for a repeat. “Are we going to talk about what’s going on? It’s more than just the impreg—”
“Shut the fuck up!” I snap. Both of their eyes go wide, but only for a second. “No one else here needs to know about that. The ‘in’ crowd in this case is very, very, very small.”
“Jonah and Rae know.”
I choke on my sip. “How do you know they know?”
She smiles. Cam pretends to be shocked. I’m about to rage text Rae and Jonah.
“Relax,” Nora says, reading me. “Jonah knows how close we are, so he let on that he knew something. I’m just following that hunch.”
“And?” I glare, knowing she’s about to hand me a dissertation on her theories.
“Well,” she says, leaning onto a barstool, “it occurred to me that they wouldn’t be a top choice to chat about the whole to-do with, so I figured you got outed somehow. So what would that be? Pregnancy tests? No. They’re not frequent visitors to your pad.”
Cam takes the opportunity to jump in. I feel like a vein is popping out of my forehead when I realize they discussed this. “Nothing significantly stuck out as a realistic flag, so we thought maybe you’re fucking more often than you really need to”—my face gets hot—“and got caught. So?”
My teeth grind and I’m breathing through my nose—kind of like a bull, flaring nostrils and all. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”
Cam leans in. “Sophie Ann.”
“Yes! Okay? I just got fucked against the wall outside. I came hard—twice!” I hiss. “Are you evil whores happy now?”
These two awful human beings high-five each other. “Damn, I’m so glad! Though it’s neither here nor there to me,” Cam tells me, sipping a margarita that feels like it appeared from nowhere. “But so you know? You have a rip in your shirt on the shoulder.”
“Goddammit!” I pull at the fabric to get a view of it, but can’t find it. I gasp, the skin on my back surprisingly feeling a bit tender. Where the hell did the vest go? I guess it’s more like “found and lost” now. “Can you get brick burn?”
Nora throws her head back roaring and slaps the counter in front of her. She nearly falls off her barstool and I briefly consider kicking it over. Nope, never mind. She fell off on her own drunk merit. She throws a middle finger salute in the air. She’s fine.
“Cam,” I say, conspiratorially. I pull her cone boob toward me. “How are you? You ready for dinner tomorrow?”
“I’m always ready for a coming out party.” The wink she follows up with is genuine, so I don’t feel so worried. I kiss her cheek. “Just don’t bring pink balloons, okay?”
I guffaw, and Nora taps my shoulder to direct my attention toward the next act. Fox struts into the spotlight in all his obnoxious regalia and his music starts. When I realize it’s “Hound Dog,” I groan. I catch Nora’s gaze. She jumps an eyebrow and smirks.
The audience laughs. It’s not at me, right?
After the karaoke fest, Fox says he needs a ride home. I can tell immediately he means sleepover. Funnily enough, that’s exactly what it is. Just sleeping. Mostly because we both get naked and he promptly passes out. It doesn’t bother me, really. I’m tired and I don’t mind going right to sleep. Only, I can’t sleep.
As Fox snores lightly next to me, I stare at the ceiling. Something is making me restless, though I’m unable to put a finger on it. I turn onto my side and face the window. The movement settles the moonlight across my face. It’s bright enough that I briefly wonder if someone is shining a flashlight in the window.
Eyes half-lidded, I slide out of bed and shuffle toward the window. I simply stare at it for what feels like hours, the sound of the waves providing the perfect soundtrack. I turn around and walk toward the door.
“What are you doing?” Fox asks.
“I’m going for a swim. I can’t sleep and swimming in the ocean relaxes me.” I didn’t mention that swimming naked is what relaxes me, but I wager he’ll figure that out.
“You don’t have a suit here,” he says sleepily.
“I’m already wearing it,” I say quietly, performing a naked curtsy.
He’s fully awake now, stumbling out of bed and following me into the living room to the sliding doors. “What? You’re going skinny dipping?”
I chuckle, step out onto the deck, and grab a beach towel off a chair.
“Alone? At night?” he continues, sounding worried. “You know how dangerous that is, don’t you?”
I hold the towel to my chest and nod. “Since you’re joining me, you can play lifeguard.”
He eyeballs me.
“I won’t go in far. I just like to feel the water move around me.”
“That’s called an undertow, Einstein.”
My toes are already buried deep in the moonlight-chilled sand. “Look at this moon. It’s practically calling to me.”
“Moon kills, you know,” he teases, quoting one of my favorite summer movies. Meatballs, in case you’re wondering. My dad introduced me to it as a kid, and I’m pretty sure Fox was staying over at our house that night.
“As long as you don’t have a hook on your foot,” I joke. Bill Murray is the tits, by the way.
“Hand.”
“I know the story,” I say with a low laugh before dropping the towel and slowing stepping into the cold surf. I shiver when the first tiny wave laps at my knees and splashes up my thigh. Pushing forward, I continue until I’m standing waist deep. Then I stop and close my eyes. The moon isn’t quite full, maybe a day or two away. I let my fingers trail in the water, making an unfinished circle around me.
Something about being in the water heals me. And if I’m naked, I feel completely unfettered. I listen to the waves, relish the light breeze, and eventually bend back until I’m briefly submerged. Upon resurfacing, I slick my hair back as the water runs off me.
“Not perfect, but better,” I say to myself. “Wooo!” I call out, fully aware of how ridiculous it is, but I do feel more relaxed.
Fox mutters a joke about me being drunk as if I can’t hear him. Whether he realizes it or not, he’
s progressively gotten closer to me. “All right, little mermaid, are you done yet? I’m freezing my balls off out here. I think those might be important to you.”
I smile to myself and turn. “Just me?”
“All right, me, too. Definitely. I’d like to keep them.” He grins, but shifts to impatience. “Come on, let’s go.”
I sigh, a little tarnished by his resistance to enjoy the moment. He notices the slump of my posture.
“What’s wrong?” He stands board straight, the blue light of the moon’s reflection off the water throwing a moving light show over his chest. I can barely see his blond highlights until a breeze moves a lock of hair across his eyes. It’s still too dark to see their color, but I know them well. The bright hazel in his left eye turns almost golden in certain lights, jade in others, and caramel when he’s turned on. The green hilariously looks like a copycat of the other, but it’s clear they’re different colors. Fox truly is a beautiful man. A good man. Maybe the best I know.
That’s when I feel it.
The spark, the center of a new heat in my belly, my chest. It radiates all over my body. It’s a sudden hunger that seems impossible to sate. I want him, and not just because I want to have a baby, but because I’m so turned on—by his concern for me. It had become more and more intense in the past month or so. I noticed but hadn’t paid much mind because I didn’t want to. We agreed to “benefits” so why would I? Physical urges had shifted to a label that allowed us to tell ourselves “this is fine because it means nothing.”
Whether he feels he was kidding himself is something else altogether. For me, I was completely insane. All of this blends with the fact that I love him because he’s one of my best friends in the world. Maybe the best friend. The one I discounted all along because he was Fox. Goof off. Lackadaisical surfer boy. Perpetual playboy. Casual Casanova.
