Love Abstract (The Art of Falling Book 2)

by B. L. Berry

  “Wanna bet?” He throws his head back and laughs himself into a fit of hiccups.

  “With enough alcohol, I’d venture to say I could get her to do anything,” Phoenix chimes in.

  “Anything?” There’s a scandalous glint in Brock’s eye that instantly brings unease.

  “Anything.” Phoenix seems confident in his abilities. And honestly? He’s probably right. For him I would do just about anything, alcohol not even required. Though it surely helps.

  “Could you get her to do a time capsule?” The smirk on his face tells me I don’t want to know more.

  “A what?” I say, exchanging a confused look with Phoenix. He apparently is as clueless as I am.

  “Oh, come on. Everyone who’s anyone has heard of a time capsule.” He picks at his cuticles, waiting for us to take the bait.

  “No, definitely not,” Phoenix replies as I shake my head.

  “Well, you’re in for a treat.” Brock cracks his knuckles and leans into us, resting his elbows on the table. He speaks directly to Phoenix. “Okay, so you know when you’re in bed having a good time with a guy? Well, I guess in your case, a good time with a girl?”

  Phoenix raises his eyebrows in intrigue and the waitress returns, sliding three more shots of whiskey onto the table. I smile at her innocently, praying she hasn’t overheard any part of this conversation.

  “Okay, so you’re in bed doing your thing. And instead of … you know inside of her. You pull out and drop your load in a Rubbermaid container.”

  I feel my face fall and turn bright red. “What the fuck?”

  “Then you go into your backyard—”

  “But I don’t have a backyard,” Phoenix interjects.

  “Meh, semantics. So you go into your backyard. Dig a hole. Bury the Rubbermaid container. And you wait twenty years.”

  “Twenty years?” Phoenix asks as my eyes volley back and forth between the pair like I’m watching a championship tennis match.

  “Yes, twenty years,” Brock clips.

  “That’s a long time to wait.”

  “It’s a time capsule. What do you expect?”

  “Good point,” Phoenix states, satisfied with the rationale.

  “So twenty years pass and then, and only then, do you dig up the container and track down the girl. You go to her house, ring the doorbell … Then, when she opens the door, you throw the jizz in her face and cheer, Thanks for the memories! That, my friends, is a time capsule.”

  If I were sober, I’d be mortified, but I laugh so hard vodka comes out my nose and stings like a fucking bitch.

  “That shit is right out of the urban dictionary,” I say, slapping his shoulder with the back of my hand. Phoenix is doubled over in hysterics.

  “Pretty much.” Brock grins as a handsome piece of young meat catches his eye across the bar. He grabs his shot glass off the table and raises it in the air. Phoenix and I follow suit. “To new friends, compromising sexual situations, and time capsules!”

  I throw my head back with the shot and enjoy the slow burn in my throat.

  “Brock Coulter, you’re next!” the DJ announces from the back of the bar.

  Brock slams his empty shot glass down on the counter and theatrically stands up, whisking himself away to take center stage.

  Phoenix and I give him a whooping holler, egging him on in his shenanigans.

  “That guy is insane,” Phoenix says, watching him jump on stage in disbelief. It’s amusing that Phoenix actually decided he likes hanging around Brock, considering he doesn’t warm up easily.

  “That’s one word for it.” I’m clapping so hard my hands hurt.

  Brock raises his hand, effectively silencing the raucous crowd. The only sound is the clinking of glasses at the main bar.

  He looks out into the audience, grabs the mic like he’s about to make love with it and as the bass guitar line starts in the background, he coolly says, “Are you bitches ready to do The Time Warp?” The crowd explodes into a frenzy as the instrumental to the iconic soundtrack booms through the speakers.

  Brock closes his eyes and runs his palm down the front of his chest stopping in front of his crotch as he sings. “It’s astounding ...” he croons, his voice haunting

  I fall back in my seat as I watch him unbutton his shirt and fling it to the floor as he sings both the male and female parts of the song to perfection.

  Brock shakes his hips to the music as he sings but when he gets to the chorus the entire bar jumps to the left, steps to the right and shakes their hips right along with him, reenacting the scene straight from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

  Mid-song, I look over at Phoenix. He is all smiles and actually rocking out in his chair. Humph ... and he thought he wouldn’t have fun.

  The crowd is electrified and it is clear that no performance for the rest of the night will come remotely close to measuring up to Brock’s awesomeness. When he finishes, everyone erupts into wild cheers and Brock takes a bow, soaking up the attention. After he picks his shirt up off the floor of the stage, he returns to the mic rather than coming back to our table.

  Oh, fuck.

  “Okay folks, you are in for a real treat. For one night only, my dear friends have agreed to put their dignity aside and grace you with their presence.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. I’m going to kill him.

  “I’m gonna kill him,” Phoenix says, reading my mind.

  “Not if I kill him first.”

  “Give it up for Phoenix and Ivy!” Brock beams brightly as he pumps up the crowd.

  Everyone in this joint had better be fucking wasted. Or at least three degrees beyond fucking wasted. That is the only way this going to happen.

  I hear Phoenix mumble son of a bitch as he grabs my hand and leads me to the back. Brock covers the mic to speak directly to us. “I took the liberty of picking my favorite duet for my favorite couple. If you don’t know this song, I’m going to have to find new friends. Which would be a pity considering my tolerance for people is pretty much nil and I actually like you guys.”

  The DJ hands me a second microphone with a smile. “Don’t worry. Most of this will fall on him,” he says, gesturing to Phoenix. The pair of us turn to the monitor to see our fate.

  I take a deep nervous breath and found myself wishing I had an intravenous hookup of vodka flowing directly to my bloodstream to take the edge off.

  The electric guitars chime in and I howl with delight with the biggest smile on my face. I couldn’t be irritated with Brock if I wanted to. I fucking love this song and the sheer drunken joy in my eyes is a dead giveaway. I watch Phoenix grab the microphone with both hands like a rock star and without missing a beat chime in with the lyrics to Meatloaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Light.

  Who is this man?

  He owns the stage.

  He owns the crowd.

  And how did I not know he could sing? And sing really well at that!

  Right on cue I chime in, and Phoenix and I get lost in the song. Although I’m pretty sure he’s seeing ten of me right now from the way he’s swaying.

  Our energy feeds off of each other and with all eyes on us, I feel more connected to Phoenix at this moment than I have in a long time. Our love feels invincible, and I know he feels it, too.

  During an instrumental, he takes me by the hand and twirls me before pulling me in close. We’re both a sweaty mess from the blinding spotlights and his eyes say it all and he doesn’t hold back. Phoenix dips me backward deeply and plants the deepest passionate kiss upon my lips. I can taste the liquor on his lips and on his tongue. I can’t hear him over the deafening music, but I can actually feel the groan rising deep from his chest.

  The crowd erupts as we kiss and starts singing on our behalf when the lyrics pick back up. By the time we pull apart, the song is nearly over.

  It’s such a rush.

  At the end of the song, Phoenix throws his fist in the air victorious and turns to me. I can’t hear what he says over the thunderous applause,
but he squeezes my hand and his infectious smile glows brightly. Dare I say brighter than the metal on the edge of a knife?

  As we make our way back to the table, I pluck two more shots of Fireball off of a waitress’ tray and give one to Phoenix. As fun as it was, I am desperate to erase that performance from my memory and I’m only as strong as the drink in my hand. That was the first and last time I will ever sing in public. On the other hand, I could listen to Phoenix sing the dictionary any day of the week.

  “That was insane!” my adoring boyfriend cheers as we slide back into our chairs. I attempt to give Brock the stink eye, but I’m pretty sure I look like I’m just a drunk girl squinting. Probably because I am.

  “Admit it, Ivy. You love me!” he laughs.

  “You are in so much trouble, Brock.”

  “What?” He grins crookedly.

  “If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I will personally see to it that you never get laid for as long as you live.”

  “Aww, don’t be like that, Sweet Tits.” He blows a kiss my way and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Now, if you'll excuse me for a moment …”

  Phoenix and I watch Brock get up from the table and follow a twenty-something sandy-blond man toward the restroom. I shake my head in disbelief.

  “He’s right. Your tits are sweet,” Phoenix slurs.

  “You two are absolutely ridiculous.” I shake my head, knowing that this pair has found friendship in foolishness.

  We watch Brock work his game with the unsuspecting blond from across the bar. Of course. He drags us out into the early morning hours and then goes off chasing the cutest boy toy he can find. I really shouldn’t expect anything less.

  “And then there were two.” There’s a sexy air in Phoenix’s voice and the way he smiles at me makes me want to drop my panties right here and ride him like a rodeo bull.

  Phoenix props himself up against the back of the chair with a goofy grin on his face. My head is light, my teeth are tingling and the only thing I want other than Phoenix right now are pancakes bathed in maple syrup.

  This can only mean one thing ... I’m not just drunk. I’m shit-faced.

  And I’m not the only one. With hooded eyes, Phoenix sleepily sways in his chair, bobbing to the music.

  “Hey, don’t go getting too comfortable over there, sleepy head. Remember, if you pass out in a bar with your shoes off, it’s fair game to draw penises on your face.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he challenges me.

  “Oh, I would in a heartbeat.”

  Phoenix laughs and shakes his head as the DJ calls some chick named Abby up to the stage.

  Phoenix nudges me with his elbow. “Hey, that chicks looks a lot like Gen. Don’t you think?” he slurs dreamily.

  I turn to the stage to agree—the resemblance is uncanny. But I’m more surprised that he remembers what she looks like since he wasn’t around her for very long back in Chicago.

  “You have an impeccable memory. Hopefully, she sings better than Gen.” I’ll never forget the valiant attempt she made trying to sing Britney Spears in a middle school talent show. If she hadn’t been so popular, she would have been laughed off the stage. To say Genevieve was tone deaf would be the understatement of the century. She’d open her mouth and the dogs would come running.

  Within the first notes of Madonna’s “Like A Virgin” this chick is without a doubt, worse than Gen when it comes to singing. The performance is on par with having a root canal—without the anesthesia.

  Phoenix watches her intently for a few minutes before turning back to me. He takes a long draw from the beer he’s been nursing since we finished our performance.

  “Ya know, Ivy … I got the better sister.”

  Got the better sister? He says it like he had a choice. The comment jolts me to my senses and I sober up quickly.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I can’t reel in the sharpness in my voice.

  “Oh, you know. You're the real prize in the family. I really lucked out falling in love with you. And having you fall in love with me.” He beams at me proudly, but I only offer up a small frown in exchange. While sweet, his comment completely rubs me the wrong way. I’m not something to be won, and I never want to be seen as competition with my sister.

  “All I’m saying is I’m so happy we ended up together,” he slurs.

  Oh.

  I need to stop allowing the alcohol to run my imagination. I cuddle under his arm, and warmth radiates through my chest. I'm not sure if it's the way he makes me feel or the shots of Fireball, but I don't care. It feels nice … right, even.

  “Me too.” I smile, content in this moment, in this life.

  He reaches out and traces the rim of his lowball glass with his index finger, humming the tune of the song to himself. I watch as his eyelids droop down his gaze. The poor guy is going to be in a world of hurt when he wakes up tomorrow. Both of us are, in fact. Good thing it’ll be Saturday.

  “I’m so lucky that you’re mine,” he slurs.

  “I know. You are lucky.”

  Phoenix chuckles and looks dreamily at me. “I love it when you’re schaucy. It’s schmexy…”

  “And you’re cute.” I giggle and tap his nose with my index finger before leaning over and giving him a quick peck on his cheek. “And wasted.”

  He places his hand on my thigh and gives it a firm squeeze before creeping dangerously close to my crotch. I chew on my bottom lip and swallow a groan.

  “We should head home,” he growls in my ear before nipping my lobe playfully. “I’ve got some things I want to do to you.” The look in his eyes tells me he’s on the cusp of devouring me whole.

  “Just let me find Brock to let him know we’re leaving.”

  At that exact moment, Brock wraps his arms around Phoenix and me and sticks his face in between us.

  “So I’m gonna head home with that pup over there. You two kids good?” He looks beyond our table at the blond kid standing by the door. Pup isn’t an exaggeration. He looks to be half of Brock’s age. But who am I to judge what, or who, he does?

  “Yeah, we were just coming to let you know we’re taking off, too.”

  “Okay. Well, you guys have fun tonight. I’ll see you Monday.”

  I lean over to give Brock a friendly kiss on the cheek, but at the last possible moment he turns toward me and plants a kiss smack dab on my lips.

  Phoenix grabs my arm possessively and pulls me under his arm. “Hey now!” he husks as he puffs out his chest. Brock simply rolls his eyes, leans down to give Phoenix a sloppy kiss on the cheek and turns to leave. I should be flattered that he wants to be this protective of me given all that’s happened, but it’s Brock. And the reaction is a bit overkill.

  “He’s gay, Phoenix,” I deadpan as I turn to face my boyfriend. “And you’re trashed. No need to turn into the alpha dog and pee on my leg.”

  “I know. He just—”

  “He was just being friendly. You just need to calm the hell down. You’re drunk and overacting. Not every guy out there wants to get into my pants. Especially when the guy and I both prefer the company of dudes.”

  “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  I’m surprised at how easily he drops the argument.

  After closing out our tab, we spill out into the streets of New York. “Do you want to cab it?” he asks, heading for the curb.

  “Nah, let’s walk for a bit.” I’m hoping the fresh air will sober me up. He stumbles next to me and grabs my hand.

  “Great idea.” He reaches out and pulls me close under his arm as we walk in silence with no sound other than the club rats and the occasional car in the street. We make it a block and a half before my curiosity gets the best of me.

  “About what you said earlier, about me being the better sister … Could you ever have gotten the other sister?”

  “Oh…” he sighs, slightly more defeated than he was a few moments ago. “You know … I’m just lucky.” He smiles weakly. “Not that I’d e
ven want her anymore.”

  Anymore?

  He’s drunk and rambling, but all I hear are muffled sounds in my head as I try to make sense of what he’s even saying. I slow my pace and stop dead in my tracks and watch him take a few steps more before he turns around. We’re just outside Penn Station and even this time of the early morning, it’s buzzing with people. Damn club rats.

  I tilt my head and look at him, fighting the rising nausea in my stomach. “Phoenix?”

  “Hmm?” He spins around to look at me and nearly loses his balance.

  The only way I’m ever going to get to the bottom of this is to take advantage of him being under the influence of liquid truth. It feels so wrong, but I may never tell me otherwise.

  Just do it. Just rip the damn Band-Aid off.

  “What happened the night you and Sully met Genevieve?” I can’t help but ask the question that has been silently eating away at me.

  “Nothing.” His tone is all wrong. This isn’t the man I love talking right now.

  “Nothing?”

  “Sully wasn’t at the party that night.” He closes his eyes and sways. “I don’t think he got there until the next morning. I’m pretty sure that’s when he met Gen.”

  Oh no.

  I steel myself and ask him the same question from earlier. “Could you have gotten with my sister?”

  He opens his mouth and snaps it shut a few times before breaking eye contact.

  Oh god. What exactly does that mean?

  “She made a pass at me and we fooled around for a little bit,” he says it quickly and casually.

  “You what?” My stomach lurches and I fight down the rising bile.

  He's deliberately being an ambiguous ass. I wait for a logical explanation but my heart running rampant and I feel like I’m about to pass out. But my mind won’t let me. I’m a fucking masochist and need to know more.

  “Fooled around? Define fooled around, Phoenix!” My voice cracks as I shrill into the air. I can feel my pulse all the way through my toes.

  He says nothing.

  “What did you do? Did you fuck her?”

  “What? No!” Shock and panic wash over his face.