by Ella Miles
I haven’t been with a guy in years—three years, to be exact. I haven’t had the pleasure of a guy bringing me to come while thrusting inside me since my high school boyfriend dumped me during my freshman year of college. It’s not that I haven’t had opportunities, but they have been few and far between. I’m not supposed to date. I’m not supposed to fall in love.
But this isn’t a date. And it sure as hell isn’t love.
It’s lust.
His hand brushes my long hair back as his lips move from my lips to my neck. He skims warm kisses over my soft flesh, sending warm chills over my body. I feel my desire for him growing in my belly. I want him—now. Maybe going home with him isn’t such a bad idea after all.
I reach for my phone in my purse, but I come up empty. It’s gone. I can’t ask what I should do. I’m on my own to decide.
I moan against his lips.
“Let’s go,” he says, making the decision for me.
He grabs my hand, and we begin walking the two blocks that should take less than five minutes to walk.
Between me stumbling in my heels and Brent stopping to kiss me against the wall of a building, it takes more like twenty minutes to reach his building. I stand, staring up at the ten-story building that seems to be swaying slightly even though a gentle breeze isn’t blowing. Not that wind would be able to move a building. Would it?
I close my eyes hard before opening them again. The building seems to have stopped swaying in the few seconds my eyes were closed.
I grin widely at Brent as he takes my hand back in his, and he guides me up the three stairs into his apartment building. The building is old, at least fifty years old.
I glance up and see a sign for the elevator that reads, Out of Service. My mouth hangs open.
Oh, please let him live on the first floor.
“Just up one flight of stairs,” Brent says, grinning.
I nod, and we slowly make our way up the stairs. Brent’s hand never leaves mine. It’s nice to have a man’s hand holding mine, keeping me safe.
We barely make it into his apartment before his lips crush against mine again. His shirt along with his shoes are off in seconds. I try my best to keep up as I flick off my own shoes, but I can’t balance on one foot. I fall, but I am surprised when something soft breaks my fall—a couch. I’ve fallen over the side of the couch. I quickly remove my shoes before I feel Brent move on top of me, pressing me further into the couch.
As he kisses me, I keep my eyes, trying to take in my surroundings, but it’s dark, too dark to see anything. When his lips find the spot sensitive spot on my neck, I let all thoughts go as I moan with pleasure.
“You”—he kisses my chest—“are”—his kisses trail lower to my breasts—“the”—his mouth grabs at the fabric, pulling it down and exposing my bare breasts, and he sucks in a breath at the sight—“most beautiful woman.”
I innocently bite my lip as I stare up at him, waiting to see what he will do. I don’t know how to respond to his nice words, so I don’t. I let my hard nipples do the talking for me. I want him.
His eyes never leave mine as his mouth descends slowly until it is just an inch from my throbbing nipple. He’s asking permission, I finally realize, as he hovers over me but doesn’t touch. I arch my back just slightly, so my nipple presses against his lips. I close my eyes as his lips softly kiss my nipple before his tongue tastes and flicks over the hard peak.
I moan softly. I feel the desire for more forming in my belly. Right now, I will let this man do anything to my body. I want more. I need more. I want to feel good and forget about everything else.
His lips move to my other breast as his body shifts on top of me. His erection presses harder into my stomach. When I feel it, instead of the pleasure I expected, I feel pain. I feel liquid forming in my stomach, needing to come out. I feel it rising quickly in my chest.
“Sick,” I say as I push at Brent’s chest to get him off of me.
He quickly moves with a shocked expression on his face. I run from the room as the liquid threatens at my throat.
I run down the dark hallway, but Brent hasn’t offered directions of where a bathroom might be. I open the first door. I fumble at the wall, trying to find a light switch. When I find it, lights brighten the room, but it’s not a bathroom. It’s a guy’s messy bedroom.
God, please let Brent have a messy roommate. I’m not sure I could have sex with someone who lives so messily.
I quickly close the door and try the next one. I hit the light switch on the first try this time and am pleased to see that it’s a bathroom—the most disgusting bathroom I think I’ve ever seen. Dirty towels and clothes line the floor. There is an array of toiletries covering the counter. The toilet seat is already up, exposing a pee-stained toilet, but I don’t have time to find a different bathroom. I run to the toilet just as the contents of my stomach make their way back up.
I vomit again and again until I’m sure every drop of alcohol has come back up.
“I’m never drinking again,” I mumble to myself as I collapse back against the wall while my stomach tries to settle itself.
I sit on the floor for several seconds, unable to move. I hear a door creak, and I expect to see Brent running in to check on me, but he never comes. Throwing up in a guy’s apartment isn’t like the movies. No one held my hair back and cleaned me up when I was done. I’m on my own.
I walk slowly back to the living room to see if Brent will call me a cab. When I walk in, I see him passed out on the couch. I look back down the hallway, hoping to see his roommate who caused the door to creak. But I don’t see anyone, and I’m not going to go searching for him. I find my clutch lying on the floor, next to the couch. I open it, but my phone isn’t in there. Scarlett kept it.
I could wake up Brent, but I choose not to. Instead, I curl up on the love seat and go to sleep. It’s the only thing my body can manage after a night like this. I don’t think about Brent. I don’t think about how Scarlett got me into this mess. I don’t think about how I’m supposed to call my father. I just sleep.
“Hey, you need to wake up,” a man says as he tries to shake me awake.
I stir slowly, sure that it is a dream since I don’t recognize the voice.
“Wake up,” the same voice says again.
I open my eyes and find the prettiest shade of blue twinkling back at me. I smile. I can’t help it. Whoever this person is can’t be bad. I try to sit up, but I am immediately attacked with symptoms—headache, nausea, and dizziness. I close my eyes and lie back down. I try to remember what happened.
Alcohol, lots of alcohol—that’s what happened.
I open my eyes and sit up more slowly this time. Brent is no longer standing over me. He has moved to the kitchen and is pouring a glass of water. My mouth begins watering at the sight. I watch as he drinks down the glass instead of offering me a drink.
I sigh. What did I expect from a man who passed out rather than making sure I was still alive and breathing after I’d run to his bathroom?
“I figured you would be gone by now,” he says.
I smile weakly. I know that’s just talk for, Please leave now.
“I need to borrow your phone to call a cab. I…” I don’t want to explain that Scarlett took my phone. “I lost mine,” I say instead.
He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and tosses me his phone. I call for a cab, and it will be here in five minutes. I stand from the couch and feel the cricks in my neck and back from sleeping on the small love seat. I should book a massage for later. I grab my shoes, not bothering to put them on, and hand Brent his phone before walking myself to the door. I pause at the door, waiting for him to open it for me, to ask for my number…anything.
He doesn’t. Instead, his focus is now on his phone.
I open his door and pause again, waiting for him to say anything.
Nothing.
“I guess I’ll see you around sometime.”
“Yeah, see you around,” he says wi
thout glancing up from his phone.
I sigh as I walk out of his apartment. I thought the guy had potential. I thought he was a nice guy who could at least give me one good night of passion. I wasn’t expecting love. I wasn’t expecting even much more than one night, but I thought we could at least have one enjoyable night together. I was wrong.
I tried Scarlett’s little experiment. I did what normal college kids did. I got drunk and attempted to have a one-night stand. It sucked. I’d liked my life before—when I did whatever my family had asked of me. That was more enjoyable than this.
“Where the hell have you been?” I hear as soon as I walk into my apartment.
I smile. “Good morning.”
“Don’t good morning me. I have been worried sick and trying to fend off your family all fucking night. Where the hell where you?” Scarlett says.
I ignore her and walk to my closet to put my shoes back in their correct place. I slip off the crop top and pull on a comfy T-shirt instead. Scarlett storms in before I’ve even finished changing.
“Well?” she asks again. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and her foot is tapping slowly on the hard floor as she waits for my answer.
“I was with Brent.”
“You were with, who?”
“Brent.”
“I heard you the first time. You couldn’t have been with a guy!”
I laugh. “Too late.” Although I think you have to get further than second base to actually say I was with a guy.
“Kinsley Elizabeth Felton! You were supposed to get drunk, flirt with some guys, and then come back here with me to sleep it off—not go home with a complete stranger without telling me.”
“Calm down, Scar,” I say, brushing past her and heading to my kitchen to get a glass of water.
“Don’t Scar me. You…you can’t just…”
I laugh, seeing Scarlett so flabbergasted. She didn’t think little ole me had it in me to have a one-night stand. Well, I did—sort of.
I sigh. “Calm down, Scar. Nothing happened.”
“What do you mean, nothing happened? You went home with him!”
“Yeah, well…something almost happened, but then I threw up, and he passed out on the couch while I was in the bathroom.”
Scarlett’s body visibly relaxes at my words, but it doesn’t stop her questions. “Why did you go home with him though?”
“I don’t know.” I fill my glass with filtered water. “I was drunk.”
Scarlett shakes her head. “Just don’t do it again.”
I take a long gulp of water as I stare at Scarlett in disbelief. “You were the one who pushed me to go out.”
“Yeah, and you are supposed to listen to every word I say, not go off and make your own stupid decisions like that.”
I roll my eyes at her change from wild friend to motherly concern even though she has every right to be concerned. The last time I did anything remotely crazy, it ended badly.
A phone vibrates, and Scarlett reaches into the pocket of her jeans. She pulls out my phone, and a worried look crosses her face. “I think you’d better answer it. Your father has been calling you nonstop, every twenty minutes, all night.”
I stare at the phone, afraid to take it from Scarlett’s hand. I know what’s waiting for me on the other end of that phone—yelling…lots of yelling and lecturing about my responsibilities, how immature I was last night, and how my parents should take everything away and give it to someone who will respect their terms. I can already hear my father’s stern voice now.
“I’m surprised they haven’t already shown up here,” I say honestly.
Scarlett’s eyes grow wide with fear as she thrusts the phone into my hands. “Answer it before they do. I don’t think I could survive getting a lecture from your father.”
I smile weakly as I stare at the still vibrating phone. It’s not my father I have to worry about though. Our relationship has always been good. It’s my grandfather’s lecture that I am worried about.
“Hello?” I say when I answer the phone. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer earlier. I accidentally grabbed Scar’s phone instead of mine. You know how we have the exact same phone. I was so focused on studying last night that I forgot it was Friday. I fell asleep before I remembered. I’m sorry if I worried you, but I’m ready to talk now,” I lie. I’ve never lied in my entire life. It doesn’t feel natural, leaving my lips.
“Kinsley, shut up. I don’t believe a word that is coming out of your mouth anyway. I need you to come home to Vegas immediately. I sent a jet to come pick you up,” Granddad says.
“Wait…what? I have finals all next week. I need to be studying.” I move my phone from my ear to make sure I saw the number correctly. It’s my father’s, not my grandfather’s, number. Why is my grandfather calling me on Dad’s phone?
“It’s an emergency,” he says grumpily into the phone. “Your father’s dead.”
“What?” I say, not believing his words.
He wouldn’t say that to me over the phone.
“Your father’s dead,” he says, repeating his words. “He had a heart attack, probably due to the fact that his only daughter never called him like she was supposed to. You need to come home for the funeral, and so we can decide…”
I don’t hear the rest. I drop my phone and watch it clank against the hard floor. I slump to the floor. Tears stream down my face as Scarlett, my only friend, rushes to my side and holds my body in her arms.
It can’t be true. It can’t be.
“What happened?” Scarlett keeps asking as she holds me firmly in her arms.
“He’s gone,” I finally say between sobs.
And it’s my fault. If I hadn’t gone out last night, if I had called him, he might still be alive. If I hadn’t gone out last night, I could have had one last conversation with him. I could have heard one last piece of advice. I could have heard one last I love you.
I didn’t though. Now, I’ll never get to hear him say those words to me again. It’s all my fault.
I thought that day, the day I found out my father had died, was the worst day of my life. I thought nothing could get worse than that.
I was wrong.
I thought the funeral might be the worst day because I had to say good-bye to the only family member who had understood me at all.
I was wrong.
Today, the day after the funeral, is the worst day. Today, everything has become real. The tears are gone but not the pain. The pain is worse, much worse than I could have ever imagined. I have no one here who can comfort me or steal my mind for just a minute.
Scarlett came to Las Vegas for the funeral, but she’s already gone back to Connecticut to finish her finals. She won’t move back here until later this week.
My mother is a mess. We got into a fight after the funeral. It was about something petty, like what to do with the donations made in my father’s honor. She can’t comfort me.
And my grandfather…I just know it’s best if I stay away from him right now.
I slump out of bed to go to my closet to look for something to wear. I should have just stayed in bed, but I couldn’t. In bed, all I thought about was how much I missed him. If I get out, maybe I will find something to distract myself. I stare at the racks of clothes hanging in my large walk-in closet that rivals the size of the one in my apartment in Connecticut. I don’t know what to wear, despite having enough clothes to clothe a small town of people.
Yesterday was easy. I just had to wear the nicest black dress I owned. But what do you wear the day after the funeral—after everyone has gone home, and all that is left are casseroles of food flooding the fridge and flowers wilting on the floor? How are either of those things supposed to make everything better?
Food…
I can’t even think about eating right now. And even if I could, we have a cook to do that for us.
And the damn flowers…
I don’t know how that tradition got started. Like flowers are going to make the
pain go away. They don’t do a damn thing, except remind us of death again when the flowers wilt and die. Just like my father…except he didn’t just wilt away in old age and die in his sleep. No, he died of a heart attack at fifty years old, probably provoked because of me.
I decide to slip on jeans and a navy shirt. I walk to the mirror and run my hand through my long blonde curls. I don’t bother with makeup. I don’t know what you are supposed to wear the day after a funeral, but this is what I’ve chosen—something plain, boring, and nothing girlie, like how I usually dress.
I make my way downstairs although I don’t know what you are supposed to do the day after a funeral. Everyone has gone home, back to their lives, while we are left picking up the pieces. Everyone else has gone back to their lives, like nothing devastating just happened…when the most devastating thing in our lives just happened.
I know people always say you have to go through the different stages of grief, but that’s not true. There are no stages. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—they all happen at once. At least, that has been my experience during the past three days. I’ve experienced each emotion at least twice every hour.
I walk around the big house that feels completely empty. It’s not because my father’s gone. This house never felt like home to Dad. It didn’t feel like home to me either, for that matter. Dad was always home in the casinos and hotels he ran. I felt at home wherever he was, which meant I fell in love with the flashing lights of casinos and the comforts of a new hotel room. Any night I could get away from this empty mansion and be with him, I would.
I walk through the two living rooms. Why we have two, I don’t know. I also don’t understand why we have eight bedrooms when we only need three at the most—for me, my parents, and my grandfather. But, for some reason, we do.
I walk to the kitchen and open the fridge on autopilot.
The whole time, I never see anybody.
I already know where my mother is—drinking away her pain in her bedroom. If I were a better daughter, I would spend my day comforting her. But I’m not that daughter. Maybe if it were in reverse, if I had to comfort my dad over the loss of my mother, then maybe I could. But I can’t comfort my mother when I can’t even comfort myself.
