Film at Eleven

by Bloom, Maggie

  But he didn’t stop me. And he didn’t claim me. He just stood there like he couldn’t have cared less if I rode off into the sunset with the Icelandic prince. And even though I knew I’d betrayed him first, his coldness stung like a fresh burn.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Lars.

  “See ya,” Lars said to Mick.

  I didn’t look back. It was no use. Mick had had his chance. Obviously, he didn’t want me. And despite my affinity for groveling, I was done.

  While Lars and I shivered ourselves silly in the Fisks’ front yard with our illicit beverages, something weird started to happen: The booze cranked my thermostat up to rotisserie chicken. It’s one of those freakish little facts nobody bothers to tell you: Alcohol makes you hot.

  And apparently it also makes you horny.

  “Want to see my bedroom?” Lars slurred in my ear, all warm and sexy.

  I couldn’t answer right away due to the aggressive tongue-lashing he’d unleashed to convince me. “Yup. Uh-huh. I do,” I eventually squeezed in between gasping for air and sucking face.

  Instead of turning back toward the house like I’d expected, Lars led me off to the garage, where an innocent side door and a simple staircase delivered us to the Icelandic prince’s…apartment?

  “This is…it?” I stammered.

  How cool.

  “It is,” Lars said. “And it’s just us.” He switched off the overhead light and turned on a soft lamp in the corner.

  “Is this like your own place?” I asked, checking out his bachelor pad for myself. He had a couch, a coffee table, a TV, a desk, and even a microwave and a mini-fridge, which all looked like hand-me-downs or flea market finds, but still.

  “Well, technically it’s the Fisks’,” he said. “But it’s ours tonight.” He pulled me in for a tight, full-body hug. “So why don’t we pretend we’re on a romantic trip?” he suggested. “Somewhere tropical. And it’s our first time. We’ve waited so long to be together.”

  I swear, the boy must have taken lessons on how to turn an ordinary virgin into a sex-crazed slut, because his little make-pretend game—not to mention his über tempting cologne—was driving me wild.

  “Mmm hmm,” I purred, following his lead to the couch. “But you promised…” I said, pausing to land a few gentle kisses on his delicious neck. “Your bedroom, remember?”

  Maybe it was the alcohol talking, or maybe my hormones had gone haywire, or maybe I just felt liberated from Mick. Whatever the reason, I suddenly knew I wanted Lars to be the one. When I lost it, I wanted him to take it from me.

  He grinned. “A promise is a promise,” he teased. “And I wouldn’t want to disappoint the most beautiful girl on earth.”

  Well, there is was: undeniable proof a guy will say just about anything to get into a girl’s pants.

  I slid to the edge of the couch and tapped my toes. “So?”

  “Right this way, gorgeous,” he said with an easy smile.

  And in about ten steps, we were at the threshold of… Ecstasy? Pain? Transformation? From what I’d heard, the first time had potential disaster written all over it—if it even was the first time, for Lars at least.

  “This is so cool!” I gushed like a twerpy little geek, as I bounced on the end of his bed. “I love it!”

  If there ever was a right place to lose your virginity, it was the seductive lair the Icelandic prince had created. With its black and blue striped walls, sleek, modern lighting, and stainless steel platform bed, the place screamed urban chic. Forget about pretending we were stranded in a tropical paradise. I, for one, was already knee-deep in a fantasy involving a temperamental rock star (my on-again, off-again lover, of course) and a New York City loft. How sophisticated.

  A word of advice, though: Avoid getting lost in farfetched fantasies when you have a real, live hottie at your fingertips. Case in point: While I was busy sipping cocktails with Raoul, or Stefan, or Emile on our rooftop party deck, Lars lost his shirt and I missed the unveiling.

  “Oh my God! You’re beautiful!” I gasped, gawking at his flawless pecs and ripped biceps—not to mention the sexy, sculpted dip where his abs went south of the border.

  Lars laughed. “Take something off,” he suggested, “like those boots. They look very uncomfortable.” He knelt at the foot of the bed and helped me wiggle them loose.

  “There,” he said. “Much better, right?”

  “Mmm hmm,” was all I could say.

  Since I’d never done the deed before, I wasn’t sure if boot removal was considered foreplay. But as soon as Lars tossed those spike-heeled torture devices out of the way, he was on me. And suddenly I realized there was no real way to prepare for losing your virginity. There were no classes. No study guides. No online tutorials (okay, so maybe there were, but I hadn’t thought to look). When it came to the moment of truth, you were left with a few sterile facts you’d learned in health class and all the cheap gossip you could dig out of your muddled brain.

  I crab-walked backward in search of a pillow, and Lars unbuttoned his pants, which sent my blood pumping like Niagara Falls. I swear, I’d be lucky if I could do anything—much less it—with the thump…thump…thump of my heart pounding in my ears.

  In what seemed like slow motion, the Icelandic prince embarked on a mission to fondle every square inch of my body as if he were memorizing it to sculpt a wax figure for Madame Tussauds; meanwhile, my lips remained attached to his inviting neck in suction cup fashion. And that’s where they were still planted when he shimmied my sequined tank over my boobs, exposing my stomach and my black lace bra.

  What happened next is sort of, well, fuzzy, since the moment my bare stomach met his bare stomach, my brain went on vacation. If I’m not mistaken, though, he unbuttoned and unzipped my butterfly jeans first, then took his pants off and threw them somewhere off camera.

  And for a while, we felt each other up through the clothes we were still wearing, which, honestly, was exciting enough for me. I could have stopped there.

  But Lars was hungry. He slipped a hand inside my jeans and tickled my hip with his warm fingers. Then he tried to pull my pants down, but they wouldn’t budge. I must say, it was a bit ironic that the very jeans I’d bought to seduce Mick with were stopping Lars from seducing me.

  “Let me…” I said, prying myself off him. “I’ve gotta…”

  I didn’t want to stand up, but there was no way in hell those skinny jeans were coming off unless I was vertical. With a nervous smile, I slithered off the bed in reverse, keeping my eyes pinned on my nearly-naked hottie.

  And Lars rolled onto his side to watch me undress, which, of course, made me hesitate. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle,” he assured me.

  I nodded.

  “I’m always gentle.”

  Gee, thanks. So that cleared up one mystery, at least: Lars was an old pro in the sack. It figured. What didn’t make sense, though, was the stampede of footsteps racing in our direction. Were we the targets of an undercover sting or something?

  “Shit! Someone’s coming!” I blurted. “Here!”

  I hastily tossed Lars’ pants toward the bed, causing a tiny glass bottle to fall out and bounce off my bootless toes. In a frenzy, I shoved the thing in my pocket, zipped my pants, and adjusted my shirt so I wouldn’t look too suspicious.

  “Flora!” Jessie yelled. “C’mon!”

  Okay…so it wasn’t the cops busting us for underage drinking or the Virgin Protection Squad rescuing me from imminent deflowering after all.

  In about two seconds flat, Lars had his pants back on, but all I had time to do was shoot him a sad, sorry frown before Jesse and Elmer waltzed into his private lair like they owned the place (oh, wait, Elmer’s parents did own the place, so…).

  “Thank God!” Jessie cried, as soon as she saw me. “C’mon. You’ve gotta get out of here. Carla’s in labor, and she’s leaving for the hospital—like now!”

  “What?”

  “She wants you to go with her,” Jessie explained in a huf
f. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get out of here.”

  Despite the fact that nothing Jessie was saying made any sense, her panicked tone convinced me to leave Lars in the sexually-frustrated lurch. “I guess I’ve gotta go,” I said, cringing. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

  Against Jessie’s wishes, Lars and I took advantage of our last opportunity for a deep, passionate goodbye kiss.

  “Next time,” Lars said with a wink.

  I crossed my heart. “Promise.”

  Nineteen

  WHEN Jessie, Elmer, and I got to the curb, I was breathless and freezing, not to mention confused. I mean, I hadn’t seen Carla all night, and she’d pretty much told Lars outright that she had better things to do than party with a bunch of immature goons like us.

  “What’s going on?” I demanded, clasping my arms around my chest for warmth. “Where’s…?”

  “Is that his car?” Elmer asked Jessie.

  Jessie stepped into the street and turtled her neck forward. “Um…yeah. That’s him.”

  Since nobody thought I deserved to know what was happening, I was about to abandon the whole weird scene, until…

  Mick’s Buick bounced to an unexpected stop right in front of me.

  “Go! Go!” Jessie barked, flinging the passenger door open. Through the side window, I spotted Carla curled up in the backseat.

  “My parents,” I said, panicked. “What about…?”

  I could already see the disapproving scowls and hear the mind-numbing lecture I’d have to endure if they found out I was hanging around with Mick and aiding a pregnant teen.

  “Don’t worry,” Jessie said, giving me a gentle push. “I’ve got it.”

  I had no choice but to trust her. “Okay. I’ll call you later,” I said, as I ducked inside. “Oh, and grab my jacket if you can. It’s behind the big plant.”

  Mick eased the car into gear.

  “Good luck, guys,” Jessie said, tapping the roof of the Buick like she was patting us on the back. “And be careful.”

  On that hopeful note, we were off to…

  “Do you know where the hospital is?” I asked. “Because I don’t.”

  Mick took his eyes off the road to look at me, and right away I noticed something different about him. Instead of the difficult, unforgiving Mick who refused to understand me, he was my sweet, sweet Mickey D again.

  “Yes, I believe I do,” he said. “I’ve driven by the sign quite a few times—although I haven’t been inside.”

  Carla sucked in a sharp breath. “Holy shit,” she whined. “Hurry, please. Oh my God. Hurry!”

  “Everything will be fine,” Mick assured her. “Just hold tight. It won’t be long.”

  I fully admit, I’m no good in emergencies. All I could think about doing was finding a capable adult—any adult, really—to take Carla off our hands. That way if something went wrong, it wouldn’t be our fault.

  “Is she okay?” I asked Mick through clenched teeth.

  He grinned like my panic was too cute for words. “She will be,” he said. “But to be honest, I’m more worried about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Sure. You’re pale as a ghost. And you’re shaking. You do realize you’re shaking, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  Carla let out another pained moan.

  “Well, you are,” Mick said. “Are you cold?”

  I nodded.

  “Here. Take this.” He passed me a sweatshirt that was slung over the back of his seat. “It won’t fit you, but it will keep you warm.”

  As idiotic as this sounds, I almost started to cry. “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot.” It was a simple gesture, really, but to me it meant the world.

  Now I don’t know if Mick was speeding his ass off or if I was just spacey from the booze, but before I knew it, we were on the doorstep of the Punxsutawney Area Hospital.

  “We’re here,” I squeaked, as Mick threw the Buick in park. “Hang on a sec.” I hopped out, opened the back door, and leaned inside. “Here,” I said, extending my arm.

  Carla grimaced doubtfully, like I was such a pitiful weakling she’d rather take her chances on her own. “Mick,” she mumbled, struggling to push herself up on one elbow. “Where’s Mick?”

  “I’m right here,” Mick said from the sidewalk behind me. He put his arm around my shoulder and guided me away from the car. “It’s all right. I’ll help her. You just stick with us in case she needs anything.”

  “Whatever you say,” I agreed. I mean, I was fine with taking half the credit while Mick did all the work, especially since my offer of help had been so unceremoniously rejected anyway.

  As always, Mick was a rock. And a saint. A tall, muscular rock of a saint. And even though I knew I should have been concentrating on Carla, my mind started to wander. While Mick hoisted her out of the backseat and steadied her for the walk to the emergency room, I imagined I was her—that Mick and I were at the hospital to have our baby.

  “You can do it,” Mick cheered Carla on, as another excruciating contraction doubled her over. “We’re almost there.” He rubbed the small of her back while she clutched her belly and groaned. “Flora, come here,” he said. “Let her lean on you.”

  I figured maybe Carla was going to deck me if I even tried to touch her, but I obediently followed Mick’s orders nonetheless. And without objection, she let me.

  “Good,” Mick said. “Here we go.”

  Like we were in some freakish four-legged baby delivery race, the three of us stumbled toward the emergency room’s intake window.

  “She’s in labor,” I moronically announced to the young guy behind the desk (and everyone else within earshot). “And she’s only sixteen.”

  “Almost seventeen,” Carla muttered.

  For what seemed like a month, the ER dude drove Carla insane with a bunch of annoying questions about doctors and insurance and blah, blah, blah. Then, finally, he slapped a hospital bracelet on her wrist and called for a wheelchair.

  And that was it. The orderly whisked Carla away, while Mick and I stood there frozen like a couple of clueless dopes.

  “So…” I said, unsure what to do next.

  “So…”

  “I hope she’s okay,” I said. “I can’t imagine how scared she must be right now.”

  Mick shook his head. “I know. It’s very difficult. And Carla’s such a nice girl too. It’s a shame.”

  “She’s giving the baby up for adoption, you know. The father’s a real scumbag—from what I’ve heard anyway.”

  “Hmm…”

  “Hey, do you wanna go somewhere?” I impulsively asked. “Like to get something to eat?”

  Mick studied me like I was a rip current and he was deciding whether or not to wade into my path. “Yeah, sure,” he said, taking the plunge. “Do you have somewhere in mind?”

  I searched the wall for a clock, only to discover it was already ten twenty. “Um…geez…I don’t know what’s open.”

  Think, Flora. Think.

  “Denny’s?” Mick suggested.

  “Nope. Sorry. The closest one is like an hour away.” But that reminded me. “I love their commercials, though—especially the Nannerpuss. Have you seen him? The singing, dancing banana guy? He’s hilarious.”

  Mick chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I have. And I agree. He’s very entertaining.”

  “So what should we do then?” I asked, frustrated by the lack of after hours activities.

  “Well, I’m not sure. But I do need to move my car,” Mick said. “Maybe we can think of something once we get out of here.” He reached for my hand. “Come on.”

  As my eager fingers met his, a spark of unparalleled joy raced through me. I love you, I wanted to say. Run away with me. Marry me.

  “Which way?” Mick asked, as we pulled up to the stop sign at the main road.

  How could I be such a dunce? Honestly? Couldn’t I even come up with one good idea? After all, it wasn’t like I was trying to cure cance
r or anything.

  “Um…hmm. I don’t know. Left, I guess,” I said hesitantly, still racking my brain. One thing I knew for sure was that I wanted to spend as much time with my love as possible. Who knew, maybe by the end of the night, Mick would be mine again. Mine completely.

  Mick reached for the radio dial and not-so-accidentally brushed his arm across my knee. “I don’t know if I mentioned this before,” he said, scanning the channels. “But you look beautiful tonight.”

  “In this?” I asked, stifling a giggle. The sweatshirt he’d lent me made me look like a giant tomato. Maybe Mick was confused. Maybe he was just hungry.

  He shot me one of his perfectly-crooked, melt-my-heart smiles. “You look great in everything,” he said. “But especially in that.”

  Well, I guess I’d wasted my time getting all sexed up to win Mick back. Apparently he was a sucker for garish and lumpy. Who knew?

  “Thanks. I appreciate your charity,” I joked. “But I question your taste. And your eyesight.”

  “That’s your only flaw, you know,” he said, shaking his head. “You can’t take a compliment. You should work on that.”

  I was just about to point out the hypocrisy of his suggestion, since he’s a known compliment-phobe himself, when, finally, an idea cracked its way into my pea brain.

  “Oh, I know where we can go,” I said, excited my brain cells hadn’t committed suicide after all. “The truck stop. They’re open all night.” It was a smashing idea, if I did say so myself.

  Mick’s eyes narrowed. “A truck stop? Isn’t that a bit…seedy? I don’t like it.”

  Of course he’d object to anything that might put me within a million miles of danger. “It’s fine,” I insisted. “It’s not that bad. I’ve been there a few times with my dad, and nothing weird happened. Plus, you’ll be there to protect me, right?”

  “Isn’t there someplace better? I’d rather not…”

  “No, there’s not. There’s nothing. So unless you want to keep driving around aimlessly, I suggest we make a U-turn.”

  “Well, you do make a good argument,” he said. “I suppose I should trust you.”

  When the coast was clear, he whipped the Buick in a wide half circle. How obedient.