Rouse Me

by Crystal Kaswell

  “I'm sorry,” I say. “I don't want to disturb you.”

  “I don't own the place.”

  I turn toward the marina. “Don't,” he says. “I like your company.”

  “Even when I say awful things?”

  “Your company, not the stupid things you say.”

  I sit next to him on the grass, the cool blades scraping my bare legs.

  “I'm sorry,” I say again. “I don't think it was your fault.”

  “It was. I knew better. I could have done more to save her,” he says. He moves a little closer. “I wasn't fair to you. I didn't think of how hard it must have been, to fall apart with no one to help but Ryan.”

  I nod.

  “You must have relied on him so much. Of course you listen to him. He was the only person who helped you when things were hard. He was the only person who kept you from destroying yourself. He really has taken care of you, hasn't he?”

  “Yes.” I blink back tears. I barely survived with Ryan, but without him…

  “Does it still hurt?” he asks.

  “It's different now,” I say. “I can handle my urges better. That voice in my head, the one that tells me what an ugly, fat failure I am, isn't as loud. It's not as good at getting me to binge and purge. But I still can't deal with stress. I still have this hole inside me that wants to be filled with food, then emptied again. If I go off my recovery diet, even a little, I get this horrible feeling of dread, like nothing will ever be okay again, not until I've gotten rid of the extra calories.”

  “That sounds miserable.”

  “It is, but I can handle it.”

  “On your own?”

  “I'm not on my own. I have Ryan.”

  “You can't stay with him. You'll never be happy,” he says.

  “But I'll be alive.” I move closer to Luke, until I can hear his breath. Until I can feel the warmth of his body.

  “What if I could help you the way he does? What if I could be the one to keep you from destroying yourself?”

  “You can't,” I say.

  “How do you know?” He asks, but he doesn't force me to remind him that he failed Samantha. He doesn't force me to remind myself that he is trying to help me because of how royally he fucked up helping her.

  “I need to stop seeing you if I want to stay with Ryan.”

  “I know.”

  “But I don't want to stop seeing you.”

  “I know.”

  “What are we going to do?” I ask.

  “Whatever we want.” He presses his warm, sweaty body against me. Then his lips. Then his hands. His expert hands, so gentle and strong, slip under my cover-up and untie my bikini. And his hands are on my body, touching me everywhere, so soft I purr.

  And, then, they are gone, back at his sides. His body is not pressed against mine. He is only inches away, but the distance between us feels so vast and unconquerable.

  “Leave him,” Luke says. “Be with me. Stay with me. Love me.” His hand brushes against mine. “Think about it. Take the day. Take the week. Figure out if there's any chance I could be the person to hold you together.”

  “You weren't there. You won't know what to do. You won't know what I need.”

  “You can tell me. We can figure it out together.”

  “You're still engaged,” I say.

  “We both know it's over,” he says, “but I'll call her right now if it means you'll be with me.”

  It's a sweet thought, but it would never work. I can barely handle breakfast, let alone my entire life. By the time Luke learns, I will already be halfway down the rabbit hole. I will already be flitting between purging and restricting, ten pounds below my healthy weight, throwing up catered lunches in my dressing room. I've been through this hell before and I'm not strong enough to drag myself out of it again.

  And if poor, honest Luke couldn't save his fiancée, why would he be able to save me?

  “Just think about it,” Luke says. “I'll love you in a way he never has.”

  ***

  Luke insists on walking me back to the apartment. Maybe he senses it, that this needs to be the end. He grips my hand tightly. He kisses my forehead. He rides with me in the elevator.

  The doors close. We kiss, long and hard, and my body floods with electricity. My body wants nothing but more of Luke, but I know better. The elevator stops at my floor and I have to leave. I have to walk back to my room and pretend this never happened.

  And I do, because I need to get back to the life waiting for me. I need to play my part again. I need to be the doting girlfriend again. I need to be faithful again.

  I lock the door behind me. The apartment is empty. Of course, it should be empty. It's the middle of the day, a weekday. Ryan isn't due home for hours. I press my back against the door, my cover-up sliding over my skin. Every shift of the fabric is a jolt against my body. I close my eyes and pretend it is Luke touching me.

  My hand slides between my legs. Maybe this will satisfy my craving. Maybe this will shake my desire. Maybe this will be enough.

  Just one more time. I can think of Luke one more time. Get it out of my system. One more time, and then I will belong only to Ryan, think only of Ryan, be only with Ryan.

  I slide my fingers over my clit and feel my sex clench. I am already so keyed up from kissing Luke. I have to slow down. I have to savor this.

  There's a knock on the door. I open my eyes, and pull up my bikini bottoms. Deep breath, composed expression. I open the door. It's Luke. Thank God. I feel my cheeks flush. Does he know what I was doing? Does he care?

  “The least you could do is throw me a pity fuck,” Luke says.

  Luke traces the lines of my smile and presses the door closed.

  “Ryan could be home any minute,” I say.

  “Do you really care if he catches us?”

  “No,” I say. And I really don't.

  “God, how did I ever think I'd be able to resist you?” he asks and his lips find mine. We kiss, long and deep, as Luke presses me against the front door. I feel his cock through his shorts, pressing against my clit. I kick off my bikini bottoms and push Luke's shorts to his knees. There is less between us now, but it is still far too much.

  I pull my cover-up over my head and undo my bikini top. Luke pushes it aside. His hands slide up my stomach and around my breasts, teasing my nipples, sending pangs of need through my sex.

  I groan and dig my nails into his back. “I swear you're trying to kill me,” I say.

  He smiles and sinks his teeth into my neck. My nails dig harder. His teeth sink deeper. It hurts, but I want more. I need more from him. So much more.

  I push Luke's boxers to his knees. Luke's hands find my hips, lifting them, pressing them against the wall, rearranging them so my sex hovers over his cock. But he doesn't enter, not yet. Instead, he presses his lips to mine. His lips are warm and soft and sweet. They slide over my lower lip, sucking gently. Then harder. I feel the scrape of his teeth over my lips.

  And I grab his ass, thrusting his cock into my sex. Jesus. My nails dig into his skin. I tear off his shirt. I need to feel his skin on mine. I need to feel our bodies become one.

  I wrap my legs around his hips. He presses me against the wall, his hands on my ass. My back slams into the wall as he thrusts into me. I wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer, savoring the feeling of him inside me. He thrusts into me, harder and harder, and I shake with pleasure.

  The pressure inside me builds—I am already so close—and I look into Luke's eyes and kiss him. Every part of him is mine. Every part of me is his. There is nothing else, except us, in the moment. Luke fucking me, his lips on mine, his tongue in my mouth, his cock inside me. I kiss him and I press my body against his and I do not stop when I feel the tension in my sex build and build and release. I do not stop when I hear the jingle of keys—someone in the hallway, going to some other apartment, thank God. I do not stop until Luke moans and sinks his teeth into my neck and slams me against the wall, one last time. I d
o not stop until Luke comes.

  I collapse into Luke's arms, my head resting on his shoulders. I feel his hands on my back, his strong arms around me. He carries me to the bathroom.

  “I have to clean up,” I say.

  “I know,” he says and kisses me again, his hands lingering against my hips.

  “I wish you could stay.”

  “I can,” he says.

  “That wouldn't go over well.”

  “I don't care how it goes over.”

  I turn on the shower. Luke kisses me again. And, this time, it is my hands that linger on his body.

  “I'm sorry,” he says. “I keep promising to give you space to figure this out. But I don't want space between us.”

  “Me either,” I say.

  “I have a meeting,” he says, as if he would otherwise have stayed. But we both know he wouldn't. We both know he couldn't.

  I step into the shower and Luke kisses me goodbye. He leaves without my asking. I scrub myself until I have washed away any signs of my betrayal. I wipe the floor clean. And the front door. I can't be too careful.

  Chapter 21

  Ryan gets home at 7. We have dinner together, the same boring fish and rice and broccoli. Ryan talks about work. I nod along with him. He asks what I did today. I make up books I read, acting exercises I performed, movies I watched.

  “Did you see Luke today?” he asks.

  “No,” I lie. “Why do you ask?” I pretend I am playing a part, the loving fiancée I am supposed to be.

  “I want to know if he's bothering you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Or maybe if he's around, but it's not bothering you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sweetheart, we went through this before. I know something is going on between the two of you.”

  “We've had a few conversations,” I say. “That's it.”

  “Then what really made you lose control last weekend?”

  “Why does it matter? I slipped. You got me back on track.”

  “I'm not going to be angry,” Ryan says. “Not unless you're lying to me.”

  “It wasn't Luke,” I insist.

  “Fine,” Ryan says. He looks at me like he knows I'm lying. “But I don't want to catch you flirting with him again.”

  “I know.”

  After dinner, I try to read, but I can't concentrate. Ryan may not treat me like a princess, but he takes care of me. But, still, I think of Luke. I think of Luke in the pool. I think of Luke on his couch. I think of Luke, in our penthouse, against the front door.

  Ryan shuts his laptop and presses his arms around me. He kisses my forehead and runs his fingers through my hair. It is soft and sweet, especially for Ryan. We watch TV together, his arm wrapped around my waist, my head on his shoulders. It feels good to lean into Ryan, to feel the warmth of his body. It feels good, but it pales in comparison to the feeling of Luke's arms around me.

  It must be lust. Infatuation. A silly crush. It's the excitement from sneaking around. We've known each other a week. How could it be love? How could it be approaching love? How can it feel so much stronger and deeper and better than what Ryan and I have? So what if we aren't crazy and passionate? It's been three years. We're best friends. We're partners? Aren't we?

  But Ryan wants more than a sweet cuddle on the couch. We haven't fucked since we got engaged. Of course he wants more than a sweet cuddle on the couch. And I love him. I should be with him.

  He brings his lips to mine. It's too fast. It's too much tongue, but it's not altogether horrible. I kiss him back, and my body starts reacting, wanting more.

  But, still, when I open my mouth to speak, I protest. “I'm tired,” I say.

  “Are you sure?” Ryan asks, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice. I nod, yes, and we get ready for bed. I cling to Ryan for a while, but, when we eventually fall asleep, we're on opposite sides of the bed.

  ***

  My Wednesday goes slowly. I am in a wardrobe fitting most of the day, a Barbie doll for a stylist to poke and prod and measure. I can tell she's surprised by my measurements. This character is supposed to be a model, and, honey, you're no model.

  I don't eat lunch. I can already hear Ryan's lecture, but, still, I don't eat lunch. My stomach is a pit of anxiety, and, as much as I try to focus on my show and my character and the questions the stylist is asking me—do you think Marie Jane would wear the pink lingerie or the red lingerie—I keep going back to Luke.

  The fucking asshole is engaged. He's engaged to another woman. He comes to me, on his high horse about how I don't love Ryan, and he's engaged. So what if he's right? He's engaged.

  And I still want to see him. I still want to be around him. I still want to make him mine.

  Ryan is not a lot of things, but he is faithful and he is honest.

  I play with my phone, reading over my text messages with Luke. What am I doing? Can I really keep this up? Can I really stop?

  I mean to text Luke something about putting this on hold until we figure something out, but instead I ask what he is doing today, if he has time to meet later. Instead, I flirt with him, asking about his favorite movies, and telling him I am picking out my character's lingerie. Really, Marie Jane wears the sluttiest clothing—she is nothing if not an attention whore—and I have plenty of chances, when the stylist's back is turned, to snap photos of her more revealing get ups.

  And, even though I have the best of intentions, I find myself sending Luke these pictures, and asking if he approves. And he flirts back as if nothing has happened, as if we are a normal couple without all these complications.

  I finish my fitting, and, without thinking, I ask him. “When are you going to talk to your fiancée?”

  And he replies, “I told you. We've been unofficially broken up for nearly six months. There's no way she thinks we're getting married. There's no way she's in love with me.”

  And then he replies. “Today. I'm going today.”

  He's visiting his fiancée today. His poor fiancée, who is probably still in some mental hospital recovering from a suicide attempt.

  He is visiting his suicidal fiancée today to break up with her.

  Or maybe he'll realize he's still in love with her.

  ***

  Corine sends over a copy of my contract. Ryan looks it over when he gets home. Deems it acceptable. I sign and we celebrate with a dinner at a fancy restaurant in Santa Monica.

  Ryan talks about the TV show he watched at the gym, some horribly inaccurate comedy drama about lawyers. He mocks the incompetent counselors with a verve I haven't seen in a long time. He matches my tequila consumption, getting drunker and sillier with every sip. Who is this guy and what did he do with my boring fiancé?

  I check my phone in the bathroom. Nothing from Luke except a promise he'll be back tomorrow. He's probably with Samantha. Staring at her with those big, brown eyes, his fingertips running along her skin, sending electric tingles through her body. If the girl has any sense, she's drinking in his coffee colored eyes, her heart atwitter with daydreams of earning forgiveness on her knees. And, if he has any sense, he's letting her slip her lips around his cock, his hands digging into her stupid brown hair.

  But he doesn't have any sense, does he?

  She's probably realizing how desperately in love with him she is, and what a horrible mistake she's made. And she's begging him to take her back. She's begging him to take her, to fuck her, even if it's just one more time, even if that's all he wants her for. And, he's eating it all up, because he obviously loves her, and she obviously needs him, and they're already fucking engaged.

  Ryan waits for me outside the bathroom. He presses me against the wall, his hips grinding against mine. His lips are soft enough, sweet enough, and I surrender to his kiss, my eyes closed, my mind so numbed by alcohol I barely remember Luke's name.

  “I thought you didn't want me to end up on TMZ,” I say and feel my lips curve into a smile. I'm so used to this funny relationship
we have. I know how to act with Ryan. I know how to get what I want from Ryan.

  And, for once, Ryan is eager to get something from me. He grabs me roughly, his hands sliding around my ass. I love Ryan, I do, and I do feel something, but it's a candle compared to the fire I feel for Luke.

  I kiss Ryan back, pressing my body into his, slipping my tongue into his mouth. It feels good to touch him and have him touch me, but my mind keeps drifting back to Luke and Samantha.

  I need to want this more. I need to need this more. I need 15 minutes with Ryan, where my mind will be focused on something other than Luke and Samantha.

  Ryan whisks me outside, into a yellow checkered cab waiting just for us. It drives fast, cold air whizzing through the windows, over my increasingly exposed body. I don't think to object to the driver seeing us, even when Ryan pulls my dress to my waist. I close my eyes and surrender to my tipsy stupor. It's easier this way, with Ryan in control of everything. I love him. I have to love him. He's done so much for me. He's protected me. And if I don't love him, then what the fuck am I doing?

  Ryan kisses my neck and I close my eyes but all I see is Luke and Samantha, fucking in his car. They've been together before. She knows what to do. She knows how to drive him crazy, how to make him groan, how to make him come.

  And, when they finish fucking in the backseat, and they lie together stroking each other’s cheeks, he will realize how much better she is for him. She is educated. She is ambitious. She is available. Hell, she's engaged to him. Or she was. Or she could be.

  When we get back to the apartment, I pour another glass of tequila. The images get fuzzy, so fuzzy they could be any two people fucking in some car. Ryan and I. Luke and I.

  It could be anyone making those sounds.

  I close my eyes and shift my body onto Ryan's. I need these fifteen minutes. I need them more than I've ever needed anything.

  So, I grind my crotch against Ryan's, until he's hard, and I kiss him until his hands are on my ass. I bring my lips to his ear and I whisper, “Fuck me.”