Rouse Me

by Crystal Kaswell

  “You're drunk,” he says, but he doesn't stop touching me.

  “So are you.” I say and I bring his hands to my chest. He closes his eyes, moaning softly. I have him, and I'll have my fifteen minutes.

  And, even though it doesn't fill me with electricity, it feels good to taste his lips, and feel his hands, and touch him. It's familiar. It's comforting. It's safe.

  I slide my panties to my feet. He shifts his body over mine. He unzips his pants.

  I press my hands into the soft fabric of his shirt. The fuzzy images flicker over my eyelids. Two people in a tiny space, completely naked, bodies pressed together.

  I tear at Ryan's shirt. He grabs my hands and pins them to my sides. This won't do. Luke would never keep his shirt on.

  But it will have to do. It's the only chance I have to shut off my thoughts.

  “Now,” I breathe.

  I close my eyes and let the fuzzy feeling overtake me.

  Chapter 22

  An irritating beep pierces my ears. I try to open my eyes, but it's so fucking bright. The beep continues, so loud, so familiar. But it's not mine. I must be in Ryan's room. I roll over, reaching toward his side of the bed, but he isn't there.

  I pry my eyelids open. My head throbs, a horrible ache everywhere. Jesus, how much did I drink last night?

  The alarm beeps again. Going and going and going. I scramble to the bedside table and smack the snooze. It stops. Quiet. But my head still throbs. I try to conjure up images of last night, but it's fuzzy. Ryan and I at dinner. Ryan and I on the couch. Shit. Did I really beg him to fuck me?

  Yes, you stupid hypocrite. When did you become so insatiable? You used to go weeks between sack sessions with Ryan.

  What am I supposed to do—tell my fiancé I won't fuck him because I'm fucking someone else?

  Last time I checked, you were the one who begged Ryan to fuck you. What, you're going to think of Luke the whole time to split the difference? That's stupid logic, even for you, even after five or six tequilas.

  I was drunk. I was tired. I can't expect myself to remember exactly what went through my mind when I fucked Ryan. So, maybe Luke crossed my mind. It's not like I could ever convince myself I was fucking Luke and not Ryan.

  Yeah, but you tried, didn't you?

  I stumble into the bathroom, brush my teeth, comb my hair. Ryan sits at the breakfast table, showered and dressed, eating his egg white omelet in tiny bites. He is chipper. Well, not chipper, Ryan is never chipper, but he shows no signs of a hangover.

  “Last night was a pleasant surprise,” he says, kissing me on the forehead. I feel sick, but I play it off as a hangover. He fetches ibuprofen and club soda without me asking. I nod and thank him and make small talk about the weather. It's a nice day today. It's a nice day every day.

  Ryan kisses me goodbye. “Be careful with your eating and drinking,” he whispers in my ear. “I'm worried about you.”

  I kill the hours before my meeting—Laurie is showing me off to a few of the other producers—studying a scene. I try to get into Marie Jane's head, but I can't stop thinking about Luke and Samantha, worrying that he's as desperately in need of comfort as I am.

  Some double standard, Alyssa. Doesn't he deserve the same right to fuck his fiancée? It's not like you two agreed to stop fucking other people. How would it feel for him to do the same thing you did? How would it feel if she made him come?

  In the middle of the meeting, I get a text from Luke. He's back, and we have a lot to talk about.

  I try to make small talk with Luke when we break for lunch, and he plays along for a while. This movie or that book. I even mention the weather, and it's not remarkable weather—another warm, sunny day.

  Laurie ropes me into a conversation, asking me questions about what I see for Marie Jane's future. Finally, something I can do. Something I understand. For a little while, I forget this whole, horrible situation.

  And, after the meeting, when I am back home, locked in my bedroom, when I am ready to unleash everything, I turn back to my phone.

  But Luke is done with flirting and small talk:

  “We need to talk.”

  “Come over. We can talk about anything you want,” I reply.

  “Not that kind of talk.”

  “We can talk after you fuck me.” I reply.

  I peel off my dress and send him a picture.

  “It's important.”

  No, it can't be important, because if it's important, it might be that he realized he's still in love with Samantha. It might be that he's realized he doesn't want to deal with someone like me. It might be he's realized this needs to end sooner rather than later.

  I peel off my bra and send him another picture.

  “Jesus, Alyssa, you don't have to make this so hard.”

  “But I like to make things hard.” I even add a winking smiley face.

  “I want to. More than anything, I want to fuck you. But I can't. Not until we talk,” he replies.

  “And I want your cock inside me.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Please.”

  “I'd love nothing better,” he replies.

  “But…?”

  “But we need to talk.”

  I stare out the window for a while. Then, I hear my phone ring with another text from Luke: “Maybe you need some space to figure all this out.”

  “If I want space I'll ask for it,” I reply.

  “Maybe you don't know what you need.”

  “You sound like Ryan,” I reply and turn off my phone. I prepare my happy face, but I don't hear Ryan's keys in the door until 11. I turn off the lights and pretend I am asleep. I can't bring myself to lie to him again.

  When I wake up Thursday, I try to avoid the lure of my phone. But it is so tempting with its sleek glass screen and its plastic pink case. Luke wouldn't be able to stand being compared to Ryan. He must have said something.

  I lock myself in the bathroom and turn my phone on.

  His reply is the first thing I see:

  “You're right. I'm sorry.”

  My heart thumps in my chest. Does he want to talk to me? Does he want to fuck me? Does he want to meet me to end things once and for all?

  “I have rehearsals today. Meet me after,” I reply. We decide to meet after work, at a hotel near his office. He tells me it's only because Ryan is suspicious. He tells me not to get the wrong idea.

  ***

  I make use of my wrong ideas, channeling my lust into Marie Jane. I am bubbly, excited, and energetic during rehearsals. I am loud, giggly, and obnoxious during breaks. Laurie applauds my verve, but asks me to cut back on caffeine when we actually shoot next week.

  My stomach is a mess of nerves on my drive to the hotel. I can barely feel my fingers on the steering wheel. I can barely feel my foot against the gas pedal.

  I am the first to arrive at our room. I change in the bathroom, stripping off my casual work clothes, changing into a matching pink lingerie set. I lie on the bed and will myself to calm down, but my head is a flurry of activity.

  Luke arrives a few minutes later, wearing a sleek, black suit. I watch as he removes his coat and tie, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. He's going to torture me with the time it takes to remove that shirt, isn't he?

  “Are you trying to kill me?” he asks as I slide out from under the covers.

  “No,” I say, and I don't waste any time. I pull him onto the bed and press my lips into his. He groans and I move his hands to my chest, over the soft fabric of my bra.

  “We need to talk first,” he says, and ever so politely pushes my body away from his. I brace myself for the worst. What's wrong with him that he would agree to meet me at a hotel then deprive me of his body? What's wrong with him that he would delay something so painful? Why not just get on with it?

  “So you and Samantha…” I don't bother to ask an actual question. If I don't ask if he loves her, he might not say he loves her.

  “Are officially not engaged.”
/>   “Oh,” I say. Then why does he look so miserable?

  “I told you before. It's been over between us for years.” His gaze drifts to the floor as he lowers his voice. “Listen, Alyssa, I know what you and Ryan did last night…”

  Is he going to antagonize me for having sex with my fiancé? It's not like he could expect anything else.

  It's not like you didn't know it was wrong.

  “And it's killing me,” he continues.

  “But you had to know…”

  “I wasn't sure what I was going to feel when I saw Samantha. I was worried I wouldn't be able to end it, but seeing her again, seeing how well she's doing, I realized I really don't love her anymore, not the way I used to.”

  “That's good,” I say.

  “No, it's awful. I want you, and I can't have you, because you're with this stupid asshole. And I spend the drive back thinking about you. I spend the whole night thinking about you. And, when I get back to work, Ryan greets me with this shit eating grin, and he thanks me for standing up for you and your show. Says you acted really grateful. Gives me all these details about how you were begging him. How he made you come.”

  “I was thinking about you,” I say.

  “Jesus, what am I supposed to do with that?” He moves off the bed, his body turning away from mine. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I know it's stupid. But I was drunk, and I…I was so afraid you were with her.”

  “And I knew you were engaged when I started this, so I really have no leg to stand on here,” he says and runs a hand through his hair.

  “I'm sorry. This is confusing,” I say.

  “I'm trying to give you time.”

  “I don't want time.”

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  “Why do we have to figure things out so far ahead? If I wasn't engaged to Ryan, you wouldn't be asking about the future.”

  “I know it's unfair. I knew you were engaged. I knew you cared about him. I knew you were fucking him. I knew all this, and I still asked you to be with me.”

  His fingers graze my back, a soft, sweet stroke.

  “I thought we would have fun. Ease each other’s loneliness for a while. I thought I could handle it, but I can't. I stay up all night imagining him touching you, making you feel so good you could die, and it makes me sick. It makes me sick knowing he makes you come.”

  His fingers slide down my spine.

  “I know it's not fair to ask you not to fuck your fiancé, but I'm asking. Don't fuck him.”

  He looks at me with those big, brown eyes. Those big, brown eyes, full of anguish and need. No one has ever looked at me like that, like my response could break his heart.

  “Okay,” I say. “I won't.”

  “Don't hug him. Don't touch him. Don't kiss him.”

  “I'll try,” I say.

  “You have to promise.”

  His fingers slide over the sides of my panties.

  “You aren't playing very fair,” I say, and he murmurs some agreement, his hands pressing against my back. He unhooks my bra and peels it off my chest.

  “And when you were sending me those pictures?”

  “That's different,” I say.

  “How?”

  “I wanted you to fuck me.”

  “I wanted to fuck you,” he says.

  He cups my breasts, his thumb rubbing against my nipples. Jesus. I try not to react, but a soft moan escapes my lips. He pulls his hands away for a moment. Then, his fingertips are back on my skin, so soft and light I can barely feel them.

  “Luke,” I moan…

  “Is that a promise?” His fingertips slide over my nipples. I groan and he lightens his touch again, hitting every nerve ending I have.

  I arch my back and press my crotch into his. He's hard. I rub him through his slacks.

  “You know,” I say. “Two can play this game.” And I kiss him. Hard. He parts his lips as he slides his fingertips over me, and I slip my tongue into his mouth. I feel my sex clench. This is a silly game of chicken. There's no way either of us could turn away now.

  I unzip his pants and slide my hand against his hard cock.

  “Promise,” he demands. I firm my grasp and stroke him until he groans.

  His teeth sink into my neck. He slides my panties to my knees, his fingertips trailing up my thighs ever so slowly. I grab his hand and press it against my sex.

  “Jesus,” he says. “You're so wet.”

  “Fuck me,” I say. “Make me come.”

  He slips a finger into my sex and I gasp, my nails sinking into his skin.

  “I promise,” I say, “no one but you.”

  And he makes do with his side of the bargain.

  Chapter 23

  I avoid Ryan all weekend, claiming a need to memorize my lines. He is so much more aggressive than usual. Almost like he knows the promise I made to Luke. I feed him lame excuses about being too tired, even in the middle of the afternoon. He suggests we kiss or cuddle, no expectations of more, and, when I can't think of an appropriate explanation for why I don't want to kiss him, I claim a headache. Look at what a cliché I've become—claiming a headache to get out of sex.

  Still, I force myself to stay home all weekend. I force myself to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner with Ryan, to watch TV on the couch with Ryan, to go to the gym with Ryan. But why? Will this really convince Ryan I'm faithful? Do I even need to convince him I'm faithful? Won't I be better off if I tell him the truth, and let him decide what to do with me? Won't I be better off if I break up with Ryan now, before I hurt him? Maybe I don't need him as much as I think I do. Maybe it isn't worth all this agony.

  Maybe I can survive without him.

  But I can't take that risk, not yet, not when I am about to step back into the world that made me fall apart.

  It hurts to spend the entire day without word from Luke, but I force myself to stay quiet until bedtime. I lock myself in the spare room, and spend the night at my phone, tapping messages back and forth. I try to outlast him, but he never sleeps. I wake up every morning with my phone pressed into my chest, fresh messages waiting for me. It is never anything important—we pretend our conversation in the hotel never happened. He doesn't ask me if I've made my choice. He doesn't ask if I've reneged on my promise.

  Monday is a relief. Less time to sit next to Ryan, pretending as if things are normal. I wake, bright and early, after only a few hours of sleep and drive to the set without stopping for breakfast or coffee. I know better. I shouldn't ignore my recovery diet. But, does it really matter if the coffee and oatmeal in my stomach comes from our kitchen or from Starbucks? I can practically hear Ryan lecturing me, warning me about what happens when I deviate from my routine.

  Really, sweetheart, do you want a repeat of what happened two weeks ago?

  I sit in my dressing room, avoiding my reflection in the soft, yellow vanity mirror. My makeup artist is a nice girl, about my age, with tattoos and a bad-ass asymmetrical haircut. I trust her not to make me into a porcelain Barbie doll.

  An assistant does a Starbucks run, but I'm too nervous to eat much of my breakfast. This is the first time I've volunteered to step in front of a camera in forever, and everyone else knows the material so much better than I do.

  Deep breath. Nerves mean lack of preparation. I need to practice more, to run my lines a dozen more times, to rope one of my old acting friends into reading lines with me. But I've barely spoken to anyone but Ryan for the past year. My friends lost interest in me a long time ago. Probably wrote me off as a stuck up bitch.

  An assistant calls me to the set. I wait as our director, a middle aged man in a straw fedora, orders around the crew and perfects the placement of the lights. He's one of those directors who wants to feel important. Those are always the worst.

  When he deems the set ready, we take our places for the first scene. It's easy. Marie Jane and her sister, Patricia, fight over living together. Marie Jane wants things her way and she
's completely unwilling to see from another person's perspective.

  It's just like rehearsal. The assistant director counts us down. Three, two, one, and he slams the slate. The camera is on me. It's my line first. But I'm frozen. I call scene, ask to take it from the top, but it doesn't help. I can't look away from the lights. They are so fucking bright. Were they always this bright? Were they always this hot?

  “Hon',” the director says, “I respect the process. Take the time you need to start the scene, but do it in under 30 seconds.”

  I nod, of course, and he resets the scene. This time, I jump in as soon as he calls “action” —yeah, we really do that.

  “You're overreacting,” I say to Naomi, not at all in character, and I butcher the rest of my lines.

  The director nods, better, not really trying to hide his annoyance. Jesus, it's the first scene. I know I'm rusty, but don't I deserve a little time to warm up? Don't I deserve a few screw ups before I'm deemed a total fuck up?

  Or have I already cashed in my fuck up points?

  Deep breath. I always used to freak out too easily, and it always made things worse. Nerves work for a nervous character, but Marie Jane is confident. She's not self-aware enough to be nervous. She's not weak enough to be nervous. She doesn't care enough about what people think of her.

  I pretend as if I am back in high school—at least the three years of high school I attended before I got my GED and split town—with my best friend from drama class, practicing for the school play. I pretend as if it is just me and the words and a person who really does want me to succeed.

  Whatever happened to her?

  I do a little better, but it's still not great. After a few more tries, I warm up, and Marie Jane claws her way out of my packed mind. I nail it, and we're on to the next line and the next shot. It still takes me a while to perfect my delivery, but I am faster and closer.

  This is so much harder than I remembered.

  What, you think you purged your way out of stress because it was easy?

  The scene takes two hours. It's just Marie Jane and Patricia arguing. No improvisation, no deviation from the script. Nothing physical. Nothing scantily clad. Nothing tough.