Bedwrecker

by Kim Karr

  “Tell me, Maggie—” he starts to say.

  Just then Cam shoves a shot in his hand. “Come on, man, you need to catch up.”

  No.

  No.

  No!

  Tell me, Maggie, what? Should we take this to your room? Do you prefer the top or bottom? Do you like to fuck in the shower? Against the wall? On the floor? What? What!

  Our gazes remain locked until somehow Cam manages to put himself between Keen and me.

  That’s when the guy-fest starts all over again. Talk about Keen’s job, Cam’s job, New York, California. And toasts. Lots of toasts. The Jameson Irish Whiskey goes down smoother and smoother with each shot, though, I have to say. Soon the liquor makes my belly feel like a fire is being stoked deep inside me. Or is that the burning stare Keen is giving me?

  Makayla has stopped drinking and is looking pretty out of it right about now. She’s a lightweight, and doesn’t usually drink so much. Which is evident by her having to lean against Cam for support. Noticing her wobble, he leans down and whispers something in her ear, and she whispers back with only a slight stumble.

  Cam looks over at me. “We’re going to head to our room. Will you be okay here?”

  Ummm . . . hell yes! “Sure, I’ll be fine.”

  Makayla gets up on her toes to find my ear. “Go get him,” she slurs.

  I raise a brow. “I intend to.”

  She’s talking about Brooklyn, of course, but that’s not who I’m going to get.

  No, my sights are set on Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome, and when I say tall, dark, and handsome, I mean . . . the Wall Street wolf in his designer pants and hundred-dollar haircut who looks like he just stepped out of GQ magazine.

  Heaven help me.

  Just as the lovebirds leave, and Keen takes a step forward as if to pounce, his brother spots him. “Keen!” Brooklyn hollers loud over the music.

  Keen darts his head in his brother’s direction and grins from ear to ear.

  Brooklyn is on the dance floor with three women, and he’s waving his brother over.

  “Brooklyn!” Keen calls, looking as if his brother is made of fabulousness, which clearly by the happy expression on his face, in his eyes, he must be.

  Me, I’m not so happy with my fake date right now.

  “Hey, I’ll be back,” Keen tells me.

  Then, just like that, he struts across the dance floor. And I swear the pulsating lights only seem to highlight his gorgeous silhouette as the distance between us grows ever wider.

  More than a little stunned by his rapid departure, I watch as the jutting lines of his shoulder blades urge me to chase after him, but then he disappears into the crowd and I realize I’m left standing here all alone.

  Hey, wait!

  What about me?

  Maggie

  New Year’s Eve is about resolutions and change and everything new. This one means more than that to me. It marks the start of my reemergence into the real world.

  Everyone said fashion wasn’t the field for me because I hate to match. The thing is, I do match. Stripes with polka dots. Studded boots with frilly dresses. High heels with casual shorts. Leather and lace. One black and one white Converse. They are perfect combinations. I’m a fashion merchandiser with my own sense of style. But sadly, no one approved, which is why I was fired from almost every major boutique in SoHo and ended up in Laguna Beach lifeguarding for the past few years.

  But I found the solution—men’s apparel, not women’s—and in two days, my life will forever change.

  I can’t wait.

  Focusing my attention on the here and now, though, I am not any too happy about my current situation.

  Returning from the ladies’ room yet again, I’ve pinned my hair up and tossed some cold water on my face to help sober me up. I walk around and then when I see a space open up at the bar, I lurch for it. As soon as I take a seat, the bartender gives me his immediate attention.

  This one is super cute. He’s a tall, broad-shouldered guy clad in a tight gray T-shirt and worn jeans. His eyes are dark. And one of his ears boosts a small gold hoop. His head is shaved close to his scalp all over, and although it isn’t a look I normally like, it works on him.

  He smiles at me and I smile back. I know he is paid to flirt as much as to mix drinks, but his smile still floods me with warmth. With my own smile remaining falsely in place, I order a glass of water. Time to lighten up on the liquor and sober up.

  “Going for the heavy stuff,” he laughs.

  “Wait,” I call out as he turns to grab a glass. “On second thought, make it a whiskey.”

  Why bother sobering up?

  The bartender grins. “Sure thing, baby doll.”

  I suppose if I wait around until closing, I could have him, but he is not who I want. Tapping my fingers on the bar, I look around again. Still no sign of Keen anywhere.

  Very unlike me, I rushed off to the ladies’ room after he left me standing all alone instead of just moving on, and I haven’t seen him since.

  And yes, admittedly I have been looking.

  A man sits beside me. He, like the bartender, is attractive. This one is more clean-cut, much more my type—suit, tie, square jaw, and good hair.

  The tan line of his wedding finger is not telling of his marital status, but again, I’m not interested in him enough to even find out. Before he has a chance to make small talk, I turn a little in my seat and start to eavesdrop on the couple beside me. I try not to laugh out loud at the line this guy is feeding the girl.

  Here’s a little secret—girls say they hate pickup lines, but privately most girls love them. Me included. Of course there is a fine line between a good conversation starter and comically bad introductions.

  Tonight Keen’s pickup line rated between a nine and a ten, and I don’t think I’ve ever given a guy a score over a five.

  This guy next to me just used one of the worst lines ever on the poor girl beside him. It went something like this: “Hey, excuse me but do you know this fabric?” He grabs his own shirt. She shakes her head. “It’s boyfriend material,” he says.

  No wonder she’s walking away.

  Speaking of which, I’d better hurry away too before he uses that line on me. I finish my drink and conveniently decide to make my way around the bar. Yes, perhaps to look for Keen, but also because parties for one aren’t much fun.

  In a matter of moments, purple lights turn to white, but all I can see is green.

  There he is, leaning against the railing with a drink in one hand, his attention on the redhead with the flapper haircut in front of him that was in Brooklyn’s pack of women earlier. She’s fit and pretty, if you’re into vintage whores with red lips, I guess.

  In slow motion, I push through the crowd.

  Like a voyeur, I watch as he leans closer to say something in her ear that makes her tip her head back in laughter. He lingers that close for a little too long for my liking, especially since her trampy hair hides his face. Then he touches her bare shoulder, and I want to scream.

  I hate him.

  I want him.

  I hate him.

  I want him.

  Just then he looks up and spots me. The fire is there, but something else too—I’m not sure what. He blinks rapidly and licks his bottom lip.

  I draw in a breath, mind racing as my heart thumps faster.

  Keen doesn’t smile or beckon me closer, though. Instead, he averts his gaze and lets his fingertips graze the pinup girl’s naked skin from the curve of her neck all the way down to her wrist. If he takes hold of her hand, I am so going to stomp over there and slap him at my own reaction to him.

  Alarm bells go off.

  Walk away.

  Right now.

  He is nothing but trouble.

  But I like trouble, so I don’t move.

  People come between us, blocking my view. Still, I stay right where I am. To be honest, I’m not sure I can move my feet away from him, but I can’t stay here all night, either.
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  The cold splash and tangy scent of someone’s beer drips down my back. I jerk around to see a hulk of a man with sweat on his brow staring down at me. Now, I’m tall, but he is way taller. Six foot six, seven, I’d say. Basketball player material for certain. And not half bad-looking. In fact, I’m going to hazard a guess that he’s a Knicks player, and that could be kind of hot. Right?

  Gleaming at him, I wait for the spark to strike.

  “Sorry, hot legs,” he says, moving closer, putting his hand on my bare back.

  He smells of stale beer and sex, and I’m instantly repulsed.

  Ummm . . . no thank you. “No problem,” I reply politely.

  And then needing to get his hands off me, I wheel around to find Keen staring at me, nothing faltering in his gaze this time.

  “Maggie!” he shouts as if he is surprised to see me.

  Two can play at that game, buddy.

  “Keen,” I answer in a high-pitched voice meant to show equal surprise.

  Setting his drink down, he moves fast, but the girl is on his heels, and the two of them are close to me in no time.

  I look from him to his trampy whore, who clears her throat when all he does is stare at me for countless moments.

  He blinks at the sound, and then quickly regains his composure. “Francesca, this is Maggie,” he says all rough-voiced, bad-boy style.

  Francesca. Please. I’m so not impressed.

  Okay, so her name is much sexier than mine, and I am a little jealous. There, I said it. Now let’s drop it.

  Francesca tilts her head to look at me, and her smile is wide and warm and inviting. She doesn’t shake my hand, but she does lean a little closer. “Hi!”

  This time I look from her to Keen, and then back. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

  Like three idiots, we stand here making stupid small talk. I consider leaving them to do whatever it is they are going to do, but something won’t let me walk away.

  Pride?

  No.

  Lust?

  Yes.

  When a tattooed girl taps trampy flapper chick on the shoulder and she eagerly engages in another conversation, Keen slips his arm around my waist and draws me close. Hip to hip. It’s electric. And then he hisses in my ear, “Why didn’t you tell me you were my brother’s date?”

  Oh, shit!

  Now, I could come clean and explain the date is anything but real, but why would I do that when this is going to be so much more fun? “It never came up in conversation.”

  He grits his teeth. “You practically invited me into your bed; I think it should have come up.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “You did, and you know it.”

  “Even if I did, you obviously weren’t interested, since you left me like a dime-store hooker the minute your dick wagged in another direction,” I snap back.

  Clearly frustrated, he runs a hand through that beautiful hair of his. “My brother called me over, for Christ’s sake. When I went back for you, you were gone. I looked around and couldn’t find you.”

  Avoiding his eyes, I pick at the chips on my purple nail polish. “You didn’t look that hard, obviously, because you’ve been right here practically eye-fucking this little tart.”

  “Jealous,” he says with a smirk.

  I straighten my shoulders. “I don’t do jealous.”

  He pulls me even closer, and I can feel the burn of his stare. I don’t dare look for fear that I will forever be trapped in his inferno.

  Because to be honest, the room is still looking a little green. And yes, I know the lights are purple.

  No. Never mind.

  It’s just hot.

  Too hot.

  The whiskey was strong. It went to my head. Everything is too bright and pulsing and my heart is beating way too fast.

  “So . . . what do you say the three of us dance?” Francesca asks when she wheels back around.

  Saved by the floozy.

  Keen and I look at each other.

  Francesca sips her something-fruity concoction and then sets it down on the railing. “Come on. I really like this song.”

  Suddenly dancing is all I want to do. “Sure, why not,” I say with a nod and let Francesca lead the way.

  He can come or not. I don’t care. I look over my shoulder. Yep, he’s right behind me. And yes, I did care.

  The three of us hit the dance floor just as Taylor Swift’s “I Knew You Were Trouble” begins its distinctive beat.

  Two Swift songs in one night.

  How awesome.

  She’s so my jam.

  And this song couldn’t be more fitting.

  The crowd surges around us, bouncing, thrusting, wiggling, grinding. Keen is in the middle. Someone is right behind me and I’m pressing my front to Keen’s back as he dances with Francesca. I can see her face over his shoulder, but it’s me she’s staring at, not him.

  I let the music push and pull me, closing my eyes for a moment when the swirl of purple lights threatens to make everything spin. When I open my eyes Keen is moving, and soon he’s behind me with his hands on my hips. Francesca is in front of me, arms in the air, moving to the beat.

  I toss my head to the right, and then to the left. Brooklyn is on the other side of the floor, dancing with the two other women I saw him with earlier.

  Threesomes seem to be the theme of the night.

  Expectation hums in the air as warm bodies jostle. Moving to the beat. Up. Down. Sideways. Soon my body is straining against Keen’s. I can feel the feral atmosphere around us spinning like whirlwinds at my sides, intoxicating me even more.

  Tossing my arms up in the air like Francesca, I turn around and find Keen staring at me, his blue eyes dark, lashes thick, lids low. All I can do is stare back. Stare at that strong body hidden under the fine fabric of his white shirt. The way his muscles flex and move with every step. And then he turns to the beat and my eyes land on his tight ass, like forbidden fruit hidden beneath his fine slacks.

  Francesca reaches around me for Keen, pressing her chest against my back and leaving it there. She might think this is going to turn into a threesome, but she has another thing coming.

  It is so not happening that way.

  I don’t share.

  If he wants her, that’s fine, but he doesn’t get us both.

  Well, it’s not fine, but you know what I mean.

  Just then Keen grabs my hips in the tightest of holds, and as Taylor blares her vocals about how she knew he was trouble, I can’t help but feel the same.

  His hands roam up my body and so do Francesca’s. His on my back and hers up my front.

  An erotic sandwich that I’m not really digging.

  My hair is up and when Keen’s hands reach my neck, he tugs the clip out. Straight blond locks tumble down around my shoulders, and he strokes his fingers through them for one moment, and that one moment shows the desperation in his stare.

  Francesca’s fingers scratch across my arm and are now in my hair as well.

  Ignoring her, I rise on tiptoes and whisper in his ear. “The date with your brother was just fake. For Cam and Makayla’s benefit. They’re into matchmaking lately.”

  Keen’s expression is impassive for a second. “Does he know that?”

  My palms linger on his chest and I can feel the rapid beat of his heart. “He does. I don’t deny that he has a little crush on me, but he is very clear there is nothing between us.”

  Keen looks down at my hands on his chest, and then over to his brother, who has four hands all over him. “Just a crush. Nothing more?”

  My fingers squeeze at the muscles beneath the white fabric of his shirt, and then I nod to his brother leaving the dance floor with a woman on each arm. “Nothing more.”

  Just then Francesca taps me on the shoulder. Trying not to be annoyed, I turn just enough to face her. We are so close I can almost count the number of beads of clear glue sticking her false lashes to her lids. Just being real.

  Noticing my star
e, she bats those lashes at me.

  Never having been in a situation like this, I do the only thing I can and smile at her.

  In a total and unexpected move, she lurches forward with her entire body and kisses me.

  Stunned, I stop dancing. I stop moving. I stop breathing. And my lips remain perfectly still. I’ve never kissed another girl before and honestly I was only playing around. I had no intention of making this a real threesome.

  “No?” Francesca says, pulling away.

  I shake my head, and then my eyes shift to Keen’s, who looks like he’s not breathing either. And I’m pretty certain it’s shock. I’m not getting any vibe that he is turned on in the least.

  Francesca looks at me. She looks at Keen. She’s not a stupid girl and I think she figures out what’s going on fairly quickly. And then, like I need another matchmaker in my life, she tugs Keen by the wrist until he’s face-to-face with me. “Have a great night,” she says and dances herself right off the dance floor.

  My fingers go to my lips. “She kissed me,” I say out loud in shock.

  The bass thumps its pulse in the pit of my stomach and the crowd surges around me like they have no idea what just happened.

  “It should have been my lips.” Keen’s voice is warm, hot, sex on a stick.

  And then his lips are on mine. Moving, probing, licking, sucking. And then his hands are in my hair and his fingers are at the base of my skull, tipping my head back to get better access to my mouth.

  Without realizing it we are in motion again and my hands are on his chest, tugging at the fabric to bring him closer. As if he wants that too, his hands slide down my body to the small of my back and he pushes me against him.

  Dancing still.

  Smooth.

  Easy.

  And then, oh God, his cock is pressed against me. Hard, just like his kiss, and yet his lips are so soft. Hard and soft. Hard and soft. I can feel an ache building between my thighs, and something that sounds a lot like a gasp eases out of my throat.

  Sliding his mouth to my ear, he whispers, “Come home with me.”

  I lean back, watching as the purple lights from above glitter in his eyes and somehow magically erase the memory that the girl with red lips kissed me. Yes, that seems to be completely overtaken by the memory of Keen’s hot, wicked mouth.