The Start of Us: Book 1 in the No Regrets series

by Blakely, Lauren

  I knew what I was doing was messing me up. Had known it for a long, long time. Not because the sex was bad. It was good. It was great.

  But as I toss my backpack on the floor, grab a cold beer from the fridge, and turn up the music on my playlist so I can blast Remy Zero throughout my whole apartment, I am also reminded that it was hollow.

  That I was so disconnected from all of them. I was ghosting through life, taking what I wanted, stealing what others had.

  But the one night with Harley was the closest I’ve ever felt to right. Maybe that sounds crazy, but I felt like we were both in it together, that we weren’t chess pieces for the other person to move around. We’d shown our cards, and there was no bluffing.

  That’s the problem, I realize, as I drink my beer and the band sings about falling to the ground.

  She can’t operate like that long-term, and hell if I know if I can either.

  So, if I get caught up in her—and I will, I fucking will—what happens to me when she realizes she’s not ready? What if I’m just a quick fix to her, and then she turns around and goes back to Cam? Or ditches me?

  Then I’m worse off. Back to all my old ways.

  To all the afternoons in high school I spent tangled up with Cassie Fitzgerald in her penthouse, or Elle Windsor in her husband’s town car, or even the sexy trophy wife—Sloan McKay—of one of the biggest hedge fund managers in New York. While he was busy pulling in millions, I was taking care of his wife in the bedroom, since he didn’t anymore. She was an artist too, a painter, and the only one I ever felt an inkling of a connection with, the only one who remotely seemed like more than a conquest. It was fleeting, though, when she moved out of the building quickly and I moved on to the next woman.

  Such a rush. Such a thrill. They got what they wanted from me. From how I made them feel, from the high of being with a young guy who could turn them on.

  If I walked into a frat house and told my story, I’d have high fives six ways to Sunday. If my friends knew, they’d make a statue of me, give me the chair at the head of the table in the cafeteria, build an honorary wing in my name, and ask for blessings before any date with a girl, praying to Trey Westin, patron saint of Has a Way with Women.

  It’s the tale that gets passed down from one generation of frat brothers to the next. Only there was more to my conquests than bagging the hottest babes.

  There always is.

  They were a way to forget.

  I rub my hand absently against the trio of sunbursts on my shoulder, one of the tats that I designed myself a few months ago. To remember. To never forget. Then I toast heavenward, a futile toast, and finish my beer. The coldness and the fizz roots me back to the moment. Shakes me out of the past, the memories. If I spend too much time there, I’ll never move on. I need to start over tomorrow. See my shrink. Sort this out. Go back to being friends with Harley again. Because I can’t stand not having her in my life.

  Almost as much as I can’t stand not kissing her.

  I turn my head and sniff my shirt, and I can still smell her intoxicating wild-cherry scent on me from when she was all snug against me. I close my eyes, inhaling, and I am right back to thirty minutes ago in the courtyard, remembering how she touched me, kissed me, ran her hands through my hair.

  In seconds, I am rock hard again. This is what she does to me. This is all it takes.

  She slides into my head, and I am turned on beyond belief. Wanting her. Wanting all I can’t have.

  I put the empty bottle down on the coffee table, yank off my shirt, and inhale it one more time so she’s filled all my senses. I head to the bathroom and turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature all the way up. Then I take off my jeans and boxer briefs, leaving them in a heap on the floor. I step under the water, wetting my hair, my skin, soaping up all over, then rinsing it off. I close my eyes as the water beats down hard on me, and then I say, “Fuck it.”

  I picture the moment from earlier going further, going everywhere I wanted it to go.

  I take off her clingy T-shirt, toss it on the ground somewhere. She doesn’t care, because she wants my hands on her. She’s licking her lips, and I bury my face between her perfect, gorgeous breasts. I grip myself harder, imagining kissing her breasts, sucking hard on her nipples, hearing her moan. I want to feel her hands in my hair, tugging hard as she pushes me down her body. I want to lick her all over, taste every inch of her skin, from her breasts to her belly to her legs. Kiss her all the way down to her ankles, feel her tremble all over, hear those sexy, breathy moans she makes.

  I swear, I’ve never wanted anyone so much, as I picture doing all sorts of things to her.

  Images flash by quickly. Her hands on me, unsure at first, then all over. Then me on my knees, pushing up her skirt, peeling off her underwear in the courtyard, tasting her, licking her, kissing her. She can’t help herself—she moans and sighs and pants like she did that time we were together. She made the sexiest little sounds when I was with her that night, as if she didn’t know what was happening to her own body, as if it was all happening for the first time and she was overcome, lost in all those new sensations I brought to her.

  I feel the release build in the base of my spine. I squeeze my eyes shut, scalding water pelting my hair, turning my skin red, and I don’t care, because I’m where I want to be right now, on my knees, my hands cupping her ass, bringing her closer to my mouth until I can taste her coming on my tongue.

  “Fuck.”

  I groan loudly and come hard.

  I rest my forehead against the tiles for a minute as the aftershocks chase me. God, I wish she were here right now. I wish I could touch her all night long, spread her out on my bed, and bring her there.

  Then spend the night with her.

  Be the guy who doesn’t pay.

  The guy she’s not set up with.

  Be the guy she wants.

  But I’ll never know if she wants me for me. Or because I’m part of her fix.

  21

  Memoirs of a Teenage Sex Addict

  I learned to lie from my mom.

  When I was thirteen, my mom and her boyfriend took me to a carnival in Great Neck out on Long Island.

  His name was Pierre, and he looked the name. He wore pressed khakis and a button-down short-sleeve shirt even in the summer, even to a carnival. He had manicured hands—his nails were buffed and filed in perfect half circles. He bought me pink cotton candy and handed it to me daintily with those hands that smelled of honeysuckle lotion. Then my mom spotted the carnival dude who guesses your age. If he comes within three years, you lose. If he doesn’t, you win a stuffed blue bear.

  “Guess her age,” my mom said, thrusting me forward, taking the cotton candy out of my hands before he saw it, in case it made me look too young. I wore low-rise jean shorts and a cami-tank. My hair was down, falling past my shoulders. I stood still there for a moment before him, holding my ground, holding his gaze, like a cat staring down her prey before she pounced. Then I did what I knew Mom wanted me to do. I tossed my hair ever so gently, ever so casually, but completely seductively. Like she’d taught me all those times when we prepped for our parties.

  The Guess Your Age guy was young. He was a teenager, probably a high school guy working the carnival after school.

  He appraised me up and down, his big brown eyes on me, liking what he saw. He flashed his smile to my mom. “Write down her age.” He handed her a pen and piece of paper from a notebook in his back pocket. She dutifully wrote down my age, folded up the paper, and handed it back to him. He took the paper but didn’t open it.

  “She’s sixteen,” the carnival man declared.

  Triumphant, my mom shook her head. “Thirteen,” she said proudly, as he opened the paper to see my age. She ran a hand over my hair, petting her prize racehorse, and we walked away. She didn’t bother to get the blue bear she’d won. She got what she wanted: a thirteen-year-old who looked sixteen.

  “He’s cute, don’t you think?”

  “Mo
m,” I chided.

  “He’s adorable, Harley,” she said in a teacherly tone. As if she were instructing me in the ways of taste and attraction. “He’s probably fourteen, maybe fifteen. You guys would be cute together.”

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely.” Then she lowered her voice. “We’re going on the Ferris wheel. Go back and see him.”

  Butterflies filled my belly. But she’d given the go-ahead. She’d encouraged me. This had to be the way the world worked.

  When my mom and Pierre were up in the sky, I returned to the carnival guy. He leaned against the Guess Your Age sign, searching for his next customer. I tapped him on the shoulder.

  “You were right,” I whispered near his ear.

  His lips curled up. “You really are sixteen.”

  “I really am sixteen.”

  “Me too,” he said. “Good thing I didn’t give her a bear.”

  “Good thing,” I echoed back.

  He licked his lips slightly, tasting what I imagined was the salty heat on them from a muggy summer night. Then I gestured with my eyes to the nearby Wack-A-Mole and ring-toss games. Behind the games was a little hideaway spot, a private corner of the carnival world. There, against the dirty once-white concrete wall, I reached out to him, my hand linking through his, bringing him closer to me. I lifted my other hand to his face, brushing my fingertips against his cheek.

  I’d never kissed, I’d never been kissed, but somehow I was a natural. I was all instinct.

  Later, when we were home, my mom asked me how it went.

  I told her everything. Because that’s what we did. That’s normal, right? She squealed and clapped. “Your first kiss!”

  Then she gave me kissing tips for the next time. A lesson in seduction from my mother.

  22

  Harley

  I sink into my pillow, practicing deep, calming breaths.

  Reciting mantras Joanne taught me at SLAA.

  This too shall pass.

  The three-second rule.

  Let the past be the past.

  I lie flat and picture calm waters. Blue seas. Shining sun. A warm breeze. The beach I want to run off to. The ocean I want to carry me away from New York. The sand between my toes. Everything is peaceful in the world. My life is serene. Each day flows into the next, and I go through life with a smile, a nod, and a feeling of goodwill toward humankind.

  There are no sirens, no email demands, no mothers who set you up, no fathers who leave you, no boys who run away from you when you throw yourself at them.

  But that life is a lie. A pathetic, bald-faced fabrication, and I don’t believe it for a second. There is no peace, there is no serenity, there is no happiness in love, and it’s as if someone or something cranked me up a notch, turned the timer on a once-dormant, now-ticking bomb inside me. I try to ignore the noise and the tightness in my body.

  I pull the covers over my head and close my eyes, but I can’t sleep. Classes are nearly over, I have no more homework, I have no summer plans—I need something to do. I kick the sheets around a few times, flip on my back then my stomach, even toss off the bedspread. I feel itchy, antsy. I clench and unclench my hands.

  Then I glance at my phone. It’s alive, calling out to me, whispering sweet nothings. Touch me. Put your fingers on me. Use me to deal.

  I can’t deal by going back. But I want to deal by going back.

  I can’t. I want. I won’t. I want.

  Like enemies in tug-of-war, the two sides of me pull, yank, jerk.

  I close my eyes, trying to push away the flashing images of my messages, of Cam, of going back, back, back. They’re like bumper cars knocking and clanging.

  I flip over and bang my fist into the pillow.

  I can’t believe I did that to Trey. I can’t believe I jumped him like that when I know he wants to be good. When he’s trying so hard to heal. He’s not like me. He’s better, he’s healthier, he’s closer to moving on.

  Trey doesn’t want to be a recidivist. He doesn’t want to slide back into the old skin.

  And I was the call girl. The temptress. The little vixen schoolgirl who used charms and wiles to get what she wanted.

  I smash my hand once more into the pillow.

  That’s who I am though. Why fight it? Why fight Layla?

  I grab my phone, open my messages, read it again.

  Missing things? Missing me? That can be fixed in an instant, sweetheart. Tomorrow night. Bliss Bar. 7 p.m. Be there.

  I run my finger across the note, gasping for breath. My mind is drowning in a sea, crashing upside down beneath the waves. I let them carry me, toss me back into the waters. Before I even think about it —because I don’t think at times like this; I act, I do, I operate on impulse—I reply.

  Can’t wait.

  23

  Trey

  The second I flop down onto Michelle’s couch, I blurt it out. “We fooled around last night.”

  She doesn’t raise an eyebrow or give me a haughty look. She simply waits for me to say more. Her dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and she’s decked out in standard shrink garb. Gray pants, a white blouse, pearl earrings. I don’t know much about her. It’s not as if we talk about her or her family or why she became a shrink. All I know is she specializes in this kind of stuff. In my kind of problem. She was on the list of recommended shrinks from SLAA.

  I heave a sigh. “It was at the coffee shop. We went into the back, and one thing led to another.”

  “Stop right there.” She holds up her hand, then points her index finger. “That’s not how the world works. One thing doesn’t lead to another. There are actions and choices. Now, you know I don’t judge you for any of them. But by the same token, if you want to have an honest discussion here, let’s not say ‘one thing led to another.’ Take responsibility for your actions, Trey.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Fine. She kissed me. I kissed her back,” I say in a huff. “Okay? That better?”

  She nods. “And how do you feel about it?”

  “I want her like crazy.” I roll my eyes, pushing my hands in my hair. “Like that’s a surprise? But it will never happen.”

  “Why? And what is ‘it’? Is it sex you want? Or a relationship with Harley?”

  “She doesn’t want either.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe, since you said she kissed you. But that’s not what I asked. I want to know what you want with her. Sex or a relationship?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Neither will happen.”

  “Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe you’re not ready for a relationship.”

  “Obviously,” I say sarcastically. I hold my hands out wide, stretching across her beige couch. The window is open slightly, and the horns and honking of Midtown traffic bleat in the distance. “It’s not as if I know how to have one. Not as if I know anything.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is maybe other things should come first with her.”

  “Like?”

  “Like working on being honest with her. Practicing honesty.”

  “I’m not dishonest.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “I know,” she says calmly. “But you also know you could take your friendship a step further. And it will also be good for your healing if you tell her about your family.”

  My heart skitters at the thought. I shake my head. “I can’t.”

  “You can. You want her to know you, right?”

  “I don’t even know how to say it.”

  “You just say it. That’s how you say something that’s hard. You put one foot in front of the other. You take it step by step. You say the words. There is no magic formula. There is no secret sauce. But there are words,” she says emphatically, as if she’s delivering an impassioned speech. As if she’s saying something that matters deeply to her. “And words are all we have. That’s all there really is between people. At the end of the day, we have our actions, and we have our words. And you simply say
them.”

  I try them on for size, as if I’m talking about what I did today. Casual, cool, offhand, like we’re walking to the subway and I’m making a random observation. “Oh hey, Harley. I thought you should know. One night when I was fifteen, my brothers—” But I choke on the rest of the words and can’t get them out.

  24

  Harley

  I touch up my makeup, outline my lips, and apply Cam’s favorite color lipstick, then some shimmery gloss. I press my lips together, smacking them lightly, and appraise my appearance. He’ll be pleased, but he’s always been pleased. Fact is, I’m pleased. I like the way I look. My faux school uniform is like a power suit, my armor, a superhero’s costume that makes me feel on top of the world. Short skirt, white blouse, knee-highs, and Mary Janes. When I wear this, I make the rules. My phone buzzes as I open my bedroom door. Trey’s calling. I’m supposed to go to the meeting with him.

  I ignore the call.

  Then a text message flashes by. Hey. Hope you’re OK. Sorry about last night. See you in fifteen minutes?

  But I don’t want to go to the meeting.

  I don’t want to be a recovered addict.

  I want to be addicted. I want to take a hit. I want to inhale all this control.

  I turn the phone on silent. I feel a strange mix of guilt and thrill at ignoring Trey for the first time ever. Guilt because I’ve never lied to him. Thrill because the rush of the game is starting and now I am toying with Trey—something I’ve never done with him. Even last night when I practically attacked him, I was all honesty and guts, laying it on the line for him, letting him know how I felt. And where did it get me? Rejected.

  I look at the phone one more time, scrolling over the missed call, my fingers hovering over his name. I could call him back. I could text him. I could be honest. I could confess. I could stop what I’m going to do. This is like my lifeline. The universe giving me one more way out.