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

by Blakely, Lauren

  He doesn’t even have to touch me, though I wouldn’t mind if his fingers were down my pants, or if he used his tongue again, but right now I am close, so close, just from the friction of my body against his. He shifts one more time, so he’s on his back and I’m on top, totally clothed, my legs spread over him.

  “I want you to fuck me like that, Harley. I want you to ride me. Don’t stop,” he says, grabbing at my hair and pulling me back down to his mouth.

  His tongue swirls wildly with mine, his lips crushing mine with such intensity, as if he would fall off the earth if he stopped, that I start to lose control.

  The thing I value most, that I seek, quest after.

  Control.

  I try all day and night, all my life, to find it and then hold onto it like it’s a precious treasure. But right now, it falls through my fingers as I give in to my body, his fantastically hard erection thick and heavy and doing its job between my thighs, even with all this denim between us, as his mouth searches mine like I’m the answer to any and every question he’s ever had. He roams a hand down my back, cupping my ass to keep me close as I bite my lip, because I don’t know how to let go and shout and scream even though I want to. Instead, I shudder several times and pant heavily as I come.

  “Oh,” I gasp, keeping my voice low. I don’t want anyone to hear me, even though we’re the only ones here.

  Without wasting a moment, he pulls me closer, wrapping his arms so tightly around me that it feels as if he’ll never let go, and I don’t want him to. His legs are tangled with mine, his arms hold me close, and I don’t know where I end and he begins. He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, my hair, and I feel cared for in a way I never have. I also feel pretty amazing, like my whole body has taken a bath in golden sunlight and is shining, radiant, pure.

  Maybe that’s weird to feel pure. But I do. With him.

  “You’re beautiful, Harley, so beautiful,” he murmurs, and his voice is fading again, sleep threatening to overtake him as I roll off of him and return to lying side by side. He pulls at the sleeve of my T-shirt and kisses my tattoo.

  “Are you going to tell me why you chose a red ribbon for your tattoo?” He knows about my mother’s role in who I’ve become, but not that this symbol is my reminder of her.

  “Yeah, but you go first. You tell me why yours are all in threes. Why do you have the sunbursts and birds and all your abstract patterns in threes? What’s with the threes?”

  “Hmm? Those?”

  “Yeah. Those,” I ask. He’s never told me. But I want to know.

  He snuggles closer, tucking his face into my neck and breathing me in. He sighs happily, then says, “So I don’t forget my brothers.”

  Brothers? Something doesn’t compute. Trey is an only child.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Will, Jake, and Drew. They all died at birth. They’re my three dead brothers.”

  My blood stops pumping, and it’s as if someone turned off the music at a dance and turned the lights all the way up on me.

  I push both hands against his shoulders. “What do you mean, Trey?” I ask, hoping, praying he made a mistake, that he will unsay what he just said. “Take that back, please.”

  But he falls asleep, the drinking finally taking over, and he is passed out in my arms, the marks of his three dead baby brothers permanently inked on his beautiful body.

  30

  Harley

  The first thing I do after I shower in the morning is locate a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Not for Trey. But for me. To separate myself from how I used to dress, used to look, used to play. I need to feel as comfortable in Converse as I do in Mary Janes.

  As I do in evening dresses.

  In trench coats and leather.

  But I can’t be Layla, like I was last night with Cam.

  I want to be the woman I am with Trey. Real and true and honest and scared.

  It’s hard, so incredibly, unbearably hard, to resist doing everything I can to look pretty, to be the prettiest girl in the room, as my mom taught me, as my tattoo reminds me. I linger over the powder, eyeshadow, and mascara in my makeup bag, wanting—longing—to put on a perfect face. I want to cover myself up. I want to hide my new self. I want to slather my face with makeup.

  But then I look myself over in the mirror. I remind myself what Joanne would say. Change is supposed to feel weird. You don’t get to the other side by feeling the same way you felt before. But knowing what’s coming this afternoon from Miranda to my mom’s house—a black-and-white reminder of who I was and what I did—it’s hard to imagine I’ll ever get to the other side.

  I just want to be me. But I don’t know who she is. I don’t know who I am. I am two people. Torn and tattered in split halves.

  Finally, I pull my hair into a tight ponytail and apply only the barest of makeup—gloss and a dab of blush. Then I leave the bathroom and return to the living room. My apartment is quiet, and the sun is barely rising. The first pink slivers of dawn peek over the horizon, pulling the night away. It is early, but I want to get ahead on my debt.

  Kristen is probably sleeping, and Trey is still here, stretched out and gorgeous on the couch. He sleeps on his stomach, his cheek pressed into a pillow, one arm hanging off the side of the couch. I kneel down and reach out toward his arm, not quite touching, but tracing the air near his shoulder, outlining the sunbursts.

  Did he mean what he said last night?

  Does he have three brothers he’s never told me about?

  He knows all my secrets. All my terrible truths. I want him to trust me. I want him to tell me about the marks on his body. I want him to feel safe with me. I want to know him as deeply and as truly as I think he knows me.

  I need to resist Layla to do that. I bend closer to his arm and brush my lips ever so softly against his shoulder. A wisp of a kiss, a hint of all that I might feel for him.

  A wish.

  Then I grab my computer bag, head for the nearby diner, order a strong coffee, and steel myself for the next sordid chapter in my memoirs. Soon, soon, I’ll be done.

  31

  Memoirs of a Teenage Sex Addict

  Most of the time, I was requested to wear my schoolgirl uniform. But there were a few other outfits my clients liked. Some wanted me decked out in evening wear regalia so I could be the arm candy attending fancy parties, events, and galas with them when they wanted the full girlfriend experience. But there was one client in particular—Let’s call him Morris, shall we?—who wanted me in something else.

  Who wanted me in leather.

  With a leash.

  Those were the times I prepped elsewhere. I couldn’t undertake that kind of prep at home. So I’d arrive at the five-star hotel in my trench coat and heels, the risk of being seen part of the thrill. But I was never seen. Sunglasses were my best friend, along with doormen whose palms had been greased by my man.

  I pressed the button for the elevator, shot up several floors to the penthouse level, and knocked—sexily, of course; I’d been trained to knock sexily, and yes, there is a way to do that—on the door of his suite.

  Once inside, the trench coat came off and the collar went on. Not on me. Never on me. On him. Black, leather, spiked. I attached the leash to it. Then, wearing a painted-on leather skirt, a skin-tight bustier, and heels, I walked Morris around the suite.

  Like a dog.

  He was on all fours, he was naked, and he liked it when I pulled hard on his collar. He was a naughty boy, and he needed lots of corrections when he sniffed chairs and rugs in the suite. But if he was a good boy, a perfectly well-behaved pooch, he’d receive his reward. I’d take him to the balcony, remove one high heel, and let him lick and suck my perfectly manicured toes.

  Funny, the things high-ranking political advisers want to do behind closed doors, isn’t it?

  Kiss the feet of call girls.

  32

  Trey

  The sun beats cruelly through the windows. A mean yellow ball blaring at me. A reminder
to get the hell up.

  My mouth is like cotton, and I lick my lips, desperate for a drink of water. My head pounds, but it’s nothing that a stiff cup of coffee won’t cure. I sit up on the couch with a groan and kick off the blanket. I look around for Harley, but the living room is empty. Hunting for my shirt, I find it on the other side of the coffee table, in a heap on the carpet.

  A faint memory flicks by of taking it off last night, tossing it somewhere, then wrapping myself around Harley. Then the rest of the night floods my mind, and my brain is filled with the best wake-up images ever. The sweet smell of Harley’s neck, the way she trembled when I touched her stomach, then her on top of me, grinding against me.

  I’m pretty sure I fell asleep two seconds after she came, which is the best send-off into sleep I can think of. To be honest, though, I must have been really drunk to let that happen. Not that I don’t want her riding me when I’m sober. But I don’t know that I would have gone there if not for the liquid courage. I hope to hell she doesn’t regret it. I pray she won’t regret me.

  I yank on the shirt, head for the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of water. I down it in one gulp, then fill another glass and drink that too.

  I look for a clock and find a radio by the sink. It’s almost noon. It’s Friday. I need to be at work in an hour, and I need to shower. Then I realize my mouth tastes like a sock.

  I hate morning breath even when I’m alone, but if there’s a chance she’s still here, I better brush my teeth now. I head for the bathroom. The door is open, and there’s no one in here. It’s a tiny bathroom, with squeaky faucets and a streaked mirror.

  I check out the toothbrushes. One’s red. One’s green. I have no clue which is Harley’s. She’s the kind of girl who likes red, but then Kristen wears red glasses. I take my chances and grab the red one, squirt some toothpaste on, and a minute later, I have minty fresh breath.

  “That’s my toothbrush.”

  I startle when I hear Kristen’s voice.

  “Sorry,” I say as I return the toothbrush to the cup holder. “I’ll get you a new one. Where’s Jordan?”

  “At work,” she says, then turns away.

  “Where’s Harley?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going back to bed. I don’t have class, and I have to work tonight at the restaurant.”

  Well, that’s that. The morning has its own stark way of erasing all the good that darkness brings. Story of my life. I head back to the living room and find my boots, tugging them on and lacing them up, then grab my phone and stuff it in my back pocket. I snag my backpack from the floor—seems like eons ago that I sat on the front stoop drawing and waiting for Harley. But she’s nowhere to be seen, and she didn’t leave a note.

  I sling my backpack over my shoulder, run a hand through my messy hair, and head for the door, computing how quickly I’ll have to haul ass across town to shower, then race back to work. I reach for the handle, but someone’s unlocking and opening the door. I step back quickly, but even so, Harley nearly bumps into me and grabs my arm to steady herself.

  “Oh, sorry,” she says. Then, in a softer voice, meeting my eyes briefly, she whispers, “Hi.”

  That voice slays me with its sweetness. I’m a dead man walking when she looks down at her shoes in that strangely shy way. And maybe it was the beer lubricating us last night, but right now, regrets or no regrets, I want more. Because not only was last night the hottest thing ever, but now my heart is thumping like a jackrabbit for one simple reason that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with how immensely cute I find the fact that she’s shy right now. I want to swipe my thumb across her lips and tell her not to be embarrassed, because she’s beautiful and sweet and kind and funny and has the biggest heart I’ve ever known.

  She lets go of my arm. I wish she hadn’t let go. The slightest contact from her is electrifying.

  “Hey,” I say. I’m probably grinning like an idiot too, and damn, I’m glad I brushed my teeth.

  “I got bagels,” she says, and thrusts a brown paper bag at me. “Sesame seed. Just out of the oven from the bagel shop around the corner. Your favorite.”

  This girl knows me too well. I reach into the bag as my stomach growls. She laughs first, then I join in. “I guess you’re a mind reader. And these are definitely my favorite. I need to get to work soon. Mind if I eat and run?”

  “You can even eat on the run if you want. Don’t let me hold you back,” she says playfully.

  “I’ll stay a minute,” I say, though I really want to stay all day and night. Call in sick, curl up with her, watch a movie, kiss her more, touch her everywhere.

  She’s in jeans again, like last night, and a black T-shirt with an upside-down pink monkey on it. She wears her Converse sneakers, and she has two leather bracelets on her wrist. I love it when she dresses like a hipster instead of a schoolgirl.

  “You look nice,” I say, but then I want to kick myself, because I really want to tell her she looks hot and sexy and smart and strong and independent, and not the least bit like her mother’s daughter. But I’d probably sound like a guy who’s spent way too much time in therapy, and I’ve got to maintain some degree of man cred.

  “Thanks,” she says. “So do you.”

  I take a bite, then look down at yesterday’s clothes. “You like the day-old, Harley?” I tease.

  “Yeah. And I suppose I should let you know now those are day-old bagels too,” she fires back, but she can’t hide her smirk.

  “May I never ever hear you use the adjective ‘day-old’ to describe a bagel you’ve given me.”

  “I’ll have to keep you on your toes, then. Always worrying about such a horrid breakfast possibility,” she says, leaning against the wall in her entryway as I eat more of the bagel that’s fresh and hot and perfect.

  “So what are you doing today?” I ask, and it’s nice to slide right back to the joking, the teasing, the way we are. I don’t know what’s next, but I know I can’t lose her. I feel like I still have her as a friend, and that’s what matters most, I remind myself. But I want more.

  “I have to go to my mom’s. Intercept that package from Miranda. Besides, my mom wants me to come by anyway. She wants me to work with her this summer. Be an intern or something in her office,” she says. “I don’t have anything else to do.”

  “You could take summer classes,” I suggest.

  “I guess.”

  “You said you miss creative writing. You could do that. Go back to the fun stories you want to write. Your animal tales and magic stories and whatnot. Take a writing workshop for real. Because you don’t even like the kind of reporting your mom does.”

  She shrugs. “I know. But I need to do something,” she says. I hope she’s not thinking about other ways she can earn money. The ways she was considering last night. I want to think we’ve moved past that. But then, is one drunken grind on me enough to make her change her stripes?

  “Hey. I have a question, Trey. About last night…”

  I stop eating, look at her, and she’s the Harley I’m crazy about. I should just kiss her again. But I don’t know if everything changed last night, or if anything did. I don’t know if we’re coming or going. Harley is both my best friend and my biggest fear. I should put my armor on, protect myself from her. But I don’t know where I left it.

  “Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow. Waiting for her question. Hoping she’s going to say she’s done with Cam, done with her past, and that she wants me as much as I want her. If she said that, I’d tell her. If she told me I was the only one, I’d chuck all the damn rules and tell her I think about her all the time, and it’s not obsession, it’s not addiction, it’s something more.

  Something real.

  “You said you had three brothers, Trey. You never told me that before.”

  The moment slips out of focus, and the room blurs.

  That’s not what she’s supposed to say.

  That’s not what I’m supposed to hear.

  That’s not what
anyone’s supposed to know.

  Because we don’t talk about that. We don’t talk about them.

  The floor starts spinning, and my stomach plummets to the ground. There’s a ringing in my ears, and it spreads through my whole head, rattling hard against my skull. I said that? What is wrong with me? Why the hell would I have said that?

  “What do you mean?” I ask in a strangled voice, as if there are rocks in my mouth.

  She reaches for me, touches my shoulder, rubs gently. “I asked you about your tattoos.”

  I close my eyes, shrug off her touch. No fucking way I said that. This can’t be happening. This moment is a stitch in time, a hiccup. A massive mistake we’re all going to forget in seconds when it’s undone. Because there is no way I am standing here in yesterday’s clothes with this girl who was with her pimp last night, then with me, and then I told her about the three brothers I never knew. My family that no longer exists. The reason why I became all sorts of screwed up.

  I open my eyes, shake my head, adopt a false smile. “That’s crazy,” I say, wishing I were an actor so I could pull this off.

  She shoots me a worried look. “Crazy? Why?”

  “Seriously, Harley. You should not believe the shit I say when I’m drunk.”

  Then I grab my phone, check the time, and shake my head. “I gotta jam. I’ll be late and I have a ton of shit to do. I’ll catch up with you later. At the meeting or whatever. Thanks for the bagel.”