by Robin Leaf
In one move, I flip our position so she’s riding me, facing him. He can see my dick inside his woman. He can see it wet from her… watching me move inside her. He likes it. He wants it.
“Her clit needs attention,” he suggests, so I comply with his request, instructing her to ride me.
Jason removes his cock from the confines of his pants, stroking himself in time with our rhythm. Once she focuses on what he’s doing, her pussy strangles my cock, coating it with a flood of wetness.
“Damn,” I tell Jason, “she really likes seeing you stroke your cock.” Fuck, I hope I can hang on. “She just got tighter and really wet. I think she’s about to come.”
I try to make that happen as best I can with the clit manipulations to the tune of “Anchors Aweigh” in my head so I can hold mine off. It’s important she come first before either of us do.
“Come, D. Now, please,” Jason pleads.
Finally, she has the orgasm I’ve been waiting for… a full body one. She shouts and vibrates everywhere, almost convulsing.
I watch him as she does, seeing him pump furiously, finally erupting all over his stomach.
My God, the whole scene… it’s so fucking amazing…
I feel it… everything within me constricts, my spine tingles, and my balls tighten. I cry out, knowing this will be almost painful, it’ll feel so good.
I erupt inside her, pulsing through it, pumping erratically, and when she rhythmically squeezes around me yet again, I almost cry from the sensation.
She collapses on me, spent, so I gently lay her down, remove her shoes, and wrap her in a sheet. Caressing her gently, I ask, “Are you breathing?”
I’m right to ask… I mean, that was so fucking intense.
She nods, so I force myself to stand.
I can’t look at Jason. I just… can’t.
I’m guilt-ridden. I’m a little horrified. I’m pissed. I’m… scared.
Scared I just lost my best friend.
How can he be okay with this?
I move to the bathroom to remove the condom and get dressed. The mirror reflects a man I don’t recognize. A man who just fucked the woman his best friend loves while the friend watched… what kind of guy does that, and likes it?
Not a good one.
I need a minute to come to grips with it.
God, why couldn’t I stop? Why didn’t I walk away from this shitty mess?
I open the door and look to the bed. Darla is passed out, and Jason is still in the chair with his head in his hands. The moment I see him, all that self-loathing and rage irrationally turns on him.
I turn back into the bathroom and breathe through it. I can’t react. I can’t yell. I did what he asked. God, I just did what he wanted. Once I feel control return, I exit the bathroom.
Slowly, I approach him, really needing to restrain the desire to punch him in the throat for this, but I’m not sure the true reason why I have that desire.
“Does she know about you?” I ask, clenching my teeth.
His eyes shoot up to mine. “Who?”
“Darla,” I spit, indicating her with my thumb.
He stands, ushering me away from her.
“You know?” he asks, almost panicked.
“Yes, I know. I’m not stupid. I watched how you look at her… how she looks at you.” I step closer to him. “You asked me to fuck the woman you love, and you lied to me.”
He swallows, looking quickly her direction. “If I’m going to leave her for two years, I just had to… I had to give her… I had to know what she looks like when…”
My stoic, serious friend looks like he’s about to break. And I get it, I do, but I still feel used.
“So,” I say gently, “tell her, Jason. She loves you. She would obviously do anything for you,” I wave around the room. “Be honest with her. Let her know why you asked her to fuck some stranger when she wanted you. She will get it then. She won’t think…” I shake my head, trying to calm down. I don’t need to say this now. “She will be by your side through it all, then you won’t have to go through all of this alone.”
He stares at her, a heartbreaking look of longing on his face, and remains silent.
“We will have a conversation about what transpired tonight very soon,” I warn, and he looks at me, surprised. “This… this was not okay. You may think you thought it through, considered everything, but this decision… this act was stupid and rash… and possibly a little selfish and cruel. There will be repercussions. And now I have to worry about what that will do to you.”
God, what will it do to him if she leaves him?
He shakes his head, and I know he’s about to argue with me.
“You take care of her tonight. You pull her close and enjoy every minute. You fall deeper in love than you already are.” I step closer, looking him in the eye. “And tomorrow, you tell her everything so she understands why you did this,” I say, turning away and walking to the door, “or I will.”
Twenty One
Cristiana
I love being on tour.
There is not anything better than performing in front of crowds of cheering fans. The lights, the music, the exhilarating show. It’s freeing.
However, I also hate being on tour.
There is not anything worse than having no personal space. The hotels, the crappy food, the claustrophobic atmosphere. It’s caging.
This whole experience has been my wildest dream and my worst nightmare all rolled into one.
I don’t even know where we are more than half the time. Whoever booked this tour followed Ignacio’s instructions and left time only for travel days. He says he did the touristy thing the first time, so he asked to just get this tour over with quickly. Ticket sales were already over when I came on board, not that they would have consulted me anyway. It’s just that it does me no good to travel around the country when I only get to see the inside of this tour bus, arena dressing rooms, and hotel suites.
Even if I could escape for a few minutes, the security team, led by El Oso, a.k.a. Joe, probably wouldn’t allow it.
Yeah, the backup dancers get to roam about freely, but apparently I’m “too recognizable” to go buy myself new underwear or even a freakin’ coffee. It’s times like this when I curse my decision to dance in those stupid videos.
Ignacio barely has any time for me. We can only watch so many movies together on the bus’s DVD player before it gets old, that is if he can sit still long enough to make it through one. He is so moody and hard to deal with at times, and other times, he’s super silly, or he talks my ear off. I know he has to be tired, what with most of his days planned with multiple radio interviews, fan events, and TV appearances in each city. After each show, he used to go straight to sleep. Now it’s like he’s too tired to sleep. He just paces around the hotel rooms finding things to do, like write what I think might be new songs. He doesn’t share though, and I have to respect that.
The record company provided him with a personal assistant whose job is to make things easier for him. She does her job well, but she makes things a nightmare for me and the rest of his tour mates. I secretly think she tries to keep him away from the rest of us.
And that means I’m alone… a lot. The dancers thrive on drama that frankly wears me out, and the band sticks to themselves. Therefore, I’m pretty bored and lonely. I have begged several times to go exploring with one of the security guards, but I’m always told that for my safety, it’s best if I stay inside away from any danger. I’m not sure what kind of danger I could find. No one gives two shits about little old me.
“We’re in San Antonio tonight, Nana,” Ignacio informs me. “I spent summers here with my abuelita, and I love this city.” He seems to bounce with his excitement. “I wish I could show you the Riverwalk and downtown, but unfortunately, I can’t.” He waves his hand down himself.
“Yeah, I know,” I say, trying to hide the bitchy sarcasm I feel. He didn’t have to give me this big break for my career, so I feel a l
ittle bit bad anytime I feel less than grateful, at least I feel bad when he’s in front of me.
He bumps my chin. “So, I arranged for you to have a chaperone today.”
He nods to the door of the hotel. I turn to look, momentarily hopeful, then terrified, that I might see blue eyes. Instead, in walks Fionn. I let out a huge breath and sink with relief, so glad I see someone familiar.
“Howdy there, Crissy,” he drawls in a ridiculous attempt at a Texan accent.
I practically run to hug him tightly. It’s the first time I’ve seen anyone from home in I don’t even know how long.
“Wait,” I push back from his chest and squint at him. “Did you seriously just say ‘howdy?’”
“Well, I know it’s not Rome, but I figured I’d give it a wee try.” He winks, and it’s adorable.
I raise my eyebrow and smile. “How about you don’t try that again.”
Ignacio clears his throat and walks over to shake Fionn’s hand.
“I’m sorry I won’t be able to join y’all.” He turns to me. “If you go out like you are right now, I seriously doubt anyone will recognize you.” After quickly kissing my temple, he graces me with a rare smile, and although it’s shaky, it’s one I haven’t seen in a month. His words come out quickly while he fidgets with his clothes, tucking in his shirt and smoothing his pants. “I would suggest you go to Mi Tierra for lunch. The food is better there, but it is kind of out of the way. Casa Rio is on the river and within walking distance from here. Don’t be too disappointed by the Alamo; it’s not that big, and there’s always a wait for the tour.” He checks his reflection in the mirror and begins to shove things in his pockets. “The Menger and Crockett Hotels are supposedly haunted, if you like that sort of thing, and the Ripley’s Believe it or Not Museum is kind of a rip off.” Stopping in front of me, he glares so I know what he says next will be important. “Don’t be late for the sound check at five.” After pat down of his pockets and a quick check of his watch, he walks to the door. “I need to hurry. Y’all have fun. We only have seven more shows, Nana, then you can finally go home.”
“Dios mio, do I need puppy snuggles,” I groan playfully.
After winking, he opens the door to Joe and his team, who promptly surround him and leave.
Fionn looks at me confused. “You have puppies?”
I grab his arm and practically pull him out of the room.
“We have a date, Fionny. Let’s make the best of it.”
***
“Nacho was right about the Alamo,” I say, slurping the remnants of my glass through my straw. “I was all like, ‘That’s it?’ I mean, it’s impressive from all the history.” I set my glass down kind of hard on the table. “I guess I just expected more.”
We didn’t go to either restaurant Ignacio suggested. Since it started sprinkling when we got off the tour boat, outside dining was not appealing. Instead, we found a small Mexican restaurant that is situated close to where the riverboat dropped us off that has quiet, private booths.
Fionn slurps his own glass. “Yeah,” he burps. “What’s wit all the buildings and stuff around it? I would think a landmark like that would get a bit more respect than to have alla that touristy shit.”
“The riverboat tour was fun, though. San Antonio has so much cool history. And that driver was fucking hilarious.”
“Agreed.” Looking in the bottom of his glass, he slurs, “What’s in this drink, lassy?” He brings the glass closer to his squinty eyes. “I think we might be a wee bit buzzed.”
I giggle. “We probably shouldn’t a had two, then.”
“I’m fookin’ Irish. I’m s’posta handle my liquor.”
I shake my head. “That’s a stereotype, Fionny. We no likey those.” I grab a chip and dunk it in some salsa. “Like the one that says I’m s’posta like spicy food.”
He turns his squinty eyes on me. “But ye do, lass.”
I smile. “Damn right I do,” I shout, shoving the chip in my mouth. “Maybe we shoulda waited to drink the margaritas until after we ate.”
The waiter sets down the sizzling hot skillet of beef, chicken, and onions in the center of the table and a container of freshly made tortillas.
“Allow me to show you how I do this, Irish.” Taking out a tortilla, I demonstrate how to construct the perfect taco. “Meat, onion, pico, jalapeños. Anything more and it’s ruined. Roll and eat.”
“I’ll leave off the devil peppers, lassy. They don’t like the Fionn.”
“The Fionn… like The Hulk,” I tease around a bite. “Fionn eat,” I grunt through giggles.
Either watching Fionn struggle to make a taco is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, or he’s right that we are a little too buzzed.
Once I settle down from my giggle fest, I feel my head swirl.
“Shit,” I mutter between bites. “I can’t go to the sound check like this.”
“Never fear, Crissy. We have two hours before you’re s’posta be there.” He shoves a bite in his mouth. “That’s plenty o’ time to sober up before you need ta.” He furrows his brow. “Last time I saw ye, you told me you didn’t drink.” After taking a drink of his water, he adds, “And now you drank two pretty strong margaritas and aren’t drunk.”
I know what he’s trying hard not to ask, so I chew and swallow slowly, wondering what I should tell him. “This tour… it’s been… stressful.”
He stops chewing to raise his eyebrow.
“So I picked up a hobby,” I joke.
“You can’t find a crossword or take up reading?”
I watch him eat, feeling myself get somber. I don’t really want to admit how unhappy I am on this tour, so I decide to change the subject.
“How are you, Fionny? Really?”
He smiles. “I already told ye, I’m a bit –”
“No,” I shake my head. “I don’t mean right this second. I mean… since…” Searching for the right words, I give up, just blurting it out. “Since Layla died. I know how hard that must’ve been for you, but you seem, I dunno, lonely maybe? I just feel that you aren’t the same since it happened.”
He leans over his plate, staring at me for a minute. “I would imagine that no one would be the same after the death of their wife and unborn child, Cristiana,” he says clearly despite his buzz. “Especially since I’m the reason she had the wreck in the first place.”
I drop my taco and sit back, feeling like I’ve been sucker punched, which kind of sobers me up, too.
“You weren’t driving, nor were you driving the car that hit her.”
“No, but she left the house pissed at me and probably wasn’t paying attention to things.” He looks away. “I can’t help but feel responsible.”
“I would think the drugged-up driver that hit her would be the only one responsible.”
“My head knows that,” he says, rubbing his hand down his face. “But my soul still takes responsibility.”
“So is that why you aren’t dating? You’re punishing yourself?”
He smiles sadly and shakes his head. “No.” Sighing, he shrugs. “I can’t… I won’t let myself get close like that again.” He sits back and smiles. “She was the love of my life, Nana. It hurt so damn much to lose her and my kid. I just want to not hurt like that again.”
I know what he means. I have a hard time wanting another friend. She took a piece of me when she died, so I can’t imagine how Fionn feels, especially carrying around all that guilt.
“I get that. I won’t let myself love anyone either,” I blurt. Looking away, I admit, “Keeps my heart safe.”
He leans forward and squints again. “I thought you and Ignacio… You’re not… what?” he asks, trying to read my face.
It registers what I said. I’m supposed to be in love with Ignacio, at least the world thinks so. I mean I do love him, of course, but not like that. It’s never been like that.
“Did you ever go to therapy like I suggested?” I ask, deflecting away from my non-existent relationship.
>
He sighs, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I made an appointment, several in fact. But I just can’t seem to keep them.”
I narrow my eyes. “I really think it’ll help to talk about it with an objective ear. Can you promise me you’ll go when you get back?”
He chews a bite slowly, watching me the entire time. “Tell ye what. If you tell me what the deal is with you and,” he looks around and lowers his voice, “Ignacio, I will.”
I am reminded of the last deal I made in a restaurant over a meal, and my face gets hot. Once I shove the last bite of my fajita in to my mouth, I nod.
“You can’t tell anyone, Fionny.” I lean forward across my plate. “No. One. Not even… people you work with. I mean no one knows, not even Joe.”
He leans forward, leveling his eyes at me, exuding sincerity. “You have my word, lass.”
I swallow and take a deep breath, trying to tell this without revealing Ignacio’s secret. “Nacho and I are partners and friends, but not lovers,” I tell him, trying to look nonchalant by building another taco. “Our relationship is to keep the fans guessing.” I take a bite, watching him for a reaction. His expression remains guarded, but I can tell he’s dying to say something.
“Then why did you…” he begins but stops himself.
I fear what he wants to ask will be something about… him.
“Look, lass –”
“How are we doing over here?” the waiter interrupts. “Can I interest you in any dessert? Maybe sopapillas or some of our famous flan?”
“No desserts for us, specifically the flan,” I rush out, thankful for the reprieve, and my mouth just keeps moving to prolong it. “I’ve never really liked flan, especially since my lab partner in high school made a brain out of flan for a project, and our teacher said that flan was a good choice because brain matter is about the same consistency.”
The waiter plasters on a fake smile, one that courteously masks true emotion. Probably because he wants us gone now that I grossed him out or pissed him off. He starts to clear some of the dishes and announces, “Can I bring y’all two more margaritas?”
