Trust Me

by Isabel Jolie

  “Someone I met on campus. She’s pretty nice. I don’t know if she’ll actually meet us, but let me text her the address.”

  When I pick up my phone, I see a text from Sam and grin. We’ve been texting back and forth all week. Not too often, but he’s sent me photos of San Fran a few times, and I’ve sent him zero snapshots of Manhattanville Coffee.

  Delilah catches my grin. “Mr. Gorgeous sexting you?”

  I roll my eyes. “No, he’s just wishing me a Happy Halloween.”

  “What’s he up to tonight?”

  “He’s in Texas visiting family.”

  “What’s his costume?”

  “No costume. He’s with his parents.”

  Delilah’s mouth drops. “How boring,” she comments with heavy emphasis on boring while scrunching up her nose.

  I ignore her reaction as I place bobby pins all along her skull cap. “He’s in his mid-thirties. I’m guessing he’s kind of outgrown the whole Halloween thing.” In truth, at twenty-seven, I’d be happy staying in too. Or at the very least going to a more sophisticated gathering. A gathering where one can sit and drink like Anna will be attending tonight. Any location Delilah picks will mean standing room only. But, hey, only young once.

  I turn the volume up, and we’re singing along as we start our second round of drinks. After make-up is applied and we’re ready to go, we lean together, trying for a good joint selfie. I’ve got a solid buzz going, and exhilaration pumps through me. I am in the mood to dance.

  Right before we head out the door, I back up to my window so the city lights shine behind me and pass Delilah my phone. “Take some good pics of me. I want to send some to Sam.”

  She takes several then art directs them a bit to get better photos. My long legs look rather amazing, peeking out from my ultra-short blue Wonder Woman skirt, and my breasts are spilling out a bit from the top of my corset. With the eyeliner, my blue eyes pop, and combined with my dark hair spilling over the gold crown in soft waves, I have to say I look a bit like Wonder Woman. This is why I keep re-wearing this costume. Nothing at all to do with being too lazy to come up with another one.

  I glance through the photos, pick the sexiest, and send to him. Before we’ve found a cab, I get a response.

  Sam: Damn. I knew I should have come back today.

  Then one more text.

  Sam: Save that costume.

  With a grin, I show his texts to Delilah and wiggle my eyebrows. “Guess he hasn’t outgrown Halloween after all.”

  The cab drops us out in front of Croton Reservoir Tavern, and the line wraps around the corner of the block. It’s a little after 10:00 p.m. The low tonight is forty-two degrees, and it’s already pretty freaking cold. But since we’re planning on drinking a lot, we opted for no coats. Didn’t want to have to keep up with them or risk losing them. Staring at that line, it’s looking like that was a bad call. As we head toward the back of the line, I hear someone call my name and see Lindsey waving her arm frantically. “Hey! I went ahead and got a place in line. Come on.”

  She’s about ten people from the entrance. I give her a giant hug, and she almost faceplants into my cleavage. I’m not used to being this tall. She’s alone, so I ask her where her friends are. She says they wanted to hit a different party, but this one sounds more fun. Delilah’s nodding in complete agreement. I can tell these two will be insta-friends.

  Lindsey’s hair is styled stick straight, the same as when I saw her last, but her make-up is wild. Expertly drawn black eye liner, making her dark eyes look almost evil as the tails go out to the edge. She’s wearing a small silver sequin tube top that barely covers what must be D-cups. She has a matching sequin tube skirt, thigh highs, and dominatrix style fuck-me heels. She’s a walking wet dream.

  As I take her outfit in, I ask “So, what are you?” I can tell she’s a sexy something, but I’m not so sure what the something is.

  She gives an evil grin. “Sweet but Psycho.”

  Delilah shouts, “I love it!”

  Once inside, we all walk straight for the bar. Lindsey squeezes into a vacant spot and shouts, “I’ve got first round.” She’s shouting because it’s the only way we can hear her above the pounding techno beat. Blue lights flash through the pitch-black dark. The strobe lights illuminate bodies writhing on the packed dance floor.

  A group of guys walk toward us, and I shelter next to Delilah, letting her carry on the entire conversation. Lindsey joins us, holding three large glasses. I drink what she gives me. It tastes kind of like a Coke but not quite as sweet. The heat from all the bodies has me slurping the entire cocktail through the straw, and after two or three slurps, only ice remains in my glass. I tap Lindsey’s shoulder to tell her I’ll get the next round and ask what to order.

  Her tongue slides along her lower lip, and for one minute she looks like pure evil. It’s like she’s somehow personified her costume. Goosebumps run up and down my arms. “Long Island iced tea. But I have a tab started. Put it on my tab.”

  The lights flash. Bodies rub and press against me. It’s a hedonistic whirl. Hard, firm, male abs. Men grind my ass, and I grind back, almost falling down a few times. At this point, I’ve had four or five of the Long Island iced teas. I’m not sure how much alcohol I’ve had, but I’m glad the dance floor is so packed. Someone always catches me if I lean too far.

  Scantily clad women rock beside me. Lindsey comes up to me and grinds her hips against my ass. We both laugh and rub all over each other, attracting the attention of other men on the dance floor. My fingers glide along her bare, flat belly. Some of the guys we were talking to surround us, chanting and goading us on. Lindsey bites her lip seductively, and I grow more brazen and playfully caress her breasts.

  She guides me off the dance floor and down a dark hall toward the bathroom. Her mouth collides with mine as she presses me against the wall, her thigh pressing against my crotch. I bend my legs to give her better access, and she reaches up my skirt. She’s rubbing my clit while smashing me against the wall. I caress her breast while our tongues dance. She tugs at my top, and I drunkenly try to push it back up. The room sways, and far off lights blend.

  Her top slides down. My thumb rubs over her nipple. She slides my panties aside, and I feel her fingers inside me while she expertly rubs my clit. My knees start to shake. I struggle to stand. One hand holds my top in place while the other latches on to Lindsey’s shoulder for balance and to maintain some distance.

  The moment ebbs and flows like a dream. Like I’ll wake up, and it won’t be real. This isn’t what I want. I want to push away. I turn my head to the side so I can see the lights cascading through the dark hall. Lindsey’s lips go to my neck. The Mother of Dragons storms down the black brick hallway.

  Delilah yanks me away, and I close my eyes. My eyelids feel so heavy. Delilah and Lindsey are shouting, their voices barely rising above the blaring techno beat. When I open my eyes again, I see Lindsey has pulled her top back on. Damn. She has large, beautiful breasts with saucer-like nipples that taste delicious.

  Delilah pulls me out on the dance floor, and I spin and spin and spin.

  * * *

  My head throbs, and my mouth is bone dry. I cautiously crack an eye open. My bedroom. A layer of sweat covers my body, and as I roll over, I’m met with the putrid smell of vomit. Death. I feel like death.

  I am alone in my bed, and for that, I’m immensely grateful. I don’t remember how I got home. I close my eyes and try to remember what happened. I remember dancing. Lights. Bodies. Then black.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, I pull myself out of bed, stumble to the kitchen, and grab the orange juice. Thank the gods we drank lemonade last night instead of the OJ. I down a large cup and pour a second then fumble in a kitchen drawer that holds a shitload of random stuff and pull out a bottle of Advil. I pop two pills and drag myself back into bed.

  I wake up again to the sound of an incessant vibration. I see my phone charging on my nightstand. It’s lit up. Delilah’s calling me.

/>   I reach for the phone, answer, and hold it up to my ear. My head aches. Nausea overwhelms me.

  “Olivia? Hello? Are you there?”

  “Yes,” I manage to croak.

  “I’m at your door. I brought coffee and bagels.”

  The door feels like it’s a mile away. When I get out of bed, I lower myself to my hands and knees and crawl to the door. For some reason, the nausea makes me want to remain closer to the floor. I’m still a little dizzy too. Maybe I’m still drunk?

  I open the door, and Delilah stands there holding a white paper bag and a carrier that contains four drinks. She looks down at me where I sit sprawled on the floor.

  “Damn, girl. I had a feeling you’d be hurting today, but I thought you’d be able to stand.”

  I look up at her but don’t move. I’m wiped. I cannot move.

  “I brought you some anti-nausea medicine, but I’m thinking we may need to stop by REVIV for an IV drip.”

  She steps over me and uses one of her legs to force mine out of the way so the door can close.

  I crawl to the bathroom. The OJ I drank pours out into the toilet. Dee holds my hair back then rubs my shoulders as I continue to dry heave. The muscular contractions slow.

  After handing me a toothbrush with toothpaste on it, she forces me to get dressed. “Come on, girl, let’s go.”

  Less than an hour later, an IV full of saline solution has rehydrated me, and I’m chilled but starting to feel human. The nausea has subsided. The splitting head pain has subsided to a dull ache.

  Delilah sits across from me sipping her coffee. All I really want to do is go home and crawl into bed and sleep. But that would be rude to my lifesaver, who traipsed all the way up to the upper east side to check on me mere hours after delivering me safely to my apartment. In the interest of being a good friend, I agree to head to a greasy spoon deli for breakfast.

  I order cheesy eggs, bacon, and a biscuit. I normally don’t eat biscuits, but they might absorb any remaining alcohol. I’m working with the theory that when a hangover is this bad, calories shouldn’t be given any consideration.

  The IV helped the physical ramifications of last night. It did nothing to ease the mortification or the unease of a black hole memory. I put my elbows on the table and rest my forehead on my palms. I don’t look at Delilah but ask what must be asked. “Ah, I don’t remember much from last night. How bad was I?”

  Laughter rings across the table. “Oh, girlfriend. Oh, my, girlfriend.”

  I hide my face. “You know what? I don’t wanna know. Don’t tell me. Just…what the hell were we drinking?”

  “You mean what were you drinking.”

  I look up, squint, and point at her. “No, we were all drinking the same thing.”

  She shakes her head.

  I nod.

  She’s still shaking her head, so I speak the words out loud. “Yes, we all ordered the same thing.”

  She angles her head and clicks her tongue. “Nope, babe. You were drinking the Long Island iced teas like they were Diet Coke. Do you have any idea how much alcohol is in one of those? I had the first one Lindsey gave me then switched to beer. I always drink beer on marathon drinking nights. The chances of me getting shit-faced on beer are way slimmer.” She taps her nose and gives me a thoughtful look. “You, my friend, may want to try a similar strategy, moving forward. If I hadn’t been with you, there’s no telling how many people you might have fucked last night.”

  “It was the straws.” I groan, face down.

  “Pardon?”

  “The straws. You know you can’t let me drink liquor drinks with straws.” This is completely and totally her fault.

  “Well, at least we got to see the Chainsmokers.”

  I lift my head and squint at her. I have no memory of any band. Last night is black. No memory other than lights and dancing, then black. Something about her face tells me she’s trying to put one over on me. I slowly shake my head, but I’m definitely uncertain.

  She laughs. “No, they didn’t play. But you did miss the Killers. They played!” she says with enough energy that the gaggle of hair on the top of her head shifts back and forth. I stare at her. Then she laughs at her own joke and says, “Nah. Just messing with you.”

  I collapse my head on the greasy dinette table and groan. “Oh, god. I’m never drinking again.”

  Chapter 12

  Olivia

  Sunday morning, I walk out of my yoga class feeling like a new woman. I head to the corner Starbucks, and as I stand at the end of the line waiting for the barista to call “Olivia,” I pull out my phone. Two missed calls from Sam. No voice message, but there’s a text.

  Sam: Can I take you to lunch?

  I bite my lip and grin. I should spend the afternoon doing laundry, doing schoolwork, and getting ready for the week. But I can drop the laundry off at the wash and fold. And Monday, I don’t go into my internship, so I can use my time tomorrow to get caught up on reading assignments.

  Me: Yes.

  Sam: Do you have a bike?

  Me: Yes.

  My bike’s been in storage in the basement since before I left the country. I used to love riding through Central Park. Back when I worked at a midtown agency, I’d ride down Third Avenue to get to work. On a hot summer day, a bike was always preferable to standing on a stifling subway platform drenched in sweat. It’s been a long time since I checked on my bike, and I hope the tires haven’t rotted.

  Sam: Can you be ready by 11?

  I glance at my watch. That’s in twenty minutes. Well, I guess if we’re biking, then my hair back in a pony is fine. I hate how I look in a bike helmet, though. I’m most definitely not putting on my padded bike shorts. I consider my current outfit. Black, shape-enhancing Lululemon leggings and a loose fitting tank that hits at my waist. I’ll need a sweatshirt, but this will work.

  Me: Yep.

  Sam: Meet you in front of your building.

  Nerves and excitement have my insides turning over and over. It’s the kind of nervousness that makes me hate dating, or at least dating guys I like. Suddenly, I’m glad he’s being spontaneous, because I only have to deal with this borderline nauseating effect for a little while. It’s a date, nothing more. This doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like anything is riding on this. No big multimillion-dollar account win. Other people aren’t dependent on me. It’s a day on the weekend. We’re going to have fun, that’s all.

  I head down to my basement, unlock my bike, pump air into the tires, and then take it outside. He’s on the sidewalk with his bike. Five minutes early. It takes longer than fifteen minutes to get to the upper east side from Chelsea by bike. He must have been in this area when he texted.

  He’s wearing bike shorts and a loose old t-shirt. The t-shirt is a triathlon race shirt from years ago. He’s wearing bike shoes that snap into the pedals. One quick glance, and I’d guess he’s riding a bike that cost about as much as a car. I don’t really know my bikes, but I know my kind of bottom of the line Cannondale costs close to one thousand. I know from the guys in the bike shop that a person can spend a crazy amount of money, and glancing at his sleek bike, I’m guessing he easily spent over ten thousand dollars. Which means he’s probably got an indestructible lock in the backpack he’s wearing.

  He runs his hand through his hair and grins as I notice his helmet hanging from one of the handlebars. Both dimples are on full, panty-dropping display as I head over to where he’s standing.

  “Hey.” I feel like such a teenager as the butterflies twirl in my stomach.

  He softly brushes his lips against mine, sending my heart racing into overdrive, and an airy lightheadedness washes over me. “Hey.”

  He moves around uncomfortably for a moment as he backs away, and my eyes go to his crotch as he pulls on the fabric. I readjust my bike seat to give him a moment and to find something to look at other than his tented shorts. Inside, I’m doing a little dance and screaming he likes me!

  “If you’re up for it, I thoug
ht we could ride around the park. We have lunch reservations at the Boat House. Then maybe we could go to my place. Hang out.” He shifts on his feet and stares down at the concrete on the sidewalk. “Walk along the river before dinner.”

  I smile. “Sounds perfect.”

  He opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak then closes it. He repeats the process once or twice, and I tilt my head questioningly. He breathes out loudly. “I don’t want to be forward, but would you like to bring some clothes down? Maybe to change into after our ride or in case, you know, if you ended up staying over.”

  He almost whispers staying over, and I’m not positive I heard him correctly. Staying over on our second date feels a little too forward. Especially when he’s already told me he wants to take it slow. And he’s a publicized bachelor. He originally suggested we take it slow. No, I need to play this conservatively to earn his respect. I’d bet the Southern girls he grew up liking didn’t put out on the second date.

  I glance skyward. It’s a chilly, cloudy, fall day. The high is gonna be in the low sixties, but I could get sweaty if we race through the park. A change of clothes if I’m staying through dinner isn’t the worst idea. “I’ll run up and get a change of clothes in case we get a bit competitive on the bike ride, but I’m not staying over on our second date.”

  He smiles so big that both of his dimples pop. Yep, I made the right call. He holds on to my bike while I run upstairs and grab a change of clothes and a backpack.

  We take off, and once we’re settled into the smooth, car-free circle in the park, we find a nice, easy pace alongside each other, stealing glances as we pedal along the six-mile loop. The leaves are a myriad of color, yellows, reds, and oranges, and they stand out against the backdrop of a sallow, overcast sky. Leaves scatter over the pavement, the sidewalk, and all along the grass and the wooded areas of Central Park. The unmistakable woodsy smell of fall is in the air.

  He leads the way to the Boat House, and after we have locked our bikes, he sits down to change shoes. I’m just wearing running shoes, as I chose to have pedals that allow regular shoes since I used to take my bike to work sometimes. He has the fancy pedals that require bike shoes to latch onto.