{ 37 }

LILY CALLOWAY

We’re all back at the Princeton house, and I haven’t spoken to Rose in three days. She leaves the house early and returns late. And every time I call, her automated message clicks. Usually Rose answers on the second ring.

H&M and Macy’s dropped Calloway Couture from their stores, citing the “negative attention” as reason to pull the garments from the hangers and shelves. I apologized over text, and I caught her once in person to utter the words, but she patted me on the shoulder and said something about a meeting and hopped into her car.

She texted me this morning. I’m just busy, and I’m sorry I don’t have more time to talk. I don’t blame you. Keep your head up. – Rose

I’m not feeling very sprightly today, but the text helps ease the weight on my chest. My last test is today before finals start next week, and it marks the first time I’ll set foot on campus since the scandal. I shouldn’t go. I didn’t study or memorize the answers from old exams. I just plopped on the couch and watched reruns of Boy Meets World.

My limbs sag heavily, an anchor that tethers me to the bed, to the floor, to the couch. Morning, noon, and night. The urge to disappear, a superpower that I have always wanted, strikes me more often. Dr. Banning would tell me that I’m depressed, maybe even prescribe medication for me. But I haven’t spoken to her since my meeting with the lawyers.

I’m not allowed to see her. I have a new psychiatrist now. Dr. Oliver Evans. I’ll meet him next week.

The shower is my one solitude: a place where self-love exists, where the steam and my prickling nerves combust and ward off anxiety. The guilt accompanies the high. And IknowIknowIknow. I’m technically not allowed, but I’m monitoring how long I spend touching myself. This isn’t the same thing as porn. I can’t masturbate in public. I’ll never overdo it if I just restrict myself to self-love shower time.

And anyway, after last night’s attempt to have sex, Lo will probably steer clear of me for a good thousand years. It started fine. I was ridiculously excited to finally sleep with him after two weeks of abstinence. The hour sped, tricking my mind into believing we only fooled around for five whole minutes, not sixty. I needed more time.

He kept telling me no. And I even tried to spider him and ensnare him in my sex web, which (now that I think about it) couldn’t have been all that sexy. I turned into the compulsive sex-monster that we both feared. Then, something worse happened.

I burst into tears.

So not only did I whine for sex, but I cried when I didn’t get it. I’m ashamed to the point of reclusiveness. I never want to show my face, to anyone. I don’t blame Lo if he never wants to sleep in the same bed with me ever again.

I glance at the kitchen clock. Lo and Ryke can no longer run at the Penn track or jog down the block without being bombarded by paparazzi or nosy students. So they’ve resorted to sprinting around the land at our house in Princeton. At least it’s gated.

But they shouldn’t come inside for another ten minutes. My damp hair wets my shirt. I think I can squeeze in one more shower before they enter the house. I hop off the bar stool and race to the bathroom. I retrieve a small bag of tampons from a cabinet in the way way back. Stuffed in between all of them is a pouch with my waterproof mini-vibrator. I take it out and shove the bag back.

Shower or bathtub?

I hate that we don’t have a combo bathtub-shower scenario. This would be a lot easier then. Self-love standing up is not my favorite, and that’s what I’ve had to do in the shower.

The bathtub calls me. Bubbles. I can have bubbles too. But I only have…ten minutes. I think I can make it work. Bubbles have to be worth it.

Quickly, I turn the faucet, test the water for the perfect warmth, and squirt in bubble mix (of course) and toss in one of those pink soap balls (not really sure what they do). The water swishes into a pale pink hue, and I breathe in the flowery aroma, the scent pretty close to lilies.

So I call it a success.

I shed my clothes and sink into the water, gasping at the way the warmness skims my thighs and up to my breasts. I hold the vibrator in one hand, anticipation and glee filling me first. I close my eyes, lean back, and let my mind wander while my hand moves.

I focus on a particular memory, one with Lo during our sophomore year of college. We were roped into attending my parent’s holiday party back at their Villanova mansion. Since we planned on spending the night, we both decided to get drunk off the eggnog. My mother shooed us upstairs so we didn’t disrupt any of the other guests, and we locked ourselves in my room for the rest of the night.

Standing by the foot of the bed, he kissed my neck and lips with an intoxicating gaze, inhaling every part of me, a look that devoured my body in a single second. Even though we were alone, he didn’t stop.

I was aroused. He was drunk. And he gladly lent me his mouth, and I accepted (at first) because my mind was on a super rush. His lips pressed against my collarbone, tender and then deep, sucking. His fingers slid down my waist, lower and lower.

“Lo.” I let out a ragged breath and tried to hold onto his white button-down, trying to keep my body upright. But the world was dancing, and I wanted nothing more than to be swept up in it—preferably with a thrust and a high.

He retracted and held my cheeks, his amber eyes carrying a strong haze, but not enough for him to be completely gone to booze. He was still with me. Here. For now.

I was sure I resembled the sloppy drunk between the two of us.

“Lily.” His lips lifted into a crooked grin. “How do you feel?”

“Wobbly,” I admitted. “And horny.” The alcohol repressed any embarrassment because I added, “Really horny, actually.” But I couldn’t find a one-night stand at my parent’s intimate party. Besides the fact that most were in their fifties, the few young people knew my family too well. I was not in the market to scatter rumors that I cheated on Loren Hale. We were still pretending to be a couple, after all.

He kept smiling. “Is that how you get guys hard? Blunt honesty?”

My eyes immediately fell to his groin. “It doesn’t seem to be working on you,” I countered. I slipped out of his arms and found his stowaway of Macallan in my desk drawer. I uncapped it and took a quick swig. His face darkened, and he yanked the bottle away from me. He put the rim to his lips and drank a large gulp, his throat bobbing three times.

He set the bottle back on the desk. “You’re always horny. I’d have an eternal hard-on if that’s all it took.”

My mind started to wander to sinful places, thinking about what exactly would get Loren Hale off. But this was Lo. My best friend. A relationship I couldn’t devalue with a quick lay. We’ve crossed lines a few times before, but I was determined to never jump over the ultimate line—the one that ends with him inside of me, with the highest, brightest climax.

“I usually don’t say things,” I admitted. “I just do things.”

He gave me a bitter smile. “I bet you give a spectacular blow job.”

I was about to offer one, but I remembered who he was and my throat went dry again. I held out my hand for the Macallan. “Hit me,” I said.

He laughed as he pressed the bottle to his lips again. “Cute.” He took another long sip. He was always so territorial over his booze.

I stomped back over to the drawer and fished out an airplane bottle of vodka.

He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t have anything to chase that with, big shot.”

I shrugged, screwed off the cap, and tossed the liquor back in my throat.

“Hey!” he shouted and rushed to my side just as the liquid burned its way down my esophagus. I coughed roughly. I’m on fucking fire, I thought. He snatched the bottle away from me but eighty percent was already invading my stomach.

My nose crinkled in disgust. “Why do you do that?” I asked. I’ve seen him drink straight liquor. I rub my hand on my tongue, trying to rid the taste. Ugh.

He just laughed and let me complain for a few minutes, and then the alcohol slowly began to warp my mind, turning my lustful thoughts on overdrive. I craved touch. For hands to slide up and down my legs and thighs.

I plopped on the edge of the bed, my eyes drifting over Lo, falling to his ass as he stared out the window, mesmerized by the twinkling Christmas lights and the flutter of snow.

I wanted sex.

I wanted to feel as good as he was feeling. Alcohol made him relaxed, at ease, and I yearned for that type of temperate peace.

“Lo,” I breathed. “Are we still pretending?”

His eyes met mine. “I’ll be sleeping in your room tonight because we’re supposed to be dating. So…yes.”

“Can I do something?” My eyelids felt heavy from the liquor, and hopefully my voice was not so slurred.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Sure,” he said. “I can wait in your father’s study. I don’t think there’s anyone there.”

He moved towards the door, about to give me privacy for self-love. But that’s not what I wanted. “Wait,” I called out, my heart beating rapidly. His feet halted in the middle of the floor, and he spun around, facing me with the tilt of his head.

“You can stay,” I told him. “Right there. Just…stay right there.”

I slid underneath the covers and tried to avoid his gaze as I fumbled with my dress. I pulled the fabric over my head and threw it to the floor—along with my panties. I had enough sense to keep my strapless bra on at least. Not that it was covering much.

Now situated, I looked back at him. An amused expression danced across his face. “How drunk are you?” he asked.

Truthfully, I hoped I wouldn’t remember doing this in the morning. That didn’t end up happening though. “Enough,” I said. Enough to touch myself in front of you.

He licked his bottom lip and held up the bottle to his mouth. He waited to see if I’d go through with it. My fingers dipped between my legs, finding the soft, wet spot that ached for touch. My breath deepened as soon as my fingers pulsed along my clit, and I basked in the way it lit up my core.

I stared longingly at his pants, imagining his cock that I never really saw during our college years. I never wanted his penis to spike my temptations, so I avoided eye contact with it most days. But that night, I didn’t care about any of that. Sex was on my mind, and it wanted something more.

His fingers traveled to the button on his pants, and my breath hitched as he pushed it slowly through the hole.

I looked at him questioningly. What was he doing?

“If you want to watch me while you get yourself off,” he said, “you might as well do it the right way, love.” He tugged down his pants to his ankles and slowly stepped out of them. My mouth hung open, and I stopped moving my own fingers in shock.

He was hard.

Not completely, but definitely more firm than before. His tight black boxer-briefs exposed every muscle and curve and of course the bulge that I fixated on.

“Keep going,” he urged.

My fingers reignited at his words, and I moved them faster, my hips writhing and pumping in animation. His cock slowly grew. I was beckoning it to me, like I had become a little snake charmer. I loved that control…that power.

I stole a glance and caught Lo drinking in my features, the way my lips parted and my eyes fluttered back. But when we locked gazes, I dropped my focus, his hand disappearing below the hem of his boxer-briefs.

A moan caught in my throat as I watched him rub himself beneath the fabric. I couldn’t see his cock, not really, but that felt even sexier. More sinful and wrong and just about right.

 His heavy breath became deep and rough, as ragged and wanting as mine. “Lily,” he groaned. My climax arrived in that idyllic rush, in a tidal wave that blew me over in staggered successions. My body shook and my toes curled, my high blistering me from the inside out. Lo grunted, his breath sharp, and he came right along with me.

The usual shame was absolved by the booze and the reminder that we hadn’t broken any rules. I convinced myself that he’s probably heard me come in the next room thousands of times. Seeing the act couldn’t have been much different. And I had never done something like this with any other guy before.