The Thrill of It(19)

“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 arms, the marks of his three dead baby brothers permanently inked on his beautiful body.





Chapter Eleven





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 trenchcoats and leather.

I can’t be like Layla all the time, at least not the Layla I was last night with Cam.

I want to be the person I am with Trey. I want to be that girl. Real and true and honest and scared.

I pull my hair into a tight ponytail and apply only the barest of makeup — gloss and a dab of blush.

But 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.

So I go through the motions.

I linger over the powder, eyeshadow and mascara in my makeup bag, wanting — longing — to put on a perfect face. I pantomime the moves. Foundation dotted on the chin, the cheeks, under the eyes, then the forehead. Makeup brush spreads the foundation smoothly, then the makeup wedge to spread the powder. Blush next brushed onto the cheekbones, then eyeshadow, three to four applications so the eyes stand out. Then eyeliner on the lids. Mascara next, a full five minutes to achieve the right length, the right fullness above and below. Five minutes to make the eyes pop.

Mascara is the most essential of the five makeup vitamins — foundation, blush, eyeshadow, lipstick and mascara. Mascara is the hardest to apply, takes the longest, but reaps the most rewards. It’s the difference between a finished look and one that says I just don’t care.

I care. I care deeply. Painfully.

Too much.

I close my eyes, grit my teeth, hold the pink tube tightly in my fist and then let it go. It drops to the bottom of my makeup bag with a dull clank as it hits the powder case.

I zip the bag shut. I look myself over in the mirror. My face looks naked. It’s jarring and I feel jumpy, jittery. 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 want to cover myself up. I want to hide my new self. I want to slather my face with makeup.

I also 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.

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 for 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, ever so gently 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.





Memoirs of a Teenage Sex Addict…

Page 198…

Most of the time I was requested to wear my school girl 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 this – 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.


Trey

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

Better. Now I’m not so parched. 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 no one’s in there. 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 shrug. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll buy them both a pack of new toothbrushes as a gift. Yeah, I’m classy like that.

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 walks 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, find my boots, tug them on, lace 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 her. But she’s nowhere to be seen, and she didn’t leave a note.

I sling my backpack on 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, she nearly bumps into me and grabs my arm to steady herself.