“We drove all the goddamn way to goddamn Boston, only to realize I left my goddamn wallet at home. So we had to get back in the truck and drive all the way home, and now—”
Logan skids to a stop, cartoon-character style. I’m surprised his head doesn’t spin and his eyeballs don’t bug out.
“Um.” His gaze bounces around the bathroom like a rubber ball.
He looks at the towel rack, where his cargo pants are hanging.
He looks at the bathtub, where I’m lounging like Cleo-fucking-patra.
He looks at the bubbles surrounding my body like a fluffy white cloud.
And then he looks at Winston.
“Dude,” I blurt out. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Nope, nope, nope, I don’t want to know!” Logan throws his hands in the air and starts backing toward the door as if he accidentally walked into a lion’s den. He halts. Snatches his pants off the rack. Continues backing away. His eyes once again focus on the pink dildo two inches from my hand.
I try again. “I promise you, it’s not—”
“I don’t want to know.”
He lunges out the door and slams it shut. I hear his footsteps thump toward the stairs. Then they thump back to the bathroom.
“Hey, listen, I’m gonna stay with Gracie tonight. That way you can…uh…finish up whatever it is you’re…uh…doing.”
Fucking hell.
I wait until I hear the front door shut before I address Allie. “You hid behind the door? Really?”
She steps forward sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”
“You can shove your sorries in a sack, baby doll. You realize what you’ve done, right?” I glare at her. “You’ve officially allowed my best friend to believe I like to shove dildos up my ass.”
“Aw, that’s not true. If anything, Logan is enlightened now. We opened his mind to the delightful possibilities of anal play.”
“Get in here,” I order.
Allie quickly lowers herself in the water and kneels in front of me. “I am sorry, you know. I probably should’ve told him I was in here.” She tucks a strand of wet hair behind her ear. “I just…I like the idea of keeping this a secret. You know what will happen if everyone finds out we’re screwing around. They’ll get all up in our business and turn this fling into something bigger than it is.”
She’s right. That’s the nature of the social beast, and I was trying to avoid the same thing. But goddamn it, Logan is never going to let me live this down. Taking a bubble bath with a pink dildo? Allie has doomed me to a fate as the punchline of a never-ending joke.
“Let me make it up to you,” she begs. “I’m sure we can find some way to get Logan off your mind…” Her soapy fingers encircle my cock, which rapidly hardens in her hand. “See? You’re already forgetting.”
I groan when she gives me a firm stroke. “Nope, I’m still mad at you.”
“What’ll it take for you to be un-mad at me?”
“Your mouth, for starters.”
She considers it, her gaze tracking the motion of her own hand beneath the water. “Normally I’d say yes, but I don’t think I can hold my breath for that long. And I’m pretty sure I’ll drown if I try to suck you off with my head underwater.”
Chuckling, I rise to my feet and brace one palm on the tiled wall. Suds slide down my chest and cling to my wet skin. “How about now?”
“This I can work with.” She scoots closer so her face is a scant inch from my jutting erection. Then she licks her lips, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
No. Correction—watching her wrap those lips around me is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
She sucks gently, her tongue curling around my tip as if she’s sampling a delicious treat. Her soft moan hums through my body, triggering a jolt of pleasure.
I reach down and trace my finger along the perfect O formed by her lips as they stretch tight around me. “You have no idea how gorgeous you look right now.”
Her blue eyes lock with mine. I shudder when her mouth welcomes me in, hot and wet and eager. With each slow suck, she takes me in deeper and deeper, until I’m damn near poking the back of her throat. Jesus. I want to pump into her mouth, hard, but I know if I increase the tempo, I’ll shoot way too fast.
“You…” Her breath tickles my engorged tip “are so…” She licks the underside, and I tremble with need “…suckable.”
A laugh wheezes out. “And what makes me ‘suckable’?”
“This.” She squeezes my shaft. “This gorgeous dick. Big, but not too big.” Her fingers wrap around me again. “Thick, but not too thick. It’s perfect.”
“Is there such a thing as too anything when we’re talking dicks?”
Laughing huskily, she swallows me up again, and I no longer remember what we’re talking about, because Allie Hayes is too damn good at giving head.
She cups my sac as she works me with her mouth, licking and swirling and basically driving me out of my goddamn mind. Every square inch of skin starts to buzz. The growing pleasure makes my knees wobble.
Keeping one hand on the wall, I thread the other through Allie’s damp hair until my palm is cupping her scalp. “You gonna let me come in your mouth, baby?”
She hasn’t yet. The last blowjob she gave me ended with her jacking me through the climax. But I’ve been dying to shoot in her mouth, feel her throat working to swallow every drop.
Allie peers up seductively. My balls go tight to my body, heavy with need. When she gives a slight nod, I’m a goner. The release sears into my body and spurts out of my cock. A hoarse groan breaks free as she sucks me dry.
It takes almost a full minute to recover. Once my breathing steadies and my vision clears, I drop into the water again, nudging her backward. Allie squeaks when I lift her up on the small porcelain ledge. It’s about a foot and a half wide, offering plenty of room for her to sit.
“My turn,” I mutter.
Her eyes smolder as I part her legs and stroke her inner thighs. The skin there is baby-soft, silky beneath my fingers. I’m about to lower my head and feast when I remember something.
With a wicked grin, I slide backward in the tub and reach for Winston.
Allie’s breath hitches.
“Let’s see if Winston gets you off as good as Little Dean, shall we?” I drag the tip of the sex toy over her clit, chuckling when she widens her legs even further apart. I love her shamelessness, how she’s up for anything and completely unapologetic about it. Just like me.
I tease her for a while, gliding the toy up and down her slit until she’s bumping her hips forward, visibly agitated. Aroused. Then I spread her apart with my fingers and ease the head of the pink toy toward her opening.
We both watch as I feed it inside her. I was trying to go slow, but she’s so wet that the toy’s entire length slips in without resistance. I draw it out, leaving only the tip there, then plunge it in again.
Allie moans.
I do too, because yet again I’ve been proven wrong. Watching the dildo tunnel in and out of her? That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
“How do you feel?” I murmur.
“Full,” she murmurs back.
With the toy still wedged inside her, I bend down and press my tongue to her clit. I lick it softly and start moving my hand, the lazy drag of my tongue matching the lazy thrust of the toy. Allie clutches my hair and squirms on the ledge. The movement of her legs splashes water in my face. I don’t care. I capture her clit between my lips and suckle it, while Winston continues to do his job down south.
The noises escaping her throat get breathier, faster. I suck harder and shift the toy so it’s hitting her at an angle, and that gets me a delighted, “Oh my God.”
I smile against her hot flesh as she convulses. I love making this girl come. She always reacts like she’s just received an unexpected gift, like she truly didn’t expect this big shiny present but hoo boy she’s more than happy to tear open the wrapping.
Her body sags on a blissful cry, and then her eyelids flutter open. “I love Winston.”
I gently pull out the toy. But I’m not gentle in the way I scowl at her. “You know he’s not real, right?”
“Trust me, let me put him inside you just one time and I bet you’ll be singing a different tune.”
We drip water all over the bath mat and tiles as we get out of the tub. When I bend over to drain it, Allie smacks my butt and says, “Stop tempting Winston.”
I snicker, then turn around to grab her a towel.
In my room, Allie sets the toy on my dresser and starts to dry off. “I really am sorry, by the way.” She sighs. “Logan is going to torture you about what he saw, huh?”
“Big-time.” When guilt floods her expression, I sigh too. “Don’t worry, it’s fine. I’ll tell him someone was hiding behind the door because she was embarrassed.”
Allie looks alarmed.
“I won’t say it was you.”
My reassurance has the opposite effect. Her eyes darken with displeasure. “So you’re going to tell him you had a random girl over?”
“Would you rather I said it was you?”
“No. But…” She bites her lip and says nothing.
I’ve been with a lot of women. I know women. And when they clam up like this? They’re not just working one thought over in their brains. Nope, they’re constructing a complicated web of scenarios and what ifs, each thread layering over another, thickening and twisting until suddenly they’re mad about something that never even occurred to you.
I stifle another sigh. “Spit it out, Allie-Cat.”
“Are you sleeping with anyone else?”
That catches me off guard. “No. Of course not.” Once again, the reassurance falls on deaf ears. She’s even warier now. “I’m not,” I say firmly.
She studies my face as if she’s playing Where’s Waldo, except she’s hunting for a lie instead of a weirdo in a hat. Then she lets out a breath. “We probably should’ve had this conversation before we had sex again. The whole are we or aren’t we exclusive.”
I suppose she’s right, though it’s not a discussion I have often. Everyone I hook up with already knows it’s not exclusive. On both sides, because it’s not like they’re staying true to me either. I fucked a cute sophomore a few months ago who openly admitted she’d just come from a date with someone else.
With Allie, I just assumed it was exclusive. I wouldn’t dream of playing games with Wellsy’s best friend.
“We’re exclusive,” I tell her.
“You seriously haven’t been with anyone else?” She doesn’t even try to hide her surprise, and I don’t know if I should be insulted.
“Not since the first time you and I were together.”
She nods. “And you’re cool with that?”
“Are you?”
Another nod. “I want it to be exclusive. I mean, I understand that this is a fling, but I don’t feel comfortable with the idea of you sleeping with anyone else. Same goes for me—I won’t do it either.”
“Okay,” I say easily.
Allie remains unconvinced. “You’re being too agreeable about this.”
“Would you prefer I throw a tantrum and demand to fuck other people?”
“No, but…” And there she goes, biting her bottom lip again. “You’re saying you’re perfectly content to just be with me for as long as this lasts? What if I get busy again like I was these past couple days? You won’t go out and jiggle down with someone else?”
I was good with this talk up until this point. Now I’m annoyed. “What, you don’t think I can keep my pants zipped for a couple measly days?”
“We didn’t see each other for three days, Dean, and you wouldn’t stop whining about how hard up you’ve been.”
“Just because I like having sex on the reg doesn’t mean I’m crawling the bars every second of the day looking to get my nut off.”
“Okay. Sorry,” she says ruefully. “But I had to ask.” She fidgets with the bottom of her towel. “Look…do me a favor, all right? If someone hits on you when you’re out and you’re dying to sleep with them, or if you just feel like, um, taking another lover…will you shoot me a text saying ‘fling over’ or something?”
“I will,” I promise her.
But honestly, I don’t envision that ever happening. I haven’t thought about anyone else since Allie bulldozed her way into my bed that first night. Which is disconcerting. I figured that if we hooked up enough times, I’d eventually get her out of my system, but this girl turns me on something fierce. Even now, in the midst of an awkward conversation about ‘taking other lovers’, my body is primed for a second round.
I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever get her out of my system.
*
Allie
I went on my first casting call when I was twelve. I was super pumped about it, and although I didn’t get the part, I still had a blast reading for the casting director, who was the loveliest woman I’d ever met. She gave me valuable feedback I still remember to this day and advised me to keep at it because she saw “something” in me.
It wasn’t too long after that when I realized the audition process isn’t always kittens and rainbows. Doesn’t matter if you’re reading for commercial gigs or day player jobs or juicier roles—you’re bound to face this particular hurdle at least once: the difficult acting partner.
Yep, there’s one of those at every audition. The person who tries to sabotage you even though you’re reading for different parts. Or out-act you because they need to look better. Or behave like an unprofessional ass and forget all their lines, making you look bad in the process. Or sometimes they’re just jerks, and you’d rather boil every inch of skin off than be in the same room as them, let alone read a scene together.
I’ve encountered all types of scene partners over the years, and the best advice I ever got about how to handle it came from Jack Emery, the acting coach at the drama camp where I volunteered.
He told me to use the negative energy.
You can’t control how the other actor is going to behave. You can’t force them to remember their lines, or force yourself to make nice with someone who, frankly, doesn’t deserve the energy it takes for you to fake a smile. Jack instructed me to take that negative energy and channel it into my own performance. Sure, the advice doesn’t necessarily apply when you’re reading for a cereal commercial and you’re supposed to be happy-go-lucky, all smiles as you shovel sugar into your mouth.
But it absolutely helps if your characters have a combative relationship. In that case, it’s easy to use the anger or irritation or just plain hatred and bring it to the performance.
Which is what I’m desperately trying to do at Thursday night’s rehearsal with the senior who’s playing my sister.
I’ve had classes with Mallory Richardson in the past, but this is the first time we’ve acted together on stage. Last week, we had our scripts on hand because it was the start of rehearsals.
This week, our student director wants us to perform sans script. Not the whole play, but a couple of script-free scenes to jumpstart the memorization process. I’m fine with that, because I’ve memorized half the play already.
Mallory? She can hardly string together a full sentence.
“Face it, Jeannette, you’re weak,” Mallory says flatly. “Why do you think Bobby left? Because he couldn’t—” She stops. “Line,” she calls to the front row, where our director and two student producers are seated.
There’s no mistaking Steven’s frustration. I don’t blame him. This past hour, I’ve heard Mallory shout “Line!” so many times that the word has lost all meaning.
“‘He couldn’t stomach your sniveling,’” Steven supplies, his baritone voice carrying through the cavernous room. “‘You’re pathetic. You—’”
Mallory interrupts. “Thanks, I know the rest. I tripped up on the sniveling part.”
Steven signals for us to start again.
“Face it, Jeannette, you’re weak. Why do you think Bobby left? Because he couldn’t stomach your sniveling. You’re pathetic. You fall apart… line!”
I resist the urge to lunge across the stage and tackle her to the ground. Maybe scream the words into her ear at top volume so they sink into her lazy brain.
Steven rattles off the next line.
We start again.
“I’m tired of being the one who has to hold your hand and wipe your tears and—”
“Bobby is dead!” I roar, staggering toward her. “If I want to cry about it, I’m damn well allowed to! And nobody asked you to hold my hand. I didn’t ask you to come here, Caroline.”
“I’m here because…”
I wait for it.
“Line!”
And on and on it goes.
Line.
Line.
Line.
We have the auditorium until ten-thirty, which leaves us another hour to rehearse. Normally Steven makes use of every available second. Tonight, he’s clearly had enough. He stands up and announces that rehearsal is over.
I’m surprised it took him this long.
“We’ll regroup tomorrow,” he says. “We’ve got the space from noon til three, so we can cover a lot more ground then. Read over the scenes a few more times, Mal. You really need to nail down your lines.”
“I’m so sorry, Steve,” Mallory moans. At least she has the decency to look embarrassed. “I didn’t get a chance to study the scene last night. I was preparing a monologue for Nigel’s class.” She sighs loudly. “I’m swamped right now.”
Welcome to college, I want to say, because come on, does she think she’s the only one with a heavy workload?
I’m taking a screenwriting course that requires me to write two scenes a week. My film theory prof assigns so many readings my eyes are starting to cross. For my audition workshop, we’re expected to prepare monologues every week; the seminar is designed to help student actors get comfortable and build confidence for the audition process, but apparently it’s too “easy” to let us use existing material to fake-audition with.
Needless to say, I’m equally swamped, but you don’t see me making excuses. Nope, I still find time to memorize a few measly pages of dialogue.
I’m happy that rehearsal is over, though. I’m too close to throttling Mallory, who doesn’t even say goodbye as she leaves the stage.
“We’ll do better tomorrow,” I assure Steven. I feel awful that we let him down today, because I know how serious he is about directing.
The first time we met, I teased him that he should be in front of the camera and not behind it. Seriously, the guy is gorgeous. Dark-chocolate skin, flawless features, mesmerizing eyes. He reminds me of Idris Elba minus the sexy British accent. But Steven isn’t interested in being an actor. He once told me that his goal is to win a Best Director Oscar by the time he’s forty.
“You’re not the one who needs to get better,” Steven replies. “You’re doing a terrific job.”
I tuck the compliment in my proverbial back pocket and exit the stage through the wings, digging into my bag as I walk. I find my phone, and my heart flips when I see a missed call from Ira. I’d called him last night for an update about the Cavanaugh play that I’m dying to audition for. I’m not certain it’s even happening or if it was just a rumor buzzing around Broadway, so I asked Ira to look into it.
I check the time. It’s nine-thirty, so that means six-thirty on the west coast. I know he’s still in LA because he texted earlier that he was “doing lunch” with the producer of the Fox pilot. I don’t know if I’m happy or disappointed that the producers let me send in a screen test. Luckily, I probably won’t hear back from them any time soon, since they aren’t officially casting until February.
“Hey, Ira,” I say when he picks up. “It’s Allie. I wanted to check if you had any news about the Brett Cavanaugh play.”
“Actually, I do.”
Then why didn’t you call me?
“The production process has definitely started. I know one of the producers, so I reached out to her.” He pauses. “It’s not good news.”
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. “Oh. What did she say?”
“It’s an all-male cast. Bold move, huh?”
Very bold. Not to mention devastating. I suddenly find myself desperately wishing for a penis.
“Unfortunately, that means there isn’t a role in it for you—” No kidding. I’m penis-less! “But I told Nancy you’re interested in working with Brett again. She promised to pass that along, so who knows? Maybe he’ll give you a ring when he has something else brewing.”
That cheers me up. A little. I’m still mega-bummed by the news.
I send Dean a message on my way out of the building.
Me: Such a crappy day! Might vent to u later. How was the game?
He doesn’t message back. Granted, it’s only been three seconds, but he’s usually pretty quick to reply.
Five minutes into my walk to Bristol House, and there’s still no answer. His game would be over by now. Hannah said it started at six. It’s nearly ten.
Five more minutes pass. I’m almost at the dorm. Why isn’t he answering?
It’s been ten minutes, crazy pants. Relax.
Instead of relaxing, I grow even more distressed because something troubling has just dawned on me.
I didn’t contact Dean because I wanted sex.
I wanted to vent about my day.
Oh shit. Hannah is absolutely right—the word “casual” doesn’t exist in my vocabulary. I had a crappy rehearsal, and my first instinct was to reach out to the guy I’m sleeping with and tell him all about it. Have him listen to me and comfort me and tell me it’s all going to be okay.
Repeat after yourself, Allison Jane. He. Is. Not. Your. Boyfriend.
“He is not my boyfriend,” I say firmly.
“What?” A tall guy in a parka slows his gait and glances over at me.
I jerk in surprise. “Oh, I wasn’t talking to you.”
His gaze rests on my ear, and I realize he’s searching for a Bluetooth. When he doesn’t find one, he gives me a strange look and keeps walking.
“Talking to yourself doesn’t make you a crazy person,” I call out after him. Well, unless you’re the homeless guy I used to see around Brooklyn, who would scream about government conspiracies and how aliens are stealing our brain cells via our phones.
Then again, who’s to say Lou isn’t perfectly sane? Maybe aliens are doing that. I can’t prove otherwise.
I trudge the rest of the way home and let myself into the darkened suite. Hannah isn’t home yet. I know she went to the hockey game tonight, so I give her a call to find out what she’s up to now.
“Hey!” Wherever she is, it’s loud. I hear a cacophony of voices in the background, and a pounding bass line that thuds in my ear. “I’m at the bar. You want to join us?”
I put on a casual voice. “Who’s there? Garrett and the guys?” And Dean?
I stop myself before the question pops out. Damn it, I’m acting like a girlfriend again. An incredibly nauseating girlfriend to boot, the kind who checks up on her man when he isn’t with her.
“Yup. Most of the team is here. We won tonight, so everyone’s celebrating.” Another wave of music swells over the line. “Garrett keeps trying to challenge me to a shot contest.”
“What are the others up to?” I ask with feigned nonchalance. “Logan…Tuck…Dean…?”
I hate myself right now. I really, really do.
“Tuck isn’t here. Logan’s playing pool. And some girl is trying to eat Dean’s face off.”
My entire body goes cold.
Um…excuse me?
“Anyway, I can barely hear you,” Hannah says. “Text me if you’re coming.”
My hand trembles as I put down the phone. Dean is at the bar making out with someone else?
Two days after we talked about being exclusive?
Oh hell no.
