Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! (12 page)

Because I need one, ASAP.

"Come on, I'll show you," Patrick says, slipping his hand under my coat to lay his palm fully against the small of my back. I focus on the warmth of his skin as he guides me through the crowd. "We have cocktails or Jell-O shots, pick your poison."

I look at the fully stocked bar with mixes and liquors of all kinds. And then my eyes drift down to the half-empty tray on the table. I grab two and hand one to Patrick.

"Happy Halloween," I toast.

And then we both slurp, downing the Jell-O in one easy move. And all I can think is, oh man these are dangerous. Sugary and sweet, I barely notice the alcohol except for a bitter aftertaste. Patrick takes two more from the tray.

Oh, what the heck!

"Happy Halloween," he whispers after, leaning down to kiss me. And right when I think he's going to pull away, he deepens the kiss instead, arching my back. My hands grip his bare shoulders for balance, and I can’t say I mind the feel of his smooth, warm skin or the firm muscles beneath it.

"Get a room!" someone calls and I pull away.

Bridget winks at us and I grin, knowing the catcall came from her. And that's pretty much where the party really begins. Bridget wants to do a Jell-O shot. And then Ollie and Aubrey join us, and they want one too. And then we all decide to test out the bar. The boat leaves the harbor and the gentle rock shifts people this way and that, so we all dance to counteract the motion. The music blares against the night and ever so often when I look out the clear plastic canvases zipped all around the deck, flashes of the Manhattan skyline poke through to remind me that this isn't a dream, it's the real world. So, yes, this is all really happening to me.

Patrick's hands barely leave my hips as we sway back and forth, bodies pressed tight. Even when we're just talking to people, when he's introducing me to friends, he's touching me. A hand on my back. Fingers interlaced through mine. An arm around my shoulder. And it's nice to be so wanted, to be joined with another person in that way. I don't miss my ex John, but I do miss this—that feeling of being connected to another person, of being a
we
instead of a
me
, and somehow Patrick and I have slipped into the role during the course of the evening.

I even get used to Aubrey. I don't get used to the pangs of jealousy that pinch my gut when I happen to glance over and see Ollie's hands wrapped around her, when I see her smile after he whispered something softly into her ear. But I don’t think I'll ever get used to that, from anyone. And she's nice enough, a good sport. As soon as the other guys find out she's a Rockette, they demand a performance and she's tossed into the middle of a dance circle to do high kicks and splits. Blythe scowls from the corner, surrounded by a group of girls I don’t know. Bridge and I joke that we need to wipe the drool off the floor before someone slips and hurts themselves. But when I look at Ollie to gauge his reaction, I notice that he's not even watching. His eyes are drawn out the window, toward something I can't see.

And then everything changes.

Everything shifts.

Out of nowhere, a karaoke machine almost magically appears. Patrick is whisked away by his friends, ordered to don his headdress, and the Village People put on a show. I'll admit, when they start belting out "Macho Man" while simultaneously flexing their muscles, I get a little breathless. Who wouldn't? Even Bridge grows silent by my side.

But then Patrick's friend Dan, the leader for the night, starts pulling people up from the crowd. A couple dressed as Sunny and Cher. A girl who came as Britney during her "I'm a Slave for You" years. And I don't see it coming, I really don't, when suddenly a hand grabs my arm, yanking me toward the makeshift stage in the corner of the room.

"What? No!" I protest.

And in the confusion the buzz of alcohol has caused in my brain, it takes a second for me to process that the fingers wrapped around my wrist belong to Blythe. And even longer to realize that this could only be something bad. But by then it's too late. And I know what I'll see before my eyes fully focus.

Ollie.

Or not Ollie—Danny. Danny Zuko. As in, Sandy and Danny, up on stage for a duet.

Stupid karaoke.

"Oh no," I say, turning around to flee.

But the crowd has become an impenetrable wall and no one will let me through. They sense my weakness and they pounce. Someone says it once, and then all of a sudden everyone on the yacht is chanting, "Grease! Grease! Grease!"

And I'm stuck. Trapped without an escape. Just like I knew at some point tonight I would be.

Ollie places his hand on my elbow, tugging gently, offering up a comforting smile before handing me the second microphone. The opening strains of the song begin. And suddenly I feel like a shy girl playing a character. I am Sandy—all dressed up with no clue what to do and an entire crowd of people watching.

I'm having an out-of-body experience. Ollie starts to sing, shrugging off his leather coat in a mini striptease and tossing it into the crowd. He screeches that I'm electrifying and then falls face first to the floor as my victim. And I know it's my turn next, but I have no idea what to do.

I turn. Searching for a solution, a clue.

Bridget's there, just like the girls in the movie, placing a fake cigarette in her mouth, dropping it to the floor, instructing me on my next move. And I do it. Then I put a foot on Ollie's chest, pushing him up, and his smoldering teal eyes land on mine. A shock travels through my system, a bolt of lightning igniting my every nerve on fire.

After that, the words come easily.

Because he is the one that I want. And right now, I have him.

I don't think we break eye contact for the entire song. We both know the lyrics by heart. At one point he grips my hipbone, twirling me around, moving my body in steps to match his, as though we're one person. I'm laughing for no reason, caught up in the moment and in the heat of his gaze.

Then it all ends.

As slow as a sunset, yet as sudden as a car crash.

The music dies out and we're face to face, inches apart, breathing heavily, unsure who is going to pull away first. I don't see the other people. I forget the rocking of the boat. All I see is Ollie. Time stretches, slows, so the second passes in what feels like an hour.

And then sudden. Snap. The moment races forward, faster than the speed of light. Ollie turns. Looks away first, bowing to the applause. The boat rocks and I stumble. But he's already walked away, stepped off the stage. And I'm falling, with no one there to catch me.

I've never been to the hospital. Well, I guess except when I was born. But that doesn't really count, right? I've never had any broken bones or emergencies or anything. Or, at least I hadn’t. Because, well, crap—there goes my perfect record.

When I say falling, I mean literally, falling.

But my mind is so caught up with the Jell-O shots and that other more figurative falling, that the ground catches me before I catch myself. And by catches me, I mean rams into me like a freight train at full speed.

As soon as I can breathe again, I scream, and I mean scream, at the top of my lungs, in one long extended sound, a word I haven't said in years. Because it's vulgar, and I don't like it, and because too many yearly viewings of
A Christmas Story
have drilled the lesson home after so long. But I can't help it, it just pops out—a foghorn cutting through the party, reverberating around the walls of the yacht, echoing in my ears again and again.

"Fuck!"

And screw it, I mean it.

But then I stop.

Pause.

My mind catches up to the pain, and I realize I just fell in front of the entire party. And not like a graceful tumble, but a full-on faceplant, a total wipeout. And I'm still lying on the ground in a heap of confused limbs. My butt is definitely straight up in the air.

Crap.

Nobody saw that, right?

I close my eyes, and all I hear is silence. No music. No conversation. Heck, no laughter even. There's only crickets and the slap of the wind against the side of the boat. Well, the crickets might be in my head, but they may as well be real. Slowly, I turn my head to the side, wincing as my forehead scratches against the wooden floor of the boat.

Eyes.

A hundred eyes all on me. At this point there aren’t even bodies connected to them, they're just enormous bulbous pupils staring at me, judging me, illuminated with contained laughter and a shade of pity.

I scramble to sit up.

"Ow. Ow. Ow," I murmur over and over, clutching my wrist to my chest, smiling and cringing at the same time, trying to play it cool. My entire body screams at me to stay still, but the embarrassment burning my chest is stronger, and it's all I can do not to run from the room. The crowd divides, letting me pass easily, and somewhere in the middle, I finally find familiar faces.

"Are you okay?" Bridget whispers, stepping next to me, wrapping an arm around my waist.

"Mentally? No… Physically? Yeah, still no." I sigh.

Patrick appears out of nowhere, putting a hand on my arm. "Skylar, are you hurt? That was, uh, quite the fall."

We finally make it to one of the smaller living areas on the yacht, a place that is gloriously empty. I collapse on the couch, still cradling my limp wrist. "My hand is on fire."

Patrick looks down, wincing. "Do you think you broke it? It's starting to swell."

"Oh, good god," I murmur, letting my head fall against the back of the seat. Only I could break my wrist during karaoke. Let me just repeat that for emphasis…karaoke! I mean, karaoke night is my grandmother's favorite event at her nursing home—she even ditches her wheelchair to perform and has a dance routine. I've seen it! But I can't get through one measly song. What is wrong with me?

A high-pitched snicker makes its way to my ear.

I drop my head to the side, meeting Bridget's eyes. Her mirthful eyes. Great. She's laughing at me. My best friend is laughing at my shame. Then again, if the roles were reversed, I'd probably already be rolling around the floor, so I can't really judge.

"I'm sorry, Skye," she says, and then stops because now that she opened her mouth, a stream of uncontrollable giggles has filtered through.

I glance at Patrick, and Bridge has set him off too.

And now they're both cracking.

I turn my gaze back up to the ceiling, rolling my eyes. "Really, guys? I'm in serious pain here."

Patrick stands, shaking his head and sighing. "I'll go find you some ice and see how far away from port we are."

As soon as he's gone, I turn back to Bridge. "How bad was it?"

She bites her bottom lip, raising her eyebrows.

Crap. That bad?

"I'm a hazard to myself," I murmur.

"No," she says and then drops her head on my shoulder. "You had some drinks, you're on a boat, and you slipped. Grace has never been one of your strong points."

"Gee, thanks," I say wryly.

Bridget just raises her eyebrows even higher.

"Okay, okay, you're right. How's that little thing called empathy working for you?" But I'm grinning too.

"Great," she chimes.

Patrick strolls back in bearing gifts—a bag of ice and some chocolates. Have I told you he's prince charming yet? I've mentioned it, right? Because I don't think he's ever looked so good, Halloween costume and all.

I greedily steal the candy, and then remember I only have the use of one hand. Bridge unwraps a piece of chocolate and hands it to me.

"See, empathy," she whispers.

I snatch the candy.

"Good news," Patrick says and gently lays the bag of ice over my wrist. For a moment, it stings, but then the freeze feels good, numbing some of the pain, cooling the fire beneath my skin. "Apparently, the party was about to end anyway. We're five minutes away from docking. So as soon as we get off, we can take you to the hospital to get your hand checked out."

"You don't need to do that," I say, turning to him. "Bridget can take me, I don't want to ruin your whole night."

But he doesn’t respond, he just leans forward and kisses me instead. I'll take that reply anytime! Suddenly, the pain doesn’t seem too bad anymore. His lips are the perfect distraction.

"I'm going to go find Ollie," Bridget murmurs, easing off the couch.

Normally, I'd feel bad forcing her from the room, but I'm too wrapped up as Patrick slips into her spot, hardly breaking the kiss as his arm lands across my shoulder, gently tugging me closer without jostling my wrist.

But then he pulls back, eyes focused on mine.

"So, you and that guy?"

"Huh?" I whisper, in a daze, completely confused by the shift. "What guy?" And then I remember the song, the duet, Ollie and I on stage but in a world all our own. I bite my lip, widening my eyes and trying to look shocked. "You mean Ollie?"

"Is something going on?" he asks with a hint of vulnerability in his tone, one I'm not at all used to from him.

I place my uninjured palm against his cheek, locking our gazes so he knows I'm telling the truth. "No. There's nothing going on. Ollie is practically my brother. I've known him for my entire life."

And I think for the first time, I actually really want to mean those words. They're not an afterthought or an excuse, they're more like a prayer, a hope that one day they'll honestly be true.

"Good." Patrick lifts one corner of his lips, cockiness back full force. But I prefer it that way—on him, it looks good. And then he kisses me again. But it ends far too soon when a cough in the corner of the room pulls both of our attentions away just a moment later.

And of course, it's Ollie.

How long has he been there?

"Hey,
sis
," he says.

Wonderful. I guess that answers my question.

"Bro!" Bridge slaps him on the arm as she walks past, pushing him out of the doorway, before taking a seat. "We're pulling in. Ready to make our grand exit?"

"I'm not so sure I'm ready for a grand anything," I mumble.

"I heard your stage exit was pretty grand," Ollie drawls, grinning. "I'm heartbroken I missed it."

"Where did you run off to so quickly?" I ask.

But before he can answer, the boat shudders, coming to a somewhat jerky stop. And a second later, partygoers stream in, searching for coats and purses, taking one last drink, and then trickling out, asking each other where to go next.

Anyone up for the emergency room?

No? No takers?

I ease off the couch, using Patrick's hand as an anchor as he helps pull me up.

"I have your purse," Bridge says, coming to my other side. Ollie and Aubrey follow silently behind. And then all five of us join the masses and walk slowly down the steps, across a ramp, and back onto solid ground.

Poof.

Just like that, the magic of the night is over.

"Shoes?" Patrick asks, looking at the footwear lined up along the edge of the dock. Most of it is picked over, and he finds his boat shoes easily. Bridget eases into her heels. Ollie finds his boots. Aubrey slips into a pair of sneakers. And me? I stare at the red pumps Bridget forced me to don for the evening, wondering if I can put enough hatred into one glance to set them on fire. Or maybe telekinesis. I would happily send them tumbling over the edge and into the river if I could.

Bridge follows my line of sight. "Oh…right."

"Yup." I sigh. Bring on the pain. But a moment later, I'm airborne. "Wha…?"

I look up into Patrick's smiling face, nice and cozy in his strong arms. Which really—the boy's got muscles. He doesn't look strained at all. Let me just say, John tried lifting me multiple times while we were dating and I'm lucky to still be alive. But Patrick…well, he can whisk me off my feet any time he wants.

"You already broke one wrist this evening, I think we should cut our losses," he says. I just shrug, happily kicking my bare feet, and wrap my one available arm around his neck. And though I feel Ollie's eyes boring a hole into my side, I don't give into temptation to turn around and look.

He has Aubrey.

I have Patrick.

Everything is exactly how it should be…until we hail a cab.

"I'm coming," Ollie growls as Bridget pushes him away from the door.

"Just take Aubrey home, or go out and have a good time. Either way, we're fine. Skye has me and she has Patrick, really you don't have to come."

I sigh from my spot in the cab, watching the meter begin to tick, and am half tempted to close the door and leave all four of them behind.

Ollie scoffs in Patrick's direction. "She's known him for, what? Three weeks? I don't trust this guy. I'm coming."

"Back off, man," Patrick growls.

Bridget just rolls her eyes. "Stop being so overprotective. We're fine."

Ollie ignores her, stepping closer to Patrick—a little too close, challengingly close. "Look, I've known Skye since she was five, and I've never let anything happen to her." Well, that's not exactly true, I silently charge—he knows exactly what he's let happen to me. We both do. But Ollie doesn’t even pause, he just barrels on. "If anyone is going to help take her to the hospital to make sure she's okay, it's going to be me."

"Well, Patrick is her boyfriend, so I think he can handle it," Bridget says, tugging on Ollie's arm.

And then everyone pauses.

I start silently choking in the backseat.

What did I say before, about the boyfriend conversation only happening in awkward sober conversations or totally drunken slips? Yeah…crap.

"Bridge!" I hiss. She looks at me with a broken expression, clearly aware the situation is getting away from her.

"Since when are you her boyfriend?" Ollie spits.

"Since now," Patrick replies.

Wait, what?

I grin.

"Oh, give me a break." Ollie crosses his arms. I can’t help but notice Aubrey is shrinking in the corner, looking at me with some concern.

Okay, time for me to step in.

"People!" I shout, a little louder than I intended, but the ice has almost completely melted and the pain in my hand has turned to a throbbing pulse. "Remember me, the one who needs to go to the hospital?"

They all jolt, shocked, turning to look at me. And I realize—yes, they did completely forget about me. Wonderful. What better saviors could a girl ask for?

"Okay, Patrick, get in the car," Bridget says, giving him a shove and then blocking the doorway. "Don’t leave, just give me two minutes to talk to Ollie." And then she slams the door on his face. Well, almost.