Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (88 page)

As his back is turned, I
take in a few slow, deep breaths, trying to fight the urge to vomit right here.

He turns back to me, shot
in hand.

“All right,” he says.
“Let’s see it.”

“I’m not drinking it
straight, though,” I tell him. “You’ve got to at least get me a chaser.”

He turns his back again
and I sit down on the bar stool.

I think I’m already
feeling the alcohol setting in.

I’ve never been much of a
drinker.

“You doing okay?” he
asks.

“Yeah,” I tell him.
“What’d you get me?”

“Cola,” he says. “Now,
let’s see this shot.”

I scoff and take both the
shot and chaser in my hand.

“Take a deep breath,” he
says. “Hold it in and don’t let it out until you’re drinking the chaser.”

“You’re acting like I’ve
never taken a shot before.”

“Have you?”

I’d rather not answer
that question, so I take a deep breath and down the shot of vodka. It’s a
sensation unlike anything else I’ve experienced.

It’s not a pleasant one.

“Here,” Mike says,
patting my cola hand, spilling a little in the process. “Sip it slow so you
don’t get a ton of carbonation in your stomach.”

I do as instructed,
trying to make my expression portray nonchalance. That falls apart as I take a
short breath before the vodka taste is completely out of my mouth.

“Hold your breath,” he
says. “Drink the soda.”

He’s laughing.

Mike and I became pen
pals when I got back to Waterloo.

He’d given me his phone
number and address in case I found myself lost again. We’ve always been closer
friends than anyone I ever spent time with back home.

When dad died, he was the
one who got me through it.

Now, though, he’s
laughing at me, and I kind of want to punch him in the face.

By the time I get halfway
through the cola, Mike puts his hand on the glass.

“That’s more than
enough,” he says. “You don’t want to get sick.”

“I thought that was the
point of the chaser.”

“The point of the
chaser—” he sighs. “Who cares? You did it! You took your first shot!”

The people at and around
the bar look over at me with surprise and confusion. It doesn’t help matters
that Mike’s holding his hands above his head like I’ve just accomplished the
unthinkable.

“Now,” he says, “do you
still want that sunrise? Really, I’m really looking forward to those two
shots.”

I was hoping he’d
forgotten about the other drink.

“Two shots?” I ask.

Maybe if I keep talking,
I won’t gag.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’ve
still only finished one of the drinks you ordered. If you don’t drink the other
one, it’ll take you one shot to be even, one shot as the spoils of my victory.”

“First off, your math
there is a little fuzzy. Second, I can’t drink that now,” I tell him. “It’s
been sitting on the bar, barely guarded, just waiting for a
roofie
.”

“You are so full of
shit,” he says, “but that’s all right. I’ll take the free drinks.”

I didn’t bring that much
money.

New York still kind of
freaks me out, so I only brought enough for cab fare, club cover and a couple
of drinks. If I don’t want to walk home or have Mike pay my way, I’m going to
have to down that other drink.

“All right,” I tell him,
“but if I end up passed out in the back of some guy’s van, I’m going to kick
your ass.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” he
teases.

He’s kind of a smug
bastard, isn’t he?

I force a smile and reach
for the drink when the bartender grabs my hand.

“Maybe you should slow it
down a bit,” she says.

“I’m good,” I lie. I
am
a cheap drunk.

“Well, I’ve seen you in
here before and this is the first time I haven’t ended up dumping your drink.”

Mike just looks at me
with that big, stupid grin.

“He’s my designated
driver,” I tell her.

Mike’s not happy to be
volunteered for such a position, but he seems content enough to see what I’m
like drunk.

To be honest, so am I.

Chapter Two

Paper-Thin

Dane

“I don’t know,” she says
as we’re walking out of the club. “My roommate really doesn’t like it when I bring
guys home.”

“I don’t know what to
tell you, then,” I say. “I’m still waiting for the callback on my new place. We
could always go back to my hotel room, but—”

“Fuck that,” she says.
“Did you ever see that show where they took a black light into a hotel room and
had some guy explain all the different fluids and shit?”

“Yeah,” I say. I wanted
to ask “Which one?” but it doesn’t really matter. I know where she’s going with
this.

“All right,” she says.
“We can go back to my place, but you’ve got to be quiet.”

“It’s not me I’m worried
about,” I mutter, trying to hide my smile.

“What was that?” she
asks.

“I said that it’s not
going to be a problem,” I lie. Eh, it’s close enough to the truth.

It’s bad form to brag
about one’s prowess. It just makes you come across deluded. Better to let her
find out, that’s what I always say.

“All right,” she says.

She’s buzzed, not drunk.
I’ve never liked getting with a drunken chick. Too much hassle, nowhere near
enough reward.

We get a cab. The driver
cringes when Buzzed Girl undoes my pants in the backseat, but the man doesn’t
say anything about it.

“Do you want me to go
down on you?” she asks.

Now there’s a stupid
question.

“Yeah,” I say, “why not?”

I’m sitting in the back,
pants around my ankles. I refuse to drop my boxers in a cab, though. You never
know what kind of shit happened on these seats.

To prove my point, she’s
slipping my cock through the slit in the fabric, and I’m looking in the
rearview mirror at the driver. This isn’t my first time in the back of a cab.

Sure enough, she’s about
halfway down my dick on her first time down when he looks up and spots me
watching him. I just smile and shrug my shoulders. The guy’s got to be lonely
driving all night, may as well give him a show.

“Do you like that?” she
asks.

I’ve never been a fan of
that question in this context. Chances are, if I’m not telling you to stop, I’m
not complaining.

“That feels great, babe,”
I tell her. I don’t really like the term, but it’s a lot easier than trying to
remember her name.

“Get another drink or two
in me, and I bet I can
deepthroat
that,” she says.

It’s not a terrible idea,
other than the risk that alcohol and gag reflexes can cause when put together.

“We’ll see,” I tell her.
“I’m more interested in what
you
taste like.”

Yes, it’s a line, but it
works.

In response to my
“selfless act,” she’s all the more adamant in her action. Tonight’s not a bad
night.

She pops me out of her
mouth a moment to lick my sac. This is why I shower three times a day. I never
know when it’s going to happen; only that it
is
going to happen.

“That’s fucking great,” I
mutter, hoping the driver can’t hear me. I don’t like talking during the act
any more than I like responding to that ridiculous question she asked a minute
or two ago, but if that’s what she wants, that’s what she wants.

The driver glances up at
the mirror, and I can see his eyes squint into a smile.

It’s when he angles the
mirror down to get a closer look at exactly what’s going on that I put my hand
on my companion’s shoulder. I’m fine with the driver having an idea what’s
going on, even catching a glimpse here and there, but having another guy
staring at my junk is just awkward.

“What’s wrong?” the woman
asks. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

Eager to please, loathe
to offend: it is a beautiful thing.

I nod toward the mirror,
and whatever-her-name-is throws a fit big enough to convince the cabbie to give
us a discount for the trip.

I’m still hard when we
pull up to her building.

We get out of the cab,
and I grin as I wish the driver a good night.

I doubt his is going to
be anything compared to mine.

Buzzed Girl is all laughs
as the doorman opens the door for us, and I’m just hoping she’s not one of
those chicks that’ll spend all of our time giggling and talking about how she
never does this kind of thing.

I get that the
super-innocence thing is a turn on for some guys, but I’m not one of them.

I like a woman who knows
what she’s doing.

We get to the elevator
and, although we’re not the only people in the car, she’s standing in front of
me, rubbing her butt against the front of my jeans.

Yeah, I’m ready.

“Tell me about your
roommate,” I say.

She stops grinding.

“What?” she asks. “Why?”

“I mean, if she hears us,
what’s she going to do? I mean, she’s not going to call the cops or anything
stupid, is she?”

“No,” Buzzed Girl says.
She starts laughing again. It’s not a pleasant noise. “She hasn’t yet.”

Ah, a little depravity.
That’s what I was looking for.

“Do this sort of thing
often, then, huh?”

“What do you think?” she
asks, rubbing up against me.

The whole scene makes the
elderly man standing next to me shift anxiously. I can almost hear him praying
for the elevator to just reach his floor so he can get out.

“There’s just not a good
answer to that,” I whisper.

For once, I’m the one
trying to be discreet.

“I guess you’re about to
find out,” she says.

She turns around to face
me, and I can see the man next to me turn his head.

For a moment, I’m worried
this chick is going to drop my pants right here in the not-so-private elevator,
but she eases that particular fear with a deep kiss, her arms wrapped around my
neck.

I’m a fan of kissing.
It’s probably my favorite part of the whole game, you know, except for
everything else.

That said, this chick is
biting my lip hard enough that I push her away.

“Fucking ease up,” I
whisper. “Planning on taking that home with you?”

“Only if I can bring the
rest of you, too,” she whispers in my ear.

With those words, my goal
for the evening has just become trying to nail her roommate.

It’s a lofty goal, but
unless this chick can come up with something less clumsy to say to me, I don’t
know that I’ve got much choice.

I pride myself on my
game, and having a partner who’s not pulling her own weight is a turnoff.

If the roommate thing
doesn’t work out, though, I guess I’ll manage.

“Two more floors until we
reach heaven,” she whispers, palming the front of my jeans.

“Shh…”

She thinks I’m worried
about the other people in the elevator.

In reality, I just want
to get her to stop saying such ridiculous shit.

The elevator slows to a
stop, and I’m wondering what god this man standing next to me pissed off so
much to end up on the floor right beneath—you know, whoever this woman still
groping me said she is.

He hurries out of the
elevator and Buzzed Girl turns around, rubbing herself against me a little bit
more before we get to her floor.

The sweetest sound in the
world is that elevator door opening again.

“You have no idea what
kind of shit you’re in for,” she tells me.

It’s a challenge.

We’re on her floor and
she’s testing me to see how I’m going to react to such a bold statement.

Believe it or not, that
kind of thing is enough to make a lot of guys nervous.

“We’ll see,” I tell her.

As we approach her door,
she grows quiet, serious.

I was beginning to think
the woman didn’t have any spatial awareness. It’s good to know that’s not
completely true.

She unlocks her door and
puts a finger to her bottom lip.

I wonder if it’s too soon
in our forty-five minute relationship to gauge her interest in a threesome with
her roommate.

“So, tell me more about this
roommate,” I whisper as we get into her room and she shuts the door behind us.

“Oh, she is
so
boring,” Buzzed Girl says. “All she
ever does is go to the gym and do yoga. She’s such a flake.”

Be still, my beating
heart.

“So you feel threatened
by her,” I say.

If I have any chance of
making this happen, this is how it’s going to go down.

Buzzed Girl’s eyes
narrow.

Tonight is going to be a
good night.

*
                   
*
                   
*

I don’t have the
slightest idea what Buzzed Girl said to Yoga Chick, but now I’m lying back on
the bed, closing my eyes for a moment so I don’t just immediately trigger.

Yoga Chick has one of her
legs behind her head to allow Buzzed Girl better access to her pussy. All the
while, Yoga Chick is swallowing my member.

Buzzed Girl’s a little
competitive, but that’s not a bad thing—at least right now it’s not, as she’s
replacing her mouth with a couple of fingers on Yoga Chick’s clit and the two
vie for better position between my legs.

I’m not taking sides.

Buzzed Girl works her
mouth up the side of my erection while Yoga Chick plays with my tip, her tongue
warm and soft as she slides her mouth up and down my shaft, clearly trying to
get Buzzed Girl to go back between her own legs.

There’s a power dynamic
here that’s simply fantastic.

“Who’s better?” Yoga
Chick asks, frustrated at Buzzed Girl’s continued trips up the side of my
length.

“Now, there’s a question
that I’m clearly not going to answer,” I tell her.

I’m the only one
laughing.

Yoga Chick takes that as
a confirmation of her own victory and moves up, putting one leg on each side of
my mouth, lowering her slit enough for me to get to work.

Buzzed Girl, thinking
herself
to be the victor, snorts
derisively at her roommate and doesn’t take her mouth off of me as she reaches
into the nightstand and pulls out a condom.

The way she’s positioned,
there’s just enough space between Yoga Chick’s ankles and ass for me to watch
Buzzed Girl undo the wrapper with one hand.

“Oh yeah,” Yoga Chick
moans, in a clear attempt to make her roommate jealous. “That’s it, baby,” she
goes on. “I love the way you eat my pussy.”

Not to be outdone, Buzzed
Girl slips the condom over me and climbs on top.

She’s moaning now, and
the two continue to grow louder.

Maybe they think it’s
some kind of secret, but this is what’s really turning them on: the
competition.

I’m just glad to be a
part of it.

“I’m going to come!” Yoga
Chick yells, and I’m just hoping she’s not a
squirter
for reasons which should be obvious, given her positioning.

“
I’m
going to come!” Buzzed Girl yells back.

I’m starting to wonder if
they’re just trying to verbally outdo one another, right up until the moment I
can feel both sets of legs shaking and the muffled sounds of their groans as
they kiss somewhere above me.

This is one of those
times I wish I could congratulate myself for a job well done, but honestly, I’m
not sure I have more than a mechanical part in any of it right now.

When the two finally
separate, I can barely hear them, as Yoga Chick’s thighs are still quivering
against each side of my head.

That, mixed with their
continued vocalizations, is almost loud enough that I don’t hear it.

“Breann, I told you to
turn your cellphone off,” one of them says to the other.

I wish I could tell which
one says it, but my field of vision is somewhat restricted at the moment.

“It’s not mine,”
whichever one is Breann answers.

“Shit,” I say—if you can
call what I’m doing right now talking. “It’s mine.”

Yoga Chick raises herself
off of me just enough to ask, “What?”

“That’s mine,” I tell
her. “I’m sorry, but I really have to get that.”

“You’ve got to be
joking,” Buzzed Girl says, still grinding her hips against mine, pushing me
into her again and again, so deep.

“It could be about my
apartment,” I tell her. “If I don’t answer, someone else might get it.”

Yoga Chick sighs and
lifts herself enough for me to angle my upper body toward the edge of the bed.