Love's Forbidden Flower (7 page)

“Lily, get serious! What the hell is your problem?” he sneers while bolting for the door.

Feeling every bit of my being becoming weak, my mouth forces out the subject closest to my heart. He's roller coastering; meaning if I stay strong there is a chance of getting to his core. I'm learning him all over again. “Then why are you pulling me so close only to shove me back so hard? I don’t understand why you're becoming so cruel. It is like you—”

“Lil, look. You and I, we can’t happen. Nothing has happened. Nothing can. It's time you faced that.”

He stops me from interjecting. He’s about to shatter my heart, again. “No, Lil. You
have
to listen.” Swallowing his pride, his emotions mutate before me. With both of my hands in one of his, he caresses my hair with his other. “You need to find a guy who you can really love and who will care for you. Don’t give your love to just anyone. Make sure he’s worthy.” He leans in and seems to absorb my fragrance as he delicately kisses my cheek, allowing his lips to linger before forcing himself to pull away.

My lips pinch together to mute my true emotions. I'm hurt. I'm angry. Worst of all, I'm swooning, but I can't let him see that. My agitation requires acceleration so his will remain low. “What, like that bimbo is worthy?”

“Really, Lily. It’s not what you think, and it’s not what I want, but it has to be this way.”

He couldn’t possibly have meant the words that are now stamped into my mind. He's my shelter, my sanctuary. How could the power of our emotions possibly evade him? I exaggerate the size of the lump in my throat so I can ride his sea-saw. “No. No, it doesn’t. You know it doesn’t.”

“Yes, Lily. It does.” Placing his forehead to mine his tears sting as they trail down my face, merging with my own. The fragments of two hearts that have been shattered into millions of pieces lay on the floor before us.

This is all so petty and horrible, but in light of my shredded insides, options seem lacking. Man, I hate Brittny! She makes me feel like my claws are popping out, and I want to gouge the girl's eyes. She's just too skinny. Every time she’s near I mutter, “Eat a sandwich!” under my breath.

The fact that she's a first class, Grade A tramp also has a lot to do with it. She always wears ridiculously short skirts and too much make-up. What Donovan sees in her is beyond my comprehension. However, he did say he asked someone he couldn’t stand. But then again, she's a slutty tramp and Donovan's a hot teenage man. The thought of Donovan with Brittny and her sleazy, nonexistent morals is just abhorrent.

She’ll probably look like a whore, and Donovan hates that. I possess the unfair advantage of knowing what he likes; just enough skin and makeup to be alluring and for a lady to show off what she has without looking like she wants to sell it. My classic, yet somewhat criminal, strapless little black dress exposes just enough cleavage, leg, and curves to make him pant for more. He’s also a sucker for stilettos, and I’m all too good at pulling of walking in them with a swing in my hips that brings forth a melody to a man’s heart—if I do say so myself.

As I emerge from the bathroom, Donovan stutters to find words. “Wow! You look amazing. Umm, uh, are you going out?”

“Yes. Maybe you heard that there's a dance tonight. I believe you have a date.” Or rather, a prostitute.

“Yeah, but I, uh—I didn’t realize you were going.”

Donovan looks itchy. Does he have a rash? Can I get that lucky? My voice bubbles as I speak. “Yes, I have a date and everything.”

Slipping away now proves to be the perfect tease as I notice him slowly gawking over my figure—his eyes drifting from my curves to the seams in my stockings, down to the rhinestone bows adorning the back of my heels.

“Wow. Uh. That’s er, um, great,” he says while raising his eyebrows and shaking his head to discard the sin from his mind. “Who are you going with?”

Could he be more panicked? My increased confidence bursts forth as I look straight at his gorgeous face and beam, “Oh, Al Thompson asked me. He’s kind of cute, so I said yes.”

Donovan’s jaw abandons his face and just about shatters on the hall floor. “Al Thompson? From the football team?”

“I forgot he played football. I guess you know him.” Boy, do I ever think I'm clever!

“Do I know him?” Donovan not only rolls his eyes at me but his whole head. “Lily!”

“What?” Seriously, this is great!

He looks like he's about to go into convulsions as he throws his hands into the air, tossing his head back as if talking to God. “Lily, this isn't funny. God! Why Al? Of all the guys in the world!”

Have I blown it? Is Al some kind of lunatic? Does he kill babies? Does he eat live bunnies? What could possibly be so upsetting about him? “I don’t understand,” I mutter in false bravado.

Donovan latches on to my shoulders. For a moment I'm convinced he'll beg me not to go out with this horrible alien creature that performs beastly acts. “Lil, remember when I was in the first grade, and I got busted for jumping in the mud puddles in school and covering someone in filth when it was a total accident? Al was the guy who ratted me out and said I nailed him intentionally. I missed out on cartoons for a week because of him.”

Serendipity reigns in Donovan’s little tizzy and the karma that is kicking him in the butt. He’s upset because he missed out on cartoons over ten years ago? I thought he was my older brother, not a toddler. The brilliance of my date selection brings about a fit of merriment.

“All right, all right. That’s enough.” A smirk shows through his scowl. Drying the streaks of hysteria from my face, he attempts to fix my smudged make up. “At least for once I'm drying happy tears. I guess the universe decided to check me to the boards on that one. You might want to touch this up yourself. Although, since it is Al, I kind of like the idea of you going out looking like Alice Cooper.”

“Cute. I’ll go touch up. He should be here any moment.”

“Hey, be careful, okay? I'm not too sure of this guy. I don’t want you to get into a bad situation.”

“I’ll be fine. I kind of need my hand back though.” Donovan's been holding it since right after he grabbed me by the shoulders.

“Oh, sorry.”

“Yeah?” I walk away with hips in a full and gentle swing, holding the saunter just long enough for him to notice before I turn my glance back to him. His eyes are locked on my figure. “I don’t think you are.”

My date selection is an interesting one. When Al picked me up he did everything the way a gentleman should; he rang the doorbell instead of honking the car horn, was polite to my parents, repeated the time I needed to be home like a trained bird, and held my doors open. He was even considerate enough to ask if I wanted vodka or brandy in the flask he brought for me. Oh, and did he tell me how stunning my ass looks in this dress? Al is so charming that I've triple-checked that I have enough money for cab fare home and verified my cell phone is fully charged.

We’ve been here less than thirty minutes, and I'm already beyond bored. Al’s friends are idiots, and he's the cream of the scum crop. I feel like a hood ornament as he parades me around introducing me as “D-boy’s lil’ sis.” Yuck! There's no way Donovan likes being called “D-boy.” When this madness is over I'm going to bust out with that one frequently and at awkward moments. It's become one of the many things Donovan is never living down.

“You lookin’ for something, baby?” Al asks with a slur as I eye the room. My first thought is of a fire escape.

“I just thought I would see what my friends are up to.”

“You mean those cute little
chickas
I saw you with the other day? Well let’s find ‘em!”

We walk about five feet before we run into another group of guys from the football team. “Hey, it’s Al and D-boy’s lil’ sis!”

Random Jock #1 asks, “Where’s that bro of yours?”

Random Jock #2 replies, “I saw him in the corner earlier with Brit-neeeey!”

“Whooooooo!” The Jock Squad squawks in harmony.

“Hey, Al. You still got that extra flask on you?” I ask. Actually, at this point, I'm not too proud to beg.

“Absolutely, my fair lady. This one has brandy. Would you like the one with vodka instead? I still have about half left.”

Wow. I never realized what a gentleman a lush could be.

“Brandy’s great.” Shoot battery acid would be great. I've no qualms about downing half of it quickly.

The burn of the alcohol creeps down my throat nearly causing me to gag. But if I'm going to suffer through this horrendous night, I might as well not care about it. It doesn't take long for the brandy to kick in, and just as it does, D-boy and Slut Face stroll by.

“Heeey D-boy!” There's that delightful harmony again. The sound of the accompanying high-fives is even more sickening, but the sight of D-boy and his date makes me think gastrointestinal anthrax is kicking in. Hoe Bag’s skin tight, low cut, black and red striped cotton sling that she calls a dress barely covers her ass and shows the outline of every bone squeezed underneath it. At the sight of me, Donovan quickly drops his arm from Brittny’s nearly non-existent waist as if he's five and Mom caught him stealing cookies.

D-boy cowers while making excuses to leave, but Brittny obviously has other intentions. Clinging like a black widow's web, she rubs against Donovan while talking to the other boys. It's like her personal experiment in their voyeurism, and they're eating it up. Now I’ve had it! In Donovan's full view I pull out my flask and take a long sip, trying to maintain my composure as the alcohol blisters a trail downward. Instead of awaiting his reaction, I excuse myself to the ladies room. “Be right back.” I wink at Al. “Miss me.”

Walking away with my head high and hips in full wiggle, complete satisfaction is achieved as I hear all the attention, via catcalls, turn in my direction. D-boy squirms as the tide of domination turns.

Ten minutes later, while trying to clear my brain and focus on the hands of my watch that seem to have multiplied, I realize how long I've been fuming in a stall. Once enough courage to return to my date has been braved, D-boy and Scum Bucket are long gone. Which is worse—having to watch that vile display or not knowing what Donovan is doing? Polishing off the last bit of brandy, I take a good, long, sour look at my date. It's time to make lemonade.

I give a little tug on Al’s arm. “Hey, Al. Come on. Let’s dance.”

“Nah, I really don’t like to dance.”

“You will with me.” As if the pant in his ear was not enough, the look I give that makes him quiver like bacon hitting a hot skillet seals the deal.

Al’s dance skills make him look like a duck impersonating a turtle. My impending actions with this creep make me itch. With my arms around his neck I gyrate in the vicinity of parts of his anatomy that are best not pondered. It's the most disgusting thing I've ever done, but how else do I break free of Donovan's hold? After all, if he can get his jollies, why shouldn’t I?

Al maneuvers his right leg between both of mine, rubbing it against my crotch. I’m compelled to flee but suck it up and make his ear my new focal point. Not enough of the alcohol has kicked in to make him sufficiently attractive for me to actually want to do this. Just as enough courage is mustered to hone in on Al’s lips, a hand sharply yanks me away. Thank God!