The Thrill of It (11 page)

But yet, there’s a traitorous part of my hardened heart that longs for what I felt that one night with Trey. For what I felt in those seconds in the courtyard last night. For the possibility of the other side.

“One more job then,” he says.

“Let me think about it,” I say because I don’t know which side of me is strong. Which side
wants
more. Which side will win.

Before Layla. After Layla.

“Let me know in a week.”

“Okay. One week.” I stand up to leave.

“Why are you going?”

“I have stuff to do,” I say, and now the pull is coming from outside Bliss. It’s coming from the other side, from the things I’ve had a glimpse of, a fleeting taste of beyond this bar. Things I don’t know if I’ll ever have.

Cam doesn’t like that pull. He feels it too, like gravity, me slipping out of his grasp.

“Stay, babydoll. Have another Diet Coke. Hang out with me. Talk to me. Tell me things. I want to know everything.”

“I have to go,” I say, my voice breaking, hurting, missing. I stand up, slinging my purse on my shoulder. My phone’s on silent, it can’t even vibrate, but I can sense it, red hot and boiling. It’s like an ankle bracelet on a criminal, a reminder not to cross a certain line. I give Cam a quick peck on the cheek, his forest scent filling my nostrils, a sensory reminder of the world he inhabits, the world he gave me. I feel a sliver of pain, like a phantom limb, shoot through me as I break the chaste kiss.

“A week though. You’ll let me know in a week, right?”

“I promise,” I say, then I leave, moving quickly past the other people, past the entryway, past Hugo as he says, “See you soon, Layla.”

“Sure,” I say and raise my hand to hail a cab. But Hugo puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles. He’s faster than me at hailing cabs. I turn back to him briefly and meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

I slide into my taxi, give the driver the address of my apartment, and practically rip open my purse. My hand dives down and I grab my phone. I missed two more calls from Trey and a few texts.

“Hi,” I say when he answers.

“Hey you. You okay?”

“Yes. No. Maybe.”

“Where are you?” he asks.

“In a cab.”

“Did you see Cam?”

I nod again. “How did you know?”

“Good guess. That, and it takes one to know one.”

I hold the phone closer, glad I’m not alone, glad that someone else — one person at least — understands. “Where are you?”

“Sitting on your steps waiting for you.”

Memoirs of a Teenage Sex Addict…

Page 167…

Peter had a really small peter.

Ironic, huh?

And look, hey, it happens. Some guys are packing, some guys are lacking.

But that’s why he needed Cam’s services. My job was to prop him up, give him pep talks, encourage him about his size. I’d use my fake ID, meet him at a punk dive bar in the East Village, all run down and luring the goth crowds with plugs in their ears, and piercings in their noses. I think it made him feel dangerous, especially as screeching music with indecipherable lyrics echoed in the bar. He was probably a product manager or an accountant or something. He never told me, and I didn’t need to know. But he hired me to dirty talk him, to have a drink, and tell him how big he was.

“
Have you ever seen a dick bigger than mine?”

“
No,” I said, with wide eyes, and a firmness in my tone. As if it were even possible for a dick to be bigger than his.

“
It’s huge, isn’t it?”

“
You have the biggest dick I have ever seen. It’s huge, and thick, and absolutely massive.”

“
Do you want to touch it?”

I’d shake my head coquettishly because Peter knew the rules. Peter played by the rules. Peter paid top dollar to follow those rules.

“
But I want to watch you touch your huge dick,” I said.

Then I’d lead him into the ladies room that probably wasn’t any cleaner than the men’s room. The sink was dirty, the trash can overflowed with tissues and the tiny stall smelled of beer and piss. He’d jerk off, and I’d watch, telling him the whole time how monstrous his dick was. Honestly, I couldn’t even see it in his hand.

Poor Peter.

But I will say this, Cam told me he was one of the happiest guys he’d ever known. So maybe all Peter needed to feel good about himself was a pretty young thing stroking his ego, rather than his dick.

Chapter Nine

Trey

“You’re at my apartment?”

She sounds shocked. As if I broke into her place.

“Well, outside,” I say, half-defensively, because I’m not sure if she’s annoyed that I’m here, my ass parked on the stoop of her building, waiting for a girl who doesn’t want someone waiting for her.

“I thought you were going to the meeting?”

“I was at the meeting. And when I didn’t hear from you or see you there…” I say, but I don’t know how to finish the sentence. I sound like a stalker. Like I’m that pathetic stalker guy.

“Sorry I didn’t go,” she says in a small voice. A skinny hipster ambles puffing on a cigarette as he walks a pug. The dude tugs at his shirt. The night is muggy and the heat in the air clings.

“You don’t have to apologize to me.” There’s a part of me that wants to hang up on her, to get the hell out of here, and let her deal with her shit all by herself. But I guess there’s a stronger part that doesn’t want to lose her, because I came here after the meeting on a mad hunt for the girl I kissed last night. “Anyway, I had a feeling you might need someone to talk to.”

“I didn’t do anything with him, Trey,” she pleads, like she desperately wants me to know this vital fact. I don’t know if it’s because we’re friends, or because of what happened last night. But I don’t want to ask.

“Do you want me to wait for you?”

“Yes, please. I want you to wait for me,” she says, and with her words, the stronger part wins out by far. I stretch out on the stoop, like the step is a couch, my backpack forming a pillow. I draw in my sketchbook, mapping out a new design of a dragon with spikes, a long, snapping tail and breath of fire, something a regular client of mine wants.

A few minutes later a cab pulls up, and she pays the driver, then escapes. I squeeze my eyes shut when I see what she’s wearing. Then I open them.

“Hi.” She offers a meek little wave as she sinks down next to me. I close the sketchbook.

The cab races off, kicking up exhaust into the night breeze, mingling with all the other scents nearby. This is New York for you – I can smell Harley’s wild cherry lotion and I can smell garbage that needs to be picked up tomorrow, the fume from cabs, and the trailing scent of cigarettes. The ugly with the beautiful.

“You look guilty,” I say. “But you don’t have to look guilty on my behalf.”

“I feel guilty.”

“Why? Are you going back to him?” I ask in a strangled voice. The thought makes me sick.

She shrugs. “He made me an offer.”

I recoil, then stand up quickly as if I can’t even be near her when she’s like this. When she’s in this zone. “Are you going to take it?” I ask with a sneer. I don’t mask my disgust. I
can’t
mask my disgust.

“I don’t know,” she says, and her voice breaks, and I fucking hate that she can be like this.

Tempted.

I push both hands through my hair, grabbing hard. “You’re not a fucking whore, Harley.”

“It’s not like that,” she spits back.

“Fuck that,” I shout through clenched teeth. I pace down the block, walking away from her, far away. To the end of the block, where I stop and slam a hand against the street sign. I take a sharp, deep breath, then turn around. She’s still on the stoop, and she’s fiddling with her shirt, shakily fastening the top two buttons.

When I reach her I bend down and grip her knees. I stare hard at her, her brown eyes like pools. One lone tear streaks down her face. “You are better than that,” I tell her, never breaking her gaze. “You are so much better than that.”

“But what if I’m not?” She chokes out in the tiniest voice.

I wipe the pad of my thumb across her cheek. I want to kiss her tears away, but I can’t go there right now. For a million reasons.

“You are,” I say firmly. I want to shake her. I want to smack some sense into her. “How can you even say you’re not?”

She drops her head so I can’t look at her. “Because I’m not. Because I went to see him. Because you’d never do this. You’re stronger than me. You’re never even tempted.”

“You think this is easy for me?” I crouch on the sidewalk, my hands still gripping her knees. I glance down at her socks, then shake my head. “I hate these socks,” I mumble, as I peel the right one down her leg. She lets me, lifting her calf for me. My fingertips brush her skin, but I manage to resist running my hands up and down those calves. The mission to get her out of this awful costume is stronger than my desire to touch her. I unbuckle one shoe and take off her sock. I do the same to the other leg, rolling down the white knee-high, undoing the shoes, and tugging the sock off her foot, ignoring how smooth her perfectly shaven legs are. I hand her the offending items, and she stuffs the white socks into her purse. Out of sight. Somewhat out of mind. “I can’t stand seeing you dressed like this. I wish you were wearing a t-shirt and jeans right now.”

I earn a small laugh for that, and she lifts her head, flashing a quick lopsided smile. The Harley smirk that makes me want to wipe it away with my mouth. Kiss that sexy smirk right off of her. Hear the sweet sighs she makes when I kiss her. “I’ll go change then,” she says, tipping her forehead to the door.

“Want me to wait out here?”

“We can talk inside.”

“Okay.” I sling my backpack over one shoulder and follow her up the steps, waiting as she unfastens three locks on the battered, creaky, brown door of her building, leading into a hall so cramped you have to walk single file to the stairs. I try not to stare at her legs as she walks up the staircase, but it’s a losing battle because her calves are perfection. Strong, shapely, smooth.

Plus, I know how they taste. I know how every inch of her tastes. Her ankles, her calves, behind her knees, her thighs, belly, breasts, neck and everyplace else. The answer? She tastes fucking spectacular. I watch her, enjoying the view, picturing those legs spread out and open for me. If she only knew how much I want to go down on her again. And again. And again.

We reach her floor, and I grab my backpack from my shoulder and hold it in front of me, so she can’t see that I’m hard from staring at her.

She unlocks the door and calls out. “Kristen?”

But there’s no answer.

She lets the door fall shut behind us, closing with a loud clanging sound.

“Oh. It’s Thursday. She goes to some film showing at the arthouse nearby. Something for one of her film classes. They see all these festival flicks,” she says as she tosses her keys on the kitchen table.

“Sounds like she and Jordan will be the perfect match,” I say sarcastically. “Given his love for shoot ‘em up action flicks and horror films.”

Harley laughs, then tells me she’ll be right back and she ducks into her room. I head straight for the fridge. Harley doesn’t drink, but I can count on Kristen to have something on hand. I find a couple of six-packs of Coors Light, grab a bottle, then a Diet Coke for Harley, and wait for her on the couch in the cardboard-box sized living room.

When Harley returns my heart trips on its dumbass feet. Her hair is in a ponytail, and she washed off all her makeup. She has on dark blue jeans that hug her legs and a gray t-shirt that says Eat, Sleep, Read. “Picked it up at this indie bookstore in Brooklyn a few weeks ago when I was stocking up on old paperbacks. Thought it was cute,” she says, pointing to the shirt.

“Yeah, it’s cute,” I say but my throat is dry so the words come out croaky. That’s the thing – she looks so much better like this. Not that there’s anything wrong with Harley in a skirt. But seeing her like this, in jeans and a t-shirt, hair pulled back, makes me feel like I have secret access to the Harley no one knows, the side she doesn’t show anyone else. Cam never sees her without make-up. Her clients never did either. She looks beautiful as herself. All fresh and perfect and sweet. She’s the girl I know, the girl I want, the girl I can’t let myself have.

She joins me on the couch, tucks her legs under her, and cracks open the can. She takes a sip. “Why did you wait for me?”

I raise an eyebrow. “At your apartment?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

“Um…because I give a shit about you.” I knock back more of my beer. “Isn’t that obvious?”

“But you hate him,” she says as she runs her thumb around the top of the can.

“No shit. He’s a pimp. But I figured if you missed a meeting chances were you were up to something. And if you were up to something I figured you probably needed someone to talk to. Or someone not to talk to. Just someone to be with.”

“You’re not judging me for seeing Cam?”

“Kettle, can I introduce you to the pot?” I point to myself. “You think it’s so easy for me, don’t you?”

She shrugs. “Well, does this ever happen to you?”

I scoff. “What? You think I’m never tempted? You think I’m just this good little boy? Like I’m a saint or a Mormon?”

“You. A Mormon,” she says dryly.

I lift my legs onto the couch, cross them at the ankles, stretch out. She shifts closer to the cushion, giving me room. “The ladies would have loved that even more. Can you imagine? Seducing a Mormon boy?”

“I think it was the other way around,” she says, and wiggles an eyebrow, and I like that we’re back to us, back to how she can tease me about my past, and I can at least be honest with her about hers.