Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

But there's something beautiful about the waiting, too. Something that makes each touch feel more deliberate, more meaningful, more intense.

Somewhere between the fourth glass of wine, our food arriving in a flurry of steaming containers and plastic bags, and me realizing I've lost all feeling in my lips—a sure sign I've crossed from pleasantly buzzed into genuinely drunk territory—Amanda gets a terrible idea.

I can see it form in real time, watch the mischief light up her eyes, the way her lips curve into a smile that can only be described as devious.

"You should bring him to meet your family."

I stare at her like she just suggested I take a casual stroll through an active volcano wearing gasoline-soaked clothes. The thought is so absurd, so completely out of left field, that I wonder if I misheard her.

"Why the fuck would I do that?" The words come out sharper than I intend, tinged with genuine alarm. “You’ve been to Sunday Mandatory Dinner. Are you trying to sabotage me?”

Amanda waves her hand wildly, nearly knocking over the bottle of wine perched precariously on the edge of the coffee table. "Why would you not? This is, like, a thing. A real relationship thing. You have to see if he survives the brother test. It's like... relationship baptism by fire."

I groan, dropping my head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling as if it might offer some escape from this conversation. The thought of Cal meeting my family—my overprotective brothers, my traditional parents, the entire Russo clan with their opinions and judgments and questions—sends a spike of anxiety through my wine-soaked brain.

"I would like to keep this relationship alive. I would like to keep this man alive. My brothers meeting him is a direct threat to both of those things."

Amanda snickers, taking another gulp of her wine, her lipstick leaving a perfect imprint on the crystal rim. "I dunno. He's a big dude. I think he could take them."

I snort, shaking my head at the mental image of Cal squaring off against my brothers. "Physically? Probably. But my family doesn't attack physically, Amanda. They attack psychologically."

Amanda squints, her brow furrowing as she processes this information through her wine-induced haze.

"They're like... the Mafia, but with guilt instead of weapons. They don't break kneecaps; they break spirits. They don't shoot you; they just make you wish they had."

She points at me, her finger slightly unsteady. "That's the most Catholic thing I've ever heard in my life."

I laugh, rolling my eyes at her assessment. "You're not wrong."

And yet...

As much as I know throwing Cal into that lion's den is a questionable decision at best—there's a small part of me that wonders if she's right.

My brothers are my family.

For all their faults, all their overprotectiveness, all their judgment, they're mine. And their opinion matters, even when I pretend they don’t. Even when I roll my eyes and act like I don't care what they think.

And tomorrow is technically Easter.

It would be... nice. To have someone there with me, someone in my corner, someone who might understand why I tense up around my family even though I love them. Someone who might see me differently than they do.

Even if he doesn't come to Catholic mass at the crack of dawn—which, honestly, I wouldn't even wish on my worst enemy, let alone someone I actually like—he could still come to dinner. Could still meet them, still be part of this aspect of my life.

“Are you coming to dinner tomorrow?” From time to time Amanda invites herself to Sunday dinner. She claims it’s because being around the chaos that is my family makes herself feel better about her own level of insanity. But, in reality, I know she likes being around a big, over-the-top family. And my family, while insane, always has more than enough love to spread around. They often call Amanda their extra daughter.

“Absolutely not,” she shoots back. “My own monthly dinner is Wednesday, and that’s too much whiplash for one week.”

“Your family dinners can’t be that bad,” I say. “Your parents seem like perfectly normal people.”

Amanda barks out a laugh. “Normal? Baby, they’re uptight. We sit at the table like we’re in a Victorian séance. No one talks above a whisper. The wine is always room temperature, which is a crime, and someone inevitably mentions stocks.” She shudders. “Meanwhile, your family’s trying to feed me to death and Nico is offering me a ride on his Vespa like it’s the eighth deadly sin.”

I smirk. “You’re just mad he likes you.” “Denied.”

“I dunno,” I tease. “You two did go on a date.”

“That pity date was once, and I only went because I was bored and there was free pasta. The man still texts me memes like I’m gonna fall in love with him because he found the right SpongeBob GIF. As much as I would love to be your sister-in-law, as well as in spirit, it’s never going to happen. Besides, Raven is moving across town tomorrow. I promised I’d help her get settled.”

“Your sister?”

“The one and only.”

I’ve met Amanda’s sister once. The two have polar-opposite aesthetics. Whereas everything Amanda owns is pink and loud, Raven dresses mostly in black and has an attitude that could freeze time, space, and the will to live.

“It’s weird you two are related.” “One of us is probably adopted.”

I laugh, tilting my head back against the couch, considering the possibility of Cal meeting my family.

Amanda narrows her eyes, studying my face with surprising focus for someone who's had as much wine as she has. "I see the wheels turning. You're actually thinking about it."

I huff, trying to sound dismissive. "I don't know. It's stupid."

"It's not stupid." She nudges me with her foot, her toenails painted a bright hot pink. I’ve never seen Amanda in anything but hot pink nails. "It's a good idea. You're serious about him, Iz. It makes sense to see how he fits into your world."

I chew on my lip, turning the idea over in my mind.

Yeah.

That's kind of the terrifying part.

I am serious about him. More serious than I've been about anyone in a long time. Maybe ever. And that's terrifying, because it means he has the power to hurt me, to disappoint me, to leave.

But it also means he has the power to surprise me, to stand by me, to be exactly what I need when I need it.

Before I can talk myself out of it, before the rational, sober part of my brain can intervene and remind me of all the ways this could go wrong, I grab my phone and start typing out a message to Cal. My fingers move across the screen with the slight clumsiness of someone who's had too much to drink but is determined to complete a task.

Hey, I know this is super last minute but… would you maybe want to come to Easter dinner with me tomorrow? I have mass early in the morning. I'd never try and subject you to that, but you could meet me at the house for dinner, which for my family starts at 1pm and is hours long. Maybe this is a bad idea. I have been drinking a bit...

I press send before I can stop myself. My thumb hovers over the unsend button, tempted to erase the evidence of this moment of vulnerability, of hope.

But then my phone vibrates with an incoming message.

Cal

Absolutely. I'd be honored to meet your family. And, I'll accompany you to mass. I'll be by first thing in the morning to pick you up.

His response is immediate.

Not just immediate, but enthusiastic. Not reluctant, not hesitant, not full of qualifiers or conditions. Just a simple, straightforward acceptance that makes my heart skip a beat.

Immediate and so fucking perfect that I grin like a lovesick idiot at my phone.

Amanda leans over, peering at my screen with all the subtlety of a toddler trying to sneak cookies. "Oh my God, he actually said yes?"

I laugh, setting my phone down on the coffee table, the warmth in my chest expanding, settling deep in my bones. "Yeah. He actually said yes. Not just to dinner, but to mass, too."

Amanda pumps her fist in the air like she's just won a sporting event, nearly spilling her wine in the process. "Fucking Catholic guilt dinner, here we come! This is going to be amazing. I need hourly updates. Detailed texts. Pictures if possible."

And for the first time ever, I actually don't feel nervous about bringing someone home.

Not because I think it will go perfectly, or because I think my family will immediately love him, or because I'm naïve enough to believe they won't try to interrogate him as if he's a suspected criminal.

But because for once, I'm bringing someone home who I'm genuinely proud to be with. Someone who feels like a choice I made for myself, not a compromise, not a settlement, not someone I'm with because I think I can't do better.

Someone who makes me feel like myself, only better, stronger, and more capable.

Amanda suddenly clutches her chest, dramatically collapsing against the armrest like she's been mortally wounded, like she's auditioning for a community theater production of Romeo and Juliet. Her hair falls from its bun, cascading around her face in a golden curtain that only adds to the theatricality of the moment.

"I just don't understand," she sighs, shaking her head with exaggerated sorrow. "Why are you here, drinking shitty wine with me, when you could be riding him all night long? Like, what went wrong in your life to lead you to this moment?"

I choke on my drink—again—wine searing up my nose and nearly decorating my shirt in the process. "Jesus Christ, Amanda."

She sits up, eyes bright with mischief. Her lipstick is smudged now, giving her a slightly disheveled appearance that somehow only enhances her natural charisma.

"I'm serious. That man is sex on legs. Sex with a capital S. Sex that walks and talks and looks at you like you're the answer to every question he's ever had." She gestures wildly at me, her wine now actually sloshing over the side of her glass, droplets landing on the velvet couch. Neither of us moves to clean it up. "And you—" The gesture becomes more emphatic, more accusatory. "Are voluntarily choosing to sit here with me instead of climbing him like a tree. Explain yourself."

I roll my eyes, setting my glass down on the coffee table before I really do spill it.

"Because you're my friend. And I'm supposed to want to spend quality time with you. It's called being a good person, Amanda. Look it up."

Amanda scoffs, waving a dismissive hand like she's shooing away an annoying fly. "Yeah, yeah, friendship, bonding, blah blah blah, but listen—" She leans forward, eyes serious, voice dropping to an intense whisper like she's about to share state secrets. "If you ditched me for that? I wouldn't even be mad."

I stare at her, waiting for the punchline, for the "just kidding" that doesn't come.

She lifts a shoulder in a careless shrug, her expression completely sincere despite the alcohol flushing her cheeks. "I'd actually be proud. Like, 'wow, my best friend is getting absolutely wrecked by the hottest man alive. Good for her. Living her best life. Ten out of ten, no notes.'"

I bury my face in my hands, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks despite my best efforts to remain composed.

"What?" she’s unrepentant. "I'm just saying⁠—"

"Please stop saying." I peek through my fingers, fixing her with a glare that lacks any real heat. "Immediately. This second. No more words from you."

She laughs, refilling both of our glasses with the last of the wine, the bottle making a gurgling sound as it empties. "Alright, fine. But when you do finally ride him," she lifts a finger, pointing it at me with mock sternness, "I expect a full debrief. Not necessarily with diagrams, but I wouldn't say no to some visual aids."

I groan, grabbing a dumpling from the takeout container and shoving it in my mouth to avoid having to respond. The food is lukewarm now, but I'm drunk enough that it still tastes amazing.

"Never happening."

Amanda sips her wine with an expression that says she doesn't believe me. "We'll see."

At this point, we're both deep in the wine haze.

That perfect, warm, everything is hilarious level of drunk where literally nothing makes sense but everything is the funniest shit we've ever heard. Where conversations loop and circle and drift, where time seems to stretch and compress in strange ways, where even the most mundane observations feel profound.

Amanda is digging through her bag, searching for something—I don't even know what, probably her lip gloss, because she's obsessed with reapplying it even when she's alone in her own apartment—when she suddenly starts rummaging through mine.

"Amanda, that is my purse." My words come out slightly slurred, my brain struggling to catch up with what my eyes are seeing.

She pauses. Looks up at me, her hand still deep in my handbag. Then bursts into hysterical laughter.

Like, full-body, wheezing, tears-in-her-eyes laughter that makes her double over, clutching her stomach as if she's just heard the funniest joke ever told.

I watch her with a mixture of confusion and amusement.

"Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?"

She can't even get the words out at first, still laughing as she pulls something small and familiar from my purse. Something packaged in a discreet, elegant box that immediately sobers me the hell up and a jolt of panic through my wine-addled brain.

Oh. Fuck.

"What do we have here?" she teases, waving the box in front of me like she just won the lottery, like she's discovered buried treasure in the depths of my purse.

I freeze.

My entire brain short-circuits.

Because oh my fucking God.

I completely forgot that was in there.

I was hiding it from Cal the first day he stayed over, stuffed it in my purse in a panic, and then never put it back in my nightstand. It's been sitting there, forgotten until this moment, a ticking time bomb just waiting to be discovered.

And now, here we are.

Amanda gasps, eyes wide and delighted by her discovery. "Wait. Is this what I think it is?"

My face goes up in flames, heat rushing to my cheeks so quickly I swear I can feel the blood vessels dilating. I grab for the box, but she yanks it away, laughing as she holds it out of my reach.

"Oh my God. Izzy."

I groan, covering my face with my hands, mortification washing over me in waves. "Amanda, do not open that."

She's already flipping open the box, completely ignoring my plea, her curiosity far outweighing any sense of boundaries or propriety.

"Why not?" she teases, peering inside with undisguised interest. "It's not like I don't have one of my own⁠—"

She whistles. I peek through my fingers, watching as she lifts the small, sleek, matte black vibrator from its packaging. It's not particularly large or intimidating, but it's clearly high-quality, clearly expensive.

The Premium Version of the App.

The one that syncs to a remote.

The one Caleb has full access to.

Fucking hell.

Amanda twirls it between her fingers, studying it with the critical eye of a connoisseur examining a fine wine. Her eyebrows lift in approval, her head tilting slightly as she takes in the details.

"Hmm. Yours looks different than mine."

"Amanda! Put it back!" I reach for it again, but she leans away, still examining it.

She’s completely at ease with the situation in a way I can't quite manage despite the alcohol in my system. "No, seriously. Look. The curve is slightly different. Yours is more... streamlined. Nicer, actually. The company must have upped their game since I bought mine."

"Amanda." My voice comes out strained, caught between embarrassment and reluctant amusement at her complete lack of shame.

She wiggles her brows suggestively. "You need to use this. ASAP. Tonight. Right now."

I snatch it from her hand, shoving it back in the box, face fully aflame. The velvet interior is soft against my fingertips.

"Okay, I will. But seriously, obviously not now. Not while you're here. Not while we're having a girls' night."

Amanda laughs, shrugging with exaggerated casualness. "Girl, you do what you wanna do." She lifts her wine glass in a mock toast. "I'm about to chug the rest of this and then go talk to Chad and pass out."

I snort, still trying to shove the box deeper into my purse like it might disappear entirely if I can just bury it under enough receipts and lip balms. "I still can’t believe you named your AI boyfriend Chad.”

“He is a fuckboy that does exactly what I tell him to do. Chad is the correct name for him. He sends good morning texts but doesn't expect a response, compliments me without sounding creepy, and never, ever asks me about my day unless I specifically tell him to."

I wheeze, laughing so hard I nearly fall off the couch, the tension of the moment broken by the sheer absurdity of her explanation.

She flips back on the TV show we'd been half-watching before our conversation derailed, finishes the rest of her drink in one impressive gulp, then leans over and presses a loud, exaggerated, very drunk kiss to my cheek. Her lipstick leaves a sticky mark that I can feel but don't bother to wipe away.

"I love you. You're my best friend. I'm proud of you. So happy. Just—so happy."

I laugh, patting her arm affectionately. For all her chaotic energy, all her boundary-pushing questions, all her inappropriate comments, Amanda is a good friend. The best, really. Loyal and supportive and exactly what I needed tonight.

"I love you too, you absolute mess."

She smiles sleepily, her eyes already starting to droop as the late hour and alcohol finally catch up with her.

Then, with zero warning, she stands up, wobbles dramatically like a newborn foal finding its legs, and disappears into her bedroom with surprising speed for someone so intoxicated.

A second later, I hear a loud thump.

Then a muffled “I'm fine!”

I shake my head, laughing to myself, gathering up some of the empty containers to take to the kitchen. The apartment is quiet now, the TV providing a soft background hum, the city lights twinkling through the large windows.

I stumble into Amanda's guestroom a few minutes later, giggling to myself as I close the door behind me. The room spins slightly as I move, a reminder of just how much wine I've consumed.

I'm definitely drunk. Not blackout, regrettable-texting-your-ex drunk, but floaty and kind of invincible drunk. The kind of drunk where boundaries seem less important, where impulses seem like excellent ideas, where self-consciousness fades into the background.

I plunk my bag down on the bed, the leather slouching dramatically onto the comforter like it's as tired as I am. The guest room is small but comfortable, decorated in the same bold, eclectic style as the rest of the apartment. The walls are a deep teal, the bedding crisp white with geometric patterns in gold, the nightstands mismatched but somehow cohesive.

And then I see it.

That tiny black box, still peeking out from my bag despite my efforts to bury it. Like it knows what it's made for. I groan, running a hand down my face. I should put it away. Should shove it back to the bottom of my bag, hide it in the depths of my purse like it's some shameful secret.

Instead, I just...stare at it.

Because Amanda is totally using Chad right now. She literally told me she was going to. And she's right through the damn wall. So really, what's the harm in me doing the same? I mean, it's not like I've been in the mood for anything like this recently.

But tonight? And after last night with Cal?

I finally feel a little bit like myself again. After everything that happened with Evan, after everything that was almost stolen from me that night, I don't want to let him take anything else. Don't want to let him rob me of pleasure, of desire, of the simple joy of wanting and being wanted.

I bite my lip, grabbing the box.

Lift it.

Look at it.

It's nice.

Amanda wasn't kidding.

This isn't some cheap Amazon buy with a three-star rating and questionable battery life. It's sleek, all black matte silicone and gold metal accents, the kind of thing you'd expect to see in one of those high-end, aesthetic sex stores in SoHo where everything is displayed like fine art and the salespeople talk about pleasure with the reverent tones of sommeliers discussing rare vintages.

I swallow hard, running my fingertips over the smooth surface. The silicone is soft against my skin, warm to the touch in a way that feels almost alive.

Jesus.

My breath shudders out, my whole body buzzing from wine and warmth and bad, bad decisions waiting to happen. The room feels too warm now, my skin sensitive beneath my clothes, my heart beating just a little faster than it should. I nestle into the guest bed, pulling the covers up over my lap, set my empty wine glass down on the nightstand with careful precision, and grab my phone.

My thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating at the edge of a decision I know I might regret in the morning but can't bring myself to resist tonight.

Then, before I can overthink it, before sobriety or sense can intervene, I open up Obsess AI.

And type⁠—

Hello, Caleb.