Текст книги "Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist!"
Автор книги: Kay Marie
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
By Kay Marie
Kindle Edition
Copyright 2015 Kay Marie (Kaitlyn Davis)
Cover Art: Manipulated by Kaitlyn Davis from an attribution licensed flickr creative commons photo by Tania Saiz, a dreamstime.com image © Ginosphotos | Dreamstime.com – Girl Blowing Kiss Photo, and a dreamstime.com image © Dirima | Dreamstime.com – Woman Showing Tablet Screen In Autumn Photo.
Title and Chapter Heading Font: Dancing Script by Pablo Impallari (permission granted by artist)
The right of Kaitlyn Davis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the author, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be direct infringement of the author's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblances between the characters and persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All Works By Kay Marie
Confessions
Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist!
Confessions of an Undercover Girlfriend! – Coming Soon!
All Works Writing As Kaitlyn Davis
Midnight Fire (4 Books)
A YA Paranormal Romance
Once Upon A Curse (2+ Books)
A YA Dystopian Fairy Tale
A Dance of Dragons (3 Books, 4 Novellas)
A YA Epic Fantasy
To my family for their unconditional love,
my friends for their overwhelming support,
and my fans for their incredible enthusiasm.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Table of Contents
All Works by Kay Marie
All Works Writing As Kaitlyn Davis
Dedication
Table of Contents
Confession 1
Confession 2
Confession 3
Confession 4
Confession 5
Confession 6
Confession 7
Confession 8
Confession 9
Confession 10
Confession 11
Confession 12
Confession 13
Confession 14
Confession 15
Confession 16
Confession 17
Confession 18
Confession 19
Confession 20
Confession 21
Confession 22
Confession 23
Confessions of an Undercover Girlfriend – Preview!
More Books by Kay Marie
About The Author
I'm a sex columnist. Okay, well, that's not really the confession. I'm sort of, kind of—I'm a virgin…sex columnist.
I'm having a panic attack.
Well, at least I think I'm having a panic attack. Rapidly beating heart that shows no sign of slowing? Yes. Inability to breathe resulting in the strangest sounds known to man escaping my lips? Yes. Fingers shaking so badly that it took three attempts to press my button on the elevator? Yup. Feeling totally and completely detached from my surroundings? Um, well, I'm standing in front of my apartment door with no recollection of the subway ride and ten minute walk that brought me here…so, yeah, that too.
Crap.
Definitely a panic attack.
"Bridget!" I call through the front door. She's my roommate, my best friend, and in this moment, my hopeful savior. But there's no answer.
"Bridget!" I call again, flinching at the high-pitched shriek.
Is that my voice?
Oh god, my throat is tightening. I can hardly breathe. Is my vision going too? I cannot pass out in the hallway with my keys still in my hands. What would my neighbors think? What if someone robs me? I'd be prime bait. What if—?
I shake my head. So not the time for that. I need to breathe. Just breathe and get the door open. Easy, right? I force my hand to still long enough to shove the key in the lock and jiggle the knob until finally it clicks. With one hard shove, the door swings open and I jump inside, falling back against the wood just as it slams shut.
I close my eyes.
I breathe.
I'm home, finally.
"Bridge, are you here?" My voice already sounds smoother, calmer. But my heart is still thumping painfully in my chest—this isn’t over, not until I tell her the truth, not until I tell someone the truth.
I'm a farce.
A complete and utter farce.
An answering grunt comes from the kitchen. She must be eating, but that's okay because that means she won't be able to say anything until I'm done. Or she’ll spit her food out all over the floor that I washed yesterday.
Worth the risk.
"Bridge, I need to tell you something and I don't want you to say anything until I'm done because I'm freaking out and if I don't say it now I'm not sure I ever will. Okay?"
Silence. Good, she agrees.
Opening my eyes, I push off the door and spare a glance at our galley kitchen as I make my way to our small living room. The fridge is open, and she must be behind it because I hear someone rummaging through the food. But that's good, because it'll be easier to say this without having to look at her. After all, I've been lying to her for the better part of three years. Lying—to my best friend!
And here comes the hyperventilating again.
"Okay, so," I start as I fall onto the couch and bury my head between my knees. I read somewhere that it's calming, but it doesn’t seem to be doing much now. Maybe I'm supposed to close my eyes? But all that does is start a somewhat nauseating dizzy spell. Open, definitely keeping them open. I start to count the lines in the hardwood floor below my feet—why haven’t we bought a carpet yet? We've lived here for three months already.
I shake my head—so not the point.
Just spit it out.
"Okay, Bridge, well the thing is, I told you something a few years ago because I was embarrassed and at the time it seemed like no big deal, like something I would fib about for a little while, but soon enough it would be true and it wouldn't really be a fib anymore. Anyway something happened today and I need your help, but in order to get your help, I need to tell you the truth about this fib, that grew into a lie, that exploded into this constant gnawing at the back of my mind because I was keeping a secret from my best friend. Does that make sense?"
I shake my head miserably.
Of course it doesn’t. I don’t even understand myself.
I take a deep breath and try again.
"Okay, never mind. Don’t answer that. The thing is, do you remember that first weekend home after freshman year? We were at that party—I think Stephanie hosted it? Doesn’t matter, but we were at that party and no one had hung out since Christmas, and someone suggested we play that game, Never Have I Ever. You know, the one where you start with five fingers up and if you've done whatever someone says they never have, you need to put one finger down, and the first person who's done five of the things loses? Well, do you remember we were playing and at some point I was the only one with all five fingers up because obviously I was the mega-prude of the group? And then someone gave me this challenging stare and they said, 'never have I ever been a virgin?' And everyone looked at me, and everyone put down a finger, and everyone was waiting, and judging, and wondering if I really truly got through freshman year at college without having sex? And I was a little drunk, so I gave into peer pressure and put my finger down? And then I looked at you and your eyes were about as wide as dinner plates and you grabbed my arm and hauled me away demanding all of the details, and then I gave you all of those details? Well…what I'm trying to say is none of those details were true. Are true. Have ever been true."
Spit. It. Out.
Now.
I take a deep breath and pick my head back up from between my knees, talking to the room now instead of the floor, feeling more than a little lightheaded. The rummaging in the kitchen has gone utterly silent. I have Bridget's full attention.
"So, the thing is, Bridge…I'm, well…" I take a deep breath. "I'm a virgin."
As soon as I say the word, all breath leaves my body and I collapse against the cushions.
Virgin.
I'm a twenty-two year old virgin.
The word fills the air around me. Expanding. Growing. Suddenly, I can't see anything else in our tiny Manhattan apartment except the word virgin in big, Broadway-sized flashing lights. That song from Les Misérables starts playing in the back of my mind—how does it go again? On my own… something, something… all alone. And in each flicker of those flashing lights is a snapshot of my past self, asking how in the world I ended up here, confessing to my best friend that I've lied to her for years.
When male ballerinas start leaping across my mental stage production in black leotards, I close my eyes, shaking my head and expelling the picture to force my mind back to the reality of the situation.
"Bridge?" I ask, sighing. "Please say something. I think I'm losing my mind."
Still nothing. I lick my lips. Might as well just get it all out of the way now.
"And the whole virgin thing isn’t everything, it's not even what I'm freaking out about. I got a job, finally. After three months of interning for the newspaper, they offered me a job. Only, it's not for the arts and literature section where I've been working—it's for the lifestyle section. Me—the one with no fashion sense, limited social skills, and a T-shirt that reads 'books 4 life.' And that's not even the best part—they want me, the virgin English major, to write a column. A dating column. Okay, a sex column…"
My throat is starting to close, and it's highly possible that hives are breaking out along my neck. I can’t help but reach a few fingers up to rub at my skin as I try to swallow, fighting the chalky feeling on my tongue.
"And, I sort of said yes."
Well, there it is. I said it. Now do you see?
I'm a farce. A fake. In my utter desperation to land a job with a full-time salary (and benefits!), I created the worst situation any hopeful journalist could ever be in. I'm going to be a reporter who can't report the truth. A liar. A sham. They'll run me out of the city before my first column is ever printed. I'll never work in newsprint again. I'll be forced to return home a failure, begging to oversee the editing of my high school gazette, surrounded by stories about football games and science projects for my entire life, praying for a student-teacher affair or drinking scandal to liven things up. I'll—
"Um, Skye?"
Did I say any of that tirade out loud?
"Yeah?" I call back, pulled from my paranoia.
But then my heart stops.
I stop.
Time stops.
Even my brain stops…for a second anyway.
The full sound of that voice carries to my ears and it's not Bridget's. It’s not even a woman's. And I recognize it.
I'd recognize it anywhere.
"Ollie?" I squeak.
"Skye…" he answers. Is it possible for someone's voice to be smiling?
But I don't believe it—I don't want to believe it. I ask again, hoping for a different answer. "Oliver McDonough?"
"Skylar Quinn?" he asks, and I actually hear a snicker this time.
I stand up and run to the kitchen, tripping over my own feet and throwing my arms against the wall to keep from falling over as I soar through the opening.
And there he is.
Six foot two. Sinfully dark brown hair. Brilliantly turquoise eyes.
Oliver McDonough.
Bridget's older brother.
And the last person I ever wanted to see in the world.
I am sort of in love with Oliver McDonough—no wait, I was! No, I am. No, I was. Am? Was? Crap!
I haven't seen him in four years. In fact, I've actively been avoiding him for four years. And now he's here. In my kitchen. Drinking my milk—from the gallon no less! Did I mention he looks completely and utterly gorgeous? Maybe even hotter than I remembered…if that's even possible…
Okay, I'm veering off track.
"Ollie?" I gasp. "What are? Why are? When?" Great reporting, Skye… I swallow, stilling my racing words and form an actual sentence. "What are you doing here?"
"Here in New York or here in your kitchen?"
Here pretending to be your sister while I confess my deepest secrets? Here looking at me with that infuriating half-smirk smile thing you do? Here pretending like the last time we saw each other wasn't the most horrifying moment in my entire life?
I don't say any of that, of course. Instead, I shrug. "Um, both? Either?"
He puts the milk back in the fridge and closes the door. I can't help but notice a toned bicep below the sleeve of his white T-shirt—the same bicep I used to fantasize about during chemistry class, the bicep of the most popular guy in the school, the bicep of the quarterback. Six years since he stopped playing football, and crap, he still looks good.
"I'm guessing Bridget forgot to mention that I got offered a job at a new steakhouse opening on Fifth Ave? As a sous-chef?"
I shake my head. "Nope, she didn’t mention anything."
He licks his lips, biting back a wider grin. "So she probably also didn't tell you I accepted the offer and just moved to New York?"
"I don't recall ever hearing about that…" I trail off as my palms begin to sweat. I have a very, very bad idea where this is going.
Astronomically bad.
Iceberg straight ahead bad.
Ollie's eyes brighten a shade, crystal aqua, clearer than any Caribbean water I've ever seen. He leans against the wall, crossing his arms, looking at me through a side-glance, the hint of a dimple on his cheek. My rapid heartbeat has nothing to do with my panic attack anymore.
Oh yeah, this is bad.
"So," he says, lifting his brows and looking at me apologetically, "she probably also didn't tell you that I'm moving in for a few weeks until I can find my own place?"
"You’re the new roommate?" I shout and then clamp my hands over my lips. I've said enough to him tonight—too much. In fact, all of that information is crashing back down around me.
Ollie is my new roommate.
Ollie knows I'm a virgin.
Ollie knows I'm a sex columnist.
And right now, Ollie is looking at me like he can read every panicked thought racing through my mind, like he's thinking about the same thing I'm thinking about—the night that we are to never ever speak of. The reason I've been avoiding him. The thing I never want to even think about again.
He reaches out his hand, fingers an inch from mine, but I step back, crossing my arms and cocking my hip, pretending to be cool, to be unfazed. I've gotten really great at pretending not to care about him.
"Awesome," I murmur, trying to smother the crack in my voice.
Where is Bridget? Because I am going to kill her.
Ollie opens his mouth, looking at me with distinctly downcast eyes, and I know what’s coming next. The apology—the one I don’t want to hear. The one he never said then, and the one I won’t let him say now.
But I'm saved by the sound of jingling keys right outside our door.
Bridget's home.
I glance back at Ollie, but his eyes aren't on me anymore. They've retreated.
"Skye, are you okay? The doorman was worried, he said—Ollie!" Bridget cries. All I see is the bright red blur of her hair as she rushes past me and flings herself into his open arms. "You're here! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming today?"
Ollie wraps his arms around her waist, picking his little sister up in a bear hug. "I wanted to surprise you."
He holds her for a second longer, but Bridget squirms to get out of his arms and turns to me, eyes wide, mouth open in horror. "I forgot to tell you Ollie was moving in. Shit. I'm so sorry, Skye. But it's perfect, right? Just like old times, the three amigos together again."
Before you ask, no, Bridget has no idea what happened with Ollie. And yes, I'm the worst friend ever. But she can never—and I mean never—find out. So I force a smile and lighten my tone, panic attack completely forgotten. "Just like old times."
Bridget looks at me, then looks at Ollie, and back to me—grin growing wider with each glance. Her excitement is palpable, and the last thing I want to do is ruin it. "This is going to be perfect," she finally says and leans against the counter.
"Perfect." Ollie grins.
"Perfect." I grimace.
"Good, we all agree. Now I can get out of these shoes," Bridget says, reaching down to rip off her high heels, and I can't help but smile. My best friend, the one I saw only in paint-stain-covered outfits for the majority of my life, has become posh. Black heels. Stockings. Tight-fitting dress. A blazer. Her hair is even pulled back in a not-at-all messy bun. Well, at least it was until she just started ripping out the bobby pins, letting her curls fly free.
"We just got a new artist at the gallery," Bridget continues, still removing pins from her hair, "and you would love her, Skye. The opening is next week, and I want both of you to come."
"Okay." I shrug, trying to ignore the fact that Ollie is looking at me. Staring at me. A flush warms my cheeks and suddenly I'm hot. Like, burning hot. Sweating. Pull it together, Skye. I squirm. It's not like he has freaking laser beams in his eyes! But he might as well…
My eyes start to shift closer and closer to meeting his gaze. But at the exact moment I almost break and sneak a peek, his eyes shift and I can breathe again.
"Sorry, sis, I'm guessing the opening will be during prime dinner hours. But I can meet you out after for celebratory drinks?"
"Okay." Bridge sighs and opens the fridge, grabbing a bag of carrots to munch on.
"So, Skye had something she wanted to tell you before," Ollie drawls.
This time I can't help it, my eyes immediately find his, narrowing in the best angry look I can muster. All it does is deepen the humor in his expression. And in that moment, I know he knows—knows that I've completely lost my nerve. Now that I made the confession once—you know, the virgin sex columnist thing—I'm not sure I can do it again. Especially with Bridget so happy, and so excited. I really don't think I can handle her being mad at me, not now, not while I'm emotionally traumatized by Ollie's surprise return to my life. Now more than ever, I need my best friend.
Alarm bells go off in my head.
Retreat!
Retreat!
I step back, swallowing. "No, it's nothing we can't talk about later. I'll, um, just let you guys catch up. I'm wiped anyway."
Ollie won’t release me so easily though—of that I'm sure. Ever since we were kids, he's never let me get away with anything. Ever. One time I stole three of Bridget's peanut butter cups on Halloween night—I mean, they’re the best candy, let's be real here—but anyway, he saw me take them. And the whole night, he kept thinking of ways to bring peanut butter into the conversation, grinning at my every flinch, laughing at how much it ate me up inside. Until finally, I confessed, practically shrieking and crying to Bridget. Her response? She gave me three more. But still, Ollie's always loved to push my buttons.
But not this time, buddy.
Not this time.
So I'm not at all surprised when he casually says, "Not so fast, Skye."
"Yeah, come on. Hang out," Bridget joins in, pouting.
"No really, I—"
"Come on, Skye, weren't you just saying that you needed to tell Bridget something?"
I stare at him pointedly. "No."
"Oh, wait," Bridget says, turning to me with a curious gaze. "Yeah, the doorman was worried about you, he said you looked really panicked when you came home. I totally forgot about it when I saw Ollie here."
My avenue of escape is getting narrower by the second. In fact, I think the doorway behind me is literally shrinking. Does the room feel more cramped to anyone else? I swallow, heart pounding again. I'm too young to experience so much anxiety in one night.
Bridge sees the impending panic, but all it does is make her narrow her gaze, zeroing in on me. I need new friends—these people know me too well.
"I just had a bad day at work," I mumble and then look at the floor.
But crap, no! Why did I look at the floor? That's like the most obvious clue that someone is lying ever. Stupid, stupid mistake. Quickly I fix my gaze, throwing my head back up, but it's too late.
They saw.
"Well, it's really great actually," I say, mouth dry, pitch way too squeaky. "I got offered a full-time position working for the newspaper. They even want to give me my own little weekly column, nothing huge, but still, it’s pretty exciting."
Before I even get the words out, Bridget is squealing and running to throw her arms around me. "I'm so happy for you, Skye! What are you writing about?"
"Um, nothing really, just same old, same old," I murmur into her hair, hoping Ollie won't hear. But over Bridget's shoulder, I meet his stare.
Big mistake.
He's a balloon about to pop, his cheeks are so full with held in laughter.
I shake my head, motioning no.
He crosses his arms, shrugging just slightly.
I widen my gaze, pleading.
And then I wait.
And wait.
And—
"She's the new sex columnist," he says.
Jerk.
"What!" Bridget pulls back, blocking my view of her brother as shock fills the space between us. "I thought you were working in the arts and literature section, for the book review editors?"
"I was, but a new position opened up in the lifestyle section and they wanted me, so…"
"Hey," she chastises, sensing my self-conscious tone. "It's a real job as a real reporter in a real newspaper. You have your own column! This is amazing—we need to celebrate!"
Bridget releases me to rummage through the cabinets. I refuse to look anywhere but the floor. Is that a dust-bunny in the corner? I just cleaned. How is that even possible?
"Aha!" Bridget cries. "Tequila. Mix. We're making margaritas."
"You know," Ollie says in a hesitant voice, stretching his arms over his head. Terror floods my system as I wait for his next words. "I have to stop by the restaurant tomorrow morning."
I breathe a sigh of relief.
"So?" Bridget asks.
"Better make mine," he pauses, letting the words hang there for a moment. But he wouldn't… He won't… Oh, but he would. And he will. "A virgin."
No. I will not let him do this to me again.
But then I feel the heat of his gaze from across our shrinking kitchen. "You know the plane I flew today was really amazing. Outstanding snacks. Great service. But I can't remember the name of the company. It was Atlantic…something Atlantic…"
"Virgin Atlantic?" Bridget supplies as she searches for the blender. My stomach leaps into my chest, flipping like a freaking Olympic gymnast. "Yeah, I heard they were great."
"Yeah, they were playing this special on that singer, Madonna—you know, the Madonna?"
I refuse to give in.
Refuse.
I won't do it.
"And—"
"Okay, okay!" I scream. "Bridget, I'm a virgin. I'm a virgin sex columnist. I'm a total professional sham. Are you happy now, Ollie?"
"Would it be wrong to say yes?" he asks.
But Bridget drowns him out by dropping the blender. "But you told me you and John, freshman year…"
"I know," I say and bite my lip, "I know I did, but it wasn't true."
"You guys were together for three and a half years in college, why not?"
"Well, he comes from a really Christian family and he wanted to wait until marriage, and that was fine with me, and—"
"Didn’t you guys break up because he cheated on you?"
"Yeah, well…John said the whole waiting until marriage rule only applied to people he could see himself marrying. Apparently, band girls had a different set of rules."
Ollie is having a coughing fit in the corner. I want to punch him.
"But why did you lie?"
"We were at that party freshman year, and everyone had all these crazy stories, and we were playing that annoying game, and I just felt like such a loser—"
"Well, that's stupid," Bridget interrupts, cutting off my words. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. I mean, please, you know my first time was nothing special. I would totally take it back if I could."
"Your what?" Ollie bellows from the corner.
"Please, Oliver." Bridget rolls her eyes. "Control yourself."
"Who was he? Was it that asshole Jimmy, god what was his last name? Jimmy… Jimmy…"
"Ew, no, it wasn't Jimmy." Bridget and I make eye contact, biting our lips, holding in barely containable mirth. Jimmy was one of Ollie's football teammates in high school and Bridget dated him for this exact purpose—to annoy her brother.
"Andrew? That creepy artist guy from college?"
Bridget and I remain absolutely silent, because, obviously we both know that yes, it was Andrew, that creepy artist guy from college. Truth be told, he was a fantastically gorgeous brooding painter Bridget dated during her freshman year—and yes, he was ridiculously sexy, and yes, he was a bit creepy. Bridget still blames the paint fumes for taking away her sanity—I blame the brood. The brood does things to girls, makes them crazy.
I should know.
Ollie can do a mean brood when he wants to.
"It was Andrew." He fumes at the realization. "That guy? Really? I'm going to kill him. You cried over him for all of Christmas break—there were tear stains on my wrapping paper!"
"I'm an artist," Bridget says with a shrug. "I feel things very deeply. It's a blessing and a curse."
"But—"
"Okay," Bridget shouts over him, grabbing her brother by the arms and pushing him out of the kitchen. "That's enough sharing for one evening. Ollie, go unpack. Skye and I need to talk."
He protests for a few more minutes, but even though Bridget is smaller than him (and not by much), her will is iron. I learned a long time ago to never try to out argue her. It’s exhausting and in the end, pointless.
Which is why when she finally pushes her brother from the room and I can breathe easily again, I tell her the honest truth when she asks, "So, are you okay?"
"I don't know." And I don’t. "How in the world am I supposed to write a sex column?"
"You'll be fine. You’re a writer, embellish. And I'll help you—if you need any sordid details, don't hesitate to ask."
"As if I have to ask." I nudge her and raise my eyebrows.
"See what I mean? I've probably already given you enough material for your first few months of columns anyway." That just might be accurate. Bridget has a long trail of broken male hearts behind her. "Be excited, it's a new challenge. It's your dream job, sort of. Close enough anyway."
And she's right.
I'm getting paid to write. I have benefits. I have an office I go to every day and coworkers and a boss I'm sure I'll hate soon enough.
"I'm a journalist," I say, suddenly realizing for the first time in all of the fear that my dream has sort of come true. "I'm a real journalist."
And we do in fact drink those margaritas. Lots of them. Too many of them. But in the slight tequila haze, my anxiety drains away.
Everything will be fine.
My job.
My life.
Living with Ollie.
Everything will be fine.
And I truly believe it as Bridget and I say goodnight, and I stumble into my tiny room with a twin bed that's lofted over my dresser drawers. I'm happy as I struggle to launch myself onto the mattress, using my corner desk as a prop for my foot. I'm excited as I lie down for sleep, ready to dream about my first real day of work tomorrow morning.
But then a gentle knock sounds against my door.
And there's only one person it could be.
"Skye?" he whispers into the dark.
I could pretend to be asleep, but the alcohol has drowned out my neuroses, replacing them with curiosity. "What do you want, Ollie?"
"I just…" He sighs. My eyes are closed but I can perfectly imagine the way he's running his hand through his hair, messing it up—an unconscious move he doesn’t even realize makes my heart melt. Makes every girl's heart melt.
"Don't apologize," I say. It's the closest reference I've made to talking about what happened. And he understands immediately. Understands that I don't want to talk about it—but I doubt he understands why. It's not because I'm embarrassed or hurt or vulnerable. It's because I can't bear to hear the regret in his voice. Because before he did what he did, before that moment, I had the best few minutes of my life. And I don't want to hear that he wishes they never happened.
"Okay, can I say one thing then?"
"Sure." I rollover, finally sitting up. Even in the dark, his eyes shine, glowing blue. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol talking.
"It’s just, I can tell you're nervous about the new job, but you shouldn’t be, Skye. You’re a great writer, and well…" He shrugs, scanning the room for a moment. There's a note of honesty in his tone that I rarely ever hear, that I've learned to recognize over the years. "You don't have to have sex to be sexy, Skye. Some people do, maybe, but not you. Never you."
And then he's gone, leaving me alone in the dark with my racing heart.
