Текст книги "Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist!"

Автор книги: Kay Marie

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

 

So…I wasn't ready. Big shocker! What is wrong with me? I'm twenty-two. It should not be this hard. I ended up staying the night, cuddling against his chest under his surprisingly cozy blankets, waking up to a kiss and a hot cup of coffee. I mean, the boy is perfect. So I say again—what is wrong with me?

 

 

"Skylar, any updates?" Victoria asks from across the conference room. We're having our weekly meeting with the Style team, only it got pushed back from the normal time on Tuesday mornings to Thursday afternoon.

I spit the sip of latte I just started to take back into my cup, coughing. And then look down sadly. Ew—backwash. I read somewhere once that the last tenth of any drink you consume is all backwash. I mean, how nasty is that? You end up just drinking your own spit. Disgusting. And yet…I don't think I have the heart to say goodbye to my nutmeg laced coffee just yet.

"Skylar?"

Oh, right. My boss!

"Yes," I say quickly, covering up for the space out. "I just finished a new column, all about date night ideas to spice up the holiday season. On Sunday, I surprised Patrick by showing up with a few lights, candles, and a gingerbread house kit. With romantic lighting and soft Christmas music, any setting can become magical. I ended the piece with a few more ideas, ice-skating or a movie night, things like that. And added a part about how to seal the deal before the night is through, or just bring new heat to a long-term relationship. I think the readers will definitely swoon." I mean, I know I did.

"And it's on my desk?" Victoria asks, scratching down some notes.

"Yup."

"Good. And how about holiday gift guides? What are your ideas?"

I bite my lip, closing my eyes for a moment. When I open, Blythe catches my gaze, smirking. Did I mention I'm meeting Patrick's parents for the first time tonight? Who also happen to be Blythe's parents? And did I also mention that she's been dropping hints all day, you know, about the utter sabotage she is about to lay down?

Well, she is. And guess what? I'm terrified.

I mean, meeting the parents for the first time is always a little nerve-racking. But when you're a sex columnist who's sort of totally embarrassed about being a sex columnist, that little feeling of nerves gets blown up to full-on panic attack pretty quickly. And right now, Blythe is subtly rubbing her wrist—a gentle reminder that the day ends in fifteen minutes and then the two of us will be alone for however long it takes to get to a brownstone on the Upper East Side.

I look away, back to Victoria. "Well, for the gift guides, I got assigned to gifts for style-savvy techies, so I put together a list of about twenty-five different ideas and put that on your desk to review. iPhone cases, monogram decals, adjustable camera lenses for your phone, various gadgets."

And then I wait. Because I have a feeling I know what's coming next.

"Great." Victoria nods, and for a moment I really think what I was afraid of might not happen. That I might be in the clear. But then she opens her mouth, still holding eye contact with me, and my heart sinks. "For your next column, I want you to put together a sexy gift guide. Costumes. Toys. Accessories. Things like that. Okay?"

I swallow, trying to cover the gulp. "Of course."

Ugh.

I knew it.

I knew this would happen.

I have to talk about toys. Toys? The only toys I know about are Barbie dolls and video games. And that's fine with me.

"Okay, that should be it, everyone. I'll see you all tomorrow. Skylar, can you come to my office with me?"

I subtly spit my coffee out again, holding back a sigh.

Goodbye, nutmeg.

"Sure," I mumble and then toss the paper cup in the trash, following Victoria out the door. My heart starts beating fast—Victoria wants me to come to her office. Why? Am I underperforming? My columns have gotten great traction so far. I even have a little following on a Facebook fan page I created for my penname. I mean, I wasn't going to write these under a real name! But still, the anonymous fame is pretty fun. Even if I find myself answering sex questions nonstop. Sometimes, I feel a little guilty handing out totally false advice. But I always ask Bridge for her opinion, so at least my responses themselves come from a place of experience—even if I have none.

"Skylar, I want you to look through these for your gift guide. A couple of different retailers sent them to our office as samples," Victoria says when we step into her office, and she hands me a loosely sealed cardboard box. "When you're done, just get rid of everything. I don't really find these sorts of things appropriate to keep in a newsroom."

My smile wavers.

Good god—what’s in the box?

For a moment, my fingers flinch, ready to drop the thing like it’s a bomb about to explode, but I hold on.

Stay professional.

You can do this.

"Thank you, Victoria. Have a wonderful evening," I say, doing that smile I've mentioned before—the sweet killer look.

"You too," she says, but her attention is already on the e-mails waiting in her inbox and I know I've been dismissed.

As soon as I get back to my cubicle, I drop the box loudly on my desk with a heavy sigh, and take a step back—staring at it as though it might bite.

"What's in that?" Rebecca chimes. Isabel is out today, so it's just me, Rebecca, and Blythe in the assistant corner.

"I don't really want to know," I mumble. "Just some things for my gift guide."

Rebecca immediately perks up, rolling her chair closer. "Ooh, let's take a look. This could be good."

I step back, giving her room, and she keeps wheeling slowly closer.

Okay. I'll admit it. I'm curious. Not curious enough to get any closer, mind you, but intrigued enough not to stop a girl on a mission.

Rebecca stands, slowly opening the cardboard flaps, and lets out a laugh. "Oh my god."

Blythe jumps into action, crossing the small space and taking a look. Even the permanently composed ice queen cracks a smile, glancing at me with humor dancing in her irises. Then they both look at me expectantly, waiting for me to join them. And dang it…I sort of want to. But I remain seated, holding my ground.

Rebecca breaks, reaching into the box to pull out a see-through red lace bra with a matching thong. "Patrick will love this," she says and winks.

Blythe just makes a noise of pure disgust, muttering, "Tacky."

"And these," Rebecca keeps going, pulling out a set of fuzzy handcuffs next.

My face starts to redden.

Next out is a bottle of some sort of lotion, and I don't want to know more than that.

"Oh my god, look at these," she exclaims, holding out a box of Santa hat pasties. My cheeks are on fire. Literally. I think I might self-combust in the middle of the newsroom. Just poof, vanish into a cloud of ash, dying from embarrassment.

"What about this?" Blythe remarks. And her tone is way too nice, way too cheerful to be sincere. So I jump out of my seat, snatching the cardboard flaps and slamming them closed. Blythe barely has time to jerk her hand out of the way lest it be chopped off in my speed. And hey, I'm moving pretty well for a girl with a broken wrist. But I know one thing for sure—I do not want to see whatever Blythe was about to pull out of my little box of horrors.

"Okay, time to go," I say, shutting down my computer and tucking the box safely under my desk, as far away as I can hide it.

"Are you so eager to meet my parents?" Blythe comments while buttoning her red peacoat.

"Is there any reason I shouldn't be?"

"No, of course not…" she trails off. I bite my tongue, waiting, because obviously, there's something else she wants to say. Wait for it. Wait for it. Blythe throws her purse over her shoulder and then looks back at me, smiling. Here we go… "It's just, they loved Patrick's last girlfriend. Her parents were diplomats. She graduated from Harvard last year, neuroscience major, pre-med. They were heartbroken when he ended things."

Wonderful.

I sigh.

Future doctor, phony sex columnist—those are practically on equal playing grounds, right?

Right…

Not.

I follow Blythe to the elevator, squeezing in with the crowd, thankful for the silence. Speaking on the elevator always just seems a little strange to me, awkward, you know? I mean, come on. All anyone does on an elevator when two people are having a conversation is listen in—you're stuck in a box, there's nothing else to do beside eavesdrop!

"Uh, Skylar?" Blythe calls to me when we step outside the office. I've already turned toward the subway station. But I pause, spinning. She's standing next to a black town car, shaking hands with a driver in a suit, conversing like they are best friends. "My mom sent her car to pick us up."

I mean, duh. Obviously. Why didn't I think of that?

"Thank you," I murmur to the driver as I slip through the door, which he shuts behind me. The seats are a fine tan leather. The handles are mahogany. There are even new bottles of water waiting in the cup holders for us.

I fold my hands in my lap, unsure. Blythe and I don't really do one-on-one girl time. I'm too afraid of her for that—and for good reason.

"So," Blythe chirps, bouncing on her seat to shift directions, facing me. "Before we pretend to be best friends for my parents, I just want you to know one thing. I'm on to you, Skylar."

I gulp at her ominous tone. Did I suddenly get thrown into a James Bond film? She's on to me? On to what? "Uh, I'm not really sure what you mean, Blythe."

"I've never known a sex columnist who loves to play innocent so much," she drawls.

And I can’t help it. I throw on a snarky attitude and smile. Maybe Bridge is finally rubbing off on me. "How many sex columnists do you know, exactly?"

Her eyes narrow. "You blush like a fifteen-year-old girl every time we have to discuss your columns in our weeklies. You can't even say the word sex without smiling self-consciously. And the only R-rated stories you tell are in writing. Not once have I heard you say any of this out loud, because you can't. You're just lucky my brother isn’t one to kiss and tell, or one to rat out a friend."

My heart is pounding, but I try to keep my voice as steady as possible. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"Oh, you know," she whispers, and I find I'm leaning in to hear every one of her words. "We work for a newspaper. We're supposed to work in journalism, not fiction."

"Everything I write in my columns comes from my heart," I say, and it's not a lie. Really. All the sentiments I put on paper are real, it's just the details that are a little, well, embellished. "It's just easier for me to write about these things, rather than talk about them out loud. That makes me shy, not a liar."

Blythe just nods, smiling sweetly. "Okay…"

Except she says it in a way that means everything but. Maybe if I get her angry, she'll crack. I lick my lips, nibbling on the lower one a little, thinking.

Just go for it.

"You're jealous," I remark flippantly. "You were working there before me, and instead of giving you a column of your own, Victoria hired me."

"Jealous of you?" Blythe asks, only it's not a question, not at all. "Please. I just don't like the entire city reading about my brother's private life every week."

"I don't even write out his name, only initials. There is no way anyone knows who he is unless he wants them to."

"I know who he is," she says just as the car pulls to a stop outside of a gorgeous brownstone on Fifth Avenue, right across the street from Central Park. "And as soon as I can, I'm telling Victoria who you really are. I just have to wait for my brother to break up with you first. And trust me, Skylar, it's only a matter of time."

And then the driver opens the door so Blythe can make a perfectly grand exit, while I scoot ungracefully across the seat, catching my coat button on a buckle and practically falling out of the car. By the time I get to the front door, Patrick is already there holding it open for his sister.

"Hey, Skylar." He leans down, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Hey," I murmur, trying to hide the fact that anything is the matter. "I was worried you'd be late."

He shrugs. "I actually have a conference call in about half an hour, so I thought I would come for the introductions and then while you guys have cocktails, I can take the call from my father's study."

My heart sinks. Feed me to the wolves, why don’t you? But on the outside, I just smile warmly, pretending it doesn’t bother me.

"Where are Mom and Dad?" Blythe asks, handing her coat to a maid who just appeared out of nowhere. I do the same, unused to being helped with such menial tasks. I mean, I can hang a coat on a rack myself.

"Upstairs," he says, taking my hand and leading me to the grand staircase a few feet away.

Now that I have a second to look around, I have to admit, I'm pretty much speechless. This house is amazing. Like, could have its own television special amazing. The Queen of England would find this place impressive. The walls are covered in warm, rich wood. The ceiling is painted—painted! Artwork is displayed in intricately carved golden frames. The upholstered furniture is crafted of shimmering silk, pin tucked and with feet carved like little claws. I can just tell that everything in here is from an auction house, infused with history. The grandfather clock. The grand piano. The marble fireplace. And when I look up, the stairs keep winding for at least two more floors. I mean, it's a mansion—a mansion in the middle of one of the most expensive cities in the world. A dozen of my apartments, heck maybe more, would easily fit in here. I knew Blythe was a socialite, I knew Patrick had some money to burn, but I had no idea they came from this.

"Blythe," a voice calls softly.

I look toward the sound to a woman dressed in a beautiful green woven dress with a matching jacket, and I've learned enough at the style section to know it's vintage Chanel and crazy expensive. By her side is a man in a dark gray suit, complete with a tie.

I swallow, smoothing my hands down the front of my black work dress—from the sale rack, obviously. At least I wore a bright scarf with it today to add a little color, Bridge's suggestion of course. And I'm in designer flats—I mean, they're a few years old, and a gift from my mom, but still recognizable with a bright gold buckle over my toes. For me, this is about as dressed up as it gets. But I feel a little bit like a toddler in a room of adults.

"And you must be Skylar," the woman says, giving me the once over. I can't decipher her expression enough to know if she approves or not—I see now that Blythe is just the ice princess, the queen is right here, hiding away in her castle.

"So nice to meet you, Mrs. Keaton." I reach out and shake her hand, which is a little awkward since she's still seated, sipping on a cup of tea. I turn to her husband, who did at least politely stand, towering over me with the same height of his son. "And you too, Mr. Keaton."

"Welcome to our home," he says after releasing my fingers. "Patrick speaks very highly of you." I sneak a peek at Patrick, who is smiling warmly in my direction. Maybe tonight won't be so bad. "Would you like a cocktail?"

I look around realizing he has a crystal scotch glass beside him, and another one waiting to be filled for Patrick. But somehow, alcohol just seems dangerous in this situation. I need all my wits about me. "Um, maybe just a glass of water, if that's all right?"

"Not a problem," he says and then nods to someone over my shoulder. I can't help but feel as though I've been transported to another century. These people have servants working for them.

"So, where did you grow up?" Mr. Keaton asks once we've all settled on the cushions. Patrick's arm is draped lightly across my shoulders, and I'm drawing comfort from the warm touch of his skin.

"In a small town in Pennsylvania, outside of Philadelphia," I respond. Let the interview begin.

"And what do your parents do?"

"My mom owns her own stationary store, and my father works in advertising," I murmur, waiting. But no snide remark from Blythe comes. No comment that my parents are divorced—something I'm sure the Keaton's would not approve of—or that the small town I come from is in the middle of farm country—something I'm sure they would find quaint but not acceptable.

Confused, I scrunch my eyebrows, glancing at Blythe. But she is sipping her cocktail, smiling politely in my direction. And I realize something when she meets my gaze—there are clock hands ticking in the center of her pupils. She's biding her time. I'm safe for a little while. But my stomach tightens in knots—when exactly is that countdown in her head going to hit zero?

"Your mother owns her own business?" Mr. Keaton nods approvingly.

"Yes," I say, jumping on the opportunity to impress while I still can. "The shop is sort of a cross between a design studio and a retail store. A lot of the cards we sell are from other merchants, but she does a lot of custom invitations for local events and weddings. I'm trying to help her expand, so I just recently put together a website for her to help reach a broader customer base."

Dang. That sounded pretty legitimate.

I sit up a little straighter.

"Very savvy of you," he comments. I grin, sipping my water.

But then a rumble vibrating against my thigh distracts me. Patrick shifts, reaching into his pocket, stealing the warmth of his body heat away and I'm left cold. He stands, signaling that he has to go with his fingers, pointing to the side.

The conference call.

I watch him disappear around the corner, veins turning to ice when I shift back around and catch Blythe's stare.

Time's up.

Her eyes practically blaze with excitement.

"So, Skylar, you work with Blythe at the newspaper?" Mr. Keaton asks.

I jump in before Blythe has time to comment. "I do. I'm also an assistant for the style section, and I write my own column, all about dating in the city in your twenties."

"How wonderful, your own column," he says. And I breathe easy for a moment. Mr. Keaton is actually very sweet—it's just the women in this family that have issues it seems.

"Which column?" Mrs. Keaton purrs from her teacup.

I swallow. Something in her tone unnerves me. The same prickly sweetness of her daughter. "Um, you probably haven’t read it."

"Skylar, don't be so modest, of course she has. Everyone has," Blythe chimes in. I close my eyes, taking a moment to breathe.

Oh god.

Oh god.

"She writes it under a penname. Cooper Quinn?"

That's it. I'm done for.

But no bomb explodes. There's no screaming. No kicking me out. No reaction. I release the breath I was holding, exhaling slowly. The world hasn't ended. The earth is still intact. I open my eyes.

"Oh, Cooper Quinn?" Her mother pauses. And then she smiles. And for a second, I think—this cannot be happening. She reads my column? And approves? I almost want to point and laugh at Blythe—victory is so, so sweet. Her mom continues, and the sinking expression on Blythe's face is enough for me. "I recognize that name. I do read that column, all the ladies—"

Mrs. Keaton stops dead.

My heart follows, screeching to a halt. The elation in my chest evaporates as realization dawns, a flip switching in the depths of her hazel eyes, which are slowly narrowing to slits. Blythe's smug expression pierces like a knife.

"You write that column?" Mrs. Keaton asks.

I start to choke on my own breath, reaching for my glass of water, finding it painfully empty. Where are those servants when you actually need them?

"And, PK, is Patri…" She trails off into silence. Every word she's ever read in my column flickers in her gaze, every lewd detail she perhaps gossiped about with friends or read with shocked curiosity, devoured like a penny novel. Every little bit she once found entertaining is now turning utterly grotesque in her mind.

My face is turning beet red, I just know it. And Blythe is taking a mental picture by my side, grinning triumphantly. Mr. Keaton just looks confused. But I can’t take my eyes off of the ever-rising eyebrows of Mrs. Keaton, the accusation in her glare, the utterly disapproving purse of her lips.

And I finally have an answer to my question about what could be worse than my own mother finding out I write a sex column. It’s my boyfriend's mother finding out I write a sex column about her son.

I sit back in the chair, leaning into the cushion, trying to shrink—wondering if I can disappear if I just think hard enough.

But I don't.

Her eyes nail me in place.

I just bite my lip and sigh. This is going to be the longest dinner of my life.