Текст книги "Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist!"

Автор книги: Kay Marie

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"Shoot!" I curse, wiping the liquid off my jacket, running my hand down the front of my pants, and swatting the spill away. Luckily, it's coming off pretty easily and after a moment I switch, rubbing Patrick's jacket, wiping the material clean, murmuring, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

But then I freeze. Because my hand is rubbing the bottom of his coat, which is on top of his slacks, which are over his, uh, privates…

I snatch my fingers back.

Did I just feel Patrick up in public? Oh my god, did I just sexually assault him? And in front of a little boy too!

Petrified, I look up—right into his perfectly beautiful evergreen-tinted eyes. Now we're staring at each other in silence. He doesn't say anything. I don't say anything. An eternity seems to fill the air around us, creating a bottomless gulf between our bodies. An impassable divide. And everything in my body says to flee, to retreat, to get away as soon as humanly possible.

So I blurt, "Napkins!"

And then I run…like a five-year-old.

This is so not the second date I had in mind.

A few moments later, I'm cowering in the bushes on the side of the restaurant—stomach growling with the enhanced smell of delicious food—reminding myself to breathe, just breathe. It's not a big deal. I'm making way too much out of nothing. I mean, he probably didn't even notice. If he was fourteen, that might have just rocked his world. But he's twenty-four, and experienced, and now probably just thinks I'm crazy because of how I reacted…pull it together!

I take a deep breath, looking around, meeting the eyes of a few strangers tossing curious glances in my direction. I mean, I'm crouching behind a bush for crying out loud. Does it get any worse than this? Then I hear the ominous flap of wings and look up. I'm directly below about twenty pigeons, and each bulbous eye is pointed in my direction, shining with a devilish gleam. A whole new bout of terror clenches my gut.

Crap—literally!

I jump out of the way. Is that the splat of droppings landing on dry leaves or am I just imagining it? I don't turn around to find out. The world just sent me a message and I got it, loud and clear. Suddenly, facing Patrick doesn’t seem so bad. Especially when the alternative is getting dumped on, like actually dumped on, by pigeons. I shiver, forcing the image from my mind, and grab a few napkins from the dispenser before returning to the line.

For a moment, I think he ditched me.

I mean really, who could blame him?

But then the crowd shifts a little, and I see that he's there, scanning the line and looking for me too. I smile when our eyes meet, a little more comfortable than before, and wave with my napkin-filled hand.

"Sorry," I murmur as I close the space. "You'd think for a place teeming with ketchup, napkins would be easier to find."

We both take a second to pat ourselves dry. And then the silence returns.

"So…" I trail off, unable to bear it.

"So—" he starts, but then a ringing cell phone interrupts and he digs his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out a blackberry, scanning the screen. He cringes, looking at me with a sorry expression and steps out of line, whispering, "I have to take this."

I watch out of the corner of my eyes as he nods, says something, nods again. I've never wanted to be able to read lips more! But a second later he hangs up and I stare forward, pretending I wasn't completely eavesdropping on his call—not like it did me any good or anything.

"Work?" I ask.

"Unfortunately," he says, tone grim. I hold back my frown. "It was my boss. Something fell through on the deal we're working on and I have to get back right now. We need to completely overhaul our presentation for the morning, and it's going to take all night. I'm so sorry."

I shrug, pasting on a smile. "It's okay, I understand."

"Rain check?" he asks.

I smile and nod.

And then he turns around, walking away without so much as goodbye.

My face falls.

I can't help but notice there was no time or place associated with that rain check. No specifics. And I have the unsettling feeling that I've just been dumped. Was that call even real? Did he just not want to ditch me outright and asked a friend to call to give him an excuse? I thought that was just something girls did… And I really thought things were going well this time. I mean, until the whole molestation incident five minutes ago, but that wasn't that big of a deal—was it? Am I crazy? I had the butterflies with him—butterflies! Those don't happen very often, at least not to me.

"Skylar!"

I look up, hope springing to life, a burning flame in my chest.

Patrick is jogging back toward me, shaking his head.

"You don't have to go?" I ask, internally cringing a second later. That didn’t sound desperate, did it? Whatever. He came back! I don't really care how it sounded. Okay, well, that did sound a little desperate. Ugh. I focus on him instead of my incessant internal monologue.

"No, I have to go, I just completely forgot to ask you something."

"What?" I try to keep my voice light and casual. As though I'm not hanging on his next words. As though I'm not intertwining my fingers to keep from throttling him.

"Well…" he trails off, pursing his lips a little, thinking. "What are you doing for Halloween?"

I pause—I was not expecting that. Halloween is in like two weeks. Does he want to plan something in advance? Guys never want to plan dates so far in advance—not this early on. Maybe he's not breaking up with me…

"Nothing!" I chirp, a little too excited. But who cares? He's asking me out again!

"My friend Dan is having a Halloween party on his yacht and he needs the final guest list by Friday, so he can give the full manifest to the crew. Do you want to come?"

"Your friend has a yacht?" I blurt. And then realize the correct response was yes—easy, simple, one word. Yes. But it’s too late.

Patrick shrugs. "Oh, it's not his I guess, it's his parents."

Because that's totally normal…not.

I shake my head, refocusing, and say, "Yeah. I'd love to."

"Great." Patrick smiles widely, deepening the creases around his eyes as his whole face warms. And it's all for me. All because I agreed to another date. I flush.

He keeps talking, but my eyes are stuck on his lips, their perfect rosy color, and I'm distracted as I watch them move and pucker and widen. I'm not really listening, but am instead thinking about another kiss—a nice, sweet goodbye kiss. And I don't realize he's stopped talking until I notice his mouth has stopped moving.

I look up.

He's leaning forward, watching me—waiting.

"Oh, yeah, that would be great," I hastily reply, not sure what I've just agreed to.

An amused gleam shimmers to life in his eyes, and I wonder if he knows I have no idea what we're talking about. He raises his eyebrows, and says, speaking a little slower, definitely teasing me. "You said your friend was dating someone, right? They can both bring dates if they want, just text me everyone's full names by Friday so I can tell Dan. Okay?"

"Yes." I nod firmly—I heard him this time. I'm still not quite sure what happened or what I missed, but I did hear him. And then, just for extra emphasis, I add, "I'll text you."

"Sorry I have to leave," he says again, looking over his shoulder as though a giant clock is waiting there to show him that time is in fact ticking by.

"It's okay. Really." And I mean it.

Unlike before, he doesn’t just abruptly turn away and leave me. He leans in, closing the distance between us. But when he's just a few inches away, he pauses, peering at me mischievously.

"What?" I ask.

"No hot chocolate this time?"

I bite my lip, grinning. But I don't have time to reply, because he closes the gap and brushes his mouth against mine, kissing me. His lips don’t taste like chocolate anymore, they taste just like him, and I might like that even better.

Too soon, he pulls away, saying goodbye. I watch him walk away. And yes, I'll admit that my eyes might dip to his butt just a little. Hey, who can blame me? If you saw it, you'd look too.

But as he disappears around the corner, a sudden realization dawns. Hits me like a ton—heck, ten tons—of bricks, knocking the wind from my lungs, leaving me gasping for a second.

He said both.

Before, when he said I should text him names, he said both people could bring dates. I rack my brain, thinking back to our first date and everything we talked about, shuffling through the various conversations, tracking any and all names I could have possibly said to him, and only two stand out.

Bridget and Ollie.

He had asked if I had roommates, and I said two—Bridget, my best friend, and Ollie, her brother. Two. Both.

Oh my god.

All my excitement vanishes—gone, poof, just like that. Replaced with gut-wrenching dread. Halloween. Me, Patrick, and Ollie. And Ollie's imaginary date. And Bridget. And, oh man, I bet Blythe will be there too.

All of us.

Trapped on a boat.

With no way out.

I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

I close my eyes, cringing, and then open, looking at the line before me. I could go home to the warmth, but I won’t. I'll wait here for another half an hour on my own, because, really, I've never needed a burger, fries, and a milkshake more.

Make that a double milkshake.

And could they add a shot of vodka too?

 

Halloween is Bridget's favorite holiday, so almost by default it’s one of mine too. I mean, I was more of a fan when it meant free candy and not sexy barely-there costumes, but still—playing pretend as a grownup is fun…usually, anyway.

 

 

"Oh my god, is that it?" Bridget leans over and whispers into my ear, pointing toward a massive, sleek white yacht at the end of the pier.

I swat her hand down. "Stop pointing, it's embarrassing."

"Your boyfriend is rich," she comments, gaping.

"It's not his boat… and he's not my boyfriend," I qualify begrudgingly, because really, I would love it if Patrick were in fact my boyfriend. But that's one of those things that's most often decided by a truly awkward conversation or a drunken slip up—either way, it hasn’t happened yet. We've had three dates since the whole groping incident in the park, which makes this the second longest relationship I've ever had—but still, until he says it, I don't want to think it.

Bridge just rolls her eyes. "Well, none of my other friends have access to multi-multi-multi-million dollar ships for parties. Although," she pauses, winking at me, "after tonight maybe they will."

Oh, right. I forgot to mention that Tim, the naked man, never called Bridget again, so she's flying solo for the evening—not that it dampens her style at all. Ollie, on the other hand, should be arriving any second with some girl named Aubrey. Not that I care or anything.

"Are you sure I don't look ridiculous?" I ask Bridget for maybe the twentieth time in the past hour.

She shakes her head. "I'm not responding to that question anymore."

"Bridge…" I whine.

Nothing.

God, so stubborn.

I flatten my hands against my stomach, running my fingers over the spandex that feels painted onto my body, and pull the fake leather jacket tighter around my stomach. Usually for Halloween, I take the easy road—Mary Poppins, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Dorothy. You know, the sweet, rated-PG look. Well, after Bridget's prodding and constant reminders that we may never find ourselves on a yacht ever again, I decided to step it up a notch. Or, well, she decided for me—lending me her clothes, curling my hair for about an hour, and letting me borrow her fiery red lipstick. Have you guessed yet? I'm Sandy, from Grease. And not the buttoned sweater, white sneakers, headband Sandy that I would usually play, but final scene Sandy—stripper heels and all.

And oh man, do I feel ridiculous.

I peek at Bridge, holding in a sigh. She's as confident as ever, marching forward, eyes gleaming as they stare straight ahead at the yacht. Then again, she looks amazing—as per usual. Every year, Bridget uses some painting as inspiration for her costume. One year, she pulled off a Picasso look with some bizarre face paint that looked a little too realistic, like ear for a nose sort of stuff. Another year, she was one of those pop art comic book girls. But I can't help noticing that this year, rather than over-the-top face paint, she went a little sexier too. Madame X is her inspiration—I wasn't sure what painting it was so she had to show me. Apparently, back in the day it caused quite the scandal. All I know is that she's wearing a super tight, super low-cut black gown with sleeves that drape off her shoulders and a slit up her thigh that I sort of think wasn't in the original piece. Her bright red hair is pulled back and up into a bun, leaving a lot of cream skin exposed. Like I said, she looks fabulous.

"Name?" A man in an official-looking white button down asks as we approach the yacht.

"I'm Skylar Quinn and this is Bridget McDonough, we're friends of Patrick's," I murmur, fighting back a sudden bout of nerves that maybe we were accidently left off the list. Or not so accidentally left off…but that's just ridiculous. Right?

His eyes scan his clipboard and a few seconds later, he checks off two names from his list, looking up with a smile. I relax my shoulders, releasing the tension in my muscles, but then his gaze flicks to our feet. What now?

"No shoes on board. There's a basket where you can store them for the night," he says and points to the right.

I pause.

Did I hear that correctly? I'm not allowed to wear my heels? Hallelujah! Can I kiss him? I mean, I know I can't, but the urge to throw my arms around his shoulders and plant a big fat kiss right on his lips surges through my system. Quick as I can, I unstrap the four-inch death traps and free my aching toes, and then I sigh, a warm and joyous sound. Being barefoot is glorious.

The crewmember is ignorant of my sudden bliss and just keeps talking. "If you take a left at the top of the ramp, there's a staircase that will lead you to the second floor where the party is being held."

"Thanks," Bridget and I chime, and then look at each other, mouthing second floor, and arching our eyebrows with idiotic grins. Strains of music and the rumble of conversation guide us around the back of the boat to the gleaming white grand staircase partially hidden by orange and black streamers.

Bubbles of anticipation pop beneath my skin, putting me in the party mood, and an unusual bout of optimism shimmers to life in the back of my mind. I have an unclassified but really fun boy-thing, I have my best friend, and I have a once in a lifetime experience cruising the Hudson River on a yacht. Maybe I was dreading tonight for nothing…

"Skylar!"

Then again, maybe not.

I cringe, recognizing the voice, and turn. "Blythe, how are you?"

Immediately, her eyes scan up and down my costume, burning with judgment. And I think mine might do the same. For a second, I really have no idea what she is, except maybe a Victoria's Secret model. But above the booty shorts and bustier, I notice a little pair of ears. A cat. Why am I not surprised? She does have claws after all.

"How adorable, you're Sandy," she says in too sweet of a voice, stepping closer to run a finger over my jacket, instantly able to tell that it's fake leather. "I was Sandy for Halloween back when I was fifteen. Of course, not for the whole night. Just long enough to get past my mother, but then I changed into a real costume when I met up with my friends. Not that you need to change or anything. You look really cute."

How unusual. A backhanded compliment from Blythe. I open my mouth to respond, but Bridget beats me to it.

"I really love your costume too," she says, copying Blythe's tone almost exactly. "Considering how objectified female bodies are in the mainstream media, I think it's really brave to come dressed as a porn star. I really appreciate the political statement you're making."

I bite my lips, while my cheeks puff with contained mirth.

Hold it.

Hold it.

I breathe deeply, swallowing the sounds back down.

"And who are you?" Blythe asks, glaring at Bridge, crossing her arms.

"Bridget McDonough, Skye's best friend," she says sweetly, still not giving up the act, and offers her hand.

"Blythe Keaton."

They shake. And just like that, a new pair of archenemies is formed.

But I don't have time to separate the two of them before the catfight begins, because a pair of muscular arms wraps around my torso, pulling me back into a firm chest, and soft lips come to rest a teasing distance away from my neck.

"You look great," Patrick whispers, breath tickling my skin, brushing the sensitive spot below my ears. A tremor races down my spine and spirals back up again, deliciously hot.

I spin in his arms.

And then recoil, stepping back.

What the…?

I'm speechless

Patrick is wearing a headdress—a full-on Native American headdress with feathers that stretch all the way down his back. My eyes dip to his bare chest, a little farther to the nicely tanned and chiseled abs I've only ever felt through fabric, and then farther to fringe-lined chaps stretching down his legs.

"Please don't tell me those are assless…" I murmur.

"We're the Village People," he says, grinning.

"You and who?" I glance from side to side

"The guys, wherever they are, probably in the other room with the drinks. I lost a bet and had to wear this costume. I had my eye on the sailor outfit, but Dan got to wear it since he's captain of the yacht for the night. But, this isn’t so bad, is it?"

I scrunch my brows tightly and then relax, stretching my fingers out to run them slowly over the contours of his six-pack. "No, not so bad."

"Hey, guys."

I jerk my hand back instinctively at the sound of Ollie's voice, and when my eyes land on him, my heart clenches, squeezed by an invisible fist.

Ollie is a T-bird.

Leather jacket. Black pants. White shirt. Hair slicked back. Brood—oh man, the brood. He looks good—really good. A little dangerous. But what else is new? And then it hits me, right as Patrick slips his fingers through mine, draping his arm across my shoulders, claiming ownership—it looks like we're here together. Like Ollie and I are the couple.

"What are you wearing?" I yelp and then slam my lips shut, wincing.

Ollie looks at me, confused. "What? This is what I wear every year." And then his eyes rake my entire frame, slowly, down to the tips of my toes, taking his time on the way up. And he grins. He actually grins. "Oh."

Patrick tugs me a little closer. And I let him.

"This might be my fault…" Bridget mumbles. I turn my glare from one McDonough sibling to the other. She's biting her lip. "I heard someone mention Grease and I just thought it was someone at work since I couldn't remember. And then I thought—Oh! Skye would make the perfect Sandy."

"Which she does," Patrick adds, squeezing me gently for emphasis. I smile up at him. Feeling a little better, until…

"Oh, everyone, this is Aubrey. Aubrey, this is everyone."

A girl steps out from behind Ollie and my jaw actually drops. I'm gaping. In awe. She's freaking beautiful. And her perfectly toned legs stretch as high as my neck. I'm not even kidding.

"Hey, I'm Bridget."

"Blythe."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Patrick."

And I hear them all speak, but my mind and body are completely disconnected. It might have something to do with the fact that my jaw is still nailed to the floor… But I can't move. Can't say anything.

Where did he find her?

Did he buy her? Is she even human?

"When she comes out of her coma, that's Skye," Ollie chimes. And I'm so transfixed I can't even glare at him. I mean, it's bad. So bad, that Bridge leans over and pinches me, hard. I twitch—growing painfully less attractive with each passing second it seems—and snap out of it.

"Oh, sorry, yeah, I'm Skye. I just love your costume," I add, trying to cover my tracks. And then I actually look at her costume, which is a black leotard showing a rather aggressive amount of butt cheek—really it might as well be a thong as far as I'm concerned—and then nothing but bare leg all the way down to the warmers scrunched around her ankles. Oh, I mean, she also has on a gray cut-off sweater that covers most of her torso and just falls off her shoulder a bit. But that's a lot of leg, like four feet of bare skin. And bum—bare bum too.

Okay, ugh, fine. She looks amazing.

Whatever.

"Oh, thanks." Aubrey shrugs. "It's Flashdance. I have so many old leotards laying around, I almost always use them for Halloween."

"Are you a dancer?" Blythe asks. The accusation in her tone makes the word dancer sound ugly and despicable. And you know what? I think I'm learning to appreciate Blythe in ways I never have before.

"Yeah," Aubrey says, smiling kindly, totally sincere in her sweetness. I could probably really like her, you know, if I didn’t have a fiery level of hatred burning my insides like I do right now. "I'm a Rockette, actually."

Well, that explains the legs.

Blythe doesn’t even respond, she just rolls her eyes and exits the conversation without so much as a goodbye. I need to steal that move. I mean, it's utterly rude, but completely effective.

Instead though, I swallow. "Who wants a drink?"

Because I need one, ASAP.

"Come on, I'll show you," Patrick says, slipping his hand under my coat to lay his palm fully against the small of my back. I focus on the warmth of his skin as he guides me through the crowd. "We have cocktails or Jell-O shots, pick your poison."

I look at the fully stocked bar with mixes and liquors of all kinds. And then my eyes drift down to the half-empty tray on the table. I grab two and hand one to Patrick.

"Happy Halloween," I toast.

And then we both slurp, downing the Jell-O in one easy move. And all I can think is, oh man these are dangerous. Sugary and sweet, I barely notice the alcohol except for a bitter aftertaste. Patrick takes two more from the tray.

Oh, what the heck!

"Happy Halloween," he whispers after, leaning down to kiss me. And right when I think he's going to pull away, he deepens the kiss instead, arching my back. My hands grip his bare shoulders for balance, and I can’t say I mind the feel of his smooth, warm skin or the firm muscles beneath it.

"Get a room!" someone calls and I pull away.

Bridget winks at us and I grin, knowing the catcall came from her. And that's pretty much where the party really begins. Bridget wants to do a Jell-O shot. And then Ollie and Aubrey join us, and they want one too. And then we all decide to test out the bar. The boat leaves the harbor and the gentle rock shifts people this way and that, so we all dance to counteract the motion. The music blares against the night and ever so often when I look out the clear plastic canvases zipped all around the deck, flashes of the Manhattan skyline poke through to remind me that this isn't a dream, it's the real world. So, yes, this is all really happening to me.

Patrick's hands barely leave my hips as we sway back and forth, bodies pressed tight. Even when we're just talking to people, when he's introducing me to friends, he's touching me. A hand on my back. Fingers interlaced through mine. An arm around my shoulder. And it's nice to be so wanted, to be joined with another person in that way. I don't miss my ex John, but I do miss this—that feeling of being connected to another person, of being a we instead of a me, and somehow Patrick and I have slipped into the role during the course of the evening.

I even get used to Aubrey. I don't get used to the pangs of jealousy that pinch my gut when I happen to glance over and see Ollie's hands wrapped around her, when I see her smile after he whispered something softly into her ear. But I don’t think I'll ever get used to that, from anyone. And she's nice enough, a good sport. As soon as the other guys find out she's a Rockette, they demand a performance and she's tossed into the middle of a dance circle to do high kicks and splits. Blythe scowls from the corner, surrounded by a group of girls I don’t know. Bridge and I joke that we need to wipe the drool off the floor before someone slips and hurts themselves. But when I look at Ollie to gauge his reaction, I notice that he's not even watching. His eyes are drawn out the window, toward something I can't see.

And then everything changes.

Everything shifts.

Out of nowhere, a karaoke machine almost magically appears. Patrick is whisked away by his friends, ordered to don his headdress, and the Village People put on a show. I'll admit, when they start belting out "Macho Man" while simultaneously flexing their muscles, I get a little breathless. Who wouldn't? Even Bridge grows silent by my side.

But then Patrick's friend Dan, the leader for the night, starts pulling people up from the crowd. A couple dressed as Sunny and Cher. A girl who came as Britney during her "I'm a Slave for You" years. And I don't see it coming, I really don't, when suddenly a hand grabs my arm, yanking me toward the makeshift stage in the corner of the room.

"What? No!" I protest.

And in the confusion the buzz of alcohol has caused in my brain, it takes a second for me to process that the fingers wrapped around my wrist belong to Blythe. And even longer to realize that this could only be something bad. But by then it's too late. And I know what I'll see before my eyes fully focus.

Ollie.

Or not Ollie—Danny. Danny Zuko. As in, Sandy and Danny, up on stage for a duet.

Stupid karaoke.

"Oh no," I say, turning around to flee.

But the crowd has become an impenetrable wall and no one will let me through. They sense my weakness and they pounce. Someone says it once, and then all of a sudden everyone on the yacht is chanting, "Grease! Grease! Grease!"

And I'm stuck. Trapped without an escape. Just like I knew at some point tonight I would be.

Ollie places his hand on my elbow, tugging gently, offering up a comforting smile before handing me the second microphone. The opening strains of the song begin. And suddenly I feel like a shy girl playing a character. I am Sandy—all dressed up with no clue what to do and an entire crowd of people watching.

I'm having an out-of-body experience. Ollie starts to sing, shrugging off his leather coat in a mini striptease and tossing it into the crowd. He screeches that I'm electrifying and then falls face first to the floor as my victim. And I know it's my turn next, but I have no idea what to do.

I turn. Searching for a solution, a clue.

Bridget's there, just like the girls in the movie, placing a fake cigarette in her mouth, dropping it to the floor, instructing me on my next move. And I do it. Then I put a foot on Ollie's chest, pushing him up, and his smoldering teal eyes land on mine. A shock travels through my system, a bolt of lightning igniting my every nerve on fire.

After that, the words come easily.

Because he is the one that I want. And right now, I have him.

I don't think we break eye contact for the entire song. We both know the lyrics by heart. At one point he grips my hipbone, twirling me around, moving my body in steps to match his, as though we're one person. I'm laughing for no reason, caught up in the moment and in the heat of his gaze.

Then it all ends.

As slow as a sunset, yet as sudden as a car crash.

The music dies out and we're face to face, inches apart, breathing heavily, unsure who is going to pull away first. I don't see the other people. I forget the rocking of the boat. All I see is Ollie. Time stretches, slows, so the second passes in what feels like an hour.

And then sudden. Snap. The moment races forward, faster than the speed of light. Ollie turns. Looks away first, bowing to the applause. The boat rocks and I stumble. But he's already walked away, stepped off the stage. And I'm falling, with no one there to catch me.