Authors: Leisa Rayven
Smooth.
No wonder I’ve never had a boyfriend.
“So…” he says, and gestures to my phone on the kitchen bench. “Your roommate called to see how you were and to tell you she’ll be home later.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“She said to ask if she needs to do your laundry for the rest of the month.”
I smile.
Well, I did sexually harass Holt. Even though we didn’t kiss or anything, I wonder if Ruby would count that as making out.
I blush when I think about it.
“Look, Holt, about last night—”
“Yeah, about that,” he says while rubbing his eyes. “What the hell were you thinking, drinking that much? You could have gotten alcohol poisoning.”
“I was”—
trying to be something I’m not
—”trying to have a good time.”
“Did you have a good time projectile vomiting? Was that fun?”
I shake my head. “For a while I felt good. People were laughing.”
“That’s because you were shitfaced and rubbing yourself on every man in the room.”
“Not every man,” I say defensively. “Only Connor. And … you.”
“Yeah, well, that’s enough,” he mutters. “What’s up with you and Connor, anyway? One minute you’re kissing him, and the next you’re all over me.”
“I didn’t kiss Connor. He kissed me.”
“Semantics.”
“And it was barely a kiss, anyway.”
“So, I guess you’re a horny drunk.”
“I wasn’t horny,” I say indignantly.
Oh God, I was so horny.
“Well, it certainly felt like it from where I was sitting.”
“I was … well … you were there and I was … uh…”
“Horny?”
“
Drunk
, and that’s why it happened. No other reason. Normally, I wouldn’t do that. To you of all people.”
“Because you hate me.”
“Exactly.”
“But you still want me.”
“What?! No!”
“Yes.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Hey, you were the one sniffing me and kissing my neck and grinding yourself on my … well … on me. If I wasn’t such a gentleman, we probably would have fucked right there in front of all of our classmates.”
His words are ridiculous, but my body doesn’t know that because the tingling ache I felt last night is back with a vengeance.
“Holt, two people who hate each other do not…”
“Fuck?”
“Have sex.”
“Sure, they do. Happens all the time.”
“Not to me, it doesn’t.”
“Pity.”
We fall into silence.
I smile and shake my head.
He frowns. “What?”
“I can’t figure you out, that’s all. One minute you give off this bad-boy vibe, like the world’s going to end if you’re nice to me, and the next minute you’re this really good guy who takes me home, buys food, and cooks me breakfast. Why would you do that?”
He picks at his fingernails. “I’ve been asking myself the same question all night.”
“And what did you come up with?”
“I have no fucking clue.”
“A moment of weakness?”
“Obviously.”
“Maybe you’re more good guy than bad boy after all.”
He give a short laugh. “Taylor, I’m a lot of things, but I can assure you that the one thing I’m not is a good guy. Just ask my ex-girlfriends.”
His face drops. Like he just told me something he didn’t mean to.
Before I can say anything else, he stands, brushes himself off, and takes a step toward the door.
“Well, I’m outta here. You’ve probably got things to do.”
“I don’t have anything planned,” I say. He stops to look at me. “You can … ah … hang out if you want.”
I never expected to crave Holt’s company, but part of me does. A lot.
“I … uh…” He looks at his feet. “Nah. I have to go.”
I don’t like that I’m disappointed.
“Oh. Okay. Well, thanks for the, you know, hair-holding and breakfast and stuff.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
I walk him to the door. He steps outside and turns to face me. “So, I guess I’ll see you Monday.”
“Yeah. Guess so.”
As he turns to go, I say, “So, are you going to talk to me next week, or was this a momentary lapse in your resolve to not be friends?”
He turns back, almost smiling. “Taylor, us being friends would be … complicated.”
“More complicated than whatever the hell we are now?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Is the world going to end if we hang out?”
He fixes me with an intense expression. “Yes. The seas will boil, the skies will darken, and every volcano in the world will erupt, thus bringing an end to civilization as we know it. So for the sake of humanity … in fact, for the sake of everything you hold dear … stay away from me.” He’s so serious, it makes me think he isn’t joking.
“Ethan Holt, you’re the strangest person I’ve ever met,” I say.
He nods. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“You would.”
He stares for a moment longer before shaking his head and walking to his car.
I watch until his taillights disappear around the corner.
After I close the door, I retreat to my room and crawl into bed. As I snuggle into my pillow, I wonder which Holt I’ll see next week: the douche with a giant chip on his shoulder who boils my blood, or the sweet man who made me hash browns from scratch.
Part of me hopes for both.
FIVE
BIRTHDAY WISHES
Westchester, New York
The Diary of Cassandra Taylor
Fourth week of classes
Dear Diary,
Today is my birthday.
Yep. Nineteen years of trying to be everything to everyone and ending up as no one to myself.
How the hell did this happen?
I don’t know if I’m depressed because I feel I should have achieved more with my life by now, or because I’m a nineteen-year-old virgin who desperately wants sex.
I’m pretty sure it’s that second thing.
I’ve never had a boyfriend. Never had a truly toe-curling kiss. Never had a boy touch my boobs or my butt, or pretty much any part of my naked body, and Lord, I’m desperate for it.
Most nights I touch myself, pretending the hands aren’t mine as I search for the crashing pleasure I keep reading about in Harlequin romance novels and
Cosmo
. But every night I give up, because even though I can feel something building—something shining and explosive and just out of reach—I can never grasp it. It’s like I’m hovering on the edge of a sneeze, and I’m inhaling and inhaling and inhaling, but the orgasmic exhale never comes. Literally.
Of course, it doesn’t help that I’ve recently discovered Internet porn and have become obsessed with it.
At first I was embarrassed as I watched extreme close-ups of male and female genitalia thrusting against each other, but the embarrassment was quickly replaced by fascination. Horny, aroused fascination.
Mostly with penises.
Oh, the pretty penises. Not flaccid ones of course, because they’re just floppy, wrinkly, and gross. But the erect ones? Wow. Beautiful. Magnificent. Incredibly sexy.
I’m enthralled by them.
I bet they feel amazing. Is that why men are so obsessed with their own?
The closest I’ve ever come to one was the night I drunkenly ground myself against Holt, and although that felt nice, I want to feel one in my hand.
Maybe Holt will let me touch his. I bet he has a very nice penis. I bet it’s glorious, like his stupid perfect face, and gorgeous eyes, and muscled body. I bet if he entered his penis in a competition, it would win “Best in Show” and he could walk around with a giant blue ribbon stuck to his crotch.
If I asked nicely, I wonder if he’d use his pretty penis to remove my pesky virginity.
I’m willing to bet I’m the only virgin in my class. I was holding out hope that Michelle Tye was still in the “V” sorority, but she came to class the other day bragging about how she finally met up with a guy she’d been cyber-sexing, and they humped each other senseless last weekend. She whispered to me that she came four times. Four!
Good God, I’d be happy just to come once, and she gets four? That’s plain greedy.
I haven’t spoken to her for a few days. My jealous vagina forbids it.
I swear that I’m so desperate sometimes I just think I’m going to grab the next guy who comes up to me, tear his clothes off, and molest him on the spot. That I’m going to—
“Hey, Taylor. Writing a novel?”
I slam my diary and legs shut with equal panic. When I look up, Holt’s looking down at me with one of his signature irritating smirks.
“What do you want?” I say as I shove my diary deep into my bag. With much effort, I stop myself from petting his crotch.
I fan myself because, oh sweet Jesus, my face is burning hot.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, woman? Are you sick?”
He places the back of his fingers on my forehead. All I can think is that I want those fingers touching me in intimate places.
Yes, I’m sick. Extremely perverted and sexually sick.
“I’m fine,” I say and stand to get away from him. I wind up overbalancing and tilt toward the ground. Then his arms are around me, and my horny, deprived body is against his, and I’m trying desperately not to hump his thigh.
“Shit, you can’t even stand up today,” he grumbles. “What the hell?”
I have a moment to savor how his arms feel under my hands before he’s pushing me away and doing that thing where he exhales while running his fingers through his hair.
I have to get away from him, because if I don’t, I swear to the tiny, sweet-smelling baby Jesus, I’m going knock him to the ground and straddle him.
I turn and walk away.
“Where the hell are you going?” he calls after me.
“Elsewhere.”
“Taylor, the Benzo Ra performance starts soon. In the theater. Which is in the opposite direction to the one in which you’re currently traveling.”
I stop in my tracks. In my sex-obsessed haze I’d almost forgotten about the world-famous performance troupe visiting our school for an exclusive performance.
I spin on my heel and stalk past him. “I knew that.”
He falls into step beside me. I speed up to lose him, but there’s no outrunning his stupidly long legs.
“You auditioning for Juliet next week?” he asks.
I scoff and shake my head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no way I would get the lead. I’m probably going to end up playing ‘third partygoer from the left’ and spend the whole production doing crosswords in the dressing room.”
He stops and stares at me. “Why the hell wouldn’t you audition?”
“Because I might suck.’”
“Why would you suck?”
“Because,” I say, “I look around our class, and everyone, and I mean
everyone
, has more of a clue about what the hell they’re doing. Nearly all of you have had some kind of professional experience and training, while I’ve had none. I feel like you guys are all driving sports cars while I’m still trundling away on my pink kiddie bike with the training wheels.”
He frowns. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Holt, they didn’t even have a drama course at my high school. I had a couple of private acting classes with a guy whose greatest claim to fame was being an extra on
The Bold and the Beautiful
, and the other day when I walked in on a conversation between Zoe and Phoebe about Stanislavski, honest to God, I said, ‘Oh, wow, I love him. I think I saw him play in the finals of the U.S. Open.’”
He looks at me for a few seconds, his aggravatingly blue eyes unblinking. “Well, hey, that’s an easy mistake to make. The father of modern characterization does sound like a tennis player.”
He keeps his composure for a grand total of three seconds before his face cracks as he doubles over in laughter.
“I hate you,” I say as I walk away.
“Aw, Taylor, come on,” he calls as he comes after me.
“I tell you I’m feeling insecure and inferior, and this is how you react? See,
this
is why we’re not friends.”
“I couldn’t help it.”
“I know. Apparently my ignorance is hilarious.”
He grabs my arm to stop me, and his laughter fades. “Cassie, you’re not ignorant. Do you honestly think a casting director is going to care if you know who Stanislavski is when you go to an audition?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never auditioned for a casting director, because I have
zero
experience.”
“But you’ve done plays…”
“I was in the chorus of two musicals for which the only audition requirement was showing up. I’d hardly credit that to my stellar technique.”
“Well, you got into this place, for God’s sake,” he says, gesturing around him. “Out of thousands of people, they accepted
you
, and that wasn’t because of how many castings you’ve been to or how many lame-ass plays or movies you’ve been in. They accepted you because you’re really fucking talented, okay? Stop being so goddamn insecure and own it.”
I look up at him. “You think … I’m talented?”
He sighs. “Jesus, Taylor, yes. Very talented. You’ve got just as much chance as anyone of getting the lead role. Maybe more, because you have a sort of … intense vulnerability when you act. It’s … well, it’s kind of remarkable.”
For a moment, the way he’s looking at me is almost affectionate. Then he clears his throat, and says, “You’d be freaking nuts not to audition for Juliet. You’d be perfect.”
The phrase “you’d be perfect” resounds in my brain like a sweet, sexy echo.
“Well, maybe I will try out,” I say, practically toeing the pavement. “Even on my suckiest day I’m still better than Zoe.”
He chuckles. “That’s true.”
“So what about you?” I say, walking slowly as he falls into step beside me. “Are you auditioning for Romeo?”
He shakes his head. “No way. I’d have to have my balls removed to play that pussy.”
“Hey, that’s no way to talk about one of the greatest romantic heroes of all time.”