Sins of the Flesh (Exposed Series Book 1) (11 page)

“Sorry what?”

“Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired,” she said. “It said you should
never drink if you feel any of those things.”

“Shit,” I said. “Then you should never drink. You’re always
angry.”

“I know, right?” She set her can down on the floor, put my
dropped one beside it, and pulled two more cans out from our stash behind the
couch cushions.

“And I’m always hungry,” I said, suddenly craving Taco Bell.

She handed me a can. “I don’t think I’ve ever not been at least
one of those things.”

I raised my can in agreement and tried to take a sip.

“You have to open it first, dumbass,” she said, pulling her own
beer tab until it hissed and cracked.

I opened my beer and when I looked up, I saw some stupid junior
throwing herself at Ian in the corner. He was acting disinterested, but he was probably
loving every minute of it.

I felt stupid for feeling jealous. Especially because I knew if
she was successful, her grand prize would be a chance to slobber on his dick,
but I couldn’t help it. I thought about throwing the can straight at her hollow
skull, but when I started to feel like I might throw up in my mouth, I stopped
watching them.

“Are you okay?” Annie asked.

“Yeah.” 

She looked over her shoulder and turned back to me.

“You should ignore him,” she said.

“I know.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“I know.”

“Seriously, Kate.”

“You hate everyone, though.”

“Not as much as I hate him.”

I shrugged.

“Are you okay? You want me to get you some water?”

“No.”

“No you’re not okay or no you don’t want water?”

“Yeah,” I said. “That one.”

She tilted her head at me. “Okay. I’m going to get you some
water.”

“Thanks.” I think I nodded but I may have just lowered my eyes
for a second.

The truth was I wasn’t okay.

Ever since my Mom discovered my eating disorder, she and my Dad
were treating me weird. Like they didn’t just look at me anymore. They
watched
me.

It was like everything I did was suspicious. It felt like I was
in prison. And it was making it really hard to binge and purge.

I practically had to beg them to let me go out. And I’d fucked
that up, too. Because I wasn’t drunk enough to be unconscious or blacked out or
fun. I was just drunk enough to be pathetic, thoughtful, and depressed.

I watched Annie make her way to the kitchen and wondered what it
would be like to tell her. But I couldn’t for so many reasons. I couldn’t risk
her treating me differently, too.

And I couldn’t risk that she’d tell Danielle. What if they
talked about it when I wasn’t there? What if one day we were at lunch, and I
saw it in their eyes? That they had questions they were afraid to ask.

I mean, what if I looked fat in something and they were afraid
to tell me?

Plus, Annie counted calories about as carefully as she counted
units of alcohol. She didn’t. I don’t think it ever crossed her mind. And even
if I could tell her, she would just think I was making myself throw up because
I didn’t think I was skinny enough.

And my problem was bigger than that. Yeah, I was afraid of fat
clinging to my inner thighs, but I was afraid of so much more. Like my
loneliness and my anger and my future.

When Annie returned with the glass of water, I forced myself to
drink the whole thing in one go.

I set it down on the table- successfully this time- and when I
slumped back on the couch she was texting someone.

“Rob?”

She nodded. “He wants to come pick me up, but I’m not leaving
you here like this.”

I was thinking of suggesting I go with her when someone sat down
on top of me. I groaned.

“Hey beautiful,” Ian said, sliding off my lap onto the couch
beside me. “Hey Annie.”

Annie made a face. “How’s it going with your little skank?”

I tried to make out the time on the box under the TV, but all
the numbers looked the same.

“I think she has a cold sore,” he said. “Besides, I prefer a
more mature woman.” He slipped his arm over my shoulder.

I rolled my eyes. “Your charm is intoxicating.”

“I think the Icehouse probably deserves a little credit,” he
said, admiring our collection of empties. “But thanks.”

I tilted my head towards Annie. “Was he going to drop you off at
home?”

“No,” she said. “I was going to go back to his place for a
while.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want me to ask him if we can drop you off?”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll figure something out.”

“I can take you home,” Ian said.

“You’re drunk,” I reminded him.

He smiled sloppily and his bloodshot blue eyes sparkled. “Drunk
on your love.”

I felt a little twinge in my stomach. Did I really like this guy
or did I just like his attention because everyone else liked him so much?

“I’m not saying I’ll personally do the driving,” he said,
leaning in so close I could smell the beer on his breath. “Dave’s driving
tonight, but he lives right by you, right? So I’m sure it’s no problem.”

I looked at Annie.

“Your call,” she said. “I can tell him not to come or ask him to
take you home. He wants to meet you anyway.”

“No, it’s cool,” I said. “You go ahead. I’ll get a ride with
Dave.”

She gave me a hug and asked me to text her when I got home.

“Sure. I will,” I said, knowing I would probably forget like I
usually did. “Be safe.”

I watched her walk out the front door and let my head fall back
against the couch.

“Finally, I have you all to myself,” I heard in my ear. “Come
on. Let’s go upstairs.”

I looked at the party going on around me, and I wanted to choose
it. I wanted to stay with the people downstairs where the hardest decision I
would have to make was whether or not I should keep drinking. But I sabotaged
myself instead and chose Ian.

He took my hand and led me past small crowds of people drinking
and talking before turning up the stairs. I held the bannister with my free hand
and tried to clear my head, but it was no use. I was totally sloppy, and I knew
it. The only thing that made it okay was that he was totally sloppy, too.

The second door he tried opened and we went inside.

While he locked the door, I strained my eyes to look around the
room. The light of a streetlamp outside showed through the curtains enough that
I could tell it was a little girl’s room. There was a shelf covered in dolls
and the bedspread had Dora the Explorer on it. I tried to put Dora out of my
mind.

I could still remember what it was like to be a little girl.
What it was like to be blissfully unaware of the consequences of letting
teenage boys kiss your boobs.

I was going to suggest we find another spot, but as soon as I
turned around, Ian started kissing me. He pulled my hips against his and
churned his beer soaked tongue in my mouth.

We tore each other’s shirts off clumsily. Then Ian got
frustrated with the back of my bra. I thought it was cute how desperate he was
to get my tits out. So I didn’t help him.

He was so pleased when he finally got it off that he flung it
into a far corner of the room where it landed on the spire of a toy castle.

I let him kiss me as I walked backwards towards the bed, excited
more by his enthusiasm than his skill at fondling my breasts. When I lay down, he
crawled on top of me. I let my drunken hands travel up his chest as I thrust my
hips up against him. Then I let my hands fall back above my head.

His blond hair hung in his face as he unbuttoned my jeans. Then
he stepped off the edge of the bed and pulled them off me. I could hear the
fuzzy sound of the bass coming through the floor as I wiggled out of my
underwear. By the time I got them off, Ian had already dropped his pants on the
floor next to mine.

He lowered himself back on top of me and when I felt his cock
against my leg, I got really excited. I was finally going to feel him inside me
the way I’d wanted to on homecoming.

As I felt his lips touch mine, his hand went to my warm crotch
and my body was flooded with energy. He fumbled to find his way, and forced his
fingers inside me. At first it felt too soon, too raw, but my body responded to
his touch, and soon his fingers were wet.

Then he pulled his hand out and grabbed his dick. He shoved it
several times in the right direction but didn’t hit his target. Finally, I reached
down and grabbed it with my hand. I stroked it a few times so it would go in
easy, and the indentations in his stomach tensed with anticipation.

Then I tilted my hips up, put him against me, and let him push
his way in. And it felt good. Smooth. Much better than his fingers. And I liked
having him there.

For the entire three seconds that it lasted.

To make matters worse, as soon as he was inside me, it was like he
forgot I even existed. I thought when he held his chin up and thrust into me
twice he was just building up momentum. But then it was over. And he just sort
of grunted and collapsed beside me.

I watched his chest rise and fall beside mine for a moment
before closing my eyes. When I felt him trail a finger along my jawline, I tried
to think of something nice to say.

But in the end, I decided not to say anything at all.

I was looking in the mirror and wondering if I should put on a
looser shirt to hide my stomach. Just in case it did that thing where it
collapsed into what looked like a package of hot dogs when I sat down.

And then suddenly, I came to my senses. I didn’t have time to
worry about that stuff anymore.

I could’ve dropped dead right there in front of my bedroom
mirror. And when I thought about it, I couldn’t recall a single time I’d ever
seen a chalk body outline on TV that included someone’s stomach rolls.

Which was comforting, I guess. But where had my vanity really
gotten me after all these years?

What else might I have mastered if I wasn’t so obsessed with
blending my foundation? And for what? So that my nose looked minutely more
narrow and my jawline slightly more defined?

And what pissed me off most was that when I was finally old
enough to have these insights, it was too late! I wasn’t even going to have
time to enjoy my newfound wisdom or spread the good word to anyone else who
might benefit.

I was no better than the miserable lady in Starbucks this
morning. She spent the whole time she was in line glaring at the young woman in
front of her whose thighs didn't touch anywhere. And instead of keeping things
in perspective, she was so depressed she ordered an extra pastry with her Frappuccino.

Oh wait, that was me.

Because it turns out that quitting self-loathing is even harder
than quitting smoking.

So after spending the whole morning feeling disgusted by my own narcissism,
I vowed not to envy Courtney her gorgeous youth or her swan-like neck. Which,
for the record, is the only neck I’ve ever seen look good with a thin black
ribbon tied around it.

Of course, I never wore chokers when I was young because I
thought they made my neck look fat. Go figure. Who could’ve predicted that
someday I’d wish a fat neck was my only problem?

Anyway, besides being beautiful, Courtney was lovely to be
around. In fact, I preferred her company to most of my clients. At least when
she was taking her meds.

“So I told you how the last dosage made me too numb,” she said,
“but I think they finally got it right.”

“That’s great news.”

“Yeah, so I’m not, like, so groggy I can’t be happy or sad.
Cause it’s not like I don’t want to feel anything, yak know? I don’t want to be
a zombie. I just don’t want to have any more episodes.”

“And have you?”

“What?”

“Had any more panic attacks?”

She looked up at the ceiling. “I thought I was going to have one
the other day, but I sort of felt it coming on. So I sat down and just tried to
ignore everything. Except for my breathing. And I was okay after a while.”

“That’s fantastic.”

She blushed. “Thanks. I was pretty happy about it.”

“You should be.”

“It’s progress anyway.”

“Great progress,” I said. “You should be really pleased.”

“I am.”

“So what else is new?”

Courtney twirled a strand of her long dark hair around her
finger and released it so it spun against her shoulder. “I met a guy.”