The Thrill of It

Chapter Six

Trey

I slam the door to my apartment, lock it and slide the chain.

As if I can sequester myself. As if I can shut myself off from her, and stay inside my home, far, far away from Harley. Like I’m sealed up and safe again.

But the thing is this….

She has to go to SLAA.

She was forced to go.

She’s being blackmailed.

I chose to go. No one made me. No one forced me. I guess you could say Mr. Thompson did when he found me making out with his wife in the elevator at my parent’s apartment building. I run my finger across the scar on my cheek, and the pain echoes, even months later as I head to the cramped kitchen. I don’t think I realized just how strong he was. Or how mad he’d be, but when his fist connected with my face, I felt his college ring rattle through every bone in my body.

They make the rings damn solid at Yale University.

Yeah, it hurt.

When you’ve been pummeled by a man who’s six-five, two-hundred-forty pounds and wears one of those big-ass class rings, I guess that’s how you manage a self-imposed monkhood for a year. The ring sliced my cheek apart. I could actually see several millimeters of the meat under the skin right after it happened. My mom sewed me up that evening without a word. The scar would have been much worse if I didn’t have that sort of access to one of the premier plastic surgeons in Manhattan. She wasn’t happy with me but what could she do? I was twenty, and she couldn’t control me. She could have cut me off from college, but she wants me in school more than anything. Besides, in my family, we deal with the practical. We shut the door to rooms that aren’t used, we stitch up cuts, we take painkillers to numb the day, and we don’t talk about things.

I didn’t talk about my brothers. Because they didn’t talk about my brothers. So why would they want to talk about why I was spending so much time with the married women in the swank Upper East Side building where they lived? But I knew I had a problem, and the cut on my face was my rock bottom. I didn’t need someone else to find the bottom of addiction for me. I fucking found it, and I decided to get my shit together after I spent the better part of my teenage years screwing married women in my building.

I knew what I was doing was messing me up. Had known it for a long, long time. Not because the sex was bad. It was good. It was great. It was the stuff of legend.

But as I toss my backpack on the floor, grab a cold beer from the fridge, and turn up the music on my iPod so I can blast Remy Zero throughout my whole apartment, I am also reminded that it was hollow.

That I was so disconnected from all of them. I was ghosting through life, taking what I wanted, stealing what others had.

But the one night with Harley was the closest I’ve ever felt to right. Maybe that sounds crazy, but I felt like we were both in it together, that we weren’t chess pieces for the other person to move around. We’d showed our cards and there was no bluffing.

That’s the problem, I realize, as I drink my beer, and the band sings about falling to the ground.

She can’t operate like that, and hell if I know if I can either.

So if I get caught up in her, and I will, I fucking will, what happens to me when she realizes she’s not ready? What if I’m just a quick fix to her, and she turns around and goes back to Cam? Or ditches me? And then I’m worse off.

Back to all my old ways.

To all the afternoons in high school I spent tangled up with Cassie Fitzgerald in her penthouse, or Elle Windsor in her husband’s town car, or even the sexy trophy wife – Sloan McKay – of one of the biggest hedge fund manager’s in New York. All while he was busy pulling millions, I was taking care of his wife in the bedroom since he didn’t anymore. She was an artist too, a painter, and the only one I ever felt an inkling of a connection with, the only one who remotely seemed like more than a conquest. She moved out of the building quickly though, and I moved on to the next woman.

Such a rush. Such a thrill. They got what they wanted from me. From how I made them feel. From the high of being the young guy who could turn them on.

If I walked into a frat house and told my story, I’d have high-fives six ways to Sunday. If my friends knew they’d make a statue for me, give me the chair at the head of the table in the cafeteria, build an honorary wing in my name and ask for blessings before any date with a girl, praying to Trey Westin, patron saint of Has A Way with Women.

It’s the tale that gets passed down from one generation of frat brothers to the next. Only there was more to my conquests than bagging the hottest babes.

There always is.

They were a way to forget.

I rub my hand absently against the trio of sunbursts on my shoulder, one of the tats that I designed myself a few months ago. To remember. To never forget. Then I toast heavenward, a futile toast, and finish my beer. The coldness and the fizz roots me back to the moment. Shakes me out of the past, the memories. If I spend too much time there, I’ll never move on. I need to start over tomorrow. See my shrink. Sort this out. Go back to being friends with Harley again. Because I can’t stand not having her in my life.

Almost as much as I can’t stand not kissing her.

I turn my head and sniff my shirt, and fuck…I can still smell her on me. Her wild cherry smell lingers all over my shirt. Her intoxicating, sexy-as-hell scent from when she was all snug against me. I close my eyes, inhale, and I am right back to thirty minutes ago in the courtyard, remembering how she touched me, kissed me, ran her hands in my hair.

In seconds, I am rock hard again. This is what she does to me. This is all it takes.

She slides into my head, and I am turned on beyond belief. Wanting her. Wanting all I can’t have.

I put the empty bottle down on the coffee table, yank off my shirt, and inhale it one more time, so she’s filled all my senses. I head to the bathroom. I turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature all the way up. Then take off my jeans, leaving them in a heap on the floor, my boxer briefs next. I step under the water, wetting my hair, my skin, soaping up all over, then rinsing it off. I close my eyes as the water beats down hard on me, and then I say fuck it.

I picture the moment from earlier, going further, going everywhere I wanted it to go.

I take off her clingy t-shirt, toss it on the ground somewhere. She doesn’t care because she wants my hands on her. She’s licking her lips, and I bury my face between her perfect gorgeous breasts. I grip myself harder, imagining kissing her breasts, sucking hard on her nipples, hearing her moan. I want to feel her hands in my hair, tugging hard as she pushes me down her body. I want to lick her all over, taste every inch of her skin, from her breasts to her belly, to her legs. Kiss her all the way down to her ankles, feel her tremble all over, hear those sexy, breathy moans she makes.

I swear I’ve never wanted anyone so much as I picture doing all sorts of things to her.

Images flash by quickly. Her hands on me, unsure at first, then all over. Then me on my knees, pushing up her skirt, peeling off her underwear in the courtyard, tasting her, licking her, kissing her. She can’t help herself – she moans and sighs and pants like she did that time we were together. She made the sexiest little sounds when I was with her that one night, as if she didn’t know what was happening to her own body, as if it was all happening for the first time and she was overcome, lost in all these new sensations that I brought to her.

I feel a build in the base of my spine, the release starting to rocket through my body. I squeeze my eyes shut, scalding water pelting my hair, turning my skin red, and I don’t care, because I’m where I want to be right now, on my knees, my hands cupping her ass, bringing her closer to my mouth, until I can taste her coming on my tongue.

“Fuck.”

I groan loudly and come hard.

I rest my forehead against the tiles for a minute as the aftershocks chase me. God, I wish she were here right now. I wish I could touch her all night long, spread her out on my bed, and bring her there.

Then spend the night with her.

Be the guy who doesn’t pay.

Be the guy she wants.

The guy she’s not set up with.

But I’ll never know if she wants me for me. Or because I’m part of her fix.

Page 123…

I learned to lie from my mom.

When I was thirteen my mom and her boyfriend took me to a carnival in Great Neck out on Long Island.

His name was Pierre and he looked the name. He wore pressed khakis and a button-down short-sleeve shirt even in the summer, even to a carnival. He had manicured hands, his nails were buffed and filed in perfect half circles. He bought me pink cotton candy and handed it to me daintily with those hands that smelled of honeysuckle lotion. Then my mom spotted the carnival dude who guesses your age. If he comes within three years, you lose. If he doesn’t, you win a stuffed blue bear.

“Guess her age,” my mom said, thrusting me forward, taking the cotton candy out of my hands before he even saw it, in case it made me look too young. I wore low-rise jean shorts and a cami-tank. My hair was down, falling past my shoulders. I stood there for a moment before him, holding my ground, holding his gaze, like a cat staring down her prey before she pounced. Then I did what I knew mom wanted me to do. I tossed my hair ever so gently, ever so casually, but completely seductively. Like she’d taught me all those times when we prepped for our parties.

The Guess Your Age guy was young. He was a teenager, probably a high school guy working the carnival after school.

He appraised me up and down, his big, brown eyes on me, liking what he saw. He flashed his smile to my mom.“Write down her age.” He handed her a pen and piece of paper from a notebook in his back pocket. She dutifully wrote down my age, folded up the paper and handed it back to him. He took the paper but didn’t open it.

“She’s sixteen,” the carnival man declared.

Triumphant, my mom shook her head. “Thirteen,” she said proudly as he opened the paper to see my age. She ran a hand over my hair, petting her prize racehorse, and we walked away. She didn’t bother to get the blue bear she’d won. She got what she wanted. A thirteen-year-old who looked sixteen.

“He’s cute, don’t you think?”

“Mom,” I chided.

“He’s adorable, Harley,” she said in a teacherly tone. As if she were instructing me in the ways of taste and attraction. “He’s probably fourteen, maybe fifteen. You guys would be cute together.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely.” Then she lowered her voice. “We’re going on the Ferris Wheel. Go back and see him.”

Butterflies filled my belly. But she’d given the go-ahead. She’d encouraged me. This had to be the way the world worked.

When my mom and Pierre were up in the sky, I returned to the carnival guy. He leaned against the Guess Your Age sign, searching for his next customer. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“You were right,” I whispered near his ear.

His lips curled up. “You really are sixteen.”

“I really am sixteen.”

“Me too,” he said. “Good thing I didn’t give her a bear.”

“Good thing,” I echoed back.

He licked his lips slightly, tasting what I imagined was the salty heat on them from a muggy summer night. Then I gestured with my eyes to the nearby whack-a-mole and toss-the-ring games. Behind the games was a little hideaway spot, a private corner of the carnival world. There, against the dirty once-white concrete wall I reached out to him, my hand linking through his, bringing him closer to me. I lifted my other hand to his face, brushing my fingertips against his cheek.

I’d never kissed, I’d never been kissed, but somehow I was a natural. I was all instinct.

Later, when we were home, my mom asked me how it went.

I told her everything. Because, that’s what we did. That’s normal, right? She squealed and clapped. “Your first kiss!”

Then she gave me kissing tips for the next time. A lesson in seduction from my mother.