A Very Dirty Wedding (14 page)

Now I'm beyond irritated.  I put my hands on his chest and try to push him away, but he grabs my wrists and holds me tight.  "You don't know a thing about me," I say.

"I know that you're living up to everyone else's idea of who you should be," he says.  "I don't think for a fucking second you want to go to Harvard, be a lawyer or a doctor or whatever the hell daddy has planned for you.  I see you with your sketchpad, drawing all the time.  You just don't have the fucking balls to do what you
want
to do."

It's somehow over the line, him watching me draw, noticing things about me.  He notices
too many
things about me.  I yank my wrists away and push him, hard.  "Fuck you."  I spew the words from my mouth like they're poison.  "Fuck you, Caulter.  You're so damn high and mighty, rebelling against anyone and everything because you're too cool for conformity.  Yet here you are, doing exactly what your mother wants you to do because....why, exactly?  She won't give you your paycheck?  You think rebelling means you know who you are?  It just means you're full of shit."

I walk out of the room before he can respond, anger flooding my body.  He just gets so far under my damn skin.  He's so infuriating and smug and self-satisfied.  He acts like he's so much more mature than I am, with so much more experience under his belt.  He's just a trust fund baby who doesn't know the least little bit about things like obligation and family.

Later, I lay in bed, my head resting on the pillow while I prop the sketchpad on my thighs, lazily drawing.  I know Caulter is in his room, because I heard the door close, and I find myself wondering what he's doing.  I have to force my mind to focus on something other than Caulter.

Anything but Caulter.

Like the picture I'm doing right now. 
Of Caulter's cock.

I tear the piece of paper off the pad, crumple it, and throw it across the room. 
Screw Caulter
.  And screw the stupid stuff he said about me.

I close my eyes, and bring up my mother's image in my head, beginning to sketch her from memory.  But my mind is in a different place.  I have the nagging feeling that Caulter is right -- that I am just too much of a coward to stand up to my father.  It's why I haven't told him about UCLA.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Caulter

"What the fuck are you doing?"  Katherine is running across the lawn, waving her hands at me like a complete fucking lunatic.

A hot fucking lunatic.

Her brown hair bounces over her shoulders as she runs, trying futilely to pull her skirt down over her ass.  "Are you insane?"

"Insane?  Nope.  I'm roasting marshmallows."  I pull the marshmallow off the stick and pop the warm gooey goodness into my mouth.  She looks at me, her chest rising as she catches her breath, her cheeks flushed.  It's the same way she looks when she's just had an orgasm.

I haven't made her come all week.  She hasn't let me, not since the fight we had in the library after we screwed on the ladder.

What I should have done after that was go out and find a replacement Katherine.  But what I'm finding, much to my irritation, is that Katherine seems to be crawling under my skin.  Like a disease.

So I'm taking the mature road and talking to her about things like an adult.  While eating marshmallows.  "Want one?" I ask.

"You can't light a fire out here -- there are regulations, you idiot," she yells.  "Who fucking gets a -- where did you even get a barrel, anyway?  And what the hell are you -- Oh. My. God.  Those are my
clothes
in there.  My
pants
.  My
underwear
!"

I lied -- I'm not taking the mature road here. 
At all.
  This might be one of the most juvenile things I've ever done.

I grin and shrug.  "I told you I wanted you in skirts.  No panties."

She grabs the stick from my hands, poking it into the barrel.  Flames shoot up, sending sparks flying in every direction.  Grabbing her by the arms, I pull her back against my chest.

Which is exactly where she belongs,
I can't help but think as soon as her body touches mine.

But she only rest there momentarily before she yanks herself away from me.  "What are you, some kind of psychopath?" she asks.  "Who lights someone's clothes on fire?  Something is seriously wrong with you."

"I'll get you new clothes," I say.  I don't add that I already have.  I've ordered her a whole new wardrobe from some hot shit designer that my mother's stylist swears is what all the chicks want to wear.  I also ordered her the best lingerie and panties money can buy.  Personally hand selected by yours truly.  And I bought new jeans to replace the ones I torched.  I mean, I’m not a
complete
asshole.

But no new granny panties.  That just crosses a line.

Kate stands there glaring at me with her hands on her hips.  She’s
pissed
.  If it were possible for a human to physically blow steam out of their ears, she would be doing that.  She balls her hands into fists and screams, which just makes me laugh.  “You are the biggest asshole I’ve ever met,” she yells.  “You’re completely fucked up in the head.”

I expect her to punch me.  If I were a girl and some guy had torched my pants and panties, I'd slug me.  But she doesn’t.  She just gives me a look of disgust and walks back to the house, muttering to herself the whole way.

That's fucking disappointing.

I expected her to hit me or something.  Hit me, and then look up at me the way she does when she gets angry.  Like she can’t decide if she wants to kill me or fuck me.  Obviously, I imagined she'd pick the option that involved fucking.

I didn't expect her to just walk away.

I pick up the fire extinguisher and put out the fire.  I guess I'll have to up my game if I want back in her bed.

***

“Are the two of you listening?” Senator Douchebag has been talking about the schedule of events for the week.  He literally has this shit color-coded and flagged.  He’s almost as ridiculous as my mother, with her wedding planning.  She has a chart set up in the living room on an easel, a seating plan that she and the Senator examine, hands over their mouths and brows furrowed as they determine strategic seating arrangements for the big event.  I’m surprised they haven't unrolled a giant chart on the table like a war map, so that they can plot personal alliances and strategic socializing.

“I heard everything,” Kate says, her voice emotionless.  “The engagement party is on Friday.”

“I know it’s all happening very quickly,” Ella says, her hand on the Senator’s leg.  “And I really hope you don’t feel like I’m trying to replace your mother, Katherine.  No one could replace her.”

I glance at Kate, who has paused in the middle of lifting her fork to her mouth.  “Of course not,” she says.

The Senator doesn't wait for her to continue.  “No one thinks you’re trying to replace her mother, Ella,” he says, patting Ella’s hand.  “Kate doesn’t think that, do you Kate?” Katherine opens her mouth, but he interrupts.  “And she understands that we’re on a tight schedule here with the campaign, isn’t that right?”

I’m annoyed by the way he just answers for her, and irritated with her for just sitting there, chewing on her forkful of chicken instead of responding.  “Why don’t you let Kate answer for herself?”

The Senator glares at me, a dark look passing over his face.  “Kate just answered for herself.”

Ella looks uncomfortable.  She's not good with these kinds of situations.  “Katherine,” she says.  “I know that your mother was a special woman, and I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes here.  I’m --”

“Seriously,” Katherine says, tossing me a look of annoyance that makes me regret even taking up for her at all.  “It’s no big deal.  I mean, it is a big deal for you guys.  I’m happy for you.  But I’m an adult.  We’re all adults here.  People remarry all the time.  I wish you nothing but happiness.”

“Thank you, Kate,” the Senator says.

I send Kate a text.

Liar.

She looks down at her phone and back up, pointedly ignoring me.  “Ella, if there’s anything you need me to do for your engagement party, please let me know.”

A broad smile crosses Ella’s face.  “Thank you, Katherine,” she says.  “That’s so kind of you.  I think actually my stylist is going to bring dresses to the house next week to do fittings for the wedding, and I’d love to ask her to send over something for the engagement party as well.  Unless you had something else in mind.”

Kate nods.  “Sure.”

“Oh, she mentioned she was redoing your wardrobe,” Ella says, looking at me.  “She said you asked Caulter to set it up.”

Kate pauses, her napkin on the corner of her mouth.  “She did, did she?”

“I’d have been happy to set it up for you,” Ella says.  “I’m pleased Caulter was able to.  She said something about summer wear, dresses and that kind of thing.”

Kate coughs into her napkin, and I’m not sure, but I think she might be laughing.

“She could use more dresses for the campaign,” I say.  “It’s more...functional.  For the campaign, I mean.”

I watch as color rises to Kate’s cheeks, but the Senator interrupts, saving her from scrutiny.  “That’s thoughtful of you, Caulter,” he says.  “Absolutely.  Dresses.  More feminine, appropriate for the setting.”

“Yes.”  I nod.  “Dresses would definitely be very useful.”

Kate coughs again, this time harder.  Yeah, I’m pleased with myself.

“Caulter, do you know who in the world left that barrel out in the back?” the Senator asks.  I think Kate might choke on her bite of food this time.

I shrug.  “No idea,” I say.  “Probably the gardener.”

“Ridiculous,” he says.  “You really can't get good help these days.  We’re back to DC tomorrow, but the engagement party is Friday.  Ella, the planners and all of that will be taking over the house for the next two days, I assume?”

“Tomorrow morning,” she says.  “You and Katherine will need to direct things, Caulter. 
No parties
.”

I look at her, mock innocent.  “Have I gotten into a single bit of trouble since I’ve been here?” I ask.  “Have I been out to a single party?”

Ella narrows her eyes at me.  She doesn’t trust me - reasonably so.  The part about parties is true, though.  I’ve not been to a single one since I’ve been here.  I’ve not put my dick in a single girl, either.  Except Kate, of course.

“Not that I’ve seen in the newspapers,” she says.

“Leave the young man alone,” the Senator says, gesturing toward me with his fork in hand.  “He’s cleaned himself up, and has behaved quite responsibly since we sent them out here.  I told you, Ella, it’s all about boundaries. 
Rules.
  If you give children rules and expectations, they will conform.  Caulter here is a perfect example of that.”

I have to clench my fists as I listen to him talk about me as if he’s talking about a preschool-aged child or a dog.  “Yes,” I agree.  The old Caulter would have lifted up the end of the antique table we’re sitting at, and sent dishes flying, before storming out of the room and driving off in my mother’s hundred-thousand-dollar car.  The new Caulter, the one fucking the Senator’s daughter, is cool, calm, and collected.  “You know, I think it’s really due to Kate rubbing off on me.”

Kate coughs more violently this time, and the Senator looks at her.  "Are you catching a cold?"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Katherine

“So you and the hot step-brother,” Jo says.  “Dish.”

“There’s nothing to dish,” I protest.  I'm annoyed because of how fixated Jo is with Caulter and me.  We’re sitting outside, our feet dangling off the edge of the dock, watching as the party planners set up tents and engagement party paraphernalia in the backyard.  My father has some kind of notion that I’m supervising all of this.  “Ugh.  Do you really think he’s hot?”

As if on cue, Caulter walks out onto our shared balcony, wearing nothing but boxer briefs.  It’s like he thinks he’s a fucking male model, strutting around like a peacock with no concern for the people in the yard.

People who stop and gawk.

He’s done the same thing every damn morning for the past three days, standing outside my window like I’m going to see his hard-on and lose my mind.  Yesterday, he pressed it up against the glass door, making lewd gestures with his tongue and rubbing his nipples.  He's trying to get a rise out of me, and it's definitely working.

Jo slides her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose and makes a show of wiggling her fingers at him.  “Yeah, he’s hot, Kate,” she says.  “You really don’t see it?  I mean, I guess you like clean cut guys, and he’s very....
not
, with the tattoos, and the nipple piercings, and...shit, he’s got a nice ass.”

“He’s a disgusting pig,” I say, my tone not as convincing as I try to make it.  I can’t help the way my eyes wander up to the balcony where he stands, leaning on the rail and smoking, the sunlight glistening off his muscular arms and chest.  “Plus, he smokes.”

Jo shrugs.  “I wouldn’t mind it,” she says.

“He’s arrogant and insufferable.”

“Didn’t you say he sent Ella’s stylist to replace your wardrobe?” she asks.  “He’s not exactly Satan.”

“Yes, but --” I groan in frustration.  “You don’t understand.”  How do I explain that the Devil up there -- the ripped, tattooed, pierced, so amazing in bed that I can’t think about anything except his cock -- set my fucking wardrobe on fire because he wanted me to wear dresses without panties?  He's clearly insane.

“What I understand is that you’re living with Caulter Sterling,” she says.  “He’s like...
legendary
when it comes to fucking.”

“Jo!”  She’s right, though; he has a reputation.  But what the hell do I know about sex, anyway?  I've only been with Caulter.  Maybe he's not the only guy who will ever rock my boat.

Of course, looking at him up there on the balcony just makes me think about him rocking my boat.  I press my thighs together, smoothing the fabric of my skirt over them.

"Is that one of the dresses he bought you?" Jo asks.

I roll my eyes.  "Yes."

"Looks expensive."

"I'm sure it is."

Jo shrugs.  “I can give him a test run,” she says.  “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“What?  You and that guy broke up?”  Jo bounces from one to another, so I can't remember his name.

“Last week.”  She kicks her foot in the water.  “Caught him cheating.”

“What a dickhead,” I say.

She shrugs.  “It wasn't like I was faithful," she says.  "But it's different if he's the one doing the running around."

I don't point out the hypocrisy in the statement.  "I'm sorry." 

“I'm not,” she says.  “He was a drag.  Anyway, there’s a party tonight you need to go to.  Are your dad and Ella back yet?”

I shake my head.  “Right before the engagement party.  Two days.”

“Then you should come,” she says.  “And tell Caulter to come too.”

“Caulter?” I ask.  “I don’t think so.”  Like I'm going to bring Caulter to a party so I can watch him hit on girls? 
Yeah, right.

“Come on.  It’ll be fun.  It's Caulter Sterling. 
You’ll
be legendary for bringing him.  Do it.  Slum with us commoners.” 

I laugh, but I secretly hate her little comments about slumming it, or me being a rich kid.  How am I supposed to respond?

Jo kicks the water in the lake.  “There will be hot guys, guys who aren’t rich prep school kids.  Guys with tattoos.”

Guys like Caulter
.  I glance up at the balcony, but it’s empty now.  “Fine.”

“Seriously?” she asks.  “You’re really going to go to an actual, real-life party?  Like, with booze and guys?”

“I said fine, okay?  You’ve worn me down.”

“You’ve
never
gone out before,” she says.  “I can’t fucking believe it.  I was just giving you shit; I didn't think you would actually go.  What’s gotten into you?”

What's gotten into me?
  My mind immediately flashes to Caulter. 

Caulter bending me over the desk in my father’s office.  Caulter thrusting into me as the ladder falls from beneath me in the library.  Caulter’s hot breath on my stomach, his face moving lower as the warm water drums over our bodies in the shower.  My lips wrapped around Caulter’s cock, the saltiness of his pre-cum on my tongue.

Shit.

I have to blink several times to erase the images in my head.  I
definitely
need to meet someone else -- if not someone appropriate, then someone inappropriate.  Inappropriate and filthy enough to get my mind off of Caulter.

“Caulter should come with us,” she says, interrupting my thoughts.

“What, are you obsessed with him or something?” I snap.  “No Caulter.”

“Okay, no Caulter,” she says, giving me major side-eye.  “I didn’t know you were so touchy about him.”

“I’m not touchy about him,” I say.  “I just don’t -- he’s irritating, that’s all.  I don’t want him killing my buzz.”

She laughs.  “Yeah, okay, I can see that.  Who wants your new step-brother tagging along with you to a party, anyway?”  She pushes herself up to her feet, reaching to take my hand and pull me up.  “Ten-ish, okay?  I’ll text you.”

***

“I said, it’s really loud,” I yell.

Jo hands me a plastic cup filled with beer and motions toward her ears, yelling back.  I can’t hear her, but I can read her lips.  “I can’t hear you!”

A guy sidles up behind her, wearing a leather jacket even though it’s probably still seventy degrees outside and inside it’s hot as hell.  I’m sweating, even in the dress I’m wearing -- one of the new dresses Ella’s stylist sent.

I still haven’t forgiven Caulter for burning all my stuff, either, even though a box showed up with exact substitutions for all my jeans this morning.  No note from Caulter, no explanation.  Just brand-new versions of everything that he’d burned.

Part of me is impressed he went to so much trouble for a stupid prank, noting all of the sizes and brands and then tracking them down.  It couldn’t have been easy, although he probably hired someone to do it.

I nearly pulled on a pair of jeans tonight, but I had to admit that what the stylist picked is actually pretty hot, much better than I’d have picked.  It's not something I’d usually wear, either.  It's this fire-engine red mini-dress that I’m sure my father was not imagining when he jumped on board with the redo-Kate’s-wardrobe plan.  But my father isn’t home, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?

Jo leans back against the guy, who pulls up the hem of her shirt and slides his hands over her stomach.  From behind her, he cups her face with his hands, and leans over to kiss her, all tongue, then slides his hand down the front of her shirt.

Well, this is totally awkward.

  I down my warm-ish beer, wondering where the hell I need to go to get more.  This is why I don't fucking go to parties.  At Brighton, I went to exactly one, and it was during my spring break, only because I was stuck there with nothing else to do.  That was at someone's parents' house in the Hamptons.

That was not this kind of party.  There was no warm beer, just expensive champagne and liquor from kids who had access to unlimited supplies of the best stuff.  There were models.  I don't know why I went to that one, either, because it was just as awkward as this.  After two glasses of champagne and fending off a series of dumb pick-up lines, I was in a cab back to my dorm at Brighton.

Jo finally comes up for air and takes my empty cup, handing it to the guy who’d just mauled her face.  She grabs my arm and pushes me toward a hallway where it’s quieter, but still just as crowded with people.  “Bathroom,” she explains.

We stand outside the door, waiting for three more people to use it before she pulls me inside.  It’s a nice reprieve from the loud pounding of the music in the house.  She squats over the toilet and pees, talking the whole time.  “It’s fun, yeah?  I mean, it’s loud, but
fun
.”

“Sure.”  I’m feeling out of place and agitated.  I can’t imagine why Jo thinks this is going to be fun for me.

“Come on,” she says.  “Loosen up a little.”

I squat to pee.  “Who was the guy?”

Jo laughs.  “Some guy,” she says.  “A hook-up, no big deal.  We’re on again, off again, you know?  But he has some hot friends.  I told him I was bringing you with me.”  She opens her purse and pulls out a bottle of prescription medication.  “Want one?  You need to relax.”

I shake my head, but ask anyway.  “What is it?”

“Anxiety meds,” she says.  “My mother’s stash.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to drink with that, Jo.”  I feel like a parent scolding a child.  She should know better.

Jo laughs and dries her hands.  “Sure you don’t want one?” she asks.  “Come on, girl.  You have the rest of the summer to be the perfect little Senator’s daughter.  No one knows who you are here.  And no one cares.  Live your fucking life, for once.”

“I
am
living my life,” I say.  I’m annoyed with her, and I'm annoyed with this situation.

“Here,” she says, holding out a tablet.  “Take half if you don’t want to take the whole thing.  It’ll let you relax.  It’s not coke or something.  It’s prescription.  From a doctor.  For anxiety, which you definitely have.”

I exhale heavily, taking it from her hand and popping it into my mouth.  “Fine.  Whatever.”

We exit the bathroom and her hook-up, the leather-jacket clad guy, hands us each a cup of beer.  I hold it, not drinking it because I'm afraid of mixing the pill with more alcohol.

He introduces me to two of his friends.  They’re cleaner cut than he is, but they look older.  One of them stares at me like I’m a piece of meat, licking his lips.  I want to get the hell out of here, but I force myself to take a sip of beer to calm my nerves.

The other guy steps closer to me, pulling me away from the group, and gestures, asking if I want to dance.  Okay, so he’s hot -- blue eyed and brown haired and clean-cut.  Totally appropriate, I think.

I don’t know how long it is, maybe thirty minutes or so, before I start feeling relaxed.  Like,
really
relaxed.  I feel kind of woozy, actually, like my head is thick and foggy and I just want to sleep.  The guy, whose name I don’t even know, is behind me, sliding his hands over my stomach and down the front of my hips, his hardness pressing up against me as he dances with me completely out of sync with the music.

The fact that he’s hard is what makes me feel nauseous.  When I try to pry his hands off my hips, he grips them tighter and I yank myself away from him.

I don’t know where Jo is in the crowd; I can’t see her or the other guy, but I need some air. 

Outside the house, I shiver as the now-cool evening air hits my skin.  There are a handful of people outside, party-goers that have spilled out onto the lawn, and a few couples making out near the side of the house.

I walk toward the other side of the house to get away from the people.  I’m so fucking tired, and I just want to go home.

I'm trying to remember the name of the cab service in town, but I can't think of it.  When I slide open the screen of my cell phone, there's a text waiting for me from Caulter.

You’re out late.

It’s accompanied by a picture of his cock.

I smile, because I can’t help myself, and turn the camera in my hands, admiring it from a different angle.  Caulter doesn't have just
any
cock.  He has a beautiful cock.  A large cock.  A glorious throbbing, always-ready cock.

I think I'm drunk.  I start to type what's going through my head.  How do you spell
glorious
?  Instead, I type:

Aw.  no 1 too suck.

Why is typing so hard? 
My hands feel so slow. 
No one to suck your cock
is what I mean, but it looks wrong on the screen.

What’s with the spelling? Are you drunk?  Where are you?

I exhale heavily.  If Caulter would stop texting me, I could call a cab and get home.  Leaning against the house, I squint, trying to text back.