My Soon-To-Be Sex Life (4 page)

Hotel Rehab was enlightening. Blinding even. Someone should put warning labels on those souls working through their steps. They could cause seizures in the rest of us.

“You had sex with Mr. Adams?” I blinked, absorbing all that Mom had disclosed. “Mr. He-Really-Could-Be-A-Member-Of-The-Addams-Family
Adams
? But he's so hairy, and pervy, and there's that whole restraining order with his ex issue. Screw, owning up to your past, I don't care what step you is working on. I am no longer an active participant in this heinous conversation.” Mom looked like she had a lot more to say, and as we did have fifteen minutes left to my weekly visit, I took precautionary measures.

I plugged my ears. “La, la, la, I can't hear you…”

“Oh, Charlie, you're so funny,” Mom gushed - unfortunately I could still hear every word she said. “Why haven't I noticed it before? I gave birth to a beautiful, comedian baby.” She gave a trill of laughter.

A freaking
trill
. Mom had snorted, squealed like a pig, belched, giggled, and thrown the odd slap-happy conniption while watching a movie, but trilling was new. The idea of Mom needing help to get beyond her reliance on a chemical buffer from the world – I was okay with that. But the fake laughter? The permagrin?

I didn't like it.

“Time's up.” I lowered my hands, but not my guard. This shiny-and-new-mommy made me nervous. The last time I saw her like this was a week after dad's funeral when she locked herself in the bathroom with a forty of rye and a bottle of sleeping pills. My chest tightened as the image resurfaced and along with it the desperation, the fear.

The betrayal.

I hadn't been enough for Mom to want to live. Not then, and obviously not ever. What if she couldn't go on without the drugs? What if she tried to leave me again?

Mom's face softened as she studied me, her eyes misted. “I love you, Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. You're my sweet, sweet girl.”

Ugh. Where was a shank when you needed one? What
was
this place called Rehab? “I gotta go.” I stumbled from Mom's room. “I'll see you next week.”

Motivational posters lined the walls of the optimistically bright hallway, black plastic frames of sentimental graffiti.

I couldn't escape fast enough. I didn't even give Mom a chance to say good-bye. Was I a bad person? A bad daughter? Is that why dad didn't come home that night?

In a flash, I am ink.

A red wash over the frame gives the graphic a violent feel.

A coat is wrapped around my thin nightgown, arms wrapped around my chest. I stand on the front porch as my mother slips mutely to the concrete. Then rocks herself back and forth, keening like a dog.

“Take the kid inside,” a police officer orders. “She doesn't need to see this.”

But it's too late. I have seen. I have heard. My father is dead, and so is the unknown woman in the passenger seat beside him.

I bite the hands that reach for me, drawing blood.

“What floor?”

The images are so life-like I can taste the copper of his blood on my tongue.

“I said, ‘What floor?' Did you hear me? What floor do you want?”

The question comes from a guy around my age. Tall, cute, and wearing a faded Zeppelin T-shirt over a long-sleeved hoodie, a black fisherman's hat pulled low over his ears, his index finger hovering over a panel of glowing moons.

I blink and the world comes into focus.

My pulse knocked in my throat. Okay, which floor did I need?

Blinking hard, I stared at the blur of people streaming past the glass windows. Why did they have glass elevators in a hospital anyway? What if someone you loved died and you wanted to have yourself a nice private little meltdown on the way to the morgue? What if you just needed a moment before facing the world?

“Hey,” his eyes narrowed, “you're not going to pass out are you?”

The floor lurched beneath my feet.

“I don't know.” I swayed. “Am I?”

I felt weird. My legs went numb. I staggered.

He caught me with a grunt, propping me against his chest, his hands spanning my ribcage.

We froze.

My fingers clutched the soft black cotton at his waist, grasping for additional support. Pushing his hoodie upward. My knuckles skimmed warm, taunt muscles hidden underneath. His sharp inhalation pushed his chest harder into mine.

Somewhere I felt a hammering, a construction drill cranked to life like it was trying to blast through concrete. And then suddenly, not a drill. A heart, beating out of control.

His or mine?

Love me.

The words - crazy words - raced through my head.
Love ME.

We stared.

There was wariness in his eyes. A look I understood, because I
was
that look. He expected me to push him away, but maybe there could be a different ending, a major plot twist, the kind that got under a character's skin.

Tangled them in knots.

Our breath mixed. I entwined our fingers, slid his hand up along my sweater. He turned his face away – stock-still, as if afraid any movement would shatter the heat we were building. I cupped his hand to my breast. His chin angled to me then, a moan on his lips, breath warm and sweet on my cheek. A gentle pressure as he gave into the urge to touch, to feel.

It was glorious until he jerked away from me. I stumbled at the loss of his body, but found my feet.

Cursing, he punched a button and the doors swished open. The blast of fresh air made me shiver. He pulled me from the elevator. “Come on, let's get you looked after.”

His harsh tone got my back up. “I don't
need
looking after.” I resisted, but my captor, wannabe savior took no notice of my ineffectual attempts at reclaiming ownership of my arm.

“Are you from the psych ward? How'd you get out?” His expression shifted. Hardened. Concern, or maybe guilt had him avoiding my gaze. “How long were you in there? I saw you make two trips before I decided to check up on you. You can't really hide in these elevators, you know.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Glass.”

I tried to respond, but I couldn't think. I'd been rejected. Shut down. Just like I knew would happen. We approached a semi-circular desk. Behind the counter sat a security guard with a grim expression.

“Let me go,” I said. “Let go.” Finally, my body kicked in and my brain unstuck. I pulled away, stared into the guy's startled eyes, watched his jaw clench.

“Don't,” he said. “I can help. Let me help you.”

I bolted for the exit.

And hoped never to see his urgent, gorgeous face again.

“Owen, you better have that out of here before Mom gets home or you'll be in big trouble.” Roach fired the warning as we stood behind the couch and observed Owen's progress on the screen.

He glanced from the controller. “Kyle let me borrow his PS3 for the night. I'm getting in as much gaming time as I can. As soon as I hear the garage door open, I'll hide the evidence, have no fear.” His eyes slide to me. “Why's she always around anyway? We're not a refugee camp.”

“Like I'd seek refuge
here
if the world was overrun with zombies or Wal-Mart greeters.” The little puke. And I'd been feeling sorry for him – a little boy denied his intrinsic right to play videogames and blow shit up. “You're buddies with Jesus - you guys turn the other cheek, remember?” I grinned. “This place would be the first to go. Don't forget, pollywog, I know all your gaming secrets.”

“Infernal woman.” Owen sputtered, blasting the enemy away in a series of rapid rounds from his virtual AK-47.

“Come on. Leave the kid to his carnage.” I pushed Roach toward the stairs. “I need more help with our deflowering project.” We headed for the stairs. Somewhere between the first and third step my thoughts returned to where they'd continually been hanging out for the last twenty-four hours.

Him.

It was official. I was a fallen woman—a floozy, a bimbo Jezebel who enjoyed forcing guys to feel her up in public. A flush of embarrassment worked its way up my neck, making my skin itch under my shoulder-length hair. I swept a swath off my nape for a second, and then let the weight of it drop with a defeated sigh. I had no business obsessing over Mr. Hot and Urgent. How many times could I relive it? The guilty pleasure that tightened his lips, the concern in his eyes when I took off.

Who was he?

Who was
I
in that half-baked moment when I slid his hand to my breast and
knew
it was right? But it was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Really
wrong. Without a doubt the most dastardly, stupid, lame-assed, WRONG thing I'd ever done.

So why couldn't I stop thinking about him? Feeling his body against mine? He'd been right there with me, as pulled into me as I had been into him.

Fuck it. I couldn't lie. The guy was the innocent party in this mess. I had no one to rag on but my naughty, wanton self. I buried my face in my hands, letting out a low moan of self-loathing. Couldn't wait to tell Roach about this one.

No.

No telling Roach.

Not this time.

“Are you just going to stand there all day?” Roach's voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I shouldered through her doorway.

“Damn, girl,” I gasped. “What have you been smoking in here?” I crossed the room and flopped onto Roach's bed, burring my face in a pillow. “Whew, it reeks!” The putrid stench I couldn't quite identify seeped through my makeshift barrier.

“You know that new flat iron I got for my birthday?”

Something in Roach's voice made me start to laugh even before I heard the story.

“The one my mom got from a friend of a friend who works at a salon? The one that gets so hot it blows a fuse if you try plugging it in with the lights on? I had to take an online safety course before I could use it.”

The pillow muffled my snort.

“My mom picked my lock, which in itself is amazing if you think about it, and then she snuck into my room and borrowed it. She thought it was like a regular curling iron, only with more oomph. Half her hair fell out this morning. She fried it off.”

I chucked the pillow across the room. “She didn't!”

“She did. That's the smell. Fried hair. Dad bought a wig for her to wear at work today, a bob, like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
.” Roach was clearly impressed. “It's the best style she's ever had.”

The Church Lady in a hooker bob. Life was good.

“Get your laptop. We need to reevaluate,” I said, my spirits lifted, faith restored.

“Bugger. Not again.” Roach brought her laptop over and sat cross-legged beside me with it balanced on her thighs. “Didn't the Tyler Gribbons experience teach you anything?”

“Look, unless you want me to let loose on the unsuspecting male population, humping guys in elevators…”

Roach shook her head. “An elevator hump? Where do you dream up this stuff?”

If only she knew. My life and the implausible were one and the same. Like how I couldn't stop thinking about the elevator and my descent into glassed-in lechery.

“I'm not judging you.” Roach held up a hand. “I'm
not
. And I know you don't care what anyone else thinks, but I still don't get why you're stuck on sucking the heart out of it. That's what it's supposed to be about, you know.
Love
.”

“You think that's the way guys see it?” I laughed. “You're right, I don't care about my reputation, or if people want to call me a slut, it's not about love – it's about having a choice. Having control over shit in your life.”

And the fact that I didn't believe in love at first grope. The “L” word was purely a marketing scheme, guilting the masses into shops at every heart-tugging change of season. It was all puppies and unicorns, with fine details like adultery and deception, obscured by fancy pink hearts and gold glitter.

I scanned the document I thought I'd never have to reference again. Two months ago we'd compiled a list of potential devirginizers. I'd gone through more than half the names already. I never expected to seriously consider the ones this far down.

“THE DEVIRGINIZERS”

OUTTAKE #2: IT'S SNOT WORKING OUT

INTERIOR. WEITZ RESIDENCE. BASEMENT. DAY.

GRAHAM WEITZ, 17, lays, fully clothed, on his waterbed, stares up at the stained ceiling-tiles of his basement dwelling while CHARLIE presses her lips to the crotch of his jeans and blows.

GRAHAM

(voice thick and nasal)

Yeah, that's hot. She makes a grab for his zipper.

GRAHAM

(bolting upright)

Wait, I have to sneeze again.

He barely gets the words out when he lets loose an explosion of phlegm and mucus.

CHARLIE

(wiping face with sleeve)

You know what? It's snot working out.

Graham looks bleak, but it could just be his cold. Charlie tries to alleviate his disappointment.

CHARLIE

I have my period anyway, so, it's probably for the best. Let's just grab some of that chicken soup your mom's making for lunch, okay?

END OF OUTTAKE

“What about Duncan?” Roach asked. “We should have added him from the start.”

“Drunken Duncan?” I made a face. “I don't think I can do it. I saw his thing once in sixth grade. He flashed me underwater during swimming lessons.”

Roach made a face. “That's horrifying. I never go into pools, ever. Even hotel showers make me nervous. You know how many penises have flopped around in those things?”

I laughed, and then looked away from the screen. “None of these will do, Ty was as low as I'm willing to stoop. My life is too fucked up.”

“Is that a hint?” Roach asked. “Should we talk about your mom now?”

“No.”

“Want me to hug you? I will if you really want me to, but you know how I like my personal space.”

I shook my head.

“Okay then, we need to think outside the box, look beyond lists, forget guys from our school.” Roach shut her laptop. She spread her arms out, palms up like she was listening to the word of God. “There must be someone in town who rocks your boat.” She closed her eyes. “I can feel it, you're holding back. Every girl has a crush she won't admit to. Fess up. Give me a name and I promise you, we'll get your cherry well-and-truly popped.”

I thought of him, of course I did.

“And if he's nameless?” I sighed. “A nameless, fantastically good looking guy I made an ass of myself in front of once, and can't forget? What do we do then?”

Roach opened her eyes.

“We pray.”

“Not to be deliberately hurtful or insensitive, but…” I blew her a raspberry.

“Okay,
I'll
pray, while you confess. Tell me child,” she intoned, “who is the one who wets your drawers?”

Five minutes later Roach was bashing my head with both pillows. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut.

“Are. You. Out. Of. Your. Mind?” Each word was punctuated with a wallop to my noggin. “He could have been a serial killer! Or worse, he could have had crabs!”

“Right,” I said when she paused for a breather, “having crabs is much worse than having Hannibal Lecter eat your liver. I never said we
did it
, or I saw his schlong or anything, so I don't see how his crab infestation, or lack of one, comes into the equation.”

Exhausted, Roach slid to the floor, resting her back against the lopsided Ikea dresser we had assembled last year. We'd resorted to reverse engineering at one point and it showed. I still had the earrings we made with the leftover washers.

We were quiet for a while.

“Any fallout from Ty?” Roach asked.

“He's too busy porking Jessica's best friend to worry about little ol' me. I'm yesterday's blue-balls as far as he's concerned.”

“I hope you're right.”

“I'm always right.” I joined her on the floor. “Usually.”