The Slam (16 page)

I stared at her. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing.” She smiled sheepishly. “That documentary just makes me lapse into lawyer lingo and mindless courtroom jargon.”

I was about to say something but Adelaide was too intent on power walking to the pub, weaving her way in and out of people so she didn’t have to stop or slow down.

“Hurry up, slowpoke!” she called after me.

We made it to Jupiter in record time. After we took some time scanning our menus, a waiter approached our table. Both Adelaide and I ordered large pizzas. Not to share, of course. Not if I wanted my ass handed to me on a platter.

“And to drink?” asked the waiter.

“The house lager,” I said, snapping my menu shut.

“Hot tea, please.” Adelaide smiled her thanks and handed him her menu.

“Do you have a preference?” he asked her.

“Darjeeling oolong,” she replied. “If you don’t have that, then any white tea will do.”

“Would you like honey with your tea?” the waiter prompted.

“Honey?” Adelaide gasped in horror. “God, no! Just some lemon on the side, please.”

After our waiter took off, I leaned back in my chair and leveled my gaze at her. “What was that all about?”

“Honey is bee barf,” she said. “And the thought of consuming vomit just turns my stomach.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she deadpanned. “Of course this isn’t something the Honey Marketing Association is going to make the centerpiece of their next ad campaign. But the fact is, honey is made from nectar that worker bees regurgitate.”

“I see.” I cleared my throat and decided it was a good time as any to change the subject. From what I knew of Adelaide, her grandfather, Jeff, had raised her. But I never knew why. Camille would never tell me, and Adelaide had never talked about it when we were kids. “How come you’ve never mentioned anything about your parents?” I said at last.

She sat forward, leaning her elbows on the table. “What would you like to know?”

“Why did Jeff raise you?” I held her gaze steadily. “And not them?”

“They couldn’t,” she said simply.

“Why not?”

The waiter chose that moment to return with our drinks.

Adelaide sipped her hot tea before answering. “My parents were meth addicts. Jeff suspects they started using when I was four or five.” She was surprisingly upfront and candid about this.

I took a long pull from my lager. “Did you know they were using?”

“I did. I saw them. I remember watching the crystal melt into a liquid structure that cracked immediately upon cooling. I remember my mom’s sudden onset of sweating and shivering even though it was really hot inside our house.”

I watched her closely, and she looked away.

Seconds passed before she spoke again. “I didn’t understand it, but I noticed patterns… their cycle of mood swings. They wouldn’t sleep for days, sometimes weeks. They rarely ever ate, which meant I hardly had anything to eat in the house. I remember being hungry all the time. Most days they didn’t come out of their bedroom.” She drew a deep breath. “That’s where they cooked the meth.”

“Jeff knew about this?”

“Not at first. My parents lived in Melbourne and Jeff’s ranch was an eight-hour drive away. He came to see us once a year, usually in the springtime. That year, Dad didn’t want him staying with us so Jeff checked himself into a hotel. At the time, I was in and out of the emergency room with all sorts of respiratory problems. I was constantly sick, and I could never seem to fall asleep. As much as I wanted the world to go dark at night, my mind wouldn’t stop racing.” She gave a tired smile. “I never got much sleep in that house.”

My anger spiked and I took another swig to cover my rage. “Third hand meth exposure?”

“Correct,” she said. “My parents weren’t just meth users, they were dealers, too, and all that vapor from their home-cooked meth clung to every surface… the walls and floors, it accumulated in the carpets, it penetrated the drywall and insulation. For every pound of meth they produced, five to seven pounds of chemical waste were left behind. The entire house was contaminated. Every time Jeff came over to visit, he had really bad migraines. He complained of his skin itching and his eyes getting dry. Then one day he found light bulbs converted to smoking devices. He saw torches, straws, strips of burned aluminum foil, sandwich bags, the hodgepodge mix of meth paraphernalia.” She sighed. “That’s when he knew they were using.”

“What did he do?”

“He confronted them and they denied it.” She shrugged. “Which is no surprise, really. Meth addicts always deny their addiction. Anyway, Jeff refused to leave without me. He took me back to his ranch. With time, all my respiratory issues went away. No more breathing problems. I wasn’t sick anymore and I could finally sleep at night. I even started to gain some weight.”

A muscle worked in my jaw. “Jeff knew they were using, but did he know they were dealing, too?”

“Eventually he found out. He tried to help them. He even staged an intervention. But they didn’t want his help. Loving a meth addict is not easy.” She gave a humorless laugh. “Because they don’t even love themselves. They love their drug and that’s about it. Jeff ended up cutting ties with them. Completely.”

“Where are your parents now?”

She lifted her mug to her lips and took another sip. “In prison.”

“Jeff reported them?”

She nodded. “It wasn’t easy for him to turn in his own son. But he felt he had no other choice. Meth made my parents believe that everything was fine when their world was collapsing around them. They never thought they had a problem. To them, it was Jeff and everyone else who was the problem. It wasn’t denial, it was delusion caused by the drug. And it wasn’t recreational either. It became their lifestyle.” The calm in her voice was strained around the edges. “A lifestyle uglier than you can imagine.”

I could no longer keep my anger in check. “They sound like fuck-ups!”

She winced a little. “Look,” she said evenly. “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression of my parents. Even though they’re incarcerated, I still keep in touch with them. I call them twice a year, and I’ve had a chance to hear their side of the story.”

I waited.

“Before they started using, my parents had successful careers. Mom was a professor of Applied Physics at the School of Engineering at the University of Melbourne. When she got pregnant, she put on a lot of weight.” She gave a dry smile. “It sounds so silly now even as I say it. But it affected her. And even after two years, she couldn’t shed the pounds. She told me that was when she started using. She promised herself she’d keep the habit only until she was thin enough. But once she brought the drug back home, Dad started using, too. He had a stressful job; the investment firm he ran grossed over fifty million a year in revenue and there was a lot riding on the line for him. He told me he started using meth to give him the energy to put in 70-hour workweeks. Pretty soon, things spiraled out of control. Dad said it was the sensation of traveling at high speeds on a train, moving so fast and going nowhere and everywhere at the same time. All he had was tunnel vision for the next score, catching glimpses of me and his broken life just outside his periphery.” She inhaled sharply. “And when they lost their jobs, they became addicts who sold meth to support their habits. They turned to meth to solve a problem, never imagining that meth would become the problem.”

I stared at her long and hard, feeling a surge of protectiveness for her.
She had eyes that saw the best in others and a heart that forgave the worst.
Even after all her parents had put her through, she hadn’t given up on them.

Despite our differences, I realized we had a lot in common. “My parents are not incarcerated but they may as well be.” I took another long pull from my beer. “They were never around. Edric and I were raised entirely by nannies. Except in the summer time. That’s when they put us on a plane and sent us off to Camille’s.”

“Didn’t you see them on the weekends?”

“Nope,” I said. “They outsourced all their parental duties to nannies. Dad was too busy building his practice, and my step-mom at the time never considered rescheduling her Botox appointments so she could come to one of my matches.”

“I’m sorry, Ender. She sounds about as warm as a fridge but I’m sure there’s more to her than that. And I really don’t understand.” She frowned, confused. “I heard your dad’s one of the top plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills. Camille told me he has a six-month long waiting list and a hundred million in his bank account.”

I was slightly taken aback. “Most people don’t talk openly about money, Adelaide.”

“They don’t?” She twisted her lips. “Why not?”

As her social coach I felt it was my responsibility to be blunt with her. “It’s rude.”

“Do you think it’s rude?”

“I could care less, but other people might find it… crass.”

“Crass?” Her surprise showed in her voice. “I think it’s crucial. Numbers motivate; it provides context. I quantify everything. Most girls will tell people they lost ten pounds, or they only have four more credits until they graduate, or they ate two salads for lunch. So what’s wrong if I bring up how much money someone has in his bank account or how much he earns?”

I shrugged. “I don’t make the social rules.”

“Not to mention,” she went on. “We need salary transparency. It’s important for women to know if there’s a gender bias and social injustice at the workplace.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I got sidetracked. I’m sorry. Back to your dad.”

“What about my dad?” Just then our food arrived and I grabbed a slice of pizza.

Adelaide reached for a slice and said, “If he was so rich, why didn’t he cut back on work so he could spend time with his family? Why did he need more money?”

I laughed, but there was little humor in it. “More was never enough for him.” I took a large bite of my pizza. “It still isn’t.”

Quiet for a moment, she chewed slowly, searching my face as though she were searching for a silver lining, something more. “Well,” she said at last. “At least all that money bought you comfort. It made choices and opportunities available to you.”

“Yeah.” I took another bite. “About that… haven’t you heard? Money can’t buy happiness.”

“But poverty can’t buy you anything,” she countered. “And it’s been backed by science that money
can
buy you happiness if you spend it on moments and experiences, rather than on material things.”

I took a moment to chew and swallow. “Tell that to my parents.”

“I will,” she said severely, and she actually sounded dead serious. “If I ever go to Los Angeles.” She reached for another slice of pizza and plopped it onto her plate. “Camille said most people in L.A. would be saved in the event of a flood. They’d just float to the surface with all the plastic within their bodies,” she said with a little laugh.

I grabbed another slice of pizza, and for the next several minutes, I ate while Adelaide ate and talked, chattering endlessly and animatedly the whole time.

To my surprise I found that it didn’t bother me. I was never much of a talker anyway, and she took the burden of speaking off of my shoulders.

She allowed me to take a break. To just sit back and listen.

And she never demanded my attention; she simply compelled it.

It was strangely refreshing.

Later, when our waiter brought the bill, Adelaide sat back and said, “You know, studies have shown that money can also buy you happiness if you spend it on others.” She bit down on her lower lip and treated me to an adorable grin.

A smile edged up one corner of my mouth. “Lunch is on me,” I said, reaching for the bill.

Chapter Eighteen

ADELAIDE

Steam filled the bathroom and misted the mirror as I stepped out of the shower.

For a moment, I stood in front of the sink staring at my blurred reflection. “Right. You can do this,” I coached myself. “You can ask him.” I wrapped my towel around my chest, tucking the corner in to secure it.

After all, Ender was a dear friend, so why would he say no?

Just follow the script
, I told myself.
Follow the script and see what happens.

Only this time it wasn’t my script. It was Piper’s.

Twin bolts of panic shot through me and I pulled in a deep, calming breath.

I needed to be prepared for tomorrow and this was a sure-fire way to get it done.

Steam whooshed out the bathroom as I opened the door, billowing through the air as I hurried down to Ender’s room.

I didn’t bother knocking on his door. I was a creature of routine and so was Ender, I learned. At this hour he was usually doing push-ups on the floor or pull-ups on the high bar in his room.

Only this time he wasn’t.

The door creaked open to reveal a naked Ender, reclining against a mound of pillows on his bed, masturbating to something on his laptop.

Did I mention he was naked? Completely naked!

“Oh, haiiiiii!” My voice was squeaky high. I stood shocked and immobilized in the doorway.

His jaw went rigid… as rigid as his penis.

“It’s you,” he said in a toneless voice.

“Correct,” I said in a strained voice. “It’s me.”

Silence stretched until I broke it. “That’s funny.” I gave a shrill laugh. “You’re not doing your workouts like you, errrr… normally do.”

Ender stared at me, holding his crafty appendage in his hand while loud screaming and grunting noises emanated from his laptop.

A hush passed between us.

Clearing my throat twice, I said with attempted bravado, “Are you masturbating to women’s tennis?”

Ender said nothing, and in the background, the screaming and grunting noises pitched higher. Several octaves higher.

While Maria Sharapova’s screams have been measured at more than 101 decibels—comparable to a chainsaw or a pneumatic drill—the noises coming from Ender’s laptop made Sharapova sound like a geisha.

Who is this tennis player?
I wondered. I was pretty sure it wasn’t Venus or Serena.

Another dreadful hush passed between us.

“Can I watch you?” I said at last. “While you masturbate.”

He didn’t answer right away and I watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed hard. “What do you want, Adelaide?”

Stick to the plan. Stick to the script
.

“I’m
sooo
wet,” I said in a voice I hardly recognized as my own. “Care to lick me dry?”

Ender’s jaw tensed. “What the fuck are you saying?” he ground out. “That doesn’t sound like you, Adelaide. Who told you to say that?”

“Piper,” I blurted out.

He frowned. “Why?”

“Well,” I said in a small voice, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “Piper says everyone she knows in college is having sex on the first date. I have a date with Cade tomorrow and I want to be prepared. I always plan ahead.”

His frown deepened. “Please don’t talk like your friend. Just say what you want to say in your own words. Go on,” he urged. “Spit it out.”

So I did. “I need your help understanding the mating ritual since you’re my social coach and this is a social… erm, situation.”

“You mean sex?” A muscle worked in his jaw. “You’d like me to have sex with you?”

“Not exactly. I’d like you to recreationally expel genetic material into me with no intent of reproduction.”

“So you’d like me to wear a condom when I fuck you?”

“Correct,” I said, my voice slightly more high-pitched than usual.

Suddenly, the room felt charged with awkwardness and I had no idea how to defuse it. It didn’t help that Ender was still sprawled in bed, fully nude with his penis fully erect while screaming noises emanated from his laptop.

“Adelaide.” He exhaled hard. “You don’t have to put out on the first date. Not with Cade. Not with anyone.”

“But if it comes to that, I want to know what I’m doing.”

“Do what you want, but you’re not hooking up with Cade tomorrow.” His tone was harsh, an order not a request.

“You might be my coach, Ender.” My voice was wobbly but clear. “But you don’t own me and I’m not very good at being obedient.”

“I’m your friend.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “Friends don’t take advantage of friends.”

“But you’re not taking advantage of me,” I implored. “You’ll be helping me. And I’ll be helping you.”

He scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“Your left knee,” I pointed out. “I’ve noticed it’s been bothering you.”

“What has my bad knee got to do with this?”

“Orgasms block pain,” I rushed to explain. “When you have sex, your body releases a power combo of dopamine and prolactin which eases muscle pain and soreness. Furthermore, sex boosts testosterone production, which gives you an athletic edge.”

“I thought sex diminishes a player’s performance.”

“Oh, that’s a myth.” I waved his words aside. “There’s no scientific evidence to support that.” A pause. “So what do you say? You help me and I help you. It’s a win-win situation.” I smiled thinly but he didn’t return the gesture.

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that having sex with me might not be the best idea?” His tone hardened and I tensed at the blunted steel in his voice.

Quickly recovering, I gave it right back to him. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that I’m capable of making that decision for myself?” I knew I sounded livid, but I was, so why hide it? “I want this, Ender. Don’t make me beg.”

In the silence that followed, the sexual tension heightened to a painful state.

He stared at me without speaking, his eyes blazing with heat and desire and a deeper emotion that made my heart beat hard and fast in my chest.

Still neither of us said a word until the silence threatened to suffocate me.

I took a deep breath and my chest felt tight.

Gosh, I almost needed an oxygen mask. If there had been plants in the room, I’m fairly certain they would’ve been unable to photosynthesize for lack of CO2.

Nevertheless, I waited…

He waited…

An eternity seemed to have revolved between us before he spoke.

“Come here.” His voice turned a shade darker. “I want to taste you.”

The dark sensuality of his voice sent a thrill through my body, cinching my nipples and hardening my clit.

Feverish breaths lifted my chest as I approached his bed. “Where do you want me?” My voice betrayed a hint of nerves.

“On top.” His voice betrayed none.

He remained reclined against a mound of pillows, gloriously naked and without a tremor of self-consciousness.

I swallowed hard. God, he was such a magnificent, splendid specimen.

So sculpted, so strong, so solid, so… virile.

One hand was pinned behind his head while the other was stroking his shaft as he watched me.

I watched him, too. My eyes lingered on his large, erect penis hanging long and heavy between rock-hard thighs. I watched the thick length of his erection, veins throbbing, flesh tight, the broad mushroom tip glistening with moisture as he stroked himself.

When I reached the foot of the bed, he stopped masturbating and snapped the lid of the laptop shut.

Then he reclined to the mound of pillows, this time with both hands linked behind his head, waiting, offering no excuse.

Slowly, I inched my way up his hard, muscular body, moving forward on my hands and knees until I was straddling his lap.

For a frozen moment, our gazes locked and held.

In time, he unhooked his hands from behind his head and tugged on my towel. 

My breath hitched as it fell away from me, leaving every inch of my body exposed to his burning gaze.

My hair was dripping wet and tiny beads of water trickled down my throat, gathering in my cleavage and the underside of my breasts.

As if in slow motion, he lowered his head, tracing his tongue along the column of my neck, traveling down the valley between my breasts, lingering there as he lapped at the thin rivulets of water sluicing down my cleavage.

Lifting his gaze slightly, holding my stare, he licked the droplets from my hardened nipple.

My lips parted and a breathless moan eased from my throat.

I watched, muted and entranced, as his tongue swirled lazy patterns over the circumference of my breast, slowly spiraling inward until his warm lips closed around my areola.

I released a deep, full-body sigh as he drew on the tip, sipping the tender bud between his lips.

Wanting more, I arched my back, thrusting the crest into his mouth so he could take me deeper. Harder.

His strong lips formed a tight seal around my nipple.

Greedily, he sipped the shower water from my flesh, tormenting me with his soft, succulent lips while his rough, calloused hands slid over my waist and down, grabbing my ass, squeezing it hard.

Heat gathered between my thighs, warmth spread through my limbs.

At his silent urging, I began moving my hips, sliding my clit against his shaft, slipping
back and forth
…
back and forth
…
back and forth
… saturating his raging erection with my hot, creamy release.

God. I was so wet, so slippery.

The hard ridge of his arousal was pressed dead center between my thighs and I began rolling my hips, making small pelvic circles, dispersing the overflow of juices, feeding the desire welling inside me.

Soon I found a rhythm that pleased me.

It pleased him, too.

As I ground my clit against his erection, boldly taking what I wanted, chasing the pleasure as it built, his groans of appreciation vibrated around my breast, humming straight to my nipple.

With an impatient growl he grabbed my ass, molding and kneading the soft flesh as his mouth latched onto my other breast, his cheeks hollowing and dimpling as he drew the peak into his mouth, suckling harder and harder.

I made a whimpering noise, somewhere between a sigh and a moan as I felt my nipple pull, stretch, then elongate inside the moist depths of his mouth.

A deep groan scraped from his throat and I cried out as he sucked on the sensitive flesh, gently abrading it with the edge of his teeth.

“Ender…” I closed my eyes so I could feel him. He was so hard. I was so wet. And the slippery friction of my clit rubbing against his shaft sent delicious shivers rippling all the way up to my core.

The pleasure was blinding.

Blissful shudders wracked my body and I came apart, gasping for breath in quiet sobs.

Ender lifted his mouth from my breast and pinned me with his heated stare.

For a while, I sat there panting, dragging air into my lungs as I watched his pulse pounding in his throat, watched him swallow hard around it.

Our moist breaths mingled in the ribbon-thin gap between our lips.

“Wow,” I breathed. “I’m pretty sure I just had an orgasm, and there wasn’t even penetration.”