16. Seraphina
16
Seraphina
“Ser, let me in,” Bianca calls from the other side of the bathroom stall’s door, banging on the wood to let me know she means business.
From my position sitting on the closed lid of a toilet in the middle of a crowded venue, I don’t have much room to argue. But still, I shake my head, despite her inability to see me, and refuse. “Bianca, I’m fine. Go back to the table.”
“You’re not fine. I saw you run in here. Do I need to call Liv or Rafe? He should be on his way by now.“
“Bianca, I said I’m fine.”
“And I said you’re not. Look…” She pauses. I can hear her frustration like a tangible thing that wraps around her words. “I ordered us an Uber. Liv should be back from her shift at the bar in an hour. We can put on pajamas and binge-watch that weird show about the fake psychic detective.”
Rolling my eyes at the last part of her statement, I cross my arms over my chest. “ Psych is not a weird show. But okay. Let’s get out of here.” Standing from the closed lid of the toilet, I slide the lock, disengage it, and walk out of the small stall. My sister’s shoulders deflate the moment she sees me.
“Fucking finally. Listen, if you want to take up the role of dramatic sister, just let me know, and I’ll step back. There can’t be two of us here, you bitch.” Bianca reaches for my hand and pulls me behind her, making me stumble from her effort.
“B, let go of me. I need to wash my hands.”
“You didn’t even use the bathroom. I have hand sanitizer in my bag that you can use in the Uber.” Her grip tightens, genuinely hurting me now. “If you think I’m letting you out of my sight or my hold after you locked yourself in a bathroom stall for fifteen minutes, you’re nuts.”
Looking down, I relent and allow my sister to pull me along and weave through the crowds of people having the time of their lives in the upscale restaurant and club. I expect Bianca to pull me right, toward the main exit and past the table where Ava and everyone else are, but instead, she tugs left and flings open a door I didn’t realize was there. We exit into a long, bright hallway that smells of vinegar.
Wrinkling my nose, I see rows of neatly stacked linens, crates of barware, and serving platers arranged against one wall on neat metal shelves.
“B, this looks like the kitchen entrance.”
She doesn’t respond; she keeps moving us down the hall toward another door at the end. I almost say something, ask how the hell she knows this was back here or the layout of the building. But I don’t.
I keep my mouth shut and allow her to drag me out to the side alley that seems to have been made into an outside break nook for employees. Turning toward the street, she pulls me to the sidewalk and leads us to a small red Camry with an Uber sticker on the windshield.
Knocking on the window, B waits until the man inside rolls it down to speak. “Are you Bill?”
“Yes, Bianca?”
“If you kill us and throw our bodies into the Hudson, just know that our parents are some of the best lawyers in the tri-state and will make sure you room with a psycho clown until you take your last breath.”
“Bianca,” I grind out. Leaning to the side, I make eye contact with the driver, who looks nauseous from her threat. “Sorry about her. Yes, she’s Bianca. Can you take us back to West Elm? She gets a bit hostile when drunk.” I nudge my sister with my shoulder, causing her to let out a pained yelp. “Open the damn door,” I mumble under my breath.
Unlike most instances, where she purposely ignores me or does the opposite of what I ask, she follows my demand and opens the back door, sliding to the middle of the bench seat. Once settled, the driver, Bill, merges into traffic and starts the drive home.
He keeps his eyes trained on the windshield, his mouth shut, and his radio silent. It’s oddly comforting after the heavy beat in the restaurant and the memory of Lincoln’s voice in my ear.
Biting down on my lip, I lean my head back against the headrest, trying not to think about how good he looked and how grown up he was. I always knew he’d be a success in whatever it was he chose to do. Lincoln is driven, focused, and intense; there’s no way that if he wanted something, he wouldn’t achieve it.
I allowed myself to wonder—to hope—for a fraction of a second if, four years after meeting, the timing was finally right. But it was foolish to think of such a thing. After all, a man like Lincoln doesn’t stay single. Or, if he were single, I’m sure he wouldn’t be hurting for company.
As soon as Gemma was introduced, I knew that any juvenile ideas I had were misplaced. I didn’t miss the way men stared at the gorgeous, raven-haired siren as she sat down at our table And I couldn’t blame them; she was quite possibly the most stunning woman I’d ever seen in person.
Looking down at my body, I cringe at our different appearances. If that’s the type of woman Lincoln is attracted to, what the hell did I ever think he saw in me? Where his girlfriend is all long legs, a generous bust, pouty lips, and cat-like blue eyes, I’m short, dark-haired, and dark-eyed, with barely any boobs to speak of.
We are complete opposites of each other.
Closing my eyes, I cast Lincoln and his model-like girlfriend from my mind, instead focusing on the hum of rotating tires against the asphalt and Bianca’s heavy breathing. There’s peace in the background noise, the world fading from the foreground as my mind latches onto the innocuous sounds.
After long minutes spent listening to the low whines around me, the car slows to a stop. Opening my eyes, I look out the passenger window, surprised to see our apartment complex. The driver-side back door opens, and I watch Bianca unfold herself from the seat and stand up, slamming the door behind her without any consideration as to whether I’d be following that way.
Opening the door closest to me, I follow Bianca’s actions, offering a mumbled “Thank you” to the driver as I close the door behind me. He doesn’t wait for me to step on the curb, instead flooring the gas and racing down the road as fast as his little red car can go.
Shaking my head, I walk the path to the entrance of the apartment building and meet Bianca in front of the elevators. She remains silent as we step into the metal box. She doesn’t talk as I press the button to our floor and wait for the short elevator ride to be finished. She doesn’t speak as we walk down the short hallway to our door.
But as soon as I shut that door, all semblance of her control is gone.
“What the hell happened tonight, Seraphina?”
“Bianca, for the fifty-fifth time, I told you I’m fine. I want to take off my makeup, take off this handkerchief of a dress, and go to bed. Anything you want or need to say to me can wait until the morning, okay?”
“Fine, but you will speak to me. I will—”
“What the hell is going on?” Liv interrupts, emerging from her bedroom and closing it shut behind her. My eyes narrow on her rumpled clothes, messy hair, and the lack of lipstick on her face after a seemingly long shift. The thing about my best friend is that she hates not being put together. Even in sleep, she wears matching sets, sets her hair in heatless curls or a braid, and is like a fifties housewife in the perfect facade she presents. She and I both know that her outward appearance masks the thinly veiled chaos that swirls inside her.
For her to open her door, even if it’s just for Bianca and me, looking like she just had sex is highly unusual, not only because of her vanity but also because she hates intimacy.
“Seraphina locked herself in a bathroom, and we had to leave early tonight. She refuses to tell me why. But maybe you can get an answer out of her.” Bianca huffs, waving her hands to showcase her annoyance.
“Sera—”
“Is there someone in your room?” I ask, interrupting Liv’s question. “Weren’t you supposed to be at work tonight?”
Liv’s eyes widen, and she backs to her door, gripping the handle as though she will bar anyone from entering the space. Or leaving it. “Wh-what are you talking about?” She shakes her head, her fingers turning white on the handle. “Of course I had work. I got home an hour ago. I was about to take a shower. Oh, look, the water is running; I should go jump in. It’s probably hot. Have a good night.” Liv points behind her, gesturing toward the en-suite bathroom her room holds, opens the door a crack, and slips in, not letting the door fully open so that we can’t see in.
“Well, that was weird,” Bianca murmurs, her voice holding all of the confusion I feel. She stares at the door briefly before whipping her head toward me. “But don’t think Liv’s weirdness makes me forget about you. We will talk tomorrow. Don’t you dare run out of here.”
I nod, crossing my fingers behind my back as I nonverbally respond. She eyes me, her gaze narrowing on my face before she stomps to her bedroom and slams the door. As soon as I’m alone, my shoulders drop, the weight of the night leeching from my body. Running a hand over my face, I walk to the fridge and pull out an unopened, cold bottle of water. I’m not conscious of my pulls from the bottle, and I’m surprised when I’m met with air and the crunching of plastic as I drain the last drops.
Throwing it in the recycling, I walk lightly to my bedroom door, relieved that I don’t need to share a private space with my sister and best friend. With the former, she wouldn’t be able to stop talking, and I’d have to suffocate myself with a pillow to drown out the noise. With the latter, I’m almost positive there was someone in her room, and the idea of sleeping with the smell of someone else’s sex makes disgust trickle down my spine.
Setting my bag and phone down on my dresser, I open my top two drawers to gather an oversized T-shirt and pair of boy shorts to sleep in. I know I should shower and wash the night from my body in some self-anointed cleansing ritual. But for some reason, the thought of showering doesn’t sound appealing.
I can blame exhaustion and claim that sleep wants to take me. But I know that’s a lie. I know that I don’t want to shower the stench of the night off me because Lincoln touched me; his smell surrounds me.
Part of me is surprised that he smells of the spicey cologne he used to wear. I remember the first night we met, the competing powers of ginger, tobacco, and vanilla were so heady I couldn’t tell if my reaction to him was because of his appearance or his scent. When he bent down to kiss me hello tonight, my mind was transported back to the moment I first laid my eyes on him.
“Stop acting so obsessed,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head as I reach for the back zipper to remove the dress. “I should have asked Bianca to help me. Dammit, where is—oh, thank God.” My fingers land on the small, hidden pull tab, and I yank it down, not caring that the sound of tearing fabric fills the room. I already need this dress dry-cleaned after spilling sangria on it, so I’ll have to add “replace zipper” to the list of my grievances tonight.
Along with “fantasizing about someone else’s boyfriend.”
Sighing, I let the dress fall off my body and carefully step out of the heap of fabric on the floor. I don’t waste time donning my T-shirt, but when it comes to the boy shorts on my dresser, I hesitate, biting my lip as I consider my next move.
Putting on the panties is an admission of sleep, a silent confirmation that I’ll succumb to whatever dreams—or nightmares—present themselves. But I feel too keyed up, too needy. I know damn well that an attempt at slumber will be unsuccessful and restless. At best, I’ll dream of Lincoln, and at worst, my mind will spiral down the path it’s taken so many times: all the things I’ve missed out on.
I started therapy soon after Mitch and his father’s motives came to light and after my parents were cleared of any prosecutorial misconduct. I had to relate the best and worst moments of my life, understand their outcomes, and deal with acceptance. I’m okay, for the most part, but it’s that nagging lack of trust in people that seems to always rear its head. Aside from Liv, there have been no new connections made—both platonic and romantic—that have meant anything to me. On the one hand, my ability to trust easily is obliterated, and on the other, I was a hopeless eighteen-year-old who fell in love over the course of six weeks with a man I’ll never have.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t harbor feelings for Lincoln, dormant as they may be. But I also know that pursuing him is not only unfair, it’s wrong, both because of his girlfriend and the mistakes I’ve made. There’s a reason I didn’t reach out to him after everything was settled with Mitch, after the restraining order was fully in place, and it’s because I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t good enough for Lincoln. Maybe it’s self-pity, or perhaps it’s the knowledge that most people would ask for help or at least demand proof when threatened. But me? It didn’t take much to make me believe, to make me trust that the accusations Mitch levied were true. And if I can’t trust my own instincts, which screamed “protect, protect, protect,” what good am I?
“Enough, Seraphina,” I murmur, sounding deranged, talking to myself in the third person.
With a sigh, I drop the fabric in my hands and leave the boy shorts on the dresser. Moving to my bed, I grab my laptop and fall into my nearly nightly routine of the last three years: self-pleasure. When I first started having sex, it was almost a rebellion, a way to say fuck you to the guy who manipulated me the entire time I knew him. But then, it changed into a habit.
It’s not that I’ve been with hordes of men, but I’ve experimented. I lost my virginity my first week of college to one of my dorm’s resident advisors, a cute, if not socially awkward, sophomore who seemed to think our hookup was more meaningful than I did.
After one night, a little blood, and no orgasm, I thought our relationship would be comprised of awkward hellos when we passed each other in the hall and careful avoidance. He thought it would be dinner in the dining hall, sleepovers in his single, and date parties at his fraternity.
It became… hostile, and I was relieved to finally be placed in a different dorm for the summer session.
After him, I was more selective about where I met people, careful that no one was in my classes or dorm building. Olivia hated my experimentation and my need for freedom and body autonomy because she was terrified I would be hurt in some way, either physically or emotionally.
What I had to help her understand was that my heart didn’t belong to any of the guys I dated, and even though Mitch never violated my body, he violated my trust and perception of men. No one had the power to hurt me anymore, at least not in an intimate way.
But the one thing that was a constant source of disappointment was how unfulfilled I felt after nearly every single encounter. Even if I found my release and came in some semblance of an orgasm, there was a hollow feeling that would take residence in my soul and eat away at it. I couldn’t stop this feeling that I was wasting time with men who held no interest for me.
I stopped pursuing boys and started taking care of myself. Some people shy away from masturbation, feel disgusted by the act of bringing themselves to orgasm and feeling their own cum drip down their fingers, coating their thighs. But I’ve never felt that way. The few orgasms I’ve received from someone else have paled in comparison to what I can do for myself.
Sometimes, I fuck myself with a toy; other times, I use my fingers or the heel of my hand against my clit. But regardless of what tactic I use, the result is always the same: I come.
Needing a release after the tense evening, I lie back on my pillows and open my laptop. Navigating to my favorite site, where verified amateurs film themselves and receive payment directly for their videos rather than through a third party, I start to scroll through my favorites list. My tastes change frequently. Sometimes, I watch couples make love or swingers swapping partners, and sometimes, it’s men being pleased by multiple women.
The only correlation between all the videos I favor is the obvious intimacy and need for each other. Maybe I should be embarrassed, horrified by the fact that I enjoy watching other people having sex, achieving the cosmic orgasm at someone else’s hands or mouth or cock.
But it’s not embarrassment I feel; it’s need.
I settle on my most-watched video: a married couple on their honeymoon, so obviously in love with each other that that fact alone makes your heart race. Their faces are never shown; the angle of the camera ensures their concealed identity, and it adds to the sense that it could be you and your partner in the moment, giving each other so much while high on life.
Placing the laptop beside me, I watch as his dark head disappears between her legs, her moans filling my room as he eats her and devours her like an inmate’s final meal on death row. I let my mind drift, imagining that it’s me in that woman’s place, that the mouth between my legs can’t stop tasting me, licking me, biting me. I picture riding my lover’s face, feeling the scruff of his closely shaved beard against my skin as I grab his head and pull him close, forcing his nose to rub against my clit as his tongue fucks me, working in and out of my pussy in a pace so slow, it’s excruciating.
My eyes fall shut as my hands drift between my legs, one finger running delicately over my clit in smooth circles as my pinky grazes my outer lips, collecting the cum already seeping out. By the sound of the woman’s moans and the smacking of the headboard, the husband flipped his wife over and put her on her knees, fucking her doggy style while he constrains her hands against her back.
It’s not my favorite position, but there’s something about the couple that shows how much trust the wife puts in her husband to treat her body well when she has no power over her movements. How the submission, when given to the right partner, can be so damn good. It’s an experience I’ve never had, but as a voyeur, I’m there with them.
Moving my hand lower, I let the heel of my palm dig against my clit as my fingers shallowly dip in and out of my pussy. I grind my hips against my hand, throwing my head back at how good it feels to have the pressure against the nerves while two small fingers fill me.
The wife shouts expletives, coming all over her husband’s cock, and I fuck myself in rhythm to her cries, speeding up as she chants, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” like a prayer to the man behind her. Mentally, I put myself in her place, a dark, heavily tattooed arm around my waist as he hauls me up and places his chest flush with my back. It’s always the fantasy of the same arm, the same smell that I fuck myself to.
I imagine a rough hand circling my neck while his other rests against my chest as he moves me up and down his thick, dark cock, rubbing sensitive spots no man has reached before. His cock would feel impossibly big, like it’s stretching me from the inside and molding my body to his. His voice would whisper in my ear, telling me how good I feel and how well my body adjusts to him. With a bite to my neck, he’d mark me, murmuring about how good his cierń feels wrapped around his cock right before I explode, coming so violently that my cum drips from his cock while he continues to fuck me until he finds his own release.
Like a monster, he’d fuck me through it, triggering a second orgasm, and just like the scenario I created in my mind, my body starts to tingle, the climax hitting me with the grace of a freight train as my back bows off the bed and a hushed name leaves my mouth, “Lincoln.”
I allow myself a single minute to let my heart rate slow and my mind settle before absolute panic sets in.
“Fuck,” I whisper, letting my clean hand rest over my eyes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” My groan echoes the woman’s moans on the screen, and belatedly, I realize I didn’t turn the video off. Removing the hand from my eyes, I reach across my body and exit the website, closing my laptop shortly after.
Shaking my head, I get up and tiptoe across my room, slowly opening the door before running to the bathroom Bianca and I share to wash my hands, remove my makeup, and get ready for bed. I’m deliberate in keeping my thoughts focused on the task in front of me. As long as I wash my face, dry it, and moisturize it, no other thoughts will filter into my brain. Like how I envisioned Lincoln holding me down and fucking me, or worshipping my body with his hands and mouth, or coming inside me.
How I think about that frequently, with a regularity that’s pathetic.
Yes, I won’t think about his deep voice in my ear, his tongue on my skin, as long as I focus on the retinol treatment I’m rubbing into my face.
“What are you doing, Seraphina?” I whisper, shutting my eyes at the idiocy of my thoughts and talking to myself once more.
Sighing in defeat, I walk quietly back to my bedroom and shut the door and my lights behind me. Moving back to my bed, I hesitate before lying down, looking at the mattress as though it’s the scene of a heinous crime. Which, in a way, I guess it kind of is. Swallowing my self-disgust, I slide under the covers and screw my eyes shut, telling myself that I won’t dream about Lincoln.
As I submit to sleep, I think about how I’m such a liar as Lincoln’s face pops into my mind.