Thirteen
Teagan
I may not live at home anymore, but most of my closet does. As little as I enjoy making an extra visit to my parents’ house, it’s a good excuse to see Levi between Sundays. Even when he’s being a brat.
“You look so stressed it’s stressing me out,” Levi complains from my bed.
“Sorry for the inconvenience,” I joke.
I am stressed. As ready as I am to be done with my class, it also means I’m one step closer to being best ma’am full-time. Banquets, showers, parties—so many events with so many vague dress codes. A normal person would love the opportunity to dress up and go to fancy events, spotting celebrities, getting free food and alcohol, and staring at the skyline from the top floor of a luxury hotel, but not me—especially not the events I have to plan, coordinate, and clean up when it’s over, all while wearing heels.
As if that’s not enough to worry about, it’s also a faux pas to wear the same dress twice in a season, so I rented four to complement the ones I didn’t wear last year. I have too many choices and too little patience. Piles of classwork, a courtroom, and juggling a full-time job I can manage, but parties make my eye twitch.
“I have a lot to do,” I tell Levi. “Mary’s brother is in Spain for the summer, so he’s handling the actual wedding part with the planner, but I’m in charge of everything stateside and groom related, including coordinating all the travel and deadlines.”
“But why, though?” Levi always asks the real questions.
“You know how Ryan is. He doesn’t realize how much work anything takes outside of school because he’s always paid someone to do it.”
“So, is he paying you?”
“Yes. With his undying gratitude.”
Levi laughs. “Ryan would fall apart if you weren’t by his side all the time.”
“Believe me, I know.”
My closet here is the size of my apartment’s bedroom. Mom drops little surprises in it sometimes, heavy suggestions on what she would like me to wear to an upcoming event or a suggested replacement for what I had just worn. My perfectionism rarely serves me outside of a professional setting, and when it comes to attire, I will run myself in circles trying to figure it out. But luckily, I have a cheat code.
Everyone thinks Jeremy is my style guru because he’s gay, but he’s a bear who can barely dress himself. My secret weapon is straight as an arrow and lounging against my headboard in an Off-White hoodie.
Going back to the closet, I pull the fitted dress from the rack and grab my black stilettos. It’s neutral enough for me to fade into the background while keeping everything organized. I think .
Holding them in the doorway for Levi to see, I ask, “This isn’t too much, is it?”
“Too much for what? Your shift on the corner?”
I scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He sets his phone beside his hip and leans forward, pressing his fingertips together like a CEO reprimanding an intern. “The dress is see-through, Teagan. You’re going to a wedding.”
“It’s a reception , and only the exterior layer is transparent. It’s solid underneath.”
“It’s giving Shein,” he quips.
Begrudgingly, I let out a laugh. “Fine. What about the Marchesa? Is it too formal for black tie optional?” What even is black tie optional?
He rests his cheek on a fist. “You don’t want me to answer that.”
I have four other vetoed outfits laid out on the bed beside him. He’s not being helpful at all. “You are the only other fashionable one in the family. Why can’t you help me choose?”
He smirks. “I’m the only fashionable one in the family, but that’s not saying much when this is what you’re working with.” He gestures to all the options.
I groan. “Help me!”
“Fine! Do the fluffy dress with the fluffy Jimmys for the reception, the Lhuillier with the strappy sandals for the rehearsal dinner, then save the Marchesa and Louboutins for Mom and Dad’s black tie.”
The “fluffy dress” is powder blue, floor length, and backless other than thin straps that cross back and forth. Light ruffles trace the vertical straps on the shoulder blades, looking like tiny angel wings, and the skirt consists of asymmetrical, scalloped layers of organza. The two elements stress the band at the waist, creating a dramatic A-line. I kind of love it.
“The fluffy Jimmys aren’t overkill with the fluffy dress?”
“No, it looks good,” he says as he picks up his phone, obviously done with me. Setting the shoes next to the hem of the dress, I see that he’s right. But can I— “You have the body of a Dior model, don’t ask me if you can pull it off.”
“Okay. Damn.” Levi can always read my mind.
I glance at the clock and see I have fifteen minutes left of the time I scheduled for this. I take a deep breath to calm myself—so much stress over what is ultimately just fabric. I’m lucky Levi is the way he is. I sit on the bed next to him and let my head fall onto his shoulder. He brushes his silky hair out of my way—silent acceptance of my affection.
I want to be low-maintenance like him, not needing a bimonthly trip to the salon for the bare minimum nail and hair upkeep. Rolling out of bed, sliding on a hoodie, looking presentable after brushing my fingers through my hair sounds like perfection . . . but his life isn’t easy. It’s just a different type of hard than mine. I admire everything about him, and I’m impressed by everything he does.
When I look up at him, he’s smiling mischievously at his screen. I lean up from his shoulder and see the profile picture on his phone that is 75 percent boobs and 25 percent face.
“You’re still on Tinder?” I ask.
“You’re not?”
I feel the grin tug at my cheeks as I pull the phone from his hands. “No, actually. I’m taking a break for the summer.”
He lets out a quiet gasp. “You’re getting some.”
“Maybe.” I give him a side-eye, but my smile grows.
“Who is it?” he asks.
“No one.”
“That means someone.”
“Fuck off.” I laugh. I swipe right on the boobs and go to his profile. “Your tagline is ‘Yes, it still works’?”
He takes his phone away from me. “Yeah, so? Mind the business that lays you,” he jokes. “At least I don’t have Mom and Dad trying to marry me off for political gain.”
My laugh becomes a cackle.
When I calm myself, my phone pings with what I assume is a calendar reminder. It’s probably time to leave if I want to be at the library on time.
“Why is Heath texting you?”
Shit . Rather than lying, I deflect. “Why do any of the guys text me?” I turn and stand so he can’t see any hidden information I might show on my face. “I have to go.”
“Going to see your fuck buddy?”
“No, sadly. I’m going to prep for court with Ryan.” Then I’m going to see my fuck buddy. The stress of the truth covers the stress of hiding my secret, but I keep my focus trained on packing the dresses into the garment bag just in case.
“You know he wants to be with you, right?” Levi prods again.
“Ryan? Are you out of your mind?”
“No. Heath.”
I hesitate for a split second but cover my silence with the sound of a zip. “He doesn’t, either, not that it matters.”
“I think it does.”
“It doesn’t.” Levi is biased. Fuck my feelings, he would love any excuse to hang out with Heath more often. “I’m running late. I’ll see you at dinner this weekend.”
“Bye. Love you.”
I kiss his cheek. “Love you more.”
Fleeing the room, I swing the garment bag over my shoulder and pull out my phone. Heath’s message makes me roll my eyes.
Heath: What time are we getting it in tonight?
That was close.
He’s such a fucking idiot. I praise myself for turning off my message previews.
When I pass by Rowan’s room, I spot him inside, hunched over his desk with headphones on. A book sits in front of him, and directly behind it, his laptop. Rowan never stops studying. He’s like me in that aspect, but I don’t know if he’s having any fun to offset his stress.
I walk in and tap his shoulder lightly so as not to scare him. Still, he jumps and pulls off his headphones. “Oh. Hi.” He looks at me with tired eyes, his voice lacking enthusiasm.
“Hi, I’m leaving, but I’ll see you Sunday.”
“Yeah, see you Sunday.” He puts his headphones back on and returns to his book. I don’t take it personally; I just kiss his cheek and leave him be.
When I’m safely down the hall, I text Heath back.
Me: At 8, dumbass
~
After hours of work and studying, doing something mindless feels amazing. Heath feels amazing.
My eyes are screwed shut as I ride him like my life depends on it. Buried deep, stroking him against a needy spot, the pleasure blooms hot and heady. I’m drunk on it, and right on the edge. Heath moans as I ride him faster and faster, his fingers digging into my hips so hard it hurts. “Ah!” I whimper. “I’m gonna come.”
“Fuck, me too.”
The pleasure floods through me. I open my eyes to look down at him in all his frustratingly gorgeous glory, my pace never changing. A string of curse words falls from my mouth while I watch the orgasm bleed through him. His veins rise, his skin reddens, muscles flexing as his face twists with torment. His mouth drops open when it hits him.
His moan makes me clench around him again. He’s so hard as he comes, but I want more. My hips move ragged and desperate, taking everything I can before— “Ah! Yes!”
My head falls back, the orgasm flowing from my core to my brain in rush after rush. My body clenches and releases around his perfect dick.
His hands on my waist are all that keep me from falling backward. He leans up, his mouth feathering warm kisses across my breasts, then a few gentle tastes of my nipple as we come down. Out of breath and misted with sweat, I lean my head back up, stroking his hair while his mouth teases my soul back into my body. My mind settles from my high into a blissful calm. Then the clarity brings me back to the message I forgot to give him before I started ripping his pants off.
“You can’t text me like that,” I pant.
Heath chuckles. “Love the segue, babe.”
He falls back to the mattress, his hand replacing his mouth to knead my breast. I pull it away. “Seriously. Levi almost saw your last one.”
His face contorts. “Can we not talk about your brother while I’m inside you?”
With a sigh, I let him slip from me and tumble to lie beside him. “We agreed to keep this shit on lock. We have a contract and a schedule for a reason. Clause 3b. No unprofessional communication means you only need to text me if you’re running late or giving notice, and you don’t have to spell it out like an idiot.”
“Sheesh, sorry. Won’t happen again.”
I pull down my shirt and straighten my panties. Apparently, I wanted it so badly I didn’t wait long enough to take my clothes off. That won’t get to happen anymore if he keeps being a dumbass.
“Don’t ruin this for me, Heath. I’m serious.”
“For you? Don’t ruin it for me!”
“I’m not the one texting you about ‘getting it in,’ shithead.”
“Okay, but—”
“I don’t care. Thank you for your service, now please leave my apartment.”
He grumbles and lifts himself from my pillow. “You know, you’re lucky your pissy little attitude turns me on.”
While he fumbles around with the condom and his clothes, I enjoy the view. He’s smaller than Lenny—only where the sun shines, that is—but his muscles are more defined, and his ass is out of this world. I love a soft woman with plenty of curves to explore, but with men, I like them hard in every possible way.
I roll to my side to get a better view of him pulling on his underwear. He seems to move in slow motion when he stands, his abs flexing, his dark hair falling into his face. He settles the band at his hips and catches me watching. A smirk curls his lips.
As much as he annoys me, this has been great so far. All I want is to keep having meaningless sex every time I’m stressed. More undressing, less depressing. My summer mantra.
“Hey, I almost forgot,” I remind myself. “I can’t do Friday.”
“What? Why not?”
The end of my two-day mock trial, aka my final and entire grade for the class, the bane of my existence, and the only stressor that has kept my focus away from the wedding events waiting in line behind it. Although I feel confident, my fear of failure won’t allow me to admit it. The dinner after will either be for celebration or consolation. “None of your business. I have a thing.”
“Well, do I get a rain check?”
“Is that in the contract?” I retort.
He groans with annoyance. His shirt goes back on and I settle back onto my pillow. He grabs his keys and wallet from my nightstand. “What time on Saturday?”
“I’ll send you a calendar invite so you stop asking me.”
He laughs, then catches himself. “Oh, you’re serious?”
~
The next morning, I feel good. I took out a lot of my frustration on Heath last night, but it’s impossible to rid myself of everything. So much rides on how well Ryan and I perform today and tomorrow. A poor grade will be another reason for my parents to be disappointed in me. A poor grade will make me disappointed in myself too.
“Do I look okay?” Ryan breaks me from my inner torment. Out of all the things he could worry about, he always picks the thing that matters least. It’s court, not fashion week, and half his closet is coordinated suit separates. What did he think? That he would accidentally throw on his pink shorts and boat shoes?
“You look professional. It’s perfect,” I answer as I resituate his tie clip.
His frown turns up. “Okay, good. You look great too.”
My dress is a plum-colored wool blend with half-sleeves and a pencil skirt. It’s my power suit, second only to the white-on-white Olivia Pope special I have planned for tomorrow. I know what I look like. “Thanks.”
Ryan lets out a nervous breath. “I need to pee again.” He turns on his heel.
“Thanks for sharing.”
He power walks away. Ryan and his nervous bladder. In some ways it’s comforting to see someone like him nervous. He’s like a well-trained attack dog: cuddly around family but zero restraint when it’s time to win a case. It’s a nice reminder that seemingly phlegmatic people also have weak spots. Even if it’s just their bladders.
I turn back and find a security guard standing in front of me. I flinch.
“Hi, can I help you find where you’re going?” he asks with a smile.
I look at him, and I already know what is about to happen. “Oh, no. I’m where I’m supposed to be. Thank you.”
“It’s just that the room numbers are the same between the floors. Only the letters change,” he continues. “This room is reserved. Civil cases and jury selection are in the same place on the floor below us.”
I give my best fuck you smile and repeat myself. “I’m in the right place.”
“Could I see your letter or summons to verify?”
His smile is polite, just as I’m sure he believes he is being, but behind the aloof look in his blue eyes he doesn’t see the layers of biases that tell him someone who looks like me doesn’t belong in a place like this. “No. As I said before, I’m in the right place. Thanks.”
“What’s going on?” Ryan comes to stand beside me. My knight in white armor.
“This helpful person is insisting I’m in the wrong place for some reason.”
The accusatory look on Ryan’s face is the same one he gets in the courtroom. “There are six other students here. Why would you think she’s in the wrong place and the others aren’t?” he asks.
“That’s not—” The guard’s expression drops into a worried state. “I was simply checking to make sure she didn’t need help. That was all.”
“Okay,” I say. “Maybe the third time I say it will suffice. I’m where I’m supposed to be. Thank you.”
The worry on his face turns to offense, but he leaves anyway. This is not the brand of annoyance I need before our trial, but such is life.
While I’m over it in two seconds, I can feel Ryan stewing beside me. “He knows you belong here. Why would he single you out like that? In front of everyone.” Think about it, Ry . “There’s no way he . . .
I thought people here were better than that.”
“Well, they’re not.”
Our names get called. The prompter spots us and motions us inside. I turn back to Ryan, knowing I need him to focus if we’re going to pull this off.
“Don’t let it upset you.” I pat him on the chest. “Let’s go do this thing.”
He nods, and yet again I coddle someone rather than have my discomfort addressed. Just two more days.