6. Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Max
S core—the family hogging the pool leaves, freeing me to light up. I move from a chaise lounge to the edge of the pool and hang my feet into the water while smoking my joint. This is the perfect way to avoid Ashima’s party.
The concrete jungle of Midtown keeps the night air hot, so the water’s refreshing. I wet my hand and splash my chest. The view of the skyline from the rooftop pool is fantastic. The way the dark buildings are outlined in sunset red would make an awesome scene for a zombie flick. Everything starts all peaceful and then a zombie lunges on screen and takes a chunk out of someone’s artery. Spurting blood blends in with the sunset.
I check behind me, making sure spider-zombies aren’t scaling the side of the building. The wind rustles the potted palm in the corner. Or is there something behind it?
No—just its shadow. I gotta get it together. I can take out anything hiding behind that dinky plant.
When I face forward, there’s an approaching figure. The light from the break room obscures the creature’s features. But as it moves into the shadows, it shape-shifts and Peyton comes into focus. Phew—not a zombie. I play off my shudder as though I’m just sitting up straighter, which isn’t a bad idea, anyway. I suck in my gut and flex my pecs.
“Ashima send you to get me?”
“Of course. You did sign up for this. Let’s go.” She says this, but steps out of one wedge heel and then the other. “You can’t hide at the pool all night.”
After she sits beside me, she puts out her hand.
“You smoke?”
“From time to time. I’m sure my experience pales in comparison, but when the social situation calls for it, I partake. Psychoactive drugs are recognized for having an enlightening effect.”
I give her the joint and she takes a drag. “This is pretty nice.”
“See. We should skip the party.”
“It’ll be fun.”
“And I can see you’re in a rush to go.” I look over at her shoes.
She takes another drag, then hands the joint back to me. “Thanks to you, Ashima has invited a single male to the party.” Her voice is croaky. She coughs a bit. “She did this despite my explicit statement that I’m not looking for a STIMP.”
I chuckle at her wacky way of putting things—males and STIMP. The more time I spend with Peyton, the more I enjoy her tilted view of the world.
“And what of the females?” I ask.
“Does this mean you are now interested in being set up?” She says this with such complete seriousness that I’m certain she missed that I’m joking with her.
“I might be interested in an OTI.”
“OTI? O-T-I? Let me guess—O for One night? Or what about One Time?” she guesses.
“You got the O and T.”
“One Time Intercourse?”
“Ding. Ding.”
“Good acronym. I think Ashima was hoping to get you an actual girlfriend, but an OTI is a start,” she says.
“A girlfriend, not a STIMP? This sounds serious.” I splash a little water toward her legs. “I’m just messing with you. I have no interest in the single ladies at the party. I’m fine staying solo for the moment.” My head still isn’t straight since Tris messed with it.
She leans over and splashes me back. Her hair falls in front of her face in a seductive way. Neither of us move to leave. The sounds of passing cars and conversations filter up to us from the streets below. Peyton leans back and looks up at the sky. Her dress has a frilly top that makes it hard to tell, but I’m pretty sure she isn’t wearing a bra. Maybe I should call her a boob again.
Nah, that game’s played out.
And why am I going from one breath saying that I’m not interested in getting with anyone to the next checking out Peyton? I need to keep it in the pants.
“Come on. We can do this.” She stands up. “Ashima is expecting both of us.”
“Kinda sucks, doesn’t it? Having her meddling in your love life.” I stand and grab my shirt off the chaise lounge.
“We’ll be each other’s lifeguards,” she says. “You can call me in if you need rescuing. And I promise you won’t get bored. If necessary, I’ll step in to make sure the conversations are titillating.”
I button up my shirt and slip the remaining half of the joint in the pocket. “I like to be titillated, especially if it involves dragging me to the bathroom again.”
“I’m afraid it does not.” She pushes the call button when we reach the elevator. “But, nonetheless, my titillation skills are sure to impress.”
“I do not think that word means what you think it means,” I say in my best Inigo Montoya voice.
Once we’re back in the apartment, the party is underway. The sofa and love seat are against a wall to make room for the dozen-plus people crammed into the living room. Ashima sees me and immediately grabs the hand of a redhead standing beside her. The woman’s jeans are skintight, as is her low-cut top, and she has the body to work the outfit. After stumbling while being dragged toward me, she lets out a bray of laughter. “What, are you taking me to the bedroom?”
“Max, I want you to meet Emi,” Ashima says as she stops in front of me. “Max. Emi. Emi. Max. You two have so much in common. Did you know she went to Georgia State?”
I tug at my beard. “Okay, but I went to Tech.”
“And they are both in town. Isn’t that great? I will leave you two to get to know one another.”
I make eye contact with Peyton and frown at her. She shrugs and follows Ashima. I wish Peyton had come over so I could tell her I’m wise to her ways of tricking me with talk of titillation.
Emi looks at me expectantly. I recognize her—I’ve passed her in the hallways. Pretty sure she lives on the same floor. I don’t know how old she is, but I think older than I am. Looks like Ashima is trying to set me up with a cougar, and Emi is putting out a vibe like she wants to jump me, use me up, and then move on. Why not? Maybe it’s time to get back into the swing of things.
“So, Max.” She stretches out my name while raising her eyebrows suggestively. Her gaze flicks to my pecs and junk, as though she’s trying to size up whether I live up to my name. “How do you know Ashima?”
“She’s my brother’s girlfriend. I’m crashing here for a bit.”
“Then we’re neighbors. That’s so nice, isn’t it?” She sways a bit as she takes a sip of some frothy drink in her hand. I wonder how many of those she’s had.
“Are you in the guest bedroom?” Her voice drops deep as she says this, all phone-sex operator-like.
“That I am.” I give her a puzzled look.
“That means we share a wall.” She leans in and whispers, “I’ll try not to get too rowdy.”
“Damn, don’t hold back for me.”
She gives me an appreciative little shoulder wiggle.
“But I’m pretty sure the apartments are mirror images, so my wall shares a wall with your guest room. You’d have to get pretty wild for me to hear,” I say.
“Oh, you have no idea. But I suppose you’re right about the layout.” She presses her hand against my forearm and squeezes it as she uses it to steady herself. Still, she ends up crashing against me in laughter.
“That punch packs a wallop.” She straightens, but continues to grip my arm as she convulses with laughter. I can’t help but laugh along.
Then she runs her hand along my wrist to my hand. “You have nice, thick wrists. And such strong hands. Do you play a musical instrument?”
“No, but strong hands are good for other things, you know.”
“Oh, such as?”
“Programming. I’m a software developer.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, this is true.” She snatches her hand back and squeezes it into the pocket of her jeans. And like that, flirty Emi disappears. “I’m a developer too. Where do you work?”
Could it be Ashima didn’t just grab the first single woman she found? Did she actually vet Emi out for me? As Emi and I swap info about our jobs, Peyton passes, sliding us a bit of side-eye with a helping of extra jealous. I wanna chase after her, but I stay put and chat up Emi about work. It’s too much fun catching Peyton pretending not to watch me.
“I like my job, but I think I’m ready to do something new,” Emi says.
I focus back on her. “I hear ya. I’ve been working on an app on the side. Maybe I’ll try to make something of it.”
“Really? I’d love to check it out sometime. Not tonight, though.” She holds up her cup. “I’ve had a bit too much punch.”
She swirls the remnants, then swallows the last of her drink. A frothy residue lines the side of the cup. “Speaking of which, I could use a refill.”
“Let me.” I take the glass from her and she moves to the middle of the living room floor to dance. The refill is a good excuse to go by Peyton and give her a hard time for bait-and-switching me into coming to the party.
Peyton
Having fulfilled Ashima’s request to retrieve Max, I have no further obligations and am officially free to enjoy the party, which for me is people watching. It’s not unlike observing the primates at work. And the best people watching turns out to be Max with handsy mystery woman.
“Who’s this potential mate you’ve found for Max?” I ask Ashima.
“The next-door neighbor, Emi. She couldn’t be more perfect. It would be so easy for him to move in with her. We could just dig a hole in the wall and shove his stuff in her place.” Ashima does this cute little digging motion and pokes her head forward. “And she’s made it very clear to me she is on the market.”
“I don’t know about long-term, but I think you’ve found Max a place for tonight.” I discreetly point at how close Emi is standing to Max. “But I’m not so sure about your plan for him to move in with her. I’m not getting the vibe that this is what she’s looking for. Also, if it’s that easy for him to move in, it’ll be equally easy for him to return here.”
“I didn’t think about that. Crap.” We both watch as Emi bursts into a fit of laughter and steadies herself against him with her breasts. “I don’t know. They seem to be hitting it off, but my friend Holly will be a better fit. She’s coming later. Maybe I should keep Max away from Emi until Holly comes, then I can get a better feel for who’s the better match.”
“Max is a grown man. I’m sure he can figure it out himself,” I say.
“Don’t be so sure. He hasn’t yet. I need a drink. Come on.”
We move to the bar that separates the room from the kitchen. Underneath is a cooler with beers. Resting on the countertop is a red and a white wine, as well as a showcase drink of punch with rainbow sherbet balls melting in the center, creating a pink-tinged froth on the top. I wonder if she got the idea for this at some kindergarten school function because it definitely looks like something kids would lap up. I ladle some into a crystal plastic cup. As I swallow my first taste, the alcohol warms my throat. Okay, she might have gotten the idea from a kids’ party, but she most definitely didn’t get this recipe from one.
“You did not hold back on this punch,” I say to Ashima.
“I know. Do you think I overdid the raspberry vodka?”
“No, it’s good. I think. I guess I’ll tell you at the end of the night.”
“I should give you a hard time for not mixing and mingling, but I can only deal with one issue at a time. What should I do about Max and Emi?” she asks. “You might be right about her. Holly’s probably a better long-term match. I think we should keep Emi away.”
Max saunters over with an empty glass, ending our conversation.
“Ladies.” He hums to himself as he fills the cup with punch.
“You’re in a good mood,” I say.
“Even though you tricked me into coming, this party’s turning out alright.” He makes a second glass and takes a sip. His eyes widen. “Wow, this drink explains a lot.”
“Oh no, I did put in too much vodka,” Ashima says.
He places his cup on the counter. “I caught you checking me out, Peyton. Are you getting jealous?”
“No, I wasn’t checking you out. It’s a small party. Where else am I supposed to look?”
“Sounding defensive, aren’t we?”
There’s a knock at the door. “Let me get that.” Ashima bumps me with her elbow, stopping me from responding. Her gaze is darting back and forth from Max to Emi. I think this is supposed to be my cue to preoccupy Max until Holly arrives. Ashima takes Emi’s cup from Max and skirts around behind him.
“Can you give me a refill?” I hand Max my empty cup to stop him from following behind Ashima. When he hands me back the drink, I take his now empty hand and drag him toward the kitchen. “Let’s check out the appetizer selection.”
Behind Max, I see Ashima and a man I don’t know, as well as Emi, all talking to Nick. Oh dear, this fellow could be the male Ashima invited for me. He looks friendly enough, but nothing about him is enticing me to make his acquaintance. Honestly, I had more initial attraction to Max at the bar, even with him being all brooding and pissy. It seems my diversion for Max will be just as much a rescue plan for me.
In the kitchen is a spread of so many foods it looks like Ashima cleared out Trader Joe’s. I grab one of the bite-sized quiches, and Max grabs a handful of potato chips from a bowl and shoves several into his mouth. A small partial chip drops into his beard.
I pick it up for him. “Missed one.” On an impulse I eat it. The move is reminiscent of primate social-grooming behavior.
Max’s eyes widen in surprise, and he sticks another chip in his beard. I’m rather proud of myself for stumbling on such a simple way to earn Max’s trust.
I pluck it, then eat it. Though the game is utter nonsense, we both commit and hold back our smiles. Max scans the bowl and picks out a rather flat, round chip. He puffs out his chest and attempts to rest a chip over a nipple, but it refuses to stay in place. The uncooperative chip forces him to place it higher on his pec muscle, so he looks like a marathon runner who’s confused about how to use nipple tape.
“Do you really expect me to eat that?”
“That’s what I was aiming for.”
This seems beyond mere grooming behavior, unless I turn it into a joke. I pluck it off his shirt and then lick it before popping it into my mouth. “Mmm, extra salty.”
“Nicely done. I was hoping you’d eat it off me, but that was still a solid move.” Max runs his free hand through his hair. “Would you like another?”
He takes a single chip from the bowl and holds it in front of my face. The challenge has been set. What to do with the chip? Placing it like a nipple cover would now be unoriginal. I could clown around and put it on my nose. Or put it on my shoulder as a pun.
I take too long to decide. Max darts the chip in front of me like an airplane coming in for a landing. The chip dives toward my breasts, but then pulls back up to where it’s parked on my jugular notch.
Before I can comment on the tameness of the spot, Max bends over and presses his mouth to my chest, just below the chip. His lips are parted and I can feel his breath on my skin. I jump a bit, not having expected such an intimate move. The contrast of the coarseness of his beard with the softness of his lips awakens my skin. His mouth travels along a clavicle, up my neck, then back down again. As he makes the final approach for the chip, the steam of his breath swirls in the indent of my throat, tickling me.
When he stands upright, the chip sticks out from between his lips. He sucks it in and gives me a triumphant smile.
Then Ashima appears beside him. “What’re you doing, Max? Give Peyton some room. Seriously, she doesn’t want you drooling all over her. And why aren’t you talking to Emi?”
She grabs his hand and drags him from the kitchen. Too shocked and confused to move, I watch them through the kitchen opening as they make their way through the living room. They end up behind Emi, who’s oblivious to their arrival. I cannot keep up with Ashima.
As I dab at my throat with a napkin, I observe Emi cornering Nick, though he’s beaming, so I guess he doesn’t mind. She lifts something triumphantly over her head, causing Nick to burst out laughing. A knotted cherry stem.
And now I understand why Ashima has dragged Max over there.
But she pulled in the wrong person to rescue Nick. Max stands there looking amused and not doing a thing to extract Nick. Time for me to swoop in.
When I join them, I step in front of Emi and hug Nick. “Hey, I haven’t talked to you even once tonight.”
Emi stumbles as she makes room for me. As I apologize for getting in her way, I steady her and guide her next to Max. He stares at me while I nod and scowl and dart my eyes, using every possible facial pantomime to tell Max to steer her away.
Behind me, Nick says, “We talked about the Braves when you first arrived.”
“Right! I forgot about that. Go, Braves,” I say as I turn around. The slipup knocks away any logical conversational segue, but no one notices me grinning like a submissive chimp after Emi lets out a loud squeal.
“I love this song! Dance with me!” She grabs Max’s hand and stumbles backward to an open spot in the middle of the floor. Max bobs rhythmically to the music while Emi flails herself about in front of him. Luckily, Ashima thought ahead and moved all the furniture against the walls, giving Emi a big dance floor.
Ashima comes to my side and loud whispers, “Holly can’t make it. We regroup tomorrow.”
Emi grabs one of Max’s hands and spins under his arm and keeps spinning right into Ashima, then she takes both of Ashima’s hands to dance. Ashima barks back at me. “Tomorrow. Regroup at the gym. Eight o’clock sharp.”
I’m tempted to salute her, but she spins away. Then the other women join in. I move to the kitchen to get out of the way. I’ve never felt comfortable taking part in the tradition of dancing, preferring instead to watch the performance from the sidelines.
Max motions for me to follow him as he passes. He slips down the single hallway within the apartment. Ashima is committed to the song and unaware of me off on the sidelines, freeing me to find out whatever Max is up to. I follow him as he opens a door and we go into what I presume is his bedroom.
My immediate impression is cluttered, yet organized. There are boxes and bags along one wall, which is actually a good sign, because this means he views his current living situation as temporary. A significant amount of clothing is strewn about the room. However, the articles have been clustered together, which likely means there is some logic to the piles—order within the disorder.
“Why am I here?” I ask.
He pulls the rest of his joint from his shirt pocket. “Finish this with me.”
Avoiding dancing and chilling out is very appealing at the moment, but after our closeness in the kitchen, the invitation makes me suspicious that he’s angling for some level of sexual interaction. If this were a situation where it could be an OTI, I would be open to such an encounter. But given my declaration of help to Ashima, this is not possible.
Or am I flattering myself? He’s made it very clear on several occasions that he finds me odd. Ultimately, this is the reason Lawrence left me. Probably Max has no further interest in me other than someone to rescue him from Ashima’s meddling. Neither of us will misconstrue hanging out for a bit as anything more than a way to pass some time. He picks up some clothes resting on his bed and tosses them onto the boxes as I dither at the door.
“If you come in, you must resist your lust for me. I know it’s an almost impossible ask given all of this”—he motions his hands down his body—“but I’m not letting Ashima hook me up with anyone.”
“I’ll try my hardest,” I scoff as I shut the door. And that answers my question—he’s not interested.
He rests on the bed propped up with some pillows, while I sit cross-legged safely near the opposite end as we pass the joint between us. My mind becomes milky. I enter the tilted zone, where everything being askew allows you to see it in a whole new light, only to realize it doesn’t matter as much as you thought it did. Such as my thinking Ashima would care if I hang out here. This is nothing. I flop down beside him, getting comfortable before taking my next puff.
Another observation—it’s rather curious that I now enjoy Max’s company. He’s reverted from monster to man. In fact, I can see him moving on and moving out in no time. Also, in fact, this is a perfect opportunity to help Ashima’s cause with a little deep talk. “Hey.” I flail my arm in his general direction and know I make contact when he grunts. “What’s with you and your ex? What’s her name?”
Max miraculously produces a bag of chips and places them between us. “Tris. What about her?”
There’s a benefit to his room looking like this—I don’t care if I get chip crumbs in his bed. I shove one in my mouth. Ecstasy! How is it possible for a potato to taste this amazing?
“Ashima told me you guys hadn’t dated that long, so what gives? Why so heartbroken?”
“What about you and STIMP guy? Why didn’t you give him a shot?”
“No, you first.” A chip breaks free from my fistful, somersaulting to the bed. Max snatches it up before I can. He chomps away saying nothing.
“I asked first, so you answer first,” I prompt him.
“Then you answer second.”
“Okay. I’ll answer second.” A perk of being high—merely determining order of speech can make one feel like a genius.
“I don’t know what happened. I’ve always kinda had a crush on her, but nothing serious, nothing where I even asked her out. Knew her since we were in diapers.” He relights the joint and takes a drag. He hands it to me, but I wave it away.
“But then she moved in,” he says under his breath, holding back a cough.
“Moved in?” They cohabitated. This is a serious step in the human mating ritual. I wonder why Ashima didn’t share this detail.
“Yeah, as roommates with a bunch of other people, so not a big deal. Tris and I started messing around and it was nothing at first. But then I started feeling more. She wouldn’t admit it, but she did too. Problem was she was hung up on her ex. It took her a while to let it go, but she was coming around.”
Okay, Ashima’s assessment was correct—his relationship isn’t sounding that serious, though he could’ve overinvested in the potential he saw between them.
“Then things got kinda weird,” he says.
“Why?”
He takes another drag. “It seemed like she was hitting it off with one of our other roommates, a friend of mine, Andy. I made my move, cut things off before anything started between them.”
“And?”
“How could she resist? We started dating.”
His Cheshire cat smile pokes through the cloud of smoke hanging around us. He’s proud of having won over Tris, yet he was roommates with both Tris and Andy. This situation sounds untenable.
“What about Andy? Are you still friends?”
“Um, you know, we’re good. He wasn’t that into her. Plus, he got to rub it in my face when she dumped me. One text from her ex-boyfriend, Richard, and Tris was done with me. Dropped me”—he snaps his fingers—“like that.”
“Sounds really abrupt. You were with her when she got the text? And then boom, she tells you it’s over?”
“Well, not exactly like that. The text caused this huge fight.” He’s quiet for a moment. He wipes his hand over his face. “But hey, that’s all in the past. She’s in DC. Richard’s probably there too. And I’m good right here.”
“I guess, except you’re avoiding my question about the heartbreak.”
He turns on his side to face me. “My broken heart and Tris are exactly what I want to talk about. So glad I asked you to get high with me.” Little pieces of chips fly from his mouth and a few hit my cheek. I grunt in disgust, then we both crack up laughing. “Shit. Sorry.”
He picks at my cheek, then shakes his hand out over the side of the bed. “You know, she was the type of girl that you marry.”
“What does that mean?” I push his returning hand away from my face and press up onto my elbow. There are so many ways to take offense to such a statement, but I hold myself back for specifics.
“She was such a goody-goody. I always imagined she’d do exactly what she did—latch on to some guy in high school and never let go. And I was too chicken to be that guy. There was no way I was ready for that kind of commitment when I was barely dragging my ass out of bed in time for homeroom.”
With my concern that his comment was some sort of generic sexist statement removed, I resume eating chips.
“When I dated Tris, I didn’t go into it casually.”
“Type of woman you marry, huh? Sounds awful.”
He laughs and my head wobbles on my arm as I laugh along.
“And type of girl you STIMP sounds better?” he asks.
Never have I heard a more hilarious statement. My head’s so heavy I crash face first into some pillows and snort. Once I recover, I create a stack of pillows to hold up the bowling ball attached to my neck.
I put my hand on Max’s heart. “She screwed up and one day she’ll realize it.” His shirt is as soft as a kitten as I pet him, but the intermittent cold waxiness of the lettering ruins the experience.
“Well, it’ll be too late. I’m done with her.” He grabs his phone from his nightstand. “Check this shit out. I even made an app for her.”
What is it with male humans and their apps?
“She wanted to loosen up, so I set it up that every day she’d have to do something that would take her out of her comfort zone. She’d earn points for doing things, and after so many points, she could go into the library and send items to other people in her network. There’s also a video sharing component and people can vote on who is the Ruler of the Rule. Oh, and people can create their own rules. If a rule gets enough votes, it gets added to the rule database.” He clicks around on his screen and brings up a library, which is a bolded list of items that I assume are the daily activities.
I click on the first item named SERENADE. A new screen opens with a single message— Sing off-key to a random stranger. I close it and go to the next— Hold someone’s hand while they poop. The third reads— Bad guys are everywhere. Run! All day! Everywhere you go!
“These are very humorous. I love this idea!” I hand him back his phone. “I want that app. How do I get it?”
“I’ll hook you up when it’s ready.” He winks at me. “Tris didn’t even look at it. Isn’t that some bullshit?”
“That is! Seems like a good indication that you weren’t well matched.”
“You’re probably right. I’m a good developer. I don’t know why she couldn’t see that.” He returns the phone to the nightstand. “Now it’s your turn. Why’d you push away your previous boyfriend?”
“STIMP, not boyfriend.”
“Exactly. What gives?”
“Ugh.” I shift onto my back and the stacked pillow jacks up my head at an uncomfortable angle. Why doesn’t it just automatically adjust? That’s what I’m going to do! I’m going to create a self-adjusting pillow and make millions off it. I mumble, “Peyton Pillows.”
“Is that your full name? Peyton Pillows?” Max asks. When I shake my head, he continues, “It’s your porn name, isn’t it?”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t make pillows.”
“I have no idea what that means, but you’re not getting off that easy. STIMP-boy. Come on, spill it,” Max says.
After making myself comfortable, I think about his question. I hate to get all psychoanalytical, but it probably has something to do with my childhood and parents. “Maybe it’s because I grew up without a father figure in my life. I’ve been fine with minimal familial connections.” Even my mother was often absent or distracted during my childhood milestones. “I don’t see the need to make them now.”
“Deadbeat dad?” Max asks.
“No, the male contribution to my DNA came from a sperm donor. I know absolutely nothing about half of my heritage other than some physical attributes I can’t place to my mother or her parents. I’m happy as is. Why mess with it? What would one even do with a husband?”
“Have sex for a start.”
“You don’t have to marry for that.”
“So, no kids?”
“I think I want kids, but I’ll decide that later. And a husband is also not required for that.”
“So, you’re going to do the same thing as your mom?”
“Yes and no. The sperm donor part, yes. The absent mother part, no. My mother’s a surgeon and she’s married to her career. Rather ironic that she went to all that trouble to have me, and then she practically ignored me. I spent more time with my nannies than I did with her.”
“You’re really going to go the sperm donor route?”
“Probably. Though I wish there was some way for my kid to have grandparents. I’m not expecting my mother to be an actively involved grandmother. It would be nice if the male contribution to my children came with a complete set of grandparents. Maybe I’ll find a guy who wants kids but doesn’t want to settle down. Sort of an open relationship arrangement.”
“Good luck with that. If a guy doesn’t want to settle down, not having kids is probably part of it.”
“You’re probably right, but I don’t need to figure this out today.”
“True that.”
We move on to less serious topics and the time blurs by. It’s not until I hear a thump against the wall that I realize the music from the party is gone. Three hours have slipped by as easily as three minutes. There’s another bump followed by a low moan.
I imagine the layout of the apartment. The wall Max’s bed is against is probably a shared wall with the apartment next door. “Am I hearing your neighbor?” I ask.
Max crawls over his pillow and presses his ear against the wall. “Oh yeah, that’s Emi,” he says, giving me a thumbs-up. He places his ear against the wall again. “Alright! She’s having sex in her guest room. She’s putting on a show for me.”
“Wow. That’s super direct.” This is an entirely new level of flirting. “Lining up the next guy while still with the current one—a move for only the boldest of the bold. I’m impressed.”
A few muffled oh yeses leak into Max’s room, followed by another thump against the wall. He waggles his eyebrows. “And she’s not holding back.”
I stare at the wall in awe. “I think it’s an invitation for you to be her next.”
He looks at me and then at the wall. Hanging out with him has now become awkward. Time for me to leave. I’ll stay on the couch until I’m sober enough to drive. Whatever Max is going to do, I won’t stay to witness. If I weren’t here—and able to hear—then I know he’d somehow engage with the situation. Instead, he’s staring at me as though he’s not sure what to do with me.
I will myself to be the considerate guest and show myself out, but seconds ago Max and I were having a moment and I’m reluctant to let it go. Emi wasn’t the least bit concerned about what she might interrupt before announcing herself. I was here first. I shouldn’t have to leave. With too little thought, I mark my territory by letting out a low moan followed by my own oh yes .
“What are you doing?” Max looks equal parts baffled and amused.
“I’m one-upping her.” I fall onto the bed and bury my laughter in a pillow.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but cut it out. You’re going to ruin things for me. If this becomes a repeat performance, I can pull up some porn and then I’ve got it in stereo.”
“But don’t you find it presumptuous of her that she thinks you’re alone and waiting to overhear her?”
He runs his hand down his beard. “You’re right. We should put her in her place.” He gives me bedroom eyes, then lets out his own over-the-top moan. “Oh yes, your pussy feels so good.”
My thought had been to bang on the wall for them to quiet down, but Max’s solution is more on point. I giggle as I pant out, “Oh Max, your big hard dick feels so good in my tight, wet pussy.” I army-crawl toward the wall, where I press my shoulder to it and tap rhythmically. “Oh, oh, oh Max. That’s it. Don’t stop.”
Max follows suit and bounces into the wall, but we’re out of sync, so it sounds more like we’re stumbling drunks than lovers.
“We have to keep a rhythm.” I grab onto him so that we move together.
The volume of Emi’s moans increases, egging on my performance. I let out a series of high-pitched grunts that sound more pig-like than intended. This makes us both laugh.
“Shh! You can’t laugh,” he whispers.
But I can’t help it. I laugh louder after I make another odd sex sound.
“No. Shh. All wrong.”
I repeat the noise just to tease him.
“What do I have to do to make you shut up?” He presses his lips to mine, and I continue to make little animal noises, blurring the line between game and foreplay.
His ragged breath warms my skin. “Two can play this game.” He lets out his own over-the-top moan of ecstasy.
His mouth meets mine again. Our lips spread open and his tongue touches mine. Then he pulls back and calls out, “Oh, this is so freaking hot.”
The rules of the game are blurring, and I’m unsure if he’s saying this for me or Emi, but I’m not about to pause to find out. I grip onto him, pulling him down on me.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Max.”
“Then spank me, baby. Spank me good.”
I smack his ass hard and the sound cracks loudly. Then the theatrics are replaced with kisses deep with need. The performance next door is over, but Max and I continue. My fingers dig into the muscles of his back, while his own hands explore the rise of my breasts. The heat of his body and the press of his skin against mine excite me. I wrap my legs around him and his erection presses against my vulva. “Oh my, aren’t you feeling useful?”
“At your service.”
My dress rides up so that only my underwear and his thin shorts separate us. I’m so wet my labia bun his wiener as we writhe against one another, enjoying the shared sensation of our genital stimulation. Though I’m enjoying his erection, my frustration is mounting that clothing is preventing us from truly experiencing one another.
I sit up so I can shove off my clothes. Then I see myself in the mirror over his dresser. For a micro-flash, it’s as though someone is watching us. Ashima pops into my head.
She would not approve.
What am I doing? I can’t have sex with Max. I’m supposed to be the friend who buoys him up.
“That heated up way too fast.” I jump off the bed and smooth my dress. “You know I’m not looking for a STIMP at the moment. And you’re my new friend. And you’re recovering from your breakup with Tris.”
His brow furrows at the mention of Tris’s name, and I regret saying it. Dropping her name was rather thoughtless of me.
“And for so, so many other varied and different reasons, we shouldn’t be doing this. You know? Right. I’m going to leave now.” I clasp my hands together in conclusion.
“Right.” He looks at the tent in his shorts and sighs. “But you’re too baked to drive. It’s fine. We’ll chill.”
He points to the wall behind him. “And listen to that. Either you scared off Emi or they reached the end of their show.”
“Sorry I made you miss the climax,” I say, though I’m not.
He lights up the joint, which is down to the end, takes a puff, and hands it to me. I return to the corner of the bed. After a couple of passes, my lust has drained away and I dare to lie down.
He hands me a pillow. “A Peyton pillow for you.” Then he untwists the blanket at the end of the bed, pulls it over us, and we fall asleep.