Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Daphne
" S o, what's up with you and Jackson." My brother smooths his jeans in a transparent attempt to appear casual.
Of course, I do the same thing. An instinct. Only I smooth my shorts and, despite my outfit, I look even less casual.
We're here, in the dark theater, the only two people in the immediate area.
Zack and Laurel are getting drinks.
Rome and the grooms are with the four of them.
Juliette couldn't make it.
Or there's no Juliette.
It's not clear. And is this woman, who may or may not exist, actually named Juliette? Also unclear.
Very clear: the spark between Rome and Laurel. They have that same I hate you / I want to kiss you vibe Damon and Cassie had once upon a time.
My best friend is with her brother in the lobby. They're talking. Maybe about how Damon and Cassie's vibe went from I want to kiss you to I kiss you all the time.
Which is a perfect deflection.
"Do you think Cass and Jackson are talking about me or you?" I ask.
"Are you kidding?" Damon shakes his head, sending his messy hair over his forehead. "The guy doesn't trust me."
I don't know what to say, so I nod.
"I don't take it personally. Not anymore." He looks around the room as excited attendees pile into seats. There's a huge range of people, from a gaggle of sorority girls in pink to an especially rowdy party of women my grandma's age. Mostly, the crowd is women, but there are a few couples.
The place is smaller than I expected. There's only room for about two hundred people. And the theater looks so normal. A curtain. A stage. Lights.
No giant posters of naked men or dick-shaped furniture.
A totally typical show.
"Can you imagine"—he points to one of the rowdy older women—"if that was grandma?"
"And Mom with her?" I ask.
"And Dad laughing at her awkward blush." His smile is soft. Sad. He notices their happiness now.
He used to deny it. He used to see Dad the way he saw himself. As the alcoholic fuckup ruining the family.
Now, he sees a more complicated picture. Dad is an addict, and he has slipped, but he's been sober for a long time. People worry about him. Sometimes, he hurts those people. Sometimes, he fucks up.
But everyone fucks up sometimes.
Everyone hurts the people they love.
At least, that's what I try to believe. No, I do believe it. I just struggle with letting go of the weight of the expectations that come with love.
When things with Dad or Damon were tumultuous, Mom looked to me for stability. She never put it into those words, of course. She never neglected to keep food in the fridge. She never forgot to take me to school or asked me to comfort her when she cried.
But she was glad I was easy.
And even though she hid it, I heard her cry. I saw it. Over Damon more than over Dad.
What else could she do? Her son was slipping.
But my brother was slipping too. And I didn't have anyone to help me with that.
Sure, my parents tried. They explained in calm words. They offered space to share my feelings. When I didn't, they suggested therapy.
It helped, but only so much. I didn't transform into a person who never struggles to let her guard down.
I still work too much and try too hard to achieve good things to never bother anyone with my needs or expectations.
This weekend is supposed to be a break from that. The only expectation is fun.
It's a party, and I'm out to a) enjoy this time with my friends and family and b) get laid, but both those things are already complicated.
And I'm already pulling into myself, shutting down, trying to not talk about it.
"Are you okay, Daph?" Damon taps my shoulder. "You're off some place." His voice is even, as if it's a casual observation, but I still hear the concern.
That's the problem with a brother in recovery. He knows all the tricks. He knows how much people pretend they're okay and how hard we all try to turn away from our pain.
I have a high-functioning, socially acceptable coping mechanism, but I'm not different, really. I still try not to hurt.
Everyone does.
I appreciate the interest; I do. And I'm glad he's doing well enough he can see I'm struggling and ask.
I just—
I'm going to miss him.
I don't want to tell him I'm leaving.
I'm so glad he's okay, and I'm so worried he won't be. And I miss the times we leaned on each other more, even though that weight was too much for me.
Everything is true, all at once. So, I stick with something true. "Thinking about school."
"It's a big change. It's normal to feel freaked."
"I know. I do. But I don't really want to go there right now, okay?"
He holds my gaze for a moment, deems me okay enough, nods. For a minute, we sit quietly, letting the silence find some space between awkward and comfortable. Then he asks the question he can't deny. "Do you like Jackson?"
"What?" I will my cheeks to stay pale.
"You keep looking at him like you want to do unholy things to him," he says. "He's a good-looking guy. I don't blame you."
"But?" I ask.
"Did I say but?" he asks.
"Is there a but?" I hear a but.
"He's a good guy, too, but a mess, romantically."
Yes, his relationship history is a little suspicious. A breakup that led to better sex and all phone sex, at that. And all the women he dated before that—women I never met and Cassie never mentioned. But still. Is my brother seriously telling me a guy is a mess? He spent years getting drunk every night and fucking randos he totally forgot the next morning. "You spend six months in a relationship, and suddenly you're an expert?"
"Fuck. You really like him." He doesn't get even a little mad. No, it's much worse. He laughs at my pain.
"It's not funny!"
"It's pretty funny."
"Maybe to a jerk like you."
He nods maybe .
"But yes, in a very unfunny way, I like him," I admit. "Don't spread it around. How can you tell anyway?" Maybe it's that obvious. Maybe the blinking sign in my brain saying must have Jackson now is bright enough that people can see it from a hundred feet away.
"You can't fool an alcoholic. We know denial." He smiles, good-humored about it. A dark humor, yes, but a good one.
It eases the tension in my chest. "I am worried about you. Las Vegas is a lot." Okay, sure, I shouldn't change the subject so fast, but I need to get through this part, if I want to get to the fun stuff. Even if the fun stuff is my own misery.
"It is," he agrees. "But I have people to call."
"And you'll call me if none of them pick up?" I ask. "Do you promise?"
"If you promise the same." He offers his hand.
I shake.
"So…" He doesn't say enough stalling . He just leaves it implied. "What's happening with you and Jackson?" Damon raises a brow. "Why does he keep looking at you like he wants to… do things I'd rather not picture."
"We're playing truth or dare."
"Because?"
"Because we both want to prove we're fun." That's a true answer. Not the whole answer. There's also a mutual desire to dare each other to take our clothes off. At least, I think it's a mutual desire.
No, I see the interest in his eyes. The way they dip to my chest and hips.
I just don't know where it starts and ends.
"Non-alcoholics." He shakes his head. "You're weirdos."
"Truth or dare is a normal game," I say.
"For teenagers," he says.
"I'm sorry, is Damon Webb lecturing me on maturity?"
"Sometimes, the truth is ironic." He laughs. "What have you done so far?"
"Blackjack and bodyshots."
Again, he raises a brow. "Do I need to worry about you?" Before I can react, he laughs and shifts to a teasing tone. "Stay up late with bail money?"
"Definitely," I say.
"Stay up late with extra condoms?" he offers.
"Don't." As if I would forget condoms! I'm a sex researcher. Then again, I know multiple med students who pull out as their main method of birth control. Doctors do make the worst patients.
"You're into him."
"You just said it was a bad idea." It is a bad idea. A terrible idea.
"Yeah, and in your experience, when you've told me something is a bad idea, does that encourage me or discourage me?"
What? "Is this reverse psychology?"
"No." Damon's eyes find mine. He drops the teasing tone and answers seriously. "It's… he is a good guy. If you really are looking to have a little fun, and you're both on the same page… he's a good pick. I trust him."
"Are you seriously offering your approval on the guys I screw?" I guess, from a certain angle, it's kinda sweet, but from all the other angles, he's overstepping.
He notices the furrow of my brow and backs off. "Did you not ask?" he teases.
"I do not need your help with this."
"You do, actually. Remember the last guy? What was his name?"
"He was bad in bed. Not, unsafe." Really, really bad. Beyond bad. But how in the world would my brother help with that? Do all the men I know think they know how to pick out a man who's a great fuck or just these two?
"Yeah, well, I ran into Jackson's ex at the dojo once, and she was satisfied. And you uh…" He blushes. "This is fucking weird, okay, but you left one of your books at my place, and I read it out of curiosity, and Jackson is into that kinda thing. As far as I know."
"BDSM, you mean?"
"Yeah. That's what she said." He shrugs as if he's not bothered by discussing my sex life. "He's a good Dom. A soft Dom, apparently. Whatever that is."
"You didn't look it up?"
A guilty look spreads over his face. "I looked it up."
And I know what it is. Not that it needs a lot of explaining. It is what it sounds like. A Dom who's more interested in praise than punishment.
I know everything about sex. All this intellectual knowledge. Not so much practice.
This is how I need to have fun.
Maybe Damon is right.
If I keep it casual…
Maybe it can work out.
My brother's gaze shifts to the aisle as Cassie and Jackson approach. They're trying to keep casual expressions, but they're both wearing the weight of their conversation.
Did she tell him to back off?
She tells me that sometimes.
Or did he tell her something about me? Maybe he's said hey, can you let your friend down easy.
Or hey, is your friend single?
It doesn't matter.
We're having fun. That's all.
It's just… fun sometimes includes sex.
Maybe I don't have to keep denying.
Maybe I can go for it.
Maybe I can fuck my best friend's brother and keep my friendship too.
The rest of the party arrives just in time for seating. They pre-gamed at a theme bar in the MGM Grand, and they're feeling appropriately groovy.
I move over so the grooms can sit between me and Damon, but somehow, I end up next to Jackson.
Which means he's in prime view of my blush as the curtains rise, the lights flash, a dozen Australian hunks in jeans and tank tops strut their stuff.
I try to keep my eyes on the stage.
I try to think about anything except my blush.
I try to stop picturing Jackson gyrating with the dancers.
Again and again, I fail.
The dancers run through half a dozen scenarios and outfits. They're businessmen, they're cowboys, they're firemen with hoses.
They're all handsome, well-built men. Huge biceps, perfect pecs, defined abs. A few even have soccer player thighs.
But none of them move me the way Jackson does.
I don't want a hunk in his underwear.
I want the intelligent, off-limits man next to me.
No doubt some of the dancers are smart too, but the act doesn't exactly show off their brains. And, well, women aren't socialized as sexual subjects.
We're socialized to see ourselves as objects. Many women have little sense of seeing a man and thinking I must have them . They feel desire when someone expresses a desire for them.
They may think damn when they see a hot guy, but it's not until that hot guy shoots them bedroom eyes that they start to think about dropping their panties.
It's a common problem. Usually, it's considered one of socialization, though there is some biological basis. It takes longer for the pelvic muscles to relax enough for penetration than it does for blood to flow to an erection.
On average.
Right now—
Fuck, I really need to fuck someone.
And I really want to fuck Jackson.
There's no maybe. Not anymore.
I need to do it.
I will do it.
The show ends. I clap and follow the crew out of the theater. I steel myself so I'm ready to manage my lust for the next phase of the night.
Then Zack says, "Time to dance, huh? We better pick buddies. I call Kenji."
Kenji laughs and reaches for his husband-to-be. Even though Kenji is short, with dark hair and dark eyes, and Nathan is impossibly tall, with hair, eyes, and skin so light he glows like the moon, the guys look just right together. It's not their matching suits, either. It's something about them. Some sense they belong together.
Laurel nods. "You can't dance with your spouse at your bachelor party. I've got Nathan." She looks to Cassie and Damon. "Obviously, there's a pair. And, uh"—she motions to us—"that leaves you and Daphne."
And Rome.
But something tells me he won't be dancing alone for too long.
"Show her a good time, huh." Laurel winks.
Jackson offers his hand shall we .
I take it.
We're dancing, but I already see the two of us grinding in a horizontal position.