Chapter 4
four
It’s inching toward midnight, and the house is quiet.
Which would be ideal for sleep, but with no air conditioning in this old house it’s still an oven inside, even with windows open to draw in the cooler night air.
Sticky and restless, I grab my cell from the nightstand where it’s charging and open Instagram.
I didn’t look at it all day, which isn’t unusual.
Sometimes I get busy with work and skip it for days.
I scroll through and tap like on everything that isn’t a sponsored ad but stop when a Thicker Than Water post appears.
It’s Ever and the singer hugging. They’re both sweaty, and Ever’s guitar is still strapped on but shifted to his back.
It looks like they’re unaware that the photo was being taken.
It’s, for lack of a better word, sweet. The caption reads:
Brotherly Love. #ThickerThanWater
“Brothers?” I whisper to the screen as if it will answer me and provide stats or a plausible explanation.
Ding, ding, ding, the bells go off, and the band name makes sense.
I immediately zoom in on the photo. Nope, I still don’t see the family resemblance, other than they both far exceed average on the sexy scale.
Speaking of sexy, I’m heating up in ways that have nothing to do with the lack of A/C.
I switch to the band’s profile and scroll through their feed again, pausing each time Ever appears.
They are, of course, the same photos I saw last night.
But last night my mind was swimming in self-pity and Chance, and I skimmed them.
Tonight, I let my mind and my fingers wander.
It’s been a while since I had any kind of release, alone or with Chance.
Come (pun intended) to think of it, it’s been almost a month since we slept together.
I guess that should’ve been a red flag, but he’s been traveling a lot for work, so I missed it.
Thoughts of involuntary celibacy are quickly replaced by an active, detailed imagination determined to eradicate Chance from that corner of my mind and let pure Ever-driven fantasy fuel need.
Sex with Chance was never a two-way street.
When I asked him to do things to get me off, he was never willing.
Instead, telling me that he liked taking me from behind while I was on my hands and knees because we both came harder that way.
It was like being fucked by a frat boy who was convinced he knew what he was doing but clearly had no game.
I got used to it and, in the end, stopped caring because I had easy access to my clit in that position.
It was an If you want something done, do it yourself situation.
Needless to say, I’m well-acquainted with the reliable duo of masturbation and a vivid imagination.
Speaking of imagination…
I’m in a chaise lounge on the balcony of a beachfront hotel.
It’s dark, but the moon is bright. My skirt is pushed up to my waist, and my panties are dangling off one ankle.
Ever’s face is settled between my thighs: eye contact intense, words filthy, tongue soft, clit swollen, legs widening, fingers fucking, hips grinding, moans swelling.
It doesn’t take long before the build increases to a tremble.
In my mind and my body.
Reluctantly, I slip back to reality. Sweaty sheets, relaxed muscles, mood boosted, I return to my phone and bring up my last post. Feeling emboldened, probably due to an increase in serotonin levels, I tap on goodguysfinishfirst_sometimes.
Poised to click the Follow button, I hesitate when I see it already reads Following.
What the hell? When I scroll through his four posts, I notice there’s a red heart below each one indicating I’ve already liked them.
This reeks of meddling. My finger hovers over the little message button, and before I touch the screen, I close my eyes, count to ten, and hope I’m not right.
“Fucking Lola.”
A message was sent tonight at 8:37. When I was in the shower. It reads:
Hey! You take great photos; I take great photos.
You like sunsets; I like sunsets. You like dogs; I like dogs.
This can’t be coincidence, can it? It appears the universe is at work here.
I think we should be friends, because denying the universe could set something bad in motion if we don’t.
Like those old chain emails that have catastrophic consequences for all of mankind if you don’t forward them to ten people within ten minutes.
I don’t want calamity on my conscience. Or yours.
What do you say? Our destined friendship could literally save the world…
It might be funny if it wasn’t me she was making look like a deranged jackass. I screenshot it and text it to Lola, along with,
Sleep with one eye open. I’m coming for you.
I assume she’s asleep, but she immediately texts back.
Lola
I sleep with a butcher knife under my mattress, remember? Do your worst. Also, you’re welcome.
Siblings are the best. When they aren’t being the worst.