Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
Alis
Before I knew it, Friday had arrived and I was standing in front of my floor-length mirror, holding two dresses in front of me, trying to decide which I should wear.
It’s November, so it’s too cold for most of my dresses, however, I have two long-sleeved, knee-length cocktail dresses that would both suit the occasion.
I’m pulling one to the side and replacing it with the other when Skye enters my bedroom. “The blue one,” she says. “Definitely go with the blue one.”
“And why, my dearest Skye, would I heed your opinion on what to wear to a faculty dinner of all places?” She knows I’m poking fun, and she plays right into my hand, offering an undeniably ‘Skye’ response with so much conviction, I may acquiesce and choose the blue instead of the green.
“For starters, your boobs look fuck hot in the blue dress. Fuck hot but not skanky hot, you know?” I shake my head and laugh, but she continues.
“Second, you are wearing thigh highs, not tights, under that dress and only the blue one provides the opportunity to slip a glimpse of your garter to Dexter at the dinner table.”
“Is sex the only thing you think about?” I laugh, secretly loving the thought of flashing Dexter a peek at my garter under the table.
“Typically, no. But tonight, when my fuck hot best friend is going to be stripped naked by her equally fuck hot professor boyfriend, most definitely.”
“Why are we friends?” I kid, once again replacing the dress in front of me as if I’m still conflicted about which one to choose.
“Because I’m fucking fabulous, that’s why.
” She’s not wrong. Skye is definitely an acquired taste — too much for some, but she couldn’t care less.
She’s brash, fierce, and takes the world by storm (fitting that her name is Skye).
And I love her more than my own life. It was Skye who literally held me together after Belle and Alex’s funeral.
Skye, who didn’t take a second to consider her options when I decided to attend MPU.
Hell, she didn’t even wait for the invitation to move with us — just seamlessly traded singular for plural pronouns.
I wasn’t moving to Grand River — we were.
I wasn’t leaving everyone I know and love to move to a city four hours away where I didn’t know a single person — we were.
I am the least single single parent that ever lived.
I return the green dress to my closet and hang the blue on the back of my bathroom door before stepping in to shower and shave every square inch of my body from the waist down.
I may not have had sex in nearly ten years, but I still remember the importance of smooth legs.
I got waxed earlier this week, which I hadn’t done in at least five years.
It’s incredible, the things we do to present ourselves as a suitable offering to a lover.
I’m not sure many things convey selflessness as clearly as “I let a stranger smear hot wax all over my vagina and then rip the hairs from the roots, all for your pleasure.”
As I step from my bathroom I find Skye still sitting on my bed, perched in the same position I left her in fifteen minutes ago. The pink bag gift bag, however, was not there when I left.
“What’s that?” I ask, already knowing it’s lingerie by the brand stamped across these alternating light and dark pink stripes.
“You may call me your fairy cuntmother,” Skye says melodically, wiggling her fingers over the bag as if depositing fairy dust on its contents.
I palm my forehead. She did not just say that. “For the second time, why are we friends?!”
“Lookie, lookie! It’s lacy!” she squeals, not bothering to wait for me to open the present myself.
Skye tosses the pink tissue paper aside and then takes out two black, lacy, incredibly see-through undergarments.
I’m standing before her in my towel, hair clipped into a messy bun to keep it dry while I showered, trying desperately to be appalled at what I’m seeing.
Who am I kidding? I love it. “It’s perfect,” I beam, and I know that was the exact response she hoped for when she squeals again in excitement, tossing my both items before reaching into the bag once more to reveal new thigh highs and a matching garter belt.
“You do know I already own something very similar to this, right?” I ask.
“So what if you do? This is a big night! It deserves to be celebrated, and what better way to celebrate the de-revirginizing of your poor, neglected vag.”
“Get out,” I swat at her with the panties. She stands, laughing at my frustration, and then clasps her hands together under her chin, saying, “My sweet baby girl is finally becoming a woman. I’ve never been more proud than I am at this very moment.”
Swatting her again, I add my foot to the mix, literally kicking her out of my room so I can get dressed.
It’s 6:30 when Dexter arrives, his tall, exquisite frame coming into view as I step from my room in my navy blue, velvet cocktail dress and black pumps.
I don’t wear heels often — the last time was the night I met Dexter and I will never wear those shoes ever again — so I chose a modest-height shoe that still accentuates my calves.
My hair hangs over my shoulder in a teased fishtail braid, loose waves framing my face.
I decided to forego the glasses in favor of contact lenses, not wanting to feed into the “younger woman” persona any more than my short stature and obvious lack of life experience suggest.
“You look… incredible.” My cheeks blush under his praise, and I step closer to him, gently tugging on his tie as I offer my own words of affirmation to him.
“You clean up nicely,” I say, smiling up at him. Dexter leans in and kisses me, a chaste hello, and asks, “You ready to go?”
I nod and gesture toward the small overnight bag sitting by the door. “Would you carry that for me?” I ask. Dexter pulls me in for another lingering peck before intertwining our fingers with one hand and securing my bag in the other.
“Y’all have fun now, ya hear?” Skye calls from the hallway. We lucked out when Sunny was invited to a sleepover birthday party for one of her class friends, so I didn’t have to even attempt to broach the subject of my staying the night with Dexter. Skye, however, we could never escape.
“You’re worse than my parents on prom night,” I huff, an accusation she feeds into with ease, offering reminders to ‘practice safe sex’, ‘make wise choices’, and ‘have her home by curfew!’ Dexter takes her pestering in stride, offering every assurance that he respects me and will act like a gentleman.
Skye’s look of disgust throws him — he doesn’t know Skye well enough to know he willingly walked right into her trap.
“You better not,” she scoffs.
Dexter, brows furrowed, asks, “Better not, what?” I don’t say anything, keeping my face as calm and neutral as possible.
“You better not act like a perfect gentleman or return her home to me before noon tomorrow. I didn’t spend $150 on sexy lingerie for her to wear tonight so you could do the gentlemanly thing and offer to sleep on the couch.
I expect debauchery, ripped lace, and my friend to be so thoroughly ravaged the next time I see her that there’s no question of how satisfying her night was. Do not disappoint me, Mountie.”
Skye takes the opportunity to acknowledge her own joke, laughing hysterically as she adds, “Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod. You’re Monty’s Mountie. A fucking stallion. A fucking stallion. I can’t. I just can’t.” She’s crying laughing at this point, and I can’t help but snort a laugh or two in response.
“I’m not sure how to respond to any of what you just said, so, we’re going to leave. Have a good evening, Skye.” Dexter opens the door quicker than I had anticipated, pulling me along behind him as Skye continues cackling from her prostrate position on our hallway floor.
“Where, exactly, did you find that one?” Dexter asks, shaking his head while also laughing at the absurdity that is Skye Kennedy.
“At the pound, obviously,” I quip. “She’s a rescue.”
“I’m not at all surprised.”
Dexter
Abigail’s home is sleek and modern, the picture of understated elegance — much like the woman herself.
I’ve had the pleasure of attending faculty dinners and holiday parties here previously, but I’ve never once pulled into her driveway with sweaty palms and an elevated heart rate.
Why am I so nervous? It’s not Alis. If anything, her presence offers calm reassurance, something I so desperately need right now.
“Are you alright?” Alis asks as I park my Range Rover in the circular drive.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“For starters, you’re strangling that poor steering wheel and you’ve popped your knuckles at least ten times since we left my apartment. You only do that when you’re stressed about something.” Observant, this one.
I loosen my grip on the steering wheel and take a deep breath. “You’ve never seen me stressed, so I don’t know how or when you would have noticed me popping my knuckles —”
She cuts in, “Thirty minutes before teaching your undergrad comp class you start popping your knuckles in anticipation of the stupid questions they’ll ask about things they should have learned in high school.”
I laugh, she’s not wrong. “Ok,” I concede. “So you’ve seen me stressed. I’m not anxious or dreading tonight, I promise. The anticipation is getting to me. I’ve wanted this for so long, and now it’s finally happening. Well, I think it’s finally happening. I hope it happens.”
“Who has you so worked up? Has Dr. Matthews flown in a group of academic celebrities or something?” she asks, equal parts serious and joking, acknowledging the weight of what tonight could mean for my career while also lightening the mood with sarcasm.
Before I can respond Alis’s hand grips the back of my neck and she pulls me in for a scorchingly hot kiss.
I start to pull away but she digs her fingers into my loose hair, holding me firmly to her and she massages my tongue with hers.
Suddenly I’m lost in her, drowning in her touch, her kiss, her scent.
Alis slides her hand down my torso to my groin, palming my erection through my trousers.
I groan at the contact, pleasure pulsing throughout my body.
More. I need more. Next thing I know my seatbelt is off and I’m leaning over the console, pushing her back into the cool black leather. I slide my hand up her thigh, fingers brushing the tiny metal clamps affixed to her stockings. Thigh highs? Garters? Is this woman trying to kill me?
“Fuck, Alis,” I groan as I palm her leg, digging my fingertips into her flesh possessively.
I’m a second away from moving higher when headlights appear in my periphery — a stark reminder that we are not alone.
Hell, we’re the furthest thing from alone right now.
We’re in my boss’s driveway, surrounded by faculty members, and I’m two seconds away from coming in my pants.
“We need to stop,” I say, returning to my seat and adjusting myself while Alis opens the visor mirror to check her makeup.
“Thank goodness I hate lipstick,” she says. “Although, I can think of some good uses for it.” She winks at me before opening her door, stepping out onto the driveway while I’m stuck in my seat trying to calm an erection she just brought back to life.
Once again presentable, I exit the vehicle and meet Alis around front, clasping her hand in mine before guiding her up the pathway to Abigail’s front door. The elegance is not lost on Alis — she looks around the foyer in awe, admiring the clean lines and simple design of the space.
“Dexter, Alis, so glad you could make it,” Abigail welcomes us, pressing her cheek to each of us in greeting.
“Thank you for having us,” Alis replies, ever the gracious guest. “Your home is beautiful,” she compliments, once again offering her appreciative gaze to the room.
“Thank you! And I must say, that dress is simply stunning.”
While the women volley compliments at each other, I take the opportunity to survey the crowd, looking for Jonathan Ryan. We lock eyes from across the room and he nods in recognition and acknowledgment, offering his excuses to whoever he is talking to before heading in our direction.
My hand rests on Alis’s hip, and I offer a gentle squeeze, beckoning her attention. “I have someone I’d like you to meet,” I say close to her ear. She turns and smiles up at me — my God, she’s beautiful — and just as she asks, “Oh? Who?” another voice cuts in.
“Dexter, my boy. Such a pleasure to see you again!”
Before I can tear my gaze away from her, Alis’s face freezes. Tension coils throughout her body, fingers digging into my biceps like a vice grip. It feels like minutes, but I know only a second passes before the voice continues, “And Alis Gilmore! What has it been, eight? Ten years?”
They know each other?