Alas, the tables did turn for my fairest and I.
Loosely translated: For once, Cat was the one that freaked out, not me.
I can understand why she was suspicious; if I had seen Sean casually stroll around my house one fine Sunday morning in a tiny pair of boxers…well, let’s just say I probably would’ve acted first, asked questions later.
In retrospect, it’s quite funny. But that’s only because things always seem funny in retrospect, when you know that they ended positively. I’m sure Snow White laughed her ass off when she was tucked away with her Prince Charming because she choked on the tiniest piece of apple. Either way, the idea of Cat experiencing the gut wrenching fear of suspicion for once at least balances the somewhat tilted scales of jealousy between us. I’m always the one worrying about someone taking her away from me, I’m always the one frowning at some guy I think is getting too close…basically, I’m always the bitch.
But really, how could she ever think I could cheat on her? As horrifically immodest and boastful as it sounds, I treat Cat like a princess. I’ve only raised my voice at her a handful of times, I’m forever reassuring her, I am extremely generous in every aspect of our relationship and yes, I’m talking about sex here. I streak ahead of the average male in the Best Boyfriend in the World contest.
And why, you wonder? I’ve been in love before, does that mean I showered every girl with the attention and love I liberally bathe Cat in? Of course not. Would you like me to list the dozens of perfectly promising relationships that I’ve ruined with my appalling behavior? I’ve been a dick in the past; I can admit that as freely as I admit my fro days possibly weren’t as fly as I had originally suspected. I’ve cheated, I’ve lied, I’ve been unsupportive. Quite frankly, the more I can hide from Cat about my many indiscretions and mistakes, the better. She would die if she knew I had called girls fat, or once had sex in the bathroom with some chick whose name I didn’t know as my girlfriend sat innocently at the table, picking at her food.
I know what you’re thinking: this doesn’t sound like me. Well, it isn’t me; at least, not anymore. By the time I got to Cat, I think I had realized that perhaps my spiraling love life was partly due to my own actions. How could I blame a girl for cheating on me when I spent my nights stuffing dollar bills into girls’ g-strings? It was just immaturity, and thank god I grew out of it, but I had to realize that relationships weren’t just about me looking good and some girl catering to my every whim. I had to make the effort with her, just as much as she did with me; so that’s what I do with Cat.
All this said, Cat being who she is must be partly responsible for my sudden change of character. She’s so different from anyone I’ve dated before; I’ll never forget her clearly telling me to “stop being an asshole and remember I put on my pants one leg at a time, just like every other guy” when I started listing how many ‘Sexiest Man’ lists I had topped. How could I not fall in love with that?
She hums lightly as she taps into the laptop sitting in her lap, polishing up job applications. Her sock-covered feet bob up and down, causing the small cows patterned on them to nod repeatedly, and the navy blue blanket cushions her as she sits up on the bed, her feet stretched out in front of her. Her insistence to get a job within days of arriving in New York has been thrown off by her journey home, but like the little firecracker that she is, she’s immediately getting back to work on it minutes after emptying her suitcase.
“Cat?” I question, idly running my hand up her leg, hoping to distract her. My eyes come level with her pajama covered thighs, and I immediately snuggle towards the sky blue cotton fabric on her leg.
“Mm?” she responds, not lifting her eyes from the laptop.
“Why are you doing that when you could be talking to me?”
She smirks. “Because talking to you doesn’t get me a job, that’s why.”
“Well, it could. I mean, you could convince me to hire you as…I don’t know…a bag carrier?”
She slowly turns to look at me, throwing me her perfectly tuned ‘shut the hell up’ face. “Oh, where do I sign up?”
We lapse into silence again as I sigh and continue assaulting her leg with my hand. Amber and Trace went to spend the day at The Statue of Liberty, but Cat and I refused their invitation to join them. Not only does Amber throw Cat worried looks as though she’s afraid Cat’s going to suddenly rip her eyes out every five seconds, I just can’t be bothered calling Tiny in to plod around behind me as Cat fills me in with as much stupid information about The Statue as she can.
“Cat?”
She rolls her eyes and stops typing. “Yes?”
“You know how you’re a girl?”
“Brilliant deduction,” she replies, frowning at the screen and tapping backspace a few times, deleting what she had just written.
“Isn’t it annoying wearing a bra all the time?”
She leans back into the cushions on the bed, groaning in frustration. “Justin, if you’re this bored, just find something to do.”
“I’ve found something to do!”
“Annoying me is not an activity, Justin,” she scorns, but I can spy the smile lingering on her face.
Quickly pulling the black box of technology from her lap, I snap it shut and hold it above my head, out of her reaching grasp.
“Give that back!” she cries, leaping forward in an attempt to retrieve her beloved laptop.
“Nope,” I reply smugly, moving off the bed and taking the laptop with me. “This,” I shake the laptop furiously, feeling it slip slightly between my fingers, “is just distracting you from what should really be on your mind…me.” I finish with my trademark “aren’t I fantastic?” smile.
A giggle finally escapes her mouth and she rolls her eyes, trying desperately to look annoyed. “Look…honeybunch…I have work to do, and I need my computer.”
I protrude my bottom lip dramatically, trying to pout. “But I’m bored.”
“Well then--”
The ring of the phone cuts of her suggestion. She pauses, sighs, and then sticks her tongue out as a final response.
She picks up the phone with a grin, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “Hello?”
I place her laptop onto the vanity, (if I dropped it Cat would have my intestines out in seconds) and fold my arms across my chest, waiting to hear who could be on the phone.
Suddenly, a look of slight shock washes over her face. Her mouth drops open in amazement, and her eyes widen. “Here,” she says breathlessly, holding the phone out to me. “It’s…it’s…it’s Ashton Kutcher!”
“Ashton? Cool,” I chirp happily, taking the phone from her, ignoring the fox-caught-in-headlights look she projects as she numbly stares at me. “Hello?”
“Hey man, it’s Ashton.”
“Dude, how you doin’?”
“I’m good, real good, man. God, I haven’t spoken to you since, what…Wilmer’s birthday party?
I cringe at the drunken memory. “And seeing as all I remember from that is one massive keg of beer and a few dancing bikinis, that doesn’t count.”
He laughs good-naturedly, and I can perfectly picture him adjusting a trucker cap set on his wavy brown locks. “Well, the point is, since you went into hiding we’ve not heard one goddamn thing about you. Where did you go, Middle Earth?”
I laugh. “Well, I’m back in the real world now.”
“Yeah, I was going to try and punk you by sending your luggage to Ethiopia or something.”
I shake my head, still smiling. “I appreciate that, thanks.”
“Anyway,” he briskly moves on, in his signature straight forward manner. “The deal is; I’m in New York and, rumor has it, so are you.”
“Yeah, I am. Makes things easier for work,” I shrug. “But what you doing all the way up here? I didn’t know you had property up here.”
He lets out a nonchalant scoff. “You know me; I’m everywhere.”
Chuckling in agreement, I sit on the bed, straightening the comforter before I do so. A frown is thrown in Cat’s directions as she immediately crouches down beside me, listening to my conversation with rapt attention. She peers at me inquisitively as I return her gaze with a raised eyebrow. Cat’s never this interested in anything I’ve ever say, what’s so great about Ashton Kutcher?
“Anyway, I’m in New York checking out this club that I’m thinkin’ of investing in. Suite 16, you heard of it?”
“Heard of it?” I snort. “I’ve been there plenty of times. Great place, if you know how to get in.”
“Exactly,” he replies. “Anyway, I’m gathering a whole bunch of people for a bit of a party there tonight. Demi’s filming in Cali, so, you know…” he chuckles. “I’m out to play.”
I laugh and nod. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“You’re welcome to come along if you’re not busy. I’m gathering a whole bunch of people and everyone’s been asking for you. They think you’ve like, fallen off the face of the earth or something.”
“Sometimes I think I have,” I reply, running a hand through my hair. “It’s amazing to realize the stuff you’ve been missing once you take a big step back from it all, you know?”
“Not well enough,” he answers bitterly. “I admire you man, it’s gotta take balls to just say fuck ‘em and go off on your own.”
“It’s not balls Ashton, it’s frustration,” I laugh.
He chuckles. “So, you wanna bring company? Who’s the hottie that answered the phone?”
I cast a look over at Cat, with pajama clad legs pulled up to her chest and her chin resting on her knees, her wide, captivated eyes still staring at me. She looks adorable, wrapped up in remotely unsexily modest, warm, cotton pajamas; like a coy little girl, only this coy little girl has a woman’s body wrapped underneath that material. I smile and tug a lock of brown hair affectionately, watching as she grins shyly at me and looks down.
“That’s my girlfriend.”
“Oh yeah, I heard you were tied down. Who is it? Anyone I know?”
“No, I found myself an unknown. A diamond in the rough,” I grin, as Cat giggles and swats me with a pillow.
“Great, bring her along. It should be a good night.”
“Okay, we’ll try and check in.”
“Cool man, I’ll see you tonight. Anytime from twelve onwards; you know the drill.”
I smirk to myself. Yes, I know the drill; once it strikes midnight, the celebrities come out to play, safe in the knowledge that most are reasonably trashed enough to ignore your presence. The last thing you want is to go at ten o’clock and then have people gawking at you for three hours, waiting for you to suddenly jump up and perform a spectacular cabaret. I’ll never forget one girl asking me, “Why aren’t you having a dance off?” when I was sitting in the corner of a club, surveying the crowd. They expect you to always be ‘on’.
“No worries. Later.”
“Later,” he repeats, and the click of the phone lets me know he’s gone; presumably off to call up other potential partiers.
Flopping the phone onto the bed, I stand up to stretch, feeling Cat’s stare on me. “What did he say?” she asks excitedly, in a tone normally reserved for when she’s talking about chocolate.
I shrug. “He invited us out tonight.”
“Us? Us? What do you mean by us?” she enquires, gripping onto my forearm as I make a move to walk to the bathroom.
“He invited me, and then he said I should bring you along,” I reply slowly, trying to shake off her tiger-like grip. “They’re all going to Suite 16...I guess you’re not interested, huh?”
“What’s Suite 16?”
I stare at her blankly for a moment. “Oh come on, you must’ve heard of Suite 16.”
She shrugs and shakes her head.
“What about Lotus?”
She bites her lips in thought. “Isn’t that a car?”
“Oh dear, Cat,” I shake my head disapprovingly. “I really need to get you out to more clubs.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“They’re clubs; Suite 16 and Lotus are clubs,” I reply quickly, before I have time to dwell on the fact Cat is such a recluse. “Ashton wants me to go to Suite tonight.”
“Are you going to go?”
I tilt my head in contemplation. “Nah, you just got back. I haven’t got to spend any time with you yet.” With that, I gently unlatch her hold on my arm and bend to kiss her head. “And I know you won’t want to go anyway, so--”
Just as I was making a second attempt towards the bathroom, Cat suddenly yelps, “Oh no, I do.”
“What?” I frown, turning back.
“I do,” she says quickly, a blush tinting her cheeks. “I mean…if that’s alright.”
I pause and fold my arms across my chest. “This hasn’t got anything to do with your little schoolgirl reaction to Ashton Kutcher, does it?”
Her blush deepens. “What do you mean?”
“It’s…it’s Ashton Kutcher!” I gasp, clutching my chest and impersonating her initial teenybopper response. It’s so unlike Cat to have anything other than a purely indifferent response to people, so seeing such an out of character and more the point ditzy one is quite something else.
“Shut up,” she responds, punching me on the arm.
A faint smile lingers on my lips. “So what, you have a…a crush on him?”
“No!” she hotly denies, her cheeks burning a cute crimson.
“You…you do,” I say in disbelief. “But I thought crushes were meaningless infatuations with overrated, conceited wannabes?” I quote, after what she said when Trace and I were discussing the hotness of a certain Ms Jackson.
“They are,” she replies primly, standing up and crossing the room to retrieve her laptop. “I don’t have a crush.”
“Oh really?”
“Justin, why would I like someone who got famous by repeatedly saying the words ‘dude’ and ‘sweet’?”
“I don’t know, you tell me.” I smile and hook my finger on the back of her pajama bottoms, pulling her back. “You’re the one with the crush.”
“Shut up!” she repeats, slapping my hand away and storming back to the bed in a huff. “I just happen to think he’s attractive, that’s all,” she mumbles, opening her screen and making a very poor attempt at pretending she’s interested in her work.
“Ah, so you admit it,” I tease, tossing myself down on the bed beside her.
She’s silent, before turning to me with a smile. “You know what? I do. I can’t wait to pull him in the bathrooms for hot, unprotected, sweaty, raw, animalistic sex in the cubicle.”
My grin vanishes as fast as a kid running after the ice cream truck. “What?”
“Let’s hope the music covers my screams, huh?” she says, turning back to her computer and calmly jabbing at the keys again. “I’m sure Ashton can get to all those spots that other…less fortunate men can,” she finishes, casting me and the sacred area around my hips a pitiful glance.
My brain is foggy with shock as I stare at her wordlessly, my mouth hanging open in shock. “What the fuck?!” I snap suddenly, the fog evaporating instantly. “I will not watch as my girlfriend sleeps with some guy who thinks making me cry is funny!”
“He made you cry?” she frowns, before a look of realization washes over her face. “Oh yeah, I remember that. On his show. Now that was hilarious.”
“It was not!” I bark, jumping off the bed for the sole purpose of stomping my foot. “He is a dick, Cat, a complete dick. And for fuck’s sake, he’s not even that good looking.”
She tilts her head. “Oh, come on, Justin. Don’t be ridiculous. You and I both know that’s not true.”
“Fine, whatever…he’s just some fucking pretty boy with no balls!” I shout. “And how come you never asked me to have sex with you in bathroom? That’s not fair! I’ve known you longer; it’s my turn!”
Suddenly, a giggle that she’s clearly been holding in escalates into a laughing fit. She hunches over, her shoulders shaking rhythmically as she tries to hold a hand over her mouth. It is, of course, to no avail, as she continues to giggle to herself.
Feeling embarrassment wash over me, I roll my eyes. You know that table that turned for Cat and I? It just flipped right back over again.
“It’s not that funny,” I say wearily, folding my arms and waiting for her to calm down.
“Oh really?” she sniggers. “Honestly honey, how many times are you going to fall for that?”
“Sure, call me honey now,” I mutter, stamping towards the bathroom to take a shower. “So are we going tonight or not?” I yell through the beige walls, picking up a lavender colored towel which must be Cat’s influence; I don’t have chick colors like that in my house.
“I think it might be fun. After all, I haven’t been clubbing in about five years.”
“Okay, we’ll leave at half twelve or something!” I shout over the buzz of the shower as I turn it on.
“Great,” she murmurs distractedly, once again engrossed in her work.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Looking good, feeling good. That’s what it’s all about.
Looking good and feeling good. The fundamental keys to party success.
Right, no problem, piece of cake… If you can’t tell, I’m subconsciously rolling my eyes at myself.
I haven’t been to a party since Justin’s birthday, which was what…three months ago? Three and a half? To some, that may seem like too long to have been out of the disco lights but to me, it’s not enough. Why did I willingly chirp, “sure Justin, I’d love to go to some glorified club where a glass of tap water costs five dollars and then watch as a few aspiring strippers tear it up on the dance floor”?
Well…okay…I do know why, (hint: starts with an Ashton, ends with a Kutcher). Like any female with a functioning brain, I find Ashton Kutcher very attractive; I can even look past some terrible films on his part (Dude Where’s My Car…what the hell was that?) and of course, hearing his smooth, cocky tone pour through the telephone made me a react in a very strange way. I clung to Justin, desperate to hear what he was saying, and then made a halfhearted attempt to disguise my crush. Of course, I slipped in an opportunity to tease Justin about sleeping with Ashton; honestly, he just set himself up for it.
Amid all of this, I willingly offered to go to the club with Justin. I know I just got back yesterday and Justin and I won’t be able to speak over the thumping bass of the music, but it should be fun. I must be the only person in New York who is yet to have a taste of its nightlife which, in colloquial tongue, means I’m a loser. I’m sure a evening of drinking heavily and watching people gyrate animatedly will do me good.
Glancing towards the clock, the luminous green numbers of twelve and fifteen flash at me, informing me that I have about a quarter of an hour to finish the dramatic transformation from shy workaholic to tempting sex kitten. Ha.
The glittery blue eye liner that Dawn had to teach me how to apply leaves a discreet streak of color underneath my eyelid, before swooping across the line above my mascara twirled lashes. Blinking a few times and quickly digging at any splinters left by the pencil, I do the same to the other eye and stand back, scrutinizing my shimmering blue eyes. They look…nice. Bigger than usual, and the light reflects off the sparkles in the blue, making my eyes seems almost electric, rather than the wishy washy blue that they usually are. Justin says he loves me eyes and normally I disagree, but I suppose with a bit of make up they look okay.
“Baby! You ready?” comes a shout from downstairs, where Justin lays coolly on the couch. He threw on a shirt and black pants, ran a hand through his hair, adjusted the little beaded necklaces he occasionally dons and that was it. No fuss, no drama, and he still looked like a million dollars.
As for me, well…an hour and a half of careful planning and precision still only make me amount to “um…not bad”. If I adopted Justin’s method I’d probably look like some orc extra from Lord of the Rings.
“Coming!” I reply, sweeping some lip gloss across my lips quickly, spritzing myself with some musky scent, and taking one final glare at my appearance. Fluffing my curled hair with one hand and pulling down the black halter neck with a slightly plunge in the neckline with the other, I let out a shaky breath. The jittery feeling in my stomach tells confirms my suspicions; tonight could be fantastic…or it could be a total and utter car crash.
Let’s hope for the latter.
Trotting down the steps, I carefully formulate the movements of my feet, should I unexpectedly fall head first down the carpeted stairs and land in a tangled heap at the bottom. As hilarious as that may sound, it’s a feasible possibility.
“Wow, you look great,” says Trace, feeling quite free to look my body up and down. “That top makes your boobs look real good.”
“You sound like my sister,” I mutter, rolling my eyes and walking down the rest of the steps. “But I’m going to ignore that typically male comment and say thank you.”
“You look fantastic,” beams Justin, holding out his hand to help me down the rest of the steps.
“Really?” I blush, tilting my head to the side coyly.
“Yep,” he replies, brushing his lips against mine. “And you taste like strawberry.”
“And I refuse to stand hear listening to you two and see who can out compliment the other, so let’s just go, okay?” Trace says, opening the door.
I smile and go first, swishing my hips with relish, much to Justin’s pleasure. He squeezes my waist and winks at me when he returns to my side. I feel like quite the celebrity as Tiny and another bodyguard who looks like Tiny’s equally huge twin, Mike, open the door for the gleaming silver SUV. My jeans slide across the black leather seats smoothly, and I comfortable sit at the window as Justin and Trace hop in beside me. The car quickly rumbles into action and we glide through the streets of New York, weaving through the traffic.
No sooner had Justin and Trace gotten into a discussion on who was the best looking Friends girl, the car pulled up at polished wooden door with a silver 16 above it. On either side of the sidewalk, held off by flimsy red velvet rope, sat a huddle of photographers, their large black cameras poised for action.
I frown. “What are they doing here?”
Justin peers out of the window and groans. “Oh…great…”
“They probably saw Ashton so they know something’s going on tonight,” supplies Trace.
“A day after they left my house, too,” Justin mutters bitterly. There had been a few odd articles of Justin swimming around the past few weeks, but nothing had been printed about me or any other ‘personal assistants’. The cameramen must have gotten bored, as they rarely stand outside Justin’s apartment anymore.
“Let’s go,” orders Mike’s gruff voice. He and Tiny step out first, followed by Trace, Justin, and finally, myself.
Within seconds, I can hear the whirr of cameras and the blinding of flashes. In the spasm of flickering lights, Justin drops my hand and rushes ahead of me inside the building, covered by Tiny. Mike places a firm hand on my back and pushes me towards the door as Trace rolls his eyes and walks in at his own leisurely pace. Cries of “Justin! Over here!” followed by “Are you a friend? How do you know him?” fill the night air, but with the closing of the pale wooden door, their shouts are blocked off and my attention is immediately attracted to my new surroundings.
The club carries the same vibe as Electric Lady Studios; funky, retro, and very cool. Deep reds and lilac curtains hang in the darkened building, with amber lighting shooting in every direction. Bodies appear to be everywhere; spread across the bar, dancing in the crowd, sitting awkwardly on the circular couches. Justin’s hand returns to mine and he pulls me after him, heading upstairs past a heavily manned door into a calmer, less crowded room with people sipping drinks or swaying to the music gently.
“That was fast,” I pant, clutching my chest.
“Sorry,” Justin grimaces, leaning in to speak in my ear. “I wanted to get up to VIP before anyone downstairs could see me.”
“Oh,” I reply lamely. This is hardly a situation I’ve been in often. How am I suppose to react?
“And I didn’t mean to brush you off outside; I just didn’t want the press to get a picture of us holding hands. You know, pandemonium would ensue,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“No problem,” I shrug, trying not to be drowned out by the excited jazz music.
“Hey! Hey, Timberlake!” a voice cries over the music, and the scattered bodies part to leave a pathway for the man approaching us.
His simple black top and washed out jeans held up with a chunky brown belt hang off his lean figure, and a suspiciously stylish messy crop of brown wavy hair sits atop his head. The scruffy beginnings of a beard tickle his handsome face, and naturally pink lips grin at us, showcasing perfectly straight, white teeth.
Hello, Mr. Kutcher.
“Hey Justin!” he says excitedly, grasping Justin in for a handshake and a slap on the back. “How the hell you been?”
“Fabulous,” Justin replies, smiling at him. “Ashton, I want you to meet my girlfriend, Cat. Cat, this is Ashton.”
My hand bravely holds out to shake his, despite the energized hyperventilating of my insides. “Hi,” I gush, unable to stop the spread of a girlish grin.
“Nice to meet you,” he says happily. “Good to see you too, Trace.”
Trace nods in his direction and, to my great amazement, already has a drink sitting comfortably between his fingers.
“So, what do you think of it?” Justin asks, motioning to our surroundings.
Ashton shrugs non commitedly. “I dunno. Seems a little too ‘Page Six’ for my liking.”
Justin nods in agreement. “It probably makes a bomb of money, though.”
“True,” replies Ashton. “So, Cat. That’s an unusual name.”
“Short for Catherine,” I quickly answer.
He waits for me to say something else but when I continue to stare at him with dreamy eyes, he smiles. “Great.”
“Yeah,” I beam, looking at his chocolate colored eyes.
Justin squeezes my hand to attract my attention. When I turn to him, his hurt look does little to hide his jealousy.
“Where’s Demi?” he asks pointedly, sending me piercing glance.
“She’s in Cali man,” says Ashton. “Remember?”
“You guys doing okay?”
“Oh yeah, we’re great,” he smiles. “Best girlfriend in the world; second to yours, of course,” Ashton flirtatiously winks at me, causing a whole new round of coy giggles to erupt from me.
“Well, we’d better go get some drinks,” Justin says, placing a possessive arm over my waist. “We’ll catch you later.”
“Okay. Have fun!” he shouts, waving at us. “Bye!”
“Bye,” I whimper, watching the crowd swallow him up as I stand on my tiptoes, craning my neck to get one final look at him. That man is a God.
“Hey, Googly Eyes,” says Justin, squeezing my waist. “I understand you just met your crush, but do you think you can drag yourself away from your little fantasies long enough to dance with me?”
I laugh. “Sure, let’s go.”
He takes my hand and leads me through the moving crowd, who have suddenly come to life after hearing some 50 Cent song bang through the speakers. We find a space in the cluttered balcony amidst the throng of bodies. Justin immediately clamps a hand over my hips and twirls me around unexpectedly, my heel-encased feet skidding across the floor.
Before I can pivot off into the oblivion on the crowd, he grabs me again, pulling me back to him. He laughs at my surprised expression when I instinctively hold onto his strong biceps for support as I regain my balance. How embarrassing would it have been to cut through the crowd like some wound up toy on ecstasy? Thank God he caught me.
“Justin, I’m not the best dancer. Why don’t you dance, and I’ll clap?” I suggest.
He grins and shakes his head. “Come on little lady, let’s boogy.”
“But I can’t,” I complain. As the words leave my mouth, Justin once again spins me around and his lean torso greets my bare back.
“Everyone can grind, Cat,” he informs me, slowly moving his hips against mine.
“Oh no, not grinding…” I groan. “Trust me Timberlake, I don’t grind. It just ain’t pretty.”
“So?” he snorts. “We’re here to have fun and cut up a rug.”
“I can’t cut up the rug,” I protest, trying to turn around to face him. “I don’t even have scissors.”
He laughs and shakes his head, running his hands over my hips and the tops of my jean-clad thighs. “Just do it, young lady.”
Another objection prepares itself to spring off my mouth, before the stares of three contemptuous girls catch my eye. The look a few years older than me, with perfectly straight hair of varying shades of blonde and red tumble over their bare shoulders. Their sparkly tops that catch the lights flashing in the club cover…well, not much. Let’s just say the same effect could have been achieved with a few bottle caps.
Long legs climb out of their short skirts, adorned with stilettos no smaller than four inches. Green waves of jealous pour out of them, clearly in my direction, as I stand helplessly with Justin. Smirking to myself, I turn around and wrap my arms around Justin’s neck.
“Kiss me,” I order.
He gives me an odd look. “Excuse me?” he shouts over the music.
“Now. Kiss me,” I repeat, my gaze dropping to his glistening lips.
He frowns. “When did you have something to drink?”
I giggle. “Look over there,” I mumble, leaning in and resting my head in the crook of his neck, under the pretence of kissing him, whilst discreetly nodding towards the girls.
“Ooh, envy envy,” Justin laughs, massaging my hips with his hands.
“Exactly. I want to show them you’re mine.”
He leans back in surprise. “Cat, are you in there?”
I roll my eyes. “Just do it Justin, okay? And as ostentatiously as possible, please.”
He pauses, before shrugging. “Okay, but don’t complain when I don’t stop.”
I laugh as his lips greet mine, hungrily seeking my tongue out.
Cat--one. Slutty Clubbers--nil.
----------------------------------------------------
Fear’s talons rip their way through my body. I’m so scared, it actually…it actually hurts. It’s as though someone has brutally ripped through my insides and jumbled them all up.
I stare blankly into the mirror, seeing my made up face drain of any color. The blue eye liner smudges as a tear slips from my eyes, closely followed by another one. No…no. Why is this happening? To me? I’m a good person, I’m healthy, I’m young…the laws of nature don’t let things like this happen. This is supposed to happen to someone older than me, someone who has lived their life. Not me.
The night had been going so well. Justin and I had put on a magnificently dramatic show for disapproving onlookers, I had had a few apple martinis, Justin had chugged a few beers. Even my pathetic attempt at dancing didn’t dampen the evening.
But this…this isn’t just ruining tonight. This is the rest of my life. Or what’s left of it.
Hastily wiping away the tears that have fallen, I try to calm my erratic breathing. Please God, I silently pray, please let me be okay. I couldn’t bear it if I had…no, I can’t even say it.
The curls that I had agonized over earlier in the evening fall limply over my tear streaked face. I shed my halter neck a hateful look; if I hadn’t had to adjust the stupid silky creation, I would’ve never noticed anything.
Shaking my head, I hastily push on the heavy bathroom doors marked with 16. I gulp for air as my eyes scan the room for Justin. I need to talk to someone, I need to have someone calm me down. Justin might make things worse, but at least I’ll be sharing my burden with somebody.
Justin, Trace, and about three guys I only recognize as the men Justin’s been getting gradually more drunk with over the course of the evening, or morning, I should say, sit in a line on a semi circular red couch. Five shot glasses and three empty bottles of Jack Daniels lay on the table as they dissolve into fits of giggles over something that no one else finds funny.
Rushing over to them, I almost trip on the heels on my shoes that were designed to make my legs look longer. I snort, why does it even matter? Who cares about longer fucking legs?
“Justin, I need to talk to you,” I say, tugging at the elbow of his light blue shirt.
“I know, right?!” he responds to one of his friends, slapping his thigh in amusement. “It’s just so fucking hilarious!” His incessant laughter begins again, and I roll my eyes.
“Justin!” I say sharply, trying to be heard over the loud music.
“Yeah, baby?” he answers, turning to me dizzily.
I groan. He’s completely trashed. “I need to talk to you.”
“Go for it, baby cakes,” he grins, draping an arm over my shoulders.
“It’s serious Justin, something’s really wrong,” I try to explain, pushing his arm off me and feeling tears once again build up in my watery eyes.
“Okay,” he says, setting his glass down and trying to look sincere.
“Justin…” I begin shakily, looking into his smiling eyes. He grins at me, as though waiting for some fantastically funny joke. I’m sorry sweetheart, I’m all out of jokes.
I stop myself before continuing; he’s in no state to hear this. He probably couldn’t even spell his name right now, let alone take on something as excruciating as this. It’s just a waste of time, not to mention his dramatics are no doubt increased when he’s had seven shots and a few beers poured down his throats.
“What is it, daaaarlin’?” he says happily, shifting on his seat as he beams at me.
I bite my lip, willing the tears to stay at bay. “Nothing Justin, nothing.”
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