I shake my head, but ask anyway. “What is it?”
“Anxiety meds,” she says. “My mother’s stash.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to drink with that, Jo.” I feel like a parent scolding a child. She should know better.
Jo laughs and dries her hands. “Sure you don’t want one?” she asks. “Come on, girl. You have the rest of the summer to be the perfect little Senator’s daughter. No one knows who you are here. And no one cares. Live your fucking life, for once.”
“I am living my life,” I say. I’m annoyed with her, and I'm annoyed with this situation.
“Here,” she says, holding out a tablet. “Take half if you don’t want to take the whole thing. It’ll let you relax. It’s not coke or something. It’s prescription. From a doctor. For anxiety, which you definitely have.”
I exhale heavily, taking it from her hand and popping it into my mouth. “Fine. Whatever.”
We exit the bathroom and her hook-up, the leather-jacket clad guy, hands us each a cup of beer. I hold it, not drinking it because I'm afraid of mixing the pill with more alcohol.
He introduces me to two of his friends. They’re cleaner cut than he is, but they look older. One of them stares at me like I’m a piece of meat, licking his lips. I want to get the hell out of here, but I force myself to take a sip of beer to calm my nerves.
The other guy steps closer to me, pulling me away from the group, and gestures, asking if I want to dance. Okay, so he’s hot -- blue eyed and brown haired and clean-cut. Totally appropriate, I think.
I don’t know how long it is, maybe thirty minutes or so, before I start feeling relaxed. Like, really relaxed. I feel kind of woozy, actually, like my head is thick and foggy and I just want to sleep. The guy, whose name I don’t even know, is behind me, sliding his hands over my stomach and down the front of my hips, his hardness pressing up against me as he dances with me completely out of sync with the music.
The fact that he’s hard is what makes me feel nauseous. When I try to pry his hands off my hips, he grips them tighter and I yank myself away from him.
I don’t know where Jo is in the crowd; I can’t see her or the other guy, but I need some air.
Outside the house, I shiver as the now-cool evening air hits my skin. There are a handful of people outside, party-goers that have spilled out onto the lawn, and a few couples making out near the side of the house.
I walk toward the other side of the house to get away from the people. I’m so fucking tired, and I just want to go home.
I'm trying to remember the name of the cab service in town, but I can't think of it. When I slide open the screen of my cell phone, there's a text waiting for me from Caulter.
You’re out late.
It’s accompanied by a picture of his cock.
I smile, because I can’t help myself, and turn the camera in my hands, admiring it from a different angle. Caulter doesn't have just any cock. He has a beautiful cock. A large cock. A glorious throbbing, always-ready cock.
I think I'm drunk. I start to type what's going through my head. How do you spell glorious? Instead, I type: Aw. no 1 too suck.
Why is typing so hard? My hands feel so slow. No one to suck your cock is what I mean, but it looks wrong on the screen.
What’s with the spelling? Are you drunk? Where are you?
I exhale heavily. If Caulter would stop texting me, I could call a cab and get home. Leaning against the house, I squint, trying to text back.
Yes. Nove ur busines.
I hit send, and stop to think. What the hell do you dial for directory assistance? The phone rings, and for a second, I think its directory assistance calling me.
“Where the hell are you?”
It takes me a minute to recognize the voice. “None of your business.”
“Your voice is slurred, Princess,” he says. “You’re drunk. Tell me where you are.”
“At a party,” I say. “I’m a grown up, and you can’t boss me around.”
“The fuck I can’t,” Caulter growls in my ear. The sound reminds me of the last time we screwed, and I feel a tingling sensation between my legs. “Tell me where you are. I’m coming to get you.”
“I’m trying to call a cab,” I say. "Get off the phone."
“I’m getting in the car now,” Caulter says. How is he moving so quickly? He’s like a superhero. I giggle at the thought. “Where are you?”
“At a house.”
“Where?”
I exhale. “Somewhere,” I say. “I don’t know. I’m wearing that red dress, not even jeans. I really like it.” I can hear my voice slurring now. There should be a number on the house, I think.
“The red dress.” He speaks the words low, and I think he’s angry.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask. I don’t know why I find it funny, but I giggle.
“What’s the address, Kate?”
“I’m looking, geez,” I say, stumbling forward to look at the house. “Thirty-four.”
“Thirty-four what, Kate,” he asks. “What’s the rest of the address?”
“Well, how am I supposed to know that, smarty pants?” I ask. “Thirty-four. It’s what it says on the house. Hey, you’re calling me Kate. Not Katherine. Kate.” That seems significant, I think. Kate. I like the way it sounds when he says it, so I repeat it a few more times. Kate, Kate, Kate.
He ignores me. “Ask someone. Or look at the mailbox. Are you on the lake?”
“Nope, not the lake. I'm somewhere not far. Hey! Do you know where we are?” I yell as I walk toward a couple making out. “They’re just looking at me like I'm a weirdo, Caulter.”
“Ask them the address.”
“Are you annoyed with me?” I ask him, then more loudly toward the couple, “What’s the address?” When they tell it to me, I repeat it slowly to Caulter. “You're irritated, aren't you?”
“I’m not annoyed with you, Kate,” he says. “It looks like it’s fifteen minutes from here. Where are you?”
I exhale. “I just told you. Why are you asking me the same questions over and over? My head hurts.”
“I mean, are you outside?” he asks. “Are you somewhere safe?”
“Yeah, I’m totally safe.” I stumble back toward my spot on the side of the house. “I need to sit down. It was hot in there, and the guy that was dancing with me was too grabby. And he was hard and it was nothing like --”
“What guy, Kate?” he asks, his tone menacing. “Who was fucking touching you?”
I laugh. “Some guy,” I say. “We were just dancing.”
“In that red dress.”
“I look hot,” I say. Am I slurring more now? It feels like I have a wad of cotton in my mouth. “I have to admit you were right. Dresses are good on me. Hey, has anyone ever told you that you say fuck a lot? Because you do. Fuck fuck fuck. You also do it a lot -- the fucking, I mean. A lot more than I expected.”
Caulter growls. “Do not fucking move an inch,” he says. “Nobody lays a hand on you, do you understand?”
“You don’t own me, Caulter.” I say, but the phone cuts out. Or I’ve accidentally hung it up. I’m not sure. I sit down on the grass, cross-legged, not caring that someone can totally see my crotch. Where is Jo, anyway? I type slowly and methodically, sending her a text.
Outside. wher ru
I don’t get anything back, so I try to keep my eyes open and wait for Caulter.
She hung up on me. Kate fucking hung up on me, after telling me some asshole was grinding his hard-on against her all night, while she’s drunk at a party.
She’s out at a party, drunk off her ass, and wearing that fucking red dress.
I chose that red dress. I did not imagine her wearing it to a party where some guy would run his hands all over her.
That red dress was made for Kate, crafted to perfectly accentuate her long legs and that curvy ass. I can imagine what she looks like in it right now, at a party full of horny guys.
I step harder on the gas pedal.