Living With The Player

CAMILLA RENÉE

SATURDAY.

I peep right and people are retiring. Left and folks are dispersing.

“Come.”

He rasps. I loathe the way my body reacts. I despise the influence one word from him can have on me. My feet don’t stay. They heed to him and snatch his hand.

I’m not sure why defeat shifts up my skin when we reach the table and he lets go.

I’m not sure why my whole body rakes with sadness at the loss of his hand. Jimmy hasn’t returned and Dylan saunters back to his seat. His eyes reach mine shortly. The look from the dance floor holds.

I shiver.

“Sorry I took so long.”

Spell is driven. I move my entire body to meet Jimmy’s. He’s back. I don’t feel guilt. Guilt for dancing with Dylan while he was gone. Nothing.

I felt zero since I directed every sense to his words. “I want to kiss you so bad.”

And I ask – why doesn’t he? Another question creeps, one I ignore for the answer bothers me; If he did, would I let him?

****

34. I’ve tossed over thirty-four times. It’s a little after seven pm and there’s not a peep, but I’m tossing.

A glass of water. That’s what I need. I roll my weight and exit my room, quiet enough to reach the waiting room with no intervention.

I get to the water Despenser, drag a cup out and fill it with water. It’s at the edge of my lips when the air in the room alters.

I can’t count three breaths because someone is behind me.

One. Two. Three. I can’t take the fourth breath because he does it for me. He breathes directly over my neck.

“Breathe.”

He hums and I huff sharply. The glass trembling in my grip, the water inside following suit and my hands unable to do anything about it. I’m clenching the object, but it feels like rubber.

My brain must be on low power functioning because I do something silly. I turn forward.

One. Two. He takes two drags to get his eyes from my face down to my toes. Red PJs.

His hands go around mine and they’re so close to touching that I cry when they don’t.

He dives his head forward, his lips positioned beside my neck.

One. Two. Three.

Then I hear water trickling. He’s getting water from the dispenser.

He hauls away and I gape at him. The water gulped down his throat swiftly. He releases a groan when it gets depleted, stretching forward to keep the cup.

Willpower. That’s what it takes to get the cup to my lips and gulp the water down, Turing my back against him to dispose of the cup.

He has only said one word to me so far. I should get back to my room.

“Goodnight.”

I murmur, sliding away from the water dispenser. I can hear him breathing behind me.

I reckon twenty breaths is what it’ll take to reach the hallway.

“Wait.”

Dylan hisses. Like it hurts to say just one word. And hell do I wait. Six more till I get out of here.

I want to prompt my subconscious of the many ways this could go wrong. I can’t. I can’t do anything but wait in anticipation of Dylan’s next move.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. My hands fling by the sixth and for a second I believe it’s my body finally fleeing as it should’ve.

It isn’t. It’s Dylan’s arm pulling me towards the nearest wall. I expect one more word or none.

He’s so close. He’s too close.

This is wrong. This won’t end well. But I can’t stop staring. He’s breathing so lowly, almost inaudible. He shut his eyes. Lips mombling incoherent words. It’s the dance floor all over again.

His hands’ drop mine. I’m free to go. I can go. I should go. I don’t go.

His features are enthralling, I can’t stop staring. I should stop staring. I don’t stop staring.

And then he blinks twice and keeps those eyes open. Hazel brown. I could get lost in these. I think I already am.

They’re passing a warning. His eyes are screaming to get the hell out of here. Then I catch it. His control slipping. He groans a second time and my eyes screwed shut.

Fifteen. That’s the number of words Dylan uses to break me.

“I have decided that everyone can go to hell and burn to ashes. Fuck it.”

“I Do.”

I jump out of my skin as his right-hand impacts the wall.

“Not Care.”

I’m breathing. It’s all I can do. Back against the wall. Hands pinned by my side. Head lowered and pressed against mine, tugging me against the wall.

Whatever devil he’s been fighting off, he lets it take over. I know that because I count; One. Two. By the third breath, he’s kissing me. The answer to my earlier question is yes. Yes, I let him kiss me. And for a follow up – Yes I kiss him back.

He palms my face and kisses me fervently. I’m out of breath but I don’t stop him. I kiss him back. With reckless abandon, I spread my lips and kiss him. Sweet Almighty.

I poke my back as far against the wall as I can; I hold my knees from falling even though they’re as shaky as a liquid. And when Dylan tugs at the bottom lip, I part them. Oh, God. Dear God. His tongue.

It’s until his tongue is sweeping against mine that I recall the good he feels. How perfectly they match.

My full body is scorching. I’m starved.

He reads my mind. I’m one minute away from slipping to the ground when his hands engulf my waist. Clamping me tight enough to elicit a moan.

I’m not in any pain. My entire body feels more alive than it has in ten months. Dylan’s kiss is taking all the oxygen away from my lungs, but it’s the only thing keeping me breathing.

My hands are immobile by my side, he crushed his weight on mine and they’re unable to move. I jerk slightly and they slap against his pants. His dick.

Oh. My. God.

Don’t stop. Is that my voice?

He listens to them. Dylan kisses me harder. Hunger. Need. Craving. Desire.

The hurt. Pain. Tears. Wails. Screams. He wants to kiss all of them away from my core. He’s grunting and trembling, and neither of us has the will to pull away.

One hand is crawling up my body. I hold my breath. Dylan circles his left hand around my boob, resting against it without moving. Then he palms gently.

A moan falls out because it’s remarkable.

His hair. I want to touch his hair. I haven’t felt his hair in months. My hands are almost in his hair. But then-

“Now I know what her answer would’ve been.”

I shriek. Dylan’s lips stop moving against mine. My father. That voice belongs to my father. My father just walked in on Dylan and me making out.

Why does the realisation upset me more because Dylan has stopped kissing me? Why aren’t I terrified of my father’s reaction?

“I think it’s time to turn in Camilla.”

I slip out of Dylan’s cage and face my father. His eyes are stern.

Four breaths. I take just four then I wander off. I’m not scared of him. Mostly angry.

******

DYLAN EMERTON

Silence. Crickets. Insects. Mr Renée. Dylan Emerton. I tilt my head to see if Camilla is truly gone. She is. It’s just the two of us.

I’m angry. My jaw is tickling. Of all the interruptions it has to be her father. I don’t consider him hitting me. Yelling. I’m an adult. His daughter is an adult. I don’t worry about that. My concern is the fact that he stopped us.

I had her. In my arms. Mine. Mine to hold. Mine to kiss. I felt her. After ten excruciating months, I fucking had her.

I’m curling my fists and glaring before I process my emotions.

He just stands there, tapping his feet on the floor awaiting my response. Fuck this.

I want to sprint across the room, find her and kiss her again. That’s what I want. That’s what I need.

She was like oxygen, and I have been so ravenous for breath. I had her. I fucking had her.

“Dylan.”

I crack open, angling my head and staring. My name? Does he start with my name? Does he have a fucking clue what his voice cost me?Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

I had her. And now she might never let me get that close again.

“You should get some rest. You have a flight ahead of you tomorrow.”

Surprise? Shock? If every nerve in my body wasn’t tingling from fervour and my heart wasn’t pounding against its cage, I’d probably feel all of those.

“Alright.”

My voice is hoarse. I glue my feet. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here, bask at the moment that was taken away. I want to shut my eyes and imagine that Camilla is still pressed against that very wall. My hands crawled their way up her skin. Mine. All mine.

I tremble Immensely. Why did he have to walk in?

“I will not dictate my daughter’s life choices, but it’s going to take more than kisses to gain her forgiveness. But if you must know, I’d place my bet on you as the winner.”

I narrow my gaze without a word. Call me cocky but maybe if he hadn’t walked in-that kiss could’ve turned into something more, but he did.

“You have so much potential. Both of you have so much potential. I’d hate to see it go to waste. Goodnight.”

He turns and props away. I stay there for seconds. Maybe minutes. I can’t tell. When my legs recognise the command my brain gives, I crawl to my room, but the kiss doesn’t go away. It’s all I can think about. It’s all I can see.

I laugh at my next thought. The thought of me being in love with Camilla.

*****

SUNDAY.

“Hey, Claire.”

“Hi.”

She replies, her voice clipped and tight. I’m in the waiting area. It’s a little after three pm, a bag slung over my shoulder and a lot of noises around me.

“The flight will soon take off, but I just can’t wait a couple more hours till I’m able to see you again. I want to apologize. For two things. First; I shouldn’t have put my needs above yours and instructed you to stay back. You presented yourself as my girlfriend for my sake, you were only trying to help. I shouldn’t have done that and I’m sorry.”

There’s silence on her end. I fear she hung up in between, I’ve been an annoying bastard, so I would not be surprised.

“Are you alright?”

I burst into tiny chuckles.

“Yes. I feel more refreshed than I have in almost a year. Second, I want to apologise for how I spoke to you. I’m sorry.”

“Have they informed you of a potential bomb explosion? Are you calling to say goodbye to your loved ones?”

I laugh so hard my tummy tickles. Claire thinks it’ll take my life being on the verge of death to call and apologize. How sick and twisted.

“No Claire. I’ll say this in person, but I can’t go another hour of you thinking you’re not helpful because you have been. College was not on my to-do list. Camilla wasn’t either.”

“Is that it? Do you need my help with Camilla?”

Bile climbs up my throat. That’s even sicker. That I would only call because of Camilla. That she thinks I’m a selfish bastard. Who would only call to apologise for more help?

“No. No, I do not need help with Camilla. This isn’t about her. I’m calling for you. I’m calling to apologise to you. No influence.”

“Is this some ploy?”

Sigh.

“No. It isn’t a ploy. I’m sorry Claire. I’ll try to do better.”

I hear her hum along the line; I say no other words.

“You’re never going to get her back if you’re stuck somewhere else.”

I repeat Claire’s words from Friday.

“You were right and now I’m going to do whatever it takes to get unstuck. Goodbye Claire.”

She mombles something in return, an acknowledgement. I’m in over my head and clutching the cell against my chest to process it.

**

I didn’t sight Camilla throughout the day nor at the airport but all three of us board the same flight. I’m aware their seats are closer to the cockpit, but I stare outside, taking out the image of the crying baby on her mother’s lap beside me. I don’t search for her.

I exhale tightly, scraping my lids shut and allowing my exhaustion to take control.

*****

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