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“Bri!” I hear from the front of the queue of people dressed to the nines in their get-up and band t-shirts.
I pop my head out and see Kane Burton, blood relative to the Ainsworths– richer than all of England and probably God herself. He waves his long fingers in a motion for me to join him. My heavy boots take me to slide in next to him, but I grab his hand, and we go to the front of the queue. I have VIP tickets in my tiny purse. He looks totally uncomfortable in his denim jeans and black button-up. “You look… wow.”
“Thank you,” I grin. “Where’s everyone else?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You’re the only one I’ve seen so far. Thank you for inviting me.”
“You know the band?”
“I do. I had just gotten the notification of this show when you messaged me. I’ve been wondering if they’d ever do a reunion.”
I nod, “My best friend loved this band. I thought I’d catch them again because you just never know when the next time will be.”
“You only get one life.” He says with a smile. I’ve always loved his smile. Deep dimples, boyish charm, light brown hair, and hazel eyes. Not to mention I’ve seen him develop and fill out every summer. Kane Burton is a wet dream… just not mine. No,mywet dream is six-foot-four, older than me byat leasta decade, a divot in his chin, has mixed-matched eyes, tattoos, and a scar from the center of his forehead that goes to his eyebrow down to the side of his face, stopping just above his cheekbone. All-American man and totally and completely unattainable.
Which is why I love to rile up the broody bastard. I’ve never seen him smile. I bet it’s killer – way better than Burton’s.
That’s right, my wet dream is currently buying me tampons and minty pads that don’t exist, but I’m doing my best not to think about it. I’m sure he’ll hate me even more after tonight when he gets back to the Barclay mansion and realizes I’m gone. I can see it now. Maybe he’ll finally quit. Lord knows he could use a vacation from me. Poor chap.
“Exactly,” I say with a smile as we show the bouncers our tickets and we’re taken backstage to meet the band. Afterward, it takes us twenty minutes to maneuver closer to the stage between the standing jam-packed bodies.
“I’m going to get us a drink. Fancy anything?” He asks over the opening band.
“Vodka soda!” I scream, facing the stage, lost in the light show, the thrum of the music, and the vibrations going through my body. Fuck, I needed this. I needed this so much.
Kane comes back and I practically inhale my drink, dancing, and jumping, scream-singing with the rest of the crowd.
Kane gets me a second drink during the second band.
And then a third during The Alchemist’s show…
I should have stayed home.
I should have kept my lunch.
I should have sat my ass at a formal dinner with my mother and stepfather and the Prime fucking Minister.
I wake up in my bed, disoriented and in a large T-shirt. The urge to vomit so pressing, I stumble to the bathroom in time to heave nothing but bile and vodka into the porcelain bowl. There’s a knock on my bedroom door, but I don’t answer it. I focus on my task and jump straight into the shower. The water is freezing, waking me up, but soon it’s hot and feels delicious on my aching muscles.
Wobbly and very dehydrated, I change the setting of the showerhead and let the spray do its thing. I wash my hair, then my face, standing there as flashes of last night both ignite and evade me. I can’t remember anything but bits and pieces. I do my best to lather up my loofah with my expensive body wash and begin my shower routine from neck, shoulders, breasts, pits, arms, tummy…
And of course, to not waste water, I void my bladder before washing my vagina. There are two types of people in the world – those that pee in the shower andliars. Except it feels different and it burns just a tiny bit.
God, I hope I’m not getting a UTI from holding it for so long. I think to myself, switching my loofah out for the fresh wash rag Mindy places in my shower every day. I wet it, then grab the Jo Malone bar of soap to begin washing my lady bits, lower the temperature of the water and grab the showerhead to really wash it out… but the soap begins to burn…there.
I wash as quickly as I can though my movements are still slow and wonky, and where I normally have pleasure … it feels… abused.
Flashes of being strapped with a seatbelt, a face close to mine, a hand on my forehead holding me back -
“Shhh, princess, you wanted this, remember?”
A shiver rolls down my back. I let the showerhead hang, doubling over to retch again, holding my stomach.
No, no, no,no.
Three Months Later
It takes three months for me to piece it all together. For the hazy memories to make sense.