CHAPTER TWENTY
Jane Mendoza
Alcohol has always been associated with pain.
When my foster father would drink, he’d get violent. Noah drinks, too, but he just gets depressed when he has a few beers. There’s nothing good that happens. And it tastes terrible. A little splash of coconut Bacardi in my Coke was the most I could handle at parties.
I would have preferred plain Coke, honestly. The rum made it taste weird.
That tastes nothing like the imported top-shelf vodka in lemon drops. I drink them down like it’s rainwater and I’ve been dying of thirst. They’re delicious. And I’m drunk.
Being drunk is amazing.
It’s not about pain. Everything feels so good right now.
Paige went to sleep hours ago. I took her upstairs feeling woozy as we climbed the steps and I helped her into bed. I could have stayed there. I would have stayed there, but Oliver and Lucas Morrison, or as I call them, the Hemsworth brothers, invaded my room with dry humor and coaxed me downstairs again.
Turns out the famous actor was actually Mateo Garza. The Mateo Garza. The one who was in all those superhero movies. I found that out when someone casually called him Mateo and asked about his filming schedule. I would be starstruck if I wasn’t busy being tipsy.
I’ve had two lemon drops. Maybe three. Or four?
It doesn’t matter. The important thing is that everyone should know how great this feels. I tell that to Lucas, who thinks that’s hilarious. They’re both pretty tipsy, too.
And possibly high. Most of the dinner party guests have taken turns in the bathroom. Doing snow, Oliver informs me under his breath. Only Mr. Rochester and Zoey haven’t taken that trip. Oh, and me. I don’t have any snow. That makes me laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Oliver asks.
“I don’t know.” There are tears in my eyes. “I love you guys. You know that? You’re my best friends.”
That sets off another round of us laughing. At some point in the evening we moved back into the room with the fireplace. It’s just so big and warm and fiery. I love this room.
“Jane.” That’s Lucas. His eyes are super blue. “I’m going to suggest something. I don’t want to shock you, but I think you’re really hot. We both do.”
I giggle, though I don’t know why it’s funny. There doesn’t need to be a reason. Everything’s funny right now. “I think you’re hot, too,” I whisper.
Oliver puts his arm around my shoulders. “Invite us up to your room.”
“You already saw my room,” I say, drawing the word out. It sounds funny. Kind of like vroom. “Room. Room. It’s not interesting.”
“It’s very interesting with you in it. There’s a small bed, but I bet we could all fit.”
“All three of us,” I say, fascinated by the idea. The bed is way too small for all of us, but what if we shrunk? “We would be so tiny. Little elf people all lined up in that bed.”
Lucas’s shoulders are shaking with laughter. I can feel him moving the whole sofa. Oliver’s not laughing, though. He takes my chin in his hand and turns me to face him. His lips press against mine. I suck in a breath of shock. He uses the opening to press his tongue inside my mouth. It pushes against my teeth, demanding entry. I make a small sound of distress.
“What are you doing?” I say, pulling back.
“Having a good time,” he says with an easy grin, his lids low.
Lucas’s hand rests on my thigh. His fingers are between my legs. Not touching all the way in a private part, but close. So close. “We both want to feel good, Jane. You can make us feel good. We’ll make you feel good, too.”
My throat feels thick and swollen. There’s a strange taste in my mouth. The taste of Oliver. The imprint of him. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s not… Mr. Rochester. It’s not Beau. “You’re talking about sex.”
“Sex with both of us,” Oliver says, pulling me in for a hug. “We like to share.”
Like a Tonka truck. That’s the first thing I think of—two brothers sharing a Tonka truck. That makes me break into a fit of giggles, but the men don’t take offense. They chuckle along with me. Then Oliver’s hand moves down my arm. His fingertips graze the outside of my breast. Lucas pushes his hand closer to the top of my thighs. “Invite us upstairs, Jane.”
No, I don’t want them to come upstairs. It’s cold up there. And the bed is way too small for us. Plus I don’t want to have sex with them. They’re not Beau.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, leaning my head on Oliver’s shoulder. “You’re so pretty.”
He’s pretty like one of those marble sculptures you see in textbooks from the ancient Greeks. You don’t think about getting into bed with a marble sculpture.
It would not feel soft and cuddly.
Oliver pulls me in for another kiss; his palm covers my breast. I gasp in surprise, but then Lucas’s hand delves deep between my legs, almost touching my sex. It’s so much. It’s so much, and it’s not actually funny.
I’m not laughing anymore.
“Get the hell out of my house.”
Everything stops.
Oliver pulls back, only slightly. He’s still embracing me. “What the fuck?” he asks in this tone that manages to be both friendly and offended.
Mr. Rochester sits in the armchair, leaned back, casual as ever. The only sign that he’s serious is the flashing in his dark eyes and the ferocity in his voice. “You heard me.”
We all know that he has three broken bones in his body. That he underwent major surgery only a few nights ago, and yet there’s a sense of lingering violence in the air.
A warning crackling like static before a storm.
“We were just having a little fun.” Oliver.
“And now it’s over. You have five minutes to vacate the premises.”
It’s only now, when everyone stands still that I realize how far things got in a room full of strangers. There are other people in close embraces. I don’t think we were the only ones making out, but it’s still crazy. And not funny. Like suddenly nothing is funny anymore. I’m so sad about it. It feels like nothing might ever be funny again.
Zoey stands up. “Beau. You don’t mean this.”
“You too,” he says without glancing at her.
Her mouth opens. Her shock feels genuine. I feel bad for her, even though I think she got me really drunk on purpose. “Don’t make her leave,” I say. “It’s raining outside.”
“It’s always raining outside,” Mr. Rochester says.
“It was a kiss,” Zoey says, her voice rising in pitch. “They kissed her. Are you that much of a caveman that you can’t stand to see anyone kiss her?”
A sigh. “I don’t expect you to understand, Zoey.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you never cared much about fidelity. Go back to LA. I don’t want you here.”
There’s a terrible crack. It happens without anything changing in the physical scene. It’s only a feeling—the knowledge that her confidence snaps in half. Her assurance that she’s welcome, the beautiful facade she presents the world, gone.