“What happened to the living room?” I ask, as Mona ushers me to a seat, usurping whoever’s in actually in charge of the television show.
“The background in here is more suitable for a family interview,” she says as she adjusts the collar of my jacket.
Yes, of course. The place where Caulter and I broke a ladder while fucking is definitely suitable for a family interview.
I glance at Caulter, and he’s hiding a smile, the shithead. Argh. Caulter is going to love everything about this, especially my discomfort. We may be screwing, and I may not hate him with quite the fiery passion with which I used to, but that doesn’t mean he won’t take great pleasure in watching me writhe under the pressure.
Caulter likes to watch me squirm. The thought jumps into my head, immediately making me think about sex, and I try to push it away. Focus, Kate.
Mona slaps me on the thigh. “Knees together, crossed at the ankles. Sit up straight, lean slightly forward so the sofa doesn’t eat you.” She barks out her orders like a drill sergeant, before motioning impatiently for Caulter. “Caulter. Here.”
Whoever is actually in charge of the set up on the set gently intervenes, moving my father and Ella onto the sofa adjacent to us.
When the cameras roll, it’s three-two-one and smile and one big happy family. Meanwhile, my mind is nowhere near even listening to any of the questions directed at my father and Ella.
When the interviewer, a grandmotherly woman with a penchant for asking questions that make stars dissolve into tears, turns to Caulter and I, it's one softball after another. Did we know each other at Brighton? Did we get along? What are our plans after the summer?
We parrot the responses we've been given, smiling and being engaging, like two robot minions doing my father’s bidding.
On the surface, it’s uneventful. But I carefully avoid eye contact with Caulter, and choose my words like I’m stepping through a minefield. The questions that should be so easy to answer are now laden with a deeper meaning.
Of course we get along, I say. What I don’t say is that Caulter’s face was buried between my legs this morning before I even got out of bed. We get along very well.
“Get off the phone.” I step through the balcony door even though Kate waves me out, shaking her head. She turns to the side, like she’s trying to shield the phone from me, and says something I don’t quite catch, but I hear the tone of her voice, and that interests me. She’s irritated.
“I don’t think so,” she says, followed by silence. “Because do you remember the last time we went out?”
“Is that Jo?” I ask.
Kate shakes her head and shields her mouth with her hand. I’m tempted to take the phone out of her hand and throw it across the room like I did before, but I don’t, only because she’s looking irresistible in the yellow sundress she’s wearing that drapes down to the floor. The fact that the top of it pushes her tits out to the point where they’re practically overflowing makes me want to put my mouth on them.
She keeps talking, even when I walk up to her and slide the fabric of the dress and her bra down over her luscious tits. She shakes her head at me, her brow wrinkled and her expression scolding, but she doesn’t exactly stop me.
I run my fingers lightly over her breasts, watching her nipples rise to attention.
“No, Jo,” Kate says, her voice trailing off as I stroke her breast with my finger. “I’m not in charge of the invitations.” I bend down toward her, running my tongue over her nipple, and her head lolls back, phone still against her ear. “Nothing is wrong. I’m over what happened at the party. But that doesn’t mean you’re coming to the wedding.” She pauses for a minute, when I envelop her breast with my mouth. Then she throws the phone on the bed without even saying goodbye.
“Was that Jo?” I ask, pulling up the volumes of fabric of her dress and sliding my hand between her legs. “Why are you still talking to her?”
“I’m not,” she says, her breath short. She’s wet already; the fact that she's wet so soon makes me rock hard. I love how this girl is always ready for me, soaking between her legs the minute I get near her. “I haven’t spoken to her since the party. She wants an invitation to the wedding.”
“Why were you friends with her?” I ask, sliding my finger between her folds. I slip it inside, watching her jaw go slack and her eyes half-close.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I’ve known her for a while. I mean, she's my friend during the summers up here. She’s fun. Funny.”