Kiss and Tell 2 (2 page)

After London left the party, I figured my safest bet was to seek out Willard and take up conversation with him. I still didn’t want to talk to any more of the potential suitors Mom had lined up for me, and I certainly didn’t want her—or anyone else, for that matter—to see how drunk I was.

I circled the house a few times. Willard’s parents were still there, but there was no sign of him (or of Anthony), so after another quick scan of the room, I went over to Janice and asked where Willard was.

“He wasn’t feeling very well,” Janice explained. “He left about 20 minutes ago. He said he was going to take a cab home. He tried to find you before he left, dear.”

I thanked Janice for the information, and she went on to tell me that she would send Willard my regards and have him call me sometime. I tried to tell her that wasn’t necessary, but trust me, she didn’t want to hear it.

Without Willard as my beard, I knew that I would be a good target for Mom, so I tried to remain in the shadows as the clock ticked on and the crowd began to thin. Eventually, when it was around 11 p.m., after many other guests had left, I decided it was an appropriate time for me to call it an evening. First, I took a page from London’s book and grabbed a fifth of vodka from the bar. The bartender noticed but said nothing. It wasn’t
his
alcohol, after all.

I went upstairs and stashed the vodka in my room, then came back down, got some orange juice from the fridge, and snuck back up again. Mom saw me going to my room this time, but given the hour, and the clearly labeled drink container in my hand, she simply nodded and smiled when she registered I was going to my room for the evening.

Mom probably thought I was turning in for the night. I wasn’t. As soon as I got into my room, I locked my door behind me and hopped down on the bed, with my cocktail ingredients on the nightstand beside me.

I did a shot of vodka, chased by a shot of OJ, before pulling my tablet out of my drawer. Then, once I booted up the device, I connected to the Internet, loaded a search engine, and typed in “Anthony Swift.” Now that I had put two and two together, I wanted to know more about the man who’d made my life a living hell in a few different ways, from denying my time with my father to jilting me outside of a hotel.

Mom had said Mr. Swift was a billionaire, so one of my initial concerns was to see if she was exaggerating. But from the hits that returned, it was apparent that she was not. Depending on which source you referenced (and I was only referencing reputable ones), Anthony Swift’s total net worth was estimated between 1.6 and 1.8 billion dollars. Maybe he wasn’t the biggest billionaire in the world, but Mom was right—he definitely was one.

I felt a strange feeling in my stomach as I reviewed the numbers. I was a rich kid, and my boyfriends and other male friends had also mostly been rich kids. Being with someone wealthy was nothing new to me, but being with some
incredibly
wealthy was. I couldn’t believe I’d made out with someone with a net worth between 1.6 and 1.8 billion dollars! His worth didn’t make me want him any more or any less; it just made the entire situation even more astounding.

I went back and forth between drinking and researching for well over an hour, and in the process, achieved both greater drunkenness and a greater understanding of the man I’d nearly banged a week earlier. He wasn’t one of those high-profile billionaires, though there was frequent mention of his name on magazine websites, like
Forbes
,
Fortune 500
, and
Newsweek
. But it’s not like he had the money, acclaim, reputation, or commonplace fame of a Steve Jobs, Donald Trump, Justin Timberlake, or Chad Hurley.

Also, there weren’t many pictures of him online, other than the occasional public shot of him at some type of event or ceremony, and there wasn’t a lot of biographical information, either. I was able to discern that he was born in 1964, which made him 51 years old…which was a full 29 years older than me.

The age difference really hit me hard—harder than anything else I’d discovered. Anthony wasn’t just old enough to be my father. He was older than my father. He was nearly thirty years older than me.

I was reminded again of how, that fateful night a week or so ago, I’d told Anthony I couldn’t see him again. I knew then that there was no way anything could ever work out between us, and as the number
30
kept spinning around in my head, I only grew more confident in that conclusion. What could the two of us ever possibly share, other than a fleeting romance?

At the same time, however, I couldn’t help but still be curious. Even if all we could ever share was a fleeting romance, wasn’t that better than sharing nothing? Isn’t it better to have loved and lost, for whatever reason, than to have never loved at all? If we turned our backs on any relationship because it
could
be fleeting, in the end, wouldn’t we be turning our backs on everything? I’d spent three years with my ex-boyfriend, Jeremy, only to have him leave me when he got into law school…didn’t that make our relationship fleeting, too? And if I’d known then what I knew now, would that have been reason enough to not even try it?

I was starting to confuse myself. For every thought I had, I had an opposite feeling, and for every feeling I had, I had an opposite thought. I was putting myself into a vicious cycle. I kept wanting to find a reason to lose interest in Anthony, but kept wanting to justify my lingering attraction. Push, pull. Up, down. My head ached.

The words on my tablet started blurring together, and I knew I’d hurl if I didn’t stop trying to read them. I powered off the thing, took another shot of vodka, then turned out my light and waited for sleep to come. If I hadn’t been so wasted, I’m sure I would have been up for a few more hours, thinking about Anthony. Luckily, I was so tanked that within a few minutes of turning out the light, I was out like a light, too.

I ended up sleeping rather peacefully that night, though I woke up to a hangover the next morning.

As bad as that hangover was, it was nothing compared to what followed.

I guess it was around 8 a.m. when I woke up. Like I said, I had a hangover. Or at least I think I did. Considering that I’d only stopped drinking around 2 or so, I very well still might have been drunk.

Nonetheless, with the morning light came a sense of clarity. It was as if a few hours of sleep had helped my mind reach the conclusions it needed to reach. All these ideas I had about Anthony were pointless now. We might have had a chance at hooking up, but that was all we had, and that chance was gone now. There was no turning back now that I knew he was Dad’s boss and he knew I was Dad’s daughter. It was time for me to move on and stop fantasizing about something that wasn’t meant to happen.

My next thought was of London. Like Anthony last night, he’d attempted to clear something up with me—and if I was going to go after a relationship with either of them, London seemed the more fitting option. Sure, he wasn’t a billionaire; he was a little lazy and far too party-oriented, and the only sexual encounter we’d had had been incredibly awkward. But at least he wasn’t 30 years older than me. Like me, he still needed time to grow—and
with
me, maybe he would.

So, as I laid there, half-hungover, half-drunk in my bed, I resolved to give up on Anthony and give London the second chance he asked for—and what better time than the present. When I sat up in my bed, I could see out of my bedroom window, which was cattycorner to London’s pool house. The lights were on inside, and I saw movement. Maybe he’d spent the whole night drinking, or maybe he’d woke up in a state like I was in. Whichever it was, he was awake, and my poor judgement helped me make a poor decision. I decided to get up and go over to see him, so that, at the very least, we could talk things over (and maybe I could get some more great head out of it in the process).

I was still wearing my dress from the night before and looked incredibly disheveled and distressed in it. It was by far the most expensive piece of clothing that I’d ever owned, and I’d treated it like a secondhand thrift store garment. I changed out of it quickly, laying it across my unmade bed as carefully as I could, and then peeled off my undies and put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. I slid my feet into a pair of sandals, grabbed my almost-empty bottle of vodka, and crept out of my room.

I could hear Mom and Dad talking, but they weren’t downstairs yet, so I hurried up and ran down the steps and through the kitchen as quickly as possible. I went out the back door and meandered over to the pool house.

Once I was close enough to it, I confirmed the observations I’d made from my bedroom. Indeed, the lights were on, and I could see the outline of London’s form through the curtains. I could also sense activity. Namely, I heard the sound of music, and it was playing so loudly that I knew there was no way London could be sleeping through it.

I knocked on the pool house door, but there was no answer. As I just described, I knew that London was awake and inside, so I pounded on the door a little harder. When London didn’t answer that time, I figured he couldn’t hear me over the loud music—and I decided to do something out of character and be a little more proactive than usual.

London had told me he wanted to hang out. He said he wanted another shot. And after I first got home, he’d extended an open invitation for me to come visit him anytime. So, considering all of those things, I was sure he’d want to see me now that I was here.

I put my hand on the doorknob, playing the odds that I could turn it. I knew I had a 50/50 shot, but I was still surprised when it turned and opened.

I walked into the pool house, unannounced, and saw London standing several feet away, in the kitchenette. His was facing away from me, and he was leaning back against the counter. One of his arms was stretched out across the countertop; the other was in front of him somewhere; and his head was tossed back at an angle. It was a kind of strange position for him to be in, and I couldn’t quite figure out what he was doing.

“London?” I called out as I started to walk toward him.

As soon as he heard my voice, London jolted, stood up straight, and turned to see me. “Kirby!” he shouted, caught off guard. “What are you doing here? You have to leave!” He started fidgeting and moving abruptly, and was obviously shocked and shaken by my presence.

It was too late. I’d taken too many steps, and there was no avoiding, or denying, the spectacle before me.

There London stood, with his shorts down around his ankles and a huge hard-on protruding from his core…and attached to that hard-on was a mouth…and that mouth belonged to Willard.

“What the fuck, London?” I screamed, jumping back.

“Kirby, wait!” London shouted. Willard had let get go of his cock, and London was now struggling to cover it. He reached down and pulled up his shorts, and I watched in absolute astonishment as they slid up over his wilting boner. The mere sight of it rendered me speechless, and along with London’s plea, it stopped me dead in my tracks.

“It’s not what it looks like,” London said as he adjusted himself. Willard stood up and went over to the sink to get a glass of water.

“It’s not?” I asked. I was breathing heavily from the surprise of it all. “It looks like Willard was sucking your dick…. If that’s not what was happening, what was?”

“Okay,” London answered. “Maybe it is what it looks like, but I can explain.”

I looked at London for a moment, then shook my head and went to sit down on the sofa. As soon as my ass touched the fabric, I opened my bottle of vodka and took a chug. The taste was a little stronger than I expected, and combined with my nerves, it nearly made me vomit. Thankfully, I was able to catch myself before I threw up.

London walked over to the couch and sat down a good two feet away from me.

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions,” he said, talking in a very calm voice. “But now you also have a lot of answers.” It sounded like a wise statement, which was so out of character for London. Then again, what the hell did
I
know about London’s character?

“Now you know why I could only go so far the other week when we hooked up,” London proffered. “And now you know why I used to lie to people and tell them we hooked up back in high school…. And now you know why, for all these years, I haven’t fallen for you or tried to date you, when any other guy in his right mind would have.”

London looked at me as if he was expecting me to say something, but I was still speechless.

“I’m gay, Kirby,” he finally said, saying it as bluntly, and as basically, as he could.

“But, why—”

“I guess I was born this way,” he began explaining.

“No,” I said. “I’m not asking why you’re gay. I was gonna ask…if you’re gay, why did you hook up with me a couple weeks ago? And why did you approach me last night and say all that shit about giving you another shot?”

I’d almost forgotten about Willard, until he chose to add his two cents to the conversation at this point. “You know the answer to that one, Kirby,” Willard said. “Last night, you had me playing your beard…looks like London’s been trying to have you play his.”

In that instant, it all suddenly made sense to me. All the “answers” that London had just tried explaining to me, and the concept of him trying to use me as his beard, made a series of lightbulbs click on in my head. Granted, I didn’t like the idea of being led on by someone who wasn’t interested in me, but I could see why London would try to do such a thing.

I suddenly thought about how it would be difficult for my parents to accept me dating an older man—so, naturally, I could see how London would think his parents might give
him
a hard time for his romantic interests.

“You could have told me,” I said. I felt like I wanted to say more, but I couldn’t put the words into any meaningful order.

“No, I couldn’t have, Kirby,” London said. Willard was now at his side, and was running his hand on his shoulders to comfort him. It didn’t even faze me to realize that Willard was gay. There was no history or potential future between us, so it really didn’t matter.

“But now that you know, I don’t know what to do,” London whined. “You can’t tell anyone, Kirby…please.”

“I won’t,” I replied quickly. That series of lightbulbs in my head was still firing, and it led me to a bright idea. “In fact,” I went on, “I’ll still play your beard if you want me to.”

London’s eyes widened, and a smile crept across his face.

“But you’ve got to play mine, too,” I added.