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roosterbruiser · 1 year

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𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝟒

☿ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐧) ☿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: It's almost 1979. You meet the crew. ☿ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 10.4k ☿ 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 ☿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☿ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭--𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟕𝟎𝐬--𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐫𝐚.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐂𝐀 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟏𝐬𝐭, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖

This is the most beautiful you’ve ever felt in this little life of yours--the one that has felt entirely insignificant and insipid until so achingly recently.

This is not the kind of beautiful you were in your gingham print skirt at the county fair last fall, not the kind of beautiful you were in the soft pink chiffon dress you wore to the senior prom, not the kind of beautiful you were on your last date with Keith Garvey before you let him pin you up against the concrete wall of the bowling alley and fuck you. You’re not dressed in long skirts and soft pinks and deep yellows. You’re not dabbing lipstick off your lips with a thin piece of toilet paper and shaking your hair out of a braid. No, this kind of beautiful that you are right now is much different. You know that.

You can feel the difference--you can see it.

Finally, you have clothes, very much thanks to Rooster and Hangman’s checkbooks and insistence upon buying nice things that’ll last, and the gown you are donning right now is the most expensive piece of cloth that’s touched your skin by a landslide. It's a candy-red, chiffon gossamer skirt that clings to your body in elegant flows and a handkerchief top that’s tied around your bare chest. There’s even a whimsical scarf that is wrapped around your throat, its sultry ends cascading behind you with every movement of your taut body. Even your heels, which Jake both found and bought without much afterthought, are expensive satin platforms--they’re the color of a marigold.

Your mama would hate this: the sprawling skin of your body that is sunkissed now, the way your hair is completely ironed and cascades down your body like drapes, the red on your lips, the gold on your eyelids, your lack of underwear. But it doesn’t matter today--no, it doesn’t matter at all.

And it won’t matter at all as you go into the year of the Lord 1979: the year you become a star. The year that you become Cherry Arsan and molt the skin that used to contain you to early mornings and quiet dinners.

“Oh, Cherry-berry, you trying to knock everyone dead tonight?” Jake asks, leaning against the doorframe of your bedroom with his hand over his heart. He’s grinning at you, his brows pulled together in mock-anguish. “Cause I think you just got your first victim!”

Jake hasn’t left since the night you two met, and it has a little to do with him always being too fucked up to drive and a lot to do with his newfound fondness of you. Since waking up with you half-naked on his chest on Rooster’s sofa, you and Hangman have found some sort of kinship in each other. You’re a sweet thing, a free spirit, and you’re down to do just about anything in the world. Jake thinks you’re always ready and willing--and he is, too. You’re a girl that can keep up with him, a girl he wants to keep up with.

So, for the past few days, the three of you have been doing precisely nothing except getting ready for the party, day-drinking, swimming, and fucking. It’s been a perfect couple days and each of you would attest to it.

There is a sort of magnetism to you that has made him literally stay in your gravitational pull for days--he only left today to grab a change of clothes and a couple more ounces.

“Isn’t it groovy?” You grin, clutching your skirt and pulling it up before extending your foot towards Jake. “And the shoes! God, they’re out of sight! Good call!”

Jake, who is wearing a marmalade-colored crushed velvet suit with his trusty bolo tie around his naked throat, pretends to faint at the very sight of your leg.

“Scandal,” he cries out, army-crawling towards you across the fluffy rug. He grabs your ankle and lifts it to his shoulder, kissing up the inside of your calf fervently. “The mere sight of your leg has awoken something in me!”

He’s funny like this--and he seems to have endless energy, which you like.

His mustache is bristly on your skin, but familiar now. He does everything quicker than Rooster: kissing, fucking, cumming, laughing, swimming, drinking.

“I’m not wearing panties,” you sing-song as he sloppily pushes your gown up and peppers the inside of your thighs with his uncareful kisses. He groans against your skin and you laugh a throaty laugh, tangling your fingers in his shaggy hair. And just as his other hand starts to snake up your other leg, you put your heel in the middle of his bare chest and push him away. “Save it for later when the party gets boring! I’ll need a pick-me-up.”

“The party won’t get boring,” Jake promises, fluffing your dress as you grin down at him. That shade of lipstick looks real good on you--it looks like boiling sugar on your pouty lips. “Especially not when I give you your gift!”

“My gift?” You inquire, combing his hair gently as he holds onto your ankles, still on his knees before you. “What’s the occasion?”

Jake tuts, shrugging.

Your fingernails against his scalp makes his spine ache suddenly. Sometimes Gentry would do this--it makes the hair on his arms stand to attention, a strange memory shooting across his frontal lobe like a searing arrow skimming the surface of his skull. It’s little fragments: the smell of mud, the heaviness of their packs, the sleep in their bones, the blood on his tongue, Gentry’s fingers tangled in his hair when they were sure everyone else in their battalion was asleep. If he thinks hard enough about it, he might be able to remember the scent of Gentry’s skin--all that warm, unbathed, musky skin that made up the man he loved--but he doesn’t like to think about Gentry at all. Not even a little.

So, Jake leans away from your touch, only enough for your fingers to slip from his hair. It feels too good--makes his throat cake with emotion, makes the coke he just snorted a few minutes ago feel like it can’t do its job.

You pretend not to notice; you’re not wounded. You just let your hands rest on his broad shoulders as you carefully finger the soft velvet under your fingers.

“Welcoming you to the club,” he tells you, tugging you closer to him so his chin is resting on your belly. “You’re with the cool cats now, Cherry-berry.”

You squish Jake’s cheeks and lean down to give him a chaste kiss, just a friendly and fleeting thing. That’s another thing that’s happened very easily--the love flows freely. There are kisses in abundance, sometimes serious ones and sometimes not. You’re always touching everyone and everyone is always touching you. It feels good; it’s precisely the opposite of how you were raised.

Jake slings you over his shoulder and you erupt in a fit of giggles, slapping his behind as he jauntily carries you through the bustling house. All day, caterers and decorators and cleaners have been wandering in and out of Rooster’s house. There’s shrimp cocktails chilling in the refrigerator, crusty bread and fondue on the granite countertops, unlimited bottles of champagne and prosecco on ice, silver platters with assorted olives and smelly cheese. There’s a velvet-lined poker table and another couch being moved in now. There’s floats and beach balls in the pristine pool, a bartender at the tiki bar outside. The lights are dimmed and there’s a disco ball suspended from the vaulted ceilings--which Rooster tells you he only brings out for special occasions. There’s even a special three-tiered cake that’s reserved for after midnight--one that’s soaked in brandy and smothered in whipped cream and walnuts.

“Brother Rooster spares no expense,” Jake tells you, bobbing and weaving as you dissolve into a fit of laughter over his shoulder, waving to the workers who are trying their best to avoid the direct view they have of your tits right now. “He goes all out every year. You’re gonna dig it, Cherry-berry!”

“Think everyone’s gonna jive with me?”

You’re not very worried about that, really--if Dennis, Jake, and Rooster have been any indication of the way things are going to go tonight, you’re sure you’re going to wake up in a pile of sweat and skin and love tomorrow morning. It makes your fingers numb with excitement just to think about it.

“Oh, baby, it’s all gravy!” Jake laughs, spanking you softly one time as he steps out the sliding door and into the backyard. “Everyone’s gonna bow down to you! You’re Cherry fucking Arsan.”

That makes something grow in your belly--something big and warm, something that makes your toes tingle. It’s something between arousal and power, which are sometimes hard to differentiate.

You’re Cherry fucking Arsan. Whoever the girl was in Nebraska, the one chopping chicken’s heads off and shoveling shit and getting fucked by boys in mucking boots, she’s still there. She’s there and you’re here and it’s always going to be this way now.

Rooster is chatting with the bartender he hired to man the tiki bar when he hears the commotion that is you and Jake entering the backyard. He sighs, smiling softly and shaking his head before checking his watch. The party will start soon. It’s warm outside still, the sun setting low in the sky as dusk begins to close in. So far, everything’s gone swimmingly.

And you and Jake fumbling around with each other, the both of you laughing and fumbling all over the other, he’s grown accustomed to that in the past few days, too. You’re the first person that’s been able to keep up with Jake when he’s loaded; and it’s when you’re stone-cold sober. Rooster isn’t really sure what to make of that other than you’re young--and you’ve got a lot of living to make up for after the first two decades of your uneventful life.

“Howdy, folks! Welcome back to Miss America! Say hello to contestant number one: Cherry Arsan,” Jake introduces you, setting you on your feet. He pretends to speak into a microphone, giving his best beauty pageant host grin. “All the way from Nowhere, Nebraska, Cherry is wearing a smokin’ hot Halston dress and Chanel heels.”

Once your heels are on the concrete, you give your best pageant-girl grin, waving and politely curtseying as Jake speaks behind you.

Rooster just about loses his balance when he finally turns and looks at you two goons. You’re a fucking vision--you’re more than that, you’re literally out of this world. That dress, the one he picked out and paid for, is sitting like a second skin on your body. And he’s never seen you with makeup on before, but you look older with it on: shimmering eyelids, painted lips, long lashes.

“In her free time, Cherry enjoys skinny dipping, drinking vodka, listening to Blondie, roller skating, and sucking cock!” Hangman continues as you parade around him with a dazzling smile. “Cherry aspires to be the next Linda Lovelace and believes in peace, free love, and going commando.”

Cheeks flushed and throat wide open with laughter, you continue twirling around, winking at Rooster as he grins at you. His eyes are wide and swimming with affection as he leans against the bar, watching you act like a fool in that expensive dress.

“Now, Cherry,” Jake continues, hooking an arm around your waist. “What is your favorite quote?”

Giving that plastic grin and winking at Rooster again, you play along and lean down to speak into Hangman’s invisible microphone.

You’ve decided that this must be what it’s like to have friends--close ones that you can laugh with and tease and touch. It makes your chest want to absolutely burst. It makes you feel like this is your first day in kindergarten, when you were finally away from your parents and alone in the schoolhouse with other kids your age. You feel giddy--thoroughly giddy.

“Well, my favorite quote would have to be from Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. It is as follows: Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same,” you say, even adopting a faux-Southern belle accent. “Well, that or: We come from France. It’s from Coneheads!”

“Ain’t she something?” Hangman asks Rooster, eyebrow quirked. “Let’s give her a hand, everyone!”

Rooster claps, biting his lip.

Even the bartender is clapping, his eyes glued to your cleavage. He’s tended the bar at a few of Rooster’s parties and he knows for certain that he’s never seen you before.

You float over to Rooster, your heels clopping on the concrete.

“Cherry,” Rooster whistles, grinning as you loop your arms around his neck and beam at him. “Foxy lady!”

“You don’t look too bad yourself, Daddy Warbucks,” you tease, pinching the shoulder of his brown leather jacket. “You’re always put together, though. Square.”

Just as soon as Hangman sees the little bubble you’ve entered with Rooster, he turns to slink off to the guest bathroom. His high is fading--his fingers are tingling and his tongue is thick with a want he hasn’t been able to fulfill in a very long time. He’ll be back before the two of you even notice, he’s sure of it. He thinks that the Gentry thing has thrown him for a loop.

Rooster holds onto your hips, pulling your body against his. He thumbs the bare skin of your waist and laughs softly, admiring the glitter in the corners of your eyes and the rouge on your cheeks.

“And you don’t look like an extra from Tarzan,” Rooster teases right back, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you laugh. “Are you nervous about meeting everyone?”

“Nah,” you answer, shaking your head. “I’m a coolhead, baby. No worries here.”

He’s not worried about you, either--you’re going to get along swimmingly with everyone. He can’t really imagine anyone not getting along with you. It just doesn’t seem possible.

And you’ll be fucking most people at this party eventually, he thinks--that’ll be a sure way to have everyone like you. You’re fucking dynamite in the bedroom. Better to meet them here in an evening gown than to meet them on set entirely naked, though.

He squeezes your waist again, smiling softly. There’s something about the way your lashes are fluttering right now that makes his chest tight with affection. He has grown so very fond of you in such a very short amount of time--he hasn’t been this fond of anyone in this short amount of time ever before in his life. You’re special, special enough that he bought you a Halston gown and didn’t even think twice about the price--not that Rooster really has to think twice about any of his purchases these days.

“Thirsty, then?” He asks.

You nod, pursing your lips.

“Parched,” you answer.

He orders you your usual and then turns back to you, letting his gaze linger on your cheek as you look out over the glow of the backyard. It’s so beautiful--and he thinks you’re beautiful, too. Like the kind of beautiful that could get him in trouble.

“Gonna stick by me tonight?” He asks.

He hopes that you will--he wants to be the one to say your name to everyone tonight, wants to be the one to say this is Cherry Arsan. He wants to hook his arm around your waist and watch you laugh and drink and eat. He wants to be seen beside you, wants you to be seen beside him.

You sigh, shrugging softly. You want to mingle and get to know everyone and you don’t think it’ll be hard--you have molded your attitude to be one that’s easy to get along with. But you like Rooster--you wouldn’t mind sitting on his arm all night either.

“I’m a free bird,” you tell him, biting your lip. “Maybe I’ll perch on your shoulder sometime, though. Sing you a little song.”

The bartender hands you your Harvey Wallbanger, smiling timidly when you accept it.

Rooster watches you drink everything in, watches your eyes wander all across the backyard as your lips wrap around the glass. You really are the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen in his life and he has the distinct sense that you must know this to a certain degree. He thinks that’s good--what’s the point of being beautiful if you cannot appreciate it yourself? Even he understands his own beauty--understands why he’s the best in the business.

“Hey,” you suddenly say, turning to face Rooster. He doesn’t try and pretend like he wasn’t staring at you--he never does. You press your finger against his gold chain, smiling wryly. “Got any plans at midnight, baby?”

His breath catches behind his front teeth. He holds onto your hips again, nearly lets his eyes roll back into his head whenever you let him move your body against his. He has to keep reminding himself that you aren’t someone he is going to romantically involve himself with--you’re a coworker, a friend, almost a stranger even if it doesn’t feel like it. Just because he’s the first person you fucked in California doesn’t mean that you belong to him. He feels like that is getting harder to remember, something that’s growing hazy in the distance.

And then you do this--promise him a kiss into the New Year.

He feels like he’s reeling.

“I do now,” he answers, recovering slightly. “I’ll find you.”

As if he is ever gonna lose you throughout the night.

You push yourself up to your tiptoes and press your mouth against his, still grinning. You smooth your fingers over his mustache and kiss his chin very gingerly--he is still growing used to being touched so carefully. And you’re still growing used to touching someone so frequently.

“Oh, I’ll be waiting for you.”

It’s well past eleven now--the party is in full swing. You didn’t even see this many people at your high school graduation: the house is full from wall to wall, floor to ceiling seemingly. It’s more people than you can even count, a sea of big hair and thick sideburns and cleavage and thighs and lip gloss and glitter and platform shoes and gowns and cigarettes. Everywhere you turn, there is a beautiful person. The kind of beautiful that makes your throat absolutely ache--the kind of beautiful that makes you want to be surrounded by beautiful people for the rest of your life.

In the dark of the night, everything glows red--Rooster’s favorite color. It’s very warm in the house, the sliding backdoor propped open so everyone can flow freely from the house to the pool. There’s a few people swimming in their gowns already, drunk as a skunk or high out of their minds.

From your spot outside, you can hear Over and Over by Sylvester playing among all the clinking glasses and chattering and singing and yelling.

You’re sitting by the pool now, draped over Jake’s lap. He’s holding onto you with one arm while he nurses a beer in the other, nibbling on your shoulder every now and then when he wants your attention. He’s been giddily introducing you to everyone, telling them all about your escapades the past couple days.

“Cherry here doesn’t fashion herself a hippie, but didn’t own shoes until yesterday,” Jake told everyone, grinning while you kicked your feet to shoe everyone the heels you had on. Jake took your calves and lifted your legs as you grinned. “See? Ain’t they pretty, too?”

You’ve just met all of Rooster and Hangman’s best friends in the industry a few hours ago, but you’ve already decided that they’re going to be your best friends, too. There’s Phoenix, who is the only other girl, and she’s just about as graceful as a doe in a dew-misted field. Then there’s Bob, who is a sweet and timid thing that is wearing a collared shirt. Then there’s Coyote, who is maybe the broadest person you’ve ever seen: everything from his smile to his shoulders are wide and thick. And Fanboy, who is a handsome and sharp boy, more petite than any of the other men. There’s Payback, too--a well-read, tall drink of water that’s been passing around doobies all night.

“So, the only clothing you own is designer?” Fanboy asks, puffing on a slim cigarette. He’s eyeing you curiously, a grin tugging at his lips.

He spotted the Halston gown from a mile away, scurrying over to you in his shawl-collared silk tuxedo. Before he even said a word to you, he was rubbing the material between his fingers and staring at the fabric, awestruck.

You nod, leaning back against Hangman’s chest and carefully smoothing the skirt over your legs.

“That’s fucking fabulous, baby,” Fanboy tells you, a plume of smoke disappearing in the chilly night air. “You better stick around. I like you.”

You have at least one year with all of these people--but something deep in your gut tells you that you’ll be here for longer than that.

“Rooster’s never bought me a Halston gown,” Phoenix says pointedly, pursing her lips as she glances at Rooster, who’s chewing on a cigar. Rooster smiles, rolling his eyes. “And I’ve been fucking him for years!”

That makes your cheeks flush with joy--you catch Rooster’s gaze and give him a sweet wink. You’re holding up remarkably well for how much you’ve drank and smoked tonight--you’ve even smoked a cigarette, which you decided you didn’t like very much at all.

“And Hangman’s never bought me Chanel shoes,” Coyote says, his voice pitched from holding a hit in his lungs. He passes the doobie to you and you take it gratefully, grinning at him. “And I’ve been fucking him for years, too!”

You take a long hit, just the way Payback showed you. You suck and inhale, hold it in your lungs, then let it disappear through your lips and into the star-speckled night all around you.

“Well,” you answer with a small smile, “if anyone else wants to fuck me, I could use a new pair of bell-bottoms and a pair of Mary Janes.” Everyone laughs and you keen at the sound. “Designer, of course.”

You pass the doobie to Phoenix and she nods, winking at you.

“This is your first New Years party, isn’t it, honey?” Jake asks, squeezing your belly.

You nod, smiling gently. You lean back, let your legs kick up in the air as you drop yourself over him dramatically.

“Does it really show?” You ask, feigning exhaustion. “I thought I was hiding it so well!”

Not only are you high, you’re pretty tipsy already. Everything is warm and fuzzy, like you’re cocooned in a blanket. You’re hungry and full and jittery and calm all at the same time, so you’ve decided it’s best if you sit still here with these people instead of bumping shoulders with everyone else inside.

“You could’ve fooled me,” Payback says, grinning.

“And anyone else inside,” Coyote adds. He leans forward to squeeze your knee, laughing a big and broad laugh. “Swear it, Cherry.”

Rooster’s watching you get along with everyone and still smoking his cigar, comfortable in his seat as the party roars on.

Usually, he’s bopping all around the house and refilling drinks and lighting cigarettes and checking that no one is using his bedroom. But now, he doesn’t want to be anywhere else; he just wants to be right beside you. He’s been eyeing you all night, making sure that your drink is full and your makeup isn't smudged and your dress is still tied tightly. And now he’s perfectly content to just sit here, basking in your glow, waiting for midnight.

“Okay,” Bob says, smoothing his hand through his floppy brown curls. “What’s everyone’s resolution for 1979? Mine is to drink more.”

That makes you laugh--and everyone else.

“Only you, Bob. Dork,” Phoenix sighs, pinching Bob’s cheek gently. She taps her long acrylics against her martini glass, sighing. “Mine is to make more art.” Quickly, she points at Jake. “And I don’t mean porn.”

Jake holds his hands up in mock-defense, frowning.

He was going to ask if she meant porn, though.

“You draw?” You ask, smiling.

Your mama used to draw--nothing serious. Just little pictures on paper napkins at restaurants or in the margins of her bible. She was good--maybe even good enough to make money from it.

Phoenix grins at you--she’s relieved that you’re here to break up the sausage party and even more relieved that you’re so easy to get along with. She can feel the magnetism you have, the one that silently convinces Hangman and Rooster to spoil you.

“Paint,” she answers, pink dusting her cheeks. “Impressionism mostly.”

Maybe because you’re tipsy or maybe because you’re high or maybe because you’re so excited tonight, you lean forward to get closer to Phoenix and nearly topple over if not for Jake’s grip on your waist.

“I saw some photographs in a magazine one time,” you start excitedly, throwing your hair over your shoulders. Your lips feel funny and hot--you like it. “Claude Monet, I think. He was, like, an impressionist too, right?”

Phoenix is tickled--none of the men have ever inquired.

“Uh, yeah,” she answers, blinking a few times at your grin. “Do you know which painting it was, Cher?”

Cher. No one has ever given you a nickname so easily back home in Nebraska. Now you have three: Cherry, Cherry-berry, Cher. It’s making your toes numb with excitement inside your expensive shoes.

“God, I think it was, like, Poppies or something?”

“That’s, like, my favorite!” Phoenix grins--she’s elated, giddy. She rarely gets to talk about her paintings or any art in general--not with these men. “God, they have that displayed at Musée d'Orsay in Paris and I got to go last year--it was really something. I mean, like, it’s so surreal to be face-to-face with something you’ve always admired on paper!”

“That’s how it’d feel to meet Annette Haven,” Jake cracks, slapping you on the back.

The other men laugh in agreement and Phoenix deflates before your very eyes, sitting back in her chair and swigging her martini. This is how it usually goes with them--everyone except Rooster and Bob.

“Oh, sit and spin, Hangman,” Phoenix spits at him.

Biting your lip hard, you swivel on Hangman’s lap and hold his cheeks in your pinchers. He tries to grin up at you, but you shake your head at him, narrowing your eyes on his blown pupils.

“Don’t harsh the vibe,” you tell him. “Phoenix and I were having a conversation here, man.”

Jake swallows hard. It feels like you’re looking into his very soul--your eyes pouring into his, your fingers digging into the flesh of his cheek. Christ, he can feel his heart in his throat. But then you kiss his lips one time, very softly, and turn back to Phoenix.

“I would love to see your art sometime,” you tell Phoenix very seriously.

Phoenix is stricken by this. No one here has ever asked her about her art--much less asked to see it. And she’s known you for all of four hours and here you are, earnestly holding her gaze and asking to see her paintings.

“I’d like that,” Phoenix says, pretending like she’s not flushed.

“Well, shit,” Coyote says, rubbing his palms against his maroon slacks. “I just wanna take more photographs! Now I sound like a square.”

“Bob said he wanted to drink more,” Rooster reminds him, taking a long drag from his cigar before ashing it. “You aren’t the square here, pal.”

Bob’s flushing now, too. Everyone is laughing and you are, too. Except you’re the one that lays a hand on Bob’s knee, squeezing him in a friendly way.

“I wanna drink more, too,” you announce to the group. “In fact, I think my resolution is to just, like, live more. You know? Like, I’ve been so fucking bored for twenty years,” you exclaim, gesturing wildly as you speak. Everyone’s watching you with a smile tugging on their lips, their eyebrows raised slightly. “I think Bob’s got the right idea. Right on, Bob. We can be drinking buddies.”

Now Bob is really flushed.

“Well, in the same vein,” Payback starts, coughing a few times into his fist before he straightens out his paisley button up and leans back in his chair, crossing his feet at the ankle. “I wanna try shrooms again, man. I wanna trip for real. Meet God or whatever else shit happens.”

“You hardly meet God when you take shrooms,” Fanboy says, rolling his eyes. “I think you have to take, like, acid for that or some shit.”

Rooster shakes his head, stubbing his cigar out.

“Trust me, man, I did acid and I did not meet God,” Rooster laughs, shaking his head. He crosses his arms over his chest, frowning. “I just rolled around in the mud for a weekend while Hendrix played. Can’t remember shit from that weekend.”

Phoenix laughs, lighting up a cigarette, her glossy hair gleaming in the moonlight.

“Forgot you took the brown acid, Rooster,” Phoenix chuckles, taking a drag. “Bummer.”

“Bummer supreme,” Bob echoes, eyes wide. “Can’t imagine what that was like.”

“Not very groovy,” Rooster answers.

Jake bites down softly on your shoulder, inhaling the scent of your skin as Fanboy describes his resolution: buying more designer. You smell like smoke and flesh--all natural. He likes your natural scent, though. You don’t seem like one of those girls who bathes herself in body spray and smells like a fucking muffin all the time. He prefers this--it’s human. It’s grounding.

“You rang?” You whisper, peering at him over your shoulder.

Your eyes are beginning to droop, your buzz amplified by every single minute you are this blindingly happy.

“Missed you,” Jake says, shrugging. You grin at him. “Party getting boring?”

Immediately, you shake your head vehemently. You couldn’t be bored right now if you tried.

“When am I getting my gift?” You ask, eyebrow perched.

He squeezes you close to him.

“Later,” he tells you. “After cake.”

Rooster sighs, pretending like he’s not watching you and Jake have a conversation between only the two of you, your mouths almost pressed together. He’s pretending like he isn’t just looking at the exposed skin on your arms, all that beautiful and smooth terrain he likes to run his fingers over.

“Rooster?” Payback asks, bumping him. “Your turn, old man.”

Rooster catches your gaze--you’re wide eyed and willing as ever. He knows that. And he knows that you’re really listening to him right now, ignoring the kisses Jake is pressing to your neck.

“I wanna read more,” he says, grinning when everyone groans. “I’ve done a lot of shit in my life, alright? I’m ready to just read a good goddamn book and sit in front of the fire!”

That only makes everyone groan louder. Rooster doesn’t bend.

“What book?” Bob asks. “Like, any particular one or?”

“Uh, yeah,” Rooster answers. “Emmanuelle by Emmauelle Arsan. It’s French.”

You’re staring at him now, your jaw slacked and your heart throbbing. He wants to read your book--and you really know that it isn’t your book, but it feels like your book. It’s the one you told him about a few days ago, the one that you love so much. And Rooster wants to read it.

Before you can say anything, before Rooster can meet your warm gaze, Jake clears his throat.

“How’s this for an ending?” He starts, laughing. “My resolution is to tell my dad to go fuck himself.”

He means it, too. Just thinking about his dad, just mentioning him, makes his knuckles white.

“I’ll drink to that,” Fanboy says, raising his glass. “Fuck fathers!”

Then everyone is raising their glass, even you and Rooster.

“Fuck fathers!” Everyone says in unison.

It’s your first toast with your new friends.

There’s only a minute until midnight.

You’re inside now and it’s stifling in here. Somewhere in the hustle and bustle of the countdown, you’ve been entirely disconnected from the group. Everyone around you is a stranger, just a sea of unfamiliar and beautiful faces. Your sweaty arms are bumping into other sweaty arms and your eyes are aching from the adjustment to the low light in here. The whole room is lit red, the disco ball spinning and painting everyone with dazzling pink reflections.

Beside you, there’s a couple devouring each other, completely lost to the world around them. Most everyone is boogying, in their own substance-induced haze. It smells like bodies and shrimp and smoke in here and you’re overwhelmed--especially since you’ve had a few more drinks and another cigarette, which you like a little bit more already.

I Feel Love by Donna Summer has been playing since you stepped inside and it’s so loud that you can feel the bass in your throat.

You’re craning your neck, standing on your tip-toes, but you can’t see anyone familiar in this red haze and through the cloud of smoke that’s settled over everyone. And everyone seems to be moving so thoroughly, so erratically, that you can’t even discern people’s facial features as they jive.

“Thirty seconds!” Someone calls.

The crowd goes wild, a sea of cheers and skin and hair and spit.

You almost feel upset that you’re alone--but then you decide that Cherry Arsan doesn’t mind being alone at parties. Cherry Arsan can walk into any place in the world and belong there. So, you move closer to the crowd and you start to dance, too. You’re grinning, your chest is pink, and your throat is open. You will accept everything that happens with grace.

This is your fucking year.

Rooster is standing near the kitchen, searching the crowd for you. He’s abandoned everyone else somewhere between the conversation pit and the fireplace, not that they even noticed. He’s tempted to call out your name, but he knows that you wouldn’t be able to hear him if he were to call over the music.

But then he sees it--your hands stretching into the air above, those cherry-colored nails, those bare arms. And he starts for you, his heart in his throat. There’s only fifteen seconds until midnight. He has to make it to you in time.

You’re dancing against no one in particular, but everyone around you. It’s just bodies on bodies as you pull the skirts of your dress up your thighs to keep from stepping on the hem of your dress.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six!” The crowd chants.

You’re grinning, your entire body alight with pleasure.

“Five, four, three, two--!”

“Cherry,” Rooster suddenly says.

You turn and there he is, just like he promised he would be. He’s holding onto your waist, an oak tree that is not swaying even by the erratic movement of the crowd.

“One! Happy New Year!”

You wrap your arms around his neck and he leans in immediately, pressing his warm lips against yours. He tastes like cigar smoke and nice liquor, smells like good cologne and leather. He’s so solid beneath your fingertips and his lips are very soft and warm.

He presses his body against you, trying to memorize the exact pattern of your lips so he can think of them any and every day that he needs to.

“Happy New Year, baby,” he whispers into your mouth. “I’m gonna take care of you. You know that, right, Cherry?”

You do know that--you don’t know how, but you do.

Either of you could pretend like you don’t know exactly what he means. You could feign ignorance to preserve the strangeness between the two of you. But you both know that he means it in every sense that it can be interpreted: he’s going to keep you safe, he’s going to keep you close, he’s going to keep you happy, he’s going to keep you healthy. It’s the promise that both fathers and lovers make: you’re not sure which one Rooster is to you yet.

“Yeah,” you answer simply, tenderly stroking his cheek. There is confetti falling all around you, red washing his beautiful face. You press the pads of your fingers into every line near his mouth and smile. “Happy New Year, Roo.”

It’s the first time you’ve called him that--he usually doesn’t like it. But he would like any word, even the ugliest ones, if they were falling from your lips.

Rooster holds you close to him. He wants to keep holding you close to him.

The party begins to thin after midnight, people filing out here and there in a steady stream of polyester and eye shadow.

It’s just after you’ve finished eating a slice of the special New Years cake that Jake pinched your tigh. You’re sitting on the counter, whipped cream in the corner of your mouth and brandy settling on your tongue, when Jake appears beside you.

“Want your present now, honey?”

You nod eagerly. You’ve been trying to guess what present Jake could’ve possibly gotten for you in the short amount of time you’ve known each other. You probably shouldn’t be so excited, but you are.

Jake tugs you through the remains of the crowd, past the group all perched in the conversation pit as they finish their slices, everyone nursing another cocktail. Rooster watches Jake tug you away as you grin at everyone, waving as you giggle.

“Where’re they going?” Bob asks, brows raised.

“They’re gonna go blow their noses,” Fanboy answers coolly. “Picking up what I’m laying down?”

That makes Rooster’s stomach turn over.

“What?” He asks, sitting up.

“Hangman said he was gonna give Cherry a bump tonight,” Fanboy explains further, very casually. “You know, like, to give her a memorable start to 1979. Or whatever.”

Something inside of Rooster is starting to wear thin, so thin that it is nearly translucent. He doesn’t know why or what it is. But it makes him stand up and follow your figures into the spare bedroom, the one you and Jake closed yourselves into.

Jake kneels before the bed as you sit at the end of it, combing your fingers through your hair absently as he excitedly hums. He’s fiddling with something from his pocket for a moment before he pulls out a tiny buttermints container and shakes it excitedly.

“Mints?” You ask, furrowing your brows. “You telling me to take a hint or something?”

Hangman grins, pressing the canister into your palm.

“Open it up,” he says, hardly able to contain his excitement.

Jake isn’t just excited about taking another bump--he’s excited that you and him will get to do it together. He feels like he’s his best version of himself, feels like he’s on top of the fucking world, when he’s high. Maybe you’ll feel the same way and he’ll buy you a pretty little necklace for you to keep your stash in.

You fidget with it for a moment, carefully opening it.

And oh--it isn’t buttermints at all. No, it’s white powder.

“Ta-da!” Jake says, gripping your thighs excitedly.

“What is it?” You ask, biting your lip.

“It’s blow, baby,” he answers. You still look confused. “Nose candy. Coke. Cocaine.”

Oh, you’ve heard of this a few times. Yes, cocaine. You know what it is.

“Far out,” you tell him, biting a grin.

That’s the precise moment that Rooster opens the door. You and Jake smile at him upon entry, both of your eyes far-away and buzzed. Something in your bones settles when Rooster looks at you, closing the door behind him.

“Blow?” Rooster asks. He doesn’t sound mad--really, he isn’t mad. He doesn’t know what he is. “That’s Cherry’s present?”

Jake nods, grinning.

“Groovy, isn’t it?” Jake asks.

Rooster crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly looking taller and broader than anything else in the house. He’s looking at you, suddenly so small and beautiful on the bed, holding cocaine in your hands.

“You wanna do it?” He asks, nodding to the coke.

You glance down at the substance. You’re already buzzed--what’s the worst that could happen if you were more buzzed?

“Yeah,” you answer and Jake squeezes your thighs excitedly again. “Might need some help, though. Like, I don’t know how to--!”

“Here,” Jake says immediately, licking his finger and pressing it into the mints container. Then he nears your lips and nods for you to open your mouth. “Smile pretty, baby.”

You do--Rooster watches with his heart in his throat. It does make him feel better to see it, he supposes. Just to make sure you’re okay. Just to keep you safe. And it’s much cooler and calmer in this low-lit spare bedroom instead of what’s left of the party.

“Not too much,” Rooster says, glancing at Jake.

Jake looks up at Rooster, eyes wide and grin even wider.

“Just enough,” he promises, winking.

Then he presses his finger against your gums and the front of your teeth, smearing the cocaine across them languidly. His finger, oddly enough, is not what feels unfamiliar in your mouth. It’s the cocaine: it’s powdery and thick, coating your saliva and leaving the taste of flower petals on your tongue.

“Fuck,” Jake whispers, watching your heavy-lidded eyes fall shut at the sensation of his finger on your gums. Your mouth is very warm and wet around his digit. “Giving me a hard-on over here, Cherry-berry.”

You hum, just taking in the sensation and swallowing thickly. Then you suck his finger clean, releasing him with a juvenile pop that makes his pants grow tight.

Rooster’s still just watching.

“Should take a few to set in,” Jake tells you, already preparing his own bump. “Why don’t you just lay back for a sec and wait for it, honey?”

You do as you’re told, lying back against the water bed and closing your eyes. Rooster watches Jake take a few bumps, rubbing his nose rapidly and clicking his tongue. Then he sits on the bed by your head, gazing down at your serene face.

Cracking an eye open, you take in his features all pulled together in concern.

“You’re such an old man,” you tell him, reaching up and tracing his frown. “And I really, really dig it. But you don’t have to be my old man. You jive?”

Rooster swallows hard, letting his hand rest in the middle of your chest. Your heart is still beating normally, solid and steady beneath his palm.

“It’s not gonna last long,” Rooster tells you softly. “You’re gonna feel it for, like, an hour. Then you’re probably gonna want another bump. You can do whatever you want, baby, but it’s just that--!”

Jake groans loudly, pulling both yours and Rooster’s gazes from each other to Jake’s form. He’s standing, stretching tall and moaning. He feels so fucking good right now, so loose and free. He slams himself into the waterbed, nearly shooting you and Rooster off.

“Careful, man,” Rooster hisses, holding you against the bed.

But you’re just giggling, falling into Hangman, who opens his arms and pulls you on top of him.

“Oh, fuck, Cherry,” he tells you, combing his fingers through your hair. “Tonight’s gonna be the best fucking night of your life!”

You lean up, let your palms rest on the bed so your face is hovering Hangman’s.

“It’s the morning now,” you tease.

“Well,” he says, grinning something fierce as you chew on your lip. “It’s gonna be a morning to remember.”

Then you roll onto your back again, closer to Rooster. He smooths his hand through your hair, softer than Hangman. And he watches as your eyebrows pinch, as your pupils grow wider.

“When does life begin?” You ask, staring at the ceiling.

Fuck. Rooster can tell it’s sinking in--you’re high.

“When you’re born, right?” Jake asks, rolling onto his side to watch you.

“Maybe,” you answer, shrugging.

Your heart is starting to race. Blood is rushing past your ears. Everything feels so good: the sheets against your back, the dress against your chest, Rooster’s fingers in your hair, Jake’s arm against yours.

“Life starts when you can form memories,” Rooster answers, still running his fingers through your hair that’s splayed across the bed. “What the fuck is life if you can’t remember it?”

Humming, you pull your brows together.

“So, when did life start for you?”

“Like, what’s my first memory?” Rooster asks.

You open your eyes--your pupils are blown now. You nod rapidly.

Rooster has to think about it. He’s distracted by the way you’re pressing yourself against him, the way your body is working towards him like you want to be closer. He pulls you to him, hooking his arms under your pits. Your head is resting in his lap now.

Jake moves, too, resting his head on your belly and hooking his arms around your thighs. You start to move your fingers against Jake’s scalp but suddenly remember the way he moved away from them earlier and let your hand flop back down on the bed.

“I guess it was a baseball game with my dad,” Rooster answers. He could say more: he remembers that it was the Kansas City Monarchs and that he saw Jackie Robinson hit a homerun; he remembers that it was sunny and his dad carried him on his shoulders; he remembers peanuts under his tongue; he remembers the sound of the crowd. “What about you, Cherry?”

You hum, throat caked in excitement, affection.

“Fuck,” you answer, shaking your head. “I think it was when there was a tornado that came through Nebraska. Fucking swept up everything in its wake. We were in the cellar and it was totally dark and there were worms on the floor. I thought we were gonna die.”

Rooster’s chest is tight.

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters. “Your first memory is thinking you were gonna die?”

You nod.

“Bleak,” Rooster manages to whisper.

“Such is life,” you sigh. You poke Hangman. “Your turn.”

Jake has trouble remembering--he’s worked at not remembering anything before the age of twenty-four. He doesn’t wanna remember his parents or his childhood home or his brothers or Gentry or Vietnam.

“This is giving me a complex,” Jake whines, rubbing his eyes. “Maybe the sky. Just big, blue and endless.”

“That’s it?” Rooster asks. “Just the sky? That isn’t a memory, dork.”

“Maybe it was the first time he looked up,” you suggest, humming. “Wicked.”

Rooster’s watching your face as a grin eats it. You probably don’t even know what you’re smiling about--it probably just feels good. He remembers how it felt: all that goodness with nowhere else to go except out into the world around him. He remembers it well.

“If you could pick a day for your life to begin, when would it be?” Hangman asks.

“Today,” you answer. “No, not today. That day on the boardwalk. The day I met you.” You reach up and press your finger against Rooster’s lips, laughing. “That’s when mine would start.”

Just as Rooster is about to tell you that his answer is the same as yours, just as the words are inching up his tongue and his lips are parting, Jake blows a raspberry against your belly and sits up suddenly. Both of you are in a fit of laughter now, holding hands and pulling each other up.

“Let’s play a game!” You suggest. You gasp, your eyes wide. “Let’s play Hide And Seek with everyone!”

Almost everyone is gone when the third round of Hide And Seek begins. To Rooster’s surprise and your utter delight, everyone agreed to play the game. And now that it’s started, well past two in the morning, there’s no stopping it.

The lights are off, the music is low, and only the usual suspects are here now. You’re high and so is Jake and most everyone else is drunk now, stumbling around in closets or under beds as their hiding places.

You’re in teams, which was your idea. You’re paired up with Rooster and Fanboy is seeking this time, counting to one hundred in the kitchen out loud as you all scramble around the house.

In the complete darkness, Rooster slides your hand in his and comes close to your ear.

“The pit,” he whispers.

But you understand. No further instruction necessary.

So now the two of you are laying flat on the floor of the conversation pit, your shoes discarded and your throats holding bated breaths as the house tumbles with movement.

“We’re gonna win,” you whisper to Rooster, chewing your bottom lip. You feel incredible still--your high hasn’t faded. “We’re so gonna fucking win.”

You’ve won almost every round so far: Coyote found you and Phoenix in the garage last the first round, Rooster found you and Jake under the spare bed second to last the second round. And you’re determined to stay on the down-low this time.

Rooster forgot what it feels like to play Hide And Seek. It’s exhilarating, which he knows is silly, but it’s true. That gut-wrenching excitement of coming close to being found, the way his bones shiver when he’s trying to make his breathing quiet. It’s fun--but it’s scary, too.

“Ready or not,” Fanboy calls out, voice strained with excitement. “I’m gonna come fucking get you!”

You giggle softly and Rooster elbows you.

The two of you can really only make out vague outlines of each other in the pitch black room, but you can feel each other’s breaths fanning out across the other’s faces.

“You wanna read my book,” you whisper.

His breath hitches.

“You wrote a book?” He chides very quietly.

Blindly, you reach out and press your palm against his cheek.

“Why?”

Rooster thinks for a moment. He isn’t exactly sure what to say. And he isn’t sure if he should tell you that he already put a hold on the book at the public library. Fanboy’s footsteps are at the other end of the house, retreating.

“Why wouldn’t I want to read something that’s had such an impact on you?” Rooster asks.

That sits funny on your chest for a moment.

It’s interesting, really: it never surprises you when people want to fuck you. You’re never surprised when a cock hardens against your thigh or when a gaze falls on your tits or when a hand cups your ass or when fingers pinch your nipples. But this kind of thing, one that has almost nothing to do with sex, catches you off guard immediately.

You’re not sure what to say.

“Do you wanna know what I think, Roo?” You ask. He nods. “I think you might be an angel.”

He very nearly laughs, giving away your spot. He can feel you biting your lip.

“Why’s that?” He asks.

“Maybe it’s the halo,” you tell him, pressing your hand against his chest and scouring until you find the gold chain, which you tug a few times. “Maybe it’s your checkbook.”

The two of you do laugh--very quietly, very controlled. He feels so young lying on the soft carpet beside you, playing Hide And Seek and stowing away from his friends in the dark. It feels good. It isn’t even that he doesn’t like his age--he does. He is very much enjoying his thirties. But it’s good to be reminded of this feeling, this sweet invincibility coupled with a juvenile adrenaline rush.

“Cherry,” he whispers.

“Huh?” You ask.

He swallows.

“I think you’re one of the coolest people I’ve ever met,” he tells you. He is saying this very earnestly. “And I wanna know you for, like, a long time.”

“Good,” you answer quickly. “Because I don’t plan on getting my own place.”

That makes his heart squeeze with affection.

It’s quiet for a minute. If he strains, Rooster can hear Heart of Glass by Blondie playing. You like Blondie--he wonders if you can hear it. You can, just barely.

“What should we do to pass the time?”

You kiss him first, crashing your mouth against his and letting your lips mold together like they’ve been placed in a fondue pot. You two move every easily together, his hands finding your breasts and your hands tangling in his curls.

Moving almost silently, the two of you pull and push and kiss each other. Pleasure is starting to impede and recede across your entire body like the waves of the ocean, coming dangerously close to drowning you. Rooster’s already hard--almost fully--just from your hands fumbling with the buttons of his pants.

The high is fading, you’re coming down, but you don’t feel terrible. You don’t feel like you need another bump right now. You feel like you just need Rooster--you just need him to touch that spot, scratch that itch. That’s what you need.

“Gotta be quiet,” he whispers into your mouth as he unties your top and pulls it off in a swift movement. He feels your nipples harden against his chest as you pull his shirt off his body. “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” you answer meekly. “C’mon, baby, I need you bad.”

That’s all you have to say--Rooster immediately finds the zipper of your skirt and pulls it off your body, letting it pile at your feet. You finally tug his pants all the way off and lay back on the carpet, both of you totally bare before each other.

There’s something desperate about this despite the two of you fucking early yesterday morning, just a quick and easy thing before his shower and after your swim. Your movements are needy and your want is starting to take hold of every single one of your senses.

He dips his fingers between your legs as you spit into your hand. You’re almost dripping for him, the anticipation aiding in that greatly. He presses against your clit immediately, making slow and methodical circles as you let your open mouth rest against his, gasping quietly. Then you wrap your hand around him and Jesus fucking Christ, it feels so fucking good that Rooster bucks his hips against you immediately.

“Gonna make you cum, baby,” Rooster promises, sloppily kissing any part of your face he can find. “Just like I promised, huh?”

You whimper in response--a meager noise.

You’re pumping him perfectly, running your bump over the head of his cock and giving special attention to that sensitive spot he has beneath his tip.

Just like he promised, an orgasm is rapidly approaching you. He’s so fucking good at it--he’s been good at it since the beginning. It feels like your body was tailor-made for every single part of his, like he has studied your body in textbooks and under microscopes. He knows exactly where to touch, what to do.

But then he’s suddenly moving you, turning you so your back is pressed against his chest. He hooks his arm around your throat, connects his fingers to your clit again, then buries himself inside you deeply in one fluid movement.

And you’re almost curling around him, pleasure tightening your muscles and vibrating every single one of your nerves. You’re breathing heavily but still trying to keep it under control, pressing your throat against his muscular forearm.

You feel fucking perfect around him. You’re as tight and warm as you were the other morning and as he buries himself in you, pulls back, and eases into your again he’s reminded of your first encounter: how big you said he was, how tight you were, how easy it was for you two to come together.

He works you both at a steady and relentless rhythm, exhilarated to be this close to you, exhilarated to feel every single part of your warm body. You’re so close to coming, so fucking close to the edge as you grind your hips against his. And just as you toe that cliff, just as you’re about to free-fall, Fanboy’s footsteps echo out loudly. He’s heading straight for you guys.

But instead of stopping, which neither of you want, Rooster just bites down into your shoulder and covers your mouth with his palm. He keeps thrusting, keeps circling your clit because he’s getting close already and he wants you to finish before him.

Fanboy can’t hear anything in the house, really, besides the music. He’s clopping along the tiles, keeping his ears perked.

He doesn’t know that he’s standing just beside the two of you when you suddenly cum. Your entire body writhes and convulses and Rooster holds you firmly against him. He holds his palm down hard on your mouth and it grows wet with your saliva. He keeps bucking his hips into yours, keeps rubbing your clit as every single aftershock rolls through your body.

You and Rooster can feel Fanboy beside you, can feel his perked ears and his pause as he glides past you. But you’re quiet enough that he just keeps on down the hallway.

“Fuck,” you mutter to Rooster, giggling softly. “Keep going.”

At that, he pushes deeper into you, grabbing your leg and hooking it over his so you’re more open for him. He loves how easily you move, how trusting you are of him. And then he keeps rubbing your clit, barely giving you time to recover.

“You’re so fucking foxy, Cherry,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “Fuck, baby, I could do this all night.”

You don’t do it all night--just in the conversation pit twice. By the time everyone is found and the lights come on, you and Rooster are the only two who remain undetected. Somewhere between your three orgasms and the close-calls with Fanboy, you’ve fallen asleep against Rooster’s chest.

He leaves you there, covers you with a blanket, and quietly walks everyone out to their cars. Him and Jake quietly clean up the kitchen, just quickly throwing the glasses away and piling the dishes in the sink before the maids come tomorrow morning.

“She out?” Jake asks.

Rooster glances at the conversation pit--he can’t see you, but he knows you’re still there.

“Like a light,” Rooster answers, a smile tugging at his lips.

There’s a lull between the two disheveled men.

“She’s a good girl,” Jake says.

Rooster hums in agreement, stacking some silverware in a cup in the sink.

“I know,” Rooster says.

Both of them very nearly say it: they want to keep you a good girl. Not in the way that some men want to by means of obedience and servitude. What they mean is that you’re so very sweet and intelligent and witty and bright-eyed--they want it to stay that way.

But neither of them say it. They just keep cleaning the kitchen, loosening their ties and unbuttoning their shirts as they go.

“That party was to the max,” Jake compliments, stuffing a few bites of cake in his mouth. He glances at Rooster, who’s closing the backdoor now and locking it. “Best one yet!”

“Thanks, man,” Rooster yawns.

“Rooster?” Jake says softly.

Jake is thinking about Gentry--he does sometimes when he’s tired or when he needs a bump or when he wants someone to touch his hair. He isn’t really sure why he said Rooster’s name other than he saw Rooster’s back, saw him retreating, and suddenly felt the need to call out.

Rooster watches Jake’s eyes fall from his to the floor. He crosses his arms, shoulders slumped.

“Happy New Year, man.”

“Happy New Year,” Rooster returns. “Wanna help me get the lady to bed?” He isn’t sure why he says it, honestly--he isn’t even sure how he knows that Jake is deflating, but he does.

At that, Jake perks up.

“Happy to help.”

Rooster carries you to your bedroom when you don’t budge, mumbling something about sleeping right there. You’re naked except for the blanket he draped over you and when it falls off, you don’t try and cover yourself. You just snuggle into Rooster’s chest and hook your arms over his neck.

“You’re warm,” you whisper to Rooster. “Where’s Jake?”

“Right here, Cherry-berry,” Jake answers, softly patting your head. “Hide And Seek really did you over, huh, honey?”

Jake follows behind the two of you, a new kind of tired settling in his bones. He’s holding your gown and shoes, trailing after Rooster as he wanders into your bedroom finally.

Just as soon as you’re on the bed, head against the pillow and bare body against the covers that Rooster is trying to get you to lay under, your eyes suddenly open wide.

“Hey,” you say to the two men before you, each one in various stages of undress. “Don’t go.”

Rooster’s heart is in his throat. He glances at you, all bleary-eyed and soft and naked and sweet on the sloshing waterbed, curling yourself under the covers and blinking at them in the dark.

“Who?” Jake asks, voice thin.

He doesn’t want to be alone, but he isn’t sure how to ask for anything different. He never had to ask with Gentry--he just knew. He hates that being around you makes him think of Gentry, but loves that you can soothe the ache in his chest without uttering a word. It’s strange, really. It makes him feel more high than he really is all the time.

“Both of you,” you answer. You pat each side of you and then flop back into the pillows. “No clothes allowed.”

Jake and Bradley have been naked in front of each other plenty of times. They’ve shot scenes together, in big groups and small groups. Nakedness is nothing in this house except a common state of a person’s body. So neither of them care as they undress, yawning and folding their clothes.

The sun is rising, the sunlight pale yellow, as they climb under the covers and flank you. You’re already almost entirely asleep again, your skull heavy and your limbs aching. But there’s a smile tugging on your lips because this was the best night of your life. This was the first night you felt like Cherry Arsan.

“Good morning,” Bradley whispers, pressing your hair behind your ear.

You blindly lean forward and press your lips against his.

Then you turn to Jake, who’s draping his arm across your waist as Bradley tangles his legs between yours.

“Good morning,” Jake whispers.

You kiss him, too.

“I think I love you both,” you mumble. “And I’m not just saying that because I’m tired and high, alright? Swear it.”

Jake kisses your shoulder. He likes all of your skin against all of his. It makes his heart feel like it belongs precisely where it is inside his chest.

“Everybody loves Cherry Arsan,” Jake mutters, settling his cheek against your breasts.

Bradley kisses your forehead and lets his lips linger there for a long moment.

“Happy New Year, kid.”

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