In the Unlikely Event

I should feel ashamed, or self-conscious, or embarrassed, and I do—I feel all three, I swear. But I mostly feel like taking my clothes off and kissing every inch of their bodies until they screw me from both sides. My mouth is full, and my nipples are erect and painfully sensitive.

It occurs to me that this is the shot of a lifetime—the one Ryner wants to see on the cover of Rolling Stone—of his rock star, his songwriter, and his photographer making out fervently. But he can’t have this shot, because all three of his artists have gone rogue, and there’s no one to take the picture.

We kiss for long minutes before I feel someone tugging me back by my shirt. I snap my eyes open and find out it is Ashton. I also realize he’s a step away from us. He’s not a part of the kiss anymore. He hasn’t been a part of the kiss for a while, I notice when my mind adjusts to the fact that there was only one tongue in my mouth for a few good seconds, if not minutes. My legs are clasped around Mal’s thigh. I’ve been riding it. Jesus.

“C’mon,” he whispers to both of us through a mostly closed mouth. “You’ve been soloing for a full minute now. People are starting to rub their genitals on the floor to get off.”

My eyes flare, and I look over at Callum, who stands up from the circle, turning toward the door. He grabs my camera before dashing out, and the thick, red cloud of lust I’m engulfed in evaporates. In a knee-jerk reaction, I launch myself after him, chasing him down the corridor.

“Callum, wait!”

He thunders toward the elevators, swinging the camera here and there. By the time I catch him punching the elevator button, I’m out of breath. I put a hand on his shoulder, but he turns around, swatting it.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Please,” I beg.

I don’t even know what I’m begging for. It’s pretty obvious what happened there got out of hand, that Mal and I shared more than a kiss. There were feelings there, too.

“Please, what? Please, let me make a fool out of you, Callum? Please, let me go suck someone else’s cock? Please, leave me alone so I can pick up where I left off with a man who so very willingly let me go?”

He screams in my face, and he is red and angry and no longer the Callum I know and feel comfortable and safe with. The elevator dings, and he walks in. I follow him.

“I wasn’t going to let you go, Rory. I was supposed to be the last man standing. I put up with your bullshit attire and stupid quirky dreams and boring colleagues.”

He stares at the corridor, the elevator doors still open. I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t even know if it’s worth coming clean about what happened, because this is a breakup, and even though I did something vile, he is being no less despicable.

That night on the balcony, at that Christmas party, I took one look at Mal and knew with certainty what he’d said was true.

Loving someone is willingly accepting that they can destroy you.

Mal ruined me.

I wrecked Callum.

I think you were put on this Earth to destroy me, Callum said all those months ago.

Was that the truth, or did Callum simply want to be destroyed?

“I wanted to play the stupid game so I could see how you’d react. You didn’t care when I snogged that cow over there.” He points sideways to where we were, in the presidential suite.

I flinch at his offhanded insult. The doors slide shut, and we begin to ride down to his room.

“But when Mal kissed that bird, you almost exploded. Then you went and continued kissing him long after Richards withdrew.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, cursing Summer inwardly for creating all this mess, even though I know I’m more responsible for it than anyone else. “God, Callum, I never meant to hurt you.”

Even I know how lame I sound. I wish I could turn back time.

I’d change one thing and one thing only—I wouldn’t have touched Mal before I broke up with Cal.

The elevator dings, and Callum steps outside and turns to face me.

“By the way, if you’d waited just a little longer, you could have broken my heart and my bank account, walking away with half my shit.” He shoves his hand into his front pocket, produces a small, velvety black box, and throws it at me. I catch it, but don’t open it, already aware of what must be sitting there.

God, Callum.

“I bought another one in London, because the first one was left in that godforsaken dumpster in Ireland, and I wanted to propose as soon as possible.” He stops, looks down. “But not soon enough, apparently.”