Screwed (V-Card Diaries 2)
* * *
Harlow: Yeah, I was upset. And it was a shitty night, but…it might be time to admit that my wounded pride was as much to blame as Derrick’s behavior. He could have handled the situation better, no doubt about that, but I was so mortified I may have overreacted. A little.
* * *
Cameron: Okay. You realize it’s taking all of my self-control to keep from demanding you spill this tea, right? I’m trying to remember that you’ve kept this secret for six years and mind my own business, but it’s hard. I didn’t sleep last night, remember? I’m weak.
* * *
Harlow: You’re not weak. You’re the strongest guy I know, and you’re going to pull through this day like a champ, go home and take the world’s most epic nap, and live to hunt love (and sex) another day. Speaking of sex, tell me it would be a bad idea to have sex with
Derrick. Even casual sex while we’re both in the mountains. It would be awful, right? Super confusing and crazy for everyone involved, especially Evie who would be repulsed by our irresponsible decision-making skills if she ever found out?
* * *
Cameron: Whoa! Holy shit and hold the fucking phone. Seriously, hold it. I’m going for a smoke break, and I’ll call you.
* * *
Harlow: But you don’t smoke.
* * *
Cameron: No, but I pretend I do at work so I can sneak out for a breather when the kitchen stress gets too intense. Give me two minutes. I just need to check on the garnish station before I go. Cecilia’s been sending out sloppy parsley and sloppy parsley gives Pierre an aneurism.
* * *
Harlow: Wait! I can’t talk right now. Mom and Dad just showed up with Gram. But I’ll try you later. Maybe tomorrow? Just think about it and be ready to tell me what a bad idea banging Derrick would be, okay? I need feedback from someone with a good head on their shoulders. And don’t tell Evie or Jess, but especially Evie! This is top secret between you and me.
* * *
Cameron: Of course, I won’t tell Evie. But I’m calling you tonight. Tomorrow might be too late. Just keep your parts away from Derrick’s parts until then, okay? I’m not positive it’s a bad idea, but it would change things. Forever. And that’s something you should seriously consider before you ride that particular pony.
* * *
Harlow: You’re right. Okay, talk to you later. Good luck with the parsley.
* * *
Cameron: Good luck with YOUR parsley. (That was innuendo, in case you couldn’t tell. I’m tired.)
* * *
Harlow: Of course, you are. Hang in there. Bye!
Chapter Eight
Harlow
I shove my cell back in my purse, ignoring the guilty fingers wrapping around my throat to give a sharp, warning squeeze.
I trust Cameron to give good advice, but his advice will only be as good as I allow it to be.
I should tell him that I’m still a virgin, too, so he understands that slipping between the sheets with Derrick would be more significant than if I were the experienced person I pretend to be. But if I spill those beans, I’m guessing Cameron will tell me to stay away from Derrick, and I’m not sure that’s what I want to hear.
That kiss at the gas station was even hotter than the one in September. The chemistry between us is off the charts, and isn’t that what I’ve always wanted in a first time?
And I wouldn’t necessarily have to tell Derrick I was a virgin. I mean, what are the chances that my hymen is still intact after all the horseback riding as a kid and the high-intensity fitness classes I’ve taken the past few years?
I could just go for it and…fake it until I make it.
“Just hit it with your foot, Don, Jesus Christ,” my mother’s voice sounds from the elevator near the couch where I’ve been waiting for their arrival. I saw my parents and Gram emerging from the van through one of the dining hall’s windows, but I still cringe at the sound of my mother’s thick Jersey accent and my father bellowing back in an equally thick twang, “I am, Gina. It’s fucking stuck. What? You think I don’t know how to work my mother’s wheelchair after two fucking years?”
“Don’t curse,” Mom shouts back. “You sound like a truck driver.”
“I am a truck driver,” Dad rumbles.
“You’re a machine operator, it’s different. Good God, Donald, just hit it a little harder. Put your back into it.”
My father lets loose with a stream of expletives that would make any longshoreman proud, but apparently manages to get Gram’s chair unstuck. When the elevator doors open a beat later, he rolls her out, his irritated boom becoming a merry one as he calls out, “There’s our girl! Harlow, baby, come give your old man a hug. You look like you need a hug.”