Page 5 of Love Starves

Our lungs are still heaving by the time I lift myself off him and crash at his side. My strawberry-colored locks clash against the skin of his chest where it splays across. To be honest, I can't be assed to move it either. Lying here like this is treading dangerous ground, but just need to take a fucking breather for a second after that. Then out of nowhere, my brain, still riding the post-coital—and green–high, connects my last train of thought when my fingernails sink into his skin to that old kitten poster that I swear to god is hanging in every high school in the world sayingHang in There.

A laugh bubbles up from my stomach and is uncontrollable for a minute.

"You probably don't know this, or do and don't care, but normally when a girl laughs after sex it's kind of deflating to a guy's ego," he teases with a smile in his own voice.

"Like I didn't just rock your world," I retort, less waspy than normal thanks to being more relaxed now. "Besides, you don't even want to know."

"Maybe I do," he says.

And just like that, the moment is gone. I'm not going to lay here like a goddamn couple and chat about things. I contemplate telling him to just leave, but I seriously want a round two.

"I'm going for a swim," I snap, standing and straightening my bottoms. Not bothering to wait for him or whatever he has to say, I stroll out to the deep end of the pool and dive in towards the stairs on the shallow side. I'm still underwater when a loud splash lets me know he's followed me in. When I surface on the other side, I see him doing a lazy man's backstroke, skimming across the top of the water. By the time he finally makes it over, I've calmed down enough to not lose my shit with him.

"Ready for me to go?" he asks, still staring up at the sky.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't like the way the lights under the water profile his body in a way that makes me want it again already.

"If I wanted you to leave, I'd tell you to," I answer. "I want to swim, smoke, and fuck again. Then you can leave."

For a moment, I wonder if I've pushed him too far with my bitchiness and he'll get out to go anyway. Instead, I catch the tail end of the up curve of his lips before he says, "You got it."

Rolling over in bed the next morning, I marvel at the fact that I'm actually alone. After being in the pool for over an hour, another round of smoking and fucking, I thought for sure Elliot would be dead on his feet too tired to drive home. Guess it takes a little more than sex and weed to knock him on his ass. Even if he did the all the work the second time around. I'd made it blatantly clear that conversation was to stay closed by docking my iPhone and blaring what he likes to call my ‘emo scream’ music. Whatever, better than the thumping same beat of some of the rap shit he listens to, which I'd told him in defense of the band playing. My true answer, however, was to crank it up a few more clicks. Then he'd lit up another smoke and fucked my brains out.

I don't even remember much past that point other than showering and throwing on a robe before coming back to the main house. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m pretty sure he left after I did, but I wouldn't place any bets on it. He better hope he didn't stay. The more rules he breaks, the more trouble he's going to be in with Giovanni later. All of this only works because of the boundaries we set. I warned Giovanni long ago that if any of them tried to make this more serious than it was then I'd be gone like the wind. They could find other girls as fast as I could find more fuck buddies. In a deep, dark hole inside of me that stays sealed with duct tape and locked up tight, something close to jealousy stirs at the thought of another girl being in my shoes yesterday. Well, not literally because I'd beat a hoe down for even attempting to put her skanky feet in my pumps.

As much as you would for fucking your friends with benefits?a snarky, little voice asks in my head. Well, I'll be damned if that bitch didn't wake up on the slutty side of the bed this morning.

They probably all went home to girlfriends or even wives last night, so who's the real winner here?I quip back, snorting softly at my witty response then pressing the heels of my hands to my forehead and groaning. It's always been said that you know you're crazy when you start talking to the voices in your head. It's official now, I guess.

It's not even necessary to go check and see if he's still here. Another thing I know about Elliot is that were he to have slept over, not even an apocalypse could've kept him out of my bed last night. That snooty, little bitch in my head tries to sneak back in with a comment on how it might not've been such a bad thing, but I stomp her pretty face back into the box she keeps trying to poke her head out of.

Not ready to get out of bed just yet, I roll over to my back and grab my cell from it's cordless charging dock. Nothing kills time faster than social media. However, unlike most people my age, I don't live on it. Point proven by the first few posts in my feed being my old friends sharing about some killer party they were at last night. I'm petty enough to wonder if they had to filter out the coke that was likely covering all their noses. They sure didn't bother with all the alcohol. Trinity and Rose, who used to be two of my best friends, or so I thought, have their arms around each other while holding martinis in the first post. It wasn't that long ago that there were four people in that photo. I was standing right there next to them in a completely different nightclub and holding the same kind of drink with Farrah at my side. That was before Farrah's trip to rehab then her eventual relapse and overdose, which her parents were kind enough to cover up so as not to look bad upon their family name. I didn't see either of her parents shed a single tear at her funeral. Want to talk about shaming the family? How is that for their name's appearance? I remember the media having a field day with that, too. Well, for like two minutes before they moved on to some other inconsequential story they deemed important enough to call news. Not that Farrah's funeral wasn't. The media just didn't want to get their hands dirty releasing the full story that they believed to be true. Instead, they'd stuck it to her parents calling them callous snobs and saying it's no wonder Farrah had turned to drugs with parental guidance lacking in her spoiled life.

That's one thing they actually managed to get right for once. Having money doesn't necessarily make someone happy. I grew up for fifteen years with a nanny until I outgrew her and got shipped off to boarding school in France. I'd guilted the hell out of my parents to let me finish my last year of school stateside. Reluctantly, they'd agreed. They were never here and since Lisa had been let go from her nanny duties years before, I had the entire house to myself, besides the few workers that were here year-round just in case the Clemontes were to ever make a visit to their actual home. All in all, it made it the perfect breeding ground for trouble. We'd had some wild parties with Elliot as our supplier more times than I could count, leaving the mess for the housekeepers to clean. We weren't the only spoiled, little richillites either. Take Elliot, for example. For all the money his parents had flowing out of their pockets, neither of them had known that their precious heir had his hands in some pretty serious deep pockets elsewhere. Rather than being subjected to the same shame as Farrah's family, they'd disowned him faster than he could blink. Just like that, he was cut off from family money and fell off the radar. I hadn't even given him a second thought until Giovanni. Then there he was. Like my own personal, karmatic justice for Farrah, never letting me forget that she's dead. I'd supplied her at those parties just as much as any of our other friends and never tried to intervene even when I knew things were bad. I've never once asked him if he remembers everything that I do, but that entire conversation seems like it would be pointless anyway. Though, I think I'll always wonder if he carries any kind of guilt over Farrah like I do. He wasn't her friend, but our families’ paths did cross now and again.

Ignoring the pain in my chest from thinking of bad memories, I continue to scroll down the list until I grow tired of seeing the same faces speeding by in many of the same posed photos. I have more money at my fingertips than most people can acquire in a lifetime of work, yet, here I lie marveling about the monotonousness of my life. Dr. Geoff had made a passive suggestion that boredom played a role in the affection I seek from Giovanni and the others, and I can't say I completely disagree with him. It’s the excitement of being with not just the dangerous and slightly aloof Giovanni, but having others watch while it happens. Then again as I fuck the others. It certainly breaks the monotony to say the least. When I tire of looking at the fake, chemically-induced smiles of the people I used to consider friends, I toss my phone to the end of the bed and stare at the ceiling. As my stomach growls, I realize I forgot to eat anything yet again last night. Sex, weed, and exercise was the only thing on my mind before I crashed into bed early this morning. If I don't start eating more and gaining weight, though, Dr. Geoff has made subtle threats of putting me under the care of the hospital. Also known as the crazy house. A place where I'll get treatment, which will consist literally of a cocktail of prescriptions and forced calorie intake. Guess that's what happens when a formerly-diagnosed diseased person backslides. Dr Geoff's words, not mine. I used to not understand how a high metabolism and obsession with counting calories counted as a disease, but after reading up on it after my diagnosis, I got it pretty quick. Not just for the risk of being put in a padded cell but for the sake of life longevity. I'd rather not face the same kind of fate as Farrah so young. Her death was my wake-up call. I just hate that it had to be that of all things.

Throwing my legs out of bed, I don't bother making it back up before grabbing my silk robe and wrapping it around my shoulders. There may not be anyone here but that doesn't mean I should walk around dressed inappropriately. When I make it downstairs to the kitchen, I can already smell coffee brewing.

Coming into the room, I see Stewart propped against the counter with a cup to his lips. His eyes widen in surprise as he pulls it away quickly, spilling a few drops down the front of his white button-down dress shirt.

Absently wiping the spots away as though they'll disappear by his hand, he swiftly carries his cup to the sink and sets it in the basin as he apologizes, "I'm sorry, Ms. Blythe. I wasn't expecting you down so early this morning."

I roll my eyes toward the ceiling when I reply, "Stewart, you don't have to apologize for drinking a cup of coffee and especially don't have to throw it out just because I walk into the room. Will you please make me a vanilla latte with an extra shot of espresso after you make yourself another?"

With a short dip of his chin, he sets about his task as I stake out the refrigerator. If I have to eat breakfast on a normal day, it'd just be grapefruit, but Dr Geoff specifically mentioned protein. Grabbing two eggs out of the door, I turn to find Stewart trying his best to avoid looking at me. Apparently, it's rude as fuck to stare at someone while they're making food, but moreso when they've got an obvious eating disorder. Or maybe I'm just being paranoid, and he's simply surprised to see me having something other than the usual.

"I can cook those for you if you'd like, Ms. Blythe," he offers, finishing up with my latte.

Am I a spoiled Clemonte who'd rather have someone cook breakfast for them rather than doing it myself? Sure. Sue me.

"Thanks, Stewart," I reply, passing the eggs over into his waiting palm. "Scrambled as dry as you can get them, please."

"Of course, Ms. Blythe," he says while pushing several buttons on the most expensive espresso machine money can buy.

I'd tried to correct the way he addresses me before and he'd seemed offended that I'd make such a suggestion. So, I don't waste my breath this morning. Fanning the back of my robe out behind me, I take a seat at the breakfast table in the corner of the kitchen. I'm sure between the formal dining room and this one, the latter sees more use than the other. Especially since the other room is reserved for parties and ‘business meeting’ dinners. Little do the Clemontes know, I've done more lines of coke off that fancy lacquer than I have eaten off it.

Stewart sets my requested latte in front of me while I'm still lost in my thoughts. The first sip helps bring me back, though. A few minutes later, I've got a plate full of eggs with a side of bacon and half a piece of toast. Not having asked for them, I choose not to berate Stewart for assuming I'd want them just because I'm sitting down to eat. Instead, I thank him kindly for everything, keeping our gazes locked as I take a bite of the bacon first and then the toast. An expression akin to approval flashes on his face before he turns back to remaking his wasted cup of coffee. I swear, the man has hardly spoken but a few words to me outside of our status. However, the rareness of me loping into the kitchen and asking for food must've opened the door for communication.

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