39
Trevor is right back to reality.
“Elijah,” I try for the twentieth time through the door.
He isn’t talking to me. I still don’t know why. Maybe he got all lonely this weekend without me. Maybe his loving, adoring cat-monster Salamander chewed up the power cord to his Xbox.
“I got some new shiny shoes,” I announce, leaning against the door and picking at my fingers. I’m already ready to go; I’m just waiting on Elijah in the bathroom before we head off to the office together. “And … some other clothes, too. Birthday presents from my parents.”
I’ve become so skilled at lying. The gifts of clothing Benjamin got me have just become gifts from my parents with a few words.
Not that my parents would have bought me two pairs of sexy underwear and the skimpiest red trunks I’ve ever seen.
And worn.
“Elijah. What happened? Is it Ashlee?” I finally ask, figuring that if I don’t probe, I won’t get anything from him. The last time he acted like this back on campus, it was because a girl in his Poli-Sci class he was interested in turned out to have a boyfriend, and all the “flirting” Elijah thought was happening was, perhaps, not flirting at all. “Is Ashlee dating Brady now or something?”
The bathroom door flies open so fast, I would’ve fallen clean to the ground if I didn’t have such fast reflexes.
I stare at Elijah’s furious, scowling face. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” echoes Elijah darkly. “You have some balls, Trevor. I’ll give you that. You have some seriously nervy balls.”
Maybe I struck a nerve and took a step too far. “Sorry for suggesting it’s Ashlee. I’m just fishing. Last night, you were sleeping when I got back. Or maybe pretending to be, since your door was open and the TV was left on. This morning, you walked right past me when I was eating breakfast—we’re low on Lucky Charms, by the way—and then barricaded yourself in this bathroom. Not one word to me.”
“What one word would you like to hear?” asks Elijah. “Liar? That’s one word. Friend? That’s another.”
The first traces of genuine worry start to snake their way through me.
“How about ‘parents’? Or ‘birthday’? Or ‘You weren’t at your house all weekend, so where the fuck were you?’”
“That’s more than one word.”
“I KNOW! IT’S THIRTEEN!”
Okay, maybe now’s a bad time for humor diversion. Besides, he’s obviously on to me. “Listen, I didn’t want to—”
“No, no. You listen.” Elijah gets in my face so close, all I smell is his minty toothpaste. Spearmint, by the way. “I called up your mom because I wanted your opinion on … something. When she then explained that you weren’t visiting home for the weekend, but in fact were supposed to be having a party with your friends here—which I suspect was supposed to include me—I had to play the quickest game of cover-up I’ve ever played. I told her yeah, of course we were together, of course we were partying, and that she misheard me: I wanted her opinion, not yours. So there I am on the phone, spilling my heart out to your mom and getting the best damned advice I possibly could regarding me and Ashlee. No, I didn’t blow your cover to your family. I covered for your ass.”
“So this is about Ashlee!”
Elijah doesn’t appreciate my interjections one bit. “Now I’m just left with one burning question. What the fuck were you doing this weekend?”
I sigh. “Elijah, I know I lied to you. I know you’re pissed. And I know you’re using my toothpaste.”
“Mine ran out Friday, and yours is fucking tasty.”
“Thank you.”
“Now spill the truth, Trevor.” His voice softens. “Please. I’m so tired of being lied to. I’m supposed to be your best friend.”
I sigh. “You are my best friend.”
“So tell me where you were.”
I stare at him hard, which isn’t a difficult task considering he’s so close to my face that I can see up his nostrils. I consider him for much too long, so long that I start to wonder if I’m making us late for work.
The trouble is, while I trust Elijah wholeheartedly, I’m not sure if this particular truth is too big for him to handle. How much can our friendship truly withstand?
“Elijah, if I tell you …” I start to say, clench shut my eyes, then quietly resume, as if I’m worried that the other interns are hiding in our walls. “If I tell you, you have to promise me you won’t blow up, and that you won’t tell anyone else.”
“Whatever it is, the secret’s safe with me and you damned well know that. Whether or not I blow up, I reserve that right,” Elijah fires back, hardness in his words. “Now spill.”
I take a deep breath. I can’t believe I’m about to say this.
“I’m ready,” states Elijah impatiently, pressing me.
I lick my lips, then let it all out. “I’m involved with someone in the office. We went away for the weekend.”
Ugh.
Okay, so I let some of it out. Maybe this makes me a total wimp or a coward, but what Elijah doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?
When I see the look of hurt enter Elijah’s eyes—genuine hurt, the kind that no humor can touch—I feel a deep and irreparable stab of guilt.
“Who?” he asks, one little word.
Fuck. I can’t possibly bring myself to say Benjamin’s name. I simply can’t. If Elijah knew the whole truth, it would destroy our friendship.
That’s what this is, right? A friendship? A friendship where I lie to him and keep vital truths from him, not trusting that he’ll be by my side? I’m so messed up suddenly.
I owe him a name. I owe him a name and nothing’s coming. I’m frozen up, my throat tightened so much that I can’t even draw a breath for who-knows-how-long. Just give him a name, any name that isn’t the real one.
Elijah shakes his head and backs away from me, giving up. “We’re going to be late,” he mutters, disappointment in his eyes, then turns to head for the door.
He’s let me off the hook. For now.
The whole way to the office, I feel my brain working at full speed. What hurts me the most isn’t the look of betrayal in Elijah’s eyes, or the way he confronted me, or the genuine fear that sits in my chest that I may have permanently damaged our friendship.
It’s the fact that I’m still trying to construct a lie.
Who’s name do I offer up to Elijah? Brandon? Isaac? Caleb? I’ve already denied having anything to do with a number of them each time Elijah fishes for the mystery bathroom bump-boy.
I could offer him Brady, who would be first to deny anything’s happened between us, since he’s straight and all. But even I can’t stomach the amount of yuck in that lie.
Not that it wouldn’t be the worst thing to be associated with that delicious straight boy and his perfect hair.
Shut up, Trevor.
When we step into the office, there is an immediate and quite alarming difference in the atmosphere. The computer wizzes rush around with worry in their eyes and files hugged to their chests. Stressed, tight-throated words are called out over the walls of cubicles. The intern table is completely empty, the interns spread out everywhere in the office.
Elijah and I share a look of concern, momentarily forgetting we were upset with each other at all.
Ashlee is the first one either of us see, standing over the copy machine. Together, we hurry up to her side. “Is something going on?” I ask first. “Something juicy with a client?”
Ashlee meets my eyes with her pretty, bright green ones, and there’s excitement in them. “Really?” she questions, her eyes going between either of us. “You don’t know?”
“Obviously not,” I retort, perhaps a little more snippily than I intend. “What is it?”
A tiny chuckle escapes her lips, then she covers her mouth quickly. “I really shouldn’t laugh,” she mumbles through her fingers, then leans into us to add, “It’s our boss. A photo of him is going viral. A compromising photo.”
All the blood escapes my brain. I’m rendered numb as a crash test dummy, staring blankly at her eyes.
“So, yes,” she finishes. “It’s something very juicy. And now, we are being tasked with the very important job of minimizing it.”
Elijah finally speaks. “What exactly is this photo of? Did some pervert get a camera into our boss’s bathroom or something?”
“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Ashlee looks past our shoulders, then behind her own, and finally comes kissably close to us, excitement bursting in her bright green eyes. “The boss has a little boy toy on the side, a boy toy he must’ve taken to Mexico this weekend. The two of them were photographed on the beach, naked … and doing the nasty.”
I fall back against a table, desperately thankful for it being there to catch me, as I feel my insides hollow out with terror.
Someone photographed us. In my most intimate moment.
There might be video out there in addition to the photo. Some pervert—some total mysterious pervert—has documented the night that Benjamin Gage took my virginity.
And it’s all over the internet.
All over the office.
I feel so fucking violated.
Wait. Ashlee’s telling this to us—to me—without showing any sign of judgment on her face. If I’m in the photo, then …
“Who is this boy toy?” I ask innocently, lifting my eyes back to hers and interrupting whatever it is she’s saying to Elijah.
She shrugs. “No idea. The boy’s face is covered and indistinct. Benjamin Gage’s, however …” She quirks an eyebrow and stifles a little laugh, then quickly adds, “Really, I need to be mature about this. This is a big deal. I think. Or at least an embarrassing one. Whatever. It’s going to keep us busy all day, that’s for sure.”
A look of deep, pensive thought crosses Elijah’s face as Ashlee continues to talk to him like an excited schoolgirl who just got hit with the week’s hottest gossip, spilling every tasty detail. But I watch my friend’s face carefully, and it is not lost on me that Elijah is trying to put two and two together.
And I desperately, desperately don’t want him to.
That chance, however, is completely robbed from me when all of us are called for a meeting by Rebekah. She explains a good deal about sensitivity, discretion, and professionalism before allowing us to view the several articles that have surfaced with the photo in question.
The photo of Benjamin caressing me on the blankets, barely lit by the flames of the braziers. My face is turned away. Benjamin is in full view, twisted so that his gorgeous ass is on display, but covered up with a hilariously tiny censor box.
But there’s nothing hilarious about the way Elijah’s eyes flash when he sees the image—Elijah, who can recognize me from my ankles, who can recognize me from a misplaced strand of hair, who is certainly recognizing me from that blurry, horrible photo.
And when he slowly turns to meet my gaze, there is a whole new level of questions and betrayal in his eyes. I am certain that if my morning’s half-truth wasn’t enough to completely end our friendship, this is.