Chapter Thirteen
Bethany
When Ransom had gone into the bathroom, I’d been at a loss for what to do with myself, so I’d settled for sneaking off my pajama pants to put some lotion on. I’d managed to get about halfway through that process when Jess called.
“Hey,” I’d said, putting the phone on speaker. I figured that Ransom would be too busy in the shower to hear me, and once I’d gotten all the lotion off of my hands I could switch to regular talking.
“Hey, girl! Tracy Marchen said that you got a room at the Clairmont?”
“Yeah--we decided that it made more sense to be at the center of any action going on,” I’d explained.
We’d talked about Ransom for a few minutes, and I’d finished up my lotion application and switched to normal mode on my phone after I got my pajama pants back on. I felt a little bit sticky from the lotion drying on my skin, but I knew from experience that I’d be silky-smooth in a matter of minutes.
But about halfway through my chat with Jess discussing exactly what kind of crazy I was, I’d heard it—Ransom moaning. At first I’d told myself it was just enjoyment of the hot water, or something like that, but when I heard him groan again, and--just for a second--a telltale wet, rhythmic, slapping kind of sound, I knew what he was doing. He was jerking off in the shower. I didn’t say anything to Jess, but I hadn’t been able to keep myself from thinking of what he must look like.
In spite of the fact that I’d long since given up on the thought of having anything to do with anyone sexually, I’d actually started getting turned on by the thought of Ransom naked, stroking himself. I had no idea what he was thinking about in the next room, but whatever it was, apparently it was pretty damn hot.
I’d gotten off the phone with Jess and decided to turn the volume up on the TV, just to cover up the fact that I’d overheard him. As awkward as things had been when Ransom had gone into the shower, I figured that being uncomfortably aroused probably had at least part of something to do with it--and when he’d come out again, looking as relaxed and at ease as ever, I’d decided I was right.
“We might as well go for the gusto,” Ransom said, handing me the room service menu and pointing out one of the items. In-Room Bottle Service. It included the hard liquor of the person’s choice--between vodka, tequila, and high-proof rum--along with a selection of juices and other mixers, a mini-cooler of ice, and some snacks.
“Sounds good,” I told him, nodding my agreement. It was $100, which I thought was a bit much considering that I could buy all of the components for under $50, but I figured if Ransom wanted it and was paying for it, I wasn’t about to argue.
He called down to the front desk, and we flipped through the channels on the TV until we found something we could both agree on--Casablanca, on one of the classic movie stations. I turn the volume down so we could at least hear the room service guy knocking, and we spent a few minutes just exchanging small talk.
There was a knock at the door and I got up to get it, more excited than I would have expected to get down to drinking. As far as Jess had told me--and she was pretty well-informed--nothing was going to be going on all that early tomorrow for the reunion weekend, so there would be plenty of time for me to get over a hangover.
“I just need someone to sign the slip for this,” the bellhop said, holding up a little folder with a pen attached to it. I nodded that I would sign it and the guy pushed the cart--complete with the bottle service setup--into the room while I stood off to the side to sign on Ransom’s behalf. I was pretty sure that it wouldn’t really matter which one of us signed it, since we were both on the listing for the room.
I included a pretty decent tip and gave the folder back to the guy, wishing him a good night. It wasn’t until I closed the door behind him that I realized that my robe was open, and my nipples were hard again--or maybe still--against the fabric of my tee shirt. Oh well.
I pushed the cart the rest of the way into the room and Ransom and I started helping ourselves. I filled a glass with ice and poured in some vodka and cranberry juice, along with a squeeze of lime, and snagged one of the bowls of chips and a smaller bowl of guacamole.
“It’d probably be easier if we both just sat on the bed,” I pointed out, feeling awkward about Ransom’s sleeping arrangements.
“As long as you’re not going to accuse me of trying to make a move on you when I go to steal some guac,” Ransom countered, and I rolled my eyes. I started sipping my drink, and realized--too late--that I’d made it a bit stronger than I normally took it.
We started joking about Casablanca on the TV, and talking about the dinner, just blowing off steam, and as I finished my first cocktail and mixed myself another one--vodka with sprite and a splash of orange-mango juice--I was starting to feel loosened up.
“So, tell me why it was that you decided it was so important to fool your classmates into thinking you have some big deal boyfriend,” Ransom said.
“I kind of have been playing voyeur with social media, creeping on people’s lives,” I admitted. I wasn’t sure if I’d said anything about it before. “And everyone has their lives so together--married, kids, the big vacations and all that. I barely post anything.”
“I remember that,” Ransom said with a nod. “But I mean, why should you even care what they think your life is like?”
I thought about that, and it wasn’t the first time it had occurred to me to wonder why I was so worked up about the whole business.
“I wasn’t really all that big of a deal in high school,” I explained. “I wasn’t, like, a loser or anything, but I was sort of Miss Second Place. On the Homecoming Court, but never the queen. A member of student government but never class president or even vice president, or anything like that.”
“It seemed like a lot of people back there were pretty confident in your success in life,” Ransom pointed out.
“I mean, they know I’m good at my job, but I guess I just wanted people to think I have it every bit as together as they do. Even if I’m turning into a spinster.” I laughed at that and helped myself to some of the roasted, spiced nuts that Ransom had taken off the cart.
“You’re not a spinster--you’ve actually had sex,” Ransom countered.
“I’m sure there were probably some spinsters who did, too,” I insisted. “They just never got anyone to marry them. And I’ll probably never get anyone to marry me. I don’t even know if I want to get married.”
“Marriage isn’t the end-all-be-all,” Ransom said, and I wasn’t sure if he was agreeing with me or making a separate point.
“What about you?” I asked. “Did you even go to your reunion?” I knew he was a few years older than me, but I realized that even after spending the afternoon playing “getting to know you” games, I wasn’t even all that sure how much Ransom had told me was him, and how much was his persona, James.
“I went to a couple of different schools,” Ransom said. “So, while I could have gone to the one I spent senior year at, I didn’t really see the point, since I pretty much just filled a chair and got my work done. And I don’t think I even got an invitation for my other school’s reunion.” He shrugged.
“I’m sure that the people you knew at your other school were at least curious,” I pointed out.
“The ones I care about mostly know what I’ve done with my life. The rest of them, I’m not even sure if I’d remember names or faces.” He sipped his drink and I sipped mine.
“Don’t you think at least a few people from the school you graduated from were probably curious about you?” I asked.
Ransom chuckled. “I’m sure some of them were, but that doesn’t mean I have to indulge their curiosity,” he said. “Not that there’s anything wrong with going to things like this--if it makes you happy.”
“I’ll be happy if we can get through the weekend with everyone convinced that I’m a well-rounded success story,” I said.
“I’ll do everything I can to help you with that,” Ransom told me. He raised his glass and we clinked our cocktails together before taking another drink.
“We need to work out some more details,” I said.
“Let’s do that later--I’m curious about something else right now,” Ransom said.
I raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
Ransom looked at me for a long moment. “Have you really never had an orgasm?”
I felt my face burn with a blush, but I was loose enough from the alcohol to where I didn’t feel as embarrassed as I would usually.
“Not with anyone else,” I said. “I’m...I’m not even really sure I’ve properly gotten off on my own.”
“What do you mean, you’re not sure?”
I risked a glance at Ransom’s face and saw him frowning in confusion. “I mean that I’m not sure that what’s happened actually counts,” I said. “I mean--I’ve watched videos and stuff.”
“Well, most porn is pretty exaggerated,” Ransom pointed out.
“I know that,” I said, my blush intensifying. “I know it’s an act, but I feel like…” I sighed and took a long sip of my drink. “From what I’ve read and heard and all that, I feel like if I really had gotten off, like--really--then I would know it for sure.”
“Not necessarily,” Ransom said. “But if you can’t even really get yourself off, then that would explain why no one else has been able to do it.”
“I said I’m not sure,” I protested.
“How many guys have you been with? Did we talk about this before?”
I shrugged; I couldn’t remember if we’d talked about it when I’d initially confessed my lack of climaxes. “I’ve been with five guys.”
“Five, and not a single one of them knew how to get you off?” Ransom shook his head, clucking his tongue against his teeth. “That’s just sad.”
“Hey--I told you before, some women just...don’t,” I countered.
“Unless there’s something physically different about you, there’s no reason that you can’t get off--eventually, somehow,” Ransom insisted.
“That’s not exactly true,” I said, but I wasn’t all that confident in saying it. Most of what I’d read had chalked up women being incapable of orgasm to a “combination of factors including physical and psychological.” I couldn’t think of a single psychological reason that I wasn’t able to get off, and my doctor had told me I was totally normal, from an anatomical perspective. So I never got a reason for why I couldn’t climax.
“It’s just sad, a pretty girl like you never getting off,” Ransom said, shaking his head.
“It’s not sad! It’s just one of those things,” I protested. “I mean, I feel like I’m missing out sometimes--and I especially did when I saw all those videos--but it’s like...like being colorblind, or something.”
“Colorblind people have a physical difference in their eyes,” Ransom pointed out. “I assume you’ve asked doctors about your little problem?”
“Not...exactly,” I admitted. “I mean, I asked if there was anything wrong with me--physically--and the doctors have all said that I’m fine.”
“So, if there’s nothing physically wrong with you, it has to be psychological,” Ransom said.
“It doesn’t have to be,” I countered.
“It probably is,” he said.
“It’s beside the point anyway,” I told him, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Let me refill your drink--what were you on?”
“I’m sampling just about everything,” I admitted.
“How about a good old-fashioned vodka-tonic?”
I shrugged, but when Ransom held out his hand, I gave him my glass.
He mixed me a drink quickly and handed it back. “I have an idea,” he said, looking at me speculatively.
“What’s that?” My heart was beating faster in my chest, even without knowing what he would say.
“We were playing truth or dare--basically--earlier, quizzing each other,” Ransom explained.
“What does that have to do with anything?” I sipped my drink and was surprised to find it was actually really good--cool, tart, with just a bit of a tingling feeling at the back of my throat.
“I dare you to let me try and get you off,” Ransom told me.
I almost dropped my glass.
“You dare me?” I almost couldn’t believe it.
“Yep. I dare you. I mean, we’re up here in this fancy hotel room, with nothing to do--why not?”
For a moment, all I could do was stare at him.