Ok, I totally forgot to thank Ave last chapter for the tattoo idea. So… thanks a bunch, dearie!
Enjoy more Vegasy goodness.
I'm jolted out of sleep by the constant pounding in my head. Only, apparently, it's not in my head – it's the front door. I'm not quite sure I believe it, because my clock is telling me it's about three in the morning, and who the hell would be knocking at fucking three in the morning? And it's not stopping, which means Seth isn't freaking getting it, so I guess it's up to me.
Except I've tangled my sheets badly, and there's a struggle to get out of them without falling on the stupid floor. I must have tossed and turned too much in my sleep – a dream, I believe, involving Taylor, soapy water, and a very big sponge. Finally I'm out, and I stumble blindly through the apartment to where the knocking's getting louder and more persistent.
And suddenly, after I open the door, I wonder if I'm really awake, because Taylor's standing there, hair a mess, expression half dazed, in a trench coat that's hiding whatever she's wearing – which can't be much, considering her legs are bare. I blink slowly – just in case – but she doesn't go away. "Taylor."
She sighs loudly, pushing past me into the apartment and muttering something about 'finally'. Finally? Oh, right. It took me a good five minutes to wake the hell up and get to the door. Because I was asleep, which reminds me…
"What are you doing here? It's three in the morning," I close the door, locking it again, and follow her into the kitchen area where she's setting her purse down on the counter. She sighs again, rubbing the palms of her hands into her eyes, and I notice that they're red and she looks a little pale, and I start to panic. Is she sick?
"It's Seth and Summer," she mumbles, dropping her hands and giving me an annoyed look. "They were making so much noise." I can't help but snort in laughter, especially when Taylor pouts at me. "It's not funny! I was trying to sleep!"
"Well, I'm glad they made up," I smirk. At least now Seth will stop whining all the time, and it had the added bonus of getting Taylor over here. Plus, maybe now that Summer's let Seth back in, Taylor will stop this whole 'cutting me off' thing.
"They didn't," she sighs, starting to unbutton her coat. "Seth came over to apologize, at like, midnight, because he 'couldn't sleep', and they've been yelling ever since." She finally gets her coat off, throwing it over the back of the chair, and I wonder why the hell she didn't change before she came over here. She's wearing this skimpy red thing, which, I'm assuming, is supposed to be pajamas, but looks more like lingerie, but she doesn't seem to notice. "I asked them to quiet down, but they just yelled at me. Well, Summer yelled, I think Seth was glad for the distraction."
"So, is there a reason you had to come over here?" I swallow thickly – trying not to look at the red thing – and she looks at me in confusion. She opens her mouth once, then closes it, and I see panic take over her face.
"Oh. I'm sorry," she grabs her trench off the chair and starts putting it back on, head bowed, and shit she thinks I'm trying to break up with her again. I never should've said anything – that was a stupid idea.
"Taylor," I grab her upper arms, freezing her in place. "Taylor," I make my voice more commanding until she looks up at me. I sigh. "I just meant, is there a reason you had to come over here, wearing that, when you've cut me off?"
"What?" she looks down at herself, at the red thing which is showing through her unbuttoned coat. "Oh!" She starts to giggle, and I relax my arms enough for her to move forward and start laughing into my chest. I wait for her to stop – she gets like this when she's tired. "I'm sorry, Ryan," she hugs me, voice dipping lower as she calms down. "You're not cut off anymore," she lifts her head away from my chest with a smile, and I grin back.
"Well, that's a relief," I joke, which makes her smile get wider, which, in turn, makes my heart jump a little.
"Did you want to?" she asks, waving vaguely at my room.
As much as I want to say yes, because she's looking extra hot with her hair a mess and her coat half open, she also looks incredibly tired. "No, let's just get some sleep," I kiss her lightly – pulling away quickly before my brain shuts down and my body takes over. "And maybe we'll get you something else to sleep in…" I mutter and she giggles, leaning into me as I direct her to my room.
Once in my room, she changes into one of my t-shirts and an old pair of boxers that keep trying to fall down because she's about half my size, but we make it into bed and she's out the minute her head hits the pillow. It takes a little longer for me to fall asleep, because she looks even hotter – if that's possible – in my clothes than she did in that red thing. But when she sighs, wrapping her arms even tighter around me, I feel the familiar pull of sleep.
I wake up feeling quite content, thank you very much – especially because Ryan's still asleep, and he's just so pretty… Well, maybe pretty isn't the best word, but he looks so peaceful. I wish I could wake up like this every day.
There's a small noise, and a deep sigh, and a shift, and he opens his eyes. "Hey," he mumbles sleepily, turning on his side to face me with a smile. I almost don't want to say anything, because what if I ruin this moment? But it's me, and I just can't keep my stupid mouth shut.
"Did you ever get my voicemail?" I ask, and I can't look at his face. So instead, I start playing with his wife beater, like it's suddenly very interesting.
"Which one?" he laughs, and I blush. Right, I forgot I called him about a million times.
"The first one," I feel him tense, and crap. "Where I said we needed to talk?"
"Yeah." Why couldn't I just keep my mouth shut? Now he's all tense, and one glance up at his face shows he's brooding. He turns onto his back, and I suddenly feel cold. "Sorry I didn't call you back. I was a little preoccupied." I'm not sure if 'preoccupied' means 'drunk' or what, but it couldn't have been because of the jail thing. This was at least a day before he was arrested, so that can't be the reason. Then I notice that his eyes are on the top drawer of his dresser, jaw clenching and unclenching. But then he sees me watching him, and tears his gaze away from it, looking back at me. I'll have to investigate that later.
"Well, what I wanted to talk about," I can't say the rest, and he quirks his eyebrow at me. It's now or never, Townsend. "What are you going to do when Summer moves in here?" He freezes for a second, then starts to grin.
"Ok, that was not what I was expecting," he laughs, rolling back onto his side to face me again. I decide not to ask what he was expecting, just in case it's a diversion tactic to avoid this question. He kisses my forehead, "but, see, I do have this fantastic girlfriend…"
"Really?" I gasp, looking shocked. He laughs.
"Yeah, really. And I didn't ask her before, because I didn't want to force myself on her, but I was kinda hoping I could move into her place."
"Well, I think she'd be just fine with that arrangement," I murmur, leaning forward to kiss him. He breaks it off, looking intense and obviously done with the 'my girlfriend' joke.
"Taylor, do you wanna live together?" Obviously we've already covered this, but he seems to want to make it official, and his question makes my stomach twist. There's a breathless pause – and when I say 'breathless' I mean it, because I can't take a breath to answer.
"Yes," I manage, finally, and he wraps his arms around me and pulls me in tight to him. I'm starting to think he wants to test out my promise of no longer being cut off, when my cell goes off. He grunts in annoyance as I get out of bed and head towards my purse. He opens his mouth to say something – probably about not answering it – when his goes off as well. "Summer," I read off the display as he picks his up from the nightstand.
"Seth," he replies, and we both sigh.
"Hello?" I answer, and I hear him do the same.
"Taylor, I don't know where you are, but get your ass to the Cohen's place right now." Summer's voice is panicked and a little confused.
"Is everything ok?" I start to panic myself. I hope she and Seth didn't break up…
"I don't know," she mutters, and I hear the confusion start to win over panic. "Everything is just really weird over here, and I need you. Soon." The line goes dead, and I look up at Ryan, whose face is twisted up in confusion.
"Yeah, sure," he tells Seth, and hangs up. "Seth wants me to-"
"Go over the Cohen's?" I finish, and he nods. "Yeah, that's what Summer said, too."
"This can't be good," he mutters darkly, getting out of bed and heading towards the bathroom.
No. It can't.
Things are tense in the car as I drive, and Taylor keeps looking out the window worriedly. I can't help but grip the steering wheel harder, because I'm just imagining what Seth's done now. I mean, arguing is nothing new to them, but with the whole Vegas thing, and the wedding just three days away, Summer might just be tense and/or angry enough to break it off with him. Which, of course, means three grueling days of repair work for Taylor and me.
"Bullit's back," Taylor comments, pointing at the man's car. We never did figure out where he went. If Bullit's back, it can't exactly be helping the Seth and Summer situation. "That can't be good." Sometimes I wonder if she can read my mind.
We get out of the car and head inside, and we find the entire family – extended and all – gathered in the kitchen. Taylor immediately rushes to Summer's side. "Is everything ok?" Summer looks at her with a frown, nodding like she's not sure what Taylor's talking about.
"What's going on?" I ask the entire room, and everyone looks a little confused. Finally Seth speaks up.
"Bullit's back."
"Yeah, we got that from the car…" I look around, except Bullit's not in the kitchen. "What does that have to do with…"
"BANG!"
I jump a little as Bullit enters the kitchen with a grin, and it's only on a double take that I notice the blonde woman next to him. What the hell?
"Ryan!" he greets with a grin before his eyes flick over to Taylor. His smile gets wider. "And if it isn't the little French maid!" She looks startled, looking around the kitchen. Sandy, Seth, and Frank all avert their eyes, but I can see Seth trying to hide a smile. She glares at me, because she really is brilliant, and I'm pretty sure she knows I told them about our little games.
"Bullit," she greets back. "And…" she trails off, looking at the very blonde, very tan, girl next to him.
"Oh, I'm Katie," she says, voice bubbly and face bright.
"The new wife!" Bullit roars.
"What?"
"Yeah, that's what we said," Seth mutters.
"She looks younger than us," I whisper sharply to Summer. We're both staring into the kitchen, where Sandy, Kirsten, Julie, Frank, Bullit and the new wife are chatting.
"I know. It's gross," she whispers back. Kaitlin's next to us, eyeing down the new woman – Katie – suspiciously. I know how protective she is over Bullit.
"She's a stripper." We both look at Kaitlin, whose arms are crossed, eyebrow raised. We don't try to argue, because we should've figured. Of course Bullit would marry a stripper.
While drunk.
In Vegas.
"Go Bullit," Seth nudges Ryan, who just shakes his head. I can't believe Seth just said that. Seriously. Summer turns to face him, eye twitching and rage-blackout already in swing. Ryan shoots me a look, and I want to laugh, because we both knew this would happen.
"'Go Bullit'?" Summer hisses, stepping towards him. "Is that what you want? To marry a stripper?"
"What?" Seth backs up a step, and its last night all over again. "No, Summer…"
"Cause if you want to marry a stripper," Summer's voice raises a few octaves, and everyone in the kitchen stops talking, "then go ahead Cohen!" She slaps him on the arm, hard, it seems, because he winces. "Go to Vegas and marry a stripper, cause you're sure as hell not marrying me!"
Everyone's silent, and I don't know what to do. The Cohens look stricken, the Coopers worried, and even Bullit doesn't say anything. I expected Katie to look embarrassed, or at least a little angry, at Summer's obvious disdain for strippers, but she just looks worried, which makes me like her.
But there's a problem, because I hate silences. Any time there's a silence – awkward or not – I have to talk. And I can feel it – the rant – bubbling up my throat. I clamp my lips together to stop it, but I know that'll only hold it back for a little. I don't want to rant, because it'll be about something stupid that will just make everything worse.
"Seth doesn't want to marry a stripper," I hear Ryan comment lazily, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen and inspecting his nails like Summer didn't just call off the wedding. Summer glares at him, but he doesn't flinch. "I mean, you should've heard him in Vegas. He wouldn't shut up about you. It was all 'Summer hates when girls wear shoes like that', and 'Summer would love that dress'."
I watch as Summer looks uncertain, glancing over at Seth, and I want to give Ryan a great big hug. Somehow I doubt Seth said those exact things, but I don't doubt that he wouldn't shut up about Summer. He's so whipped.
"Whatever," Summer mutters, grabbing me by the elbow and heading out the door. I toss Ryan one grateful look over my shoulder before we're outside.
"Hey!" her perky voice comes over the line, and I smile. I love that her voice can brighten my day – and what a day it's been. Seriously, Seth hasn't stopped talking since the minute Summer left the Cohens. Half the words that come out of his mouth are thanking me for saving his wedding, the other half still panicking that she'll change her mind again.
"Hey," I say back, a little more calmly than she had. "How's Summer?"
"Down to a simmer," she sighs. "I don't know what's wrong with her, but she's been getting worse lately."
"It's probably just nerves over the wedding," I rationalize. I mean, who wouldn't be nervous three days before their wedding? Besides Bullit, apparently.
"I guess," she doesn't sound sure. "I'm still gonna talk to her, though. Maybe not today, cause I'd rather not run the risk of having her murder me… in fact, do you think I could stay at your place tonight? I think Summer may need some space. She keeps eyeing me down…"
"Sure," I answer – maybe just a little too quickly – "I'll see you tonight."
"Great."
"Hey," his voice is low and a little husky when he opens the door and pulls me inside. I know that voice – it's his 'I want to do bad things to you' voice. Keep it cool, Townsend.
"Hey, thanks for letting me crash here," I say brightly, as if I didn't notice his tone, as if I didn't sleep here a lot anyway.
"No problem," he shuts the door as I put my purse on the table next to the couch. "Although, I expect some form of payment for putting you up for the night…"
I pretend to be shocked, despite the fact that I'm incredibly turned on. I love when he gets like this, when he drops his broodiness and gets all horny and demanding. It's so hot. "Why, Mr. Atwood!" I press a hand to my heart, as if taken aback, "however can I repay you?"
He leers – actually leers – at me, and stalks forward, sliding his hands around my waist and brings his mouth to hover near my ear. "Well," his hot breath makes me shiver, "you could start by taking off your clothes…" Ok, I really need to control the noises I make, because I let out a pathetic whimper, and then an actual moan when he slides his hands down to squeeze my ass. "And then," he continues hotly, using his hands to press my hips forward into him, "if you're feeling very generous, you could get on your knees…"
"Oh, I don't know if letting me sleep here for the night warrants that," I smirk when he pouts at me, "but it definitely warrants me taking off my clothes…"
Oh, it definitely warrants her taking off her clothes. I press my lips to hers roughly, and she moans into me, hands going to the back of my neck to pull me closer. And it's all well and good, except that Seth has a habit of making untimely appearances, so I pull away, letting go of her body as well to get under some sense of control.
"Bedroom?" I suggest breathlessly, and she nods wordlessly, but makes no attempt to move towards my room. I can't help but smirk, leaning down to give her a hard kiss before grabbing her wrist and pulling her across the apartment. She follows me, tripping once or twice over her own two feet – which, for some reason, I find incredibly hot. Maybe it's because I'm making her this uncoordinated; I've taken away her ability to walk properly.
I manage to get the door open with minimal fumbling, swinging her inside and kicking it shut again. She stumbles over to my bed, catching her balance as she almost falls onto the mattress. I keep our distance, because I'd like to enjoy this, and if I go over there now, it'll be over very soon. And it's kind of hard not going over there, cause she's looking really hot and totally fuckable with her hair a mess and her lips red and swollen. "Take your clothes off," I command, using that tone of voice that makes her do whatever I want. Except now, apparently, because she shakes her head at me, biting her lip.
"You know," she manages to breathe out, "I was kind of hoping you'd strip for me."
I'm about to laugh at how ridiculous that suggestion is – I can't dance for the life of me – but then I see the look in her eyes. They're completely glazed over, and she's panting hard, thinking about it. I figure she's done this for me enough times, so I place my hand on the top button of my shirt and pop it open. She sits down on the bed with a whimper, and I smirk.
Oh God, he's actually doing it. It was a joke, really, when I said it – although I won't lie and say there wasn't a small flicker of hope that he'd go for it. And he was. I drop onto the bed, some noise escaping my throat as he gives that cocky little smirk of his and lets his hand trail up to the top button of his shirt. He pops them open slowly, one at a time, letting his fingers play over his wife beater clad torso.
I feel myself get hot – well, hotter – and the ache between my legs build as his over shirt drops from his arms, and he slides his hands down his stomach to grip the edge of his wife beater, which he pulls up slowly – dear God, so slowly – making me bite my lip as he lifts it over his head. Then he trails one hand over his abs, which are – thank you very much – incredible, down to his jeans, and he pauses. I look up at him, and he's smirking at me, one eyebrow lifted, and I nod, flicking my eyes back to his crotch.
He looks absolutely triumphant as I moan, one hand moving absently to the hem of my skirt, and up to where my panties are absolutely soaked. I begin to rub myself as he opens the button of his jeans, pulling the zipper down so fucking slowly I want to scream. But I don't; instead I spread my legs wider, hand slipping under the tiny scrap of fabric to push a finger inside myself, and he pushes his pants down, kicking off his shoes before stepping out of the jeans. He's hard, I can tell, and I add a second finger when he drops the boxers – a little too quickly for a proper stripper, but one look in his eyes shows why.
His expression is absolutely feral, eyes dark and glinting as he watches my hand work under my skirt. So I lay back for him, lifting my skirt up with one hand and spreading my legs wide and I hear him swear under his breath. Then there's footsteps, and he grabs the waistband of my panties, ripping them off my body and throwing them across the room. He swears again as I continue to get myself off, and I can tell he's debating whether or not he wants to watch me finish, or if he wants to fuck me now.
Apparently he decides on the second one, because he grabs my wrist, pulling my hand aside so he can get the skirt off, then tugs me upright to pull my shirt off too, and my bra goes as well – all in record time. "Fuck," he breathes, pushing me back down and getting on top of me, "you're so fucking hot, you know that?" I can't respond, because he pushes into me, and my mind shuts down.
There's something that happens to me sometimes, where my body stops reacting to what my brain tells it to do, and just goes off on its own. Like right now, I can feel my body work against him as he thrusts into me, but I'm not sure it's my brain controlling it. It's like my body has a life of its own, and doesn't give a shit what my head wants.
Not that my head wants this to stop, but that's beside the point.
Although maybe it's a blessing, because it gives my brain leave to focus on other things, like what he's saying –his breathless curses and moans – and the way he looks hovering above me – eyes dark and dilated, jaw clenched, entire upper body tense as he holds himself up and thrusts uncontrollably. That, coupled with the way he feels moving inside me makes my orgasm rise quickly, slamming into me almost violently.
I black out and as I ride my high, all I'm aware of is his shallow breathing and the feel of him inside me. The next thing I know, his heavy weight is pressing me into the mattress, and I dimly realize he must have reached his breaking point, because he's no longer pounding away at me; he's apologizing for crushing me, and he promises to move once he regains control of his body. I don't care. I like this feeling – his heavy weight, his breath against my neck. It's comforting, and if I didn't care about breathing easily, I'd want to stay like this forever.
He does roll off me eventually, scooping me up and pulling me tight against his side. I fall asleep like that – curled up next to him and thinking that, yes, I could definitely stay like this forever.
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