Vogel House Read online

  And the haughty bitches, the girls dressed decidedly as sluts, thinking the party called for Playboy-Mansion-type indecent exposure of their pumped-up breasts—practically ready for milking—are waiting, come-fuck-me eyes scanning the boy crowd for lips ready to arouse their nipples into a frenzied state of stimulation. How I despise them.

  But there is one boy in the crowd whose admiring eyes I don’t despise: a boy handsome and kind, standing idly next to a medieval coat of arms protruding from the wall. Keary fingers the beer in his hands, a smile blossoming on his amazing face. I can’t help but respond to his charm—my lips flower, my eyes soften and grow languid, my pulse races, and my knees start to buckle like a ballerina with a broken heart. I completely lose the desire to ignore him, regardless of what I promised my father.

  The room dims as the DJ starts pumping out a sanguine, trance-inducing rhythm, but the light seems to grow around Keary as he moves through the sea of bodies now vertically humping each other. Electricity crackles along my fingertips as Keary’s hand takes mine, and I can feel the cold glass of his beer sliding up along my naked back, taming the heat raging under my skin.

  “Hey, you.” Keary smiles and snakes his way into me until I can feel my nipples rubbing against his shirt, and probably with too much eagerness, I slide my arms around his waist and allow my fingers to play with his belt as his hips press into mine, heat meeting heat. In the confusion of scents flooding the room, perfumes and colognes mixing and fighting for domination, only one smell invades my mind, lulling me into a sleepwalker state: the sweet, seductive smell of Keary’s skin, my lips on his neck, my nostrils drinking insatiably. My god, I’m so in love with his smell.

  Our fingers dance together, resisting and relenting, flirting and fighting, until coming together in a clammy clasp that brings my hand and his to rest on my stomach. I surrender and release, reaching around to probe the nape of his neck, and shiver while Keary’s fingers delicately play with the prickled skin of the foothills of my breast. I find myself frozen, knees pinched together, rising as I squeeze my toes, extend my ankles, lift my thighs, and arch my back. Then, suddenly, I’m twirling around as Keary spins me, laughing; the music roars, exploding into a frenzied beat.

  I’m so murdered by him.

  If this room were my mother’s bedroom we’d be clearing a path of love, stalking across the sheets like lions in the heat of the African jungle, a low, throaty rumble bubbling from Keary’s mouth, his eyes dull, blue flames sizing up his kill. I want him to devour every inch of my tender flesh, his claws to rake across my skin, and his lips to suck and drink in my blood, until all that’s left of me is a sunbaked corpse, the wind purifying me of malice.

  I swoon, luxuriating in the feeling of being possessed, of being moved, of being handled like a marionette. Dance with me, hold me, sink with me to the depths of the darkest dungeon, chain me not with iron but with your hands, my body unfolding, my flower blossoming towards the moon’s long rays. I surrender to your strength.

  A cold hand grasps my arm, shattering the illusion. I spin to see Zachary’s drugged eyes; his mouth moves but no sound enters my ears. He leans in close to speak to me and flecks of his hair trace along my temple; his invading presence is like a bursting dam flooding icy water onto my naked skin.

  “I said Phillip wants to see you.” Zachary’s voice is too loud now, causing me to twist away and rub my ear in pain.

  Keary shoots me a look that says, “What the fuck is going on?” and I placate him with my reassuring hand on his forearm. After I whisper to him what my brother wants, he nods, defeated and deflated, and I follow Zachary through the crowd.

  I trek into unfamiliar territory: a marble statue of the goddess Venus, an abstract painting of a vulva as a flower, and an antique French cabinet, probably seventeenth-century, with tribal phalluses adorning the surface. Then we pass through the grand foyer, past the massive upward curving arc of the staircase and by paintings of Sumerian script set against a sea of black. Finally, we penetrate down a dark corridor, where questioning eyes linger in shady nooks, tongues returning to their respective mouths, and on to a quiet place with no memories.

  I cringe as we cross the threshold leading into the cavern of a bedroom. My eyes scan the room for Phillip, but I see no one and hear only the sound of the door shutting behind me as Zachary secures the lock. As I turn with wondering eyes, I meet his fevered, trembling, lustful gaze, and instantly recoil into the trap.

  “God, you’re so beautiful, so lovely…” His speech is slurred, dripping in tainted thoughts. I want to kill him for interrupting my moment with Keary, but I find his words flattering and his desire to lie so blatantly to lure me away, well, amusing. Damn, is this his bedroom? I gawk at the lavishness of the gold-etched designs haunting the ceiling, the suffocating provincial theme, and the beauty of the purple silk duvet adorning the enormous bed. The air erupts with the sickly smell of hemp buds in flame, and I turn to see Zachary offering me a smoldering joint.

  “Where’s Phillip?” I try to sound angry, but my fire is tempered by the fumes invading my nostrils, easing my anger into a fervent wanting. Despite hating him, I accept the joint and expertly take a deep drag and hold, relishing the feeling of the drug pounding through my lungs, into my veins, and rushing straight into my now carefree mind.

  “Yeah.” Zachary slumps back onto the bed and gazes fondly at me as I exhale the smoke through my teeth. “Now you feel it.”

  “You’re such a freakin’ shit, Zachary.” I hand him the joint and lie on the bed next to him, staring at the gold etching now so vividly alive. “You totally messed up my moment with Keary.”

  Zachary considers my words while he inhales a deep drag, eyes squinting and head bobbing, then he hands me back the joint.

  “He’s beautiful. If I were a girl I’d totally do him.” He turns to stare at my breasts then down to my long legs dangling off the bed. “You have such amazing legs. I could get lost in those legs.”

  I feel his fingers tracing along my thighs and down to my knees, and I shiver in response. “I don’t want you.” I roll my legs away from his hand, leaving it to flop on the bed.

  “That’s not what your eyes told me when you stared at me out on the lacrosse field.” His hands are persistent as they run along my exposed back, causing my spine to tingle. I feel naked in this dress.

  He deftly crawls on top of me, his hips pinned against mine, and places the joint into my lips, allowing me to take another hedonistic drag. I can feel his erection against my pelvis, and as he slowly rocks his hips back and forth I groan, feeling the heat and the moisture spread down between my legs. I don’t want to feel aroused by him, but I can’t help it.

  “Get the fuck off me, Zachary.” I twist my hips and fling him off me, jerk myself up to my feet, and hike my dress back down, covering my once exposed thighs. Zachary is unresisting, laughing as he steals the joint back, taking another careless drag until there is little left.

  “Why don’t you love me? All the other girls do.”

  “I highly doubt they do…seriously. Maybe a few of them do, but despite all your self-love, not every girl at school is in love with you.”

  He scoffs at my words, and raises an eyebrow in amusement. “So our little party is over?”

  “Thanks for the weed.” I aim a half wave at him, unlock the door, and thread my way through the dancing throng. As I try to find Keary, I catch his disappointed eyes, just for a moment, but then someone steps in front of my vision: a disgustingly cute girl, handing him a drink.

  Fuck.

  CHAPTER 5

  I WISH I could feel depressed for weeks on end—pissed at Zachary for screwing up my moment with Keary, cooped up in my room reading Anna Karenina, with rain pouring down outside, and Ella Fitzgerald music playing in the background—but I went to New York City and had the time of my life. Why should I care? Keary was the one who let some slut bring him a drink. He could have waited for me.

  After seeing five of my favorite Bro
adway shows, spending days and days out on shopping trips to Barneys and all the best boutiques, and nights out roaming the magical streets, dining in amazing restaurants and hanging out with Phillip in crowded jazz bars, Father convinces us it’s time for everyone to head to Martha’s Vineyard. So early that morning, we pack our things, drive to the docks through silent streets, and pile into Father’s sailing yacht, sleepily preparing ourselves for the long sea voyage to the island.

  We depart the harbor, and cruise past the Statue of Liberty and out into Upper Bay, where a finger of fog is clasping the Verrazano Bridge. The air is brisk and invigorates my senses, driving my memory back to the night when I danced with Keary. How his hands felt touching my body, caressing my skin, and how his eyes stared into mine, speaking an infinite pool of longing.

  God, I want him.

  I want every smell, every look, every feeling his body can bring to mine. I don’t want to miss a thing.

  After a long day’s voyage we reach the fair, familiar shores of Martha’s Vineyard at twilight. Velvety purple and pinks wash the western sky, until we finally arrive at the Cedar House dock in Vineyard Haven, and disembark into the warm night.

  We’re to dine at the club tonight, but first freshen up. I bathe and luxuriate in the hot water tinged with lavender salts, admiring the long lines my legs make, my silky skin shimmering in the soft light. I dress sensibly in a white linen summer dress, flats, and a dash of Eau d’Hadrien inside my wrists, along the avenue between my breasts, and on the pulse lines near my throat. My skin smells of citrus and cypress and I feel like soaring through the night sky and over the hazy lights of Vineyard Haven.

  We arrive at the club famished and parched from the long sea voyage. The maître d’ glides us over to our table in the corner and quickly has Elderflower Champagne Cocktails brought to us. The light, bubbly drink cools my throat and diminishes the heat from the bath. Father smiles warmly at me as he too enjoys the drink. Phillip, dressed in a white polo and linen pants, fingers his glass as if contemplating the contents. Mother breaks the peaceful quiet.

  “Why do they always bring us this drink?” She stares disdainfully at the liquid.

  “You know the tradition, dear.” When Father says the word “dear” I imagine him really wanting to say “whore” or “slut” instead.

  “Elderflower was Grandmother’s favorite flower, and this was her favorite drink.” Phillip arches himself up, gazing at Father as if waiting for praise.

  “That’s right, Phillip,” Father says, somewhat tersely. He continues to glare at Mother. “And tradition is important, as family is important. Don’t worry, you’ll have all night to get hammered on your poison of choice.”

  Mother gazes off at a young, strapping sommelier and lowers her voice to a whisper. “And you can grovel all night to Karston Lindy to finance your failing business.”

  “What did you just say?” Father hisses, clenching his glass so hard I fear it might shatter.

  “I desperately need a Rum Punch to cool this heat.” Mother rises, ignoring Father completely, and saunters off towards the bar, her eyes aiming from one handsome boy to the next, until she finally leans over the bar and whispers something into the bartender’s ear, causing a salacious smile to spread across his eager face. Even from this distance I can see Mother’s slutty hand stroke his arm, and I can almost feel the bitch’s heat rise. I want to neuter her and put her down like a rabid dog.

  I turn and suppress tears as Father stares mournfully at Mother, his face is sad and full of love like a puppy that’s been abandoned by its owner on the side of a lonely country road. Make a scene, slap her around, punch the bartender in the nose, do it Father. Show her how much you love her. Or better yet, divorce her. I gaze wickedly at a meat knife the man at the table next to us is gripping, slowly sawing his steak in tender cuts. I imagine the knife flying magically up into the air and plummeting into Mother’s back. She falls, crumbling to her knees, a brilliant redness staining her black, silk dress.

  “Clarise?” Keary’s voice startles me out of my morbid reverie, his shining eyes and playful grin temporarily disarming my hatred of Mother. I find a smile unconsciously forming on my face, totally surprised to see him standing here in front of me.

  “Keary, hi.” Damn, he looks so cute tonight. “I think you know my father and Phillip.” I glance at Father’s loathing face still locked on Mother, and Phillip rises, shaking hands placidly with Keary.

  “Have a seat…won’t you join us?” Phillip’s eyes look hopeful and gregarious and he studies Keary’s nonchalant demeanor.

  “I’m with my parents.” Keary motions over to a table where Mr. and Mrs. McNaughton are pretending not to notice our glances. “Anyway, I should be heading back. Maybe see you around this summer?” His eyes hold mine and after an uncomfortable moment, I nod in return.

  Father abruptly stands and marches off towards Mother, oblivious of our conversation.

  “Seriously, have a seat.” Phillip’s hand motions Keary towards Mother’s chair. “Now Father’s abandoned us and so has Mother. Looks like they’ve gotten into it again. Next thing you know they’ll go outside, argue, slap each other around a bit, then make up. It’s always the same pattern. Foreplay, really.”

  Keary laughs at that and gives in, sitting with Phillip on one side and me on the other. “I wish my parents would fight. There’s too much tension under the surface, like they secretly hate each other, but are too afraid to say anything.” I follow Keary’s gaze and notice Howard McNaughton staring creepily at me, then he quickly glances down, and pretends to study his iPhone. Keary’s mother stabs the peas on her plate, a fiendish expression on her face like she’s killing ants.

  “We should totally steal food from the kitchen and have a picnic on the beach.” Phillip’s eyes light up conspiratorially. “What do you say?”

  I shrug and Keary rubs his collarbone. Phillip takes both as signs of agreement and he grasps my hand and pulls me towards the restrooms on the way to the kitchen, with Keary lumbering along after us. Mac, in the kitchen, could always be counted on to sneak us food when we got bored of the dining room. His grizzled face, sunken eyes, and bludgeoned nose keeps him in the kitchen and away from the patrons, but he has the best smile ever whenever Phillip and I come to him for supplies.

  “Sick of the parents, eh?” Mac bobs his head in sympathetic understanding. “What’ll it be—a picnic basket, wine, cheese, some French bread?”

  Phillip touches Mac’s shoulder affectionately. “And some of your delicious cakes—you know I love those—and chocolate nibs for Clarise.”

  Mac grins at Phillip as if he’s his youngest, spoiled son. “Of course. I just pulled some cakes out of the oven. Head outside, I’ll meet you out back in a bit?”

  We sneak out the side door, and as I almost trip on the back stairs, Keary offers me his hand, his eyes teasing and warm. Beads of sweat form under my knees and between my breasts as I flush from his gaze. His eyes sparkle in the moonlight, now full and rising above the sultry waves. Keary leads me to the dock and Phillip stays behind near the back door, waiting for Mac.

  “I wanted to tell you how sorry I was…for the party, that stupid girl—”

  I interrupt him with a wave of my hand. “Don’t worry about it. It was nothing, really.” Why am I lying to him? I should just yell at him and tell him how bad I felt.

  “No, I mean it. She came on pretty strong after she saw you leaving with Zachary. When you returned and saw me with her, I chased after you but you disappeared in the crowd.” Keary sighs like someone who’s lost a beloved pet. “I spent all night looking for you.”

  “You did?” A lump forms in my throat and I find myself staring at his lips, which are wet and shimmering from a flick of his tongue. In that moment, all internal resistance leaves my mind and I give myself fully to his wondering eyes.

  Keary takes my hands and my skin tingles from a warm wind washing in from the harbor, stirring the long strands of my hair into a waking fury. I
feel his hand snaking around my neck, heat rushing into my brain, and my legs go cold and clammy with anticipation. Unable to take my eyes off his lips, I’m mesmerized by the blur caused in the diminishing space between us. He’s so close to me, so connected that I can feel the electrical charge from his body. I crave his lips on mine so badly I can almost taste his sweetness. My quickened breath wafts waves of citrus out into the small space between his mouth and mine.

  “I should have never let you go that night.” Keary’s voice is a strangled whisper, remorse and bitterness thick in his words. I run a finger up to his lips to quiet him and relish in the velvety softness. He touches my hand and gently kisses my fingertips. Prickling sparks of electricity twitch through my arm. I want to run away with him to someplace warm and dark, with the sound of the ocean at my back, the wind on my naked skin, and Keary’s nose tracing my body, memorizing the scents of his obsession. At night, when he’s lying in bed alone and unable to sleep, my smell invading his mind, I want him to run his hands along his nose and burn with insanity for the loss of not having me there under his sheets.

  I will the witch of wickedness to entrap my beloved in this simple snare. Taste me, my mouth says opening gently, devour me in the folds of your arms, and stop only when there’s nothing left of me to consume. Keary obeys and pulls me in, his lips skimming mine, fire raging at the contact; then he pulls away and my lips are cold, wanting, and seeking his warmth. But his lips run over to the sensitive place beneath my ear and I shiver, knees buckled, and he reaches down beneath my hips and draws me back up into him. My thighs tingle from his fingers digging into my flesh.

  “Kiss me,” I blurt out, almost a whispered sigh. My lips return to his, softly, a wet stickiness between us as we make slow contact, then my lips feel dry so I lick them and find my tongue lashing between his lips and mine. He releases one hand from my hip, grips the back of my neck, and pulls my tongue into his open mouth. I’m swimming in the moist, delicious sea of his mouth, like bobbing for caramel apples and tasting the sweet, tangy flavor mixing wonderfully on my taste buds. Our tongues battle and probe each other deeply: intensity and release, a sigh, a moan, his hand running along the front of my body, fingers discovering my nipples for the first time.