“And it’s all because of you,” Paul says dreamily. I nod, staring as Layla kisses Luke, slowly starting to rock on his lap. A moan filters through the lounge. Jesus Christ. Is she riding him? With the bedroom door open?
“This was your idea. You should be proud of yourself. God, I can’t believe that Briar Saint tweeted about you.”
I smile slightly. On Monday morning, the actress Briar Saint tweeted about us, and all of our steady momentum just exploded. Suddenly, everyone was messaging us. Our email inboxes have been constantly full. Our PO box is overflowing with sponsored items and free gifts from companies that want to work with us. Layla gave an interview for a London-based fashion magazine a few days ago, and she’s had to hire three more seamstresses to help her keep on top of all of the orders. London PodFest even got in touch yesterday, and told us that there was so much demand for entry to our live show that they’ve upgraded us to the largest auditorium in the building. We’ll be talking for a thousand people — by far the biggest crowd we’ve ever recorded in front of.
Paul is pretty much shitting himself. He sent us all boxes of chocolates this morning, and when we went to record in the studio last week, he was there with bottles of Prosecco. We’re now his biggest clients. And it’s all because of Layla.
There’s another moan from the bedroom. I glance at Layla. She’s riding Luke now, holding onto the headboard for balance. As I watch, she tosses her hair back, then shoots a look at me over her shoulder, green eyes glittering. She’s doing this on purpose.
“You don’t sound very happy,” Paul chides. “This show is your baby. I thought you’d be over the moon.”
“Of course I’m happy,” I tell him. “I never thought the podcast would do this well.” Layla is panting now, her thighs straining as she bobs up and down over Luke’s dick. I can see the sweat sheening her skin, a flush slowly climbing up her chest as she screws him hard. The sight should probably just get me hard, but instead, it makes something flutter inside my chest.
I’ve been screwed ever since Mother’s Day. Since she burst into my room half-naked, climbed up into my lap, and stayed with me. I miss my mum all the time, but usually, it’s just a background hum. But every so often the grief hits me all at once, and it hurts so much I get physically sick. On Mother’s Day, with Luke and Zack both gone and nothing to do but think, it felt like I was dying. Like my organs were shutting down.
And then she came, and took me to her flat, and just held me. There was no hesitation. No holding back. She just instinctively knew what I needed and did it for me.
I don’t want you to be alone right now.
Ever since then, I can’t even look at her without my heart clenching in my chest. Every room she walks into seems brighter. The sky seems bluer. I can’t get her out of my head.
I’ve never been in love. I don’t know what it feels like. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it felt like this.
As I watch, Layla finally comes, slamming her hand against the headboard with a muffled cry. Luke follows soon after, pulling her into his chest as she trembles. I grimace, adjusting myself in my suddenly-tight jeans.
“What was that?” Paul asks down the line. “Are you watching a movie?”
“I have to go,” I tell him. “I’ll talk to you Tuesday. Have a good weekend. None of us will be available.”
“What? Bu—”
“We’re going on holiday. Bye.” I hang up and set my phone on the coffee table, heading to Layla’s room. Her and Luke are tangled together on her bed, panting. Zack is sitting next to them, fully dressed, a hungry look on his face as he watches.
“It’s rude to have sex with the door open,” I tell Layla.
“Is it?” She gasps, pushing Luke away. “I wasn’t trying to be rude. I was trying to be inviting.” I try not to stare at her trembling, sweat-slicked cleavage as she gasps for breath.
“Um. Aren’t you supposed to be packing? We’re leaving in half an hour.”
“I am packing,” Layla insists, climbing out of Luke’s lap and slithering into Zack’s.
“Our little cornflake was just giving us a fashion show,” Zack announces, pulling her close. “She wanted us to pick what pants she should bring with her. But it’s hard not to jump on her when she’s dressed like this. You’d do the same thing.”
“I would,” I admit.
Layla smiles, grinding against his crotch. “How do you like this one?” She asks, plucking at the blood-red babydoll slip she’s wearing. Before I can answer, her phone buzzes on the table. She waves at me. “Can you pass it?”