She meets my gaze for a second, and we don’t have to say a single word. She knows what’s on my mind. She can see the longing in my eyes, even if everyone else can’t. She glances at my belt, and my lips rise as I take a seat next to her.
I sit so close that I can practically hear her heart pounding out of her chest. I lean over to grab the remote from Lily, and as I do so, my mouth nears Rose’s ear. And I whisper, “I’m going to tie you up again.” I smile at Lily. “Thank you.”
Her sister goes back to Lo, who’s on a chair, and she lounges against his body.
Rose is stiff, but it’s not out of fear. Her thighs press tightly together, and I rest my arm across her lap, my hand on the bareness of her leg. As I switch on the television, she scoots closer and leans her head on my shoulder, trying to relax, but I know she’s imagining my belt, her wrists, our bed.
I want to make her so wet that she begs for me—that my name is the only one on her mind, the only thing she can possibly utter. I want to hear her scream in wild, crazed ecstasy. I want her to see how perfect we are for each other—mind, body, soul. No words this time. Just actions.
“You have to rewind,” Rose tells me. She tries to reach out for the remote, but I pull it away from her grasp.
She glares. “Vous devez toujours avoir le control.” You always have to be in control.
I try to contain a larger grin. “Vous aimez quand j’ai le control.” You love when I’m in control.
Her lips tighten, but she watches me carefully the way I do her. “C’est encore à prouver.” That has yet to be proven.
I rub the smoothness of her silky leg. “Ne t’inquites pas. Bientot ca sera un fait.” Don’t worry. I’ll make it a fact soon.
“Hey,” Ryke cuts in. “No fucking French.”
“Yeah,” Lo says, “Lily wants to hear you guys talk dirty in English.” He adds a smile to his girlfriend.
She turns beet-red at his admission. “You weren’t supposed to tell them that,” she whispers, still loud enough for us to hear. But she doesn’t seem to know that. “It was a secret.”
“Aw, love, it was too good to keep.” He kisses her on the lips, and he eyes the camera for a second while his hand slips up her muscle shirt, no bra underneath. Not that she’s particularly top-heavy. Rose has the biggest breasts of her sisters and a fuller ass, wider hips. I could stare at her all day and have no problem getting hard.
I rewind to the beginning of the promo spot and press play. Everyone goes quiet as the commercial begins with all of us standing in front of a white backdrop. We shot the footage at a studio in Philly not long ago.
We were told to just act like ourselves while the cameras were rolling, and after thirty minutes of being ignored by makeup artists and gaffers, we all naturally fell into our roles. No acting required. It was real—even from me.
The commercial starts by panning down the row of seven, Scott on the end. The footage cuts to close-ups, starting from the furthest person on the right.
On screen, Daisy does a handstand, her white T-shirt falling down to reveal her bare stomach and green lacy bra. She sticks out her tongue with a playful smile. A caption appears right over her breasts.
Daredevil.
And then Ryke pushes her legs from behind, and she falls over with a laugh. On his chest, the caption scrolls the word: Jackass.
So they’re labeling us.
The thought is silenced as the promo moves quickly. Next in line are Lo and Lily. He has her tangled in his arms, and his mouth meshes against hers as they kiss hungrily, passionately, a desire so intense that it’s almost hard to watch. It seems too intimate and too personal.
At the same time, the words Sex Addict and Alcoholic float across their bodies.
And then here comes me, Rose, and Scott. Rose looks mildly pissed off, her eyes ablaze—which is normal. But she’s turned towards me, our bodies pulled together by something magnetically strong, and as I lean in to whisper in her ear, her face ignites.
I can’t even remember what I said. I could have easily disagreed with one of her favorite feminists or I could have told her that her hair was pretty.
In the video, she shoves my arm. Twice. Waiting for me to get angry like her. Wanting to provoke me.
I just grin.
The word Smartass quickly hits my body onscreen.
On the couch, right here, I hold in a laugh that no one will appreciate. But I find this so fucking amusing. And what are they going to call Scott—a womanizer? No, that’s far too kind. Maybe something like—Scumbag Motherfucking Producer (see also: Liar).
Beside her, in the commercial, Scott’s eyes fall to her breasts.
I didn’t notice that before, and any sort of amusement I felt suddenly flits away. How could I have missed that? I also didn’t notice Rose…
She glances at Scott, ever so briefly. The attention is enough for him to tilt his head and sigh.
Please, this is a load of—
And then his caption appears. Heartthrob.
I choke on a laugh. That’s five levels of ridiculous. So he’s the white knight knocking on her tower. The hero. And I’m what the one who locked her there. It’s wrong. But it’s not necessarily backwards—I’m not the hero.
I’m the king to Rose’s queen.
And then the camera begins to slowly zoom in on Rose while both Scott and I stare down at her, painting the love triangle he so desperately wanted.
Her caption pops up in big bold letters on her body.
Virgin.
I frown. Why would this upset her? Since we were fourteen, she’s never been ashamed of being a virgin. She’s never wanted other women to feel as though they have to lose it in their twenties—that holding onto your virginity post-college makes you unwanted. She’s been proud of the fact that she’s waited. Being ashamed of this now makes no sense to me. Unless she’s more pissed by being labeled something at all.
That seems right.
The promo ends with the title logo for Princesses of Philly, and below, a tagline scrolls:
Get inside the Calloway sisters this February.
It was short. Only thirty-seconds. And it’s enough to resurface hostile emotions. So I stand calmly before anyone starts screaming.
Lily shifts on Loren’s lap and says, “I wasn’t the only one who thought the tagline was dirty, right?”
She’s completely serious. And it almost lightens the mood.
Lo nods to Rose. “Good thing you don’t give two shits about being a twenty-three-year-old virgin.”
“That’s not the problem,” she says. I know her well. She meets my gaze while I stand in front of the television that’s mounted above the fireplace. “He stereotyped all of us with one word, as though we’re caricatures.” She’s afraid of being made to look like a fool. But people have been stereotyping the Calloway girls on gossip blogs for months. This isn’t any different.
“So?” I say to her.