Echolls Family Tree

Ialways realize I”m not a good drunk after I”ve gotten drunk. It”s not that I get sick, or become a blubbering mess, it”s that every single one of my inhibitions melts like ice cream in a broken freezer. And this impromptu vacation is the last possible place I should be letting down my guard, let alone losing all common sense.

And yet, here I am in the fanciest lobby, in the fanciest hotel in Beverly Hills, waiting for my best friend”s boytoy to book a room for the three of us because we got day drunk and can”t drive back to his house in Venice Beach. The hotel room costs over a thousand dollars for the night, by the way. Not that Tate Garrison even blinked at that price tag. He didn”t. He”s rich. And talented, and funny, and charismatic, and sexy, and built like a book cover model. See? I shouldn”t be drunk right now. With him. And Diana. His bed buddy and my best friend.

Diana is cool as a cucumber and without a care in the world. Being day drunk makes her cute and confident like she belongs in a five-star hotel with marble floors and a chandelier bigger than my car. She”s currently got one of her long slender arms draped across Tate”s broad shoulders and she”s holding my hand with her free one. I”m standing like I always do when I”m with these two, off to the side.

The hotel clerk, who looks like she should be on a runway for one of those designer brands lining Rodeo Drive, isn”t fazed by a professional hockey player and two small-town girls in Target dresses booking a room for one night with no luggage. Maybe she”s seen this before but I haven”t. And it”s weird enough that it registers in my brain, but the tequila from the margaritas and the vodka from the martinis is numbing my ability to care. I need to sleep this off, even if it means sleeping in the bathtub while these two bang in the bed.

The clerk slides two key cards in a delicate paper envelope toward Tate. “Enjoy your stay at the Beverly Wilshire, Mr. Garrison, and do not hesitate to contact us if you need anything.”

”Thanks.” Tate winks at her with those ridiculous eyeballs of his. They were the color of my favorite crayon when I was a kid. Robin”s Egg Blue, which is really equal parts green and blue like the Caribbean Sea. I once drew him a Valentine”s Card and colored in the eyes of the guy on the front with that color. I never gave it to him, though. I wonder where it is?

“Where what is?” Tate asks.

I blink and realize we”re in the elevator and both Diana and Tate are looking at me quizzically. I guess I said that last bit out loud. God, I hope that”s all I said out loud. I ignore them and look around the small, yet glamorous elevator. It has old-fashioned mirrors and a carved wooden bench to sit on. ”This elevator is fancier than my parents” house.”

Tate laughs. Diana pulls me into a hug. “Wait until you see the room.”

“For eleven hundred bucks it better be a freaking palace,” I mumble as the elevator doors slide open and we all stumble out into the lushly carpeted hall.

The room, is in fact, designed like a palace with fine furniture, a marble bathroom bigger than my current bedroom in my teeny Silver Bay rental apartment. The bed looks like a freaking cloud, with a million pillows and a thick duvet. Too bad I won’t be able to find out how it feels. The bed is their domain.

I walk over to the blue velvet chair in the corner by the window that overlooks Tiffany’s on the corner of Wilshire and Rodeo. I lean over and push on the cushion. Seems comfy…

”What are you doing, Mal?” Tate”s drunk voice is better than his sober voice, and his sober voice is deep, slightly throaty, and warm like he”s got some sexy secret he”s sharing with you every time he speaks. But his drunk voice is all that with this tremor of… something dark. It”s delicious.

Just wondering if I crash here or the bathtub, I want to explain but I can’t because it would make things awkward. Even drunk me knows that. So instead I flop down on the chair and throw my legs up on the matching ottoman. “I need to sit.”

“Fair.” Tate chuckles and wanders away from me. Diana kisses his cheek as he passes her and then he disappears into the bathroom.

Diana flops down on the bed, like she”s belly-flopping into a pool, and immediately lets out a sinful groan. ”Oh my God, this thing is beyond comfortable.”

“Cool,” I mutter and my eyes flutter shut.

“Get over here and try it out,” Diana insists. “Especially if you’re going to pass out.”

“Beds are for bed buddies. I’m just a plain, old, regular buddy,” I explain.

“You are ridiculous.” Diana giggles. “It’s not like Tate and I can do anything anyway. You’re right there.”

“I’m a heavy sleeper,” I reply because I usually am when I’m drunk. I wasn’t drunk enough most nights on this trip though, and despite being across the hall with the door of my bedroom firmly closed, I could hear Diana’s moans while she was hooking up with Tate the last two nights. Last night it sounded like she orgasmed three times.

“What?” Diana asks and her voice is closer, but I’m too tired to open my eyes and see if she got off the bed. “Why are your cheeks pink?”

”I”m drunk.” Which is true but also a lie. I”m blushing because I know that on the final round between her and Tate, at four in the morning last night, I masturbated to the sounds of them fucking, imagining it was me under him. ”Anyway, sorry I”m crashing this potentially romantic night in a fancy hotel. I can Uber it back to his place alone. I”m a big girl.”

“How many times do I have to tell you,” Diana laughs, “Tate and I don’t do romance. We do sex. Sex with zero attachment or commitment.”

“Mmm… if you say so,” I murmur because sleep is tugging hard at my consciousness. This chair is actually pretty comfortable. “If someone made me moan that loud when I orgasmed, I wouldn’t take it casually.”

This time the chuckle is deeper and directly above me. Sobriety shoots through me like a bullet as I realize that one, I said that out loud, and two, Tate heard it. Luckily I have the common sense not to let my eyes fly open. I pretend I’m still sliding into sleep. My heart is racing with embarrassment, though.

“Mal? Mallory?” Diana calls to me but I act like I’ve died and don’t respond or even move. “She must have passed out.”

“I can’t believe she said that.” Tate chuckles and I hear him move across the room. “We should have been more quiet.”

“Whatever,” Diana replies airily. “She knew we were going to hook up when she agreed to come visit you with me.”

“Still. I don’t want to embarrass her,” Tate replies.

“Why did you never hook up with Mal? Is it because your parents hate each other?” Diana asks and I hear a sound that might be kissing as the conversation stalls for a second or two.

“I don’t care what ancient grudge my parents have with Chance and Hannah Echolls. We aren’t the Hatfields and McCoys. I have always liked Mallory. She’s fun and sweet and hilarious when she opens up.”

”Also easy on the eyes,” Diana adds helpfully.

“She’s pretty,” Tate agrees. “There is nothing not to like about Mallory Echolls. But I think she’s the strings type, which is cool. It’s fine. It’s great, even. But I’m not… and can we stop talking about this. It’s fucking weird.”

The conversation stops and I let those words sink into my brain. I’m strings. He’s stringless. But he likes me. He thinks I’m pretty. I like that much more than I should.

”I bet if you tried, she might be down for just one night with you. After all one night is better than no nights,” Diana states and I can”t control it. My eyes fly open. The room is dark. Someone has drawn the black-out curtains across the window. Neither of them is anywhere near me, at least I can”t see them, but I don”t dare turn my head and alert them to my eavesdropping.

“Diana…”

“No, listen, I’m not being silly or stupid or even playing a game here,” Diana says and there’s a firmness that seems to override the drunkenness in her tone. “We’ve said all along we aren’t anything exclusive and never will be. You can be with whoever you want, whenever you want. I won’t be offended.”

“Stop,” Tate commands and there’s a kissing sound again. “Let’s sleep off the booze, like Mal.”

There are a few more kissing sounds and a giggle and a slap and another soft giggle but nothing else. At least not while I remain conscious, but I drift off suddenly, alcohol finally winning the war.

I don’t know how long I’m out but I wake up feeling like I’m floating, while also pressed against a very firm, very solid wall. My eyes flutter open. The room is still dark and now even the late afternoon sun that had breached the corners of the curtains earlier is gone. I’m moving through the room in a horizontal position and I realize that Tate is carrying me.

“What’s happening?” I whisper, wondering if this is some drunken dream.

“You’re sleeping in the bed,” he whispers to me. “You looked like a pretzel in that chair. I’ll take the… floor.”

“The three of us could share,” I say, showing once and for all why drunk Mallory is a danger to herself and others. “I mean, the bed is more than big enough, even with you being the size of a small house. We can all play nice, right?”

“I can if you can.” Tate lifts both his chestnut eyebrows. “And you always do, don’t you, Mallory?”

“Play nice? Yeah, I do. I’m the nicest nice girl you will ever meet,” I ramble and then he’s leaning over and placing me gently on the bed. “Marriage material. Sweet and serious and all those things hot guys like you don’t find attractive.”

“Mallory…” he whispers my name.

“Shh!” I scold. “I’m drunk. Nothing I’m saying is supposed to be acknowledged… or even remembered.”

The bed is as comfortable as I thought it would be. It feels like being bear-hugged by a cloud. I moan as my whole body relaxes and I start to drift off again. Then I hear Tate”s voice in my ear and his breath against my cheek. ”Tell me I can share your bed, Mallory.”

“You are welcome in my bed anytime,” I murmur.

He crawls over me, to the center of the bed. Now he’s the filling in a Mallory-Diana sandwich.

“Oh baby girl, if only that were true,” is the last thing I hear before I slip back into a deep, drunk sleep.

I wake up hours later, with a thick, slightly throbbing head. I’ve got my back to the rest of the bed and Tate’s big heavy arm is draped over my waist. I’m his little spoon, curled right into his torso like a needy cat, and it feels… like a desperate, irrational, impossible dream come true. I don’t move a muscle. I just close my eyes and enjoy the feel of his breath tickling my neck. But then, after a few minutes, I feel him inhale deeply and stretch a little, without really moving positions. His hand also stretches and flexes, his palm now flat against my abdomen, just below my belly button.

And he flexes his hips and oh my God his erection pushes into my left thigh just under my butt cheek. Desire floods my veins. I just felt Tate’s dick. I shouldn’t have, but I did. And, like it or not, I’m over the moon with happiness about it.

But then his lips are on the base of my neck, pressing purposefully. His hand, fingers extended across my abdomen, is sliding lower, toward the hem of my long sundress, which has bunched up under the covers and is gathered at the tops of my thighs.

Alarm, as thick and heavy as the desire I feel for him, courses through me. He thinks I”m Diana. That”s what”s happening here and I have to stop it. My hand moves to cover his before he can slip under the bunched-up fabric. ”Tate. It”s Mallory.”

His fingers still. His breathing stops and then his lips lift off my skin so he can speak. I’m expecting an ‘oops’ or a ‘sorry’ but what I get are two words that will change my life forever. “I know.”