"So how've you been?"
He sighed. It was a heavy question. Where would he even start? His failing wine bar? His messy breakup? His recurrent migraines? His months-long involuntary celibacy? He had no clue. For a year now his life had been nothing short of a clusterfuck, something like flying glass shards everywhere ready to pierce him in the eyes or in the nads.
The current situation wasn't much help either. The inquirer and him were on the way to Calabasas for a wedding of two people he honestly hated, and the inquirer in question was a woman he'd been hopelessly attracted to for the better part of 4 years.
When he'd first met Layla in college, she was all he could think about for a while, the forefront of his fantasies: killer, burgundy-cased smile, large and glistening kohl-lined eyes, flawless black hair that cascaded down her shoulder to her breasts in angelic tresses.
And her breasts, oh man, were they every man's dream. Perky and plump, much too big for the rest of her relatively petite frame, they were often the first thing that captured his eyes. She often dressed to display them, too; drunkenly, she'd confessed to him that she loved her tits, and made sure everyone else did as well. The rest of her body wasn't a shame, either - a cute, bubble butt, toned thighs, thin, attention-grabbing waist. She was every man's wet dream, and she knew it.
"Hello?" his torturer asked, snapping her fingers. "Carlos? You kind of zoned out there."
He looked at her, snapped out of his stupor. True to character, his eyes found her tits first, only partially covered by her scoop neck tank. He brought his eyes up to hers quickly.
"It's... not been great, honestly." He confessed. They'd always been honest with each other, having been close ever since they met; for him at least, partially honest. That was part of what made it so torturous. He could tell her every little detail about his life, except his toe curling attraction to her, the way she creeps into his fantasies, the way he screams her name when he masturbates, the way he wishes the women he fucks were all her.
And the worst part, the cherry on top, the reason why his feelings have so beyond repressed that Freud would have loved him, was that she was engaged. To no one else but his very own brother.
His own blood and flesh, he thought sullenly. Betrayal.
She looked sympathetic, and placed a comforting hand atop his on the gearshift. "How are you coping up with the divorce?"
He snorted sardonically, trying not to dwell too much on how soft her hands were. "Awful. She wants the apartment. She wants the cat."
Layla winced. "The cat?"
Carlos shook his head sadly. "I knew when I married her she was possessive. I thought it was cute back then. My mistake, I guess."
It's not a lie. He'd always liked that his ex-wife was possessive, even if it got a bit extreme sometimes. It explained her hatred for Layla, possibly because she knew her then-husband's, er... soft spot, for her. It was fucked up, sure, but he liked that someone was willing to fight for him. Even if it was the wrong person.
"Hey, that wasn't something you could have foretold. Cut yourself some slack."
He shrugged, and from the corner of his eyes he could see Layla frown. She'd always hated when the mood was off, or things weren't right between them.
"Let's play a game," she suggested, just as he wondered how she'd take matters into her own hands. He grinned.
"Like what? Truth or dare?"
Layla huffed. "As if we're teenagers."
"Got a better idea?"
Silence, for a beat. And then a begrudging, "...No."
Carlos chuckled again. "Okay. I'll go first. Truth or dare?"
"Dare," she hadn't waited even a second. It was true to her character; she was a spitfire beauty, always ready for a challenge, an adventure, always chasing something exciting. Truths were too boring for her.
"I dare you..." his eyes wandered to her the ziploc of cherries from which they'd been snacking on in Layla's lap. "...to tie a cherry stem with your tongue."
"That's all?" Layla laughed. She popped a cherry into her mouth and wiggled her tongue around a bit. In a few moments, she opened her mouth to present her artwork. The neatly tied stem left Carlos impressed.
"Didn't think you could do that," he admitted, laughing.
Layla grinned. "Luis taught me."
Luis. Fuck. The mention of his brother -- her fiancé -- had him sitting straighter, the smile vanishing from his face so rapidly, it was comical. He'd nearly forgotten about Luis.
While Layla and Carlos had met in college, Carlos's older brother Luis and Layla only got acquainted at graduation. Some would call it a whirlwind romance, but Carlos knew it was a union motivated most definitely by lust. When either of them were drunk -- or on some fateful occasions, when both of them were drunk together -- they would regale Carlos with painfully detailed stories about sex with the other. It went beyond torture, into dangerous territory, something like dangling treats in front of a dog but yanking it away once he reached for it. It was a reminder for Carlos that his deepest desire would always, always remain just beyond arm's reach.
"Your turn," he choked out, a pitiful attempt to dissuade his self-harming thoughts.
"Truth or dare?" Layla asked, looking up at him sweetly.
"Truth."
"You always pick truth. Too much of a pussy?"
Carlos shook his head. "More so a man of control. Pass me some water?"
Layla laughed, playfully rolling her eyes as she popped off the cap and passed him the bottle. He took a generous swig, making sure to focus on the road ahead.
"Whatever. Uh... when was the last time you jerked off?"
Carlos nearly spat out the water in his mouth, falling into a fit of coughs. The car lurched to the side as he attempted to save himself from choking. Layla instantly grabbed the bottle and stabilised the wheel, looking at him with wide eyes.
"What kind of question is that?" Carlos coughed.
