2. Tavish McCloud Has a Closet

                                    

                                          
Saturday, March 4th.
The McCloud are hot shit. Apparently. It seems many people believe it, I think, as Barb parks near the mansion hosting the party. Colorful lights flash out the windows, music booms across the whole neighborhood, dancing silhouettes everywhere; on balconies, in the pool, on the rooftop. Drunk people everywhere as well, barfing on the street across the house, perched in nearby low trees, laying flat on the cold pavement of the sidewalk, trying to hold on to one another as they wobble to their feet. I hate alcohol, today more than I usually do. It's worth noting my parents never wanted a kid until they got drunk together and ended up stuck with me. So yeah, screw liquors, beers, wines and everything else.
"Ready?" Barb asks, exiting the car.
I peek my head out. "I doubt I'll ever be."
"Perfect, let's go." She starts walking away and I understand that she was going to say the same thing, whatever I replied.
"I don't really like you," I say, more to myself than her, as I follow.
"No, you love me." She flashes me a smile and winks.
We near the entrance of the house. "If that helps you sleep at night," I quip to calm my nerves.
People aren't really my thing. I would rather the lack thereof. But what's a party without people? I'd call that heaven but most people would disagree.
We enter the mansion and I swallow back my utter despair when I manage to get a proper look at the crowded, messy inside.
---
A lot of things happened from the moment I set foot in the McCloud property to right now as I sit, all huddled up, in a rather narrow wardrobe.
First, the second we entered, Barb directed us straight towards a group of people to greet them. Her friends, I'd assume, if I actually believed she had the capacity of making any. Anyway, I snuck away before she could address the elephant in the room that is my presence and try to introduce me.
I kept fleeing and entered a stirring crowd. In the middle, a half-naked Blair executed what I suppose to be his neatest breakdancing moves, spinning on himself in a way that would only warrant nausea for me. Even just watching him made my legs grow wobbly and my head feel heavy. People screeched as he stood pridefully and flexed and unflexed his core muscles, well-defined and toned. Momentarily, I considered beginning a swimming career, then I remembered I was Billy Miller and my career came to an immediate halt. The crowd urged Blair into finding an adversary for a dance match and that was enough for me. I scurried away as quickly as manageable. 
That's how I ended up in what appeared to be the kitchen, a busy space with strong liquors corded across marble countertops and a tangible reek of booze. People filled corny red cups, dunked the contents into their mouths and repeated until they passed out. I tried to wriggle myself past flimsy drunks to reach a (hopefully) less crowded section of the house. Every time I accidently brushed against someone, a flinch travelled across my scrawny body and earned me odd looks. Fucking jerks, I would curse them out despite knowing I was the one out of my element and encroaching into theirs.
Then, I found endless flights of stairs. I climbed up a floor, avoiding the snogging couples strewn here and there. I found myself in a living room, much like the one downstairs, buzzing with people writhing their limbs like dying animals. Dancing, they would probably call it. I snuck past the DJ and his speakers, hands blocking my ears so I don't suffer irreparable damage, and wound up in a nice, cozy area. Leather couches and sofas, a wall of beady string delimiting the space. Noise sounded less noisy when I crashed onto a nice armchair, exhausted. The moment I whipped out my phone and watched a wildlife documentary (with subtitles, of course), I absolutely intended to spend the next couple hours there, chilling. Then an intoxicated girl came up to me, murmured some unintelligible but clearly flirty words and straddled me as if my silence represented any consent. My phone was practically slapped out of my palm. I cringed at her alcohol infused scent and the weight of her thighs atop mine and her breath against my neck and her hands fisting at my favourite shirt and her head nudging my cap. Frozen in place, I listened to her rambles about taking her to an hotel and having some fun. I doubt our definition of "fun" holds any resemblance anyway.
There was considerable movement in the dancing crowd a couple meters away and Seamus McCloud extracted himself from it. His attire remained, as usual, casual, hair shaved into a clean, fresh buzzcut and dress shirt ironed to bear perfectly crisp folds. He approached me gradually. I caught sight of the expensive watch on his wrist, pretending to be useful although we all know people exclusively look at the time on their phones these days. The thought helped me ignore the girl helplessly humping me all askew. When he breached the wall of pearls between us, eyes in mine, I realized Seamus was coming towards me. I pretended not to panic, tense beneath a facade of serenity. He stalled close to the armchair and softly pulled the girl off me. My relief must have been palpable because he chuckled down at me.
"Excuse my cousin, she's had too much vodka tonight."
"Uh-huh," I mumbled, grabbed my phone and stood to walk away, my space of tranquility completely disturbed.
The cousin uttered something into Seamus' ear, his eyes went wide and, if the colored lights weren't so overwhelmingly strong, I probably would have seen her face go a seasick shade of green. That would have explained why she then folded and barfed only a couple inches away from my trusty shoes. I stumbled back, properly emitted an "EEK!" like an owlet and scampered away.
Anyway, so. The closet. I went up another floor, the one right before the rooftop. It remained quiet aside from the muted bass sounds from downstairs. From the couple strips of red tape, I would have assumed the third floor was off-limits. That's exactly why I invited myself past the tape and into the first bedroom I found, tucking myself comfortable in a closet. And that's the present. The smell of a rather delightful cologne hangs in the air as I watch a particularly interesting documentary about kiwi birds. Wonderful oviparous ratites, these are. Who would have thought they could live up to half a century? Not me. And probably not the people who just barged into the closet, eating each other's faces off. I shut my phone, press it against the carpet and scoot away, squashed into a corner. Their hands slide up and down each other's bodies, mouths and tongue loudly slick, small moans and groans slipping away. Would this be an inappropriate moment to enunciate my presence?
"Fuck, Tavish." The moan answers my question.
I would hate to piss off one of the hosts of the party, who happens to be one of the most influential seniors at school. That would be a punch (more of a stab after further consideration) in the gut of my, already awkward, social life. No way in hell. But then again, what if everything escalades? Would I be bound to watch the scene unfold? Tavish's hands grasp at the boy's waist and my eyes widen. I have never quite seen those nice hands of his so close. I enjoy as they flex with such sheer strength and contemplate whether they would make a delectable necklace. Assuredly. Anyway. Their kiss deepens and I divert my eyes. Never have I witnessed anything so outrageously lewd. I would definitely qualify the act as pornographic if I had agreed to watch some with Barb when she last offered.
Tavish peels of his sleeveless shirt and I catch a whim of it as it falls. The same smell as the closet. Tavish's closet, of course. He grabs one of the boy's legs and raises it so it rests against his hip. Then, they roughly grind, groin to groin. Tavish huffs, the boy loudly mewls like a tortured cat. The sound has me flinch, taken by disdain.
"Okay, Cedric. Okay," Tavish whispers, peppered by a few breathless pants.
I'm breathless too, I realize. What a distasteful situation to be in.
"What?" Cedric asks, ridding himself of his shirt and discarding it right over my head. I struggle to pull it off. It smells like cheap liquor, sweat and lust.
Tavish growls, a deep, low, almost animalistic growl. My mind reels and I have to ground myself. I can't with their shit anymore. Why in hell can't they execute such activities on a bed like normal people? Why squeeze into a cramped closet and why not check if the place is occupied beforehand? A little consideration, no?
"This is your last warning. Say the word or I won't stop. I'll rail you until sunrise. I'll fuck into your wet, tight, warm-"
"Please, for crying out loud, don't," I whine, thoroughly disgusted and exhausted, although I meant to keep the plead as a mere thought.
Their heads snap towards me. I'm so fucked.