Be My Boyfriend Just For Tonight

Elvis and I had been together for five years, and he had just turned twenty-four.

Early that morning, I had called him from my bedroom at my parents’ house in Rhode Island, where I was helping my dad with a documentary project.

Elvis and I talked about regular things, including the weather, the tight production schedule, and how exhausted I was.

I kept my voice perfectly flat, pretending I had completely forgotten his birthday. In reality, I had been meticulously planning this for a week. I had already coordinated a surprise party for 9:00 p.m. with his closest friends, Robert and Julie, making sure every detail was taken care of. But the real gift was my presence.

I had left the documentary behind and boarded a train straight to Massachusetts to pull off the ultimate surprise.

By 5:00 p.m., the train pulled into Boston South Station. The city's heavy humidity hit me the moment I stepped off. I grabbed the handle of my small trolley suitcase, navigated through the crowd of commuters, and headed straight for the designated pickup area, where my private chauffeur was already waiting.

Settling into the back seat, I found that the cool blast of air conditioning did little to calm the flutter in my stomach. I pulled out my phone and opened our W******p chat.

“Baby, happy birthday. How is the birthday celebration going?” I typed.

I watched the single tick turn into two blue ticks almost instantly. But it took him about five minutes to respond. The typing indicator appeared and disappeared at the top of the screen before his message finally came through.

“I thought you forgot about my birthday. I’m just lonely, missing you. I wish you were here with me to fuck me hard.”

I giggled, my cheeks flushing as I locked my screen without replying. Just wait until I walk through that door, I thought, a smug smile tugging at my lips.

Thanks to the driver's experience, we bypassed the usual evening traffic. He navigated the back streets with ease, making the drive from the station to Elvis’s residence barely fifteen minutes long.

When the driver pulled up to the building, I murmured a brief thank-you. I stepped out of the vehicle and hoisted my suitcase onto the pavement, its wheels screeching softly against the concrete.

The car pulled away and disappeared from view. As I walked toward the entrance, my white sneakers made barely any sound.

The building's front door was unlocked. I stepped into the hallway and made my way to his apartment door, my heart pounding with anticipation.

I carefully pressed down on the brass handle, easing it gently to keep the latch from snapping. With a soft click, the door opened. I squeezed through the narrow gap, left my suitcase by the door, and stepped into the living room.

I had barely reached the center of the room, tiptoeing to keep the surprise alive, when a muffled sound echoed from upstairs.

“What’s that?” I muttered to myself, freezing in place.

The sound was rhythmic, and my stomach twisted. I moved toward the staircase, my hand hovering above the wooden railing without touching it. As I climbed the stairs, the noise grew louder, breaking the silence of the house.

“Babe, give it to me. No one is as sweet as you,” Elvis groaned from his bedroom.

“Yes, baby, fuck me harder!” a woman’s voice rang out, breathless and strained.

My heart slammed against my ribs. What? He’s cheating on me?

My first instinct was to turn around, run downstairs, and walk away before reality hit me. But a dark curiosity took over. Somehow, I needed to see the face of the woman who was supposedly sweeter than me.

I reached the bedroom door and pushed it open a fraction of an inch. It didn't creak. Neither of them noticed me standing there. They were entirely lost in their own world.

The sheets were tangled around their sweating bodies. Then the girl turned her head, and my eyes widened in absolute horror.

It was Lilian. My best friend.

The very same person who had spent the last two years advising me to dump Elvis. The one who constantly whispered in my ear that he looked too rugged, lacked class, and didn't fit my social status. Now, she was on top of him, taking my place.

Hot tears spilled down my cheeks, blurring my vision, but the sorrow quickly hardened into something cold and dark.

My phone was already in my palm. I switched to video mode, raised the camera, and recorded twenty steady seconds of the scene. They never even looked up. I locked my phone, turned on my heel, and walked out of Elvis’s house without making a sound.

I ended up at a high-end lounge a few blocks away, the kind of place where people of high social status usually went. The atmosphere was dim and sophisticated, a sharp contrast to the fire burning in my chest.

I sat on a leather stool at the counter and ordered a double shot of liquor. When the bartender slid it over, I swallowed it in one go, scrunching up my face as the liquid burned my throat.

My phone buzzed inside my handbag, which rested beside me on the counter. I pulled it out. It was a text from Robert.

“I hope you're already catching your train? We're on our way to Elvis’s house. See you soon.”

I stared at the screen, tightening my grip on the phone. I thought about the video sitting in my gallery.

“See you soon,” I typed back.

As I tucked the phone into my handbag, the glass doors of the lounge swung open.

A guy walked in, and the entire energy of the room seemed to shift. He was tall and broad-chested, with dark, piercing eyes and a neatly styled haircut that didn't have a single strand out of place. He wore a designer blue suit that screamed wealth and sophistication, and his cologne cut through the smell of alcohol.

He walked straight to the counter with a commanding stride and took the stool right next to mine.

I recognized him immediately. Edward Oxford, the popular captain of Boston Hockey College and the son of the governor of Massachusetts.