by Alex Grayson
Brody adjusts his pants as if responding to my comment. "Yeah, thanks. It's been a memorable evening."
"It always is with me," I tell him, winking as I walk away.
From the corner of my eye, I spot Brody as he slams his head against the side of his truck. With his hand draped across his chest, he closes his eyes as if writhing in pain.
I hear his truck door open again. "Are you for real right now. I want to go home," Hannah scolds him.
"Hannah, sweetie, have I told you lately that you… complete—" Hannah slams the door and Brody chuckles out the word, "Me." He sighs and pushes away from his truck. "Works every damn time."
"You need a bigger challenge in life," I tell him, disappearing into my Jeep.
6
I peek into the back seat and spot Parker asleep in her car seat. Oops.
I sent Melody and Brett a text message to see if they were still at the shop, wondering if I should take Parker there or to Brett's house, but they tell me they'll wait at the shop for me.
The ride isn't long. I pull around back where Melody and Brett are waiting by the back door. "How was it?" Brett asks as I step out of the Jeep.
"Great. We sold out. Parker is tuckered though. She fell asleep as soon as she got into the Jeep."
Brett glances down at his watch. "Yeah, it's late for her."
"It's late for me too," I joke.
"I heard you ran into my brother," Brett smirks.
"Your brother?" I toy with him.
"Brody," He replies.
"Oh, him, yeah, I saw him. He hasn't changed a bit," I reply.
"Neither of you has," he responds. "And I know exactly what that means."
"What does that mean?" Melody follows, clearly confused by the fact that Brett knows way more than he should know about my past with Brody.
"That they're both obnoxious," Brett responds to Melody.
"I guess that just makes us likeminded," I tell him.
"That sounds like a recipe for disaster," Melody says.
"Well, to you two bourbon lovers, we'll just call it a recipe for a bourbon the rocks."
"What?" Melody asks, not reading between my lines. "Never mind. I need to go home and go to sleep. I've been around little kids all night, and it was exhausting."
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I open the door of the Jeep to help Parker out. Before I unbuckle her booster seat, I retrieve my phone, finding a message from Brody that says:
Brody: Tell my brother that I'm going to win this one.
What the hell does that mean?
I pull Parker out of the Jeep, and she wakes up as I'm doing so. She jumps out of my hands and runs to Brett. I grab her booster seat and close the Jeep door, and I turn to see Brett looking at something on his phone as he hugs his daughter with his other hand.
Brett is quick to look up at me with a smirk. "Just my brother … checking to make sure Parker got home okay."
"How nice of him to be concerned," I grunt, cocking my head to the side.
Brett glances down at his phone again and chuckles. "I see what's going on here … just a little friendly continuation of the game you two played when we were in high school," he says with a pleasing sigh. "Well, for the record, I think you'll win this round."
"What are you talking about?" Melody asks, getting annoyed.
"Nothing. It's nothing," I tell her, irritated that Brett is rehashing old crap.
"Brody and Journey are about to cause a lot of family drama," he says.
"There is nothing to worry about. Everyone needs a little friendly banter sometimes—something to keep them on their toes and bring them back to earth after falling off their high-horse. Let's say I handled that with Brody tonight. End of story," I tell them.
Brett and Melody are sharing a look that says they think they know more than they do, but I'll let them have their thoughts. "Goodnight," I tell them.
"Thanks again for taking care of Parker tonight," Brett says.
And your damn brother, I want to add in.
"Anytime." I wave before closing myself into the Jeep.
As I pull out of the parking lot. I tell myself it's all just a game. But, it is nice to know there's someone to play with if I get bored of living this single life.
Afterword
If you enjoyed this short story, you might enjoy reading about Melody and Brett in Bourbon Love Notes.
About Shari
Shari J. Ryan is an International Bestselling Author of Contemporary Romance and Women's Fiction. For more information about Shari, visit:
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It All Started With A Kiss
A Bragan University Prequel
Gianna Gabriela
Mine, that's what Chase has been since the first time I saw him. He was lost in a new place and I helped him find his way. This is the story of how we met.
1
“Why are you out here by yourself?” I ask the guy wearing a dark gray hoodie who’s sitting on the bleachers all by himself as I approach. I’m surprised there aren’t a couple boy-hungry girls sitting out here watching practice today. They’re always out here… ready to prey on whichever guy gives them the time of day. Oftentimes, it’s my brothers. If it’s not girls, it’s guys wanting to become friends with them. Or scouts hoping to convince them to go to their schools. The point is there’s always someone. But right now, the only people out here are this guy and me. Maybe it’s the weather. It’s a little chilly and the rain comes and goes. I would be inside too, but I need to be here to make sure the guys know I’ll need a ride home. If they don’t see me sitting at the bleachers while they practice, they’ll leave me. They’ve done it many times before.
Then, they’ll tell Mom and Dad it was my fault.
That I didn’t tell them I needed a ride. That they thought one of the volleyball girls would take me home. That I told them someone else would. Lies.
They’ll pin it on me like they always do. Because I’m the girl.
I mean, Nick is literally my twin, but he’s closer to Colton than he’ll ever be to me. I wish I had a twin sister instead of a brother because then it would be two of us against the world. Or I guess the two of us against Colton. I thought twins were supposed to be built in best friends, but that’s not the case with me and Nick. He’s a jerk. Always hits on my friends. Thinks everything’s a joke. He’s just an overall ass. I don’t get why girls are even into him at all. Then again, we shared a womb and so my looks couldn’t help but rub off on him too. Colton, well, he’s a whole other story.
Anyway… I wish I were old enough to drive myself places, but alas, I’m not. I gotta wait for Colton to take me everywhere. Or at least to the places he’s already going to—like home. Getting him to give me a ride to a place I want to go to, like a party, where he won’t be, is practically impossible.
“Hello, are you there?” I ask the kid again, waving my hands in front of his face in an attempt to draw his attention. The hoodie he’s wearing is definitely old judging by the holes. I look down at his hands, which rest in fists over his knees. A closer look shows that his knuckles are bruised, likely from a fight. I keep inspecting him while he continues to sit there in silence, ignoring me. If my friends were here, they wouldn’t talk to him… then again, he’s easy on the eyes, so they may make an exception.
I clear my throat. For some reason, the fact that he’s ignoring me, even though I’m standing right in front of him, is pissing me off. No one ignores Kaitlyn Hunter, and the fact that this random guy isn’t even acknowledging me is just rude. “Did you get into a fight?” I ask, hoping that gets him to talk.
At my words, he shifts his hands from his lap to the pocket of his sweater, hiding them from my view. “Are you talking to me?” he asks, finally responding. The deepness and richness of his voice catches me off guard. Definitely not what I expected.
“Do you see anyone else here?” I ask sarc
astically. I literally waved my hands in front of his face, who else would I be talking to?
“An entire football team,” he replies and points at the field behind me. I stop myself from laughing. Instead, I walk up two steps and take the seat right next to him on the bleachers. I should probably be minding my own business but having a conversation with someone, anyone really, will make waiting for my brothers to finish practice more bearable. Plus, I’m intrigued now. Something about the chase.
“So, did you at least win the fight?” I ask again, trying a different approach.
A few minutes pass by in silence, the only sound coming from the coaches whistling on the field. He doesn’t answer my question and, to be fair, it’s probably because of the tone of my voice and the fact that asking someone who you don’t know about fighting isn’t really how things go. Then again, all I’m trying to do is be nice and then he goes ahead and tries to make me look stupid. I really can’t help the sarcasm that rolls off my tongue. It’s a gift and a curse.
“I’m Kaitlyn,” I say awkwardly, extending my hand toward him, hoping we can start over.
He faces me then looks at my hand still suspended in the air. Instead of shaking it with his own, he looks back toward the field.
“Okaaay,” I respond, putting my hand back down. “Do you like football?” I ask. Clearly, to have a conversation, I’ll have to pull every word out of him. But I’ve got time. His rudeness isn’t going to stop me.
He shrugs.
“Do you know any of the guys practicing?” Maybe that’s why he’s sitting out here. He could be related to one of the guys. He looks too young to be a scout.
“Are you on a different team? Are you just trying to steal their plays?” I ask, my mind thinking about all the football teams that hate ours.
He shakes his head. “No,” he finally speaks again.
“Do you know one of the coaches?” At this point, I’m probably sounding like a journalist with all the questions I’m asking, but his non-answers are starting to irritate me. It’s a personal challenge to get him to string together more sentences and actually talk to me.
My question is met by a physical response, a shrug.
“Why are you watching the football team practice?” I ask. “And before you shrug, or nod, or shake your head, or whatever else you were thinking about doing, I’d prefer an actual answer… with real words. Like the ones I assume you’ve been taught. You’ve said a couple of them so far, so let’s keep doing that.” Maybe that was harsh, but really, is it that difficult to be kind? To have a conversation with a stranger? I’m trying to kill time, the least he can do is be forthcoming.
He looks at me again. “It bothers you so much, doesn’t it?” he replies, his tone as cold as the wind that picks up speed, making my hair fly all over the place.
I grab the elastic from my wrist and put my hair up in a ponytail. “You not talking to me?” I ask, figuring that’s what he means.
“You don’t seem like the type that gets ignored often,” he says, facing the field once again. It’s not a question but a statement.
It does bother me. “I’m just trying to be nice.”
“That’s you trying to be nice? You should probably stop,” he shifts his eyes to me again. “You don’t look like the type,” he finishes then looks away. Well, I wanted more words and I got them.
I scoff. “I’m nice.”
“Somehow I doubt that you go around talking to everyone and making them feel comfortable. Let me guess, you’re a cheerleader and your boyfriend is one of those meatheads out there on the field.” Maybe he was better off not talking. He looked better that way, more attractive too. I shouldn’t have riled him up in the first place. This is what I get for trying to have a conversation.
His predictions are so off though and I can’t help but correct him. It’s my duty. “You’ve got a lot of things wrong,” I tell him.
He fixes his eyes on mine once again. They linger long enough for me to truly take them in this time. They’re so dark that I can’t find any light in them whatsoever, but it doesn’t stop me from searching. “Enlighten me,” he says, his brow raised as if throwing down a challenge.
“For starters, I’m not a cheerleader.” There’s nothing wrong with cheerleaders, I’m just not one of them.
“Could’ve fooled me.” The way he says it annoys me.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you look like one.” Is that supposed to be an insult? Because, if it is, I don’t get why it would be.
“Whatever that means… you’re still wrong. I’m on the volleyball team.”
He nods slowly, like my answer surprises him. “Got one wrong,” he admits. He got more than one wrong.
“My boyfriend is not one of those meatheads out there on the field,” I point at the players out there. Not all of them are meatheads either. Some, yes. But not all.
“Let me guess, he’s on the basketball team? Soccer? Hockey? Tennis? A jock of some sort?” I don’t know why he makes it seem like being part of a sports team is a bad thing, but that’s what I sense with every word he speaks.
“He’s not…,” I pause. “I don’t have a boy—,” I start to correct myself then shake my head. I don’t have to give a stranger so much information. What does it matter if I have a boyfriend or not? “Not all the guys on the field are meatheads,” I say instead.
“Really?” he says in disbelief.
“Yes, really,” I respond and imagine what my brothers would do if they learned some random guy called them meatheads. At the thought, I just start laughing.
He looks at me the entire time I laugh. “Sorry, I was just thinking something,” I tell him.
“What?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. I wonder what his hair looks like. Military haircut maybe?
“Both of my brothers play football. I was thinking about what they’d do to a random guy for calling them meatheads.”
“I’m not afraid. Are they meatheads?” he asks, cracking the slightest of smiles, a sexy, confident one, and for some reason that makes me feel triumphant. Like getting him to crack even the smallest bit is a success. I wonder if he ever smiles. He doesn’t look like the type to go around grinning at everything. At the thought, I find myself wanting to get him to smile fully or at least smirk; I love smirks.
You should be,” I tell him. My brothers aren’t the nicest kids around. They can be trouble. “One of them is definitely a meathead though. The other has a brain, top student actually.”
“I guess I did have you all wrong,” he admits.
I nod. “Why are you here?” I ask and feel a drop of water land on my cheek. That on
and off again rain is about to be on.
I watch as he takes his hands out of his pockets and places them on his knees. “How do you
know I’m not a student here?” he asks.
“I would know if you were a student here, trust me.”
“Really? How so?”
“Well, for starters, you’d know not to mess with the football team. You also seem like the kind of guy who would stand out.”
“Stand out?” he asks, lingering on the second half of my statement.
“Well, you seem all dark and mysterious. So, if you were a student here, I would’ve heard about you already from my friends. Then, I would’ve looked for you so I could judge for myself. This school isn’t too big, I would’ve run in to you eventually.”
“Dark and mysterious, huh,” he says, leaning back on his elbows as he takes a more relaxed pose. Is he getting comfortable? Am I making him feel comfortable? I move my eyes from his bruised knuckles to his face, surprised he hasn’t closed me out again.
I nod. “It took forever for me to get you to talk back to me. And even now that you’re finally saying words, you still haven’t answered any of my questions.”
“Why am I here?”
I nod. “Why are you standing outside in the cold watching a bunch of meatheads play football?”
“I�
��m thinking about playing,” he replies.
“Playing football?” I eye him up and down. “With the meatheads?” I add. He looks like the kind of guy who could take someone down with barely any effort. He’d probably make a good wrestler or boxer even. I look down at his bruised knuckles, he definitely seems like the guy who would win in a fight. Maybe football is the right sport for him.
He laughs, catching me off guard. “Yeah, with the meatheads.”
Seems a little too late to pick up football. All the guys in this school have basically been playing since they were little kids. That’s how they got so good. Years of practice. “You thinking about playing here? Have you played before?” I ask, unable to hide the surprise in my voice.
The drizzle picks up and more drops of water begin to fall on us. I curse under my breath. “What was that?” he asks.
“Nothing. I’m just annoyed I have to wait for my brothers to finish practice and it’s about to start raining again. Coach won’t just stop practice and I’m afraid if I leave, I won’t have a ride home.”
“Can’t your brothers just come get you inside when practice ends?” he asks, confused.
“That would be too simple. My brothers like to make things complicated.”
The drizzle turns to pouring rain in a matter of seconds. “Well, I don’t have to stand out here in the pouring rain. Good luck to you though,” he says as he gets up.
“Wait. You never told me if you’re playing here.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he replies as the rain picks up speed.
I take an exasperated breath. “Why can’t you just tell me?”
“That would be too simple,” he repeats my words to me.
I watch as he walks down the bleacher steps and in the direction of the parking lot. Like someone with nothing better to do, I follow after him.
