by Haley Jenner
I follow his exit, pausing at the top of my trailer as he jogs down the few steps.
“If it isn’t the world’s biggest shit-cunt,” Ari bellows. “I am not above kicking your weedy ass.”
“Ari let it go,” I warn. “Baxter and I are good.”
Baxter’s eyes mirror Ari’s; wide and shocked.
“We are?”
“You are?”
They ask in unison.
“Yep. Forgiven. Forgotten.”
Ari eyes me skeptically. “How? Why?”
“Well, Ari, there is this magical thing called an apology.” I recite his words back at him and he waves me off.
“I get it. Assistant, you’re skating on thin ice with me.” He points to his eyes, before turning them on Baxter. “I’m watching you.”
“The gesture kind of said that, you didn’t really need to verbalize…” He stops himself. “Thank you, Roxy.” He turns to me. “Really. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I can’t say I’m not relieved that it’s there.”
“Go. Before I change my mind,” I sigh.
Ari watches Baxter’s retreat, shoulders pushed back in apprehension.
“Keen to hang?” he asks when Baxter has disappeared from sight.
“Sorry, bud. I’m heading to see Brooke for the night.”
“Want company?” he asks eagerly.
“No,” I deadpan.
“Rude,” he grumbles.
“Catch you tomorrow.” I turn, walking back into my trailer to grab my things.
“I’m gonna make you cry when I die in this movie,” he calls after me.
Pulling into Brooke’s driveway, I see Charlie, cigarette perched in his lips, leaning against his truck.
“Heya, Roxy,” he greets on a wide smile as I climb from my car.
“Charlie,” I test carefully. “Why are you out here?”
He glances at the house, then back to me. “Access to the Kingdom has been denied.”
“Fair enough.” I shrug, mirroring his position, my lower back pressed against my door.
“Smoke?” he offers.
I shake my head.
“Why are you here?”
Taking a thick drag of his cigarette, he holds it for a second, twisting his head to the side as he exhales through his nose.
“I wanted to see Spencer,” he murmurs. “She won’t let me.”
“Can you blame her?”
Tapping the back of his head against the window, he shakes his head.
“You’re either in or you’re out, Charlie. He’s not a fucking pizza. You can’t do half and half.”
He barks out a laugh, the sound distinctly unamused.
“It’s fucking hard, you know? Look at me.” He holds his smoke up, throwing it to the ground in disgust. “I’m not dad material. Doesn’t mean that I don’t want to be.”
I watch the ember of his cigarette die off, small billows smoke disappearing into the wind. “Brooke doesn’t just get to disappear when she thinks she can’t do it.”
A slice of vulnerability crosses his face. “Brooke’s a superhero,” he says more to himself than to me. “She’s not afraid of anything. Most of the time I think they’re both better off without me.”
“If you think Brooke isn’t afraid of anything, you’re an idiot,” I bite out.
I want to scream at him that it’s him that she’s most scared of. She’s terrified of the way he hurts her. The way he overlooks her.
“And if you think Spencer and Brooke are better off without you, then you’re right about that too.”
I push off my car, moving toward the house.
“I need her. I need them,” he yells after me.
“She doesn’t want someone to need her, Charlie.” I turn, walking backward. “She wants someone to love her.”
Brooke opens the door as I jog up the stairs.
“You better fuck off, Charlie,” she yells over my shoulder as I squeeze past her into the house. “Before I come out there and kick your ass.”
“Brooke!” he shouts back, but she gives him the finger before slamming the door.
“Hi.” She storms past me, down the hall and into Spencer’s room.
I follow her quietly. Leaning against the door frame, I watch her, on her knees, beside her son’s bed, watching him sleep. Face resting on the bars of his cot, I watch her breathing settle, the fire in her posture deflate.
I leave her to her moment, moving toward the kitchen.
Coffee’s made, Brooke meanders in, picking her mug up on a thankful smile.
“You better not have been nice to him.”
“I wanted to kick him in the ball sack.”
“Good.” She finally looks at me, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. “It’s so hard that Spencer looks so much like him. Beautiful fucking bastard.”
I smile. “He got the best parts of him. Not the shitty parts.”
She watches me for a beat. “I never thought of it like that. I get so mad at him, Roxy. He makes all these promises, and he’s so fucking believable. I fall for it. Every time. What kind of idiot am I?”
“You’re not an idiot,” I argue. “And he probably believes the promises he makes. If he’s confident in his declarations, of course you’ll believe him too. You’re a mom who wants her son to have his dad in his life.”
“Do I?” she asks. “Or am I just afraid not to have him in mine?”
I feel sad. Not for her. With her.
“Only you can truly know that, honey.”
Her eyes light up. “Wait there.” Sliding her mug onto her counter, she runs from the room, a pep in her step that wasn’t there before.
She’s back in a minute, a magic eight ball held tightly in her hands. “Remember this?” She laughs.
“I can’t believe you still have that.”
“I found it cleaning out some of Charlie’s shit, just to have it available to throw on the front lawn when he turns up.”
“Makes sense,” I smirk.
Eyes closed, palms holding the ball, she takes a deep breath. “Are Charlie and I meant to be together?”
She shakes it, letting it settle before popping one eye open. “Better not tell you now,” she reads slowly.
She slams it onto the counter. “Asshole.”
“It did tell me all those years ago that Reid wasn’t in love with me.”
“You asked it that?”
I shrug. “In secret, obviously. It said something like… ‘My sources say no’. I should’ve listened to it.”
She picks it up again. “Does Reid have a big dick?”
“Brooke!” I snap.
“You’ll be able to confirm whether it’s true or not.”
Shaking it like a pancake mix, her eyes stay trained on mine. Letting it settle, she tips her chin down. “It is certain.”
Looking up at me expectantly, I smile.
“I fucking knew it,” she hollers.
“Give it here.” I put my coffee down, holding my hands out to catch it.
I shake it, question held in my mind.
Could Reid love me?
“What does it say?” Brooke asks quietly.
“Ask again later,” I mutter.
“It’s not a no,” Brooke encourages, not needing to question me on what I asked.
“It’s also not a yes,” I combat.
Nineteen
Take Two
Roxy
“You’re lucky there isn’t going to be paparazzi tonight, I’d hate for you to be slammed in the media for being shown up by your better-dressed bestie.”
I watch Brooke readjust the mini dress along her thighs, triple-checking her reflection in the mirror. Her legs look at least a mile long, her pert butt accentuated by the tight material she’s squeezed herself into. She looks amazing. Arms completely encased in black lace, shoulders bare, the delicate material cut straight across her upper chest. It dips heavily at her back, her spine naked.
“That blow-out bar was everything
. I don’t think I’ve properly washed and dried my hair in twelve thousand years.”
Pulling myself into my jeans, I undulate my hips, loosening the stiff material before doing my button-up. “Spencer is only one.” I slide my zipper up, readjusting them once more on my hips.
“And I was pregnant for eleven-thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine years before that. Will you even be allowed in in jeans?”
I roll my eyes, pulling a plain black tee over my head. “It’s not the freaking MET ball. It’s the Dungeon at Castle…”
“I hate you for being able to go anywhere sans bra.”
I smile proudly. “I’m twenty-eight, while my tits are still perky, I’m gonna take advantage.” I tie the bottom of my shirt, fixing it just under my boobs.
“You have a tattoo.” She steps closer. “How did I not know that?”
I lift my left boob, letting her see the tiny script inked into my skin. “I got it after Damian.”
“My faith is held in myself,” she reads, a soft smile creeping onto her lips. “It’s perfect.”
Readjusting my shirt, I grin. “I thought so, too. A gentle reminder that I’m in charge of my life. I trust in me, it doesn’t matter if no one else does.”
Grabbing onto my hand, she squeezes. “I have faith in you too.”
“Thanks,” I murmur.
“Please tell me you’re at least going to wear heels?” She steps back, looking me up and down.
“Fuck yes.” I lift my black stilettos.
“Fine. You look super hot,” she grumbles. “Not as hot as me” —she slips her feet into a blood-red pump to match her lipstick— “but still hot.”
The Dungeon is how I remember it, décor gothic and, the vibe artfully dark and beautiful. Couches and high bar tables fill the space, walls decorated with chains and skulls and bones. Soft red hues dropping from the lights, candles spread abundantly through the space.
Ari’s birthday is in full swing, guests mingling, drinks circling the room in a conveyor of lowered inhibitions. He hired the entire level, which saves us from the awkward reality of having horribly angled photos uploaded to social media from bystanders who want their brush with fame.
Stopping a server, Brooke orders two margaritas, winking at me.
She reads the hesitance on my face. “Dude. This is my first night away from Spencer in a million years.”
“He’s one.”
“Exactly,” she responds. “A million years. Your mom is my new hero for giving me a night off. We gonna party, bish.”
“Please don’t say bish.”
Taking the margaritas with a wide smile, she hands me mine, clinking our glasses.
My eyes scan the space, searching for a mop of dark hair and hazel eyes.
“Relax.” Brooke nudges me with her shoulder. “He’s here. Six o’clock. But don’t turn around and make it weird.”
“I don’t make shit weird,” I defend.
Head turning, she makes me watch her roll her eyes.
“How did you even know that?”
She sips her drink. “It’s a talent. I spotted him the moment we walked in. His beady-eyed assistant is here too, did you know he was in love with Reid? Following him around like a lost puppy. Also, I’m still gonna find a way to spill my drink on him tonight. You and Reid may have forgiven him for leaking your past, I have not.”
“Baxter doesn’t have beady eyes.”
She lifts a shoulder. “He should for being a sniveling rat.”
“You hungry?” I ask her. “You seem awfully moody.”
She smiles, tongue dipping out to lick the salt from her glass. “I just hate people that fuck with you. He fucked with you.”
Dropping my head to her shoulder, I inhale the feeling of having her by my side. “Love you, Chook.”
I feel her lips press against the crown of my head.
“You and Reid are obviously still fucking?” she says quietly enough not to be heard by anyone else.
Standing upright, I glance at her briefly. “It’s nothing.”
Her eyes burn into my profile. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to fall into unrequited feelings again.”
I swallow, forcing a tight smile. “It’s just a bit of fun. A release,” I lie.
“Yeah.” Brooke stretches the word suspiciously. “But there’s fucking and then there’s fucking.”
I turn to her, raising an eyebrow.
“There are no strings, quick and dirty fucks in broom closets because you both want to get a load off, and then there’s when fucking becomes intimate. Oral. Anal play. Soft and sensual. Eye contact. A bit of ass eating if you’re lucky.”
My chin hits my neck unattractively.
“Holy. Fucking. Shit,” she accuses, turning to me completely.
“What?” I stumble back.
“His face was all up in your ass, wasn’t it?”
My cheeks burn with the color creeping along them. I pinch her arm. “Lower your voice.”
“Sorry,” she apologizes. “You dirty slut bag. You guys are totally gonna get married.”
I sigh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Her eyes narrow on me in challenge. “Have you let anyone else get all up in your asshole?”
“Jesus, Brooke.”
“Exactly,” she declares triumphantly.
We settle into quiet, my skin buzzing with discomfort. She’s right. I slide straight into a level of security with Reid that I’ve never experienced with any other partner.
Lying to yourself is a funny thing. It’s the worst form of self-destruction. Forcing yourself to believe something so undeniably false when the truth sits heavily in your heart. You’re purposely ripping yourself in half. For what? A fabricated sense of self.
I have words permanently inked into my skin reinforcing the strength in my own person, in my own mind. And yet, as soon as Reid stepped back into my life, I’ve done everything to pretend we’re nothing. Working to build a barrier against the way my heart feels for him.
Reid Rivere is my greatest destruction. I spent the years of our friendship lying to myself, pretending my feelings wouldn’t affect us negatively, that our friendship was lifelong. Then he left me, and I spent the next ten years convincing myself I was better off, that I’d moved past the one-sided love I’d been consumed by. Now, we voluntarily have been thrown back together in a mess of emotions that are too hard to navigate and I’m once again lying to myself, trying my hardest to convince both my heart and mind that Reid is no one to me. A person from my past that I’m enjoying in my present that has no place in my future.
Reid has successfully ripped into less than whole versions of myself whether he’s in my life or not.
I can’t decide if the fault sits with him or me. My tattoo is a lie. I don’t believe myself, not when it comes to Reid. I don’t know what to trust as true or right. Problem is, what is right is rarely the path we want to take.
“Just as long as he doesn’t expect you to do it back.” She grimaces, bringing me back to our conversation.
My drink spits from my mouth, my throat closing on a choked cough.
“The thought in itself is just fucking nasty, right? Voluntarily putting your face all up in someone’s butt.”
“Well, that’s not very nice.” I wipe my mouth as Ari steps in front of us. “What happens if he’s into a tongue on his poop shoot.”
I cough again.
“You two need to stop.” I push at his chest, making him smile. “Happy birthday, Ari.” I change the subject, kissing his cheek. “Brooke, this is Ari Hart. Ari, meet my best girlfriend Brooke.”
Hand extended, Ari’s eyes drink her in. “Pleasure to meet you, Brooke.”
Hand fitting inside his, Brooke blinks in dissatisfaction. “Crocodile Hemsworth,” she sighs loud enough to be heard over the music. “You’ve disappointed me more than the deadbeat father of my illegitimate child.”
Ari looks at me for help, but lips to my drink, I sip, looking away.
&
nbsp; “I expected a cheerful ‘G’Day, Roxy. Who is this beaut sheila you’re with?’”
A thick roll of laughter shoots from Ari’s mouth at Brooke’s hideous attempt at an Australian accent.
Neck tipped back as he lets the sound engulf us. “Sorry to disappoint you, Queen Generalist, but very few of us speak like that.”
She hmphs. “That’s devastating. I love reading random Australian terms. Roxy, do you know they call flip flops, thongs?”
I pull my drink from my lips, frowning. “That’s weird. What do you call an actual thong?”
Ari shrugs. “G-string. G-banger. Thong,” he answers apologetically.
“And,” Brooke continues, “they call fanny-packs, bum-bags.” She glances to Ari for confirmation, to which he nods, his lips twitching in amusement.
“The term fanny means something a little different down under.”
“It means vagina,” Brooke educates me enthusiastically with wide eyes, her eyebrows touching her hairline.
“Come.” She links her arm through Ari’s. “I want you to teach me all the weird slang you use.”
Looking over his shoulder, Ari mouths, “Help.”
I just wave, smiling happily.
“You introduced her as your best girlfriend.” I startle at Reid’s voice whispered along my neck.
“And?” I contest.
Moving beside me, he lifts a shoulder. “You know that your best friend title still belongs to me.”
I ignore him. Unsure of how to respond. I’d like to pretend it’s a habit that never left me, but like Reid, I think it means more.
“Brooke looks happy.”
“Ari looks terrified,” I counter.
Reid laughs. “Did I hear a Crocodile Dundee reference?”
“Mm.” I nod. “She called him Crocodile Hemsworth. I don’t know whether he was shocked, offended or confused.”
“Likely all three,” Reid offers.
I hum my agreement.
Hand brushing across my ass, Reid steps closer. “You look good, Firefly.”
I jump from his touch, eyes moving around the room quickly to ensure no one noticed the path of his hand.
